The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [105]
“C’mere, Bluto, gimme a kiss,” he teases, embracing me with the kind of hug you get from an old camp friend—a deep-tissue squeeze that brings with it a flush of memories. “You look fantastic,” he says, believing every word.
During trips on Air Force One, Kenny ran the press pool’s poker game in back. As I step inside, he’s already searching for my tells.
“Still can’t leave it behind, can you?” he asks, tracing my glance to the New York Times on his painted Arts and Crafts-style kitchen table. On the front page, there’s a huge picture of current President Ted Hartson standing at a podium, his hands resting just below the microphone.
“Who took that? Kahan?” I ask.
“Arms resting flat . . . no motion . . . no reaction shot . . . of course, it’s Kahan. President might as well be a corpse.”
In the world of podiums and White House photographers, the only real action shot comes when the President moves. A hand gesture. Raised eyebrows. That’s when the firing squad of cameras pulls its triggers. Miss that and you miss the shot.
Kenny rarely missed the shot. Especially when it mattered. But after thirty-five years of running city to city and country to country, it became clear that even if it’s not a young man’s game, it’s not an old one’s either. Kenny never took it personally. Even the best horses get put out to pasture.
“So how’re the twilight years?” I joke, even though he’s barely pushing sixty.
Cocking his Popeye eye, he motions us into his living room, which is clearly more of a welcome area for his studio. Centered around a pine cocktail table surrounded by four Mission-style armchairs, the room is covered almost to the ceiling with dozens of black-and-white photographs, all displayed in sleek white matting and museum-quality black frames. As I step toward them, I’m surprised to see that while most of the photos are in the candid journalistic style that White House photographers are famous for, the shots themselves are of young brides throwing bouquets, and well-clad grooms being fed mouthfuls of cake.
“You’re doing weddings?” I ask.
“Six Presidents, forty-two kings, countless ambassadors . . . and Miriam Mendelsohn’s bridal party, complete with a reunion shot of her Pi Phi pledge class,” Kenny says, all excitement and no shame.
“You’re serious?”
“Don’t laugh, Wes—I work two days a month, then get to go sailing all week. All I gotta do is make ’em look like the Kennedys.”
“They’re really beautiful,” Lisbeth says, examining the photos.
“They should be,” Kenny says, straightening one of the frames. “I pour my heart into them. I mean, life doesn’t just peak in the White House, right?”
I nod instinctively. So does Lisbeth, who reaches out and straightens another frame. Just over her shoulder, on a nearby end table, I spot one of Kenny’s most famous photos of Manning: a crisp black-and-white shot of the President in the White House kitchen, fixing his tie in the reflection of a shining silver water pitcher just before his first state dinner. Turning back to the wall of brides, I find a blond beauty queen looking over her own shoulder and admiring her French braid in the mirror. The new shot’s just as good. Maybe even better.
“So how’s the Kingfish?” Kenny adds, referring to Manning. “Still mad at me for taking the shot?”
“He’s not mad at you, Popeye.”
“Really? You tell him you were coming here?”
“You crazy?” I ask. “You have any idea how mad he is at you?”
Kenny laughs, well aware of his social standing in the Manning house. “Some laws are immutable,” he says, pulling a thick three-ring binder off the end table with Manning’s picture. “White used cars sell best . . . strip clubs only shut down if there’s a fire . . . and President Leland Manning will never forgive the man who gave him this . . .” Flipping open the three-ring binder, Kenny reveals a plastic-encased, pristine copy of the most famous presidential