SLUICE TUNDRA: THE CASE OF THE STOLEN ELECTION

As I got off the plane, I blinked. Everything seemed unusually bright and sharp. I had to put up my hand to shield my eyes against the sunlight.

"Mr. Tundra?" a voice said.

I looked at the speaker. She was a blonde, with legs as long as a Russian novel and eyes that a man could get lost in and never once stop to ask directions.

"That’s me," I said. "Sluice Tundra, Private Eye. You must be my guide."

"Welcome to Florida, Mr. Tundra," she said. "Are you all right?"

"Sure, doll," I said. "It’s just all this sunlight. I’m used to the dark shadowy places, on the mean streets, where life is cheap and the women are treacherous, where the hot lead flies like…."

"Yes, sir, I know," the blonde said. "It’s in your resume." She picked up my bag. "We hope you can help us."

"What’s the problem?" I asked. "You were a little vague on the phone."

She bit her lip, obviously trying not to cry. "The problem is…somebody has stolen the election," she said.

"Who?" I said.

"We’re not sure."

"Well, we’d best get to work then, Miss…"

"Ballard," she said. "Butterfly Ballard." I looked at her quizzically. "My Dad was an entomologist," she explained.

"I don’t care what religion you were raised in," I assured her. "As long as we’ll be working together, we ought to get to know one another. How about a drink?"

‘There’s no time," she said frantically. "Here’s our car."

There was a driver standing by a nearby limousine, holding a sign that said "Tundra." A small signboard in the window of the limo said the same. An arrow painted on the sidewalk pointed to the limo and also bore the marking "For Sluice Tundra, Private Eye. This is the Car. This One Right Here." I walked past the signs and got into a different car.

"Are you sure you’re not from Palm Beach County?" Butterfly sighed as she extricated me from the car and put me in the right one. "Anyway, what’s your plan?"

"The usual," I said. "Gather the suspects together."

***

"It’s my election," Bush said. "I won it, fair and square."

We were gathered in the living room of the Governor’s Mansion: Bush, Gore, and a bunch of advisers.

"It’s mine," Bush said again. "My Dad told me, my Dad’s lawyers told me, even my little brother told me. It’s criminible, that’s what it is, just criminible." Gore, in the other chair, heaved a heavy sigh. "Oh, stop it, you crybaby," Bush told him.

"Don’t get snippy with me, George," Gore intoned. "The people demand an accurate count, even if we have to count the ballots by hand, then recount them again using Roman numerals, then examine every ballot using infrared satellite photography…"

"Maybe I will have that drink," Butterfly said.

"You can’t use the court system to try and undo the election!" a nearby aide flared. "It’s not right!"

"Tell it to Paula Jones’ lawyers," I replied.

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. An aide walked over and opened it. There was a postman outside, struggling with a huge bag of mail.

"Where do you want these overseas ballots?" he panted. Both sides lunged for the bags, scratching and clawing to get them open.

"Hold it!" I yelled. They stopped and stared at me.

"Look," I said. "Whoever finally comes out the winner in this one, it’s going to be by a gnat’s whisker. That means one of you is going to have almost half of the voters driving around with those stupid bumper stickers saying ‘Don’t Blame Me, I Voted for the Other Guy.’ You two may have totally different philosophies of government, but the American people can’t make up their collective mind which one they really prefer. If you two don’t start learning how to get along right now, and if one of you doesn’t finally say ‘enough’ and end this bloody mess, then this country is going to be more deeply divided than ever. And it’ll be your faults. Both of you."

The two candidates looked at each other sheepishly, then at me. They looked about ready to say something. Then they started clawing at the bags again. The other people in the room joined in.

Butterfly walked up, a bottle of rum in her hand. She silently handed me a tall glass. I took a drink. "Thanks, kid," I said. "I needed that." We watched the catfight unfolding in front of us.

"It’s going to be a long four years," I sighed.