“Vacation Central,” smiles my friend Johnny into the phone. “What destination?”

I am visiting my old friend in his below-grade suite. Last year at this time, his pad became high-tech headquarters for the Party of the Angry Rich, monitoring the oncoming spring election.  But there’s no election this spring, the place is becoming dingy and dusty, and I worry about him.

“This is what passes for off-year cover?” I inquire after he finishes his call.

“What is it you want?” he returns fire. “I’m a political operative. Living around here is hard enough. The next city election comes next year, and I’m no good on the national scene. I don’t do Obama-ramas. Besides, PAR has to maintain minimal operations. You didn’t even knock. Can I help you?”

“PAR is open for business?” I inquire. “I wouldn’t have thunk local political parties would be active until next spring.”

“Politics is 24-7 now,” Johnny lectures me. “People change. So do their issues. I watch which ones move them, even in an off-year.”

“What could bother the angry rich this spring?” I ask.

“We’ll find out with quiet opposition research,” Johnny says. “Remember last year? We were watching how Aspen City Council candidates dressed. Mick Ireland threw on a jacket and white shirt one day, and things changed. He even got elected mayor.”

“You also hinted that PAR was spreading its loot around,” I recall, looking around and remembering the pad alive with TV monitors, tuned to every debate and appearance. “That was a real first.”

“The Party of the Angry Rich started with a single purpose,” Johnny narrates. “You remember. If Mick was for it, we were against it. We tried to recall him when he was a county commissioner. An LED display on the wall counted down the days until he left office. Then he ran and won. We weren’t careful w hat we wished for. Mick was to us what Hillary was to the Republican right. He defined our existence. We even found academic research suggesting we pay him off not to run again. You wrote about it.”

“Paleolithic Era,” I recall. “Eight years ago, this month. a Stanford economist suggested it might be cheaper to pay an incumbent to quit than to back an opponent.”

“Paying him off,” I translate.

“As long as it’s legal,” Johnny shrugs. “Expense account item. Big one.”

“So, the recalls don’t work and he stays in office,” I pick up the story line. “He’s term-limited, and you count the days. Then he runs for mayor and the PAR quietly donates to his campaign?”

“Our thinking changed,” Johnny says. “Power starts with influence, and influence starts with access. We figured in case Mick won, we could at least gain a little access. Wasn’t just Mick. We couldn’t figure out if Helen would open the barn doors when she was mayor. But we put some skin in, just in case.”

“You’re getting used to Mick,” I suggest.

“You’ve heard of co-existence theory,” Johnny says. “Starts with noise reduction. Some of our wealthier members have bought downtown buildings, stayed within the process, and will now build and sell high-end penthouses and make a decent return.”

“PAR isn’t angry any more?” I ask.

“We call it nuance,” he taunts me, uncorking the wine I brought. “The moment we thought penthouses were the key to the Promised Land, we got outflanked. Fractional units! The latest in highest and best use.”

“Mick doesn’t much identify with the penthouse cause,” I offer. “You’re going to recall him for that?”

“He appreciates other things that are fine,” Johnny notes. “Paid parking. Entrance to Aspen. Penthouses aren’t the Holy Grail. Tear down enough downtown commercial spaces for Penthouse Purgatory, and you squeeze out businesses. There are consequences.”

“What happens this spring?” I inquire. “You’re the last guy to hit Cabo?”

“We’re sizing up future councils,” he says. “It’s not exactly a mini-recruitment camp, but we’re always on the lookout for like-minded public servants.”

“The current crop?” I ask.

“Some are works in progress,” he offers diplomatically. “No names. There are two types of politician. One runs for or against something specific. You know what they’re about up-front. The other comes out of the gate tentatively, suggesting they’d like to give something back, to serve. They haven’t yet made up their minds. We like the last type.”

“People who don’t know why they’re running?” I ask quietly.

“We help them decide. Its called ‘actualization,’” he says, politically speaking. “It’s new.”

“Somebody’s seen a group shrink,” I suggest.

“Hey, we’re not even a decade old,” he says. “We were a brash, remember? Couldn’t be angry but not rich. Forget being rich but not angry. Had to be both. Now we think the route is to successfully predict future issues, and then own them.”

“And I came over here worried about you having enough to do,” I say. “And here you are, plotting away.”

“I’m on that last flight,” he confirms. “Somebody’s got to do the advance spade work. I’m not pure PAR. I’m just an operative.”

“Who’s PAR going to run next spring?” I ask.

“Go away now,” he says, motioning. “Go out the back, so no one will see you. You’re about to get distracted anyway.”

“Distracted?”

“Red Sox season opens at 4 a.m. Tuesday, last I looked,” he says.

“You really are doing research here,” I note.

“You forget,” he says. “I’m from Taunton. Now go away.”

The Usual Suspect is a founder of the Aspen Daily News and appears here each Sunday. Counsel, console or berate him at ddanforth@aol.com [1]. Your notes will be kept private unless you ask that we print them.