The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [24]
“Jes’ doin’ mah duty,” B.B. says, the words tumbling out of the side of his mouth in a slow Southern crawl. With a shock of messy white hair and a rumpled button-down shirt with the President’s faded monogrammed initials on the cuffs, B.B. Shaye has been by the President’s side even longer than the First Lady. Some say he’s Manning’s distant cousin . . . others say he’s his senile old sergeant from Vietnam. Either way, he’s been the President’s shadow for almost forty years—and like any shadow, he’ll creep you out if you stare at him too long. “Sorry, kiddo,” he offers with a yellow-toothed grin as Bev hands me the gold White House with the dangling heads.
For authenticity, the sculptor used two flakes of green glitter for the First Lady’s eye color. Since gray glitter is harder to come by, the President’s eyes are blank.
“Just tell people they’re your grandchildren,” Oren says as I open the clasp and slide it into my lapel. Shoving too hard, I feel a sharp bite in my fingertip as the pin punctures my skin. A drop of blood bubbles upward. I’ve taken much worse.
“By the way, Wes,” Claudia adds, “one of the curators from the library said he wants to talk to you about some exhibit he’s working on, so be nice when he calls . . .”
“I’m on my cell if you need me!” I call out with a wave. Rushing to the door, I lick the drop of blood from my finger.
“Careful,” B.B. calls out behind me. “It’s the small cuts that’ll kill ya.”
He’s right about that. Out in the hallway, I blow past an oversize oil painting of President Manning dressed as a circus ringmaster. Dreidel said he had info on Boyle. Time to finally find out what it is.
11
Welcome back, Mr. Holloway,” the valet at the Four Seasons says, knowing my name from countless visits with the President. Unlike most, he stays locked on my eyes. I nod him a thank-you just for that.
As I step inside the hotel, a blast of air-conditioning wraps me in its arms. Out of habit, I look over my shoulder for the President. He’s not here. I’m on my own.
Cutting across the beige marble floor of the lobby, I feel my heart kicking inside my chest. It’s not just Boyle. For better or worse, that’s always been Dreidel’s effect on me.
As Manning’s original buttboy, Gavin “Dreidel” Jeffer isn’t just my predecessor—he’s also the one who put me on the President’s radar and recommended me for the job. When we met a decade ago, I was a nineteen-year-old volunteer in the Florida campaign office, answering phones and putting out yard signs. Dreidel was twenty-two and Manning’s right- and left-hand man. I actually told Dreidel it was an honor to meet him. And I meant it. By then, we’d all heard the story.
Back during primary season, Dreidel was just some unaffiliated local kid setting up folding chairs during the first primary debate. Like any other roadie, when the show was over, he tried to get closer to the action by sneaking backstage. Where he found himself was the heart of the spin room, where the best liars in America were telling tall tales about why their candidate had just won. In a sloppy oxford shirt, he was the one silent kid in a room full of yammering adults. The CBS reporter spotted him instantly, shoving a microphone in his face. “What’d you think, son?” the reporter asked.
Dreidel stared blankly into the red light of the camera, his mouth dangling open. And without even thinking about it, he gave the God’s honest response that would forever change his life: “When it was over, Manning’s the only one who didn’t ask his staff, How’d I do?”
That question became Manning’s mantra for the next year and a half. Every news organization picked up the clip. Every major paper ran with the quote. They even passed out printed-up buttons saying How’d I do?
Three words. When Dreidel retold the story at his wedding a few years back, he said he didn’t even realize what had happened until the reporter asked how to spell his name. It didn’t matter. Three words, and Dreidel—the little Jewish spinner, as the White House press nicknamed him—was born. Within a week, Manning offered him a job