Then came the crisis Dowzall was waiting for. The Jersey City water-main break was “the worst crisis that the brave people of New Jersey have ever faced, but we will face it together,” Governor Dowzall said, face slack with drained emotion as he spoke to the reporters from the streets of Jersey City.
He spoke on the network news, his suit pants soaked, with sewage water. “It is the courage and fortitude of these brave people that enables them to pull together, especially when in the face of calamity and devastation.”
He spoke from the serving line at the emergency housing shelter. “Someday we will prosper again. Today, we can only mourn, but we mourn together, as a united people.”
Even back then, when he was New Jersey’s golden boy who could do no wrong, there were a few in the state who thought he was laying it on a little thick. “It’s just some flooding, Oscar,” his lieutenant governor said. “It’s a big mess, that’s all. It’s not a catastrophe.”
Dowzall shook his head sadly. “People are dying, Mel.”
“What people?” the lieutenant governor asked. “You mean the old bag lady who was bobbing down Kensington Avenue? Oscar, she’d been dead since February. The water just floated her out of wherever she’d been stashed all that time.”
“Think of the loss, Mel.”
Mel was thinking that the loss would be covered by insurance agencies and disaster assistance. He conceded that the governor’s high profile during the flood secured federal disaster funding in record time.
The real dividends came later. Dowzall sent video tapes and press clippings of his performance during the disaster to the queen of England—under the name of a citizens appreciation group that didn’t exist. Despite assurances by the British that “one does not lobby for knighthood,” knighthood happened. Just like the mayor of New York City, Dowzall officially became one of the members of the Order of the Garnet Corset. He was Sir Oscar Dowzall.
“Uh, no. I’m afraid you can’t call yourself Sir Dowzall,” said the queen’s royal secretary of nonroyal relations. “That’s a privilege reserved for British citizens.” They were at the small and somewhat hasty reception staged for the new knights. The queen wasn’t in attendance. In fact, most of the Brits who were in the room seemed to be serving disgusting canapes. Dowzall was distinctly aware that he was among this year’s crop of second-class knights.
“But I am a real knight, right?” he insisted.
“Oh, yes. Absolutely a genuine knight, so to speak.”
“That’s all I care about,” Dowzall said agreeably.
“I know,” said the queen’s royal secretary of nonroyal relations, who found relating with nonroyals to be thoroughly repulsive.
The knighthood added luster to his star as governor, but when his downfall came, it was just a trinket of honor for him to cling to. It didn’t do much for him once his political career was ended.
Or so he thought.
A phone call woke him up one afternoon. The man on the line sounded like an American trying to imitate a snobby British accent. In fact, it was an authentic British snob on the line.
“Hold on. I can’t hear a thing you’re saying.”
He muted the TV, which was playing
“My God, was that someone tortured?”
“Just TV. Who is this?” Dowzall asked, intrigued by the accent.
“I’m not going to tell you that. I will tell you I am a member of a political organization in the United Kingdom. We are proponents of a return of the British Empire. We would like you to join us, Governor Dowzall.”
“What? Why?”
“You are a knight of England. With knighthood comes a series of responsibilities. One of which is to protect Her Majesty’s interests against traitors and foreign aggressors.”
“I’m not following you.” Truth was, Dowzall was convinced he had a prankster on the line. “You sayin’ I owe you money?”
“No, not at all. Governor Dowzall.”
“Hey, buddy, have you read the papers this year? I’m not governor anymore.”
“How would you like to be again?”
“Huh. A British guy is gonna get me reelected governor of New Jersey? How much is it gonna cost me?”
The man on the other end made a breathing sound that was the equivalent of a manly, snobby British chortle. “It is I who will provide you with the funding you need.”
“Now you’re talking,” Dowzall said. “I’m listening.”
“Then listen carefully to what I am about to ask you. To what do you owe your highest allegiance? To the United States, whose political system stripped you of your rightful place? Or to the land called New Jersey, legally and in perpetuity a colony of the British Empire?”
“Is this a trick question?”
That was how it started. Every step of the way, Dowzall was quite sure this was going to turn out to be some elaborate prank pulled at the expense of the poor, disgraced former governor.
