What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [56]
He turned to his driver and shrugged. The driver peered out from behind the steering wheel and shrugged right back. Cadmon turned back to the door, but then immediately decided that he really didn’t want to wait any longer. He turned and shrugged at his driver again.
The driver, well aware that his boss was a colossal idiot, pointed to the door, and mouthed the words, “Open it!”
Cadmon pointed a finger in the air, and his eyebrows bounced halfway up his forehead in the way that eyebrows do when folks have “Eureka!” moments. He tried the doorknob. It was big and brass, and slightly intimidating, but it worked. He glanced back at the driver, flashing a cocky smile that really only worked on buxom, computer-power-button-operator girls, and then went in.
Whitford’s office suite was up the main staircase. Cadmon knocked and poked his head in. “Hello?”
Ms. Withers started, nearly losing control of the stack of papers she held. “Oh! Mr. Cadmon. You’re here! My goodness! Please come in.” She fumbled the papers onto her desk and bustled over to hold the door open.
“Kind of a ghost town around here,” said Cadmon.
Ms. Withers stared at him from underneath droopy eyelids and pursed her lips. Her eyes met Cadmon’s and lingered there for a moment before she spoke. “Yes, it is. We’re a little short-handed this morning.” She bared her teeth at him, and he went into a defensive half-crouch. After a moment, he realized she was just trying to smile so he stood back up. He’d never seen her do that before though, so he stayed ready, just in case he needed to do something. Like crouch again.
“Those are nice pants,” she said.
He went back into the defensive crouch. “What is going on around here today? Where the heck is everyone? What the—” The waiting area smelled smoky and slightly sweet. He glanced around and spotted a large, grease-stained bag on her desk.
“Well, Mr. Cadmon, that is a very good question.” She pronounced the last three words as if each were a separate sentence, using the irritating authoritative voice that underlings of powerful people often adopt. “Unfortunately, it is one for which I am unable to provide an answer.”
Cadmon gave a non-committal grunt and nodded, pretending to admire an old map of Texas on the wall in order to avoid further eye contact.
“The Governor has been waiting for you. I’ll let him know you’re here.” She snatched the bag and marched across the room toward a pair of imposing, darkly-stained doors.
She paused, turning her ear toward the door to listen. Cadmon could hear the Governor having what sounded like a very exciting conversation. Ms. Withers stood perfectly still, waiting for Whitford to stop making angry sounds before peeking in. Cadmon, peering over her shoulder, noticed that he did not appear to be on the phone, and had, apparently, been ranting to himself. Ms. Withers cleared her throat to speak, but Whitford barked at her, without even looking up, before she could say a word.
“Why haven’t you got that goddamned preacher on the phone yet? I need to talk to him. Right now.”
“He’s here, sir,” said Ms. Withers.
Whitford looked up. “What?”
“Cadmon, sir. He’s here.”
Whitford’s eyes narrowed. “I told you,” he said, “to get him on the phone.”
“Yes sir, I know.” Ms. Withers almost looked nervous. Almost. But she stood her ground. “I was unable to reach him. But he’s here now.”
Whitford continued his brisk tone, but declined to make eye contact. “All right. Send him in.”
“Mr. Cadmon? Oh—” She turned to find the preacher right behind her, and attempted another smile. And then she stepped backward, moving her body into the doorway and pressing her back against the doorjamb. “You can go on in, Bill.” Her chest heaved.
Cadmon took a hesitant step toward the doorway and paused, making several awkward, abortive attempts to go through before sliding sideways, pressed up against the opposite jamb. The secretary let out a long breath.
“Thank you, Ms. Withers,” said Whitford. “That will be all.”
She seemed