“So what’d we call the tour, ‘This Is Shit’?” said Joe. “‘Sides, there’s the issue of your reputation, man. That mug of yours couldn’t sell dog food.”

“But that’s why my doing the O2 would be so perfect! Michael and I have both been persecuted. Unfairly maligned. Wronged. Dragged through the mud, to the total outrage of our publics. With each of us, those media bleeps mutilated the truth. My filling in would be like running a victory lap for Michael and me both, a big bleep-you to the truth mutilators. Think about it”—Rod ran his hand through the thick, unruly locks that other people made fun of only because they were jealous—“the King of Mop.”

“But those Fed suckers caught you dead to rights on tape.”

“So? Michael said he took little boys to bed right on TV, but that didn’t make him a pedophile, right? Same here—they took all those quotes totally out of context! When I said, ‘I’ve got this thing, it’s bleeping golden, and I’m just not giving it up for bleeping nothing,’ I was talking about my grandmother’s coin collection. She had a double eagle from 1905!”

Joe still looked skeptical. “Your Tribune report say you got the lowest approval ratings of any elected politician in Illinois since they been doin’ them polls. And we’re talkin’ before you arrested, right? Before all this scandal about selling Obama’s senate seat broke. Thirteen percent? In your average poll, 13 percent answer they like you by mistake!”

“Yeah, well.” Rod looked at Joe significantly, for a moment letting Michael’s father see a darker, more dangerous side of this unjustly hounded but still terribly complicated man. “That’s why I arranged for some changes at the Tribune.”

Joe drummed his fingers on the bar. “Can you even dance, bud?”

“Dance? I’ve been practicing for weeks on the Goon Walk!” Rod slid off the barstool and sidled backward circling his pelvis, keeping his hand pressed sexily just above his manhood. In the corner of his eye those young ladies were clearly swooning; tittering with the same awed laugh, one of them actually fell off her chair, doubtless feeling faint from desire. “I’m bad, I’m bad!” Rod sang.

“You bad all right,” said Joe, and Rod beamed. Rod was hip to the lingo, and in African-American bad meant good.

“I owe it to Michael, Joe! When I was hauled into that court where they wouldn’t even let me wear my leather jacket, like Christ Himself mocked by Roman guards? When I was being crucified and hung out to dry in this grand Shakespearean tragedy— ”

“Which Shakespearean tragedy’s that? Ain’t sure I seen that play.”

“Just … you know, one that’s Shakespearean! Well, what got me through was humming Michael’s music under my breath. Beat it … just beat it!”

“I don’t think that’s what Michael meant … ”

“But honestly, who better in this world to sing ‘Never Can Say Good-bye’ or ‘Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough’?”

“I take your point there, Blago.”

In truth, Rod now preferred to be called “The Governor”—or just “guv-nuh,” pronounced in the toadying tones of nobody English people. “I got star power, I got name recognition, I got media experience up the wazoo, and my wife can eat tarantulas.”

Joe leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Let’s say I do put you in as a sub for Michael’s shows. What do I get out of it?”

“I don’t know … appreciation?”

Joe could be a little slow, but after a brief lag in the uptake they were both laughing uproariously. By the time the two parted, there was plenty of backslapping and hand clasping, and then Rod had to head back to his hotel. Now out of office, he was finding it more difficult to deliver on promises. But not impossible—he would just have to set his mind to it. Plus, 50 gigs would be demanding even for a fit, virile superstar, and he needed to start practicing right away.

Of course, later the press got the story all wrong, in their typically incompetent, mendacious fashion. The deal had nothing to do with any Jesse Jackson cat. It was Joe all along, morons! But show some respect. That’s Senator Joe Jackson to you.

Shriver’s novel We Need to Talk About Kevin won the Orange Prize. Her next novel comes out in March.

Related:

• Archive: “Fiction”
• Table of Contents: Nov 30, 2009 issue of New York | Subscribe!