Shaking his seared palms and fingers as Donatello and the assembled kitchen staff refocused their attention on him, Harrison shouted, “Have I got your attention now?” The stunned onlookers stood in shocked silence, their heads swiveling from the spot where the pot covers came to rest, to each other, to Aldo and then back to the man in the black suit.
Wincing in pain as he gingerly reached into his jacket and pulled out his I.D. badge, Harrison looked around and shouted, “Listen up! I’m the Secret Service agent who’s been at the back door tonight, checking people in. You’ve all seen me back there, so quit acting like I’m some damn alien that just arrived from another planet.” Harrison pointed at Horus and asked, “Do any of you know this man? He has a driver’s license that matches a name on the employee list, but I need someone to tell me if you actually know this man.
Beneath his white, bushy eyebrows, the chef’s eyes panned back and forth between Horus and Harrison. “Yes, yes, of course I know this man,” he answered. “He is one of my waiters.”
Harrison took a step forward, and said, “Yeah, what’s his name?”
“His name?” Aldo struggled with Harrison’s eyes boring into him. He hadn’t expected trouble. He had been assured there wouldn’t be any. The name, an Egyptian name, hadn’t been important to him when he spoke to the Egyptian that arranged this whole thing. What had been important was the cash he received, 50 grand, and the promise of anything he wanted for the rest of his life.
The memory of the unanticipated visit from the young lady last night flickered across Aldo’s mind. She had been sent, she said, by the Egyptian embassy as a gesture of their intent to give him his heart’s every desire. And she had. Oh, yes indeed, she had done that. He never met a woman, not one who would be considered attractive, that would do those things — at least not with him, and definitely not for free. He hadn’t needed to ask her to do any of those things. She just did them to please him, he had supposed. Even now he could see her in the soft glow of the shaded lamps on either side of his king-sized bed. She lay there, writhing, with the sheets thrown back, exposing her dark, beautiful body. Waiting for him to finish undressing, she had stared at him with animalistic, lust-filled eyes that cried out for the remedy only he could supply. Her voice reminded him of a sensuous, purring black panther as she spoke the words, “I’m waiting, Aldo.”
The far-away, dreamy look in Aldo’s eyes disappeared. His face reflected confusion, then dismay, followed by panic as he heard the same words, but they weren’t spoken in sultry tones by his queen of the jungle. The voice came from the government agent.
“I’m waiting, Aldo.”
Aldo’s mind raced to produce a believable reason for his loss of focus, “I’m so sorry, Agent Harrison. My mind wanders because of the many special requests made by the dignitaries dining here this evening. One is allergic to peanut oil, another to shellfish, still another to whole milk. Then, there are those who aren’t allergic to anything, but don’t like certain foods for personal or religious reasons. I have so much to remember.”
“I’m sure,” Harrison folded his arms, trying to disregard the pain in his burned palms. “Now, if you would just tell me the name of this gentleman and how long he’s been a waiter here...”
“His name is...Hamadi,” Aldo replied, “He has been here for two years.” With his heart pounding, Donatello finally remembered the phony name, which triggered an enormous sensation of relief. He breathed a heavy sigh, praying that Harrison would not ask for the last name, which he still could not recall. “There, now let me get back to work. We have hungry people to feed and I believe you should get some ice on those hands and some antiseptic spray as well, something to dull the nasty sting that I know you must be feeling.” Aldo shouted for Luigi to get the first aid kit.
If Harrison had not been in so much discomfort, he might have noticed the facial reactions of the inquisitive surrounding workers before they began to return to their duties. He should have seen the expressions, which ran from confusion and disagreement to outright shock when the chef claimed this Hamadi had worked there for two years. Although puzzled by the chef’s protection of this stranger, they knew better than to interrupt or contradict Aldo. To do so meant you no longer wanted your job. They all valued their jobs. Harrison unfolded his arms and scrutinized the waiter’s drivers’ license one more time, searching for something, anything that might justify the warning that churned in his gut. Finally, he handed it back to the tall black man who remained calm.
Rather than being upset by the agent’s actions, the waiter bowed and, with a sympathetic smile, forgave him. “I understand, Agent Harrison, you are just doing your job. Now, let’s get some ice for those hands.”
Chapter Fourteen
Before leaving his brother’s home, Kevin Gillpatrick found a small, framed picture of himself and Chris at what had been their fifth birthday party. They were standing on the concrete of their backyard patio in front of a large table, on opposite sides of a large cake that they were holding up. Their mouths were opened wide, both of them ready to take a colossal bite.
Shaped and decorated to resemble a Boston Red Sox player’s jersey with a big number 5 on it, the cake had been his all time favorite in a long, memorable, succession of imaginative cakes. Ranking it against other cakes that came to mind, he had liked it even better than the one from which the buxom stripper emerged on their 21st birthday. Mom and Dad hadn’t known about that party, of course. Then again, maybe they had, but chose not to acknowledge it. Other recollections of their fifth birthday that came back to him included the brief but memorable, appearance of Carl Yastrzemski, who had autographed a bat for them. It hung right next to the one signed by Babe Ruth.
Looking at the picture, he spoke as if his brother could hear him, “We had a lot of fun, didn’t we Chris?”
The doorbell interrupted his stroll down memory lane and he gingerly put the picture back down on the table, grateful that he had been stopped before becoming too maudlin. “That would be the chauffer.” He turned out the light in the hallway and turned on the porch light. Before stepping outside, he stared back into the darkened hallway. He spoke to his brother one last time, saying, “You had a great place here, Chris. You had it goin’ on, man. I just wish you were still here.”
With that, he walked out, locked the door, and crossed the expansive porch to the stairs, which he descended in quick, nimble steps. The chauffer and destiny awaited.
Settling into the cavernous back seat of the limo, Kevin fastened his seat belt. If Shannon were with him she’d be after him to do so. He could hear her voice. “Do you want to get a ticket, Kevin? What kind of example would that be for Chloe? Don’t you want her to wear a seat belt when she gets in a car?”
Irrefutable logic, he could always count on Shannon for that. For that matter, he could always count on her for just about anything. Why shouldn’t she be able to count on him to be there for her and for Chloe in the coming years? Why did he feel so compelled to risk his life in the service of his country? Wasn’t one brother enough for this family to sacrifice?
Her logic made damn good sense. Hell yes, he wanted to be there to see Chloe graduate. He wanted to walk down the aisle with her and give her away if she were to get married, although formal marriages were getting to be less common these days. And he wanted, someday, to hold his grandchildren in his arms and spoil them with presents. He tapped the voice dial button on his watch phone and when it asked for a name he answered, “Shannon Gillpatrick.”
Sitting at the informal table in the breakfast area, Shannon stared through the bay window, toying with a bowl of oatmeal and dreaming of what life would be like if Kevin were something other than a politician. Chloe was out on a date with some kid named Rodney Baker, from her high school. His parents were good people. His father was a bank president. But she worried about Rodney, or Rod, as he preferred to be called. Rod played drums in a garage-band facsimile of a British rock group. They called themselves, “Hot Rod and the Cri
mson Death-Eaters.” He wore red leather, spoke with an annoying fake English accent, had spiky orange hair with a hint of purple, and a nose ring to boot. But Chloe portrayed him as being intelligent and a perfect gentleman. Shannon shook her head. She hadn’t seen any indication of that intelligence when he came by to pick up Chloe earlier that evening.
She stirred her spoon around in the remaining clumps of thickened oatmeal which had, by now, lost its appeal. Rising to rinse out the bowl, her watch phone began to beep. Shannon raised her wrist to see the caller I.D. and saw that the incoming call was from her husband. She thought he would already be at the Watergate banquet. Tapping the watch phone’s crystal, she said, “Hi stranger, what’s up?”
“Oh, I’m on my way to the banquet and had a few ideas I thought I’d run by you.”
“A few ideas? What, like for a speech?” she wondered.
“No, like me not running for president. Like me getting out of politics altogether, after my current term is over. I could go into law or maybe teach political science.”
Shannon had never heard Kevin talk like this before. She wondered what might have prompted it. “What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he replied. “Sitting in Chris’s house, I got to thinking about how our family means more to me than being president. Those things you said about me not getting to see Chloe graduate, and not being there for her wedding, well, those things make sense, Shannon. Besides, I don’t want you to be alone. I don’t want you to become another Washington widow. I want to be there with you.”
Tears began to pool in Shannon’s eyes as her husband continued, saying things she had dreamed, but never really believed he would say. “You’re a big talker, mister.” Her voice trembled with emotion. She desperately wanted to believe what she heard.
“I’m not just shooting my mouth off, honey. After the banquet tonight I’m going to tell Daley that I’m through playing decoy and that I’m not going to announce my candidacy for the presidency. I’m going to tell him I’m getting out. I’m going to finish this term and then I’m through. I’ve missed too much of Chloe’s life already. I don’t even know the boys she hangs around with.”
“Oh, you’re really missing something there,” Shannon managed to push a chuckle past the lump in her throat. Sniffing while wiping a happy tear from her cheek, she added, “She’s out tonight with a real Rhodes scholar.”
“Yeah, well, it’s time I got back into our family, Shannon. I’m not even going to wait until the morning. I’m coming home tonight after this banquet is over. I don’t have any idea what time it might be when I get there, but when I do, I want to hold you in my arms and start making up for all the hours and days you’ve had to spend alone.”
Tears flowed freely from Shannon’s eyes as she thanked God for this wonderful moment. “Kevin, honey,” she sniffed again and wiped her face. “What would happen if you just didn’t show up at that stupid banquet? I mean, they could always say you were taken ill, or that due to security concerns you were advised not to attend? Come home, darling. Come home now. I need you so bad. I can’t wait for you to hold me.”
“Oh God, Shannon, I wish I could, but I have to be there tonight. I promise, as soon as I speak to Daley, after the banquet, I’m out of there.”
“No,” she protested. “Come home now, please Kevin, please. Come home before, before anything happens. Just tell Daley—”
“Sweetheart, nothing is going to happen tonight. The C.I.A., the F.B.I. and the Secret Service are going to be all over the place. My limo driver is Secret Service, for Christ’s sake!”
“I don’t care, I don’t care. I want you home, Kevin.”
“I’ll be home, baby — soon, real soon. You just have that Jacuzzi ready and some candles to light, because I’ll be home as quick as I can. I have to go, sweetheart. We’re pulling up in front of the Watergate Hotel right now. I love you.”
“I love you too, Kevin. I love you so much.” Before he could hang up, she spoke up one more time. “Kevin?”
“Yes Shannon?”
“Thank you.” She began to sob. “Thank you... You don’t know how worried I’ve—”
“Well, you don’t need to worry anymore, honey. Things will be different from now on. You’ll see. Now, I’ve gotta go. I love you, bye-bye.”
“Bye.” A harsh dial tone replaced his soothing voice. She tapped the crystal on the watch phone and got up from the table, taking the bowl of oatmeal to the sink. After rinsing it out and putting it in the dishwasher she got some candles out of the pantry. Feeling somewhat better, she began to hum as she headed up the stairs to make sure the bathroom and the big Jacuzzi were sparkling clean and ready for their little party.
~~~
Kevin Gillpatrick was led to a seat near the podium which was being watched closely this evening by three security agents and a closed circuit monitor. If anyone thought about planting a bomb in or near the podium they would be apprehended. Picking up a breadstick, Kevin crunched down on it with a feeling of satisfaction and relief. Looking around at the crowd, nodding to familiar faces, some of whom were friends, others that were smile-to-your-face but stab-you-in-the-back types, he had never been more confident about a decision.
A string quartet played in a corner, possibly the same group that performed at the Franklin home on Thanksgiving. Waiters began to appear, taking orders for wine or whatever libation the diners preferred. Kevin was offered the opportunity to test the wine he ordered, which he did, doing his best to attract as little attention as possible. He inhaled the fragrant bouquet and swished the vintage wine around in his mouth before swallowing and giving his approval. Why did others have to stare at this perfunctory ceremony? It made him feel somewhat self-conscious, reminding him all the more that he was not cut out for the presidency’s pomp and circumstance.
The string quartet struck up “Hail to the Chief.” People stood and applauded, which meant Daley had arrived. Kevin stood and clapped along with everyone else until the president was seated directly across from him.
When they were both seated, Kevin smiled and said, “Good evening Mr. President. It appears as if we have a fine audience this evening, wouldn’t you agree?”
“That depends on how deep they decide to dig into their bottomless pockets, my boy,” the president replied. “The thousand dollars per plate is chump change. It’s the private contributions that come in later which really make the difference.”
“Of course, Mr. President, of course,” Kevin agreed, wanting to discuss the personal matters on his agenda, but realizing the time was not yet right.
“More wine, Mr. Vice President?” The words were spoken by a tall, black waiter who, noticing Kevin had finished his first glass, held the bottle aloft, poised to pour another. Kevin failed to respond, forgetting that he was supposed to be the vice president, until President Daley cleared his throat and got his attention.
Embarrassed and flustered for a moment, Kevin turned to the waiter. “Sorry, had my mind on something and didn’t hear you at first. Please, yes. Another glass, thank you.” The bearded waiter bowed and poured, after which he said, “I believe the soup will be out in just a few minutes, gentlemen. I do hope you will enjoy it because I know Aldo has made sure that it is very special this evening.” As the first waiter went back to the kitchen another waiter showed up to attend to the commander in chief. He took his wine order and asked if the pre-approved menu would still be acceptable. After Daley said no substitutions were necessary the other waiter left.
Kevin wasn’t about to miss the chance. “Mr. President, I need to discuss the...” They were interrupted by the governor of Virginia, an elderly Democrat who had campaigned tirelessly for Daley and had promised to do the same for the next Democratic presidential candidate. He sat, or rather collapsed, into the chair next to Kevin.
“How are my boysh doing thish fine evening?” The old man’s breath reeked of alcohol. His slurred speech made his pompous, drawn-out, southern drawl almost unbearable.
>
Kevin shot a glance at the president and rolled his eyes as Governor Johnson began to complain about long-dead issues that were way past being in bad taste these days.
“Gillpatrick,” the silvery-haired old sot snorted, leaning over to within less than a foot of Kevin’s face, “Why don’t you requesht a different waiter? You don’t shee the president having to put up with a black waiter tonight, now do you? Pershonally, I don’t like them even touchin the plates that I’m gonna be eatin off of. I know that it was all they were good for, back in the day, but I don’t care. Think of the germs man!” His eyes bulged as he launched a loud, malodorous belch, the smell of which was enough to cross a hard-drinking man’s eyes. Without so much as a pardon me, he continued, “Think of your health, think of—”
“Governor,” Kevin interrupted, “perhaps you should think of some coffee. And please, don’t get near anything that might cause a spark, because judging by the alcohol content on your breath you could blow us all to kingdom come, which would be a shame when you consider how much the government has shelled out for our security this evening.”
Johnson’s eyes widened as he sorted out in his mind what Kevin intimated. “Now lishen here, Gillpatrick,” he huffed. “I put a fair number of votes in your pocket, and—”
“And I shall always be grateful for your support, kind sir, which is why I’m suggesting that you ease off on the medicinal spirits. As a proud Irishman I’ve been known to get a snoot full from time to time, you know, and I depend on my friends to keep an eye on me. Well, you and I are the best of friends, aren’t we?”
Sporting a hurt look, the governor stuck his lower lip out like a child who had been scolded.
“Well, aren’t we?” Kevin asked again.
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 12
