morning. Johnny had driven down to Manchester in his old Plymouth. He had worked from ten the evening before until six this morning. He was tired, but the quiet winter dawn had been too good to sleep through. And he liked Manchester, Manchester with its narrow streets and timeworn brick buildings, the gothic textile mills strung along the river like mid-Victorian beads. He had not been consciously politician-hunting that morning; he thought he would cruise the streets for a while, until they began to get crowded, until the cold and silent spell of February was broken, then go back to Kittery and catch some sacktime.
He turned a corner and there had been three nondescript sedans pulled up in front of a shoe factory in a no-parking zone. Standing by the gate in the cyclone fencing was Jimmy Carter, shaking hands with the men and women going on shift. They were carrying lunch buckets or paper sacks, breathing out white clouds, bundled into heavy coats, their faces still asleep. Carter had a word for each of them. His grin, then not so publicized as it became later, was tireless and fresh. His nose was red with the cold.
Johnny parked half a block down and walked toward the factory gate, his shoes crunching and squeaking on the packed snow. The Secret Service agent with Carter sized him up quickly and then dismissed him—or seemed to.
“I’ll vote for anyone who’s interested in cutting taxes,” a man in an old ski parka was saying. The parka had a constellation of what looked like battery-acid burns in one sleeve. “The goddam taxes are killing me, I kid you not.”
“Well, we’re gonna see about that,” Carter said. “Lookin over the tax situation is gonna be one of our first priorities when I get into the White House.” There was a serene self-confidence in his voice that struck Johnny and made him a little uneasy.
Carter’s eyes, bright and almost amazingly blue, shifted to Johnny. “Hi there,” he said.
“Hello, Mr. Carter,” Johnny said. “I don’t work here. I was driving by and saw you.”
“Well I’m glad you stopped. I’m running for President.”
“I know.”
Carter put his hand out. Johnny shook it.
Carter began: “I hope you’ll ...” And broke off.
The flash came, a sudden, powerful zap that was like sticking his finger in an electric socket. Carter’s eyes sharpened. He and Johnny looked at each other for what seemed a very long time.
The Secret Service guy didn’t like it. He moved toward Carter, and suddenly he was unbuttoning his coat. Somewhere behind them, a million miles behind them, the shoe factory’s seven o’clock whistle blew its single long note into the crisp blue morning.
Johnny let go of Carter’s hand, but still the two of them looked at each other.
“What the hell was that?” Carter asked, very softly.
“You’ve probably got someplace to go, don’t you?” the Secret Service guy said suddenly. He put a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. It was a very big hand. “Sure you do.”
“It’s all right,” Carter said.
“You’re going to be president,” Johnny said.
The agent’s hand was still on Johnny’s shoulder, more lightly now but still there, and he was getting something from him, too. The Secret Service guy
(eyes) didn’t like his eyes. He thought they were
(assassin’s eyes, psycho’s eyes)
cold and strange, and if this guy put so much as one hand in his coat pocket, if he even looked as if he might be going in that direction, he was going to put him on the sidewalk. Behind the Secret Service guy’s second-to-second evaluation of the situation there ran a simple, maddening litany of thought:
“It’s going to be closer than anyone thinks ... closer than you think, but you’ll win. He’ll beat himself. Poland. Poland will beat him.”
Carter only looked at him, half-smiling.
“You’ve got a daughter. She’s going to go to a public school in Washington. She’s going to go to ...” But it was in the dead zone. “I think ... it’s a school named after a freed slave.”
“Fellow, I want you to move on,” the agent said.
Carter looked at him and the agent subsided.
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” Carter said. “A little disconcerting, but a pleasure.”
Suddenly, Johnny was himself again. It had passed. He was aware that his ears were cold and that he had to go to the bathroom. “Have a good morning,” he said lamely.
“Yes. You too, now.”
He had gone back to his car, aware of the Secret Service guy’s eyes still on him.