Born to Run (14 page)

Dear Dad
,
I can't remember the last time I snail-mailed a handwritten letter to you, but don't be alarmed. This is good news. Mostly good news. I am working on the biggest story of my life right now. This one goes all the way to the White House.

I've been dealing with a confidential source for a couple weeks now. He hasn't told me everything, but I know enough to understand that this could be dangerous stuff. That's why I'm writing you this letter.

I have been making copies of all my notes on this story. In case something happens to me--I'm not saying it will, but jus
t i
n case it does--I want you to know where they are. Take the key that's in this envelope. It's to locker number 23 at Columbia Lanes Bowling Alley on 7th Street. You'll find everything in the locker.

I know you probably think this sounds crazy or even paranoid. If you're sharing it with Paulette, she's probably rolling her eyes right now. But this is serious stuff, Dad. It's going to be big. Bigger than anything you can imagine. You are going to be so proud of me.

Love, Chloe

The taxi stopped at the curb in front of the bowling alley. The orange neon sign on the door said they were "PEN," the letter "O" burned out. Paulette paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk. She tried to put one foot in front of the other, but something stopped her. The cold night air hit her in the face, unleashing swarms of butterflies in her stomach.

Not until that moment--as she stared at the entrance to the Columbia bowling alley--had Paulette even considered the possibility that the locker might hold some kind of journalistic treasure. She'd promised her father to check it out and take whatever was inside the locker to the police. Knowing Chloe, she expected the locker to be empty. The girl just wasn't well.

Two men with bowling bags passed her on the sidewalk, and Paulette followed them inside. It was a league night, lots of men dressed in baby blue shirts with short sleeves and their names stitched onto the pocket. Paulette was strangely reminded of her midwestern roots--the winter days of Ping-Pong after school in the basement and bowling on weekends. Chloe used to throw a fit when their father told her to use the bumpers to keep the ball out of the gutters. She had always insisted on competing straight up with her older sister.

Paulette walked past the counter toward the women's lounge. The lockers were in a separate room adjacent to the bathroom. She double checked the number on the key and found locker 23 in the second row. She stepped toward it, inserted the key, and turned the handle. It opened. The butterflies returned; the locker wasn't empty.

You never cease to surprise me, little sister.

Paulette took the expandable folder from the locker and went to the wooden bench in the center of the room. She untied the string and peeked inside. It contained notes, just as Chloe had explained in her letter. Some were handwritten. Others were typed. Paulette was certain that the handwritten notes would be utterly unintelligible. She took a closer look at the typewritten pages, which were stapled together and better organized. They appeared to be a rough draft of an article.

The first line was a grabber: When should a president no longer be president?

Paulette almost smiled. She read on.

In dark times, this country has asked that question before.

The Keyes presidency, however, presents an entirely unique question in American history: When should a president never hav
e b
ecome president in the first place?

Paulette's adrenaline was pumping. She kept reading-- couldn't stop reading. By the fourth paragraph she had to put it down and catch her breath. She went right back to it, read some more, and instinctively brought the papers to her chest, as if to prevent her pounding heart from exploding.

My God, Chloe.

A wave of paranoia suddenly came over her--a taste of what her sister must have felt at the end of her life--and Paulette checked over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching. No one else was in the room. She gathered up the papers, stuffed them back into the file, and closed up the locker. Chloe's notes were hers now. This story was too important to sit on the shelf inside some locker in a bowling alley. Someone had to run with this. She would do it for Chloe--maybe even give her a posthumous co-byline. All Paulette had to do was verify a few facts.

And then one way or another, this story would rock the White House to its political core.

Chapter
22

The Greek found her with ease, just a train ride away.

She was living in an old Italian neighborhood in Queens, worked in an Italian bakery, and made the best cannoli outside of Palermo. She sang Italian songs while she worked and spoke in a perfect Sicilian dialect to her customers. The red, green, and white Italian flag hung in the window each morning, right beside the Sicilian coat of arms with its distinctive trinacria-- three bent legs and three wheat ears around the winged head of Medusa. On some level, the Greek understood her connection to the old country. On another, he couldn't comprehend the constant reminders.

It was as if the Sicilians had never raped her.

Without question, Sofia was the love of his life. Forty years hadn't changed his feelings toward her. That one night in Cyprus, however, had changed everything else.

The express ride from a hotel rooftop without an elevator had left him unconscious for days and had landed him in traction for weeks. The sterile smell of white hospital linens was forever imbedded in his brain, and sometimes he could still feel the itch beneath the body cast. Sofia had taken him home in a wheelchair, but his life as an invalid was finished at their doorstep. Despite Sofia's protestations, he had insisted on walking up the stairs to their second-story apartment under his own power. It took him almost ninety minutes, and the irony was not lost on him that this was his first journey up those steps since the Sicilians had rushed upstairs to throw him off the roof. He was exhausted, as much from the pain as from the effort. At the top, Sofia had taken him in her arms, and he made a promise to her and to himself. He would make himself stronger than ever, he would refuse to live his life on painkillers, and he would once again make sweet love to Sofia the way a man should make love to a beautiful woman. He'd started slowly with her, bringing his sense of touch back to life by exploring the curve of her neck, the soft wave of her long black hair, the smoothness of her skin. When he was ready for more, however, she pulled away. At first he thought it was the battered state of his body that had turned her off, the scars from the many surgeries that had put his broken bones back together.

"It's not you," she'd told him, and the way she looked away in shame, he knew immediately.

"The Sicilians. Did they--"

A weak, almost imperceptible nod of the head confirmed it.

Eight months later, his body was well on the mend. But the marriage was officially over.

The Greek had checked on her over the years, just out of curiosity, to see how she was doing. She'd married an American and moved to New York, where they opened Angelo's Italian Bakery and worked side by side for more than three decades. The Greek respected her right to move on, even though his need to see her had at times been overwhelming. Every so often, he would give in and watch her from a distance--a glimpse of Sofia walking to the bus or raking leaves in the front yard. The Greek didn't think of it as stalking, but Sofia never even knew he was there--except once. Two years earlier, he'd allowed himself to be seen. He was standing on the sidewalk in front of her house as she stepped outside to the mailbox. So many years had passed, but there is a way a man stands, a way he looks at a woman that endures over time and identifies him like a fingerprint. They didn't say a word to each other, but their eyes met and held, and the silence between them spoke volumes. The feeling had been unlike any the Greek had ever felt, and the spell was broken only when Sofia's husband called to her from inside the house. Even then, she hadn't turned away immediately--but finally she did, and she disappeared inside the house. That minute or so between them wasn't much in terms of time. But it had been enough to convince the Greek that the connection was still there, that his "once in a lifetime" was her "once in a lifetime," too, even if she had settled down and remarried.

The Greek hadn't returned since then. On some level, however, his memories of Sofia were at least part of the reason he'd kept himself in such amazing physical shape. The Russians breathing down his neck made him want to see her one last time. An Internet search at the library, just to see if she was still living in the same place, had turned up an obituary. Sofia's husband was dead--and at that moment, the light had switched on.

Plan C was hatched.

The Greek would visit Sofia. He would tell her how he felt. And unless those eyes had lied to him two years earlier, she would help him. She would believe in him this time, forgetting or at least forgiving him for the fact that he was a man whose actions never lived up to the tenderness of his words or intentions. Sofia was his last hope.

The bells on the door tinkled as he entered Angelo's Bakery. Four P
. M
. was the end of another eleven-hour day for a baker. Sofia was behind the counter cleaning when she looked up and saw him.

"Ciao, Sofia," he said softly.

She froze with recognition. Or maybe it was disbelief. She averted her eyes, staring down at the bread crumbs she'd swept into a neat pile on the floor, as if afraid to look at him.

"It can't be," she said.

"You know it is."

She still wouldn't look at him. He stepped toward the counter. She was just three feet away, and even in the twilight of her life
,
her beauty pulled him closer, triggering the memories. For a very brief moment, Sofia was nineteen again, his body was strong, and they could wrestle till dawn bringing each other pleasure. "You are such a beautiful woman," he said. Sofia nervously brushed back a wisp of hair from her face. "Why have you come here?" she said. "I need you." "You lie."

"It's true," he said. "Right now, I need you more than ever." "For what?"

He leaned forward, getting as close to her as he could without crawling over the counter. "Sofia, this time they are going to kill me."

She was silent for a moment, then slowly raised her eyes to meet his. "You should have been dead a long time ago." "That's true. But I'm still here." "Who is it this time? The Sicilians again?" "The Russians."

"Why are they going to kill you?" "Does it matter?"

She put the broom aside. "I suppose not."

"I need money," he said.

"How much?"

"Haifa million dollars."

She laughed without heart. "Good luck."

"Luck has nothing to do with it," he said. "I have a plan."

Sofia didn't answer.

The Greek fell silent, too, but it was calculated. Even after all these years, he knew that if he just shut his mouth long enough, she would eventually look at him, their gaze would meet, and then he would have her.

Finally, he caught her eye, and before she could speak, the
Greek made his plea.

"Sofia, only you can help me."

"I don't want to help you."

"You can't mean that."

"I've lived a simple life all these years. I'm not the girl you married."

"Yes, you are," he said. "Please. I'll be dead in a week if you don't help me. You're the only person in the world I can count on."

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment he thought she was angry at him. But the anger seemed directed toward herself, perhaps for not being stronger.

"What kind of plan are you talking about?" she said.

"Very simple," he said. "I pulled this off once before, and it worked like a charm. Just follow my instructions."

"Why not do it all over again yourself?"

"Sofia, what did I always say about parties?"

She seemed confused for a moment, but then it came to her, and the memory almost made her smile. "Never throw the same one twice."

"Exactly. I've already thrown this party. It was a beauty, but now I need a new host."

"What do I have to do?"

"Take a dirty little secret," he said, "and sell it."

"What secret?"

The Greek smiled thinly, then pulled up a chair at one of the little round breakfast tables. "It's a long story, amore mio. Come sit down. And listen."

Chapter
23

Jack was glad to be back in Miami. Sort of.

His old boss from the Freedom Institute had stepped in to keep Jack from committing malpractice while he was in Washington, but day one was payback. Jack's secretary was out sick, the landlord was hounding him for last month's rent, and Jack was walking into arraignment with a screwball for a new client. The man was a frustrated understudy in a local production of The Full Monty, and the charge was reckless endangerment for slipping his rival a near-fatal dose of ED medication before curtain time. The courthouse jokesters immediately dubbed it the "standing ovation case." Jack thought of Vice President Grayson and the cause of his heart attack, and he took it as a sign: on anyone's list of locos, Miami was still Numero Uno.