The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [198]
“Still trying to think of a clever comeback to make me happy?” I ask him.
“I was until you just ruined it,” he sulks, chucking his straw into his water like a mini-javelin.
When I still don’t laugh, he shakes his head, finally giving up. “Y’know, you’re really not a fun person.”
“And that’s it? That’s your best retort?”
“And!” he adds, pointing a finger at me. “And . . . and . . . and . . . and—” He cuts himself off. “C’mon,” he whines, “just put a smile on your face—please. If you do, I’ll order an orange juice and do the fake-laugh thing at the waitress where I make it come out of my nose. It burns like the sun. You’ll love it.”
“That’s very generous of you, Rogo. I just need—just give me a little time.”
“Whattya think the past two weeks have been? You’re moping around like it’s an Olympic event. I mean, it’s not like your life sucks: interviews coming out the ying-yang, you get all the credit for saving the day, and semi-hot waitresses are recognizing you and bringing you water with little slices of lemon. You’ve had the greatest fourteen days of your life. Enough with the woe-is-me.”
“It’s not woe-is-me. It’s just . . .”
“. . . you’re sad to watch them go down in flames like that. I heard the speech yesterday, and the day before, and the day before: They gave you so many opportunities. You feel like Benedict Arnold. I understand, Wes. I really do. But like everyone in your office said—the one thing the Mannings didn’t give you was much of a choice. That castle you were in was built on sand.”
I stare out at the pedestrians walking past us on the sidewalk. “I know. But even so . . . I’ve been by Manning’s side for the better part of a decade. I was there before he got to the office, and I didn’t leave until he headed upstairs for bed. And not just weekdays. Every day. For nearly ten years! You know what that’s—?” I close my eyes, refusing to say it. “I didn’t go to your sister’s wedding; I was in the Ukraine during my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary; my college roommate had a baby, and I haven’t even met him yet.”
“It’s a she, but don’t feel guilty.”
“That’s the point, Rogo—to go from every single day to never again . . . I didn’t just leave my job. I left—I feel like I left my life.”
Rogo shakes his head like I’m missing the point. “Haven’t you ever played Uno?” he asks calmly. “Sometimes you have to lose all your cards to win.”
Looking down at my water, I watch the ice cubes bob and crackle inside the tall glass.
“You know I’m right,” Rogo says.
A sharp fissure ricochets like lightning through an ice cube at the bottom. As it splinters, the cubes on top tumble down with it.
“Look at it this way,” Rogo adds. “At least you’re not Dreidel.”
I stab the ice with my straw. This time, I’m the one shaking my head. “I wouldn’t cry for Dreidel just yet.” Reading the confusion on Rogo’s face, I explain, “Don’t forget why he got the nickname. He may not be sitting in Congress next year, but mark my words, he’ll be somewhere on top.”
“What about Violet, or whatever her real name is? When that came out . . .”
“Dreidel laid low for the requisite week, then strategically started leaking the story of how he brilliantly helped the Marshals throughout their investigation of The Three. Believe me, the moment I saw him and his girlfriend in that hotel, he was prepping his smile for the highlight reel.”
“But with Violet—he hit her—and he’s—”
“—the only one of us who made an advance deal with the government. God bless America, I heard he’s got a new radio show that’s being lined up as we speak, while the book rights sold yesterday for seven figures, plus bonuses when it hits the best-seller lists. And when the paperback comes out, I’ll bet good money he tucks in a special addendum chapter with a mea culpa to Violet, just to sell a few extra hundred thousand copies.”
“Wait, so the editor who bought the book rights—is that the same guy who called you last week abou—?”
“Very same guy. Very same offer, including the best-seller bonuses.