The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [23]
“No . . . of course . . .” I stutter. “But it wasn’t— That wasn’t a break-in.”
“That’s not what the report said.”
“They sent you a report?”
“They send us everything,” Bev says from the two-person love seat perpendicular to Claudia’s desk. She should know. As head of correspondence, she answers all the President’s personal mail and even knows what inside jokes to put at the bottom of his friends’ birthday cards. For a man with a good ten thousand “friends,” it’s tougher than it sounds, and the only reason Bev pulls it off is because she’s been with the President since his first run for Congress almost twenty-five years ago.
“And they called it a break-in?” I ask.
Claudia holds up the report as Bev pulls the lapel pin from the corner of the desk. “Break. In,” Claudia says, pointing to the words.
My eyes stay with the pin as Bev fidgets with it, running her thumb over the President’s and First Lady’s faces.
“Was there anything even worth stealing in the holding room?” Bev asks, brushing her dyed-black hair over her shoulder and revealing a V-neck sweater that shows off decade-old breast implants, which she got, along with the name Busty Bev, the year we won the White House. In high school, Bev was the girl voted Fabulous Face, and even now, at sixty-two, it’s clear that appearances still matter.
“No one stole anyth— Trust me, it wasn’t a break-in,” I say, rolling my eyes to downplay. “The guy was drunk. He thought he was in the bathroom.”
“And the broken glass table?” Claudia asks.
“We’re lucky it was just broken. Imagine if he thought it was a urinal,” Oren interrupts, already laughing at his own joke and scratching at his messy-prep eight a.m. shadow. At 6'1", Oren is the tallest, handsomest, toughest-looking gay man I’ve ever met in my life, and the only one close to my age in the office. From his seat across from Claudia’s desk, it’s clear he was the first one here. No surprise. If Bev was Fabulous Face, Oren was the smart kid who sent the dumb ones to buy beer. A born instigator, as well as our director of travel, he’s also got the softest political touch in the entire office, which is why, with one simple joke, the room quickly forgets its obsession with the table.
I nod him a thank-you and—
“What about the table?” Bev asks, still fidgeting with the pin.
“That was me,” I say way too defensively. “Read the report—I tripped into it as he was running out.”
“Wes, relax,” Claudia offers in her chief of staff monotone. “No one’s accusing you of—”
“I’m just saying . . . if I thought it was serious, I’d still be hunting for the guy myself. Even the Service thought he was just a wanderer.” On my left, Oren playfully taps his own lapel, hoping I don’t notice. Motioning to Bev, he’s trying to get her attention. He’s only worn the pin once—on a day I told him, “Wait in your office, the President wants to see you.” The President wasn’t even in the building. It was an easy trick. This is just fourth-grade payback. He again motions to Bev. Lucky me, she doesn’t notice.
“Listen, I’m sorry to do this, but are we done?” I ask, looking down at my watch and realizing I’m already late. “The President wants me to—”
“Go, go, go,” Claudia says, closing her datebook. “Just do me a favor, Wes. When you’re at tonight’s cystic fibrosis event—I know you’re always careful—but with the break-in . . .”
“It wasn’t a break-in.”
“. . . just keep your eyes open a little bit wider, okay?”
“I always do,” I say, dashing for the door and narrowly escaping the—
“What about the pin?” a rusty voice interrupts from his usual swivel chair in the back corner.
“Aaaaand you’re screwed,” Oren says.
“Red light, red light!” Claudia calls out. It’s the same thing she yells at her kids. I stop right there. “Thanks, B.B.,” she adds.