The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [39]
“Rogo . . .”
“Can I just say one more thing?”
“Is it about Dreidel?”
He crosses his arms against his chest. “No.”
“Okay, then just—”
“You’re in trouble, Wes.”
I blink about four times trying to digest the words. Coming from Rogo, they hit even harder than the waves on the beach.
“I’m serious,” Rogo continues. “They pinned you. Just by seeing Boyle, the FBI now thinks you’re part of this. You don’t help them and they stick you as an accessory to whatever Boyle and Manning were up to. You do help ’em and . . .”
“. . . I kiss away whatever life I have left. What d’you think I’m doing here? I need help.”
When I asked Dreidel, he hesitated, weighing the personal and political consequences. Rogo’s always been built a little bit differently. “Just tell me who to punch.”
For the first time in the last forty-eight hours, I actually half smile.
“What,” he asks, “you think I’m letting you get beat up all by yourself?”
“I was thinking of going to Manning,” I tell him.
“And I was thinking you should start worrying about yourself for once.”
“Will you stop with that?”
“Then stop being the buttboy. Didn’t you hear what the FBI said? The President was in on it, whatever the hell it is! I mean, how else do you explain Nico getting that close and sneaking a gun past all those Secret Service agents? Y’smell that? That’s the whiff of an inside job.”
“Maybe that’s where The Roman and The Three come in.”
“And those’re the names the FBI mentioned?”
“That’s why I want to go to Manning first. Maybe he’ll—”
“Do you even hear yourself when you speak!? You go to Manning and you risk alerting the one person who has the best reason of all to put you in the guillotine. Now I’m sorry if that ruins the tiny safe haven you’ve built for yourself over the past eight years, but it’s time to pay attention. The scars on your face, despite what you think, are not penance. You don’t owe anybody anything.”
“That’s not the point.”
“No, the point is: Leland Manning is a good man. Even a great man. But like any other man—especially one who runs for office—he will lie straight to your face when he needs to. Just do the math, Wes: How many U.S. Presidents you ever seen in jail? Now how many lower-level aides who swear they’re innocent?”
For the first time, I don’t answer.
“Exactly,” Rogo continues. “Taking down a President is like demolishing a building—very little explosion and lots of gravity. Right now you’re too damn close to getting sucked in the hole.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s a monster.”
“Please, you wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t think there were crawdads in your bed.”
Sitting across from him, I keep my eyes on the carpet. During our final week in office, former Presidents Bush, Clinton, all of them called. But it was Bush Senior who gave Manning the best advice. He told him that “when you get off Air Force One, wave from the top of the steps . . . and when the lonely TV interviewer standing on the tarmac asks, ‘How does it feel to be home?’ you go, ‘Great to be back!’ And you look ahead and you try not to think what it used to be like just four or five hours before.” When our plane touched down, Manning did just that. He told that lie with ease and a perfect grin.
Rogo watches me carefully as I bite at the callus on my hand.
“I know what he means to you, Wes.”
“No. You don’t.” I shove my hand under my thigh. “Just tell me what you think I should do.”
“You already know what I think,” Rogo says with a grin. Even when he used to get his ass kicked, he’s always loved a good fight. He pulls a notepad from his desk and starts hunting for a pen. “Y’know why I get a 96 percent dismissal rate on speeding tickets? Or 92 percent on illegal U-turns? Because I dig, dig, dig, and dig some more. Check the details, Wes: If the cop puts the wrong statute number on the ticket, dismiss. If he