The Book of Fate

59

You sure he didn’t call?” Dreidel asked from the passenger seat as the car idled in the stranglehold of traffic that regularly gripped Miami’s US-1. “Do me a favor and just check your phone.”

Tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel, Rogo didn’t bother checking his phone. “He didn’t call.”

“But if something happened… if he didn’t get to Key West—”

“Wes is smart — he knows they’ll trace it if we call. If there was a problem, we’d know.”

“Unless there was a problem and we didn’t know,” Dreidel insisted. “Dammit, why didn’t we get his info: the name of the helicopter guy… where they’re flying from… we don’t even have the address he’s at in Key—” Before Dreidel could finish, his own phone vibrated in his pocket. Ripping it out, he anxiously flipped the phone open, checking caller ID. Rogo glanced across the seat just in time to see the 202 prefix. Washington, D.C.

“Hello?” Dreidel answered. His jaw quickly slid off-center. “Listen, I’m in the middle of something. Can we talk about it later?… Yeah, I will… I will… Bye.” Turning to Rogo as he closed the phone, Dreidel added, “My wife.”

“With a Washington phone number?” Rogo asked, his thumbs no longer tapping. “I thought you lived in Chicago.”

“My old cell. We kept the number from D.C.,” Dreidel explained.

Speeding up, then slowing back to a full halt, the car stood motionless in traffic. Rogo didn’t say a word.

“What, you think I’m lying?” Dreidel blurted.

“I didn’t say anything. Enough with the witch trials.”

Shifting in his seat, Dreidel looked over his own shoulder and checked the lane next to them. “You’re clear on the right.”

Clenching the steering wheel, Rogo didn’t make a move.

“Rogo, you hear what I—?”

“Traffic’s bad enough. Don’t tell me how to drive.”

In the middle lane, the car inched past the cause of the slowdown: a tow truck with yellow sirens loading up a tan Cadillac on the left side of the road.

“I’m not an imbecile, Rogo. I know what you think of me.”

“Dreidel…”

“I see it in your face… and how, when we split up, how quick you were to keep me from going with Wes. Don’t tell me I’m wrong. Instead, let me paint this picture as best I can: I’d never do anything to hurt him. Never.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Rogo said.

“I’m not saying I’m the best husband, okay? But I’m still a damn good friend. Don’t forget, I’m the one who got Wes the job in the first place.”

“That fact hasn’t been lost on me.”

“Oh, so now that’s my fault too?” Dreidel asked. “This was my master plot to somehow put him in my old job so a once-in-a-lifetime ricochet could hit him in the face?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Then be clear for once instead of your lovable facade that treats Wes like some fragile, overprotected china doll. I know why you do it, Rogo — I know plenty of underachievers who love to be needed.”

“Just like I know plenty of overachievers who love abandoning people the instant they don’t need those people anymore. Enough rewriting history. I was there with him the week they took the bandages off… and when that Times reporter used the front page to describe his face as ruined… and when Wes finally decided to look at himself only to say he wished he was the dead one instead of Boyle. But that’s the thing, Dreidel — for eight years, Wes has been the dead one. You and the rest of your White House crew may have gone on to your own TV shows and newspaper columns, but Wes was the one who never got to move on to his new life. Now that that chance is here, I’m not letting anyone rip it away from him.”

“That’s a wonderful speech, Rogo, but do me a favor: If you don’t trust me, have the balls to say it and just let me out right here.”

“If I didn’t trust you, Dreidel, I would’ve left you in Palm Beach.”

“That’s not even true,” Dreidel challenged. “You brought me here because you wanted to see Boyle’s files, and you know I’m the only one who can get you in.”

With a flick of his blinker, Rogo turned into the far right lane. Looking over at the passenger seat, he was silent.

Dreidel nodded to himself, biting at the skin on the inside of his bottom lip. “Fuck you too, Rogo.”

Tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, Rogo made a sharp right on Stanford Drive and headed toward a guard gate and lawn that served as the main entrance to the campus. On their right, a forest-green and gold metal sign bolted into a concrete wall read:

Neither said another word to each other until they were inside.