SLUICE TUNDRA: THE CASE OF THE VANISHING SURPLUS

I was lying on my back on the floor of my office, counting the cracks in the ceiling (thirty-four). An empty vodka bottle lay beside my head. The empty bottle and too many attempts at Russian dancing the previous night accounted for my current condition. My mouth felt like Napoleon and his entire army had retreated from Moscow across my tongue. And the horses weren’t housebroken.

"Mr. Tundra?" a voice said. I raised my head, screaming softly with the effort.

"That’s me," I croaked. "Sluice Tundra, Private Eye."

The guy standing in front of my desk was dressed in a trench coat, a fake nose and glasses. A bunch of men in suits crowded in uncomfortably behind him. He got right to the point, sort of.

"I’ve come to see you on a matter of the greatest gravitude and importanance," the man said. "We need you to find out what happened to…the surplus." He paused as if waiting for something. There was only silence.

"Hey," the guy said in the trench coat said in a disappointed voice. "Where’s the saxophone player? Or the organist, the one that does the big crashing chord at dramatic moments?"

"On vacation," I said. "Union rules. They get the month of August off. I’m sure you can relate, Mr. President."

He took off the fake nose and glasses. "Dang," he said. "How’d you recognize me?"

"Family resemblance," I said. "No one mangles the English language like a Bush. Also, it’s hard to remain incognito when you show up with an entourage of forty-two economic advisors. By the way, could you get some of them to stand outside? They’re tracking mud all over the new carpet." About half of the advisors left, leaving the room with only a passing resemblance to the Black Hole of Calcutta.

"Anyway," the President said. "We had this budget surplus. I had all the money in the world. I could increase the defense budget, fund a whole bunch of programs for kids, give seniors more drugs than you’d find on a Grateful Dead tour, and still cut taxes. It was like what Ronald Reagan promised, only it was real." He suddenly dissolved in tears. ‘Then it was gone. You have to find out what happened to it."

"Maybe you should look in Bill Clinton’s luggage," one of the advisors said nastily.

"Now, now," I said. "That kind of attitude is so last century, don’t you think? We need to start thinking in the present."

"Anybody checked Gary Condit’s apartment?" another advisor ventured.

I sighed. This was getting us nowhere.

"I’ll do my best, Mr. President," I said. "I’ll start with the Democrats. Maybe they can tell me where the surplus went."

***

"I suppose you’re al wondering why I called you here today," I told the assembled Democrats.

"Someone said there was going to be a buffet," a voice complained.

"Sorry," I said, "Maybe next time. My name is Tundra. Sluice Tundra. An honest private eye, trying to earn a living on the mean streets, where life is cheap…" several of the Democrats had bolted for the door and were pounding on it, screaming to be let out. "I see you’ve heard of me," I said, cutting the speech short. "I’m here about the surplus."

"Maybe you should ask Bush where it went," one of the congressmen said. "If he hadn’t engineered a reckless tax cut, maybe we’d still have a surplus."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Didn’t some of you guys vote for that?"

"Of course," one of them said. "What do you think we are, crazy?"

"So," I said, "Now that the surplus is gone, we should just probably repeal the tax cut, right?"

There was no answer. Everyone just looked at the floor and shuffled their feet.

"So, if no one is willing to repeal the tax cut, what’s your idea?"

A young, good-looking Senator stepped up, his perfect chin thrust forward. "We think the President should show leadership," he said decisively.

"Thanks a lot guys," I said. "Don’t call me, I’ll call you. But not if I want any answers."

***

"The fact is, Mr. President," I said, "the surplus isn’t missing because there never was one. It’s like wondering where the audience went for ‘Pearl Harbor.’ They weren’t spirited away. They were never there in the first place. It was all based on predictions and crystal-ball gazing. All the budget predictions are based on what people thought we were going to get from tax revenues. Those depended on people making more money than they did last year. Everyone assumed that was going to happen because…well, it was election time, and everyone wanted to be able to promise everything."

"Dang," the President said. "So what do I do?"

"Hey, you’re the guy the people elected," I said. "Sort of. I’m just a simple P.I. walking the foggy streets of the nighttime city…" I stopped talking. The President had shoved a tax rebate check into my mouth.

I took the check. After all, what do you think I am, crazy?

COPYRIGHT 2001 BY JERRY D. RHOADES, JR.