They were all businesspeople, no doubt, although the scarred man’s business might be security. The laptop pair were minions of the man who was not in the room: Adam Benjamin.
Reeder’s fiftyish escort exited, closing the door behind him. The inside bodyguard took his post there, remaining silent. Everybody remained silent, including Reeder. If they didn’t want to talk to him, he didn’t want to talk to them. Then a flush, running water, and the bathroom door opened.
Adam Benjamin strode out, a smile splitting his face as he saw Reeder, coming right over to offer a hand.
Though dark-framed, large-lensed glasses provided a hint of the professor he’d once been, Adam Benjamin was clearly no weakling refugee from academia. According to Benjamin’s most recent book, Common Sense for the Uncommon Man — which Reeder had read on a plane last year — the man worked out daily (he’d played football at Ohio State), ate well but sensibly (cheeseburgers an unguilty pleasure), and steered clear of tailored clothing, as evidenced by his navy blue, red-pinstriped cardigan with open-throat white dress shirt, navy slacks, and well-worn black loafers.
His silver hair still showing some dark brown, Benjamin was approaching seventy, but looked some years younger, his oval face handsome, in an avuncular way — strong Roman nose, wide thin-lipped mouth, kind dark eyes. In the flesh as on television, he personified the middle-class values that he extolled in the media.
“Joe,” he said as they shook hands. “Adam Benjamin.”
“Yeah. I recognized you.”
That chuckle was even warmer in person. “And I you.”
And still they shook, Benjamin’s grip firm but no self-conscious knuckle crusher. Reeder met the pressure.
“I may not have sounded like it on the phone, Adam, but I am a fan.”
“That’s flattering. As am I of you, sir.”
Reeder finally stopped the handshake. It had gone on too long and, anyway, this mutual appreciation society routine was getting a bit much.
The scarred guy in the wing chair had put the smartphone away. He was on his feet, climbing into his jacket.
“Joe,” Benjamin said, gesturing, “this is my majordomo, Frank Elmore.”
Reeder shook hands with the man, just a single firm shake. Elmore’s eyes were on Benjamin. The guy knew which side the butter went on, and who wielded the butter knife.
He said, in an emotionless baritone, “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Not now, Frank. Get yourself something to eat. I’ll call.”
The laptop pair tagged after Elmore, pausing just long enough for Benjamin to identify them: “My VP of Special Projects, Lynn Barr, and my chief accountant, Lawrence Schafer. I’m sure you recognize Joe Reeder.”
With small meaningless smiles, the pair exchanged nods but not handshakes with Reeder, then followed Elmore out. But for the bodyguard just inside the door, this would seem to be a private meeting.
Big wide smile from Benjamin. “Joe, have a seat.”
His host waved Reeder toward the round table — the laptops had gone along with the lapdogs. He’d barely sat before a knock came at the door. He glanced that way as the bodyguard opened the door, accepted two white paper bags, then closed it. He came over and gave the larger bag to the former professor, who had not yet joined Reeder at the table.
“Thanks, Len,” Benjamin said. “That’s all for now.”
Len and the smaller bag went out, closing the door behind him. Private meeting, all right. Of course, Reeder figured the bodyguard would remain on duty in the corridor.
Alone now with the richest man in the United States, Reeder ignored the questions bubbling in his brain. He’d learned to keep quiet while standing presidential detail. And Benjamin somehow invoked that in him, that special respect that came with high office and, well, high finance.
Benjamin came over, grinning like a kid as he showed his guest the label on the bag — a hamburger chain long famous in the DC area.
“Five Guys,” Reeder read, grinning back.
“Hope this is all right with you. It’s not the Old Ebbitt Grill, but it’s my second favorite.”
“Five Guys was good enough for Obama and the press corps, and good enough for me.”
“You were on presidential detail back then?”
Reeder shook his head. “I came on two years into President Mathis’s term.”
Benjamin’s sigh was somber. “There’s a real tragedy and a damn shame.”
“Agreed,” Reeder said.
Just over halfway through his first term, President Edward Mathis was diagnosed with leukemia. Serving out his term, he chose not to run for a second. Instead, his GOP-picked successor, neocon Gregory Bennett, had taken over.
Reeder had been no supporter of Mathis’s right of center politics, but the late President had been a good man and an honest one, a small miracle considering what it took to get elected to the land’s highest office. Mathis died less than a year after leaving the White House, with President Bennett already pursuing a much farther-right agenda.
Benjamin handed a foil-wrapped burger to Reeder, kept one for himself, and handed Reeder a pack of fries, too. His host jerked a thumb. “Pop and water in the fridge.”
Reeder got up and went there, thinking, “Pop” and “fridge,” two good old-fashioned Midwestern words.
Kneeling as he made his selection, he asked Benjamin, “Want something?”
“Just water — pop gives me the burps anymore.”
Reeder came back and sat down with two bottles of water whose labels were those of an Ohio grocery chain. Benjamin had brought his own water rather than pay for the minibar. Reeder’s kind of guy.
As they ate, Benjamin asked, maybe too casually, “How would you like to sell me your company, Joe?”
“Not on the market, sorry. Hope the meeting isn’t over, ’cause I’m really enjoying the burger.”
That patented chuckle again. “Figured as much, but you never know unless you ask. ABC has been successful in its own right, but now with your superstar status...”
“Adam, please. I’m eating.” He shrugged. “ABC does okay. Has since the start.”
“Right, and then one Joe Reeder kicked ass on the Supreme Court task force, and now your business has doubled.”
“You do your homework.”
“I do. I have help, of course. But mostly it’s still me. Key to my success, if you were wondering.”
“That and common sense.”
Benjamin chewed some cheeseburger, savoring it, then swallowed and said, “We both know common sense has been in short supply in this country for some while.”
Reeder popped a couple of fries, said nothing.
Benjamin went on: “Someone needs to help return this country to the sort of common sense that Thomas Paine first wrote about, back in 1776.”
“I don’t disagree,” Reeder said.
Given recent media talk that Benjamin might be planning a run at the White House, this turn in the conversation didn’t surprise Reeder.
Benjamin continued: “Paine said, ‘From the errors of other nations, let us...’”
“‘... learn wisdom,’” Reeder finished.
Benjamin’s burger halted midair. “So you’ve read Common Sense.”
“Years ago. In high school, and again in college.”
He sat forward. “But now, Joe, we need to follow Paine’s lead, and learn wisdom from our own errors, coming together to fix what is broken in this country.”
With a faint smile, Reeder said, “Campaign speech?”
“No... just personal opinion. As far as seeking a certain oval-shaped office, I’m not convinced I’m the right candidate.”
False modesty? The man’s micro-expressions gave nothing away. He had obviously been trained to make his face as blank a mask as Reeder’s own, under that layer of geniality.