PMadriani 12.5 - The Second Man by Steve Martini Page A

time about politics. It’s like pounding sand. I’m a progressive. Paul’s a Neanderthal. We gave up on that long ago.”
    â€œMaybe I misjudged your other half,” he said.
    â€œYeah, the two of you would probably get along.”
    â€œYesterday you asked me about the CIA. Let me tell you, the old CIA used to keep things in check, making sure that the right ­people got shot so that the wrong ­people didn’t get into power in some bad places around the world. Now you folks, you progressives have waved on the Arab Spring. We come to find out this eruption of democracy is nothing but an exchange of tyrants. Getting rid of those who were once friendly to Uncle Sam in favor of those who are not. Excuse me for saying, but this is what love-­in liberals always produce. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against love.” He winked at her. “But spineless policy always makes the world a more dangerous place. The thought that if we just love everybody, they’ll love us back, is how you get raped. That and the thought that if it doesn’t work, you can just bullshit your way through. After all, our fearless leader knows this always works with the voters. The problem is that, for the most part, they’re fucking morons,” said Akers. “So when things get out of control, he’s gotta call in the masked man.”
    â€œI suppose that’s you on a white horse,” said Joselyn.
    â€œHi Ho Silver!” said Akers.
    They rode on in silence for about an hour, then turned west toward 101. Akers occasionally looked over to check her out, a lusty glint in his eye. Joselyn’s shapely legs, one draped over the other, outlined in skintight stretch pants, left little to the imagination.
    An hour later, they were speeding north up 101, cutting through the military base, what was left of Camp Roberts, now a National Guard training post. A few miles farther on, they came to a sign on the road: FORT HUNTER LIGGETT .
    The sun was an hour into the sky to the east as they approached the guardhouse. Akers stopped the Escalade at the Army checkpoint, rolled down the window, and told the MP: “We’re registered at the Hacienda.”
    The guard took a look at Akers’s driver’s license, made a note, checked the license plate on the car, wrote it down, and waved them through.
    â€œWhat’s the Hacienda?” asked Jocelyn.
    â€œHearst’s old hunting lodge. Military uses it for guests, but it’s open to the public. You’ll like it. No bedbugs. Least I don’t think so.” Moments later, they pulled up in front of a sprawling Spanish Colonial building, gleaming white walls in the morning sun, red-­tile roof with a tower.
    â€œAre you sure they’re open?” Theirs was the only car in the parking lot.
    â€œYep. Best time of the year, off-­season. Got the place to ourselves. Let’s go register and check in. We can unload the car and head over to the airfield,” he told her. Akers stepped out and went to the back of the car and opened the rear door. Inside was a large ice chest the size of a footlocker.
    â€œWhat’s that?” she asked.
    â€œFood and supplies,” he told her.
    â€œWe’re not staying for the month,” she said.
    â€œNever can tell,” said Akers. “And you always want to be prepared.”
    â€œNo, really,” she asked.
    â€œIt’s food. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of nowhere. The nearest restaurant and grocery is over a half hour away. Up to King City. I hope you can cook, cuz I can’t boil water.”
    Joselyn wasn’t looking forward to setting up housekeeping with him, one hand on the frying pan, the other trying to ward him off.
    He started to pull the chest out of the back of the car. “Got some steaks for tonight. We can barbecue ’em. Hearst used to have the servants bring food over from the ranch