Forging America: My Campaign Manager is Roosevelt-Chapter 86 - 63: Washington’s Way of Doing Things

"Daniel said that the young man set up a showcase in Pittsburgh," Montoya explained. "He proved that the Progressives’ ideals can take root in the Rust Belt. Daniel sees him as the future of the movement."

"Alright." A hint of impatience crept into Walker’s voice. "It seems we’ve underestimated this little guy’s influence. Kod, what’s your take? How do you want to handle this?"

"We have to cut our losses immediately." Montoya gave his assessment. "Restore Wallace’s VAN System access, have the Democratic National Committee send someone to Pittsburgh to apologize privately, and smooth things over."

"That would be a huge embarrassment for the Democratic National Committee." Walker’s voice turned cold.

"Embarrassment is better than losing the midterms." Montoya had to raise his voice. "We need Sanders’s votes right now. We need his ability to mobilize. We can’t afford to go to all-out war with him at a time like this."

"And Raymond, you need to bow to Sanders. This isn’t about saving face for that young man; it’s about showing respect to Sanders."

Heavy breathing came from the other end of the line.

Clearly, the word "bow" had struck a nerve with Raymond Walker.

"Bow?" Walker’s voice was filled with suppressed rage. "Kod, are you suggesting I bow down to that old man from Vermont who’s constantly making trouble for us?"

"Are you suggesting the highest authority in the Party apologize to some nameless nobody from Pittsburgh?"

"Do you have any idea what that would do to our prestige?"

"I know!" Montoya was getting frantic now too. "But the survival of the bill is at stake! The White House’s position is at stake!"

"Enough!"

Walker cut Montoya off harshly.

"I don’t want to discuss these terms of surrender over the phone, even if it’s a secure line."

"Where are you?"

"I’m in my office," Montoya answered.

"I’m near Capitol Hill too," Walker said. "You know the place, that old cigar bar. I want to see you there in ten minutes."

"This is something we have to discuss face-to-face."

"And Kod, don’t let me hear that word ’bow’ from you again."

BEEP— BEEP—

The line went dead.

Montoya stood holding the receiver, stunned for a few seconds.

He could tell Walker was truly furious this time.

But he had no choice.

As the Party Whip, his job was to string the scattered pearls back together. Even if the thread was covered in shit, he had to pinch his nose and push it through.

Montoya slammed the receiver back onto its cradle, turned, and looked at the terrified expression on Graves’s face.

"What are you looking at?" Montoya snapped. "This is the mess you made!"

"Get back to your office. Don’t do anything stupid and don’t issue any statements until you hear from me!"

As if granted a pardon, Graves scrambled out of the office.

Montoya grabbed his trench coat from the sofa and threw it back over his shoulders.

He glanced out the window at the dark, rainy night.

’Tonight is going to be a long night.’

***

「In a private cigar bar near Capitol Hill, Washington D.C.」

There was no sign. The main door was kept locked year-round, and only members with a special key card could enter.

Its membership list included nearly every name at the top of Washington’s power pyramid.

Under the dim lights, the air was thick with the rich aroma of top-shelf Cuban cigars and the mellow scent of aged whiskey.

In Washington, this was known as "the smell of consensus."

In a leather booth in the corner, House Majority Whip Kod Montoya sat across from House Majority Leader Raymond Walker.

On the table between them were two glasses of whiskey, neat, and an ashtray overflowing with ash.

Raymond Walker was a burly man from the Southern States and the most powerful figure in the Democratic Party’s Establishment Faction.

Conventionally, the Speaker of the House is considered the highest-ranking leader within the party.

But within the great arena of power and prestige that was Capitol Hill, there was an unspoken understanding: the Speaker’s position was too high, too visible. It was also shackled by countless tedious constitutional duties and the superficial pleasantries of bipartisanship.

The Speaker represented the decorum of the House of Representatives and had to maintain an air of detached dignity at all times.

The Majority Leader, the second-in-command, was the true driver of the party machine.

His will was often the Party’s will.

At the moment, his expression was grim.

"Kod, did you really say on the phone that you want me to bow down to that crazy old man?"

Walker held a thick cigar in his hand, his tone laced with clear displeasure.

"If I compromise with Sanders now, who will ever respect the National Committee’s authority again? Every local radical who feels they’ve been wronged will come to Washington and raise hell. How are we supposed to run this party?"

Montoya picked up his glass and took a small sip.

He understood Walker’s anger.

For a leader, authority was everything.

But as the Whip, he cared about numbers, results, and survival.

"Raymond, this isn’t bowing down. It’s cutting our losses."

Montoya’s voice was steady, an attempt to cool down the furious leader.

"Look at the situation we’re in."

"Daniel has lost his mind. His threat in the Rules Committee was no joke. Our failed vote in the House already proved his control over the Progressive caucus."

"If he defects again with those thirty votes during the formal vote on the Regional Economic Recovery Bill next week, or worse, if they vote against it, we’re completely finished."