The Book of Fate

11

Welcome back, Mr. Holloway,” the valet at the Four Seasons says, knowing my name from countless visits with the President. Unlike most, he stays locked on my eyes. I nod him a thank-you just for that.

As I step inside the hotel, a blast of air-conditioning wraps me in its arms. Out of habit, I look over my shoulder for the President. He’s not here. I’m on my own.

Cutting across the beige marble floor of the lobby, I feel my heart kicking inside my chest. It’s not just Boyle. For better or worse, that’s always been Dreidel’s effect on me.

As Manning’s original buttboy, Gavin “Dreidel” Jeffer isn’t just my predecessor — he’s also the one who put me on the President’s radar and recommended me for the job. When we met a decade ago, I was a nineteen-year-old volunteer in the Florida campaign office, answering phones and putting out yard signs. Dreidel was twenty-two and Manning’s right- and left-hand man. I actually told Dreidel it was an honor to meet him. And I meant it. By then, we’d all heard the story.

Back during primary season, Dreidel was just some unaffiliated local kid setting up folding chairs during the first primary debate. Like any other roadie, when the show was over, he tried to get closer to the action by sneaking backstage. Where he found himself was the heart of the spin room, where the best liars in America were telling tall tales about why their candidate had just won. In a sloppy oxford shirt, he was the one silent kid in a room full of yammering adults. The CBS reporter spotted him instantly, shoving a microphone in his face. “What’d you think, son?” the reporter asked.

Dreidel stared blankly into the red light of the camera, his mouth dangling open. And without even thinking about it, he gave the God’s honest response that would forever change his life: “When it was over, Manning’s the only one who didn’t ask his staff, How’d I do?”

That question became Manning’s mantra for the next year and a half. Every news organization picked up the clip. Every major paper ran with the quote. They even passed out printed-up buttons saying How’d I do?

Three words. When Dreidel retold the story at his wedding a few years back, he said he didn’t even realize what had happened until the reporter asked how to spell his name. It didn’t matter. Three words, and Dreidel — the little Jewish spinner, as the White House press nicknamed him — was born. Within a week, Manning offered him a job as buttboy, and throughout the campaign, hundreds of young volunteers rolled their eyes. It’s not that they were jealous, it’s just… Maybe it’s his smug smile, or the ease with which he stumbled into the job, but in the school yard, Dreidel was the kid who used to have the best birthday party, with the best presents, with the best favors for anyone lucky enough to be invited. For a few years, it puts him in the in crowd, but as cockiness sets in, he doesn’t even realize he’s on the outs.

Still, he’s always been Manning’s good luck charm. And today, hopefully mine.

“Good day, Mr. Holloway,” the concierge calls out as I slide past him and head toward the elevators. It’s the second person who knows my name, instantly reminding me of the need to be discreet. Of course, that’s why I called Dreidel in the first place. The President would never admit it, but I know why he and the First Lady attended Dreidel’s wedding and wrote his recommendation for Columbia Law School — and asked me to pick out a gift when Dreidel’s daughter was born: rewards for years of good service. And in White House terms, good service means keeping your mouth shut.

As the elevator doors open on the fourth floor, I follow the directional arrows and start counting room numbers: 405… 407… 409… From the distance between doors, I can tell these’re all suites. Dreidel’s moving up in the world.

The hallway dead-ends at room 415, a suite so big it’s got a doorbell on it. There’s no way I’m giving him the pleasure of ringing it.

“Room service,” I announce, rapping my knuckles against the door.

No one answers.

“Dreidel, you in there?” I add.

Still no response.

“It’s me, Wes!” I yell, finally giving up and ringing the doorbell. “Dreidel, are you—?”

There’s a loud thunk as the lock flicks open. Then a jingling of metal. He’s got the door chain on too.

“Hold on,” he calls out. “I’m coming.”

“What’re you doing? Stealing the wood hangers?”

The door cracks open, but only a few inches. Behind it, Dreidel sticks his head out like an anxious housewife surprised by a salesman. His usually perfectly parted hair is slightly mussed, draping boyish bangs across his forehead. He pushes his circular wire-rim glasses up on his thin sculpted nose. From the little I can see, he’s not wearing a shirt.

“No offense, but I’m not having sex with you,” I say with a laugh.

“I said to call from downstairs,” he shoots back.

“What’re you getting so upset about? I figured you’d like showing off your big room and—”

“I’m serious, Wes. Why’d you come up here?” There’s a new tone in his voice. Not just annoyance. Fear. “Did anyone follow you?” he adds, opening the door a bit more to check the hallway. He’s got a towel around his waist.

“Dreidel, is everything—?”

“I said call from downstairs!” he insists.

I step back, completely confused.

“Honey,” a female voice calls out from within the room, “is everything—” The woman stops midsentence. Dreidel turns, and I spot her over his shoulder, just turning the corner inside the room. She’s dressed in one of the hotel’s white overfluffed bathrobes — a thin African-American woman with gorgeous braids. I have no idea who she is, but the one thing I’m sure of is, she’s not Dreidel’s wife. Or his two-year-old daughter.

Dreidel’s face falls as he reads my reaction. This is the part where he says it’s not how it looks.

“Wes, it’s not what you think.”

I stare at the woman in the bathrobe. And Dreidel in his towel. “Maybe I should… I’ll just go downstairs,” I stutter.

“I’ll meet you there in two minutes.”

Stepping back, I study the woman, who’s still frozen in place. Her eyes are wide, silently apologizing.