ticket.”
He gasped. “You know Polly?”
“We’re old friends.” A drop of sweat inched down my side. I smelled like a bitch in heat, and Bobby noticed. “She tells me
everything.”
“Is that a fact. What does she call me?”
I viciously raked my brain, exhuming only that message on Barnard’s answering machine. “Something to do with ice cream, I
think.” Bobby grunted unpleasantly.
Roll the dice!
“If I were you,” I said, slowly recrossing my legs, “I’d forget about her. She has a short attention span.”
The buttons on his shirt rose and fell as he teetered on my advice. “I don’t think you understand,” Bobby seethed at last.
“I’m the president.”
“What can I tell you? She prefers princes.” I reached for the door handle.
He grabbed my sore wrist. I winced: years on the campaign trail had given him a bionic grip. “You tell your friend,” Bobby
whispered, “I am not amused.”
I brushed away his hand. “Tell her yourself.”
He couldn’t even choke out a good-night. I aimed the Corvette for the Beltway and started to weave in and out of traffic,
not that I was in a rush to get anywhere, rather the Corvette wasn’t made for going only seventy in a straight line. An exodus
of commuters, grandmothers puritanically obeying the speed limits, and yuppies in their budget BMWs made this road more dangerous
than the Autobahn. Good: kept my mind off that clod Marvel. When the sun sliced into the horizon, I finally saw that a gray
Chevy had drifted across the dotted lines behind me once too often. The driver, still in the baseball cap, never allowed me
more than three cars leeway: maybe that was a compliment. I veered right, poked along the shoulder. Chevy copied. I tapped
the gas, notched left: soon we were back in the fast lane. Fear riddled my gut as a million phantoms began to thaw and writhe.
Where had I made the fatal error that six of Maxine’s seven agents had made before me? For miles I purred in the wake of a
rusty Caddy, awaiting a slim coincidence of exit ramp and fender gap. I got it at the Merrifield turnoff. Ripped the ’Vette
right, screeching across three lanes, barreling around the cloverleaf. Chevy never had a chance.
I drove in a few loops before ditching the car at a twelve-screen cinema in Fairfax. Sat through a loud, bloody movie as my
watch crawled forward. When the hero destroyed his nth opponent, I left. Bad place, movies: shallow sex, shallower death,
all so sickeningly easy. I cabbed back to Washington. Night had not relieved the heat, but it had decimated the tourists around
the Reflecting Pool. I took the Metro to the Zoo. Connecticut Avenue still pulsed with people who either hated air conditioners
or didn’t own one. Cut into Rock Creek Park and followed the black, burbling water to the bear house. There I slipped into
my pocket in the rocks, grateful as the door sealed me in with my machines.
JUSTINE CORTOT, I typed. Her face came up in a second. Native of Kentucky, where mothers groomed daughters to become Miss America or marry
tobacco. Same alma mater as Bobby Marvel. Rhodes Scholarship, English major. History would have been more relevant, but Justine
wasn’t interested in events larger than herself. Twice divorced from minor dignitaries, zero kids. Once she and Bobby put
that little shooting incident behind them, Justine had joined his carnival winding from state senator to governor to president.
Had she known about Barnard? Hell, Justine had probably procured her! The press secretary saw a hundred supplicants a day,
made or destroyed dozens of careers a week … yet she had found the time to lunch with Duncan Zadinsky three days running.
Unbelievable.
Next, BENDIX KAAR. The computer finally located him under Political Contributors, a subset of white-color criminals. After serving with distinction
in Vietnam, Bendix had made his fortune in exotic hardwood. Ten years ago he’d sold his business
He gasped. “You know Polly?”
“We’re old friends.” A drop of sweat inched down my side. I smelled like a bitch in heat, and Bobby noticed. “She tells me
everything.”
“Is that a fact. What does she call me?”
I viciously raked my brain, exhuming only that message on Barnard’s answering machine. “Something to do with ice cream, I
think.” Bobby grunted unpleasantly.
Roll the dice!
“If I were you,” I said, slowly recrossing my legs, “I’d forget about her. She has a short attention span.”
The buttons on his shirt rose and fell as he teetered on my advice. “I don’t think you understand,” Bobby seethed at last.
“I’m the president.”
“What can I tell you? She prefers princes.” I reached for the door handle.
He grabbed my sore wrist. I winced: years on the campaign trail had given him a bionic grip. “You tell your friend,” Bobby
whispered, “I am not amused.”
I brushed away his hand. “Tell her yourself.”
He couldn’t even choke out a good-night. I aimed the Corvette for the Beltway and started to weave in and out of traffic,
not that I was in a rush to get anywhere, rather the Corvette wasn’t made for going only seventy in a straight line. An exodus
of commuters, grandmothers puritanically obeying the speed limits, and yuppies in their budget BMWs made this road more dangerous
than the Autobahn. Good: kept my mind off that clod Marvel. When the sun sliced into the horizon, I finally saw that a gray
Chevy had drifted across the dotted lines behind me once too often. The driver, still in the baseball cap, never allowed me
more than three cars leeway: maybe that was a compliment. I veered right, poked along the shoulder. Chevy copied. I tapped
the gas, notched left: soon we were back in the fast lane. Fear riddled my gut as a million phantoms began to thaw and writhe.
Where had I made the fatal error that six of Maxine’s seven agents had made before me? For miles I purred in the wake of a
rusty Caddy, awaiting a slim coincidence of exit ramp and fender gap. I got it at the Merrifield turnoff. Ripped the ’Vette
right, screeching across three lanes, barreling around the cloverleaf. Chevy never had a chance.
I drove in a few loops before ditching the car at a twelve-screen cinema in Fairfax. Sat through a loud, bloody movie as my
watch crawled forward. When the hero destroyed his nth opponent, I left. Bad place, movies: shallow sex, shallower death,
all so sickeningly easy. I cabbed back to Washington. Night had not relieved the heat, but it had decimated the tourists around
the Reflecting Pool. I took the Metro to the Zoo. Connecticut Avenue still pulsed with people who either hated air conditioners
or didn’t own one. Cut into Rock Creek Park and followed the black, burbling water to the bear house. There I slipped into
my pocket in the rocks, grateful as the door sealed me in with my machines.
JUSTINE CORTOT, I typed. Her face came up in a second. Native of Kentucky, where mothers groomed daughters to become Miss America or marry
tobacco. Same alma mater as Bobby Marvel. Rhodes Scholarship, English major. History would have been more relevant, but Justine
wasn’t interested in events larger than herself. Twice divorced from minor dignitaries, zero kids. Once she and Bobby put
that little shooting incident behind them, Justine had joined his carnival winding from state senator to governor to president.
Had she known about Barnard? Hell, Justine had probably procured her! The press secretary saw a hundred supplicants a day,
made or destroyed dozens of careers a week … yet she had found the time to lunch with Duncan Zadinsky three days running.
Unbelievable.
Next, BENDIX KAAR. The computer finally located him under Political Contributors, a subset of white-color criminals. After serving with distinction
in Vietnam, Bendix had made his fortune in exotic hardwood. Ten years ago he’d sold his business
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