The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [40]
“You still have that buddy at the police station?”
“How else you think I get the list of speeding ticket violators two hours before anyone else? He’ll run whoever we need.”
“Dreidel said he’d look up some of the other stuff too. He’s always good at—”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Flipping it open, I spot a familiar number. Perfect timing.
“Any news?” I ask, picking up.
“Did you tip her?” Dreidel blurts, his voice racing.
“Excuse me?”
“The reporter—Lisbeth something—from the Palm Beach Post . . .” He takes a breath to stay calm. All it does is tell me something’s wrong. “Did you call her this morning?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
It’s okay if you did . . . I’m not mad . . . I just need to know what you said.”
It’s the second time he’s cut me off. And like any other young politician, the moment he says he’s not mad is the exact same moment he’ll rip your tongue out.
“Dreidel, I swear, I didn’t—”
“Then how’d she know we were meeting!? She had that I drank coffee and ate some of your toast! Who’d you . . . ?” Catching himself, he again lowers his voice. “Just . . . who else did you tell?”
I look over at Rogo. “No one. No one that could’ve called her. I swear . . .”
“Okay, it’s okay,” he tells himself more than me. “I just . . . I need you to kill the story, okay? She’s calling you now for a quote. Can you do me that favor and kill it?” I’ve known Dreidel for almost a decade. Last time I heard him this panicked, he had the First Lady screaming at him. “Please, Wes.”
“Fine . . . that’s fine . . . but why’re you so nervous about some dumb breakfast?”
“No, not a breakfast. A breakfast in Palm Beach. Florida . . . when my wife thought I was still checking out of my hotel from the meeting I had yesterday. In Atlanta.” He gives me a minute to connect the dots.
“Wait, so that woman . . . You didn’t just meet her at a bar . . .”
“Jean. Her name’s Jean. And yes, I left Atlanta and flew in early for her. I met her a few months ago. Okay? You happy? Now you got all the juice. All I’m asking is that you keep it away from this gossip woman, because if that story runs tomorrow and Ellen sees it—”
There’s a click on my phone.
“That’s her,” Dreidel says. “All you have to do is bury it. Trade her something . . . give her ten minutes with Manning. Please, Wes—my family—just think of Ali,” he adds, referring to his daughter. “And my State Senate race.”
Before I can even react, there’s another click. I hit the Send button on my phone and pick up the other line.
“Wes here,” I answer.
“Mr. Holloway, Gerald Lang here,” he says, his tone dry and professorial. “From the curator’s office,” he explains, referring to the Manning Presidential Library. “Claudia suggested I ring you and—”
“Now’s not actually the best time.”
“It’ll only take a moment, sir. See, we’re putting together a new exhibit about presidential service, with a particular focus on the long history of the young men who have served as presidential aides. Sort of a . . . true retrospective, if you can imagine . . . everyone from Meriwether Lewis, who served under Thomas Jefferson, to Jack Valenti, who worked with LBJ, to eventually, hopefully, well . . . yourself.”
“Wait . . . this exhibit’s about . . . me?”
“Actually, more the others, of course. A true retrospective.”
He’s already backpedaling, which means he knows the rules. My job is to be the closest man to the President. Right beside him. But never in front of him. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Lang . . .”
“Gerald.”
“And I’d love to help, Gerald, but—”
“President Manning said it was okay,” he adds, pulling the trump card. “Claudia too. A true retrospective. So when do you think we can sit down and—?”
“Later, okay? Just . . . call me later.” Rushing off the phone, I click back to Dreidel.
“What’d she say? Does she know?” Dreidel asks, still panicking.
Before I can answer, my phone clicks again. Clearly, my curator friend didn’t get the point. “Let me just