The Book of Fate

Epilogue

Just yourself?” the waitress asks, approaching my table in the corner of the café’s small outdoor patio.

“Actually, I’ve got one more coming,” I tell her as she puts a water glass on my place mat to keep the wind from blowing it away. We’re at least two blocks from the ocean, but thanks to the narrowness of the street, it always packs a nice breeze.

“Anything else to drink besides w—?” She freezes as I look up. It’s the first time she sees my face. To her credit, she recovers quickly, faking a smile — but the damage is already—

“Wait… you’re that guy,” she says, suddenly excited.

“Excuse me?”

“Y’know, with the thing… with the President… that was you, wasn’t it?”

I cock my head, offering the slightest nod.

Studying me for a moment, she cracks a tiny smile, tucks a strand of straight black hair behind her ear, and calmly heads back to the kitchen.

“Holy salami, what was that?” a familiar voice asks from the sidewalk. On my left, Rogo rushes up to the low wrought-iron railing that surrounds the outdoor patio.

“Rogo, don’t hop the—”

Before I say it, he throws a leg onto the railing, boosts himself over, and plops into the seat across from me.

“Can’t you use the door like the rest of the bipeds?” I ask him.

“No, no, no — no changing the channel. What was that rendezvous with the waitress?”

“Rendezvous?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Ethel — I saw it — the longing glance… the hair tuck… the little finger-phone where she held her thumb to her ear and whispered Call me into her pinkie.”

“There was no finger-phone.”

“She recognized you, didn’t she?”

“Can you please stop?”

“Where’d she see you, 60 Minutes? That’s the one, isn’t it? The girls love the Morley Safer.”

“Rogo…”

“Don’t fight with me, Wes — it’s an unarguable fact: A waitress can make the dining experience or ruin it. Read the signal. She’s trying to make it. Make it. Maaaake iiiiiit,” he whispers, rolling his eyes upward as he reaches over and steals a sip of my water. Noticing the menu in front of him, he adds, “They got fajitas here?”

“It’s a panini place.”

“Panini?”

“Y’know, with the bread and the—”

“I’m sorry, do you have a cramp in your ovaries?”

When I don’t laugh, he twirls the straw in the water, never taking his eyes off me. Right there, I know what he’s really after. “It’s okay, Rogo. You don’t have to use every conversation to try and cheer me up.”

“I’m not trying to cheer you up,” he insists. He twirls the straw again as the waitress returns with another place mat and some silverware. He’s silent as she puts it in front of him. When she leaves, I glance back at him.

“Still trying to think of a clever comeback to make me happy?” I ask him.

“I was until you just ruined it,” he sulks, chucking his straw into his water like a mini-javelin.

When I still don’t laugh, he shakes his head, finally giving up. “Y’know, you’re really not a fun person.”

“And that’s it? That’s your best retort?”

“And!” he adds, pointing a finger at me. “And… and… and… and—” He cuts himself off. “C’mon,” he whines, “just put a smile on your face — please. If you do, I’ll order an orange juice and do the fake-laugh thing at the waitress where I make it come out of my nose. It burns like the sun. You’ll love it.”

“That’s very generous of you, Rogo. I just need — just give me a little time.”

“Whattya think the past two weeks have been? You’re moping around like it’s an Olympic event. I mean, it’s not like your life sucks: interviews coming out the ying-yang, you get all the credit for saving the day, and semi-hot waitresses are recognizing you and bringing you water with little slices of lemon. You’ve had the greatest fourteen days of your life. Enough with the woe-is-me.”

“It’s not woe-is-me. It’s just…”

“… you’re sad to watch them go down in flames like that. I heard the speech yesterday, and the day before, and the day before: They gave you so many opportunities. You feel like Benedict Arnold. I understand, Wes. I really do. But like everyone in your office said — the one thing the Mannings didn’t give you was much of a choice. That castle you were in was built on sand.”

I stare out at the pedestrians walking past us on the sidewalk. “I know. But even so… I’ve been by Manning’s side for the better part of a decade. I was there before he got to the office, and I didn’t leave until he headed upstairs for bed. And not just weekdays. Every day. For nearly ten years! You know what that’s—?” I close my eyes, refusing to say it. “I didn’t go to your sister’s wedding; I was in the Ukraine during my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary; my college roommate had a baby, and I haven’t even met him yet.”

“It’s a she, but don’t feel guilty.”

“That’s the point, Rogo — to go from every single day to never again… I didn’t just leave my job. I left — I feel like I left my life.”

Rogo shakes his head like I’m missing the point. “Haven’t you ever played Uno?” he asks calmly. “Sometimes you have to lose all your cards to win.”

Looking down at my water, I watch the ice cubes bob and crackle inside the tall glass.

“You know I’m right,” Rogo says.

A sharp fissure ricochets like lightning through an ice cube at the bottom. As it splinters, the cubes on top tumble down with it.

“Look at it this way,” Rogo adds. “At least you’re not Dreidel.”

I stab the ice with my straw. This time, I’m the one shaking my head. “I wouldn’t cry for Dreidel just yet.” Reading the confusion on Rogo’s face, I explain, “Don’t forget why he got the nickname. He may not be sitting in Congress next year, but mark my words, he’ll be somewhere on top.”

“What about Violet, or whatever her real name is? When that came out…”

“Dreidel laid low for the requisite week, then strategically started leaking the story of how he brilliantly helped the Marshals throughout their investigation of The Three. Believe me, the moment I saw him and his girlfriend in that hotel, he was prepping his smile for the highlight reel.”

“But with Violet — he hit her — and he’s—”

“—the only one of us who made an advance deal with the government. God bless America, I heard he’s got a new radio show that’s being lined up as we speak, while the book rights sold yesterday for seven figures, plus bonuses when it hits the best-seller lists. And when the paperback comes out, I’ll bet good money he tucks in a special addendum chapter with a mea culpa to Violet, just to sell a few extra hundred thousand copies.”

“Wait, so the editor who bought the book rights — is that the same guy who called you last week abou—?”

“Very same guy. Very same offer, including the best-seller bonuses.”

“Oh, God — strike me with lightning!” Rogo shouts at the sky as a few fellow diners and an older woman on the sidewalk turn to stare. “You let Dreidel take that?”

“He didn’t take anything. Besides, I promised the President from day one: I’d never cash in on him.”

“His wife almost—” He turns to the man staring from the table diagonally across from us. “Sir, go back to your soup. Thank you.” Looking back at me, Rogo lowers his voice and leans in. “His wife almost had you killed, jackass. And even if you can’t prove it, he may’ve known about it all along. So while I’m sure your buddy Dreidel had that same, dumb code-of-honor thing going — and believe me, my momma taught me to appreciate loyalty — attempted murder is usually a pretty darn good sign that you can part ways guilt-free and stop sending invites to each other’s birthday parties.”

Slightly up the block, a meter maid driving in an enclosed golf cart marks tires with a piece of chalk on the end of a long metal pole. “Doesn’t matter,” I tell Rogo. “I’m not profiting off them.”

“Bet Dreidel sells the film rights too (though he’ll probably only get movie of the week).”

“No profit, Rogo. Ever.”

“And what’s Lisbeth say?”

“About the book rights or Dreidel’s radio show?”

“About everything.”

I stare up the block at the meter maid, who’s writing a ticket for a pale yellow vintage Plymouth Belvedere. Following my glance, Rogo turns and looks over his shoulder.

“I’m only gonna get him off, Richie!” Rogo yells out.

“Only if they’re dumb enough to hire you,” the meter maid calmly teases back.

“I think Lisbeth understands where I’m coming from,” I tell him.

“She understand anything else?” Rogo asks, still eyeing the yellow Plymouth.

“What’s that mean?”

“You know what it means. You two went through the grinder together — plus you let her write the story as a final gift.”

“So?”

“So I know you talk to her every night.”

“How d’you know I talk to her?”

“I pick up the phone to see who you’re chatting with.” Finally turning back to face me, he adds, “C’mon, what’s the story with our favorite redhead? You in there? You counting freckles? You trying to figure out if they make constellations?”

“Pardon me?”

“Don’t play naive. You digging for clams, or you still on the beach?”

I roll my eyes. “Can you please not be so—?”

“Clamdigger!”

“No. Stop. Of course, I haven’t.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

He leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. “Okay. Good.”

I pause and cock my head. “Why good?”

“Nothing,” Rogo says.

“Rogo, why good?”

“I dunno,” he says, already playing dumb. “I just figured, y’know, if you’re not swimming in that pool, I might try to dive in and — and maybe just — and maybe take my own little skinny dip.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Wait. You? You’re gonna ask Lisbeth out?”

“Why, you think I don’t have a chance?”

“Let me be honest with you.” I pick the words as carefully as possible. “You don’t have a chance.”

“What’re you talking about? I’m short and fat; she’s a little on the plus size. It’s a good match.”

“Yeah, that makes complete sense. Maybe you should just go ring shopping right now.”

He lowers his chin, and his jaw shifts off-center. “You’re not supposed to root against the rabbit getting the Trix.”

“Listen, you do what you want. I’m just warning you — I think she might be seeing someone.”

“Lisbeth is? Says who? Her? Or you just making it up?”

“I’m telling you… I could hear it in her voice.”

“Did she say who it—?” His face falls. “It’s not Dreidel, is it? Oh, I’ll stab needles in my eyes if he—”

“It’s not Dreidel — no way,” I tell him.

“You think it’s someone from her work?”

I glance over Rogo’s shoulder, where a brand-new lime-green Mustang cruises up the block, slowing as it approaches. “Kinda from work,” I say as it pulls into the fire lane that’s directly across from our table on the patio. The lime-green car bucks to a stop. There’s no mistaking the driver’s red hair.

“Whoa, paninis!” Lisbeth calls out as she leans out the window of her car. “Do they actually serve estrogen there, or did you take your shots before you arrived?”

Rogo looks at her, then me, then back to her. “No… But you said—”

“All I said was I hadn’t made any constellations,” I tell him. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not trying,” I add as I reach across the table and pat my hand against his cheek. “At least you got to slam a car door on Dreidel’s hand.” Before he can even digest it, I stand from my seat, hop over the railing, and head for the lime-green car.

“Sweet mother of Harry S. Truman,” Rogo mutters, already following me over the railing. “Wes, wait!”

For once, I don’t look back.

At the opening of his Presidential Library, Manning told a reporter that his favorite comic strip when he was little was Prince Valiant. The next day, an op-ed ran pointing out that in said strip, Prince Valiant once had a curse that he’d never be content. The op-ed called it the curse of every President and former President. And it is. But it’s no longer the curse for me.

Crossing around to the passenger side of Lisbeth’s car, I pull open the door and duck down for a quick hello. “Did I miss the part when paninis became feminine?” I ask her.

“You did the same thing with apple martinis. And Volkswagen Cabriolets,” Rogo interrupts, cutting in front of me and sliding into the backseat. “You should read Jane magazine. That’s what I do. Oooh, new-car smell.”

“Nice to see you too, Rogo,” Lisbeth offers.

Looking side to side in the backseat, Rogo raises an eyebrow. “Wait, how’d you afford this thing? Did you get a book deal too?”

Ignoring him, Lisbeth turns to me. From the expression on her face, I sniff trouble. “Good news, bad news,” she says. “You choose.”

“Bad news,” Rogo and I say simultaneously. I shoot him a look over my shoulder.

“Bad news,” I say again to Lisbeth.

She fidgets with the bandage on her hand, which guarantees it’s serious. “Remember that San Francisco Chronicle job I told you about?” she asks. “Well, they made me an offer — real news too, no more gossip. But they said — not that I’m surprised — they said I need to move to San Francisco.”

“So, away from here?”

“Really away,” she says, staring out the front windshield.

“And the good news?” I ask.

She grips the steering wheel, then slowly turns to face me. “Wanna come?”

My cheek leaps into the air. Now I’m the one wearing the butcher’s dog grin.

“Waitaminute,” Rogo calls out from the back. “Before we do anything rash, do we know the full picture of their speeding ticket problems out there? Because a man with my particular practice and expertise—”

I turn back to Rogo, and the grin only gets wider. “I’m sure we can look it up.”

“And let’s not forget about lax traffic laws and the slipshod judicial system that supports it. If they’re not there? Those two are deal breakers.”

“You’re really worried? It’s California.”

“Plus,” Lisbeth adds, “in San Francisco, I bet they have crazy amounts of accidents with all those hills.”

“See, now that’s what I like to hear,” Rogo says, beaming as the car cruises up the block. “Oooh, do me a favor,” he adds. “Pull up to that old Plymouth with the ticket on the windshield? If I’m gonna pay for this move, we need us some new clients.” From his wallet, he pulls out a business card and tries to squeeze forward and lean out my open passenger-side window. “Wes, scootch your seat up?”

“Here, try—here,” Lisbeth offers, poking a button on the dash. With a whir, the convertible roof retracts, revealing the aquamarine-blue sky and making plenty of room for Rogo to reach outside.

With his stomach pressed against the interior side of the car, he leans out from the backseat and wedges one of his business cards in the seam of the Plymouth’s driver’s-side window. “Downwith tickets.com!” he shouts to the few people who’re staring from the sidewalk. “Now go back to your sheltered lives! Go! Flock! Conspicuously consume!”

Lisbeth pumps the gas, the tires bite the pavement, and the car takes off, sending an air pocket of wind whipping against our faces. With the top down, I watch the royal palms that line the street disappear behind us. Effortlessly, the car roars up Royal Park Bridge, where the polished waves of the Intracoastal are so bright they’re almost blinding. As I tip my head back and soak in the sky, the ocean wind knots its fingers through my hair, and the sweet sun bakes against my face.

Nico was wrong. The Book of Fate isn’t already written. It’s written every day.

Some scars never heal.

Then again, some do.