The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [200]
Rogo looks at her, then me, then back to her. “No . . . But you said—”
“All I said was I hadn’t made any constellations,” I tell him. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not trying,” I add as I reach across the table and pat my hand against his cheek. “At least you got to slam a car door on Dreidel’s hand.” Before he can even digest it, I stand from my seat, hop over the railing, and head for the lime-green car.
“Sweet mother of Harry S. Truman,” Rogo mutters, already following me over the railing. “Wes, wait!”
For once, I don’t look back.
At the opening of his Presidential Library, Manning told a reporter that his favorite comic strip when he was little was Prince Valiant. The next day, an op-ed ran pointing out that in said strip, Prince Valiant once had a curse that he’d never be content. The op-ed called it the curse of every President and former President. And it is. But it’s no longer the curse for me.
Crossing around to the passenger side of Lisbeth’s car, I pull open the door and duck down for a quick hello. “Did I miss the part when paninis became feminine?” I ask her.
“You did the same thing with apple martinis. And Volkswagen Cabriolets,” Rogo interrupts, cutting in front of me and sliding into the backseat. “You should read Jane magazine. That’s what I do. Oooh, new-car smell.”
“Nice to see you too, Rogo,” Lisbeth offers.
Looking side to side in the backseat, Rogo raises an eyebrow. “Wait, how’d you afford this thing? Did you get a book deal too?”
Ignoring him, Lisbeth turns to me. From the expression on her face, I sniff trouble. “Good news, bad news,” she says. “You choose.”
“Bad news,” Rogo and I say simultaneously. I shoot him a look over my shoulder.
“Bad news,” I say again to Lisbeth.
She fidgets with the bandage on her hand, which guarantees it’s serious. “Remember that San Francisco Chronicle job I told you about?” she asks. “Well, they made me an offer—real news too, no more gossip. But they said—not that I’m surprised—they said I need to move to San Francisco.”
“So, away from here?”
“Really away,” she says, staring out the front windshield.
“And the good news?” I ask.
She grips the steering wheel, then slowly turns to face me. “Wanna come?”
My cheek leaps into the air. Now I’m the one wearing the butcher’s dog grin.
“Waitaminute,” Rogo calls out from the back. “Before we do anything rash, do we know the full picture of their speeding ticket problems out there? Because a man with my particular practice and expertise—”
I turn back to Rogo, and the grin only gets wider. “I’m sure we can look it up.”
“And let’s not forget about lax traffic laws and the slipshod judicial system that supports it. If they’re not there? Those two are deal breakers.”
“You’re really worried? It’s California.”
“Plus,” Lisbeth adds, “in San Francisco, I bet they have crazy amounts of accidents with all those hills.”
“See, now that’s what I like to hear,” Rogo says, beaming as the car cruises up the block. “Oooh, do me a favor,” he adds. “Pull up to that old Plymouth with the ticket on the windshield? If I’m gonna pay for this move, we need us some new clients.” From his wallet, he pulls out a business card and tries to squeeze forward and lean out my open passenger-side window. “Wes, scootch your seat up?”
“Here, try—here,” Lisbeth offers, poking a button on the dash. With a whir, the convertible roof retracts, revealing the aquamarine-blue sky and making plenty of room for Rogo to reach outside.
With his stomach pressed against the interior side of the car, he leans out from the backseat and wedges one of his business cards in the seam of the Plymouth’s driver’s-side window. “Downwith tickets.com!” he shouts to the few people who’re staring from the sidewalk. “Now go back to your sheltered lives! Go! Flock! Conspicuously consume!”
Lisbeth pumps the gas, the tires bite the pavement, and the car takes off, sending an air pocket of wind whipping against our faces. With the top down, I watch the royal palms that line the street disappear behind us. Effortlessly, the car roars up Royal Park Bridge, where the polished