SEVEN LONG TRANSITION weeks later, Don hadn’t stopped. “We can’t keep doing nothing. It’s Christmas. This could turn into an avalanche…”
“Fuck them,” Bobby spluttered. “I’m President-Elect fair and square… no missing votes, no hanging chads, no Supreme Court… a good, solid, honest-to-goodness majority...”
“…by a mere 9 electoral college votes…”
“Excuse me?” said Bobby, his eyebrows arched. “Nine over’s not good enough for you? Fucking one was good enough for Bush in 2000. Even JFK only got 34 over. Don, I’m sick of this ‘ImposterFoster’ bullshit… I’m sick of this Transition Office limbo. I’ve nominated my Cabinet… I’ve got 120 policy task forces running. I want to get on with the job I was elected to do.”
Don turned his head to the window to hide his bitterness. Outside the Presidential Transition Office, two miles down Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House, a bunch of kids were making snowmen. They were probably midget Secret Service agents, he decided, though the thought did nothing to lighten his mood.
Inside the PTO, Don grit his teeth and turned back to see his boss stepping over to the bureau, again. For the fourth time in the last hour Bobby picked up the bottle of bourbon. He held it for a moment as if reading the label for inspiration, then topped up his chunky tumbler. He plopped in a couple of shrunken cubes from the melting bucket of ice and lifted the glass up to his tired, watery eyes. For thirty seconds, or so it seemed to Don, Foster’s eyes searched into the gold liquid as though it were a crystal ball. He again drew the glass to his lips. Foster’s drinking was out of control.
“That slimy Prentice’s been slithering round here, hasn’t he?” Foster slurred, his eyes struggling to keep focus and avoiding Don’s pointed gaze. “He put you up to this?”
EVEN ignoring the protocols of Christmas goodwill, the antagonism toward Foster had not abated. According to Don, now White House Chief-of-Staff-to-be, the anti-Foster movement was accelerating.
The new Congress was due to commence its first short January session in a few days and, given the way the congressional elections had swung, it would be Democrat Majority House leader David Prescott who’d get Speaker. If Don could get Foster to agree, they’d summon Prescott back a few days early from skiing in Aspen and lay it on him. Prescott had been a congressman for sixteen years, and only last year was elevated to Democrat House leader. He’d want to be Speaker and there was no way he’d surrender that role, let alone to a Republican, but maybe a spot as, say, an ambassador would do it. They’d do whatever it took, as far as Don was concerned.
“Send Prescott to Turkey?” boiled Foster. “That’s like sending sand to the Saudis.”
“I don’t care,” said Don, hovering at the edge of disrespect before jumping over it. “Mr President, if you want to avoid trouble on Inauguration Day,” only three weeks away, “if Prescott wants Ambassador to fucking Jupiter, you’ll give him keys to the rocket.”
“Maybe China, then.”
45
FOR LITTLE DAVEY, Isabel’s being scratched from the campaign and Hank’s losing it were not big deals. Sure, with enough surly faces around to sour a month’s worth of breakfast milk, he knew Isabel and Ed were sore but even so, this last week had been the boy’s best lead up to Christmas ever. For the whole seven days, Isabel had completely pulled out of all her other obligations. George had come back from California. Ed was there for most of it, though Davey didn’t much care if his dad had to be at work provided George or Isabel were around to play.
And play George did, though he suffered for it. Stepping back on the lawn to toss Davey a ball, he slipped on a patch of damp grass, threw out a hand to absorb the fall and strained his wrist.
AT Don Thomas’ urging, it was Spencer Prentice who got to be Foster’s emissary to sweet-talk Isabel. What Spencer didn’t know was that the new Speaker’s first task of gavelling open the year’s first two-week sittings would come just two days before Davey’s ninth birthday.
Isabel had promised the boy an extra treat, even crossing her heart over it, and Davey was still skipping around the house at the prospect of spending time with her and Ed for a few days’ fun in the snow. She’d been pining for some refuge up in the mountains, far from the media, the pundits and the party. A few days there with her family would be perfect.