The Book of Fate

21

Anyway, it’s just a cute little squib with you and Dreidel eating at the Four Seasons,” Lisbeth says as Rogo squeezes in next to me and puts his ear to the phone. “Sorta making the restaurant like a White House reunion in the sunny South. The President’s boys and all that.”

“Sounds fun,” I tell her, hoping to keep her upbeat. “Though I’m not sure that’s actually news.”

“Amazing,” she says sarcastically. “That’s exactly what Dreidel said. You guys separated at birth, or does it just come naturally with the job?”

I’ve known Lisbeth since the day she took over the Post’s gossip column. We have a clear understanding. She calls and politely asks for a quote from the President. I politely tell her we’re sorry, but we don’t do those things anymore. It’s a simple waltz. The problem is, if I don’t play this carefully, I’ll be giving her something to jitterbug to.

“C’mon, Lisbeth, no one even knows who me and Dreidel are.”

“Yep, Dreidel tried that one too. Right before he asked if he could call me back, which I also know is a guaranteed sign I’ll never hear from him again. I mean, considering he’s got that little fundraiser tonight, you’d think he’d want his name in the local paper. Now do you just wanna give me a throwaway quote on how great it was for you and your friend to reminisce about your old White House days, or do you want me to start worrying that there’s something wrong in Manningville?” She laughs as she says the words, but I’ve been around enough reporters to know that when it comes to filling their columns, nothing’s funny.

Careful, Rogo writes on a scrap of paper. Girl ain’t stupid.

I nod and turn back to the phone. “Listen, I’m happy to give you whatever quote you want, but honestly, we were only in the restaurant for a few minutes—”

“And that’s officially the third time you’ve tried to downplay this otherwise yawn of a story. Know what they teach you in journalism school when someone tries to downplay, Wes?”

On the scrap of paper, Rogo adds an exclamation point next to Girl ain’t stupid.

“Okay, fine. Wanna know the real story?” I ask.

“No, I’d much prefer the fake runaround.”

“But this is off the record,” I warn. She stays silent, hoping I’ll keep talking. It’s an old reporter’s trick so she can say she never agreed. I fell for it my first week in the White House. That was the last time. “Lisbeth…”

“Fine… yes… off the record. Now what’s the big hubbub?”

“Manning’s birthday,” I blurt. “His surprise sixty-fifth, to be exact. Dreidel and I were in charge of the surprise part until you called this morning. I told Manning I had some errands to run. Dreidel was in town and told him the same. If Manning reads in tomorrow’s paper that we were together…” I pause for effect. It’s a crap lie, but her silence tells me it’s doing the trick. “You know we never ask for anything, Lisbeth, but if you could keep us out just this once…” I pause again for the big finale. “We’d owe you one.”

I can practically hear her smile on the other line. In a city of social chits, it’s the best one to bargain with: a favor owed by the former President of the United States.

“Gimme ten minutes face-to-face with Manning on the night of the surprise party,” Lisbeth says.

“Five minutes is the most he’ll sit for.”

Rogo shakes his head. Not enough, he mouths silently.

“Deal,” she says.

Rogo makes a double okay sign with his fingers. Perfect, he mouths.

“So my breakfast with Dreidel…?” I ask.

“Breakfast? Come now, Wes — why would anyone care what two former staffers had on their morning toast? Consider it officially dead.”