Andy was already three drinks down, and he asked Brad to pull him a fourth.
Through the bar mirror, Andy saw the mayor’s daughter swing open the door, and he straightened his back and tucked in his grey work shirt. He knew she didn’t like beer; she was a white wine drinker, a stuck-up toffee-nose if he was really honest with himself, but what the heck. While she wasn’t as hot as a McDonald’s apple pie, she still had legs… and after a few wines her personality might not be that unbearable. He hoped so.
“Did you hear?” she said across the bar, sloughing off her coat and slinging it at the rack near the door. “Taylor? Did you hear about Taylor?” Her gloves flopped onto the counter almost knocking over Andy’s beer. “A glass of white…”
“… wine,” nodded Brad. He’d snatched for the bottle the moment she pushed the door open and set the glass in front of her, giving Andy a wink. Lucky for him she didn’t notice.
“Taylor who? Taylor what?” Andy asked, his eyes taking in her new jeans. Tight in all the right places.
“Like, hello-o! Mitchell Taylor… Vice-President Taylor. Brad, switch on the TV,” she said, without a breath, “Taylor’s dead. Can you believe it? Radio says he collapsed… died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Shh! There!” She pointed at the screen and took a gulp of her wine.
Andy sipped his beer. He was laconic when he wanted to be, and he didn’t really give a shit about politicians. Continually dealing with the moans from Isabel Diaz’s people about putting in access to the shack was enough for him. So what if some politician was dead, what did he care? There were only more of them lining up to suck the public trough dry.
According to the replay time clock on the TV screen, it happened twenty minutes ago. In an echo of President George W. Bush reading My Pet Goat at Emma E. Booker Elementary School on 9/11, Taylor was cross-legged on a rug at Columbus Elementary sweet-talking some kids at an after-school Book Week readathon. With a Dr Seuss book in his lap, he simply keeled over.
Secret Service agents appeared out of nowhere, guns unholstered and scaring the bejesus out of the screaming kids even more than having a weird old guy collapsing in front of them did. While other agents swept the area for an assassin, one knelt beside Taylor to perform the classic airways, breathing and pulse-checks. The agent’s eyes were dark and his eyebrows heavy when he whispered into his cuff. He nodded a few times as he took instructions though his earpiece and, one second after he crooked his finger, three others crammed around the body with him and, cradling the Vice-President between them, whisked him out to the waiting car past the distraught children and stunned reporters.
“We’re crossing now to St Anthony’s Hospital, and Dr Alison
Martin…
“… Vice-President Taylor suffered a massive heart attack but died before reaching hospital. Despite all efforts, we were not able to resuscitate him.”
“Well, cheers to Dr Seuss,” said Andy chinking his beer heartlessly against his bar buddy’s wineglass. “What’s the difference between a politician and a trampoline?” he asked, and immediately answered, “You’d take your shoes off to jump on a trampoline.”
She didn’t return his laugh or cheesy smile, just eyed him as she would a smear of dog shit on her shoe.
“So,” said Brad, not quite changing the awkward subject, “how is your dad, the Mayor?”
Without a word, she swivelled off her stool, grabbed her coat and left.
58
PRESIDENT ROBERT J. FOSTER wrapped his arm around Chancellor Kurt Schneider’s shoulders. Thanks to the late nights and deep secrets they shared when they were Harvard Law roommates, America’s relations with the Federal Republic of Germany were thawing. On their way to pre-dinner cocktails in the Blue Room, they were chatting and laughing like the old buddies they were, the only remaining chill being in the air as they bustled along the colonnade from outside the Oval Office alongside the Rose Garden.
This was Schneider’s first visit during either man’s term. He couldn’t make the Inauguration, but came as soon as he could and the main topic of their talks was a free-trade agreement.
The Chancellor was as startled as the President when a posse of Secret Service agents appeared from nowhere, yanked Foster’s arm off him and whisked the President through a side door, abandoning the Chancellor to ponder the cold outside alone.
Less than a minute later, the First Lady emerged from the same door and, wide-eyed as though nothing had happened, greeted Schneider. “May I escort you to the Blue Room, Chancellor?” She took his arm and added blankly, “The President apologises for the abrupt interruption.”