“Mr. Vanelli, I would hardly consider a half billion dollars little.
The thing you people don’t understand is that I consider most of the President’s budget to be a waste. I am merely focusing on the Rural Electrification Administration because it’s an easy target. You must agree with the simple logic that when an institution is founded to solve a problem, once that problem is solved, the institution should be closed. All of rural America has been electrified for over twenty years, but we continue to bleed the tax payers for about five hundred million dollars a year, just so Congressman and Senators can send pork back to their constituents. It’s a crime that the President is predicting a one-hundred-billion-dollar budget deficit and garbage like this isn’t being cut.” O’Rourke looked down to make sure the Dictaphone was still running. Vanelli stood from his chair and walked toward the other end of the office. “They told me you were a flake,” he said over his shoulder.
O’Rourke smiled to himself as he looked at Vanelli’s back and said, “Excuse me.
What did you just say?” Vanelli turned around and strutted back to the desk. “Enough of the bullshit, Mike. I’m not here to talk political theory with you, nor to discuss what is ethically correct.
That’s for people like you and your loser friends to waste time on.”
“Mr. Vanelli, I don’t remember giving you permission to call me by my first name.”
“Listen, Mike, Mikey, or dickhead, I’ll call you whatever I want. All you are is a naive little freshman Congressman who thinks he has all the solutions. We’re about the same age, but we’re worlds apart.
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I’m a realist and you’re an idealist. Do you know where idealists get in this town?
Nowhere! They go absolutely nowhere! They sent me down here to give you one last chance. You either get on board with the President’s budget or your career is over. The choice is simple. You help us out and Chairman Koslowski will make sure some extra money finds its way into your district. If you don’t, you’ll be out of a job next year.”
O’Rourke looked up at the man standing over his desk and rose to meet the challenge.
The six-foot-three, 210-pound O’Rourke smiled slightly and asked, “Mr. Vanelli, what exactly do you mean, my career will be over?” Vanelli took a step backward and replied, “You either play ball with us or we’ll ruin your career. Chairman Koslowski will make sure he cuts off every penny from getting to your district.
We’ve got people right now who are digging through your past. If we find anything dirty, we’ll spread it all over town, and if we don’t, we’ll make something up. We own enough people in the press. We could ruin you in a week. We’re done playing nice guy.”
Vanelli shook his finger in O’Rourke’s face. “I’m going to wait in your lobby for exactly five minutes. I want you to sit in here and think about having your career ruined over one stupid vote, and when you’re done, I want an answer.”
Vanelli turned for the door. O’Rourke reached forward and grabbed the Dictaphone with his left hand. He took his thumb and pressed the rewind button. The tiny machine started to squeak as the tape spun in reverse.
Vanelli heard the familiar sound and turned to look. Michael held up the’ tiny machine and pressed play. Vanelli’s voice emanated from the small box. “We’ve got people right now who are digging through your past. If we find anything dirty, we’ll spread it all over town, and if we don’t, we’ll make something up. We own enough people in the press.
We could ruin you in a week.” Vanelli stormed across the room and lunged for the
Dictaphone. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
O’Rourke’s right hand shot up and grabbed Vanelli’s outstretched hand.
O’Rourke had practiced the judo move thousands of times while he was in the
Marines.
In one quick motion he twisted Vanelli’s hand until the bottom of the wrist faced the ceiling, then forced the hand back toward the elbow.
Vanelli collapsed to his knees in pain. O’Rourke continued to exert enough force to keep him on the floor. Vanelli looked up with a pained face and screeched, “Let go of my fucking wrist, and give me that goddamn tape.” O’Rourke increased the pressure and
Vanelli let out a squeal. “Listen to me, Vanelli. Just because you’re from Chicago and you have an Italian name doesn’t mean you’re tough. You’re an aide to a Congressman, not a hit man for the Mafia.” Vanelli picked up his right hand and reached for his bent wrist.
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Before he was halfway there, O’Rourke slammed the wrist back another inch and
Vanelli’s free hand shot back to the floor as he let out a scream. “Listen to me, you little punk! I don’t know who you think you are coming in here and threatening me, but if you or your scumbag boss ever bother me again, you’ll have the FBI, 60 Minutes, and every other major news organization in the country crawling up your ass. Do you understand?”
Vanelli was slow to respond, so O’Rourke increased the pressure and repeated the question.
“Do you understand?” Vanelli shook his head yes and started to whimper.
O’Rourke set the tape recorder on his desk, dropped to one knee, and grabbed Vanelli by the chin. He stared into his eyes and in a firm, precise voice said, “If you ever screw with me again, I’ll do a hell of a lot more than twist your wrist.”
Garret came bursting into the Oval Office. He’d been running back and forth between his office and the President’s all morning, sneaking puffs of cigarettes and screaming into his phone. He strutted across the room to where the President and Dickson were sitting.
“I’ve got great news; Moore is on board.” The President punched his fist into the air, and all three men let out a
