A year earlier, or even six months or so, it would have seemed unlikely, preposterous, even patently absurd for a young go-getter like Arnie Rosen to be expecting an inquiry from the FBI. But then, it would have been equally ridiculous for a carton of burner phones to be stashed amid the youthful sports memorabilia at his parents' house.

The truth was that Arnie had not just been tipped about, but also prepped for, a federal agent calling or ringing the doorbell. That explained why he took to keeping his iPhone off, plus spending as much time as possible at his girlfriend Colleen's studio apartment.

Ironically, the predicament Arnie was in owed initially to his desire to do some good. Unhappy about so much of what he saw happening to the country, his hope had been to find a way to change the system from within. His plan, developed during his senior year of college, was to find an entry-level position in politics. That, with any luck, would enable him to make some sort of difference, while ideally taking law school classes at night.

After drafting, rewriting, then polishing a letter he hoped would be a door-opener, Arnie sent it to officials whose stances he valued at the county, state, and national levels.

What followed was deafening silence. The few responses Arnie finally received made it clear that even with his stellar academic record, extracurricular activities, and volunteer work, plum opportunities went only to those with connections.

Undaunted, Arnie redirected his efforts to the Southern California town where he grew up. Emphasizing his rise from local Little Leaguer to four-year starter on the high school baseball team, plus summer jobs at the Boys & Girls Club and volunteer work at the Y, he reached out first to the Mayor, then to members of the Long Beach City Council.

At last came a positive reply from a Councilman named Nate Armstrong. The good news was that Arnie was welcome to come in for an interview. The less-than-good news was that the only position available was as an unpaid intern. That meant that if he was fortunate enough to be chosen, Arnie would have to save money by moving back into his parents' house.

Some time on the internet made the internship more appealing. Youthful, charismatic, judged by many to have a social conscience, Armstrong--dubbed Nate the Great as a high school and college basketball star--was an up-and-comer viewed as likely to make the leap from local politics to the state or even national level.

Face-to-face, the Councilman immediately put Arnie at ease with his warmth, intelligence, and vision of politics as a team sport.

Best of all, the spot was offered and accepted.

* * *

Arnie's elation was short-lived. Instead of being welcomed as a new team member, he was immediately snubbed by some of his new co-workers, and treated as a potential spy by others. Only Nate Armstrong made the effort to extend any semblance of a greeting, but even that usually took place as the Councilman was heading out to or coming in from a meeting.

Assuming he was getting a form of hazing that would diminish over time, Arnie chose not to be daunted by the fact that when not being ostracized he was assigned tasks ranging from menial to demeaning.

Yet as days turned to weeks, then weeks to months, only Councilman Armstrong continued to make even the slightest effort to grant Arnie even an occasional smile.

"Why do you put up with it?" Colleen asked Arnie over slices of pizza one evening, getting only a shrug as a response.

"Why are you sticking it out?" she wondered the following week as she and Arnie were searching for something watchable on Netflix. "Ever seen me quit?" Arnie replied.

"When is enough, enough?" demanded Colleen on a joint outing to the laundromat.

Late one night, when Arnie was down in the dumps, she came out even more forcefully. "What in hell is at all positive about the guy?"

"He believes in racial justice." Arnie replied. "And voting rights. And cares about the climate, addiction, and homelessness."

"Still--"

"And fights for what he believes in,"

Colleen reluctantly nodded.

* * *

Despite the front he put on for Colleen, Arnie was nearing a breaking point when, early one Tuesday morning, Nate Armstrong signaled for him to enter his private office.

While others watched from their desks, the Congressman closed the door. "Still treating you like shit?" he asked. When Arnie failed to answer, Armstrong frowned. "Think I don't see? So tell me, why do you think there's so much backstabbing in local politics?" Seeing Arnie shrug, the Congressman answered his own question. "Because the stakes are so low. Unless you're not as smart as I think you are, I suspect you're considering quitting. Right?"

"Well--"

"Then instead of doing what they want you to do, how about an assignment from me? "

Instantly, Arnie nodded.

"Since I got a look at what you're driving, " continued Armstrong, referring to Arnie's beat-up VW, "maybe it'll be better if you take my car."

* * *

Only when he was behind the wheel of his boss's silver Audi did Arnie take a peek at what he'd be delivering: a large manila envelope whose clasp was covered by a small piece of Scotch Tape.

Off he drove toward Big Bear Lake. Stopping only to pee and grab a bottle of water, Arnie reached his destination in just under two hours. He pulled up in front of what looked like a Swiss ski chalet, rang the doorbell, then was greeted by an imposing silver-haired man who introduced himself as Jim McIntyre. Taking the manila envelope, McIntyre peeked at the untouched Scotch Tape over the clasp, confirming Arnie's two suspicions. First, the trip had had been at least in part a test. Second, the contents of the envelope--money, paperwork, or whatever--were being delivered on an off-the-record basis.

* * *

"Up for making that journey from time to time?" Nate Armstrong asked upon Arnie's return. When Arnie nodded, the Councilman spoke again. "You know what that means, don't you?"

"No clue," replied Arnie.

"First, no more internship, no more interaction with the staff." Seeing the puzzled look on Arnie's face, Armstrong continued. "But I'm assuming you have no objection to getting paid."

"I-I don't get it," mumbled Arnie.

"From now on you work directly for me."

* * *

Even as he was accepting what was described as a promotion, Arnie sensed that his life was taking an unexpected, and potentially slippery, turn. Yet the prospect of getting an inside look at the way politics really worked was too hard to turn down.

Though far from materialistic, the thought of a weekly paycheck also was appealing. Arnie's hope was that a salary would make it possible to live together with Colleen in a place large enough to accommodate both of them more comfortably. And, as time went on, to buy a car that wouldn't constantly be in danger of breaking down.

Those hopes were dashed when Arnie learned that there would be no weekly check. His pay would be off-the-books, in cash. The good news was no taxes or withholding. The bad news was that with no recorded source of income, there would be no documentation to use in renting an apartment, or financing a car.

* * *

In his new role, Arnie immediately was asked metaphorically to wear different hats. At times a chauffeur or confidant--at other times an emissary, accomplice, or worst of all a bag man--he found himself completely at the Councilman's beck and call. That meant not merely strange hours, but also strange people, among them Jim McIntyre, plus other power brokers and questionable characters with whom Councilman Armstrong seemed to be deeply involved.

* * *

Worried that her boyfriend's work was becoming his entire life--and his life entirely his work--Colleen peered at Arnie when he popped by late one Wednesday night. "You look vaguely familiar," she teased.

"I've been busy," Arnie explained.

"Sure fooled me," said Colleen.

"I'm viewing this as an opportunity," Arnie mustered.

"The new gig? Or me?" wondered Colleen. When Arnie frowned, Colleen spoke again. "I'm not saying you shouldn't do it."

"Just that I should be--"

"Wary. Very, very wary."

* * *

Any lingering belief Arnie held that politics was other than a contact sport faded rapidly. He got to witness first-hand the contrast between public posturing and backroom bickering, as well as the threats, jockeying, side deals, and payoffs.

All the while he kept his mouth shut until late one night, after a whiskey-fueled session with a team of builders, he was confronted by Nate Armstrong.

"Are you shocked?" the Councilman asked. "Excited? Stunned? Or maybe even sickened?"

"By?"

"The way things really work."

"Well--"

"If you're not good with it, here's your chance to get out."

"And if I stay?"

"Then you're in for some juicy stuff for your memoirs. Because you and I are going far. Guess who just agreed to run for the State Assembly. Next stop Sacramento. After that, D.C.!"

* * *

Being part of an election campaign for a state office gave Arnie little time to ponder either his decision or his fate. To his everyday responsibilities were added more and more new tasks. He was the one entrusted with finding dirt on Armstrong's opponent in the upcoming primary, as well as on the guy who would be his likely foe in the general election. Plus Arnie was tasked with getting involved in conversations with reporters. Best of all, with greater and greater frequency, he was asked to make suggestions about the candidate's speeches.

As his own profile increased, Arnie found himself being viewed as a potential source by members of the local media. Most persistent was Erica Gomez from the Long Beach Press-Telegram.

"What's he really like?" she asked Arnie after a talk Armstrong gave at the Rotary Club. "Not the Wikipedia spiel, not the hype--the straight shit."

"A great guy," was Arnie's curt reply.

"Is it true," Erica asked when next she spotted Arnie with the Councilman at a Little League awards ceremony, "that he's got a record-setting war chest?"

"I don't know about record-setting," Arnie answered, "but people like him."

Arnie started to walk away, but Erica stopped him. "How," she demanded, "can you work with someone whose values are so questionable?"

"Ever heard him deny climate change?" Arnie shot back. "Or call Covid a hoax? Or push voter suppression? Or election subversion?"

"Still--" protested Erica.

"Still, my ass!"

Though proud of his defense, once behind the wheel of his VW, Arnie couldn't completely silence certain doubts.

* * *

Intrigued by Erica's determination and zeal, Arnie was nonetheless far from pleased to find her waiting for him one morning when he stepped out of his parents' house. "Time for you to level with me," she announced. "Is what I'm hearing true?"

"I have no idea what you're hearing."

"Right, and I'm the Easter Bunny," Erica fired back. "You haven't heard boo about the FBI?"

"Nope," said Arnie. "Zero. Zip."

* * *

"You look like something's on your mind," Nate Armstrong said to Arnie that afternoon as the two of them were heading toward a speaking engagement.

"Just a rumor," Arnie stated.

"About?"

"The FBI."

Nate Armstrong shrugged. "Like I'm Public Enemy #1? Trust me, everything's peachy."

Despite the Councilman's assurances, Arnie was not fully convinced. But nor was he prepared to jump ship at a moment when what he was living through became, though he wouldn't admit it to anyone else, even more exhilarating.

* * *

Peachy or not, a week-and-a-half later, Arnie was summoned to a meeting at the office of Armstrong's attorney, James Triarsi. After a little chit-chat, Arnie was handed a box of burner phones.

"Not that we've done anything the least bit wrong," explained Armstrong. "But just to be on the safe side, all phone communication henceforth will be on these."

"And if anyone tries to press you on anything, anything at all," added Triarsi, "be smart and refer 'em to me."

* * *

In the aftermath of that conversation, Arnie started to have the sense, real or imagined, that he was being watched and followed. Though he tried his best to dismiss that sensation as paranoia, the feeling remained hard to shake, especially when he repeatedly crossed paths with Erica Gomez.

Over and over Arnie remained tight-lipped in her presence. Then came an evening when, as Armstrong was about to address a group of environmentalists, she sidled up to him.

"Ready to hit me with some inside stuff?" Erica whispered.

"How about we flip it?" responded Arnie.

"If I show you mine, you'll show me yours? Let's just say that if I were you, I'd be thinking a whole less about the election, and a whole more about protecting my ass."

Arnie studied Erica momentarily before speaking. "How do I know what you're saying is true?"

"They say that if three people tell you you're drunk, try lying down. Why do you think your candidate has been powwowing so much with that sleazeball lawyer of his?"

"How do you know?" wondered Arnie.

"It's my job to know," declared Erica. "Just as it's my job to know about all that money that changes hands between him, McIntyre, and slimeballs like Chesare, Schecter, and Beltran."

Arnie pondered for a moment. "This FBI thing, just a fishing expedition?"

"If it were, would I be spending so much time on it? The way I see it, the closest your main man will get to Sacramento is the prison up there." Erica watched Arnie gulp, then spoke again. "So, your turn."

Arnie sighed. "Even if I had something, no way can I rat."

"So don't rat. Just promise I'll be the first to know when--not if--something pops."

* * *

Once, twice, three times over the next couple of weeks Arnie tried to broach the subject with his boss, only to have the conversation be deflected.

He was on the verge of trying to force a confrontation when again he was summoned to Triarsi's office.

"If the FBI reaches out to you--and it's a big if," Triarsi began, "remember one thing. There's a huge difference between lying--which neither the Councilman nor I will ever ask you to do--and not being the government's hero or savior. Get me?"

Arnie mustered a nod..

"Most importantly, never offer," Triarsi went on. "People get themselves, and others, into trouble by giving more than simple answers. The Feds, if they can, will try to get you to go on and on. But there's nothing to be gained--and a whole shitload to lose--by elaborating, adding this or that, or starting to editorialize. Know the meaning of KISS?"

"No."

"Keep it simple, stupid!" barked Triarsi.

With a nod, Arnie turned and started to leave, then suddenly stopped and faced the lawyer. "Why?" he asked.

"Why what?"

"With all he had going for him, why did he do it?"

Triarsi sighed. "Truthfully?"

Arnie nodded.

"Everybody does," acknowledged the attorney.

* * *

The first couple of times Arnie ducked calls from the FBI, he did so with serious trepidation. But when his door wasn't knocked down, and the earth didn't open and swallow him up, and there was no drone swooping menacingly overhead, he began to feel a sense of control, or even power.

Once, twice, three more times he ignored their calls before finally answering. After griping about how hard Arnie had been to reach, a gruff-sounding agent named Krug announced that he and his partner would like to come by.

"Nah," said Arnie, stating that a meeting would have to be at a funky coffee shop that he called the anti-Starbucks.

"I'd rather it not be in a public place," said Agent Krug.

"And I'd rather it be in a public place."

A get-together was scheduled for the next afternoon.

* * *

Despite his telephone bravado, Arnie barely slept that night. At first he wondered what he should or shouldn't say at the meeting. Then he fretted about his predicament. Then he started to panic.

Fearful of waking Colleen, he tiptoed out of bed and started stewing on an easy chair before falling asleep like a pretzel.

* * *

On route to the rendezvous, Arnie continued to wrack his brain in search of the right thing to say. Still coming up empty, he finally decided simply to wing it. Entering the coffee shop, he immediately spotted two anomalous figures perched unhappily at a corner table. As Arnie approached, they stood so that Krug could introduce himself and his partner, a tall Black woman named LaQuita Perry.

Wasting not a second more, Krug pointed a finger at Arnie. "So what can you give us on soon-to-be ex-Councilman Armstrong?"

"Not a whole lot," Arnie answered.

"Right," sneered Agent Perry. "And I suppose you've never heard of Jim McIntyre? Or Jonathon Shechter? Or Jose Beltran? Or Frank Chesare?"

"Sure, I've heard of 'em," responded Arnie.

"See?" said Agent Perry.

"But I've also heard of Babe Ruth, Steph Curry, and Superman."

"You being a wiseass?" asked Agent Krug.

Arnie shook his head, then smiled as the words he'd been searching for finally came to him. "What you folks don't seem to understand is that I'm a nobody."

"Give me a break," stated Agent Perry, "You're trying to tell us that Armstrong's right-hand is the low man on the totem pole?"

"Totem pole?" Arnie repeated, turning toward Krug. "Does that strike you as a little bit racist?"

"Whoa!" shouted Agent Perry. "You're really pissing me off!"

"It's mutual," countered Arnie.

"And you want a future in politics?" sneered Krug.

"Says who?" replied Arnie, standing, then walking toward the door.

* * *

Even without testimony from Arnie, Councilman Armstrong was convicted on all counts. Once the trial was over, Arnie used some of the money he'd squirreled away to take Colleen on a trip to Hawaii. Then he started driving an Uber until the beginning of the next semester of law school, when he became a full-time student.

His goal, which in time he was able to realize, was to become a public defender.

That, plus some climate activism together with Colleen, at last enabled him to feel that he was doing some good.

---

Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel The Beard was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.