The Book of Fate

7

See that redheaded mummy in the Mercedes?” Rogo asks, motioning out the window at the shiny new car next to us. I glance over just in time to see the fifty-something redhead with the frozen face-lift and an equally stiff (and far more fashionable) straw hat that probably costs as much as my crappy little ten-year-old Toyota. “She’d rather die than call,” he adds.

I don’t respond. It doesn’t slow him down. “But that guy driving that midlife crisis?” he adds, pointing at the balding man in the cherry-red Porsche that pulls out around us. “He’ll call me right after he gets the ticket.”

It’s Rogo’s favorite game: driving around, trying to figure out who’ll be a potential client. As Palm Beach’s least-known but most aggressive speeding ticket lawyer, Rogo is the man to call for any moving violation. As my roommate and closest friend since eighth grade, when he and his mom moved from Alabama to Miami, he’s also the only person I know who loves his job even more than the President does.

“Oooh, and that girl right there?” he asks as he motions across two lanes of traffic to the sixteen-year-old with braces driving a brand-new Jeep Cherokee. “Pass the bread, ’cause that’s my butter!” Rogo insists in a wet lick of a Southern accent. “New car and braces? Choo, choo — here comes the gravy train!”

He slaps me on the shoulder like we’re watching a rodeo.

“Yee-hah,” I whisper as the car climbs up the slight incline of Royal Park Bridge and across the Intracoastal Waterway. On both sides of us, the morning sun ricochets off glossy waves. The bridge connects the communities of working-class West Palm Beach with the millionaire haven known as Palm Beach. And as the car’s tires rumble and we cross to the other side, the well-populated, fast-food-lined Okeechobee Boulevard gives way to the perfectly manicured, palm-tree-lined Royal Palm Way. It’s like leaving a highway rest stop and entering Oz.

“Do you feel rich? ’Cause I feel silver dollar!” Rogo adds, soaking up the surroundings.

“Again, yee-hah.”

“Don’t get all sarcastic,” Rogo warns. “If you’re not nice, I’m not gonna let you drive me to work for the next week while my car’s in the shop.”

“You said it’d only be in the shop for a day.”

“Ah, the negotiation continues!” Before I can argue, he does a double take on the braces girl, who’s now right next to us. “Wait, I think she was a client!” he shouts, rolling down his window. “Wendy!” he yells, leaning over and honking my horn.

“Don’t do that,” I tell him, trying to push his hand away. When we were fourteen, Rogo was short. These days, at twenty-nine, he’s added bald and fat to his repertoire. And strong. I can’t move him.

“Braces Girl!” he shouts, honking again. “Hey, Wendy, is that you!?”

She finally turns and rolls down her own window, struggling to keep her eyes on the road.

“Your name Wendy?” he yells.

“No,” she calls back. “Maggie!”

Rogo seems almost hurt by his own misinformation. It never lasts long. He’s got a smile like a butcher’s dog. “Well, if you get a speeding ticket, go to downwithtickets.com!”

Rolling up his window, he scratches at his elbow, then readjusts his crotch, proud of himself. It’s vintage Rogo — by the time he’s done, I can’t even remember what the argument’s about. It’s the same way he bulldozed into the legal profession. After two bad sets of LSAT scores, Rogo flew to Israel for his third attempt. Not even close to being Jewish, he’d heard that in Israel, they took a more relaxed approach to the concept of a timed exam. “What, an extra twenty minutes? Who’s it gonna kill?” he asked for a full month, imitating his proctor in full Israeli accent. And with those twenty minutes, Rogo finally got a score that would get him into law school.

So as he found a home in speeding tickets and for the first time had some money in his pocket, the last thing he needed was a boring roommate who’d have trouble making the rent. Back then, my only job prospect was staying with the President, who’d moved to P.B. after the White House. P.B. being what the locals call Palm Beach, as in, “We’ll be in P.B. all winter.” I was living with my parents in Boca Raton; because of the low salary, I couldn’t afford the tony neighborhood near the President’s Palm Beach compound. With a roommate, though, I’d at least be able to live closer. It was right after the shooting. The scars were still purple on my face. Eighth grade goes a long way. Rogo didn’t even hesitate.

“I still don’t understand why you have to be in so early,” Rogo adds in mid-yawn. “It’s barely seven. You just got back from Malaysia last night.”

“The President’s—”

“—an early riser… the world’s greatest guy… can heal the sick while cooking a six-course meal. Jesus and Emeril all in one body. I know how the cult works, Wes.” He points out the window at a hidden cop car about two blocks up. “Careful, speed trap.” Right back into it, he adds, “I’m just saying he should let you sleep in.”

“I don’t need to sleep in. I’m good. And FYI, it’s not a cult.”

“First of all, it is a cult. Second, don’t say FYI. My mother says FYI. So does yours.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a cult,” I push back.

“Really? So it’s healthy that almost eight years after you left the White House, you’re still running errands like some overhyped intern? What happened to grad school, or that event coordinator job, or even that threat of being a chef you made a few years back? Do you even enjoy work anymore, or d’you just stay there because it’s safe and they protect you?”

“We do more good for the community than you’d ever know.”

“Yeah, if you’re chief of staff. You, on the other hand, spend half your day wondering whether he wants iceberg or romaine lettuce in his salad!”

I grip the steering wheel and stare straight ahead. He doesn’t understand.

“Don’t do that!” Rogo threatens. “Don’t save your confidence for Manning. I just attacked you — you’re supposed to fight back!”

There’s a curdle in his voice that he usually saves just for traffic cops. He’s getting riled, which isn’t saying much for Rogo. In high school, he was the kid who threw his cards when he lost at Monopoly… and threw his tennis racket when he missed a shot. Back then, that temper got him in way too many fights, which was only made worse by the fact that he didn’t have the physical size to back it up. He says he’s 5'7". He’s 5'6" if he’s lucky.

“You know I’m right, Wes. Something internally bad happens when you give your entire existence to a single person. You feel me?”

He may be the smartest dumbest friend I have, but for once, he’s reading me all wrong. My silence isn’t from acquiescence. It’s from my mental picture of Boyle, still staring at me with those brown and blue eyes. Maybe if I tell Rogo—

My phone vibrates in my pocket. This early in the morning, it’s only bad news. I flip open the phone and check caller ID. I’m wrong. Here comes the cavalry.

“Wes here,” I say as I answer.

“Got time to chat?” Dreidel asks on the other end.

I glance over at Rogo, who’s back to hunting for potential clients. “Let me call you right back.”

“Don’t bother. How about meeting for breakfast?”

“You’re in town?” I ask, confused.

“Just for a quick business meeting. I tried to tell you when you called from Malaysia. You were too busy panicking,” he points out in his usual perfect calm. “So breakfast?”

“Gimme an hour. I got one thing to do at work.”

“Perfect. I’m at the Four Seasons. Call me from the lobby. Room 415.”

I shut the phone and for the first time enjoy the passing palm trees. Today’s suddenly looking up.