John laughed but wondered if Tom’s pressure would beat Stephanie’s. “Where is he?”
She turned and pointed.
John had to smile at his old friend, an island of calm in a sea of turmoil: President Thomas Winston, code-named “Razor” to the Secret Service, looking as sharp as ever—tall, and serene in his dark blue suit, talking to a pretty young woman. Every strand of his dark, just-the-right-amount-of-gray-at-the temples hair in place, the tanned, chiseled features composed into a relaxed, confident expression. John was willing to bet Tom’s pressure was all right. This was a man who caused more hypertension than he suffered himself.
Tom glanced up and spotted John. He smiled, pointed at him to indicate that he should stay where he was, spoke a few final words to the young woman—an aide no doubt—then started toward John.
“Welcome to the funhouse,” Tom said, shaking hands.
“I warned you.”
“That you did, good buddy. You and a lot of other people.” He turned and nodded to the young woman he’d just left. “See that angel-faced young thing over there? That’s Heather Brent. She’s going to be our designated mass-media spokesperson on the decriminalization issue.”
“She looks about twelve.” John was exaggerating, but she did look awfully young.
“She’s twenty-eight and the happily married mother of two. She’s also a world-class debater who firmly believes in decriminalization. She can verbally slice and dice you without losing one iota of that fresh-faced charm. She’s going to be a potent weapon in this war.” He glanced around. “Let’s go upstairs so you can check me out in peace and quiet. It’s a little crazy down here.”
7
Poppy cracked up when she saw Paulie.
She’d been working out to her Buns of Steel video when he walked through the door. One look at his short, blow-dried hair and she started laughing so hard she collapsed on the floor. She could barely breathe.
“I don’t look that bad,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Do I?”
Poppy managed to stifle her laughter. Gasping, she stared up at him. He’d been looking weird anyway, letting his hair go back to its natural red, but now, with it trimmed all around the ears and off the collar, and his beard clipped down to a quarter inch and neatly edged along his cheeks and throat, she like barely recognized him.
“You look so totally… straight. Like you should be running a bookstore or something.” She got up off the floor and gave him a hug. As her arms went around him she touched the back of his collar where his ponytail had been. She started laughing again.
“Ooh, look! Your neck! I never seen your neck before!”
He pushed her away—gently, but she could tell he was beginning to get pissed. He went to the cracked mirror over the sagging sofa and examined himself.
“Christ, you’re right. I could be a fucking bookworm!”
“But one who’s into leather.”
“Yeah, well, not for long. I better get changed.” Poppy brushed off the crud her black body suit had picked up from the rug. This place Mac had rented for the job was a dump. The only good thing was they wouldn’t like be here that long.
She sobered as she realized what the haircut meant: The snatch was a go, and Paulie was definitely doing the deed.
A fleeting spasm gripped her stomach then let go. The whole thing had seemed like such a lark the first time she’d helped Paulie baby-sit one of Mac’s “packages” three years ago. They’d hung out, listened to music, eaten fast-food take-out, and taken turns keeping an eye on the handcuffed, blindfolded guy in the next room. When the ransom got paid, they drove him to a deserted spot in the woods off one of the freeways and let him go. Easy. No pain, no strain, and lots of gain when Mac paid Paulie his share.
But good as it was, the money never like lasted that long. When they had it, they spent it—mostly on high living. And she did mean high. Poppy had been like heavy into speed back then—oh, she’d do a little toot now and again, and grass for sure, but speed was her favorite. And so whenever Mac called and said he had another baby-sitting job—like maybe a couple, three times a year—they always said yes.
She was amazed how none of their “packages” was ever reported missing. Paulie said Mac had told him you wouldn’t believe how many people got snatched every year. Kidnapping was a growth industry and Mac a major player. But growth industry or not, the last job had like turned her off to the whole thing.
She followed Paulie into the smaller bedroom and watched him begin to change his rags.
“Did Mac give you any idea who you’re gonna be snatching?”
“Nope.”
“I wish you weren’t doing it.” He removed his earrings, then stripped down to the black jockeys she’d bought him for Christmas. Paulie was about half a dozen years older than Poppy, but he still looked good for a guy pushing thirty. So maybe his nose was on the large side, and his face a little pockmarked, but she liked his curly hair, even if it was thinning on top. His deep blue eyes had like grabbed her first time she saw him. Still grabbed her. He didn’t work out but had a naturally muscular body. Cool tattoos too. She especially loved the Grim Reaper on his right upper arm. She’d be turned on now if she wasn’t so damn worried.
He looked up at her. “Why not? He’s paying me extra, and we could use the money.”
“Yeah, I know, but…”
“But what?”
“But I don’t want you to, like, get hurt.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. No rough stuff. The package thinks it’s going for a limo ride. I drive up, I open the door, the package gets in, I close the door, I drive away. Simple.”
“ ‘Package’,” she said. “Why does he always call them ‘packages’?”
Paulie took the white shirt off its hanger and slipped into it. “That’s the way he is. You want me to explain Mac to you? He’s a genius. How’m I supposed to explain a genius?” Poppy stepped over and helped him with the buttons.
“I don’t know. I just wish he wasn’t like so mean.”
“He’s not mean. He’s a totally straight shooter. Has he ever stiffed us? Ever even tried? No.”
“Yeah, but last time—”
“All right,” Paulie said, slipping into the gray pants. “I admit, things got a little rough. But that had nothing to do with us. That was all the fault of the package’s family. Buyer, I mean.” Another of Snake’s words.
Poppy shuddered. “A little rough? That was more than a little rough. That guy—”
“Look, I didn’t like it either, but it worked out, didn’t it? I mean, he’s back home, right? And he ain’t all that much worse for wear.”
“Easy for you to say. I told you I didn’t ever want to do this again.” Paulie stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Look, Poppy. Didn’t we make a deal? Didn’t I promise this is the last one? Well, I mean it. This is going to be a huge score; that’s why Mac’s paying us so much. He’s a good guy that way. If he makes out big, we make out big.” The thought of being set up with a big cash stash was so appealing. Just the two of them, traveling around… no strings… no Mac…
“Okay, fine” she said. “I want the money too. But there ain’t enough of it in the world to make me go through something like that last job again.”
“This will be different, I promise you. We don’t have to worry about the package’s family not paying up because the money’s coming from somewhere else.”
Poppy stared at him. “I don’t get it.”
“Well, neither do I, completely. Mac didn’t give me no details, just that someone else is paying him. All we got to do is baby-sit the package for like a week or so and then walk away. That’s it. No persuaders, no worrying about somebody holding back on the money—it’s totally guaranteed.” At the mention of “persuaders” and what they’d had to do last time, Poppy shuddered again.
“I still don’t like it.”
“Hey, Poppy—two hundred large in cash for a week’s work. We can
go away and never come back.” She threw her arms around him and held him tight.
“Oh, I hope so. And then I never want to see Mac again. He scares me.”
“Hey, you’re wrinkling my shirt.” Poppy let him go and helped him with his dark gray clip-on tie. That done, he shrugged into his jacket. Then he put on this dumb cap and—
“I hardly recognize you,” she said.
He grinned. “You ain’t seen nothin‘ yet. Watch.”
He turned away from her and reached into a brown paper bag on the dresser. After rattling around in it and then fiddling with his face, he whirled and faced her again with a flourish.
“Ta-da!” The transformation was so totally awesome. Poppy took a step back. His normally rectangular face looked round, his nose was wider and flatter, and his eyes hid behind super-dark sunglasses. The only skin showing was between the bottom part of the shades and the upper edge of his beard.“
“Jesus, Paulie! How the hell—?” He pulled a soft white cylinder from the inside of his cheek and held it up.
“A few cotton plugs”—he pointed to his nose—“some nostril dilators, some shades, and I bet I could fool my own mother.” He stepped around the corner and studied himself in the bathroom mirror, obviously very pleased.
“How cool is this? I mean, can you just see me going up to my mother and saying, ‘Mrs. Dicastro, you seen Paulie around lately?’ Would that be cool or what?” Poppy stepped up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. Seeing Paulie transformed like this made her feel a lot better about this snatch. Still…
“You be careful, Paulie. You pick up this package, whoever he is, and get back here safe and sound.”
He nodded, still staring at himself in the mirror. “And then I shave off this goddamn beard and get my hair back to black and—”
“And I’ll have my old Paulie back again.” He turned and kissed her.
“Right.”
She rubbed her pelvis against his. She was beginning to feel hot and didn’t want to let him go. “Mmmm, I love a man in uniform. How about you and me, like—?”
“Whoa, no.” He pulled away and slipped past her, returning to the bedroom. “That’s all I need: Show up late and miss the snatch. You know what Mac would do? I don’t even want to think about it.” Neither did Poppy.
She followed him through the bedroom and noticed a pair of black leather gloves on the bed—fingered gloves.
“Hey, Paulie, these yours?” He turned and looked. “Oh, yeah. My driving gloves. Almost forgot.”
“No fingerprints, huh?”
He shook his head and held up his fists. “No tattoos.”
“Oh, right.” She’d got so used to the letters on his fingers between the first and second knuckles that she didn’t see them anymore. But someone else would notice them sure: l-o-v-e on his left hand, h-a-t-e on his right. He slipped them on and flexed the fingers.
“How do I look?”
“Like you’re ready to drive the President.”
“Who knows?” He grinned. “I might be.”
“Not funny, Paulie.”
“Yeah, that’d be a little much to handle, even for Mac.” He stared at her. “You all set?”
“I think so.”
“Let’s check the room one more time.” She followed him into the darkness of the master bedroom and wrinkled her nose at the smell. The last renters must have kept a dog in here. A sharp, acid odor permeated the room.
Paulie flipped on the light and checked out the two windows. He’d hung room-darkener shades in both, then nailed plywood over them. He tapped his toe against the box sitting on the floor by the bed.
“All our supplies are up to date, right?”
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“What do you think I am, an Appleton?”
His smile had an edge to it. “No. I still don’t know what an Appleton is. You keep using that word and—”
“Sorry.” She should like keep her mouth shut about Appletons. “Just a family expression.”
“Yeah, well, I just want to make sure we got everything we need. Is that okay?”
“Sure.” She knew the checklist by heart: “Three sets of cuffs, fifty feet of rope, duct tape, two flashlights plus extra batteries, three blindfolds, a first-aid kit, a gag, our masks, and a good supply of yellow jackets.” The last were the downers she used to use to bring her off the quartz when she wanted to sleep. They kept them in case the package got antsy and noisy.
“Cool. We’re set, then.” Paulie returned to the front room where he took off his cap and pulled on his long black-leather coat, completely hiding his chauffeur’s livery.
Poppy straightened his lapels. “Nervous?”
“Nah.”
“Come on,” she said with a smile. “Truth: You got to be like just a little bit nervous.”
“Okay. Maybe just a little bit. I mean, like I know Mac’s got this whole thing planned down to the last detail, but still… things can go wrong. Shit happens.”
That it did. Oh, did Poppy know how shit happened. And suddenly a worm of dread was squirming through her gut. She didn’t want anything to happen to Paulie. He was a good guy. They had good times and good sex, and he never hurt her, which was more than she could say about some of the creeps she’d hooked up with since since she’d been on her own.
But it was more than that. Paulie took good care of her. She needed that, because whenever she tried to go it alone she like always seemed to mess up. She could see staying with Paulie forever. Because as far as she knew, he didn’t want kids. And that was just fine with her.
“Everything will be all right,” she told him.
“Yeah. I know that. I’m just a little edgy is all. I could use a couple of hits of Mary. You know… to relax me.”
“That’s all you need. You know how Mac feels. He finds out you been tokin‘, he’ll like kill you.”
“You got that right.” He straightened his shoulders inside the leather coat; then he clasped her head between his gloved hands and kissed her hard on the lips.
“See you later.” Before she could grab him for a last hug, he had picked up his cap and was heading for the side door to the garage.
“Be careful.” Poppy watched as he backed the old white panel truck out of the garage and coasted down the street.
“Please let everything go smooth,” she whispered. Almost like a prayer. She used to pray, but you couldn’t pray about something like this, could you? Maybe she could pray that this time nobody got hurt. Yeah. Somebody might answer that one.
With the truck out of sight, she turned away from the window. Now the hardest part: waiting. She stretched. She felt so tense. Used to be she’d pop a pill to loosen up. Now she had another way.
She went back to the thirteen-inch portable TV-VCR combo they’d brought along and restarted the Buns of Steel tape. Best way she knew to kill time. She turned down the sound, jacked up the latest Jawbox on the portable CD player, and got down to it.
She was determined to get in shape again. She’d been a real hard body back in high school but she’d let herself go to hell. Drugs and fast food—bad news. She still ate too much garbage, and she’d get around to changing that.
But first the drugs. She wanted off the drugs.
She’d been so totally rattled by the last snatch that as soon as it was over she dove head first into the coke… and did way too much. She’d never been strung out like that before. Scared the hell out of her.
That was when she’d decided: no more coke. No more downers, either. Oh, she’d take a hit on a nail now and then, and maybe keep a few thrusters handy—just for diet help—but for the most part she was going to get back into her body and start treating it right. And once this was over she’d like keep treating it right.
Once this was over…
The job had just started and already she had this bad feeling.
She concentrated on the routine on the screen, adding two-pound steel dumbbells to work
her upper body. She felt her heart start to pump, the sweat begin to sheen her skin. Soon she’d be working into a high—not a pill high but another kind. And it was almost as good.
Almost.
8.
“One-fifty over ninety,” John said, not happy with the numbers but relieved they weren’t through the roof.
Usually he took Tom’s blood pressure in the ground floor clinic, but today he was upstairs in the Monroe Room. He’d been to the top floor of the White House on numerous occasions, but this was the first time he’d ever done a medical exam here.
“What do you call that?” Tom said. He had his suit coat off and his left shirtsleeve rolled up.
“Borderline. And considering the circumstances—”
“Not bad.” John unclipped the cuff from Tom’s arm. “Watch that sodium. I don’t much like you staying at ninety on the diastolic; it gets above that and I’m going to hit you with some pills.”
“That mean no more pork rinds?”
“Damn right! They’re loaded with fat and sodium; Pure poison for a guy like you.” Tom fell silent as John rolled up the BP cuff and stowed it in his bag. When he looked up, Tom was standing at the window. His sharp profile was why the Secret Service had come up with “Razor” as his presidential code name. As he stared out at the protesters beyond the front fence, he looked very much alone.
“Surprised by the response?” John said.
Tom turned and shrugged. He’d left his leader-of-the free-world face downstairs. “George Reedy says the White House robs people of their political instincts. We begin to think we can do anything.” His smile was tight, his eyes bleak. “Maybe he’s right. Look at them. They want to crucify me.”
“You expected less?”
“I thought I was pretty persuasive last night. A whole hour of network prime time… I thought I’d convince somebody.‘”