Presidential Deal (4 page)

One could garner personal power, one could reward friends, one could make a show of doing things differently, but the days when one man could change the world were gone forever. Even JFK had been forced into alliances he’d personally abhorred, had he not? She glanced at her husband and shook her head.

“What’s that about?” he said. He was checking the knot of his tie now, staring back at her through the mirror.

“Nothing,” she said, forcing a smile. “You look handsome.” And it was true. He was still handsome. If anything, age had only dignified his features, which, when he was young, had been almost too perfect. A touch of gray at the temples, squint lines at his eyes, a weathered look on his burnished skin. The Marlboro Man in city dress, refined, at ease.

“You want me to talk to John? He could handle the ceremony. It wouldn’t have the same flair, of course.”

He’d probably do it, she thought. And yet there was something withheld in the offer, something left unsaid. As if she could calculate what it might cost or, to put the best possible light on things, what it could add to have her there, draping the heroes with their medals, how many more photos would be lifted off the wires with her doing the honors—laurels from the First Lady—than if gruff John Groshner were there. And then it crossed her mind that the entire business was a setup, that her husband, this consummate politician, might have calculated that she would outshine even his star in that particular context…

…but that was being too cynical, even for Frank, who, after all, was hell-bent to capture the state of Florida and its twenty-five electoral votes from Jorge Alejandro Vas. That was where his thoughts were focused, not on some photo opportunity.

“Go,” she said wearily. “Go talk some sense into Jorge Vas. I’ll handle the heroes.” She smiled to show she understood.

He smiled in return, and she thought she saw a moment’s flash of that boy she’d met in England so many years ago. He’d been fly-casting, showing off for her, stepped off backward into a deep pool and filled his chest waders, she’d had to dive into the fast-flowing stream to get him untangled before the current swept him away…

…had dragged him—a president-to-be who couldn’t swim—gasping and choking to the bank, where he finally caught his breath and grinned up sheepishly at her.
He’s something special
, she’d thought back then,
and yet he needs me too
. A long time since she’d thought of that moment, thought of saving him…

Then, just as quickly, the flash was gone, and he had bent to brush her cheek with his lips and she caught a hint of his cologne. “You’ll knock ’em dead,” he told her, and then he was out the door.

Chapter 4

“You look pretty spiffy,” Vernon Driscoll said. The ex-cop leaned in the doorway of John Deal’s bedroom, working a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t looking at Deal, though. His eyes were on the television atop Deal’s dresser, where a weatherman was tracing the development of yet another tropical storm, a sizable whorl of red and green weather bands advancing toward the Caribbean.

“Thanks,” Deal said. He didn’t feel spiffy, not at all, and the prospect of another storm system grinding their way didn’t do much for his mood. He checked his reflection in the mirrored sliding door of his closet: the one decent suit he owned, a dark wool pinstripe he hadn’t worn in a couple of years, pinching him now at the waist and shoulders, a white button-down shirt that seemed to have shrunk one size at the neck. When DealCo had been a major player among South Florida builders, when his old man had still been around, he’d spent plenty of time in suits.

But that had been a decade or more ago. Before his old man had sent the firm into ruin, then painted the walls of his bedroom with the insides of his head. Now Deal spent most of his days moving from job to job, keeping his crews moving, a hammer in his own hand as often as not. You couldn’t really swing a hammer while you were wearing a tight suit.

“Too bad they switched this heroes shindig to Miami, though,” Driscoll said. “You’re going to get pretty hot in that outfit.”

“At least it’s not raining,” Deal said.

“Give it a couple of days,” Driscoll said, pointing at the television.

Deal nodded glumly, though it really didn’t matter about the heat or the prospect of another storm. When he’d received the call about the award, he understood that the ceremony would be held in Washington, D.C. He’d spent a week working out a plan with Janice, his estranged wife, had intended to pick up his daughter, Isabel, in St. Pete, take her along, make a sightseeing trip out of it. Nearly seven now, she was old enough to appreciate such things. But a few days ago, there’d been another call from the White House and Deal had gotten it straight: The President was coming to Miami, the presentations would be made there. No sightseeing trip after all. And no visit from Isabel, either, at least not right now.

“You promised her a trip to Washington, Deal. And now you’re canceling,” that’s how Janice had put it. “You just don’t do that to a child her age.”

Making it his fault, somehow, piling on the guilt. The upshot was, Janice was using her vacation from the gallery in Naples where she worked to take Isabel to Orlando and its associated fantasy worlds for the week; Deal could have his visit with his daughter another time. It was illogical, and maddening, but in Deal’s mind pushing Janice would have been like squeezing a fine teacup, one of those with all the spidery fracture lines just beneath the glaze. His wife, so lovely on the surface, so fragile underneath.

But she’d been doing better, they’d been making progress, edging back toward one another. He was determined not to do anything that might blast that possibility apart.

“You gotta admit,” Driscoll said, breaking into his thoughts, “Miami’s the perfect place to pass out the awards. Number one in tourist murders, hurricanes, money-laundering, it only stands to reason we ought to attract more heroes than anyplace else. You know, like a lot of bears just naturally migrate to those spillways where the codfish try to swim upstream?”

“That’s salmon, Driscoll.”

“Them too,” Driscoll said. “You follow my reasoning.”

Deal simply nodded. Getting into the fine points of an argument with Driscoll would be like inviting legal discourse from Yogi Berra. Better to let the matter stand, let cod displace the salmon in the waters of the Pacific Northwest.

He turned back to the mirror, gave his sleeves a tug, as if that might stretch the fabric out a size or two. There were a couple of sport coats in the closet that he would have greatly preferred, but he thought the suit was the appropriate thing, under the circumstances. He glanced at Driscoll, who was wearing a version of his retirement uniform: cutoffs, rubber flip-flops from Kmart, a black Pig Bowl sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out, a snarling, slobbering boar’s head stenciled across the chest.

“You ought to be part of this, you know,” Deal said. He’d said as much to the White House aide when she’d called, as he had to every reporter whom he’d talked to following the incident, but it was a waste of effort. From day one, Driscoll, in his typical fashion, had shunned the limelight, refusing to take any shred of credit for their adventure on the bay.

“I was just along for the ride, buddy-boy, that’s all.”

“Bullshit. What about that last kid we pulled up?”

Driscoll shrugged. “You did all the heavy lifting while I was having me a siesta.” He touched the scar on his forehead. The stitches were gone, but the hair they’d had to shave where the gash had run up his scalp was still thin. “I might have bled to death if it wasn’t for you.”

“I doubt it,” Deal said. “You’re too ugly to die.”

“I appreciate it,” Driscoll said, cocking his finger at Deal. “And I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” Deal said. Stacked up against all the things Driscoll had done for him and his family, Deal thought his payback seemed minuscule.

Driscoll shook his head. “You ought to take a minute, consider what you did, my friend. There’s twenty people out there chasing the American dream this very day because of you.”

Deal glanced at him. “The whole thing was a stroke of luck for everybody. And I’d have never saved that kid without your help.”

“Sure you would’ve,” Driscoll said. “Just accept it. You’re a hero. The President’s gonna shake your hand.”

Deal bit his lip in frustration. About as easy to argue with Driscoll as it was with Janice.
Maybe
he could have brought the kid back to the
Miss Miami
in time, then brought everyone in safely, but he sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted to try. Even with Driscoll’s help, he’d been as exhausted that night as he’d ever been, mentally as well as physically.

The fact that those women and children had been cast into the water like so much excess baggage had weighed upon him more than anything. He’d helped save that group, sure, but nothing had changed the conditions that led to them being out there in the first place.

“How many boats in the Gulf Stream right now, full of people trying to make it to Florida, Vernon?”

Driscoll shrugged. “Probably a couple as we speak. What’s your point?”

“Who’s going to save the next bunch when their boat swamps or some scumbag tosses them over the side?”

Driscoll stared at him. “Hell, I dunno. But that doesn’t take away from what you did.”

“The real hero,” Deal said, “would be the one who could change why those people are climbing into the boats in the first place.”

“That’s probably why the Prez is coming down,” Driscoll said. “He’s going to hang that medal around your neck, then make a big announcement, normalize relations with Cuba…”

“When pigs fly,” Deal said. In Miami, even the mention of such a notion could get you shot.

“Naw, I got it all figured out. He’s going to buy out Fidel, send him to a Swiss chalet somewhere, appoint Jorge Vas the new president. Vas’ll get the casinos going again, all the boats’ll be heading the other way, steaming into Havana harbor.”

It was Deal’s turn to stare. Jorge Vas was the ultraconservative leader of the Cuban exile community. Detractors claimed he dreamed of returning to his homeland as the new Batista. “That’s your solution, is it?”

“It’s about as likely as anything else on the board,” Driscoll said, then gave Deal a more serious look. “We got a time-honored tradition of mucking around in other countries’ business, especially south of the border. I don’t see it changing anytime soon.”

Deal gave him a glum look. Cuba. Haiti. El Salvador. Nicaragua. Panama. Colombia. Peru. Mexico. An unbroken roll call of disasters for U.S. foreign policy. Maybe Driscoll was right. Forget the big picture. Be happy he’d saved those poor people. Take his medal. Smile for the cameras. Go back and build good houses. Maybe one of the kids he’d hauled out of the water would live in one someday.

He forced himself from his thoughts, gave Driscoll a grudging nod. “You could at least come along for the ride,” he said.

Driscoll shook his head. “Not my kind of deal, pards, you’ll forgive the expression. But you give the Prez a kiss for me, okay?”

Deal regarded him for a minute. “I think that’s the French president,” he said finally, “where you get a kiss.” He was trying to twist his neck free, find some room inside the noose of his tie. Dark blue silk, a knot that felt the size of a fist, about a thousand tiny Snoopy images knitted in the fabric. He wasn’t sure the tie was dressy enough, but it was the only one he had that matched. Besides, Isabel had given it to him last Father’s Day. It was going to have to do.

Maybe there’d be a picture in the Orlando papers, he thought. Maybe she’d see he’d worn the tie. That would be something, at least.

“Don’t worry about how you look,” Driscoll said. “I saw the roster. Most of the people going to that ceremony are either cops or some kind of military. Next to them, you’re gonna come off like the Duke of Earl.”

“I can expect a lot of ‘P
IG AND
P
ROUD OF
I
T
’ T-shirts, is that what you’re telling me?”

“Nothing that dressy,” Driscoll said. “Fact of the matter, I knew a detective from Fort Lauderdale won one of these things a few years back. He stumbled onto that heist out at Gulfstream, took out three guys by himself, talked the fourth guy into surrendering his hostages.”

Deal nodded. It was a vague memory, something from another era of Miami history, when crime had been a grander, somehow classier endeavor. Now most of the criminal minds around seemed to be focused on blowing away 7-Eleven clerks or assaulting grandmothers. He’d taken a crew to lunch the other day, they’d come back to a job site at the far south end of Old Cutler Road to find their power cords stolen.

Fifty bucks of worn and patched cord to replace, but he’d lost the labor of six men for two hours while someone drove all the way to Shell Lumber (Deal refused to trade with the ubiquitous chain supply stores), then he’d had to send two concrete trucks back to the plant because the footing forms hadn’t gotten done, and finally he’d had to scratch the rest of the day altogether when a thunderstorm, typical for an early summer afternoon, came crashing in just as they were ready to go to work again.

“Jiggs McCullom was this cop’s name,” Driscoll was saying. “He used to wear a sport coat looked like a blanket he took off one of the nags at the track. Only coat I ever saw him in. No question that’s what he wore to pick up his medal. If he even bothered to go, that is. I guarantee you one thing, if the ponies were running, the Prez had at least one no-show that day. The whole thing was sheer accident to begin with—Jiggs had one shining moment as an officer of the law, and he hit the quinella with it.”

“Maybe
I
should stay home,” Deal said.

Driscoll snorted. “Don’t give me that. You’re dying to go. I would be, too. I’m just jealous, that’s all.”

“Why’d you nominate me, then?”

Driscoll glanced at him. “Nominate you for what? The Prez has people that read the papers, the newsmagazines, watch Ted Koppelman.”

“Ted Koppel,” Deal corrected.

“So he had his name changed.” Driscoll shrugged.

It was true, Deal thought, there had been plenty of public fuss over their adventure, but the aide from the White House who’d called to inform him of his selection had made it clear: civilian nominees were put forward officially by mayoral or gubernatorial offices from around the country, and Deal’s name had come from the mayor at the behest of the chief of police. No question in Deal’s mind where the process had begun. Driscoll might have left the department, but his influence lingered on.

“Thanks anyway,” Deal said.

Driscoll reached out to clap him on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, pards. You go on down to the Hyatt, rub shoulders with the Prez, mention D & D Security in your acceptance speech. We’ll have a drink when you get home.”

D & D Security, Deal thought. The result of an impulsive gesture that would have been more typical of his old man. Deal had fronted Driscoll a thousand dollars for office rent and supplies, that had made him a partner in the security business. Driscoll had come home with the cards, calling Deal his silent partner. “Besides,” he’d said, “D & D makes it sound more like a
company
.”

Deal gave Driscoll a look. “They’re handing out thirty-five of these medals,” he said. “I don’t think there are going to be any acceptance speeches.”

Driscoll offered another of his patented shrugs. “Take some cards, then. Slip one to the Prez while he’s giving you a kiss. All the stuff people try to dig up on him, he ought to have his own counterintelligence consultants.”

“He has a couple already,” Deal said. “They’re called the FBI, the CIA.”

“I’m talking about people that can get in there, do him some real good,” Driscoll said, unfazed.

Deal rolled his eyes, took the card that Driscoll extended toward him. “I’ll be sure and pass it along.”

“You’re a national hero,” Driscoll said. “He’ll listen to you.”

“Give it up, Driscoll.”

“There’s money to be made in private security. You want to spend the rest of your life driving nails, building strip malls?”

“I can think of worse ways to make a living, Vernon.”

Driscoll feigned exasperation as Deal tucked the card away, then checked his watch. Less than an hour before his scheduled arrival, no more time for banter.

Besides, Driscoll understood how Deal felt about his work, perhaps even envied him. He understood what he could get his hands on, was less certain about things he couldn’t, that was the simple truth. He knew wood and concrete, how they could be shaped, what could come from the application of his efforts with saw, hammer, and chisel. He was no artist, but he considered himself a fair artisan. He could measure the worth of a day by what stood where nothing had a few hours before. He took great satisfaction in restoring an older home another builder might dismiss as a “tear-down,” took pride in seeing places he’d put up weather hurricanes, and a corresponding sadness when neighboring structures toppled for the lack of simple craftsmanship or worse, because someone, builder or owner, had wanted to save a few hundred dollars.