The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [4]
As we neared our destination, Manning stared silently through the light green tint of his bulletproof window. “Y’ever hear what Kennedy said three hours before he was shot?” he asked, putting on his best Massachusetts accent. “You know, last night would’ve been a hell of a night to kill a President.”
“Lee!” the First Lady scolded. “See what I deal with?” she added, fake laughing at Calinoff.
The President took her hand and squeezed it, glancing my way. “Wes, did you bring the present I got for Mr. Calinoff?” he asked.
I dug through my leather briefcase—the bag of tricks—never taking my eyes off Manning’s face. He tossed a slight nod and scratched at his own wrist. Don’t give him the tie clip . . . go for the big stuff.
I’d been his aide for over seven months. If I was doing my job right, we didn’t have to talk to communicate. We were in a groove. I couldn’t help but smile.
That was my last big, broad grin. In three minutes, the gunman’s third bullet would rip through my cheek, destroying so many nerves, I’d never have full use of my mouth again.
That’s the one, the President nodded at me.
From my overpacked bag, which held everything a President would ever need, I pulled out a set of official presidential cuff links, which I handed to Mr. Calinoff, who was loving every split second in his folded-down, completely uncomfortable hot seat.
“Those are real, y’know,” the President told him. “Don’t put ’em on eBay.”
It was the same joke he used every time he gave a set away. We all still laughed. Even Boyle, who started scratching at his chest. There’s no better place to be than in on an inside joke with the President of the United States. And on July 4th in Daytona, Florida, when you’d flown in to yell, “Gentlemen, start your engines!” at the legendary Pepsi 400 NASCAR race, there was no better backseat in the world.
Before Calinoff could offer a thank-you, the limo came to a stop. A red lightning bolt flashed by us on the left—two police motorcycles with their sirens blaring. They were leapfrogging from the back of the motorcade to the front. Just like a funeral procession.
“Don’t tell me they closed down the road,” the First Lady said. She hated it when they shut traffic for the motorcade. Those were the votes we’d never get back.
The car slowly chugged a few feet forward. “Sir, we’re about to enter the track,” the detail leader announced from the passenger seat. Outside, the concrete openness of the airport runway quickly gave way to rows and rows of high-end motor coaches.
“Wait . . . we’re going out on the track?” Calinoff asked, suddenly excited. He shifted in his seat, trying to get a look outside.
The President grinned. “Did you think we’d just get a couple seats in front?”
The wheels bounced over a clanging metal plate that sounded like a loose manhole cover. Boyle scratched even more at his chest. A baritone rumble filled the air.
“That thunder?” Boyle asked, glancing up at the clear blue sky.
“No, not thunder,” the President replied, putting his own fingertips against the bulletproof window as the stadium crowd of 200,000 surged to its feet with banners, flags, and arms waving. “Applause.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!” the announcer bellowed through the P.A. system.
A sharp right-hand turn tugged us all sideways as the limo turned onto the racetrack, the biggest, most perfectly paved highway I’d ever seen in my life.
“Nice roads you got here,” the President said to Calinoff, leaning back in the plush leather seat that was tailor-made to his body.
All that was left was the big entrance. If we didn’t nail that, the 200,000 ticket holders in the stadium, plus the ten million viewers watching from home, plus the seventy-five million fans who’re committed to NASCAR, would all go tell their friends and neighbors and cousins and strangers in the supermarket that we went up for our baptism and sneezed in the holy water.
But that’s why we brought the motorcade. We didn’t need eighteen cars. The runway in the Daytona Airport was actually adjacent to the