Moss chewed his way through six gluten-free pancakes with sugar-free syrup, four strips of crisp crunchy turkey bacon with two slices of six-grain toast slathered with sugar-free strawberry jam. He looked at his watch when he touched the bell for his plate to be taken away. Fourteen minutes. He held up his index finger to indicate he wanted a refill on his coffee. His cup was filled immediately just as the housekeeper shook out the Post and placed it precisely in front of him on the table. He jerked back when he saw his own picture staring up at him. In his opinion, it was an unflattering picture, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the people at the Post had chosen that particular one on purpose. Probably, the bastards. He was livid when he finished reading the write-up that said, he thought, snidely, that maybe the third time would be the charm for Lincoln Moss. That, he decided, was a definite insult. He debated a full five minutes about calling the paper to ask them to withdraw his name but decided that might look petty on his part. Still, he seethed. If he lost again this year, the damn political machine would never let him live it down. It didn’t and wouldn’t matter if Gabriel Knight, President of the United States, voted for him or not. What the hell good was a vote of one?

Moss scanned the pictures again to see who he was up against. A growl shot out of his mouth. Losers, all of them. And yet he’d lose out to a loser. His anger mounted till he could barely see straight. He reached for his coffee cup and took a huge swallow that exploded out of his mouth like a gunshot. He’d forgotten to add cream, and he’d burned his mouth. “Son of a bitch!”

His cell phone rang, not the White House special one but the other. He thought about not answering it but knew in his gut that it was someone important calling to congratulate him. Besides, only a very few power brokers had the number. Without checking caller ID, he answered the phone and struggled to make his voice sound normal when he said, “Good morning, my friend.”

“Uh . . . I’m sorry but this isn’t one of your friends. This is Maggie Spritzer from the Post. I’m calling to congratulate you on behalf of all the staff here at the Post and to ask you if we could meet to do an interview, and, of course, to take some pictures that are a little more flattering than the one we ran today in the paper.”