Dream of a Falling Eagle

used another man's work to impress your family, friends, and local constituents. You used Thomas Dickens' poems to present yourself as something you're not, an artist. This business has jogged my memory, and I now recall a television interview a few years back that one of your campaign workers gave to CNN in which she waxed eloquent about how she wished other people could only know about this artistic dimension of yours, how you were an accomplished poet who was too modest to write under your own name. At that time, I dismissed it as horseshit. It's still horseshit, but it comes from a different horse altogether.'

'I meant no harm!'

'You harmed Thomas Dickens.'

'How? There's no money in writing poetry. And I always submitted my.. interpretations … to magazines that had considerably less prestige and circulation than the journals in which they'd originally appeared. Do you know how few people read those magazines? A handful. These are literary journals, for Christ's sake! They're read mostly by college professors and students, a few poetry buffs, and a few hundred poet wannabes-like me, yes! But I never made a penny! Most of the magazines I submitted to are cranked out in somebody's basement and distributed to a couple of hundred people at most. So where's the harm?'

'My brother handles metaphysics.'

'What? What the hell are you talking about?'

Kranes wasn't getting it-as I hadn't gotten it at first. I thought about the problem, reluctantly made a decision. I was decidedly uncomfortable with what I was about to do, but thought it might be necessary to impress upon the man behind the desk the seriousness of the situation-what was at stake for Moby Dickens, and for him. I asked, 'You know anything about Dickens?'

'Not personally, no.'

'Neither does anyone else, and that's the way he wants to keep it; that's why he hired me to come and have this little talk with you. But I'm going to tell you a few things about him anyway. Thomas Dickens isn't exactly poor, because he has a steady union job working for the New York Sanitation Department, but he comes from a background of poverty.'

Kranes's brown eyes widened slightly, and he slowly blinked. 'He's a garbageman?'

'Uh-huh. And it gets better. He's a black ex-convict who served a lengthy prison term for an act of self- defense that was called murder. The reason I'm telling you this is because you can't exactly be described as a friend of the poor, black, or convicts-ex or otherwise. If you had your way, people like Thomas Dickens would be summarily executed the week after they were convicted. He's a member of three different minority groups of people you've stereotyped and demonized as undeserving, stupid, lazy folks who bloat the prisons and the welfare rolls. Putting these people down is how you keep getting reelected down here in your district, and it's the underlying message that won your party the last national election. Now it turns out that you've been bloating your own ego and reputation by stealing the intellectual goods of a black ex-convict who comes from a poor southern background. You have some wealth, family, reputation, fame, and great power. Mr. Dickens has none of these things; all he has are his words, and you've been stealing them from him. You've harmed Mr. Dickens because you've appropriated everything that means anything to him.'

The color drained from Kranes's face, and his eyes in his pudgy face suddenly glinted with anger. 'You've come here to try to blackmail me!'

'I've come here to ask you to stop plagiarizing Mr. Dickens' work-or anyone else's, for that matter. If you want to be thought of as a poet, write your own poems.'

'What does Dickens want?'

I shook my head. 'I could have sworn I just told you. He wants you to stop copying his fucking poems. Get it?'

Kranes sucked in a deep breath, slowly let it out. 'That's all? He's not going to attempt to … embarrass me?'

'How you could possibly be embarrassed more by this than by all the crap that comes out of your mouth every day is totally beyond me, but I'm not one of your fans. Dickens doesn't even know who you are, and if he did know he wouldn't care. The man's a poet, and all he cares about are his words. He doesn't want money from you. I, on the other hand, think it would be appropriate for you to pay Mr. Dickens an honorarium of, say, five hundred dollars. We'll call it a fee for your past leasing of his work. Those poems you claimed as your own may even have gotten you some swing votes among the not-so-conservatives around here who took them to mean that you're really a sensitive guy at heart who doesn't mean all those nasty things he says. Hey, maybe it's true. Don't think that I'm unimpressed by the fact that you picked Thomas Dickens' work to copy. It spoke to and touched you, which may very well mean that you routinely put your brain in park and let your mouth do all the work, pandering to people's ignorance, gullibility, and prejudices simply in order to stay in power. Maybe the politician in you killed off the rest of the man.'

'That's enough, Frederickson. For five hundred dollars, I shouldn't have to sit here and listen to your liberal bullshit. The country doesn't agree with you. Your time is past.'

'Make the check out to Thomas Dickens. I'll take it with me, along with your written statement acknowledging your plagiarism and pledging to cease and desist. That goes no further than my confidential files. You'll also pay my fee and expenses. I'll send you an itemized bill after I figure out how much time my staff and I have spent on this matter.'

'No check for Dickens. I'll give you cash.'

'Whatever you like. I'll give you a receipt.'

'I don't want a receipt. I'll pay your fee and expenses, but make sure that the bill you send me makes no mention of Thomas Dickens or any plagiarized poetry. Just bill me for general expenses. And no letter. I've told you I meant no harm, and I'm telling you I won't do it again.'

I studied him for a few moments, then nodded my head. 'All right, Mr. Speaker. I'll take your word for it.'

He pushed his chair back, took a key from his vest pocket, leaned over, and opened a locked drawer in his desk. When he straightened up he was holding a fistful of cash. He counted out five hundred dollars and put the bills in a plain envelope that he tossed across the desk to me. 'And I have your word that this is the end of it?' he asked in an even tone.

'As far as I'm concerned, yes. I can't speak for Mr. Dickens, and he's the injured party. I have an obligation to tell him who Jefferson Kelly is-but only if he asks, which I'm not even sure he'll do. I won't volunteer the information. I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. He's not interested in you. I'm not even certain he'll accept your money; if he doesn't, I'll send you a check along with my bill.'

I put the cash in my briefcase, rose, and turned toward the door.

'Hey,' Kranes said quietly.

I turned back. 'Hey what?'

'What you're doing is wrong. It's just incredibly wrong-headed and short-sighted, even for an ultra-liberal like yourself.'

'Trying to protect a man's intellectual property?'

'Working to destroy the CIA.'

'Did you say 'destroy'? From your mouth to God's ears.'

'The KGB hasn't been disbanded, you know. They've just been regrouped into an organization with a different name. They're just as powerful and evil as they ever were. Russia is bound to return to totalitarianism, and they will once again be the number-one threat to this nation and to world peace.'

'Are you trying to appeal to my patriotism, Mr. Speaker?'

'And if I am?' he asked in the same quiet tone. 'Is 'Patriotism' such a dirty word to you?'

'In some mouths, yes. It's a weapon-word, and too often it's used to try to shout down other people. It's a word that kills. Patriotism is just another form of religion, and like all religion it's bad for the individual and frequently deadly to the people around him. Incidentally, I've been hunted, shot at, and tortured by the KGB on a goodly number of occasions, so you can keep that bogeyman in your closet. I know the monster a hell of a lot better than you do.'