The Book of Fate

44

An hour and a half later, I pull up to the curb in front of First of America Bank, which houses Rogo’s offices on the second floor. As my car bucks to a stop, Rogo trudges slowly out the building’s front door, heading for the front passenger door. He’s still pissed I’m meeting with Lisbeth. But not half as pissed as seeing Dreidel sitting in his seat.

“How’s the world of traffic tickets?” Dreidel calls out as he rolls down the window.

“Same as Chicago politics,” Rogo replies, shooting me a look as he opens the door for the backseat. “Completely corrupt.”

It was no better the first time they met, years ago. Both lawyers, both opinionated, both too stubborn to see anything but the other’s flaws.

For the rest of the ride, Rogo sulks in the back as we blow by the past-their-prime mom-and-pop shops that line South Dixie Highway. Every once in a while, he peers out the back to make sure we’re not being followed. I use my side mirror for the same.

“There…” Dreidel points as if I haven’t been here a dozen times. Hitting the brakes, I make a sharp right into the front lot of our destination: the wide, off-white office building that takes up most of the block. Just in front of the building is a small plaza with a statue of a turtle dressed in a black suit and sunglasses, comically playing an electric keyboard. It’s supposed to be funny. None of us laugh.

“Park underneath,” Rogo says, pointing to the two-story concrete parking garage that connects to the building. “The fewer people who see us, the better.” He glares at me in the rearview. It doesn’t take a genius to get the point. It’s bad enough I brought us here. It’s even worse that I brought Dreidel.

Still, Dreidel doesn’t seem to notice Rogo’s tantrum. Staring out the window, he’s far too focused on the huge brown sign that’s partially blocked by the building’s faux-cement pillars: Palm Beach Post.

“You sure this is smart?” Dreidel asks as the sun disappears, and we wind our way up to the second level of the already dark garage.

“You got a better place?” I challenge.

And that’s the point. No matter where we go, it’s a cakewalk for anyone to listen in. But here, in the heart of it… I don’t care how powerful they are — Manning, the FBI, even the Service — none of them can afford to fistfight with the press.

“What’s the backup plan for when she screws us?” Rogo asks as we head through the front door of the building and across the lobby’s salmon and black marble floor. It’s his last-ditch effort to turn us around. Dreidel nods to show he agrees, but he still doesn’t slow down. Like me, he’s got a personal stake. And based on what I saw in his hotel room, he doesn’t want to give Lisbeth another excuse to put his name in bold.

“Cell phones and pagers,” a tan guard with silver hair announces as we approach the metal detector and X-ray. I put my shoulder bag on the belt, along with my phone. But as I step through the X-ray, a loud beep echoes through the tall marble canyon.

Feeling myself up, I check for a pen or a—

“Your pin,” the guard blurts, pointing to my lapel.

Rolling my eyes and stepping back through the X-ray, I fight my way out of my suit jacket and lay it across the conveyor.

“You should just throw the pin away,” Dreidel says, following right behind me. “Those creepy shrunken heads bobbling like that—”

“Hey, fellas,” the security guard interrupts, his head cocked sideways as he studies the video monitor for the X-ray. He taps the screen and makes a face. “Think you might wanna take a glance at this…”