"Ten bucks says we will." Flipping through the rest of the paper, I add, "Anything else interesting?"
"Depends on whether you think losing a bet is interesting."
"What?"
"Jack Tandy's media column in the Times. In an interview with Vanity Fair that hits the stands next week, Bartlett says--and I quote--'If you can't take care of the First Family, how can you possibly put family first?'"
I wince at the verbal stab. "Think it's going to stick?"
"Are you kidding? A quote like that--I hate to say it, Michael, but that's a winner talking. I mean, you can feel the shift. Unless the country throws a hissy fit, it'll be in the stump speech by the next news cycle. Voters don't like bad parents. And thanks to your girlfriend, Bartlett just got a brand-new applause line."
Instinctively, I reach for the Times. But when I unfold it on the table, the first thing I notice is the front photo: a nice shot of Hartson and the First Lady talking to a group of religious leaders in the Rose Garden. But in the back right corner of the picture, lurking in the last row of the crowd, is the one person without a smile: Agent Adenauer.
I break out in an instant sweat. What the hell is he doing there?
"Michael, you with me?" Trey yells.
"Yeah," I say, turning back to the receiver. "I . . . yeah."
"What's wrong? You sound like death."
"Nothing," I reply. "I'll talk to you later."
* * *
Within forty-five minutes, I'm showered, shaved, and two newspapers into the day. But as I leave my apartment, I still can't stop thinking about the photo of Adenauer. There's not a single good reason for an FBI investigator to be that close to Hartson, and the stressing alone has made me a solid fifteen minutes late to work. I don't have time for this, I decide. No more distractions. Heading toward the Metro, I see a homeless man carrying a squeegee. The moment we make eye contact, I realize I'm about to take another kick in the wish list.
"Morning, morning, morning," he says as he holds up his squeegee. He's sporting army green camo pants and the rattiest black beard I've ever seen. Hanging from his pocket is an old Windex spray bottle filled with milky gray water. As he gets closer, I see he's also wearing a worn-out Harvard Law School sweatshirt. Only in D.C. "Where's your Porsche? Where's your Porsche? Where's your Porsche?" he sings, falling in step next to me.
I've seen this guy before. I think it was in Dupont Circle. "Sorry, but I'm not driving," I tell him. "Just me and the Metro."
"No, no, no. Not you, not you. Fancy shoes always take the car."
"Not today. I'm really . . ."
"Where's your Porsche? Wh . . ."
"I told you . . ."
". . . ere's your Porsche? Where's your Porsche?"
Obviously, he's not listening. For more than a block and a half, he's at my side, running his squeegee back and forth along my imaginary windshield. To get him off my back, I reach into my pocket and pull out a dollar bill.
"Ahhh, there he is," Squeegee Man says. "Mr. Porsche."
I hand him the dollar and he finally lowers his squeegee.
"Your change, sir," he says pulling something from his pocket. "Vaughn says you have to talk," he whispers. "Let's try the Holocaust Museum. One o'clock on Monday. And don't bring the black guy from the pay phone."
"Excuse me?"
He smiles and stuffs something in my hand. A folded-up sheet of paper.
"What's this?"
I'm not getting an answer. He's already moved on. Behind me, I see him approach a balding man in a pin-striped suit. "Where's your Porsche?" he asks him, raising the squeegee.
I turn back to the paper and open it up. It's blank. Just a moment's distraction.
Over my shoulder, I look for the Squeegee Man. It's too late. He's gone.
* * *
Throwing my briefcase on my desk, I check the digital screen on my office phone. Four new messages waiting. I hit the Call Log button to see who they're from, but every one of them is an outside call. Whoever it is, they're desperate to get in touch. My phone rings, and I jump back, startled. Caller ID reads Outside Call.
I lunge for the receiver as quick as I can. "Hello?"
"Michael?" a soft female voice whispers.
"Nora? Is that--"
"Did you see Bartlett's quote?" she interrupts.
I don't answer.
"You saw it, didn't you?" she repeats. Her voice is shaky, and I know that tone. I heard it that day in the bowling alley. She's worried about her dad. "What'd Trey say about it?" she asks.
"Trey? Who cares what Trey said. How're you?"
She pauses, sounding confused. "I don't understand."
"How're you doing? Are you okay? I mean, no offense to your dad, but you're the one they're slapping around."
There's another pause. This one a little longer. "I'm fine . . . I'm good." There's a change in her voice. "How're you?" she asks, sounding almost happy.
"Don't worry about me. Now what were you saying about Bartlett's quote?"
"Nothing . . . nothing . . . just par for the course."
"I thought you wanted to talk abou--"
"No. Not anymore," she says with a laugh. "Listen, I really should run."
"So I'll talk to you later?"
"Yeah," she coos. "Definitely."
* * *
By the time I get off the phone with Nora, I'm already late for Simon's weekly meeting. Dashing out of my office, I head straight for the West Wing. "Hey, Phil," I say as I blow by the desk of my favorite Secret Service officer.
He shoots out of his seat and grabs me by the arm.
"What're you--"
"I need to see your ID," he says in a cold voice.
"Are you kidding me? You know I'm--"
"Now, Michael."
Pulling away, I remain calm. Reaching for the ID around my neck, I realize I've tucked it into the front pocket of my dress shirt. It shouldn't matter. He's never stopped me before.
He gives it a quick look and lets me pass. "Thanks," he says.
"No sweat." He's just being careful, I tell myself. Approaching the elevator, I assume he's going to make amends by opening the elevator door for me. I look over at him, but he doesn't care. Pretending not to notice, I hit the elevator call button myself. Word's starting to get out. It's going to be a crappy day.
* * *
Slinking to the back of Simon's crowded office, I see that everyone's in their usual places: Simon's at the head of the table, Lamb's in his favorite wingback, Julian's as close to the front as possible, and Pam's . . . hold it right there. Pam's got a seat on the couch. When we make eye contact, I expect her to shrug or wink--some way to acknowledge the ridiculousness of the power shift. She doesn't. She just sits back. At least someone's moving up in the world.
From the sound of things, we're still going around the room. Julian's up.
". . . and they still won't budge on punitive damages. You know how stubborn Terrill's people are--neck-high in their own bullshit and still refusing to smell it. I say we throw it to the press and leak the contents of the deal. Good or bad, it'll at least force a decision."
"I have a conference call with Terrill this afternoon. Let's see where we get then," Simon suggests. "Now tell me what Justice said about the roving wiretaps."
"They're still standing strong on it--they want to be the heroes in Hartson's crime platform." As he continues to explain, Julian glances my way with the most subtle of smirks. That cocky bastard. That's my issue.
* * *
"You assigned that project to me," I tell Simon after the meeting. "I've been working on it for weeks and you--"
"I understand you're upset," Simon interrupts.
"Of course I'm upset--you ripped it away and fed it right to the head vampire. You know Julian's going to kill it."