So, every few months, when Nico would receive his playing cards, he’d wait a day or two and then hand them back to the orderlies, or leave them in the day room, or, if they found their way back to him, tuck them into the cushions of the couch that smelled like urine and soup.
But tonight, at nearly 10 p.m. in the now quiet main room, Nico sat at one of the Plexiglas tables near the nurses’ station and quietly played a game of solitaire.
“Thanks for being so patient, baby,” the heavy nurse with the big hoop earrings said. “You know how Mr. Jasper gets if we let him sit in his diaper too long.”
“Oooh, and you’re playing cards so nice,” the nurse crooned, making a mental note and clearly excited for what she’d inevitably be telling the doctors tomorrow.
It wasn’t much. But Nico knew it mattered. The hospital was no different than the universe. Everything had rules. And the number one rule here was: If you don’t please the nurses, you’re not getting your privileges.
It was why he didn’t complain when they let someone else feed the cats tonight. Or when Rupert brought him apple juice instead of orange.
Nico had been lucky earlier today. When he approached that car-the one with the barber and the blasphemous wrists-he was worried the blame would be put on him.
It wasn’t. And he knew why.
Whoever had burned Beecher-whoever had caused all that pain-the last thing they wanted was Nico’s name all over this. If that had happened, a real investigation would’ve been started.
The ones who did this… They didn’t want that.
In the end, it didn’t surprise Nico. But it did surprise him that, when it came to that investigation, they had the power to stop it.
Right there, Nico knew what was coming next.
“I see you put Randall’s Sprite cans in the recycling-cleaned up his crackers too,” the nurse added. “I know you’re sucking up, Nico-but I appreciate it. Now remind me what you’re waiting for again? Your mail?”
“Not mail,” Nico said. “My phone. Any new phone messages?”
The nurse with the hoop earrings gripped a blue three-ring binder from the shelf above her desk and quickly flipped to the last pages.
Nico could’ve snuck a look at the book when she wasn’t there.
But there were rules.
There were always rules.
And consequences.
“Lemme see… according to this…” she said as her chubby finger skated down the page. “Nope. Sorry, baby. No calls.” Snapping the book shut, she added, “Maybe tomorrow.”
Nico nodded. It was a good thought. Maybe it’d be tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or even the day after.
But it was going to happen. Soon.
Nico knew the rules.
He knew his purpose.
Beecher would be coming back. He definitely would.
It might take him a month. Or even longer. But eventually, Beecher would want help. He’d want help, and he’d want answers. And most of all, he’d want to know how to track down Clementine-which, if Nico was right about what was in her, was the only thing Nico wanted too.
Shoving his way back through the swinging doors and still thinking of how his daughter had misled him, Nico headed back to his room.
Soon, he and Beecher-George Washington and Benedict Arnold-would again be working together.
Just like the universe had always planned.
117
The White House
Second-Floor Residence
Where’s he, upstairs?” Minnie asked a passing aide who was carrying the newest stack of autographed items, from personal letters to a red, white, and blue golf ball, that the President had just finished signing.
“Solarium,” the aide said, pointing up as Minnie headed for the back staircase that would take her the rest of the way.
Minnie always loved the Solarium, which sat above the Truman Balcony on the top floor of the White House and had the best view of the Mall and the Washington Monument.
But Minnie didn’t love it for the view. Or because it was the one casual room in the entire Residence. She loved it because it reminded her of home. Literally.
Lined with old family photos from when she and the President were kids, the narrow hallway that led up and out to the Solarium rose at a surprisingly steep incline. Even with her pink flamingo cane, it was tough for Minnie to navigate. But she still stared as she passed each old photograph-the one when she and ten-year-old Orson are smiling with all the chocolate in their teeth… the one with Orson proudly holding his first cross-country running trophy… and of course, the one right after she was born, with her mother placing baby Minnie for the first time in her brother’s arms. Back then, the side of her face was covered with skin lesions. But little Orson is smiling down, so proud to be the new big brother. Wallace had personally made sure that picture made the list.
“Don’t you dare do that,” Minnie called out to her brother, rapping her cane against the floor. As she entered the room, which was decorated with casual sofas, she saw the problem.
With his back to her, the President stood there, hands in his pockets as he stared out the tall glass windows at the bright glow of the Washington Monument.
“Don’t do that,” she warned again, knowing him all too well.
“You know this was the room Nancy Reagan was in when they told her the President had been shot?” her brother announced.
“Yeah, and I know from the last time you were all upset and moody, it’s also the room where Nixon told his family he was going to step down. We get it. Whenever you start staring out at the monuments or talking about other Presidents, you’re in a piss mood. So just tell me: What’s it this time? What’s in your craw?”
He thought about telling her that Palmiotti was dead. It’d be on the news soon enough-complete with the story of how the doctor was blackmailed and lured down to the caves by the criminal Clementine. But Wallace knew that his sister was still riding the high of the morning’s charity event.
“Actually, I was just thinking about you,” Wallace replied, still keeping his back to her as Minnie hobbled with her cane toward him. “Today was really nice.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Minnie said, smiling the half-smile that the stroke allowed. “Thanks again for coming and doing the speech. It made the event…” She paused a moment, trying to think of the right word. Her brother had heard all of them.
“It felt good to have you there,” she finally said.
The President nodded, still standing there, staring out at the snow-covered Mall. From behind, Minnie playfully tapped his leg with the head of the flamingo cane. “Make room,” she added, forcing him aside. With a sisterly shove, Minnie stepped close to him so they were standing shoulder to shoulder, two siblings staring out at the stunning view.
“It was fun being there. I mean, for me too,” the President admitted.
“You should do it more often then. We have a fund-raiser next month out in Virginia,” Minnie said.
Wallace didn’t reply.
“Orson, I’m kidding,” Minnie added. “But I did mean what I said before: Having you there… I probably don’t say this enough, but-”
“Minnie, you don’t have to say anything.”
“I do. And you need to hear it. I just want you to know… my whole life… I appreciate everything you’ve given me,” she said, motioning out at the monuments and the Mall. “You’re a good brother.”
The President nodded. “You’re right. I am.”
Minnie rapped him with her pink cane, laughing. But as she followed her brother’s gaze, she realized Wallace wasn’t staring out at the Washington Monument. He was staring down, at the paved path of the South Lawn, where two Secret Service agents were walking a blond staffer-he looked like all the other young aides-down toward the southeast security gate.
“Who’s that?” Minnie asked.
The President of the United States stared and lied again. “Nobody important.”