The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [5]
I didn’t care how close we were in the polls. One lap around and we’d be picking out our seats for the inauguration.
Across from me, Boyle wasn’t nearly as thrilled. With his arms crossed against his chest, he never stopped studying the President.
“Got the stars out too, eh?” Calinoff asked as we entered the final turn and he saw our welcoming committee, a small mob of NASCAR drivers all decked out in their multicolor, advertising-emblazoned jumpsuits. What his untrained eye didn’t notice were the dozen or so “crew members” who were standing a bit more erect than the rest. Some had backpacks. Some carried leather satchels. All had sunglasses. And one was speaking into his own wrist. Secret Service.
Like any other first-timer in the limo, Calinoff was practically licking the glass. “Mr. Calinoff, you’ll be getting out first,” I told him as we pulled into the pit stalls. Outside, the drivers were already angling for presidential position. In sixty seconds, they’d be running for their lives.
Calinoff leaned toward my door on the driver’s side, where all the NASCAR drivers were huddled.
I leaned forward to block him, motioning to the President’s door on the other side. “That way,” I said. The door right next to him.
“But the drivers are over there,” Calinoff objected.
“Listen to the boy,” the President chimed in, gesturing toward the door by Calinoff.
Years ago, when President Clinton came for a NASCAR race, members of the crowd booed. In 2004, when President Bush arrived with legendary driver Bill Elliott in his motorcade, Elliott stepped out first and the crowd erupted. Even Presidents can use an opening act.
With a click and a thunk, the detail leader pushed a small security button under the door handle which allowed him to open the armor-lined door from the outside. Within seconds, the door cracked open, twin switchblades of light and Florida heat sliced through the car, and Calinoff lowered one of his handmade cowboy boots onto the pavement.
“And please welcome four-time Winston Cup winner . . . Mike Caaaalinoff!” the announcer shouted through the stadium.
Cue crowd going wild.
“Never forget,” the President whispered to his guest as Calinoff stepped outside to the 200,000 screaming fans. “That’s who we’re here to see.”
“And now,” the announcer continued, “our grand marshal for today’s race—Florida’s own . . . President Leeeee Maaaaanning!”
Just behind Calinoff, the President hopped out of the car, his right hand up in a wave, his left hand proudly patting the NASCAR logo on the chest of his windbreaker. He paused for a moment to wait for the First Lady. As always, you could read the lips on every fan in the grandstands. There he is . . . There he is . . . There they are . . . Then, as soon as the crowd had digested it, the flashbulbs hit. Mr. President, over here! Mr. President . . . ! He’d barely moved three steps by the time Albright was behind him, followed by Boyle.
I stepped out last. The sunlight forced me to squint, but I still craned my neck to look up, mesmerized by the 200,000 fans who were now on their feet, pointing and waving at us from the grandstands. Two years out of college, and this was my life. Even rock stars don’t have it this good.
Putting his arm out for a handshake, Calinoff was quickly enveloped by the waiting crowd of drivers, who smothered him with hugs and backslaps. At the front of the crowd was the NASCAR CEO and his surprisingly tall wife, here to welcome the First Lady.
Approaching the drivers, the President grinned. He was next. In three seconds, he’d be surrounded—the one black windbreaker in a Technicolor sea of Pepsi, M&M’s, DeWalt, and Lone Star Steakhouse jumpsuits. As if he’d won the World Series, the Super Bowl, and the—
Pop, pop, pop.
That’s all I heard. Three tiny pops. A firecracker. Or a car backfiring.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!” the detail leader yelled.
“Get down! Get back!