Trio, Book 1, Chapter 1

from The Trio Conspiracies

“It will be difficult for you, darling,” his mother had said, repeatedly, since early morning. She caressed and patted his hand, “but you have to give the eulogy and you know you must tell the truth, whatever that is. After all, Morgan, you are the President.”
Lillian Steiner adored her son’s strong, clean-cut face, ringed by dark curls, which refused to remain in place. Lillian Steiner respected and approved, in this sad morning, of her son’s attire: the crisp white collar, a navy blue tie, and black formal suit. The double-breasted jacket appeared tailored for him. She concerned herself with the paleness of his complexion, knowing he was weary. He hadn’t slept well since Danny’s accident. She glanced at his dark blue eyes, his black eyelashes, accenting his sculpt face, his full masculine lips and was satisfied with how handsome he had become and how much he looked like her dear, departed Michael.
She finished consoling Morgan by holding her hand gently against the side of his face. He looks so much like his father, my Michael. Her advice was wise as she spoke her last words of consolation to Morgan before he delivered the eulogy. “But you must do it, Morgan, honey. You’ve overcome greater challenges than this. You knew Danny better than anyone. You must tell the truth about him, about everything that’s relevant.” She paused and then squeezed his hand. “I know you can do it, my darling, my Morgan. You know very well, your father would demand, no,” she said. She paused. “He would request it of the man who is now President, but is also his son.” She paused for a longer period clutched her arms close to her and shivered. “It’s cold in this building, darling. What is it called? What’s the name? It’s beautiful, but....”
“The Capital Rotunda, mother. It’s the building where Presidents lie in state.”
“Oh, yes. I know.”
“You should be seated, mother,” he said.”Please.”.
“Yes, I know. There is several hundred years of history in this room, isn’t there, just as there is in our old house, our home in Blue Hill?” Lillian turned without waiting for Morgan to answer her and walked away from him toward her chair on the Dais. She seemed smaller than the size eight she had worn since Morgan was a child.
Morgan watched as a military usher help seat his mother then took his place in the first chair to the right of the lectern. Many disconnected thoughts raced through his mind. Dear Mother. There is so much don’t know, couldn’t know about me and my private life. How could you know anything about all of the things that have happened to Danny and me? I wouldn’t want you to know those details. Several idiotic schemes that had disastrous results. They were mostly my ideas. Perhaps you wouldn’t think well of me if you knew everything we’ve done; everything I’ve done when we were kids, in high school, college and most of all recently. Some of it’s nothing to be proud of.
He smiled as he thought about some of the crazy things he and Danny had done. He was excited thinking about certain plots, especially plots that were high risk. He still had a penchant for adventures and thrills. Thinking about them sent slivers of arousing electricity through his body. His heart quickened even though his eyes were clouded with tears, and he deeply resented what had happened to Danny. He knew he would be at the forefront of justice in avenging his best friend’s untimely death.
At this moment, Morgan was caught between his grief and loyalty for Danny Cochran and his duty to his country. Conflicting thoughts continued racing through his mind. Would he talk about the real Danny Cochran or would he drop bombshells that could damage the fabric of American society? For as long as he had known Danny, did he indeed know the it real Danny?
Danny and I were close. We were more than friends. We had become extensions of each other. He was as close to me as my own brother, Joshuah. He paused and lowered his head. That’s the way I thought about our relationship. I think he felt the same way about me. I hope he felt the same way.
Morgan glanced at his mother. Lillian Steiner sat in her chair, settled back keeping her legs together. Her dress and long coat fell softly over her knees and stopped halfway down leg at about her calf. She glanced at Morgan and nodded encouragement. Even though Danny and I were buddies, she loved Danny, too, in some ways, as a son, probably as much as she loved me: as much as she loves me; as much as I loved . . . love him.
Morgan glanced down the row of chairs. Seems like everyone’s in place: dignitaries, government officials, and prominent Americans. The rotunda is rapidly filling . . . the line of mourners continues. It is chilly in here.
Suddenly the senate chaplain stood before Morgan with his hand extended. Morgan stood to greet him. “I didn’t know President Cochran well,” but then many people didn’t know him.” He held Morgan’s hands tightly. “I know this will be a sad day for you, Mr. President. I will say a prayer for you.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you, kindly, Pastor Holmes,” Morgan said softly. The chaplain turned and strode to the lectern. He raised his hand calling the assemblage to silence, explained that some mourners were seated while others would pay their last respects by continuing to move slowly past the President’s bier. He spoke briefly stating the sadness of the event, advised of the latest news regarding the continuing investigation, the hunt initiated by the Government for the perpetrators of the crime, and decided to give a brief history of the rotunda, and follow that with an explanation of the process of Presidential succession based on the U.S. Constitution. The seated mourners remained silent as the slow moving line of people shuffled silently past the Danny Cochran’s bier.
Morgan heard some of the chaplain’s words and knew he would have to stand behind the lectern on this dais. The pastor’s words faded as Morgan’s stared at the bright purple draped catafalque covered with the American flag. The red color in the flag blends well with the maroon in the catafalque blanket. Morgan wanted to touch the velvet again as he smelled the thousands of flowers in wreaths, bouquets and vases. This place smells like one large funeral home, he thought. Heavy Rose, Carnation and flower aromas and scents saturated the air. He inhaled, disliking the sweetness of the aroma. Once again Morgan’s stomach rumbled, he noted his anxiety by the tingling between his legs, like an elevator ride, and he didn’t enjoy his compromising situation. He squeezed his legs together still enjoying the feeling. He wanted to run and keep on running and concluded he wanted to escape the realities of government, run fast anywhere, like he used to run on his high school track team, leave the marbled room of the Capitol Rotunda far behind him, leave D.C., both in distance and responsibilities. He knew he couldn’t do that: disgrace himself and his family and friends, his dead father, his caring mother, and Danny.
His thoughts would not be quiet as he caught a few of the chaplain’s words and listened to his voice rise and fall, sing-song. Mr. Holmes spoke kind words about a man he never met. Morgan was angry and hoped he could get through his own eulogy without exhibiting his nervous cough. He cleared his throat again. He tried hard not to think of Danny in that bronze coffin. He shuddered. What a waste of life, he thought.
While the minister continued, Morgan scanned the domed room again, the ceiling and the marble columns. He noticed a woman whisper to her companion and knew she spoke about his eyes. They always did. And, they always stared directly at him. They both looked at him, as if trying to catch his attention. He knew their thoughts: dark lashes and blue eyes .Beautiful lips slim hips. He thought about the woman, a stranger, who told him he possessed the perfect exotic masculine combination: eyelashes, lips, and hips and added that his appearance was perfect topped off by dark ringlets. He told her that his hair seldom behaved, even when cut short. He recalled how she had moved close to him again, with the Secret Service guys standing as close to him as she did. He felt her touch again below his waist and understood her signal. The electricity vaulted through his body again as he closed his legs. He glanced back at the women and got smiles from veiled faces. Of course, he thought.
Morgan arched an eyebrow as he counted the large historic paintings hung along the walls, then gazed for some time at the marble bust of President Lincoln, another of his heroes, while he was aware that some mourners shift in their chairs as hundreds more continued to pass through the large circular rotunda. Oh, Danny, he thought. Oh, Danny. Why? Why?
Citizens shuffled slowly past the catafalque and paid their respects in complete silence. Faces expressed grief, shock, and disbelief. Many, including men, held handkerchiefs to their faces. Most shook their heads not believing the events of the last few days. Periodically, Morgan didn’t know why, he listened to the near muffled sounds of shoe soles and heels scraping the marble floor as the procession moved, stopped, and started again. Shoe soles slid along the marble floor, barely audible, along with uncontrolled sniffling, separated by frightening silence and the minister’s soft voice. Morgan wondered how much longer the man would continue.
He sympathized with occasional coughs that punctuated and sometimes interrupted the minister’s words. He felt like he would have to cough himself. He hoped he would sound more sincere and be able to talk about his friend in the bronze coffin that seemed huge, as it rested in the center of the room.
Morgan caught sight of a circling bee as it buzzed and flew and after several seconds settled on a red rose dangling at the edge of the casket. Morgan heard the bee’s sound, finally saw it, listened as the buzz became loud then silent and told himself the presence of the bee was of no consequence to him, to anyone or to the world. He didn’t like the tone of his thought and wondered why he resented the intrusion by the lonely bee.
He looked down at the floor of the dais as the minister, standing behind the shiny oak, lectern, finished speaking. This older man, whom Morgan had seen briefly once in the past, in his long dark robe, introduced Morgan. The minister continued speaking, “ . . . friends and constituents of our deceased President, may I present the new . . . ” he stopped speaking and lowered his head. He raised it again. “Correcting myself,” he said, “it is my honor on this sad occasion to present the President of The United States, President Morgan Steiner.” Soft whispers filled the rotunda. “He will say a few words of remembrance. And this will be the second time, President Steiner will have addressed the nation as President of the United States.”
Those who had been seated stood as Morgan got up and walked slowly to the lectern. An emotional shiver ran up his spine and it was difficult for him to maintain his composure as he surveyed the display of respect, by those citizens, either for Danny Cochran, himself, or perhaps, as he thought, both of us.
The room became quiet as the line temporarily stopped moving. Morgan motioned the people to be seated. The room quickly became quiet and the mourners started moving again.
Remembrance! As good a word as any. Morgan’s head whirled as he stood at the lectern on legs that trembled. This shaking had never happened to him before, even during the campaign, even when he was inaugurated. The people in chairs rose as Morgan stood behind the lectern. He motioned them to be seated. The room became hushed.
His body appeared slender inside his tailored navy blue suit. The expression on his face showed his sadness as he laid his papers down on top of the lectern and surveyed the seated and those moving slowly in the Que. He glanced at guests: members of Congress, the cabinet, political figures of different parties and the marble pillars of the room.
Thoughts raced through his mind. How do I tell them about the real Danny, his true character? Or do I? What about his . . . Phony wife . . . Betty Jean?
He glanced over at her empty chair. It was a lonely piece of furniture, set nearest to the catafalque as though guarding the casket. It held only a single white rose tied with white satin ribbon; the ribbon ends hung over the empty seat and moved only when a fluff of air moved slowly around the catafalque. How do I bring Betty Jean into my words? He decided he wouldn’t mention her, in his speech, and would omit parts of his eulogy that included her. She was a vicious and evil person. How she must have despised both Danny and me. Why? But what she is now? Who knows?
Morgan breathed deeply. He placed his hands on top of his speech notes, looked up over the assembled people. They are really wall-to-wall, except for the line of mourners. He continued to gain his composure by breathing deeply. A strange sight. Hundreds of seated people, waiting to hear Danny Cochran’s eulogy: some eager for explanations of his death while other hope to hear of the scandals that surrounded him. Thousands more, passing reverently, in front of the catafalque. Morgan recalled a Rotunda guard had told him the line of mourners was four people wide, appeared endless and disappeared down Constitution Avenue.
As he glanced upward, daylight began to filter through the circular dome. Thousands of Danny’s supporters waiting outside. He stared at those people seated and inhaled deeply to calm himself.
The room was silent. The wayward bee had departed. Morgan cleared his throat. “I know you’ve come here today to hear a glowing tribute about a man who was your President. Many of you loved him, as much as I did. And I loved my friend and still do love and admire the person who was Danny Cochran. And this is not politics talking.” He paused and felt more confident. His knuckles were white as he held onto the lectern. There was no sound from the mourners.
“It is going to be difficult to tell you what I must tell you. It’s difficult for me, because perhaps you will hear a repudiation of a man’s life, short though it was. You will hear a repudiation of a man who deceived others throughout his life. Perhaps he hadn’t tried to purposefully deceive anyone, but you have to remember, I knew Danny Cochran well. Very well.” He paused and surveyed the room again. “You will hear a repudiation of a way of life, countless deceptions and lies, that now, unrealities that must finally be buried, with our fallen President.”
Morgan paused again and coughed into his handkerchief. He glanced at it. The bronze coffin loomed larger to him now, overpowering. “Buried,” he continued, “ . . . with my friend. Once and forever.”
“If I may be so bold as to comment,” a member of President Cochran’s cabinet said, to another member, “it’s going on a bit thick, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, yet,” the second cabinet member said. “We’ll have to wait and see. I know I’ve never heard so many rumors and some of them, very wild, unbelievable about Danny, er, President Cochran.” He put his fingers to mouth. “No, we’ll have to hear what he says. I think this guy is honest, anyway. From what I hear . . . ”
Morgan looked at the men, before he closed his eyes, and struggled with his emotion. He swallowed with difficulty. God. Help me get through this. He sniffed, tried not to be quiet, and wiped his nose with his handkerchief. He laid it on the lectern. “This, my friends, is . . . not . . . going . . . to be . . . easy. I’ll need . . . your help . . . to get through it.” Morgan’s heart pounded as he glanced at sad faces and felt the perspiration on his upper lip. He felt the moisture between his legs and under his arms and around his neck. He felt perspiration on the back of his head.
“Most of you held him . . . President Danny Cochran . . . in high esteem. All of you, that is, except the world’s worst, yet very persistent, journalist: one Mr. Forbes Marko. He paused.
“I think Forbes knew the true story about Danny and Betty Jean, their strange marriage partnership, and me, where I fit in, from the first moment he met me, then later, when he finally met Danny Cochran.” He surveyed the people. Judged their mood.
It doesn’t seem possible but our first meeting with Mr. Marko was ten years ago. Forbes was a cub reporter from a small Chicago newspaper and I was giving a bachelor’s party for Danny. . . .”
Two reporters, one from New York and the second from Los Angeles, stepped sideways, and clenched their teeth as they shuffled toward the rear exit of the rotunda. They stood in the entrance, nodded to each other, knowingly, and watched each other’s reaction as they held their cellular telephones anticipating a political explosion: a bombshell.
“What does Forbes Marko have to do with this, this tragedy?”
“Who knows?” the other reporters said. “But we’ll find out, won’t we?”
More journalists hurried out of the rotunda and into the outer corridors. They took out their cell phones, flipped them open, and dialed their newspaper rewrite desks.
“Rewrite!” many voice said. The cub reporter hummed impatiently waiting for a response while he listened to Morgan’s speech. “Hey, it’s you, Murray! Hey, Murray. This is Tiny. Yeah. Tell Forbes. After all these years, he’s won. It’s over. President Steiner is going to spill the beans, I mean, tell it all baby, about Danny Cockran, perhaps Betty Jean Curd too, and persons responsible for those political murders and that collection of conspiracies we don’t seem to be able to get a handle on. After this speech I bet congress is going to whirl into hearings and sessions.”
He listened. “What d’yah mean? How do I know? You can tell something’s up by the way he started his eulogy. He’s gonna lift the veil. Drag out all the dirty laundry. Full disclosure is the door Morgan Steiner is gonna open and then look out!” He paused to catch his breath. “Now the world is really gonna know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. . . .”
He stopped talking and listened to Murray. “What? What are you saying? Forbes already knows what’s in the President’s speech? The eulogy? He knows the true story? You and I don’t need to keep in touch today? The final story’s written? No shit! Well pull down my pants and call me naked.” His mouth fell open. “Gotcha,” he said agreeing. He frowned as he tried to understand Murray’s orders. “Let me get this straight. I should just listen? Just in case the story comes out different from Forbes’ version? Huh? OK! Bye, Murray!” H’m. Can you beat that! I think I’ve finally got a scoop and Forbes wrote his story before the President spilled the beans? Interesting. Maybe this speech isn’t good news for old jerko Forbes. Maybe he just think’s it is. H’m. We shall see.
The reporters ended their initial alerts, closed their telephones, and tiptoed back into the entryway. Some reporters looked over the hushed crowd. Other reporters: men and women, glanced up at the lonely figure of the new President on the gray dais: dignitaries, fourteen men and women, listened as President Morgan Steiner delivered the eulogy for President Danny Cochran.
Forbes Marko rocked in his swivel chair, frowned and mostly listened to the TV and funeral proceedings from the rotunda, threw his editing pencil across the room, and was getting sick to his stomach. He rubbed his belly, feeling his the flab around his waist, and slowly scratched his manhood. He glanced at the three glass walls of his office, crumpled then threw a wadded sheet of paper out of his fourteenth floor window as he listened to the minister’s dull words. More bull shit! The world should have asked me to tell them about Danny, The President. Talk about a love-hate guy. He spoke to himself softly, “Too bad all of this has to come out now. Danny was a real winner. At least that’s what the world believed. But, I was never convinced he was a winner except for his great physique and he was no dummy. He had a great mind. A lot was home in his attic. Quick on the uptake.” Be proud of yourself, Forbes, old boy; proud of what you’ve done. Oh yeah! Then why do I feel so bad? What a frigen world! He wished Danny was still alive. And, he knew why. He recalled one of Danny’s poses and shook his head again. What a waste. A complete waster of talent.
Forbes viciously snapped another pencil in two and threw it out the window. He kicked his desk and swore.
As he turned back toward the TV and rocked slowly, he listened as Morgan spoke about the first time he met Danny Cockran. I can respect Morgan as President even though he wasn’t Danny Cochran’s Veep. I wish I understood why I could never respect Danny Cochran. And yet. He began to pay close attention to Morgan’s words. Hey! What’s he saying? Could he be gonna talk about something I don’t know? Yeah! He screamed. Maybe he’s gonna talk about a part of the dead guy’s life I don’t care to know anything about. Enough is enough.
He stood and pushed his chair back, slammed it against the wall, walked to his TV, and turned it off. I think I’ll go somewhere and give my ulcer fits. Maybe get lucky. Hell, after Morgan finishes, what respected D.C. damsel would fuck me? Betty Jean? Geez! She gives her all to anyone to get what she wants. Wonder where she is now? What she’s up to? He picked his hat and jacket of the hall tree and rushed out of his office. His limp became more pronounced the faster he walked past reporters’ desk.
“Where you off to, Forbes?” a voice called to him.
“I’m going to kill myself,”he said. Suddenly he had disappeared through the double swinging doors of the large press room.
“Did you hear what he said?” a young female report asked.
“Yeah. But look who’s on TV. Maybe the stories are true. Maybe Morgan Steiner is Forbes Marko’s nemesis.”
“Yeah. I see,” she said. “I really love those eyes and his lips and . . . ”
“That seems to be the story,” the young man said.

Trio, Chapter 10

Novel List Trio Cast Book 1, Chapter 10