The slogan, complete with a caricature of the man, was painted on a sign that rose from the top of a shacklike office, overlooking a lot of forty or so used cars, festooned with red, white, and blue balloons.

While Gabe was working over and over through the elements of the plan that was designed to save the presidency of Andrew Stoddard and possibly the man's life as well, Big Al Kagan was working over every cliché in his automobile buyer's Blue Book in an effort to sell Gabe a late-model Bordeaux red Chevrolet Impala, with CD changer, power sunroof, factory alloys, and cruise control.

"All you need to do," Big Al was saying, "is just take this baby out for a drive, just a quick spin around the block and out Sixty-six for a few miles, and you'll be belting yourself in for the long haul."

"What do you need?"

"Just your license and I'll hook a dealer's plate on this puppy and you're off."

"I . . . um . . . don't have a license right now. My wallet was stolen."

"ID?"

Gabe thought about the handwritten introductory note folded in his pocket from the president to banker Walter Immelman—a note he never even had to use to get twenty thousand dollars in cash.

"Nope."

"Do you have a trade-in?"

"No, I sold my other car."

"Well, then you must have the plates."

"I . . . well, yes, yes, I do have one."

"One is enough."

"If I get the plate, can I just take the car?"

"Of course, once I get a little paperwork done. But don't you want to take her for a little—?"

Stoddard's cell phone cut the bewildered dealer short. It was playing "Hail to the Chief."

"Give me a couple of minutes, Big Al," Gabe said, walking ten yards away to lean against a silver Infiniti with air, CD changer, low mileage, Bridgestone Turanzas, and a red balloon.

"Ellen?"

"Hey there, cowboy."

"Thanks for getting back to me so quickly."

Gabe pictured the trim, seasoned veterinarian seated in her pine-paneled office, just outside of Tyler, surrounded by photos and children's drawings and paintings of horses. Dozens and dozens of horses. In fact, her office chair and those in her modest waiting room were hand-tooled western saddles, transformed with backs and legs by the grateful owner of a patient.

"In no time at all, you've become a legend in these parts, Gabe."

"I promise to undo that misconception just as soon as I get back home."

"Before you go and do any undoing, my kids will want your autograph and a signed photo of your boss."

"Tell them if they want a legend, they don't have to look any further than their mom. . . . Okay, okay. Harry and—"

"Sarah, with an h. Harry and Sarah. Make it one for each."

"Done. You want one, too?"