that he’s been here before. A heartbeat later, the memory comes to him. The tiled carpet, the drab walls. This place feels like a visitors’ lounge in juvie.
He ducks inside the men’s room, settles before a mirror, surprised by the nervousness that beats like a second heart inside his chest. He needs to make a positive first impression. His team will be reporting back to Washington, their biased early dispatches supporting the caricature that, even for politics, this temperamental black asshole is reckless and unprofessional. But Andre knows he can win over his team. He’s a good-looking guy, never been accused of lacking charm. He changes into a fresh cotton shirt, rinses the taste of scotch from his mouth. If he were a religious man, he might say a prayer. But he’s not, so he stares at himself in the mirror, vows that he will not fail.
Back in the concourse, a practiced assuredness in his step, he passes a checkpoint where a guard takes a nap. In the airport terminal, the overhead speaker plays bluegrass. A sailor in his dress uniform kisses a redheaded girl, which reminds Andre: Call home, let your fiancée know you’ve arrived in South Carolina. But Cassie isn’t his girl anymore, now, is she? Last he heard, she’d found a new beau, a player for the Redskins, an over-the-hill placekicker who hasn’t seen a second of playing time. But this new fella doesn’t know what Andre knows: that Cassie likes to change her mind.
As the terminal empties, he takes the escalator to baggage claim. The fluorescent lights flicker. The air ducts rattle. The wall-mounted, backlit advertisements promote opportunities to earn online degrees, increased incomes, frequent-flyer miles, and eternal salvation. The pudgy girl, with boundless energy, circles square columns, arms outstretched, tricorn hat bouncing atop her head. She zips between passengers, then twirls beside a handsome young man, who flashes Andre a smile. The young man, in his early twenties, tightens his grip around a whiteboard, Toussaint Andre Ross written in marker.
“Mr. Ross?” His hemp necklace and sun-bleached hair suggest California. “Mr. Toussaint Andre Ross?”
“Please. Call me Andre.”
The young man tucks the whiteboard beneath his arm. “Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Brendan. Your assistant.”
Andre offers a polite smile, wonders whether the two have met before. Maybe. Human Resources prefers to hire the same kind of pretty boy, fine-featured college grads whom Madison Avenue might hire to sell toothpaste. And yet, isn’t this kid a little more beautiful than the rest? Side-swept bangs, flawless skin, the pink cheeks of a cherub. This kid could make a fortune running cons on the street.
A horn, a siren, the carousel comes to life. Smaller airports have few advantages but among them are shorter waits for luggage. Brendan rents a baggage cart and awaits Andre’s instruction. Andre remembers his own early months at the firm, the eighteen-hour days, the pressure to impress the senior staff. He wishes he’d known he needn’t have worked so hard, that the firm ultimately sought employees with a flexible moral code, political mercenaries happy to manipulate entire communities to earn a buck. This kid looks awfully soft, in his heavy olive coat and thick corduroy pants, and Andre wonders whether this delicate boy possesses the inner toughness their vocation requires.
“Welcome to Greenville-Spartanburg International Airport,” the overhead speaker blares. The girl in the tricorn hat races the length of the baggage claim, parroting, “Welcome to Greenville-Spartanburg International Airport.”
Andre asks, “The rest of the team meeting us in Carthage?”
“Excuse me?” his new assistant says.
“The advance team. Have they already arrived?”
His assistant blinks.
“Please tell me it’s not just you.” Andre hears the defeat in his own voice. “It’s just you, isn’t it?”
Andre pinches the bone between his eyes, understands what has happened. This lone intern is the best Mrs. Fitz can do. No one else at the firm will work with him. He’s toxic, his career imperiled, his reputation tarnished. He can’t blame his colleagues. In their shoes, he would have done the same. Political consultants in Washington come and go. A prize one day, poison the next.
“And Brendan.” Andre stresses each syllable. “How many campaigns have you worked?”
“Including this assignment? One.”
He takes a good look at the kid, doubts he’ll last all thirteen weeks.
The girl wearing the tricorn hat circles Andre and Brendan. She blows raspberries, a poor imitation of a sputtering plane. Andre spots his garment bag rolling along the conveyor belt, and as he approaches, arm extended, the girl races between him and the carousel, blocks