“Bust it,” Starrell said to the brothers. They jogged off. Starrell sprinted down an alley. As he ran, he told himself that he had to tell Tamika what he had been up to, show her what sort of man he could be. He felt the knapsack slap against his back. Shit, he thought, all that and I still don’t know what the fuck to do.

41 - The White House June 30

41

The White House June 30

When you have nowhere to go, there’s the office. That’s what Addis thought, as he walked by the armed guards at the entrance to the West Wing. He passed Ann Herson, Hanover’s personal secretary. She was carrying a cardboard box. “D-day,” she whispered, without breaking her stride. Outside the press office, Ken Byrd was talking to a scheduling aide. His eyes were tired, his shirt wrinkled.

“Only lost two,” Byrd said to Addis. “Both pretty junior. Margaret’s going to need more than them. But it’s been a bitch getting ready for Chicago. Kelly hasn’t put out the schedule yet. And the big babies”—he meant the White House correspondents—“are screaming. ‘When’s he arriving at the convention? Will he be watching Margaret tonight? Is he offering Cabinet posts to build support? Is he trying to push her speech to the second night? Is it true he asked her to be his running mate?’ Yeah, right. Watch for them to come on out holding hands.”

“You’ll do fine. Just keep’em fed.”

“With what?”

“Empty calories, like always.”

Byrd let the remark slip by.

“You know what’s weird?” Byrd asked.

“Not anymore.”

“It’s been a day, and there hasn’t been anything more on that story about Mumfries and Katie. You hear anything?”

“No, but I’m not on the A-list these days.”

“The reporter who called yesterday, all hot to get a photo of them, never called back. And no one else is asking about it. These stories always leak before they come out. But, so far, nothing. It’s like …”

“Like what?” Addis asked.

“Like … I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’s been taken care of.”

“By who?”

“Someone above our paygrade … . Which tab was it?”

“The Weekly Express. The one that ran the pictures of that black kid. Said he was Bob’s son and a hooker was his mother. Remember that?”

The one owned by the millionaire who also owns Hynes-Pierce’s paper. Now that makes sense. Give up a one-week boost in circulation to protect Mumfries … and the China treaty. Business is business.

“I’m not a religious man,” Addis said. “But there’s something to the proposition that everything happens for a reason, especially when it’s nothing.”

“You know, Nick.” Byrd leaned close to Addis. “This elliptical, whothe-fuck-cares bullshit is getting old fast. Thanks so damn much.”

Byrd walked away.

“For me, too,” Addis muttered.