“Please, Nora, don’t let them do this to you. I already told Friedsam that if it leaks, I’ll nail him through the toes.”
She looks up. “You did?”
“Nora, two weeks ago, I got pulled over with ten thousand dollars in my glove compartment. The next day, a woman who I had just been arguing with was found dead in her office. Three days after that, I learn that I let a known killer into the building on the day she died. This morning, I spend two hours trying to meet with this supposed killer, and I’m eventually stood up. Then, this afternoon, for the first time since this whole damn shitstorm started, you played me that song, and for three whole minutes… I know it’s cliché, but… it didn’t exist, Nora. None of it.”
Watching me carefully, she doesn’t know what to say. She wipes the side of her neck, like she’s sweating. Then, finally, she points to the broken bow that’s sprawled across her desk. “If you want, I’ve got another one in the cabinet. I can, uh… I know a lot of songs.”
I sleep so lightly the following morning, I hear all four newspaper deliveries. Between each one, my mind churns back to Vaughn. When the fourth one hits, I toss aside the covers, head straight for the front door, and gather the morning’s reading. Section by section, I open and shake each newspaper, wondering if something will fall out. Nineteen sections later, all I’ve got are fingers black with newsprint. I guess it’s still tomorrow at the zoo.
Waiting for Trey to call, I look over and notice the front photo of the Herald. A shot of Hartson from behind the podium as he gives a labor speech in Detroit. Nothing to really e-mail home about-except for the fact that, over his shoulder, there’re only five or six people in the audience. The rest of the seats are empty. “Trying to Connect” the caption blares. Someone’s going to lose his job for this.
A minute later, I pick up Trey’s call on the first ring. “Anything?” he asks, wondering if I’ve heard from Vaughn.
“Nothing,” I say. “What’s going on there?”
“Oh, just the usual. I assume you’ve seen our front-page hari-kiri?”
I look down at the photo of Hartson and the empty crowd. “How did that even-”
“The whole thing is bullshit-there were three hundred people on the left and right of the photo, and the empty seats were for the marching band that was getting into place-the Herald just cropped it for effect. We’re demanding a retraction for tomorrow-because, you know, a four-line apology buried on A2 is far more effective than an ass-sized full-color on page one!”
“I take it the numbers aren’t looking good?”
“Seven points, Michael. That’s it. That’s our lead. Take away two more-which, once the wires pick up the photo, is exactly where we’re gonna be-and we’re officially in the margin of error. Welcome to mediocrity. Enjoy your stay.”
“What about the Vanity Fair story? Any response on that?”
“Oh, you didn’t hear? Yesterday in California-California of all places!-Bartlett apparently used his First Family/family first quote on a religious radio station. The callers ate it up.”
“I didn’t know they still had religion in California.”
There’s a long silence on the other line. He must be getting reamed for this one.
“I assume you’re planning something drastic?” I add.
“You should hear it around here. Last night, it got so bad, someone actually suggested putting the whole First Family on TV for a live prime-time all-of-them-at-once interview.”
“And what’d they decide on?”
“Live prime-time all-of-them-at-once interview. If America’s really concerned that Nora’s out of control or that the Hartsons are bad parents, the only way to tackle it is to prove it wrong. Show ’em the entire family unit, throw in a couple Aw, Dads, and pray that all’s well once again.”
“It’s that easy, huh?” I ask with a laugh. “So I assume you’ll have nothing to do with this transparent attempt at public pandering?”
“Are you kidding? I’m in the center ring-my boss and I are in charge of it.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what you’re finding so funny, Michael. There’s nothing to laugh at. We’re bottoming out in every key battleground state. California, Texas, Illinois… If we don’t start converting some undecideds, we’re going to be out of our jobs.”
I freeze as he says the words. “You really think-”
“Michael, no sitting President’s ever done a First Family interview. Why do you think we are? It’s the same reason Lamb asked you to keep quiet. This is it-if the numbers don’t turn, Nora and company are heading back to sunny Flori-”
“Just tell me who you’re going with-20/20 or-”
“Dateline,” he blurts. “I suggested 60 Minutes, but everyone thought it was too Clinton. Besides, the First Lady likes Samantha Stulberg-she did a nice piece on her after the Inauguration.”
“And when is this all going to take place?”
“Eight P.M. this Thursday, which also, lucky for us, happens to be the First Lady’s fiftieth birthday.”
“You’re not wasting any time.”
“We can’t afford to. And no offense, boyo, but the way we’re headed, neither can you.”
It’s barely seven A.M. as I open the door to Room 170, and the darkness in the anteroom tells me I’m the first one in. With a cup of coffee in one hand and my briefcase in the other, I elbow on the light switch and start another fluorescent day. I count all three flickers before the light actually comes on-which is exactly how long it takes me to shut the alarm, pull the mail from my mailbox, and reach the door to my office.
Heading toward my desk, I peer out the window and take in the view. Hugged by the sun, the White House shines in the morning. It’s right out of the press kit. Green trees. Red geraniums. Glowing marble. For one glorious moment, everything’s right in the world. Then it’s interrupted by the quiet knock on my door.
“Come in,” I shout, assuming it’s Pam.
“Mind if I take a seat?” a man’s voice asks.
I spin around. Agent Adenauer.
He closes the door and extends an open handshake. “Don’t worry,” he says with a warm smile. “It’s only me.”
CHAPTER 22
What are you doing here?”
“Just got back from fishing,” Adenauer says, in his easygoing Southern drawl. “Three-day trip to the Chesapeake. Man, did it just take my breath-you got to get over there sometime.” With his cheap suit and his playful Keith Haring tie, he really does seem genuinely friendly. Like he wants to help.
“Take a seat,” I offer.
He tosses me a nod of appreciation. “I promise, I’ll make this one quick.” Sliding into the chair, he explains, “As I’m kicking through the grease, there’s just one thing I can’t get my head for.” He pauses a moment. “What’s going on with you and Simon?”
I’ve heard that tone before-it’s not an accusation; he’s worried for me. Still, I play dumb. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Last time we spoke, you suggested that we check Simon’s bank accounts. When we went to see Simon, he said we should take a look at yours.”
I feel it all the way down to my groin. The rules are starting to change. All along, I thought Simon would keep it quiet. But now, détente’s beginning to crumble. And the more I fight against it, the more Simon’s going to point the finger at me. Forget about my job. He’s going to take my life.
“Don’t try to do it by yourself, Michael-we can help you with this one.”
“What’d you find in his bank accounts?”
“Not much. He sold some stock recently, but he said it was to remodel his kitchen.”