act, Crosby should have gone to the damn governor.
“Diego won’t be in that jail much longer,” Angie said matter-of-factly.
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m meeting with somebody that can make it happen.”
“Tell me who.”
“Nope. Can’t do that.”
“Aw, come on, Angie Armstrong.”
She said, “You need a cup of coffee.”
The chief felt looser than a bobble-head doll. He planted both elbows on his desk to self-stabilize.
“Well, okay, how soon is soon?” he asked. “When’s your big meeting?”
“This weekend,” Angie replied, “at Casa Bellicosa.”
“What?”
She smiled. “Why do you think I’m going to the ball, Jerry? Not for those damn snakes, I promise.”
* * *
—
Mastodon’s day was thrown off-schedule by the Suzi Spooner incident. The thirteen minutes he’d set aside for tanning were instead spent getting reamed by his irate wife. By the time she stormed out of the suite, Mastodon was late for a long-sought meeting with a surf-crazy Turkish tycoon and prospective hotel investor. The next morning the President would be flying to Alabama for a tour of tornado damage followed by eighteen holes at Augusta and then private fundraisers in Chapel Hill, Hilton Head and Sea Island. He would not re-occupy the Cabo Royale until he returned to Casa Bellicosa on Saturday, before the Commander’s Ball.
Christian was glad for the extra time to re-inspect and re-test the temperamental machine. The second run-through using Spalding in the chamber had gone off without a hitch, but then a douche identifying himself as a lawyer for The Knob called demanding access to the tanning bed—he wanted photographs and of course all the maintenance records. Christian told him to contact the manufacturer’s corporate office.
The lawyer said, “You should know that my client’s in bad shape after the accident.”
“And you should know,” replied Christian, “that being in bad shape was the only reason your client got this gig.”
Later he went to hang with Spalding on his lunch break. The talk of the kitchen was Mockingbird’s interruption of Mastodon’s noisy tryst. Depending on which version of the episode was circulating, the stranger in the President’s bed was either a retired Olympic gymnast, the revenge-minded wife of a promiscuous Cabinet secretary, or a professional stripper.
Both Spalding and Christian voted stripper. Whoever she was, she’d been smuggled in and out of the Winter White House without being seen by any of the staff. That was impressive.
Another topic of Casa gossip was the raunchy behavior of a club member named Stanleigh Cobo, who in a single swoop through the grounds had supposedly propositioned a breakfast buffet attendant, an aesthetician, a laundry sorter, a tennis instructor and three female guests, including the married daughter of a well-known Mafioso. In each instance, the offer had included an unseemly fanning of cash.
When confronted by the manager while crossing the croquet lawn in orange Crocs, Cobo had indignantly denied approaching any of the women. Then, after being led to the unmarked salon reserved for the embarrassingly drunk or high, he’d collapsed in weepy contrition, blaming his offensive actions on an unspecified “diet supplement” that he’d taken for the first time. He was examined by the club physician and then sent home with a bottle of spring water and a reprimand.
“The dude looked like a rabid dog. I served him myself,” said Spalding.
“What the hell was he drinking?” Christian asked.
“Virgin coladas, swear to God. I’m gonna go grab a smoke.”
Christian followed his friend outside to the pretend bamboo garden. A cold front was blowing through, the sky piled with gray-shouldered clouds. Spalding lit a cigarette and said rain was in the forecast. Christian said it was snowing up North.
A surreal warbling arose from a room on the other side of the bay window.
Roll on, roll on
You big unimpeachable you
They lie, they scheme, they plot in the dark
Like all deep-state traitors do
But they ain’t as smart, and they ain’t as hungry,
And they don’t know how to stage a coup.
Unbendable, unbreakable, unstoppable,
You big unimpeachable you!
Christian grimaced and said it sounded like macaws in a microwave. Spalding told him it was the Potussies rehearsing a song they’d written in honor of the President.
“To be performed live at the Commander’s Ball,” he added, “which lucky you won’t have to suffer through.”
When the second verse began, Christian spun and said, “Let us motor the fuck out of here.”
It had begun to drizzle, so they relocated to a latticed gazebo used for waterfront weddings and the occasional renegade bris. From there the off-key Potussies could not be heard. The breeze had picked up and Christian felt the temperature