Status Quo

“I need you to perform a service.”

Pierce hesitated before taking his seat at the small table for two. He was under no illusions that this was a social call. People like Graham didn’t have social calls. Usually, however, Graham pretends to engage in small talk. He plies him with drinks, probably in the hopes of bringing the price down, before exploiting whatever information or contact he needed from Pierce. His directness and tone were abrupt; even for graham.

They sat in where they usually do: in the private dining area. While the main seating was typically full, as it was this night, Pierce had never seen more than two or three of the seven tables in the back room occupied. Pierce looked over Graham as he sat. Graham was usually stoic and hard to read but tonight he was fidgety. Even in his traditional black suit, white shirt, and red tie that was his standard attire, he didn’t quite look like himself.

“You need me.” Pierce repeated. Putting the emphasis on the odd part of the request.

“I know. You are … retired.”

“For a long time now.”

“This one is special.” Graham said scratching his typically clean-shaven head but which currently showed a bit of stubble around the sides. Age had taken care of the hairs on the top long before the razor did. He looked annoyed at the fact that he had to call it ‘special’.

Pierce took a sip from the dimpled rocks glass that he brought with him from the main bar. He didn’t respond.

“Listen Pierce, I’m aware our arrangement is one of convince for the both of us. But I’d like to think over years we’ve earned a bit of trust. And respect.” The way he added ‘respect’ Pierce braced for the next statement. “Recognizing, of course, that my money and that of my colleagues funds this life of yours.” Graham gestured at him in a general but dismissive manner.

Piece’s appearance was a far sight from when they met ten years ago. Sitting there in his Tom Ford suit drinking Blue Label, he blended in among Graham’s peers. But Graham would never address him as an equal, only an employee of sorts. As such, Graham like to think it was all his doing. True enough he played a key part, but Graham would never know the true extent of Pierce’s clients; as they would never know of Graham.

Pierce had a sense of discomfort that he’d never had in prior dealings with Graham. Pierce’s instincts told him Graham was desperate, or it was personal. Either way, it was not good.

“Sadly, I’ll have to pass.” Pierce uttered remorsefully.

Graham was visibly annoyed. He sighed loudly and swallowed the rest of his scotch.

“I’m a bridge, Graham. I keep a body of water between you and what goes on the other side. I’m the secret held between you and yourself. I don’t exist, and I’m safe for you precisely because I’m not involved.”

Graham sat back in his chair and regarded him. Every man of influence had Pierce’s number in their mobile phone. He was a necessary but often misunderstood part of power. Namely, Pierce represented the willingness to use power.

“You know the world is changing, Pierce.” Graham spoke with a sobering coldness in his tone. “And this country, I’m afraid, is too big and too cumbersome to turn with it. It needs help. You know who provides that help? People like us. Two guys in the shadows that no one has ever heard of. Power, my friend, is not the ability to change something as much as it is the ability to eliminate the need for change. You see I don’t need to …. move a mountain, for example. I simply tell you that the mountain doesn’t exist, and it ceases to exist. Changing the perception of reality is more important than the reality itself.”

Pierce remained silent. He knew these things to be true long before he ever met Graham. He remembers the moment he saw the truth. It came in its characteristically undeniable fashion between his first and second tour in the Corps, but Graham enjoyed believing that he was imparting some much-needed wisdom to his lesser.

“I got this Roger Biltmore character… Self-proclaimed journalist wanting to ‘shine a light in the darkness.’” Graham scoffed sarcastically using air quotes. “How novel. They’ll be a Netflix documentary, maybe a 60-minute special. It’s been done. People will whine and protest but what can they do really? It will all be forgotten in a month. The interesting side effect of futility. The mind blocks it out.”

Pierce nodded slightly in agreement. This was also a truth he well knew.

“But this other incessant pain in my ass keeps pushing back against the tide.” His tone rose slightly.

“Maybe you’re losing your touch, Graham.” Pierce couldn’t resist teasing.

“Hardly. The world is just changing too fast.” He motioned for another to the waiter for another round. “Too fast.” He repeated under his breath. “It’s been a prefect storm these last couple of months. People are starting to see the mountains.”

Pierce knew what he meant. Graham’s stranglehold on the seats of power has been taking a beating of late.

“William Sanders.” He finally said without any preamble.

“The Moor?…Lawyer, activist”

“So, you’ve heard of him?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“That’s the point. He gives legitimacy to the journalist. Who, in light of recent events, is providing the prefect lighting rod. Galvanizing the people.”

Pierce laughed wholeheartedly.

“The people? You’re joking right? How long have we been in this business? The people don’t really matter anymore… I’m not sure if they ever did. Influenced by thirty second videos on social media and tweets, ‘People’ would follow a blind monkey… And have.”

Pierce sat back as the waiter placed two new scotches before them. He waited patiently. There had to be more than that. More than ‘the people,’ Pierce thought smiling to himself.

“Lane is backing him.”

The smile was gone. Piece instinctively looked to see if anyone was in ear shot. Of course, no one was. The private room only had two other occupants and they were engaged in their own conversation.

“Lane?”

“He’s an impetuous bastard.” Graham cursed him.

Pierce frowned at this characterization.

“He’s the sixth richest family in the country. Half of congress has eaten at his dinner table. I’ve personally heard the President’s chief of staff apologize to him for having to wait at the inaugural ball. That Lane?”

Graham just huffed.

Pierce just shook his head. His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and checked the message.

“Well this will be easier than I thought.” Pierce said when he’d finished. “Just call Lane and tell him to pull his support. “

“No,”

“Well I can pay him a visit and express your desires-.”

“No!” Graham shouted. Slamming his fist down on the table.

The Maître d’ immediately rushed over.

“Mr. graham is everything to your satisfaction?” He asked dabbing the areas around the glasses where scotch had spilled from the outburst.

“Yes, Blake.”

“I’ll bring you another around.” Blake said removing the half-spilled glasses, intent on restoring the scene as it were before. “Blue Label, correct?” Blake confirmed with Pierce.

“Y-“

“No.” Graham interrupted. “Get him a single malt, none of that blended nonsense. McCallan. 18.”

“Yes sir.” Blake answered not even bothering to confirm with Pierce. “Would you like me to clear the room for you?” He asked referring to the other table who had been watching them since his outburst.

“Thank you. That would be appreciated.”

Blake went about the business of hurrying the other guest out of the room. Leaving them in relative privacy.

Pierce’s phone vibrated again on the table. He ignored it. Graham had never lost his cool, never seemed out of sorts, but today seems a day for firsts. What was even more profound to Pierce was the bead of sweat that had formed on Graham’s forehead.

“If you going to walk around in your tailored suits and Breitling watches, you should at least drink single malt.” Graham muttered to no one in particular. He retrieved a silk handkerchief from his pocket and quickly passed it over his forehead.

When Blake returned with the Scotch, Graham seemed to have composed himself. After straightening his jacket, he took a sip.

“Lane has …fallen out of grace with the family.”

Pierce leaned forward. “This isn’t about the activist at all.”

“Of course it’s not, Pierce.”

Pierce sat back. He tried to contemplate all things that Graham wasn’t telling him. Graham liked to think of himself as puppet master moving pieces on the board without knowledge. Pierce had no interest in being a pawn with Lane involved. It occurred to Pierce that ‘Lane has fallen out of grace with the family’ loosely translated could very well mean ‘Graham had fallen out of grace.’ Or at least, from the looks of Graham, they were waiting to see how it all played out.

“You know what this is?” Pierce said when he finally spoke. “This is a civil war. One no one knows about; being raged among the powerful in the dark.”

Graham dismissed the metaphor. He wasn’t one for euphemisms. He could only think in the literal world.

“Honestly what do you care, Pierce?” Graham said looking away. Somewhere inside of him, not too far below the surface, he felt it was beneath him to ask twice. Especially to a guy like Pierce.

In truth, Pierce didn’t care. Not really. How could it possibly matter which one of the self-ordained, masters of the universe types, claimed to run this shitshow? The problem is: eventually you’ll find the one that does, and you’ll want to be on the right side of him. Lane was the closet to the Omega he’d seen. While Graham, in his current sweaty, frantic state, was obviously not.

Pierce phone vibrated once again on the table.

“Why don’t you answer the fucking thing?” Graham yelled.

Pierce held Graham’s gaze. How far had he gone off the edge to raise his voice at him, Pierce wondered. The modern Ruling class almost always misunderstands the application of their particular form of power. Especially when presented with another power in a form unfamiliar to them. For instance, Pierce knew he could snap Graham’s neck with his bare hands and there would be nothing he could do to stop it. That was a form of power. One Graham was unfamiliar with and therefore didn’t comprehend why the idea of yelling at him was foolish.

Graham, eventually putting together what Pierce was thinking, raised his hands in a surrendering fashion. It was the closet thing Pierce was going to get to an apology, he knew. He put it behind him and answered the phone.

Pierce didn’t do much talking. In fact, he only said ‘Hello’…’yes’...’yes’… ‘yes’… and ‘understood.’ This was typical of his phone conversations. Graham waited rather impatiently until he hung up.

“Can I ask you something, Graham?” Piece inquired putting his phone back in his jacket pocket and absently touching the rim of his scotch glass. “You ever wonder why Muammar Gaddafi, didn’t run?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Gaddafi? Why didn’t he run?”

Graham still wore a confused face. Pierce continued, “I mean he ruled the country for what… forty years, right? So that means he saw when they overthrew Amin in the country under him in the 80’s… A few others after that in that same country in less than a decade. The Sudan was overthrown twice, as well. I mean it changes like the seasons over there, right?... So… late in 2010 he looks to the country to his right and sees Arab Springs raging… all from a Facebook post, no less. Can you imagine? Facebook?”

“I don’t get-“

“I mean it had to be clear to him times were changing. Then he looks out in his own front yard and sees a revolution brewing. I mean the writings on the wall, right? So why didn’t Muammar just cash in his chips and head to Mauritius or wherever dictators retire to?”

Graham seemed to understand the question now. He sat back.

“There’s not an easy answer for what you’re asking. But Gaddafi wasn’t dumb, firstly. If that’s what your implying. I had a few dealings with him some time ago. Shrewd man.”

“Then why not leave?”

Graham for the first time didn’t look down at Pierce. He regarded him not as an equal but as someone of the same guild. Someone who knew and accepted the world as it is, not as it should be or could be. Like the hippies’ preached on about. As it is. A rare and underrated gift.

“Because he’d beaten them before,” He said plainly, “It wasn’t the first coup, or first uprising, or first challenge that he’d stamped out. So, what made this one any different?”

“They succeeded. They won.”

“Ah yes,” Graham smiled, “But you didn’t know that they would. You project and analyze. Hypothesize. But you don’t know when it’s your time. It could be just like the last futile and feeble attempt or it could be…” Graham raised his hands to side palms up.

He didn’t finish. Not that he needed to.

“I knew his son,” Pierce reminisced leaning back. “He worked at AECom with my brother-in-law up in the city. Good kid. Dragged back to that third world country to be a General in his father’s army.” He sipped the single malt, “He died, young and naïve. Just so that an old man could try to hold on to a meaningless position of power for just a little while longer.”

It all seemed so wasteful to Pierce. Graham on the other hand shook his head.

“Meaningless?” He said with a raised eyebrow. He leaned in over the table. “Allow me to let you in on something I don’t think you’ve pieced together yet.” His voice was smooth and confident now. This was the Graham pierce knew. “There is nothing else. You think there was a waterfront bungalow waiting for Gaddafi on the other side? You think it’s there for any of us?” Graham stifled a laugh, “If you believe there’s something else out there by all means go find it. Call me when you do, I’ll join you.” He chuckled to himself finding it truly assuming. Someone that’s seen what Pierce had engaging in this level of fantasy. The humor quickly faded however; a man capable of this type of delusion was a liability. His tone turned serious, “There is nothing else. You hold on to this for as long as you can and then you hold on some more. Because trust me there’s nothing noble about living like these sheep. Nothing romantic about being on the other side of the fence while you’re herded to the slaughterhouse. You do this until your time is up and then your son picks up where you left off. That’s how it works. That’s why the richest families from a hundred years ago are the same today and will be a hundred years from now.” Graham raised his glass to drink and stopped short, “You want to know what I bet? I bet, he never even thought to run. I bet… It never even occurred to him to try to be a sheep. Something you’d do well to remember, Pierce … given the company you keep.”

Graham sat back and took out his handkerchief again to dab his forehead.

“You’re right.” Pierce admitted. Graham looked pleased with himself. “About the Scotch. I’d have to give the single malt the edge.”

Graham’s frustration was at an apex, but he just scoffed.

“You know the more money you get, the more eccentric you are becoming, Pierce.” Graham decided to put a pin in this. They had gone off topic and were no closer to getting anywhere.

Pierce looked at his watch.

“You know what makes this Sanders different? The reason you can’t beat him.” Pierce, sensing Graham’s disposition, returned to the subject.

“What?” Graham sighed.

“He’s not like other Activist.”

“No?”

“No. He’s like us. He understands how the world operates. Just like we do. He’s seen behind the curtain. Sanders doesn’t want to shine a light in the darkness. What good would that do? He simply wants to replace the men in the shadows, with a couple of his own.”

“And how does he plan to do that?”

As an answer, Pierce took out the Glock 19 from his shoulder holster, silencer already attached, and put three bullets in Graham’s chest. He sat the gun on the table and Blake quickly carried it away to dispose of it.

He thought of Graham’s philosophy as the two burly men carried his body out through the rear door. Maybe he was right. Maybe there was nothing else, Pierce reluctantly considered as he finished his drink.

It was very good scotch.