Just as we started to hum, Gavin strode into the kitchen and came straight to me. “What happened last night?”
I’d taken to keeping my fingers clasped behind my back except when working at the computer. The move prevented me from inadvertently “helping” my colleagues.
“You mean this?” I asked, bringing my hands forward. “How did you find out?”
“It is my business to know about everything involving the security of the White House.”
I figured as much.
Gavin fixed me with a piercing look. “I understand you fought off your attacker.”
As much as I hated to admit it, I was still shaken by the experience, and I didn’t appreciate the fact that Gav here wore an expression that told me he expected a blow-by-blow rehashing.
“ ‘Fought off’ is a bit of an exaggeration,” I said. “I screamed like an idiot. If that jogger hadn’t come along…” I shivered, remembering. “The two guys who got me really knew what they were doing. They set me up perfectly. I’m embarrassed to have fallen for their scheme.” Though it was hard for me to say so, I admitted my gullibility. “I trusted the little guy who pretended to help me.”
“I was told he used martial arts moves against you.”
My hand came up of its own volition, and I touched the tender place under my ribs where he’d struck me. “Whatever it was, it hurt.”
Gavin seemed about to say something else, but remained silent, staring at me. He finally said, “You aren’t able to work?”
Bucky made eye contact from across the room. He arched an eyebrow and shook his head fractionally.
Message received. “I’m getting a lot done here, actually,” I said, sounding more upbeat than I felt. “My predecessor, Henry, always told me I needed to learn to delegate more. Today I’m getting a perfect opportunity.”
“I was hoping to continue your training.”
Did this guy think I was planning to enlist in the military? How much more training did I need? My hands came up in response. I said, “I’m sorry,” even though I wasn’t.
I was, however, very glad when he left us again. “Tell you what,” I said to the group. “Let me go get some of our holiday décor. While you guys work on the food, I’ll start bringing a bunch of the fun stuff here.”
They all looked up at me as though I was nuts. Rafe spoke. “With two damaged hands?”
I frowned. “I’ll be careful. This really isn’t that big of a deal.”
Cyan shook her head. “You always get in such trouble, Ollie.”
“How much trouble can I get into in the storage room?”
I MADE MY WAY THROUGH CONNECTING hallways, past the carpenter’s, electrical, and flower shops. I fiddled with my replacement keys to unlock one of the storage rooms the kitchen controlled. My White House ID and other important items had been replaced much more quickly than I’d expected. Thank goodness.
The storage room was large, about ten feet by fifteen, and it was packed. There was limited floor space and the shelves overflowed with stuff I knew I should inventory. For about the hundredth time, I promised I’d get to it just as soon as things calmed down.
Large gray storage containers lined one wall. About four foot square and just over two feet tall, each wheeled container held presidential china. We kept the most popular patterns closer to the kitchen, and since this particular room was the farthest from our work center, it held the china patterns we used least. I pushed at the closest of the gray monsters-this one held Lyndon Johnson’s pattern-to access the boxes I intended to scavenge.
Every year, grinning with holiday spirit, Henry made the trek down here to pull out fun things for the kitchen staff to use during the holiday season. He loved decorating the kitchen himself. Kendra and her staff didn’t mind because none of what we used was ever seen by the public. Henry usually waited until the entire White House was completely finished before exercising his decorating muscle. He called the final kitchen embellishment his pièce de résistance.
I liked Henry’s tradition, and I intended to continue it. With all that we’d gone through recently, however, I believed our festive mood needed a boost sooner rather than later.
I pushed another of the big bins out of the way, but realized, in doing so, I’d blocked my path out. There was only one solution: I pushed the two out into the hallway, and pulled out the boxes of tchotchkes I planned to make use of.
There was not, unfortunately, any type of cart I could use to transport my treasures to the kitchen. With my tender arm and splinted finger, I wasn’t in the best position to carry the boxes myself.
Heading out again, I started for the electrical shop with two purposes in mind: getting a cart, and talking with Manny again, if I could pin him down. Based on our prior conversation, there was little reason to believe he would have checked out my floating neutral question. But I’m nothing if not tenacious.
Manny was nowhere to be found, but Vince sat on a stool at a small workbench, eating. “Do you have a minute?” I asked.
Startled, he just about fell off the seat. “You scared me,” he said around one stuffed cheek. His gaze took in my bandaged arm and splinted finger.
“Sorry.” I wandered in. “What do you have there?”
He held up half a sandwich. “Chicken.”
Unsurprised, I nodded. Tradesmen generally didn’t eat in the lower-level cafeteria. They went out, or brought their own food in. This was a throwback tradition from the White House’s early days, when the household staff was mostly black, and the tradesmen white. Because nineteenth-century black employees couldn’t find establishments to serve them in the nearby D.C. area, the White House provided meals. White tradesmen, having no such difficulty, went out for lunch or dinner each day. Over time the White House staff became infinitely more diverse. Of course, now blacks and whites occupied all staff levels, but the tradesman tradition-if you could call it that-continued. To this day, regardless of their race or ethnicity, tradesmen rarely ate in the White House cafeteria.
He stared at me as I moved closer. I got the distinct impression he didn’t like the idea of the chef entering the electrician’s lair. His constant jumpy glances toward the doorway behind me led me to believe he was expecting someone. Probably Curly. I’d have to make this quick. “Did Manny say anything to you about floating neutrals?”
Vince moved the wad of food from his cheek and chewed it before answering. I’d expected him to nod or shake his head, but he waited till he swallowed to say. “Uh… yeah.”
“And?”
Vince glanced past me toward the doorway again. “And what?”
“Did you guys check? Was there something wrong with the ground when Gene got electrocuted?”
A voice boomed behind me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I turned and there he was. Surly Curly, in the flesh. Knowing I could no longer press my question, I changed direction and offered him the friendliest smile I could. “I have to carry a few boxes to the kitchen, but…” I held up my injured hands. “No way to get them over there. I was wondering if you had a wheeled cart I could borrow?”
His mouth worked, as though pushing his angry grimace to one side. “Yeah, I got one.” Shuffling to a nook just out of view, he came back with a gray dolly. “Boxes, you say?”
When I nodded, he switched the handle of the dolly, converting it from vertical to horizontal. “Here,” he said, “easier to manage. You bring this back, you understand? I don’t want to go hunting for it when I need it next.”