Query Letter / attn - Laurence J. Kirshbaum - MakeOver - a novel - Leni Matlin (Analysis)

Leni Matlin

10715 Creekwood Drive

Felton, CA 95018 / 831-469-0679

lazarus9999@yahoo.com

October 7, 2008

To: Mr. Laurence J. Kirshbaum, LJK Literary Agency

Dear Mr. Kirshbaum

I am writing to tell you about my book MakeOver, a novel of political intrigue in which unique and convincing characters live through significant and suspenseful situations set in present-day America. Topical in its themes yet broad enough in scope to remain relevant in a changing world, the MakeOver manuscript is complete at 99,860 words and ready to be perused by industry professionals.

For nearly four decades I have been intrigued by what lies behind the public workings of our democratic system and have sought out credible information regarding various veiled political, financial, military, and intelligence networks. This subject continues to garner growing public interest and awareness, and though a work of fiction, MakeOver explores this shadowy realm within the context of an engrossing, realistic, and entertaining story.

I have been writing seriously for ten years and am in this for the long haul. To date, two of my manuscripts have been published – a novel in the US, Ripples in a Pond, and a memoir in India, One Soul’s Journey.

The accompanying attachment contains a summary of MakeOver and author information, followed by the opening chapters of the book, which I sincerely hope you will read.

If what I have sent sparks your interest, the full ms. can be emailed straightaway.

I look forward to hearing back from you.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Leni Matlin

****************

MakeOver

Commercial Fiction / Political Intrigue / Suspense

Chapter 1
Even before the ring of the telephone faded away, Alfonso Giraldi was sitting up and awake. He pressed the light tab on his wristwatch, the one he wore to bed. It was 4:00 A.M.
This was business.
He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. In thirty seconds a second solitary ring sounded on the living room phone. Giraldi grabbed his mobile from the nightstand and stared at it, waiting. At 4:01 it vibrated and he switched on the display. It showed only one word, a name: Brutus.
At the first ring, Alfonso’s adrenalin had kicked in and he knew he would never get back to sleep. He slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen to put up coffee. As he silently padded across the bedroom floor, Lupita stirred and mumbled, “Who was that?”
“No one. Wrong number. Go back to sleep.”
She grunted, rolled over, and was gone.
While the water heated up, he gazed out the window. A crescent moon was poking through a patchy sky.
No rain clouds. At least I won’t be sloshing around in mud.
He poured the boiling water over the rich grounds, enough to fill the oversized mug, then scooped in two heaping spoonfuls of jaggery, noting that his supply was running low. He’d acquired the habit of sweetening his coffee with jaggery, or palm sugar, during his assignment in India – it added a robust taste, and being unrefined was the lone form of sugar that was nutritious. Scarcely anyone in Chile knew of it but Alfonso found an Indian grocery which stocked it. He mashed and stirred the sweet brown lumps until they softened and dissolved in the steaming brew and made a mental note to stop by the market on the weekend and replenish his store. His morning coffee would not be the same without it.
It was nine months since the last blind drop communiqué from Brutus, long enough to be lulled into believing he led a normal life. He had friends, a lover, favorite haunts where they knew him, or so they thought, and a well paying and occasionally satisfying job. Alfonso had taken journalism classes in college and was into his third year on a political novel set in an as yet unspecified South American country, so working at La Nación was intermittently inspiring and sporadically useful. It was also the consummate location to keep abreast of the rumors, opinions, and strategies of the multitudinous factions and politicos in Santiago, which is why he was placed there. All he had to do was keep his ears open and ask a question now and then of his colleagues to fulfill his biweekly dispatch commitment. This was the least stressful and most enjoyable posting in the eight years Giraldi had been working for US Intelligence and it prodded him to consider the prospect of an ordinary life someday, presuming he survived this one.
The police stopped by Punta de Amor in the morning to ensure everyone had made it home. They only began doing so a month earlier after an amorous couple knocked the stick out of gear and into neutral to discover the driver, in his passionate haste, had neglected to set the emergency brake. Though an accident, the papers had a field day, competing for the most lurid account: it was murder, the car pushed over the precipice by a jealous lover; it was a double suicide because: a) in-laws would not permit the fated couple to wed, b) she was pregnant and her conservative family would disown her if they knew, c) she was a light skinned upper-class widow, he her dark lower-class servant, a forbidden love that could never be. Romeo and Juliet it was not and none of the theories remotely true, but no one cared. Rolling off a cliff into oblivion while coupled in the throes of carnal bliss was perversely romantic, and knowing well their readership, too juicy a tale to let expire after one edition.
The tabloids resurrected it for weeks.
Since then, the local cops put Punta de Amor on their morning rounds. The nightshift generally cruised through before coming off duty and was gone by 8:00 A.M., which would leave Alfonso enough time to pick up his message and stop in at Julio’s for pastries before work.
Sitting in the quiet, the aroma of the coffee filling his nostrils, the caffeine and sugar bringing him to life, Alfonso felt the long quiescent urge to write. True, he wrote every day at the paper, but he meant to write from his soul. He turned on the laptop and called up the file, noticing the last entry was three months ago. His working title, Lost in Limbo, was fitting as he often wondered if he would ever finish it.
After skimming Chapter 16, a few ideas bubbled up. He typed them in, then sat back to mull over which one to pursue. His ever aware senses heard the toilet flush, then feminine footsteps coming up behind him. Soft hands slid up his neck into his hair, then softer lips caressed his shoulder, a pointy tongue drawing wet circles on his skin.
What would Hemingway do, tell her to bug off and go back to writing or yield to her feminine wiles?
It had been a long time since Alfonso had thought about Limbo, let alone felt a stirring to work on it. He was about to tell Lupita, “Later, not now,” when she simultaneously slipped both hands into his boxers and her warm succulent tongue in his ear. He shivered in delight. She squeezed him, moaned, and then whispered, “Al – fon – so … come back to bed.”
But Hemingway was a man among men. He would probably do her, then write.
Limbo could wait a little longer.
* * *
After parking at Punta de Amor, Giraldi sat in his car for ten minutes. During the day, locals occasionally pulled in for a respite or a nap, but more often than not it was empty till sunset. A faultless spot for a day drop: No one could drive up without being spotted and it was too far from the nearest cutouts to walk there on the two-lane road. If someone was on to you, they would have to know when you were coming and be planted there or else have the drop point staked out. But from where? There was no place to park to observe the pickup, and even if you scrambled up the mountainside and dug in, the canopy and foliage were too thick to follow your target, unless perhaps if you had infrared or other hi-tech imaging gear.
No place is one hundred percent secure but this is as close as it gets.
Alfonso peered around one last time before disappearing into the brush. Once committed, he moved swiftly and was back in his car in minutes, quickly pulling out onto the blacktop, the plastic pouch with his coded instructions secure in his briefs.
On a normal morning he had breakfast at Julio’s, where the city’s print journalists met to discuss the unfolding stories before officially starting their workday, but Alfonso was running late – Lupita’s fault, he smiled – and called ahead for his coffee and pastries packaged to go.
He turned into the alleyway behind Julio’s and parked at the far end of the lot next to a cinderblock wall. No other cars were close and it afforded an unobstructed view of anyone who might happen by. Giraldi took out the plastic pouch, undid the weatherproof seal and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. He scanned the flight details, where and when to pick up his ticket and documents, what he was to bring, and then read through his cover story as to why he was leaving on such short notice. This would be his last week in Santiago.
Alfonso Giraldi was going to America… and he didn’t know why.

Chapter 2
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the President and First Lady!”
As the band struck up the familiar strains of “Hail to the Chief,” President Patrick Henry Donovan and his wife Meredith Salisbury Donovan swept into the ballroom. Not since the Kennedys had a First Family as glamorous as the Donovans been ensconced in the Executive Mansion, and not since those heady days of Camelot had a First Lady nurtured an infant while her husband occupied the Oval Office. Personally, the electorate adored the First Family, but with two wars stagnating and the party’s primaries deadlocked, bold whispers speculated that Patrick Donovan might be the third incumbent in US history to be denied a re-nomination bid.
“That is not the kind of history I intend to write!” President Donovan railed when his Press Secretary informed him that morning he would be asked if there was any factual basis to this rumor by the Washington press corps in their upcoming face-to-face televised meeting.
The President had maintained his poise and brushed aside the query as “merely pot shots from across the aisle meant to sow disharmony in our ranks before the convention” as he had been prepped to do and promptly moved on, but the question was now officially in the air and on the airwaves and there was not enough White Out in Washington to make it disappear.
Later, alone with his staff, Donovan wondered aloud, “We’re at war and I’m the Commander in Chief. Can’t I have someone shot for rumor mongering?”
“Not unless you’re planning to become a dictator, Mr. President,” Aaron Chafee, his newly appointed Press Secretary offered with a defusing smile.
“Maybe we should look into that, eh, Chafee?” Donovan parried, hoping to give the impression of recovering his sense of humor.
But now, as he and Meredith swirled around the floor, the embodiment of elegance and grace, all was momentarily forgotten as rivals, lackeys, foes, and followers alike admired the First Couple.
“Probably the best looking twosome we’ve ever had copulating in the White House, don’t you think, Ross?” Senator Wilson Parrish of Connecticut asked his friend and crony, J. Felder Ross, former FDA lead counsel and now a lobbyist for Pharma Globe.
“What about JFK and Ms. Monroe?”
“Did they do the Texas two step in the White House? I thought he bagged her out in Hollywood.”
“Hmm. You may be right about that. In any case, they certainly are picture perfect. Such a shame he’s got cotton candy between the ears. Personally, I think she’d make the better president. You don’t grow up the daughter of Merton Salisbury without learning the ropes.”
“Yes, Meredith is playing the stand-by-your-man-Reader’s-Digest-mommy-role to the hilt these days, but I recall her as the precocious adolescent at the Salisbury’s Sunday brunches when Merton was Secretary of State. She could tie up her father’s guests in knots debating the issues of the day. At times I used to think they came to talk with her and not him.”
“I wonder how it is things have gone so poorly for him this last year with the likes of Salisbury and his daughter coaching him. Surely behind the scenes they must have more to chat about than mummy/daddy tripe.”
“It’s those blasted bigheaded self-absorbed American Millennium fanatics he’s thrown in with. With Taylor as his running mate they delivered just enough of the Moderates and South while retaining a sufficient percentage of labor and minorities to squeak into the White House, an impressive maneuver one must admit. And with their third party attack ads, paid activists and goon squads, they’re experts at keeping the opposition off balance. Now they’re convinced they’re indestructible and can do as they please, including manufacturing consent to remove whoever stands in the way of their global agenda. They look down at Merton and his kind as old school and think the time-tested strategies of international and domestic affairs no longer apply in their brave new world and they can rewrite the book and go it alone without military allies abroad or political ones at home. Damn, they are full of themselves.”
“They’ve accomplished a lot in a short time and have such a lock on the mainstream media the public rarely hears a dissenting view.”
Parrish turned sour.
“You just wait, Ross, you just wait. If history has taught us one thing, it’s that no one stays on top forever. Hubris demands a fall, sooner or later. What Ron Furst and his boys fail to grasp is that a Merton Salisbury and his peers can afford to sit back and let them play out their stratagems until they’ve become expendable and vulnerable and the ideal moment arises to launch a counterstrike. Oh, they’ll get their wings clipped, all right, and when they fall to earth and slog through the Capitol looking for those backslapping boosters who toasted them in their salad days, they’ll find nothing but surly secretaries and unreturned calls from those surreptitiously gloating at their predicament. I just hope they don’t drag the whole country down with them when they plummet from grace.”
Patrick and Meredith finished their dance and the floor was opened to everyone. President Donovan surrendered his wife to Majority Leader Cecil Crown and took the Senator’s daughter for a spin. The young woman nearly swooned in his arms. Patrick had won the female vote in every demographic category his first term election, but now with body bags holding the remains of their sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands piling up in Colombia and Venezuela, they were no longer a sure bet. Most surveys found the majority of American women would vote for whoever would put an end to these “military incursions” – no one at the White House or Pentagon called them wars – no matter their party affiliation. For a man who took the attention and adoration of women as his birthright, this was another difficult adjustment the President was having to endure, both professionally and personally.
* * *
Meredith emerged from her bedroom in the long blue satin nightgown that matched her eyes, the one Patrick liked even if it was loose and not revealing. She sat on the couch, tucked her long legs up and sipped the chamomile tea she took before retiring. For a moment he wondered if wearing it might be a subtle hint she was in the mood. Her question, though nonchalant in tone, dashed that hope.
“Did you get her phone number?”
“Whose number?”
“Stephanie Crown, Cecil’s daughter. She seemed smitten. And just your type. Young, thin, blonde, large breasts, and dumb as a doormat.”
“Please, Meredith, I told you, I’m all over that. It was just a phase I went through.”
“Five years does not constitute a phase. It’s a way of life.”
“It was not five years and the point is it’s over.”
“So you say.”
“What can I do or say that will make you believe me?”
“At this moment in time, probably nothing.”
“Wonderful. There’s blood in the water, everyone’s circling me, including my own party, and now my wife jumps in.”
Patrick got out of the recliner, took a few steps and stood by Meredith and gazed down at her.
It’s uncanny: she grows more beautiful each passing year.
He sat on the couch and gently laid his right hand on the back of her neck, caressing it lightly with his fingertips the way she liked it. Her skin felt divine. That delicious sensation in the pit of his stomach he had not felt for so long arose and Patrick did what was natural: He leaned toward Meredith and put his mouth in the curve of her neck. She quivered, which stirred him even more. With his free hand, he reached for her breast and held it lightly, his thumb tenderly circling her nipple, which grew stiff and pointy. With his other hand he began to slowly pull her toward him. She didn’t resist. He turned her head to kiss her mouth. An instant before they were face-to-face, Meredith broke the spell.
“No, Patrick.”
She drew back as if to study him, like a biologist peering at a queer species, he brooded. When he appealed to her, “Meredith, you’re still my wife,” the undertone of pleading in his voice dismayed him but he was powerless to prevent it. After disloyalty and dishonesty, which Patrick had already been convicted of, the trait Meredith could not abide in a male was weakness, and here it was in full display in her presence. For a rash instant he felt an impulse to take her – right now, right here, on the couch – but when he detected pity on her face it quashed that. He had just given away any semblance of honor and to forcefully take her would not be an expression of manly strength but an act of depraved desperation. They both knew she was holding all the cards and he none. Meredith, whose timing was always masterful, let the pulverizing silence weigh on him as long as possible, then shook her head sadly.
“If Kelly was older and we weren’t who we are I’d consider divorcing you. As it is, I won’t. But don’t expect it to be like it was. That’s expecting far too much.”
As she stood to leave, Patrick said, “You used to want to make love every day, remember?”
“That was then. I was in love. I’m not anymore.”
“Meredith – please, I have to know: Will we ever be together gain or is that all over for us?”
The last time Meredith confronted Patrick about his infidelity she made it clear she had run out of patience and no longer trusted him and her bedroom was off limits. That was five months ago and she had not weakened in the slightest they had not been together since.
“I’ll admit there’s a part of me that still loves you, Patrick, so I can’t rule anything out. You know how I feel about family, so splitting one apart is not something I would do without careful deliberation, but please don’t pressure me. I’m giving you as much as I can as it is.”
In any negotiation, the unspoken can be more significant than what is said. In this case, the unvoiced was: A handful of words from me and your presidency and political career are finished. Be grateful for that.
Meredith Salisbury Donovan walked to her room and quietly shut the door, the clicking of the lock her closing punctuation.
Patrick went to the liquor cabinet and tipped out some cognac.
“They call me the most powerful man in the world, leader of the sole remaining superpower, the man with his finger on the button, and I can’t even sleep with my own wife.” He raised the glass and toasted himself: “Here’s to the most powerful man in the world. It’s easier for me to invade another country than it is to get in my wife’s panties.”
Patrick Donovan laughed joylessly at the absurdity of the situation he was in.
* * *
Merton Salisbury had just finished his toast and tea and was perusing the morning papers when his private line rang.
“Good morning, Father.”
“Good morning, Meredith. In case I neglected to mention it, you were radiant last night.”
“You did, but thank you again. Anything interesting in this morning’s dispatches? Kelly’s been vomiting and this is the first I’ve been out of her room.”
“For someone who was never interested in motherhood, it’s commendable if not surprising at how you’ve taken to it. She’s not seriously ill, I trust.”
“No, she’s already feeling better. It was most likely the second piece of chocolate cake.”
“By the way, you were both smashing last night. No one would guess.”
“That’s reassuring. My theatrical training comes in handy these days.”
The barely discernible edge in Meredith’s voice would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but to Merton it signaled there was more to tell. When she didn’t continue, he probed.
“What is it?”
“Did you see him flirting with Cecil’s daughter?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice. Secretaries Crawford and Burnett each cornered me for part of the night and then Brad Taylor lassoed me. With the primaries so tight and inconclusive, everyone wants to know if Patrick might step down and not seek another term rather than risk the disgrace of being rejected by his own party at the convention. I explained I’ve been out of the loop for some time as to his intentions and have no idea what he’s currently thinking. As for Stephanie, are you certain you’re not overreacting?”
“She would have gone off with him on the spot if he’d asked her to.”
“Meredith, he’s a handsome man and has a way with women. Plus he’s the President. That is an aphrodisiac all its own.”
“He danced with me twice; he danced with her three times. It wouldn’t surprise me if they have a tryst set up.”
Merton held his tongue.
“I’ve drawn a line in the sand, Father. If I’m not enough for him he can have all the bimbos he wants but he won’t set foot in my room again.”
“Such strong words, dear. Don’t you think you might yet have a change of heart? Underneath it all he’s a decent and likeable fellow. Forgiveness is a virtue, you know. And Patrick does have his charming qualities.”
“It’s odd how the very things which once turned you on about someone over time can produce the opposite effect.”
Meredith’s openness regarding her relationships and now her marriage was a rarity between daughters and fathers – losing her mother June while in her teens likely played a part in it – yet there was a line of decorum Merton never meant to cross. As close as they were, Meredith was a still a female, and even with the best of intentions there was always the looming risk of misunderstanding between men and women, Merton had observed years ago, especially when it concerned love and intimacy. As modern a woman as Meredith was, there were differing inherent biological and emotional imperatives between the sexes which precluded them from ever fully understanding one another. “And therein lies the fascination as well as the peril,” he had been heard to pronounce over the years to his male friends as they struggled with the women in their lives.
After a decent interval, Merton ventured, “If you deny him his satisfaction at home you’re coercing him to seek it elsewhere. Undoubtedly he's a virile specimen. Is that what you wish?”
“At this point he can do as he likes; I just don’t want to know about it.”
“Very well, Meredith. These are your personal choices. He does dote on Kelly, though.”
“Yes, nearly to a fault. I said no to a second piece of cake. Then when I left the table, she asked again and he said yes, and I’m left with the mess the next morning. I fear she may already be learning how to get her way with men. If I leave them alone too long he’ll spoil her rotten.”
Meredith had said her piece. In their conversations pauses were meaningful. This one indicated they were done with Patrick and ready to move on. Merton did not miss his cue.
“So then, let us now turn to current events.”
“What’s the latest from the front?” Meredith asked.
“I’m afraid it’s not going well for our men and women in uniform these days. It seems the South Americans have taken a page from the Iraqis. After realizing they could not impede the American military juggernaut as it swept them aside, those not captured or killed organized themselves into guerilla units and are now wreaking havoc on our troops on a daily basis. And this is not a desert war. With all those jungles and mountains to appear and disappear from, it’s starting to remind one of Vietnam. Yet again we find our soldiers do not perform at their best in tropical terrain, and fighting an enemy that can blend in with an indigenous population which supports them only engenders confusion, frustration, paranoia, and the sporadic overreaction. Sadly, it’s also reminiscent of Leningrad: there are no clean lines to be drawn and the front is anywhere you happen to be.”
“But our oil barons have their sticky fingers on the Venezuelan crude, which seems to have been their objective all along, and one can only presume the CIA is now managing the cocaine trade out of Colombia.”
“Correct. And there are those who are willing to let our forces get hacked to pieces and the President to lose his office as long as they maintain control of both commodities.”
“I warned him, Father. I had a bad feeling about all this.”
“Yes, you did, but how could he say no to those who put him in office? He went with their electoral strategy and media tactics, as distasteful as we found them, and they worked. However, managing a political campaign does not qualify you to run a military one, something history has demonstrated before. And now that the President’s men have delivered Venezuela’s black and Colombia’s white, the powers that be will not hesitate to throw them to the wolves anytime it proves expedient. And apparently that time is fast approaching.”
“So I’m to be a one term First Lady.”
“At the moment I’m afraid it’s looking that way.”
Merton paused, and the quality of his silence was acknowledged by Meredith with her own. Father and daughter had always understood each other in a way that was beyond the verbal and bordered the abstract, or telepathic some might say. If life had dealt them a different relationship they would have made ideal mates. As it was, Meredith sensed something was about to be broached.
“Meredith, I have received a message from Patrick. He requests a consultation.”
“That’s a surprise. He’s said nothing to me.”
“It will be coordinated with a family visit to my home early next week. However, you and I must speak in person privately and confidentially beforehand as regards his situation, which grows more precarious by the day. There are unsettling whispers in the wind which have been relayed to me. Also, there may yet be a way to salvage his presidency before it founders completely. Please let me know as soon as possible when you can come by for an hour or so.”
“You have something in mind regarding the salvage operation?”
“Nothing definite, though I have taken the liberty of sounding out a few associates and tossing around several ideas which I will share with you when we speak in person. In any case, if Patrick is to weather the political storms churning around him, something certainly needs to be done, and rather soon, I should think.”
Meredith’s curiosity was aroused but she knew Merton would say no more at this time.
“I’ll check my schedule and call you back in a short while for an appointment. By the way, there’s been a cancellation – Senator Holt must fly to Michigan in the morning – so it’s just the family, a singularly uncommon event. If you like you can join us tomorrow evening for dinner. We could chat afterwards.”
“Yes, but not for what I’m referring to. Too many listening devices, both silicon and carbon based, in that glasshouse you call home. I prefer my study or an outdoor walk. But dinner sounds inviting. I’d like to see that granddaughter of mine before she grows another inch. And I would enjoy reading her a story and putting her to bed.”
“And she would enjoy it too; Kelly was asking about Grandpa Merton just this morning. Good, then. We’ll set a date to meet later in the week and as for tomorrow evening, we’ll forget all our troubles and have a relaxed pleasant family dinner. With the convention in three months and the campaigns heating up, who knows when we’ll have another opportunity to do so. Shall I send a car for you at six o’clock?”
“Yes, that would be fine. Till tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow it is.”
After hanging up, Meredith wondered what whispers in the wind her father was hearing and the ideas he was tossing about regarding Patrick’s problems. Merton did not trade in rumors, nor was he given to wanton comments or speculation, so both would be matters of substance. And wanting to meet with her as soon as possible and before speaking with Patrick only heightened her curiosity. In her current role, Meredith had to be careful not to outshine her husband, but with her father she was free to utilize her intellectual gifts to their utmost.
As for what Merton might be contemplating, she was already looking forward to hearing about it.