in. Both boys seemed uneasy, almost alarmed, at his entrance, and now they both fell silent.
“So, how have the boys been doing, Mr. Tucker?” Lester asked, all bonhomie and good feelings. You’d have thought that we hadn’t exchanged epithets the last time we met. Politics, it would seem, is a genetic condition.
“They’ve been doing just fine, Lester,” I said. “Thanks for dropping in to check.” I flashed a look toward the door, but he wasn’t buying. He actually sat down, just to Jason’s left. Junior’s eyes never left Lester, but Jason was doing all he could not to look at the man.
“Good to hear. We wouldn’t want to hold anything back from the press, now, would we?” Lester took a croissant from the basket that I would have sworn had only bagels and muffins (it was a sure bet he wouldn’t take a bagel) and bit off a corner. He appeared pleased, and nodded his head, as if the maitre d’ was in the room, agonizing over whether Lester’s croissant was adequate.
“That’s a very refreshing attitude, Lester,” I said. “Now, if you don’t mind. . .”
He waved a hand, minor royalty giving the commoners permission to continue their drab, dreary lives. “Not at all. Pretend I’m not even here.”
“I’d prefer not pretending,” I told him.
Jason’s eyes rotated in their sockets a bit, and Junior looked positively shocked. “How dare. . .” he began.
“I don’t see how my presence would cause a disruption,” said Lester, cutting him off. He wasn’t looking at me—his eyes were admonishing Junior for his near-outburst.
“Your presence has already caused a disruption,” I explained in a calm tone. “You’ve ruined the admittedly lousy rapport I’d established with the guys here, and now you’re making it impossible for me to continue with this interview. Was that your goal? Because both times you’ve been in the room, my interviews were cut quite short.”
Lester didn’t so much stand as rise—it was a smooth motion that appeared to have less to do with legs, which have all sorts of bones and joints that can make for jerky motion, and more to do with the perfect, ethereal right of the privileged to their indignation.
“You will leave this house immediately,” he hissed.
“Since when is it your house?” I purred at him. “Get Stephanie to tell me to go.”
Lester looked toward the door, considering, but this time, Junior cut him off.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “This is still my house, and I’m asking you to leave, Mr. Tucker.”
So I left. I drove the minivan back to the hotel, met my lovely wife and children, packed up everything we could legitimately call our own, and checked out. By the time we hit the Beltway, I had my cell phone in hand, and was pushing the button to call Mahoney.
“Hello?
“Mr. Mahoney.”
“Mr. Tucker. How was Washington?”
“I’m still there, but I’m on my way back. I have an assignment for you.”
“Broken fan belt?”
“No. I’m getting a handle on the Legs Gibson thing. But I’m going to need to consult with a panel of experts.”
“Such as. . .”
“A carpet expert, a medical expert, a political expert, an accountant, and someone who understands the workings of a major airport.”
“Aha.”
“Precisely. Set up an evening with The Guys.”
Chapter
Nine
In case you were wondering, driving from Washington, D.C. to New Jersey with two pre-teenage children is no more enjoyable than traveling from New Jersey to Washington, D.C. with two pre-teenage children. Harry Potter had finished his tale by the time we left Maryland, which left the 15-minute tour of Delaware, and about a two-and-a-half hour stretch of our home state, to survive without the aid of an apprentice wizard. The scenery didn’t help, either. I believe it was Charles Kuralt who once said, “thanks to the Interstate Highway System, it’s now possible to travel from coast to coast without seeing anything.”
Somehow, though, we managed to make it home in four pieces, and for once, I was actually glad for the extra room in the minivan, which had made it possible for Leah to spread out on the back-back seat while Ethan played Gameboy in the back seat, thus avoiding any serious bloodshed among the progeny. We pulled into our lovely crumbling driveway at about seven in the evening, just in time to unpack and make dinner for four before collapsing into a sniveling heap on any available sofa. Luckily, Abby did the cooking.
You have to understand the freelance mentality. We are an exceptionally paranoid lot. We are convinced that, once we finish one