I'd been home a few days when I heard from Uncle Bud. To be honest, I expected to hear from Freedom Fyter, not Uncle Bud. I thought I'd pissed the old guy off well and truly during my visit to DC last week. I had the definite feeling that I had outstayed my welcome and the all night bull session was a farewell party. So I cut my DC trip short and came back to Detroit.
The email was worth all the wading through the spam. It seems that last Friday, the night after I left, the GOP boys had a special, members only meeting at Uncle Bud's Select Taproom. The 2006 elections had hit the boys hard and they'd been scrambling to recover. The recriminations in the face of the loss of the House and Senate needed resolution, and party unity needed major renovation.
The usual scheme was employed to guarantee that the media and special prosecutors were kept in the dark. The big fish, the Known Names, scheduled cocktail parties the length and breath of Georgetown. No reporter or staff member of a special prosecutor's office would pay for a drink tonight. Caterers were on overdrive. Maria and Arnold were flown in from California for star power.
If you were looking down on the DC traffic that night, and trust me, several agencies were, you would have seen what looked like a salmon run on Georgetown. The expensively dressed reporters and government lawyers in their full cocktail party finery were flinging themselves with wild abandon up and over the hills of Georgetown. You would have had to look very carefully to see the occasional lean carp and drab catfish fighting against the crowds to make their way to a seedy bar in southeast DC. None of the party-goers looked carefully enough.
The meeting began about 9. Uncle Bud made a quick head count, was satisfied that all were there, and then nodded to the bouncer to lock the door. Carrot, the huge red-haired bouncer, stepped outside and locked the door behind him. He took a seat out front and lit up a smoke. Uncle Bud announced that the meeting could begin. "To absent friends," he called out, raising a glass. The bar rang with a variety of responses. "Hear, Hear," "To The Hammer," "To Big Jack," "To Duke," "To the Buckeye Boys." Uncle Bud waited a few moments and then his bass growl cut through the clink of glasses. "To Scooter. He's not gone yet." The bar rang with echoing cheers. Uncle Bud finished his drink, and as a feeling of quiet anticipation of the evenings work settled over the room, he took a seat behind the bar. This wasn't his fight. He'd had his day. Now he watched, dispensing drinks and advice when asked, if he was in the mood.
The GOP operatives worked through the night, but divisions in the party were too deep. They'd been riding the high of the post 9/11 self-destruction of the Democrats for five years. There had been so many spoils they had all gotten fat. But the lean times were upon them, and they were sizing up one another for the next meal. The best they could agree on was to divide the resources and meet again to decide on a strategy. They all knew that this would be the last agreement they would reach until one of the factions regained control. The meeting broke up and the lines were clearly drawn. Uncle Bud was given the task of dividing the spoils. The operatives left in group of three and four. Deals and alliances were being negotiated already.
I knew that the 2006 elections were a two-by-four to the collective head of the GOP, but I had no idea that the party was splintering. But that surprise paled with what Uncle Bud said next. He needed help dividing the spoils. He needed someone he could trust, who didn't belong to the GOP. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in the internecine warfare that consumes defeated parties. So he asked me.
