The First Councel

“You want me to ask in Latin? The two of you went on a date. Before you left, you swore you’d give me every last detail. In fact, I think the quote was, ‘I’m gonna check out the underwear on the First Daughter.’ You were all primed for the locker room debriefing-so let’s hear it. What actually happened? How’d she kiss? Throw me some play-by-play.”

Once again, I’m silent.

“Don’t hold back,” Trey adds. “Was she good or tongue-sloppy?”

My mind is flooded with images of her in my arms… and the way she slid her hand across my thigh… Oh, man, Trey would die if he heard tha-I stop myself and look down at the muted blue industrial carpet.

“So?” Trey asks. “Tell me what happened.”

I’m sure every guy who’s ever dated her has been put in this position. My answer comes in a whisper. “No.”

“What?”

“No,” I repeat. “It’s no one’s business. Not even yours.”

Rolling his eyes and crossing his arms against his chest, Trey leans back in his seat. “Just because you’ve seen her on the TV in your living room, doesn’t mean she’s been there, Michael. Besides, even if the whisperings are wrong, first and foremost, she’s Hartson’s daughter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she’s got politics in her blood. So if the two of you get pinned against the wall, well… she’ll be the one slithering away.”

CHAPTER 11

The first thing I do when I get home is open the tiny metal mailbox for apartment 708, collect my newest pile of mail, and head over to the front desk. “Anything down there?” I ask Fidel, who’s been the building’s doorman since before I moved in.

He looks below the counter, where they keep the packages.

“Can you also check for Sidney?” I add.

He stands up holding a cardboard box with a FedEx sticker on it and slaps it on the counter. It rattles like a Spanish maraca. “Nothing for you; pills for Sidney,” Fidel says, flashing his wide smile.

With my briefcase in one hand and mail in the other, I wedge the package under my armpit, slide it off the desk, and head for the elevator. “Have a good night, Fidel.”

Angling the corner of the oversized box to press the elevator button marked 7, I stare at the name on the package. Sidney Gottesman. Apartment 709. Celebrating his ninety-sixth birthday in October, Sidney’s been my neighbor for the past two years. And bedridden for two months.

When I first moved in, on a Superbowl Sunday, he was nice enough to invite me over to watch the game-he was asleep by the second quarter. When his doctors amputated his right leg because of diabetes complications, I did my best to return Sidney’s favor. In his wheelchair, he can handle the mail-he just hates taking packages.

Balancing the package in one arm and my briefcase in the other, I knock on his door. “Sidney! It’s me!” He doesn’t answer. He never answers.

Knowing the routine, I leave the box on his rubber doormat and cross the hall to my apartment. As I turn, the hallway’s quiet. More quiet than when I arrived. The building’s air-conditioning hums. The dryer in the laundry room tumbles. Behind me, I hear the clunky arrival of the elevator. I spin around to see who’s there, but no one gets out. The door slides shut. The hallway’s still silent.

Searching for my keys, I reach into my right pocket, then my left. They’re not there. Damn. Don’t tell me I… Did I leave them downstairs with the… No-here-in my hand. Wasting no time, I shove the key into my front door and twist the lock. “Looking for a new job?” a man’s voice asks from down the hall.

Startled, I turn to my right and see Joel Westman, my next-door neighbor, coming out of his apartment. “Excuse me?” I ask.

“Some guy knocked on my door this afternoon and asked me a few quick questions about you. Last time that happened, it was the FBI.”

My briefcase slips from my hand and falls to the floor. As it hits, the locks pop open, releasing my papers all along the front of my door.

“You okay there?” Joel asks.

“Y-Yeah. Of course,” I say, struggling to sweep the papers back into place. When I started at the White House, the FBI talked to my neighbors as part of the background check. Whatever they’re up to, it’s faster than I expected.

“So you’re not looking for a new job?”

“No,” I say with a forced laugh. “They’re probably just updating their files.” As Joel heads up the hall, I add, “What’d they ask anyway?”

“It was just one guy this time. Late twenties. Boston accent. Heavy on the gold chains.”

I look up at Joel, but stifle my reaction. Since when does the FBI wear gold chains?

“I know, kinda weird, but… hey, whatever keeps the nation safe,” Joel continues. “Don’t sweat it, though-he didn’t ask anything special: what I knew about you; when you were home; what kind of hours you kept. Similar to last time.” Joel starts to read the nervousness on my face. “Was I not supposed to say anything?”

“No, no, not at all. They do this every couple of years. Nothing to worry about.”