The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [133]
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 glass eyeballs, each one a different shade of Manning gray. Manning himself stands perfectly still and the calipers 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.
“Whattya think—they’re darker now, right?” a petite African-American woman says as she holds out two gunmetal-gray eyeballs 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.
“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 shirts.”
“Sorry . . . we don’t really do that kind of—”
“What’d Bush and Clinton send? Golf shirts?” Manning calls out, never wanting to be left out. Every day, we turn down dozens of endorsements, from Got Milk? ads, to presidential chess sets, to autograph deals, to a