The Book Of Fate Part 35

Violet stopped in the small, cluttered kitchen. A child-size plastic Cinderella table sat next to a full-size faux-wood one. Half a dozen photos cluttered the refrigerator door. Again, everyone was white.

"And your name's not Debbie Schopf, is it?" Lisbeth added.

"Leave Debbie out of this-"

"Violet, if she's your friend . . ."

"She's just doing me a favor."

"Violet . . ."

"Please don't drag her in- Oh, G.o.d," Violet said, s.h.i.+elding her eyes with her hand. It was the first time Lisbeth got a look at the thin gold wedding band on Violet's ring finger. The one detail Lisbeth believed.

"Listen," Lisbeth said, touching Violet's shoulder. "You listening? I'm not here to catch you or trap you or drag your friends in. I swear. I just need to know if what you said about Dreidel-"

"I didn't make it up."

"No one thinks you did."

"You just said my name wouldn't be used. You told me that."

"And I stand by it, Violet," Lisbeth said, knowing the fake name put her at ease. "No one knows I'm here. Not my editor, not my colleagues, n.o.body. But let's remember: You invited me here for a reason. What Dreidel did to you . . . when he raised his hand-"

"He didn't raise his hand! He put his fist in my face, then gashed me with the mirror!" Violet erupted, her fear quickly smothered by rage. "That b.a.s.t.a.r.d hurt me so bad I had to tell my mother I was in a car accident! She believed it too-after I kicked my headlight in to prove it! But when I saw him in the paper . . . If he thinks I'm just gonna keep it all quiet while he holds himself out there as State Senator Boy Scout . . . Oh, no, no, no no!"

"I hear you, Violet-I do. But you need to understand, I can't do anything, I can't even help you, until I verify it. Now you said you had proof. Are they photos or-?"

"Photos? Even when he's dumb, Dreidel's not that stupid." Leaving the kitchen, Violet headed into the family room, where beige vertical blinds kept the last bits of sun from peeking through the sliding gla.s.s doors. Taking a moment to calm down, she put her five fingertips against the center of her chest.

"Y'okay?" Lisbeth asked.

"Yeah, just-just hating the past a little, know what I mean?"

"You kidding? I even hate the present."

It was an easy joke, but exactly what Violet needed to catch her breath. "When we first-y'know, when we started," she said, kneeling down and fis.h.i.+ng under the L-shaped flower-print sofa, "I wasn't even allowed to ask him about work. But these White House boys . . . they're no different than the money boys in Palm Beach or Miami or anywhere . . . all egomaniacs love to talk about themselves," she added as she tugged a small pile of paperwork from under the sofa. Bound by a thick rubber band, it looked like a stack of catalogs and mail. As Violet whipped off the rubber band, the pile fanned out across the cream-colored Formica coffee table.

"President Manning's Remarks for APEC Summit. Signed program from the Moroccan king's funeral . . ." Skimming through the pile, Violet rattled them off one by one. "Look at this-personal business card of the owner of the Miami Dolphins with his direct dial and cell numbers handwritten on the back, along with a note that says Signed program from the Moroccan king's funeral . . ." Skimming through the pile, Violet rattled them off one by one. "Look at this-personal business card of the owner of the Miami Dolphins with his direct dial and cell numbers handwritten on the back, along with a note that says Mr. President, Let's play golf. Mr. President, Let's play golf. a.s.shole." a.s.shole."

"I don't understand. Dreidel left this stuff here?"

"Left it? He gave it to me. Proudly Proudly gave it to me. I don't know, it was his pathetic way of proving he was actually by the President's side. Every time he visited, I'd get another piece from the presidential junk drawer: Manning's handwritten lunch orders, scorecards from when he played bridge, military coins, crossword puzzles, luggage tags-" gave it to me. I don't know, it was his pathetic way of proving he was actually by the President's side. Every time he visited, I'd get another piece from the presidential junk drawer: Manning's handwritten lunch orders, scorecards from when he played bridge, military coins, crossword puzzles, luggage tags-"

"What'd you say?"

"Luggage tags?"

"Crossword puzzles," Lisbeth repeated as she sat next to Violet on the couch and leaned toward the pile on the coffee table.

"Oh, I definitely got one," Violet replied, digging through the stack. "Manning was a nut at those. Dreidel said he could do a full puzzle while chatting on the phone with- Ah, here we go," she added, pulling an old folded-up newspaper from the stack.

When Violet handed it over, Lisbeth's arms, legs, and whole body went cold as she finally got a look at the puzzle . . . and the President's handwritten answers . . . and the jumble of initials scribbled in the left-hand margin.

Her hands were shaking. She read it, then reread it to be sure. I don't believe it. How could we be so-? I don't believe it. How could we be so-?

"What?" Violet asked, clearly confused. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing . . . just- I can reach you at this number, yes?" As Violet nodded, Lisbeth copied the phone number that was handwritten on the base of the phone. Standing from her seat, she continued to clutch the crossword in her hand. "Listen, can I make a copy of this? I'll bring it right back as soon as I'm done."

"Sure, but-I don't get it. What'd you find, Dreidel's handwriting?"

"No," Lisbeth said, sprinting for the door, flipping open her cell phone, and already dialing Wes's number. "Something far better than that."

79.

Silent for almost twenty-five minutes, Rogo was hunched over the archival box in his lap as his fingertips walked through each page of the open file. "Who d'ya think the mom is?" he finally asked as the sun faded through the nearby window.

"Of Boyle's kid?" Dreidel replied, picking through his own box. "I've got no idea."

"You think it was someone big?"

"Define big. big."

"I don't know-he could've been sleeping with anyone: a senior staffer . . . some intern . . . the First Lady-"

"First Lady? You joking? You think we wouldn't notice if Mrs. Manning-while in the White House-started vomiting, gaining weight, and suddenly seeing a doctor-not to mention if she showed up one day with a kid that looked like Boyle?"

"Maybe she didn't have the kid. It could've been-"

"'Paternity issue' means the kid was born," Dreidel insisted, crossing to the other side of the table and picking up a new box. "It would've said ABT ABT if they thought there was an abortion. And even if that weren't the case-the First Lady? Please . . . when it came time to leave the White House, she was more upset than the President himself. No way she'd put any of that at risk for some dumb fling with Boyle." if they thought there was an abortion. And even if that weren't the case-the First Lady? Please . . . when it came time to leave the White House, she was more upset than the President himself. No way she'd put any of that at risk for some dumb fling with Boyle."

"I'm just saying, it could've been anyone," Rogo said, nearly halfway through the file box as he reached a thick brown accordion folder that held two framed photos. Pulling out the silver frame in front, he squinted down at the family shot of Boyle with his wife and daughter.

Posed in front of a waterfall, Boyle and his wife playfully hugged their sixteen-year-old daughter, Lydia, who, at the center of the photograph, was in mid-scream/mid-laugh as the ice-cold waterfall soaked her back. Laughing right along with her, Boyle had his mouth wide open, and despite his thick mustache, it was clear that Lydia had her father's smile. A huge, toothy grin. Rogo couldn't take his eyes off it. Just one big happy- "It's just a photo," Dreidel interrupted.

"Wha?" Rogo asked, looking over his shoulder.

Behind him, Dreidel stared down at the framed shot of the Boyles at the waterfall. "That's it-just a photo," he warned. "Believe me, even though they're smiling, doesn't mean they're happy."

Rogo looked down at the photo, then back to Dreidel, whose lips were pressed together. Rogo knew that look. He saw it every day on his speeding ticket clients. We all know our own sins.

"So the mom from Boyle's paternity problem . . ." Rogo began.

". . . could be anyone," Dreidel agreed, happy to be back on track. "Though knowing Boyle, I bet it's someone we've never even heard of."

"What makes you say that?" Rogo asked.

"I don't know-it's just . . . when we were in the White House, that's the way Boyle was. As Manning's oldest friend, he was never really part of the staff. He was more-he was here here," Dreidel said, holding his left hand palm-down at eye level. "And he thought the rest of us were here here," he added, slapping his right palm against the worktable.

"That's the benefit of being First Friend."

"But that's the thing-I know he kinda got sainthood when he was shot, but from where I was standing on the inside, Boyle spent plenty of days in the doghouse."

"Maybe that's when Manning found out about the kid."

For the second time, Dreidel was silent.

Rogo didn't say a word. Unloading the second picture from his own box, he propped open the back leg of the black matte picture frame and stood it up on the worktable. Inside was a close-up photo of Boyle and his wife, the apples of their cheeks pressed together as they smiled for the camera. From the bus.h.i.+ness of his mustache and the thickness of his hairline, the photo was an old one. Two people in love.

"What else you got in there besides photos?" Dreidel asked, turning the box slightly and reading the word Misc. Misc. on the main label. on the main label.

"Mostly desk stuff," Rogo said as he emptied the box, pulling out a hardcover book about the history of genocide, a softcover about the legacy of the Irish, and a rubber-banded preview copy of a highly critical book called The Manning Myth. The Manning Myth.

"I remember when that came out," Dreidel said. "Pompous a.s.s never even called us to fact-check."

"I just can't believe they keep all this c.r.a.p," Rogo said as he pulled out a decade-old parking pa.s.s for the Kennedy Center.

"To you, it's c.r.a.p-to the library, it's history."

"Let me tell you something-even to the library, this c.r.a.p is c.r.a.p," Rogo said, unloading a small stack of taxi receipts, a sc.r.a.p of paper with handwritten directions to the Arena Stage, a blank RSVP card to someone's wedding, a finger-paint drawing with the words Uncle Ron Uncle Ron neatly printed on top, and a small spiral notebook with the Was.h.i.+ngton Redskins football logo on the front. neatly printed on top, and a small spiral notebook with the Was.h.i.+ngton Redskins football logo on the front.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa-what're you doing?" Dreidel interrupted.

"What, this this?" Rogo asked, pointing to the finger-paint drawing.

"That," Dreidel insisted as he grabbed the spiral notebook with the football logo. Dreidel insisted as he grabbed the spiral notebook with the football logo.

"I don't get it-whattya need a football schedule for?"

"This isn't a schedule." Opening the book, Dreidel turned it toward Rogo, revealing a daily calendar for the first week of January. "It's Boyle's datebook."

Rogo's eyebrows rose as he palmed the top of his buzzed head. "So we can see all his meetings . . ."

"Exactly," Dreidel said, already skimming through it. "Meetings, dinners, everything-and most particularly what he was up to on the night of May 27th."

80.

Mr. President?" I call out as I open the front door.

No one answers.

"Sir, it's Wes-are you there?" I ask again, even though I know the answer. If he weren't here, the Secret Service wouldn't be outside. But after all our years together, I'm always careful to know my place. It's one thing to walk into his office. It's quite another to step into his home.

"Back here," a man's voice calls out, ricocheting down the long center hallway that leads to the living room. I pause a moment, unable to place the voice-polished, with a hint of British accent-but quickly step inside and shut the door. It was hard enough making the decision to come here. Even if he's got guests, I'm not turning back now.

Still trying to identify the voice, I head for the hallway and steal a glance at the poster-sized, framed black-and-white photograph that sits above the antique credenza and the vase of fresh flowers on my right. The photo is Manning's favorite: a panoramic view of his desk in the Oval Office, taken by a photographer who literally put the camera in the President's chair and hit the shutter.

The result is an exact re-creation of Manning's old view from behind the most powerful desk in the world: the family photos of his wife, the pen left for him by the previous President, a personal note written by his son, a small gold plaque with the John Lennon quote "A working cla.s.s hero is something to be," and a shot of Manning sitting with his mom on the day he arrived at the White House-his first official meeting in the Oval. On the left of the desk, Manning's phone looms as large as a s...o...b..x, the camera so close you can read the five typed names on his speed dial: Lenore Lenore (his wife), (his wife), Arlen Arlen (the V.P.), (the V.P.), Carl Carl (national security adviser), (national security adviser), Warren Warren (chief of staff), and (chief of staff), and Wes. Wes. Me. Me.

With the push of a b.u.t.ton, we'd all come running. Eight years later, I haven't changed. Until now.

Plowing through the hallway, I head into the formal living room, where, at the center of the Tibetan rug, Manning is standing on a small stool while a fair-skinned man with messy blond hair that barely covers his large forehead flits around him like a tailor working on his suit.

"Please, Mr. President, I just need you still," he pleads in what I now realize is a genteel South African accent.

Just behind Big Forehead, a twenty-something female photographer with short spiky hair lowers her chin and a flashbulb explodes.

It's not until I see that Forehead is holding measuring calipers-which look like a ruler with an adjustable wrench on the end of it-that I even realize what's going on. The photographer snaps another picture of Manning. On the sofa, a square box that can easily be mistaken for a Chinese checkers set holds a dozen rows of gla.s.s eyeb.a.l.l.s, each one a different shade of Manning gray. Manning himself stands perfectly still and the calipers klik-klik klik-klik around his wrist, a digital readout giving Forehead another measurement. Madame Tussauds Wax Museum prides itself on accuracy. Even for celebrities no longer in the public eye. around his wrist, a digital readout giving Forehead another measurement. Madame Tussauds Wax Museum prides itself on accuracy. Even for celebrities no longer in the public eye.

"Whattya think-they're darker now, right?" a pet.i.te African-American woman says as she holds out two gunmetal-gray eyeb.a.l.l.s that stare directly at me. The odd part is, even held out in the air, they look eerily like Manning's. "These were from our original White House figure-hand-done, of course-but I feel like he's gone deeper gray in the past few years."

"Yeah . . . sure," I stutter, already looking at my watch. "Listen, do you know how long this is going t-?"

"Relax, Wes," Manning interrupts with the last kind of laugh I want to hear. The only time he's this excited is during the annual meeting where the board of his library gets together. With his old staff reunited, he once again feels like he's holding the power. It lasts four hours at most. Then he goes back to being yet another former President whose two-car motorcade still has to stop at the red lights. Today, the Tussauds folks bring with them the attention of the glory days. Manning's not letting it go. "The schedule's clear," he tells me. "Where else you got to be?"

"Nowhere, sir. But now that-with Nico out there-"

"Now you sound like Claudia." But as he turns and takes his first actual look at me, he cuts himself off. I may know how to read him perfectly, but he knows how to read me even better-especially when it comes to Nico. "Wes," he says, not even needing words.

I'm fine, I reply with nothing more than a nod. He knows it's a lie, but he also knows why. If I'm having this discussion, it's not going to be in front of an audience. Determined to get things moving, I head for Forehead, who seems to be the one in charge. I reply with nothing more than a nod. He knows it's a lie, but he also knows why. If I'm having this discussion, it's not going to be in front of an audience. Determined to get things moving, I head for Forehead, who seems to be the one in charge.

"Declan Reese-from Madame Tussauds. Thanks for having us back," Forehead says, saluting me with the calipers and extending a handshake. "We try to never call on our portraits twice, but the popularity of President Manning's figure-"

"They just think I'm getting old and want to make sure they get my wattle right," Manning says, playfully swatting his own jowls.

All the Tussauds people laugh. Especially because it's true.

"No problem," I say, never forgetting the job. "Just remember-"

"Thirty minutes," Declan promises as another flashbulb explodes. "Don't worry-I did Rudy Giuliani in twenty-seven minutes, and we still got his cracked lips and the bright redness of his knuckles."

As the eyeball woman readies a bite plate for a tooth impression, Declan pulls me aside and cups my elbow. "We were also wondering if we could possibly get a new piece of clothing. Something to reflect the more casual post-presidency," he whispers just loud enough so Manning can hear. "Bush's and Clinton's offices sent us some golf s.h.i.+rts."

"Sorry . . . we don't really do that kind of-"

"What'd Bush and Clinton send? Golf s.h.i.+rts?" Manning calls out, never wanting to be left out. Every day, we turn down dozens of endors.e.m.e.nts, from Got Milk? Got Milk? ads, to presidential chess sets, to autograph deals, to a ten-million-dollar role for a two-day cameo in a movie. But when his fellow Formers are involved, Manning can't help himself. "Wes, do me a favor and go grab them one of my blue blazers. We give 'em a golf s.h.i.+rt, they'll dress us like the Three Stooges." ads, to presidential chess sets, to autograph deals, to a ten-million-dollar role for a two-day cameo in a movie. But when his fellow Formers are involved, Manning can't help himself. "Wes, do me a favor and go grab them one of my blue blazers. We give 'em a golf s.h.i.+rt, they'll dress us like the Three Stooges."