Forging America: My Campaign Manager is Roosevelt

Chapter 447: Chapter 209: An Indefinable Creature

Just as Leo was about to leave the Senate building, a figure blocked his path.

He was a tall, young Black man in a black suit. His expression was cold, and his eyes held a look of professional scrutiny.

"Mayor Wallace."

The young man spoke, his voice low and leaving no room for negotiation.

"Mr. Montoya would like to invite you to his office for a cup of coffee."

Leo stopped and glanced at his watch.

"I have a flight back to Pittsburgh."

"Your flight can be rescheduled."

The young man turned sideways and gestured for him to follow.

"But it’s not every day one gets to have coffee with the Whip."

"Now?"

Leo narrowed his eyes.

"Lead the way."

Leo didn’t refuse.

He knew there was no avoiding it.

’Whatever the Whip’s intentions are, I’ll just have to deal with it.’

...

Montoya’s office was on the first floor of the Congress Building, just a few steps from the House of Representatives chamber.

When Leo walked in, Montoya was standing at the window, looking out at the lawn with a cup of coffee in his hand.

Hearing the door close, Montoya turned around.

"Sit."

Montoya pointed to the chair opposite his desk.

A cup of hot coffee was already waiting there.

Leo sat down and picked up the cup.

"Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Montoya."

"Don’t thank me. It’s the taxpayers’ money."

Montoya sat in his leather chair, his hands folded on the desk.

He dispensed with pleasantries and cut straight to the chase.

"Mr. Wallace, I’ve been on Capitol Hill for forty years, and I’ve seen all kinds of deals. I’ve seen people sell their souls for the naming rights to a post office, and I’ve seen people betray their allies just to sit on the President’s plane for ten minutes."

Montoya’s voice was steady, without any inflection.

"But I have never seen a mayor."

"A young mayor from the Rust Belt. No connections, no family background, doesn’t even know his way around Washington."

"Bypass the White House."

"Bypass the Leader of the Senate."

Montoya extended a finger and tapped the desk.

"And directly command four Republican Senators how to vote."

The air in the room seemed to freeze.

"Ackman, Brown, Rogers, Coburn."

"These four men, they hate the Democratic Party, they hate environmental bills, they hate everything marked blue. On a normal day, they might not even take my call, even if I was the one begging."

"But this morning, they lined up to vote ’yes’ on Sanders’s bill."

Montoya stared at Leo.

"Tell me, young man."

"How did you do it?"

"What did you give them? The nuclear launch codes?"

Leo took a sip of his coffee.

"I didn’t command them, Mr. Montoya."

Leo put down his cup, his tone calm.

"I can’t command Senators. That’s a power for bigwigs like you."

"I’m just a salesman."

"A salesman?" Montoya raised an eyebrow.

"Yes."

Leo met Montoya’s gaze squarely.

"I sold them something."

"What was it?"

"I sold them certainty."

Leo stood up and walked over to the map of the United States on the wall.

"You see, Mr. Montoya."

His finger drew a circle over Pittsburgh.

"I told them that Pittsburgh’s new bill is about ’Made in America’."

"I promised the energy giants that we would buy their power, that we would be the most stable customer for fossil fuels."

"I gave them purchase orders. I guaranteed demand for their output."

"So."

Leo turned and looked Montoya directly in the eye.

"They weren’t voting for the Democratic Party."

"They were voting for ’Made in America’."

As Montoya listened to Leo’s explanation, his expression slowly changed.

He was a pragmatist.

He didn’t care about ideology, only results.

Leo’s logic, while crude, was effective.

It bypassed ideological deadlocks and struck right at the bullseye of self-interest.

"Brilliant."

Montoya leaned back in his chair and clapped softly twice.

"You muddied the waters and then pulled out a fish."

Then, Montoya’s gaze turned cold again.

"But, young man."

"There’s a problem here."

Montoya stood up, walked around his desk, and stopped in front of Leo.

He was half a head shorter than Leo, but his aura pressed down like a mountain.

"We’re not opposed to pork-barreling."

"In Washington, pork-barreling is as natural as breathing. Without it, this machine can’t run."

"But you cannot sell out the interests of the Democratic Party."

Montoya’s voice turned stern.

"That old man Sanders, he doesn’t represent the Democratic Party. He’s just a banner we use to attract young voters. He can make noise, he can shout, but he can’t call the shots."

"And you."

Montoya poked Leo in the chest.

"You used the Republican Party today, which is fine. But what about tomorrow?"

"If you sell our trump cards to the other side for the sake of Pittsburgh’s interests, if you backstab the party caucus at a critical moment just to get some money..."

"...then you’re a traitor."

It was a warning.

Montoya was telling Leo: You can be wild, but you have to be on a leash.

’Mr. President,’ Leo thought. ’What does he want?’

"He wants your allegiance," Roosevelt’s voice echoed in his mind. "He wants to confirm whether you’re Sanders’s man, or an asset to the Party."

"Tell him which side you’re on."

Leo looked at Montoya and offered a slight smile.

"Mr. Montoya."