Gritting my teeth, I wiped it away with the back of my hand. Sure, the scheduling hiccup was my fault, but that’s still no reason t—
“Now, what the hell’s so damn important, Wes, or is this another vital reminder that when we’re eating with the President, we need to give you our lunch orders at least an hour in advance?” he added, loud enough so a few Secret Service agents turned.
Any other twenty-three-year-old would’ve taken a verbal swing. I kept my cool. That’s the job of the President’s aide… a.k.a. the body person… a.k.a. the buttboy. Get the President what he wants; keep the machine humming.
“Lemme make it up to you,” I said, mentally canceling my apology. If I wanted Boyle quiet — if we didn’t want a scene for the press — I needed to up the ante. “What if I… what if I squeezed you into the President’s limo right now?”
Boyle’s posture lifted slightly as he started buttoning his suit jacket. “I thought you— No, that’s good. Great. Excellent.” He even painted on a tiny smile. Crisis averted.
He thought all was forgiven. My memory’s way longer than that. As Boyle triumphantly turned toward the limo, I jotted down another mental note. Cocky bastard. On the way home, he’d be riding in the back of the press van.
Politically, I wasn’t just good. I was great. That’s not ego; it’s the truth. You don’t apply for this job, you’re invited to interview. Every young political gunner in the White House would’ve killed to clutch this close to the leader of the free world. From here, my predecessor had gone on to become the number two guy in the White House Press Office. His predecessor in the last White House took a job managing four thousand people at IBM. Seven months ago, despite my lack of connections, the President picked me. I beat out a senator’s son and a pair of Rhodes scholars. I could certainly handle a tantrum-throwing senior staffer.
“Wes, let’s go!” the Secret Service detail leader called out, waving us into the car as he slid into the front passenger seat, where he could see everything coming.
Trailing Boyle and holding my leather shoulder bag out in front of me, I jumped into the back of the armored limo, where the President was dressed casually in a black windbreaker and jeans. I assumed Boyle would immediately start talking his ear off, but as he passed in front of the President, he was strangely silent. Hunched over as he headed for the back left seat, Boyle’s suit jacket sagged open, but he quickly pressed his hand over his own heart to keep it shut. I didn’t realize until later what he was hiding. Or what I’d just done by inviting him inside.
Following behind him, I crouched toward one of the three fold-down seats that face the rear of the car. Mine was back-to-back with the driver and across from Boyle. For security reasons, the President always sat in the back right seat, with the First Lady sitting between him and Boyle.
The jump seat directly across from the President — the hot seat — was already taken by Mike Calinoff, retired professional race car driver, four-time Winston Cup winner, and special guest for today’s event. No surprise. With only four months until the election, we were barely three points ahead in the polls. When the crowd was that fickle, only a fool entered the gladiator’s ring without a hidden weapon.
“So she’s fast, even with the bulletproofing?” the racing champ asked, admiring the midnight-blue interior of Cadillac One.
“Greased lightning,” Manning answered as the First Lady rolled her eyes.
Finally joining in, Boyle scootched forward in his seat and flipped open a manila folder. “Mr. President, if we could—?”
“Sorry — that’s all I can do, sir,” Chief of Staff Warren Albright interrupted as he hopped inside. Handing a folded-up newspaper to the President, he took the middle seat directly across from the First Lady, and more important, diagonally across from Manning. Even in a six-person backseat, proximity mattered. Especially to Boyle, who was still turned toward the President, refusing to give up his opening.
The President seized the newspaper and scrutinized the crossword puzzle he and Albright shared every day. It had been their tradition since the first days of the campaign — and the reason why Albright was always in that coveted seat diagonally across from the President. Albright started each puzzle, got as far as he could, then passed it to the President to cross the finish line.
“Fifteen down’s wrong,” the President pointed out as I rested my bag on my lap. “Stifle.”
Albright usually hated when Manning found a mistake. Today, as he noticed Boyle in the corner seat, he had something brand-new to be annoyed by.
Everything okay? I asked with a glance.
Before Albright could answer, the driver rammed the gas, and my body jerked forward.
Three and a half minutes from now, the first gunshot would be fired. Two of us would crumble to the floor, convulsing. One wouldn’t get up.
“Sir, if I could bend your ear for a second?” Boyle interrupted, more insistently than before.
“Ron, can’t you just enjoy the ride?” the First Lady teased, her short brown hair bobbing as we hit a divot in the road. Despite the sweet tone, I saw the glare in her leaf-green eyes. It was the same glare she used to give her students at Princeton. A former professor with a PhD in chemistry, Dr. First Lady was trained to be tough. And what Dr. First Lady wanted, Dr. First Lady fought for. And got.
“But, ma’am, it’ll just take—”
Her brow furrowed so hard, her eyebrows kissed. “Ron. Enjoy the ride.”
That’s where most people would’ve stopped. Boyle pushed even harder, trying to hand the file directly to Manning. He’d known the President since they were in their twenties, studying at Oxford. A professional banker, as well as a collector of antique magic tricks, he later managed all of the Mannings’ money, a magic trick in itself. To this day, he was the only person on staff who was there when Manning married the First Lady. That alone gave him a free pass when the press discovered that Boyle’s father was a petty con man who’d been convicted (twice) for insurance fraud. It was the same free pass he was using in the limo to test the First Lady’s authority. But even the best free passes eventually expire.
Manning shook his head so subtly, only a trained eye could see it. First Lady, one; Boyle, nothing.
Closing the file folder, Boyle sank back and shot me the kind of look that would leave a bruise. Now it was my fault.
As we neared our destination, Manning stared silently through the light green tint of his bulletproof window. “Y’ever hear what Kennedy said three hours before he was shot?” he asked, putting on his best Massachusetts accent. “You know, last night would’ve been a hell of a night to kill a President.”
“Lee!” the First Lady scolded. “See what I deal with?” she added, fake laughing at Calinoff.
The President took her hand and squeezed it, glancing my way. “Wes, did you bring the present I got for Mr. Calinoff?” he asked.
I dug through my leather briefcase — the bag of tricks — never taking my eyes off Manning’s face. He tossed a slight nod and scratched at his own wrist. Don’t give him the tie clip… go for the big stuff.
I’d been his aide for over seven months. If I was doing my job right, we didn’t have to talk to communicate. We were in a groove. I couldn’t help but smile.