15
Before leaving the White House, John Vanduyne stopped by the press office and found Terri Londergan in her cubicle. Her desk was littered with yellow sheets, all scribbled up this way and that. She had a phone receiver crammed between her shoulder and her ear and was taking furious notes on a fresh yellow sheet.
She looked up and smiled at him, rolling her dark, dark eyes as she pointed to the phone.
“Yes, he will,” she said into the receiver. “Yes, I’m sure he will…” John watched her as she did her deputy press secretary thing, fielding questions from some far away newspaper or magazine editor. He loved the way her blunt-cut raven hair fell across her face when she tilted her head and how she’d toss her head to flip it out of the way. Her sharp nose and strong jaw were softened by her full-lipped smile. Oh, that smile. It had drawn John the length of the executive offices when he’d spotted her talking to Stephanie Harris last year. And he’d stood there like a dummy until Stephanie had introduced him.
A few minutes of conversation with Terri and he’d been completely taken by her. After that he’d made a point of running into her on his regular White House visits, but it wasn’t until a few months ago that he’d mustered the nerve to ask her out. They’d been dating ever since.
Terri was in her mid-thirties—about ten years younger than John—but had the poise and self-assurance of someone older. She and Katie had met and spent a few evenings together—in the neutral territory of restaurants—and seemed to get along fine. Katie was always asking when they were going to see Terri again. John was ready to admit to the possibility that he might find someone else, that there might be life and even love after Mamie.
“… of course,” she was saying. “He’ll answer all those questions at the press conference. That’s right. Right. Have a nice day. Goodbye.” She hung up and then cradled her head facedown in her arms on her desk. She spoke into the chaos of papers under her nose.
“No more calls! Please, no more calls!” John placed his black bag on her desk, moved behind her, and began massaging her tight shoulder muscles, working a thumb along each trapezius. She groaned and the sound excited him.
“Ooooh, that feels good. You do, know what a girl needs.”
“Rough morning?”
“The roughest. Ever. Times ten. I—there… oh, yes right there. I was in a hundred percent agreement when I listened to him last night.”
“You were?” That surprised him. He knew she didn’t use any drugs, and with her strict Irish Catholic upbringing he’d assumed she would oppose legalizing them. But then, she’d already proved herself to be remarkably liberated regarding sex, so why not the same attitude toward drugs?
“Yeah, I were. But now I’m not so sure.”
“Why the change?”
“The phones! The calls from Europe were already backed up when I walked in at six this morning. They’ve been going wild ever since. Anyone with a newsletter, a local radio show, a fanzine, an online chat nook, everybody in the western world wants more information.” She lifted her head. “And oh God the West Coast is just waking up. I’m going crazy!”
He laughed. “Now there’s a good reason to change your principles.”
“I have my principles,” she said, turning and smiling up at him. “But you learn quickly in this town that you’ve got to be practical too.”
“In other words, if this is going to cause you extra work, drugs should stay criminalized.”
“You got it. Doc,” she said, still smiling. She pulled on his tie and drew his face down to hers. “C’mere,” she murmured. “Gimme a kiss.” And kiss her he did. On the lips. He loved the feel of those lips on his. He started thinking about—
The electronic warble of her phone jumbled his thoughts. She picked up without breaking the kiss and held the receiver to her ear. John heard an indecipherable staccato buzz.
Terri pulled away from him. “Go ahead,” she said into the receiver. “Oh, great! Yeah, put him through.” She turned back to John. “I’ve got to take this.”
“Sure,” he said. “We still on for tonight?”
Her expression became pained. “Oh, I don’t think so. The boss has called a meeting and God knows how long it’s going to run. I could be here till ten or eleven. Maybe later.”
“I understand.”
She smiled. “You’re an angel. Let’s make it same time, same place tomorrow.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
She smiled and turned back to the phone. “Hello? Yes, this is she.” She blew John a silent kiss as he waved and left her.
He allowed himself a rueful smile as he headed for the outside. If he hadn’t been in favor of this decriminalization stuff before… he was really against it now.
16
By the time Paulie returned the Lincoln to the bottom-level of the garage, the kid was sound asleep, thanks to the Valium-laced candy. Great idea. Maybe he’d keep the leftovers for himself.
He wound around the entire lower level, checking it out, looking for people leaving or retrieving their cars. He found none. All quiet.
He pulled to a stop behind the panel truck, lining up his passenger-side rear door with its back end. Then he got out, opened the panel truck’s rear doors, leaned through the Lincoln’s rear passenger door, and wrapped the kid in the blanket.
Now the hairy part. Now something could go wrong.
He straightened up and scanned the level again. No one in sight. He set his jaw and bent to it: quick—one, two, three—he transferred a limp, kid-size, blanket wrapped bundle from the car to the truck. He closed and locked the truck’s rear doors.
He was breathing hard and not from the exertion. Done. The worst was over. All he had to do now was leave the Lincoln in the panel truck’s spot. Mac would come by later and take care of the car.
He could relax. Just drive back to Falls Church and transfer the kid to the house and— Oh, shit! Poppy! He’d forgot about her. She was going to go bug-fuck nuts when he showed up with this kid.
The worst part over? Not even close.
17
It took John a while to extricate himself front the area around the White House. When he finally reached HHS, he had to wade through a seemingly endless gauntlet of friends, colleagues, and vaguely remembered bureaucrats stretching from the lobby, into the elevator, and down the halls, each with an opinion about last night’s announcement.
Finally he reached the relative sanctuary of his office.
Phyllis, his secretary, handed him a cup of coffee and said, “Where do you want me to begin?” She was fiftyish, thin, with very black skin. She wore her hair in a short, frizzy natural style that framed her narrow face. Despite regular lectures from John, Phyllis still smoked—on the coldest day of the year she’d be out in the courtyard on her break sucking on a butt. She rarely smiled and usually looked as if she’d just bitten into a lemon. This morning she looked as if she’d found a particularly sour one.
“How about with anything that hasn’t to do with decriminalization? Like OPC, maybe?” The main thrust of his post here at HHS was a program called Operation Primary Care. Its purpose was to stimulate medical schools to emphasize primary care in their curricula and encourage medical students to enter family practice and general internal medicine training programs. So far it was being well received.
“Well…” she said slowly, shuffling through the blue message slips in her hand, “a couple of schools that have been on the fence about having you speak to their stuents have called, looking to firm up a date.”
“Now there’s some good news.”