The Book of Fate

39

A reporter?” Rogo asks in full Southern twang as we weave through morning traffic on Okeechobee Boulevard. “You’re sitting on the biggest political scandal since Boss Tweed started Teapot Dome, and you threw it in the lap of a reporter?”

“First, Boss Tweed had nothing to do with Teapot Dome. They were fifty years apart,” I tell him. “Second, what happened to all that Purple Rain calmness from last night?”

“I was trying to make you feel better! But this… You threw it in the lap of a reporter?”

“We didn’t have a choice, Rogo. She heard us talking.” Just below the glove compartment, his feet barely touch the Yosemite Sam floor mat with the words Back Off! in giant white letters. He bought the mat for me for my birthday a few years back as some sort of personal lesson. From the look on his face, he still thinks I need to learn it. “If she wanted, she could’ve run the story today,” I add.

“And this is she? Below the Fold?” he asks, flipping open the newspaper and turning to Lisbeth’s column in the Accent section. The headline reads Still the One — Dr. First Lady Outshines All. It opens with a fawning item about Mrs. Manning’s chartreuse Narciso Rodriguez suit as well as her gold eagle pin, which Lisbeth calls “Americana elegance.” To her credit, she doesn’t even go for the snarky mention of Nico’s escape.

“See, she’s making nice,” I point out.

“That’s just so you don’t notice that she’s maneuvering you in front of the bull’s-eye. Think for a sec.”

“Believe me, I know what Lisbeth wants.”

“Yet you’re ignoring the fact she’ll eventually stop writing about the First Lady’s suit and instead be using your name to cut to the head of the class. Screw the gossip column, Wes — she’ll have the whole front page to herself.”

“She can have it right now! Don’t you understand? She heard it all last night: Boyle being alive, us not trusting Manning… but like me, she knows that if she goes public now, it’ll bring a tidal wave of feces crashing down on all of us.”

“Actually, it’ll just be crashing down on Manning and Boyle. Y’know, the people who, well, actually caused this!”

“Are you even listening, Rogo? Whatever happened that day, it was pulled off by some of the most powerful people around, including — according to these FBI guys — the former President of the United States, who’s also been like a father to me for nearly a decade…”

“Here we go — always afraid to hurt Daddy.”

“I’m not afraid to hurt anyone — especially whoever the hell did this to me,” I say, pointing to my cheek. “But your solution? You want me — before I even know what’s going on — to shout everything from the rooftops and go stick a fistful of dynamite into the dam.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It is what you said. But if I unleash this, Rogo — if I go public — I can’t take it back. And you know that the moment I open my mouth, these people — people who were powerful and connected enough to convince millions that their illusion was real — are going to aim all their resources and energy at making me look like the crackpot who swears he saw a dead man. So if the water’s gonna be raging, and I’m wrecking every professional relationship in my entire life, I want to be absolutely sure before I blow it all up.”

“No doubt,” Rogo says calmly. “Which is why if you go with the FBI—”

“I what? Save myself? I have nothing to offer the FBI. They already know Boyle’s alive. They only want me so they can get Manning and light the dynamite themselves. At least my way, I’m the one holding the fuse, and we’ll get some information, which is more than we got from your so-called law enforcement buddies.”

“They’re trying their best. They’re just…”

“… traffic cops. I understand. And I appreciate you trying. But between The Roman and The Three, we need some actual answers.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice yourself. Lisbeth’s still gonna burn you in the end.”

Holding tight to the wheel, I pump the gas and speed through a yellow light. The car dips and bounces as we climb up Royal Park Bridge.

“Sixty-nine bucks for the ticket and three points on your license,” Rogo warns as the yellow light turns red just above us. “Though I guess that’s nothing compared to wrecking your life with an overanxious reporter.”

“Rogo, y’know why no one knew who Deep Throat was all those years? Because he controlled the story.”

“And that’s your grand plan? Be Deep Throat?”

“No, the grand plan is to get all the facts, put my hands around Boyle’s throat, and find out why the hell all this actually happened!” I don’t motion to my face, but Rogo knows what I’m talking about. It’s the one thing he won’t argue.

Rogo goes back to reading Lisbeth’s column, which ends with a quick mention of Dreidel stopping by. Old Friends Still Visit, according to the subhead. It’s Lisbeth’s way of reminding us that she could’ve easily gone with the mention of Dreidel’s and my breakfast.

“Dreidel was there last night?” Rogo asks. “I thought he had a fundraiser.”

“He did. Then he came over to see Manning.”

Rogo scratches at his bald head, first on the side, then back behind his ear. I know that scratch. He’s silent as the car reaches the peak of the bridge. Three, two, one…

“You don’t think that’s odd?” he asks.

“What, that Dreidel likes to suck up to Manning?”

“No, that on the day after you spot Boyle, Dreidel happens to be in Palm Beach, and happens to get you in trouble with the press, and just happens to be raising money in Florida for a congressional race that only matters to people in Illinois. That doesn’t smell a little stinky feet to you?”

I shake my head as we leave the metal droning of the bridge and glide onto the perfectly paved Royal Palm Way. On both sides of the street, tucked between the towering, immaculate palm trees, are the private banks and investment firms that juggle some of the biggest accounts in the city. “You know how fundraising works,” I tell Rogo. “Palm Beach was, is, and will always be the capital of Manningland. If Dreidel wants to cash in on his old connections, here’s where he has to come to kiss the rings.”

Rogo scratches again at his head. He’s tempted to argue, but after seeing the shape I was in last night, he knows he can only push so far. Lost in the silence, he taps a knuckle against the passenger window to the tune of “Hail to the Chief.” The only other sound in the car comes from the jingling of the two dangling presidential faces on the lapel pin that’s attached to my navy suit jacket.

“Here’s hoping you’re right,” Rogo offers as he stares down at Yosemite Sam. “Because, no offense, pal — but the last thing you need right now is another enemy.”