He was halfway through his first growler of the local Elliott Bay Demolition Ale, although, it had to be said, the main reason he drunk the stuff was because no one could reproduce a decent Boulevard Pale Ale. Another of KC’s former delicacies. A fridge dedicated to his favourite beers stood in the kitchen’s small anteroom – not that he ever had enough time to really sample them. Tonight was different, though. Tonight the President of the United States would make time for beer. It was an executive decision.

The country was not at war, he had a late start tomorrow and he was gonna get absolutely shit-faced tonight. Perhaps, if Barb had another glass of pinot noir, he might be getting lucky too. And if not, he was going to attack the beer fridge and soak in the tub while reading a growing backlog of L.L. Bean catalogues. He had a post-presidential canoe trip to plan, after all.

It was at that very moment, as the first chop began to sizzle and smoke and fill up the kitchen with its heady smell of porktastic goodness, that Jed Culver appeared at the kitchen door to put the zap on his mellow.

‘If I could, Mr President – just a minute before I head out home?’

Oh, fuck this for a joke . . .

‘Really, Jed? Working late on a Sunday? You sure you wouldn’t like to forget about it and have a beer instead? I just tapped a new keg.’

The Chief of Staff looked as though he was tempted, although it could have been the smell of the pork chops, of course. Culver was a fool for the barbecue arts, and definitely more of a Texas man than Kipper. In fact, they’d had many debates over the relative merits of Kansas City barbecue versus Texas or Memphis style. Seattle had a barbecue culture of its own but Kip didn’t take it very seriously. General Murphy, a reluctant Missourian himself, had remarked at his retirement ceremony the previous month: ‘My boots should stick to the grease on the floors of a good barbecue joint. I never get that feeling here in Eeyore-land; it feels too squeaky clean, like eating in a surgical suite.’

Jed cocked his head one way, looking at the beer keg, then another as he checked his watch. Satisfied, he bobbed his head in a nod. He seemed grim, more so than usual. It had been days since he’d even mentioned the looming election campaign. Kip wondered what was bugging him. So he could make a note to do it more often. He loved not thinking about electoral bullshit.

‘Well, maybe just one beer,’ Jed muttered. ‘But I’ll still need a minute of your time.’

‘Pork chop night, Jed,’ said Kipper, as if that might save him.