Dreidel picks up speed as another flashbulb explodes. He’s half a step ahead. He thinks I don’t notice. “So what was on the final sheet?” he asks softly.
As I turn back to the honchos, there’s only one person left in line. One click to go. But when I see who it is, my throat constricts.
“What?” Dreidel asks, reading my expression.
I stop right in front of our final honcho, a young redhead in a modest black suit. Dreidel goes to put a hand on her elbow to escort her forward. She brushes him off and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Just the people I’m looking for,” she says proudly. “Lisbeth Dodson—Palm Beach Post. You must be Dreidel.”
29
Limping up the icy driveway and holding his fist against his chest, The Roman eyed the front windows of the classic stucco Colonial with the For Sale sign in the front yard. Although the lights were off, it didn’t slow him down. After hiding his wound — by slipping his bloody foot into one of Nico’s old shoes — he flashed his badge to push his way out of the hospital and quickly made the call. He knew Benjamin was home.
Sure enough, as he reached the side of the house, he grabbed the cold metal handrail and hobbled down a short cement staircase. At the bottom, he reached a door with a faint glow of light peeking out from under it. A small sign above the doorbell said Appointments Only. The Roman didn’t have an appointment. He had something far more valuable.
“Les?” he called out, barely able to stand. Leaning against the doorjamb, he couldn’t feel his left hand, which was still in the same blood-soaked glove that helped him hide it at the hospital. His foot had gone dead almost an hour ago.
“Coming,” a muffled voice said from inside. As the pins and springs of the lock turned, the door opened, revealing a bushy-haired man with bifocals balanced on a plump nose. “Okay, what’d you do this ti—? Oh, jeez, is that blood?”
“I–I need—” Before he could finish, The Roman collapsed, falling forward through the doorway. As always, Dr. Les Benjamin caught him. That’s what brothers-in-law were for.
30
Mr. President, you remember Ms. Dodson… columnist for the Palm Beach Post,” Wes said mid-handoff.
“Lisbeth,” she insisted, extending a handshake and hoping to keep things light. She glanced back to Wes, who was already pale white.
“Lisbeth, I would’ve gotten your name,” Manning promised. “Even if I don’t know the donors, only a fool doesn’t remember the press.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Lisbeth said, believing his every word, even as she told herself not to. Could I be more pathetic? she asked herself, fighting off a strange desire to curtsy. Sacred Rule #7: Presidents lie best. “Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Is that Lisbeth?” the First Lady asked, knowing the answer as she moved in for her own cheek-to-cheek hug. “Oh, you know I adore your column,” she gushed. “Except that piece when you listed how much Lee was tipping local waitresses. That one almost had me take you off our invite list.”
“You actually did take me off,” Lisbeth pointed out.
“Only for two weeks. Life’s too short to hold a grudge.”
Appreciating the honesty, Lisbeth couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a smart woman, Dr. Manning.”
“Dear, we’re the ones who’re supposed to be currying favor with you — though I will say you can do better than silly little squibs about what people are tipping, which, let’s just admit, is below you.” Slapping her husband on the arm, she added, “Lee, give the girl a nice quote about cystic fibrosis research so she can do her job.”
“Actually,” Lisbeth began, “I’m just here…”
“We should get you onstage, sir,” Wes interrupted.
“… to see your right-hand men,” Lisbeth added, pointing at Dreidel and Wes. “I’m doing a piece on loyalty. Thought maybe I could grab their quotes and turn them into superstars.”
“Good — you should,” the President said, putting an arm around Dreidel. “This one’s running for Senate. And if I still had the keys… he’s Vice President caliber.” The President paused, waiting for Lisbeth to write it down.
Pulling a notepad from her overstuffed black purse, Lisbeth took the cue and pretended to scribble. Over her shoulder, she could feel Wes seething.
“Don’t worry,” Lisbeth said to Manning. “I’ll take it easy on them.”
“Mr. President,” a throaty female voice called out as they all turned to the middle-aged woman in the designer suit and matching designer hairdo. As honorary chairperson for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, Myrna Opal tapped her diamond Chopard watch, determined to keep the program running on time. “I think we’re ready, sir.”
The instant the President took his first step toward the stage door, Wes fell in line right beside him. “Wes, I’m fine.”
“I know, but it’s…”
“… less than ten feet to the door. I’ll make it. And Dreidel — I hope you’re at my table later.”
He says the words while looking at Wes. In the White House, they used to follow etiquette and make sure the President was always sitting next to whomever he needed to be near. For four years, he didn’t pick his tablemates. These days, he no longer bothered with political favors. It was the only perk of losing the White House. The President could finally sit next to the people he liked.
“Just make sure you get these nice cystic fibrosis folks in tomorrow’s column,” the First Lady added, motioning to Lisbeth.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lisbeth blurted, never taking her eyes off Wes. He’d been around the world’s best politicians for almost a decade, but he still was a novice when it came to hiding his own emotions. Nose flaring… fists tight… whatever he was burying, it was eating him alive.
“This way, sir,” one of two Secret Service agents said, motioning the President and First Lady toward the stage door. Like mice behind the piper, the cystic fibrosis chairperson, and PR person, and fund-raising person, and photographer, and remaining honchos all fell in line behind them, an instant entourage that sucked every straggler from the room.
As the door slammed behind them, the quiet was overwhelming. To Lisbeth’s surprise, Wes wasn’t the only one to stay put. Dreidel was right next to him, a warm grin on his face.
“Come… sit,” he offered, pointing to three empty seats at the cloth-covered round table that was used as a sign-in desk. Lisbeth obliged but wasn’t fooled. Fear always brought out kindness. And if the hotshot state-senator-to-be was anxious, her B+ story just became an A-.
“So how’d the birthday party planning go?” she asked, pulling a seat up to the table.
“The what?” Dreidel asked.
“For Manning’s birthday,” Wes insisted. “Our meeting this morning…”
“Oh, it was great,” Dreidel insisted, repatting the part in his hair and readjusting his wire-rim glasses. “I thought you meant my fundraiser.”
“Figure out where you’re gonna have it?” she added.
“Still deciding,” Wes and Dreidel said simultaneously.
Lisbeth nodded. These guys were White House trained. They weren’t falling for minor-league tricks. Better to go in soft. “C’mon, didn’t you hear what the First Lady said?” she asked. “Adores the column. I’m not here to drink your blood.”
“Then why’d you bring your cup?” Dreidel asked, pointing with his chin at her notepad.
“That’s what’s scaring you? What if I put it back in its holster?” she said, reaching under her seat and tucking the pad and pen back in her purse. Still bent over, she looked up, struggling to keep eye contact. “That better?” she asked.