As he says the words, my eyes are locked on the waitress who's clearing the table next to us. Like the crane in the old carnival game, she lowers her arm and lifts all the important stuff: glassware, menus, a dish of peanuts. Everything else is trash. With a sweep of her arm, empty bottles and used napkins are brushed into the busboy's plastic bin. With one quick move, it's gone. That's what she did--after the fun, jettisoned the trash. Still, I refuse to believe it. "Maybe Vaughn had it wrong. Maybe when Nora gets back--"
"Wait a minute, you're gonna give her a chance to explain? After what she did tonight . . . Are you out of your head?"
"It's not like I have a choice."
"There're plenty of choices. Whole shopping-carts-ful of them: Hate her, despise her, curse her, scorn her, pretend you're nature and abhor her like a vacuum--"
"Enough!" I interrupt, my eyes still locked on the waitress. "I know what it looks like . . . I just . . . We don't have all the facts."
"What else do you need, Michael? She's sleeping with Simon!"
My chest constricts. Just the thought of it . . .
"I'm serious," he whispers, looking suspiciously at the tables around us. "That's why Caroline got killed. She found out the two of them were doing the horizontal Electric Slide, and when she started blackmailing them, they decided to push back. The only problem was, they needed someone to blame."
"Me," I mutter. It certainly makes sense.
"Think about the way it played out. It wasn't just a coincidence that you wound up in the bar that night; it was a setup. She took you there on purpose. The whole thing--losing the Service, pretending to be lost, even taking the money--that was all part of their plan."
"No," I whisper, pushing myself away from the table. "Not like that."
"What're you--"
"C'mon, Trey, there's no way they knew the D.C. police were going to pull us over for speeding."
"No, you're right--that was pure chance. But if you didn't get pulled over, she would've planted it in your car. Think about it. They set Vaughn up and make it look like you let him in the building. Then when Caroline shows up dead the next morning, between Vaughn and the money, you've got the smoking gun."
"I don't know. I mean, if that's the case, then why haven't they turned me in? I've still got the 'gun.' It's just in police custody."
"I'm not sure. Maybe they're worried the cop'll identify Nora. Maybe they're waiting until after the election. Or maybe they're waiting for the FBI to do it on their own. Five o'clock tomorrow."
We sit in silence and I stare at my beer, studying its rising bubbles. Eventually, I look up at Trey. "I still have to speak to her." Before he can react, I add, "Don't ask me why, Trey--it's just . . . I know you think she's a whack-job--believe me, I know she's a whack-job--but underneath . . . you've never seen it, Trey. All you see is someone you work for--but behind all the tough-stuff posturing and all the public-face nonsense, in a different set of circumstances, she can just as easily be you or me."
"Really? So when was the last time we did Special K in the bowling alley?"
"I said underneath. There's still a girl underneath."
"See, now you're sounding like Mithridates."
"Who?"
"The guy who survived an assassination attempt by eating a little bit of poison every day. When they finally put it in his wine, his body was immune to it."
"And what's so bad about that?"
"Pay attention to the details, Michael. Even though he survived, he still spent every day eating poison."
I can't help but shake my head. "I just want to hear what she says. Your theory's one possibility; there're plenty of others. For all we know, Pam's the one who--"
"What the hell is wrong with you? It's like you're on permanent autopilot!"
"You don't understand . . ."
"I do understand. And I know how you feel about her. Hell, even forgetting Nora, I still have my own questions about Pam--but take a step back and put on your rational pants. You're trusting Nora and Vaughn--two complete strangers you've known less than a month--and questioning Pam, a good friend who's been by your side for two years. Please, Michael, look at the facts! Does that make any sense to you? I mean, today alone . . . what're you thinking?"
My eyes drop back to my beer. I don't have an answer.
* * *
Early Friday morning, I tear through all four newspapers, checking to see if Adenauer kept his word. The Herald has a short piece on some of the conspiracy theories that're starting to develop around Caroline's death, but that's to be expected. More important, Hartson bounced up six points in the polls, a giant leap that takes him out of the margin of error. It's not hard to see why. The front photo in the Post is a shot of the whole family on Dateline. On the far right, Nora's laughing at her mother's joke. Just another day in the life.
Beyond that, as far as I can tell, it's all okay. Nothing by Inez. Nothing by anyone. Now all I have to do is the hard part. According to the schedule, they should be landing any minute. I tighten my tie and pull it extra tight. Time to see Nora.
* * *
Once the Secret Service waves me in, I head straight to her bedroom on the third floor. I stop at her door, my hand poised to knock. Inside, I hear her talking to someone, so I lean in close. But just as I do, the door flies open and there's Nora, radiant in a tight black T-shirt and jeans, cradling a cell phone to her ear, and grinning at me for all of a split second.
"I don't care if he raises two million," she shouts into the phone. "I'm not going to dinner with his son!" As I step in, she puts up her pointer finger and gives me the "one more minute" sign.
Based on the schedule, this must be about yesterday's donor receptions. When we first met, she told me it's always like this after the fund-raisers. Every letch with a checkbook starts calling in favors. For the President, they're usually business requests. For Nora, they're personal.
"What the hell is wrong with these people?" she says into the phone, continuing to pace. She gestures me to the daybed, to sit down. "Why can't they buy a Humvee and some Ralph Lauren furniture like everyone else?" With a swing of her arm, she adds, "Tell them the truth. Tell them I think Daddy's little stock baron is a roach and that . . ." She pauses, listening to the person on the other line. "I don't care if he went to Harvard--what the hell does that--" She cuts herself off. "Y'know what? That actually does matter. It matters a lot. Do you have a pencil, because I just figured out what you should say. Are you writing this down? When you get his parents back on the line, tell them that while I am keenly excited by the prospect of having their son cop a feel while sticking his tongue in my ear, I regret that I will not be able to make it. Indeed, while a student at Princeton, I took a vaginal oath that forbids me to date two types of people: First, men from Harvard. And second"--here she starts shouting--"sons of self-important, pretentious, trumpeteering parents who think that just because they know how to get preview-night seats at the trendiest restaurant-of-the-moment, the entire free world must have a price tag on it! Sadly, their darling Jake qualifies for both! Sincerely yours, Nora. P.S.--You're not hot shit, the Hamptons are overrated, and no matter what the maitre d' says, he hates you too!" Glaring furiously at the receiver, she shuts off the phone.
"Sorry about that," she says to me, still breathing heavily.
I'm breathing heavily myself and can hardly hear over the thump of my own heartbeat. "Nora, I have something impor--"
Once again, the phone rings.
"Damn!" she shouts, grabbing it. "Yes . . . ?"
As Nora grudgingly agrees to another round of fund-raiser appearances, my eyes roll over to the two framed letters on her nightstand. The first one's in bright red crayon and reads, "Dear Nora: You're hot. Love, Matt, age 8." The other reads, "Dear Nora: Fuck 'em all. Your friends, Joel & Chris." Both are dated during the first months of her father's administration. When everything was fun.