“I will, I’ll come right now. Lemme just… hold on one second…” Pressing her cell phone to her chest and hopping out of her seat, Lisbeth grabbed the uncrumpled art award notes, darted out of her cubicle, and ducked into a blond reporter’s cubicle directly across the hall. “Eve, can I borrow your car?” Lisbeth asked.
“First my phone — which I still haven’t gotten back — now my car—”
“Eve!”
Eve studied her friend, reading her expression. “This’s the one, isn’t it?”
“Column’s on my computer. Here’s the last item,” Lisbeth said, tossing her the art award notes. “Can you—?”
“On it,” Eve said as Lisbeth said thank you, took off up the hallway, and pressed her cell to her ear. “Violet, I’m on my way,” she said, doing her best to keep her talking. Sacred Rule #9: Never let go of the big fish. “So… how long were you two actually together?”
“A year and two months,” Violet replied, still sounding angry. “Right before the shooting.”
Lisbeth stopped running. “Wait, this was when he was still in the White House?”
“Of course. Every President goes home for vacation. Besides, he couldn’t pull this off in Washington. But down here… I’d get the phone call and he could—”
“Violet, no bullshitting anymore — you’re trying to tell me that despite all the security — despite dozens of Secret Service agents — you were sleeping with and got beat up by the President of the United States while he was still in office?”
“President?” Violet asked. “You think I was sleeping with Manning? No, no, no… the other mention — about running for Senate…”
“You mean—”
“The little animal who mauled me. I was talking about Dreidel.”
74
Think he’ll go through with it?” Dreidel asked, readjusting his wire-rim glasses as he read from Boyle’s personnel file.
“Who, Wes? Hard to say,” Rogo replied, still sitting on the floor and flipping through the documents in Boyle’s requests. “He was talking a tough game, but you know how he gets with Manning.”
“You’ve obviously never been on the receiving end of Manning.” Looking down at the file, Dreidel added, “Y’know Boyle spoke Hebrew and Arabic?”
“Says who?”
“Says here: Hebrew, Arabic, and American Sign Language. Apparently, his sister was deaf. That’s why they moved to Jersey — had one of the early schools for the hearing impaired. God, I remember filling this out,” he added, reading from Boyle’s National Security Questionnaire. “According to this, he won a Westinghouse prize when he was in high school — plus a Marshall Scholarship at Oxford. Guy was scary smart, especially when it came t— Hold on,” Dreidel said. “Have you been over 180 days delinquent on any debts? Yes. If yes, explain below…” Flipping to the next page, Dreidel read the single-spaced page that was stapled to the application. “… to a total debt of $230,000…”
“Two hundred and thirty thousand? What’d he buy? Italy?”
“I don’t think he bought anything,” Dreidel said. “From what it says here, it was his father’s debt. Apparently, Boyle volunteered to take it over so his dad wouldn’t have to declare bankruptcy.”
“Boy loves his daddy.”
“Actually, hates his daddy. But loves his mom,” Dreidel said, reading even further. “If Dad declared bankruptcy and the creditors swooped in, Mom would’ve been kicked out of the family restaurant that she’d worked in and run since Boyle was a kid.”
“Nice work by Dad — put the family business at risk, boot your wife out on the street, and stick your kid with all the leftover debt.”
“Wait, that’s the good part,” Dreidel said, turning to the last few pages of the application. Here: Is there anything in your personal life that could be used by someone to embarrass the President or the White House? Please provide full details.” Flipping the page and revealing another single-spaced typed document, Dreidel shook his head, remembering the stories that Boyle had disclosed early in the campaign. Even at the beginning, Manning stood by his friend. “Most of this we know: Dad was first arrested before Boyle was born. Then arrested again when Boyle was six, then again when he was thirteen — the last time for assault and battery on the owner of a Chinese laundry in Staten Island. Then he actually wound up staying out of trouble until just after Boyle left for college. That’s when the FBI picked him up for selling fake insurance policies in a New Brunswick nursing home. The list keeps going… importing stolen scooters, check kiting for a few thousand bucks, but somehow, barely serving any time.”
“It’s a Freudian field day, isn’t it? Dad breaking all the rules with the con man shtick, while Boyle throws himself into the preciseness of accounting. What was that Time story when Dad got arrested for shoplifting? Black eye…”
“… on the White House. Yeah, clever. That’s almost as good as that political cartoon where they had him robbing Toys for Tots.”
“I still can’t—” Rogo cut himself off, shaking his head. “All this time, we’re hunting for Boyle like he’s the great white evil, but when you hear all the details: miserable childhood, deaf sister, working-class Italian mom… and yet he still manages to claw his way out and make his way to the White House…”
“Oh, please, Rogo — don’t tell me you’re feeling bad for him.”
“… and then his dad lies, cheats, steals, and on top of it all, leaves Boyle holding the bill. I mean, just think about it — how does a father do that to his own son?”
“Same way Boyle did it to his own wife and daughter when he disappeared from their lives and turned them into mourners. People are scumbags, Rogo — especially when they’re desperate.”
“Yeah, but that’s the thing. If Boyle were really that bad, why’d they even let him work in the White House? Isn’t that the purpose of all these forms — to screen people like him out?”
“In theory, that’s the goal, but it’s not like it was some uncovered secret. Everyone knew his dad was trash. He used to talk about it — use it for sympathy in the press. It only became a problem when we won. But when your best friend is President of the United States, oh, what a surprise, the FBI can be convinced to make exceptions. In fact, let me show you how they… here…” Dreidel said, once again thumbing through the folder. “Okay, here,” he added, unclipping a sheet of stationery-sized paper as Rogo took a seat on the edge of the desk and started flipping through the rest of the file.
“Boyle had codeword clearance. Before they dole that out, they need to know what side you’re on. FBI… Secret Service… they all take a look. Then Manning gets to see the results…” On the small sheet of paper was a list of typed letters lined up in a single column, each one with a check mark next to it:
BKD √
MH √
WEX √
ED √
REF √
AC
PRL √
FB √
PUB √
“Is that the same as this?” Rogo asked as he turned a page in the file and revealed a near-identical sheet.
“Exactly — that’s the same report.”
“So why’s Boyle have two?”
“One’s from when he started, the other’s probably from when they renewed his clearance. It’s the same. BKD is background — your general background check. MH is your military history. WEX is work experience…”
“So this is all the dirt on Boyle?” Rogo asked, staring down at the sparsely covered page.