Phil also waved and smiled to people rushing past, thinking as he looked at Bianca that she drank the vodka too easily: it went down like water.
“There’s you and me, too. Don’t forget about that. We could blow it, too.”
Behind her smile, Bianca gritted her teeth.
“We are not a couple of starry-eyed homos, my dear.”
“Just get a grip, will you?”
“Tim knows about us, but I don’t know if he’s told Bill.”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe I should just confront Bill and demand he get rid of Tim.”
Phil took a minute to think about it.
“Let’s wait a bit. There’s always the chance we can get rid of Tim without that confrontation with Bill.”
“We ought to go back now.”
“Yeah,” Phil said, his eyes darting around, surveying the room.
Bianca’s mood changed noticeably, her seething anger displaced by a sudden sunny disposition.
“Hell,” she said, throwing out a laugh, “let’s celebrate tonight. We’ve waited a long time for this. We’ll put our clever little heads together tomorrow and figure out what to do. We’ve both waited a long time for this night, you know?”
“There’s my girl,” said Phil, lightening up.
She reached over and patted him on the cheek.
“And don’t you forget it, Phil. I am your girl.”
As they made their way to the open double doors leading to the room where Dumaine was watching events unfold down in South Beach, people made way for them so they could get closer to the just about to be crowned Vice President-elect.
“I believe they’re coming now,” said Leon Pomfret over a crowd roaring out their cheers for the defeated President.
The cameras on all the TVs screens cut from different reporters to an image of President St. Clair making his way to the stage in the small ballroom of the Raleigh.
St. Clair and his entourage squeezed onto the stage. Jack and Francesca were a few feet from him as he acknowledged the crowd, waiting for the applause to subside.
“My fellow Americans, it has been a long road that I have traveled....”
Leon leaned over to a colleague from The New York Times standing next to him.
“And kicked up some dust in our eyes while we followed him,” he smirked.
“And though this is a sad moment for me personally, I can take comfort in having served my country to the full extent of my abilities...”
Francesca squeezed Jack’s hand and they looked into each other’s eyes.
“So sad,” she said in a low whisper.
“It’s life. He’s a tough guy. He’ll be fine.”
“And while we were cut short in the middle of many initiatives I’d hoped to carry out in my second term, we can all be proud of the peace and orderliness with which the American people transfer power from one President to another.”
Jack was happy that his dad only went on for three or four minutes. Why prolong the ordeal? Everybody on the campaign, from his dad to the lowest intern, was just plain whipped.
It was a time for rest.
It was a time for healing.
He felt another squeeze; he looked at Francesca.
“What do you want to do after this?” she leaned over and whispered, her voice taking on just a hint of her original Italian accent, her eyes sparkling.
It was a time for wild, passionate sex with the woman he loved.
* * *
CHAPTER 39
Tim was ready with Dumaine’s jacket when he rose from his chair to join Mowbray for the victory speech down in the ballroom.
Watching from across the room, Bianca couldn’t mistake or miss the expression of deep affection (could she even force herself to call it love?) the two men exchanged when their eyes met. To anyone else, of course, this merely looked like a young staffer wild with excited admiration for the winning candidate. But she was Bill Dumaine’s wife. She knew better.
Mowbray and his wife Gloria met Dumaine and Bianca in the hallway. They all were a little giddy with happiness, so they laughed and shook hands as a hundred people took pictures with their cell phones. They made their way to the elevators and descended to the ballroom on the mezzanine. A Secret Service security detail accompanied them.
There was no denying the fact that if you wanted to move quickly through a crowd, having a Secret Service detail did the trick. Mowbray and Dumaine followed immediately behind an arrow-shaped cordon of Secret Service agents as the arrow plowed its way through the masses assembled on the mezzanine level leading to the massive Ritz-Carlton ballroom. Then down a side entrance, up a few steps, and presto! They were standing on the platform before a couple of thousand campaign workers crammed into the huge ballroom, the hundreds of little crystal droplets in its chandeliers glittering like so many twinkling stars.
After greeting all the senior campaign people on the platform, Mowbray took a full minute to acknowledge the thunderous applause and wild cheering, a beneficent smile on his face. He waved to campaign workers that he knew down on the floor, and threw appreciative smiles to all the people on the platform with him: to Dumaine, to Henry Westmoreland, to Bianca Dumaine, to Phil Thuris, to all the others.
Finally, after all the milling about was done, Dumaine went to the podium in what would be the not-so-easy process of settling down their supporters to the point where Dumaine could introduce the President-elect and Mowbray could make his victory speech.
Then, when the cacophony had died down to the point he thought he could be heard, he began.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your hearts and minds, your sweat and your tears during this long and exhausting campaign. I had a much longer list of remarks that I planned to make at this moment, but I think I’ll keep it short, and I will keep it sweet: ladies and gentleman, the next President of the United States!”
Another eruption from the crowd as all the emotions of the past few months drained out of them through their hoarse voices, flailing arms and waving signs.
Now it was Mowbray’s turn to quiet the crowd. It wasn’t any easier for him than it had been for Dumaine.
Eventually, though, he began.
“First of all, I would like to thank President St. Clair for the graciousness of his comments just a few minutes ago when he called me from Miami. We’ve all just been through a very tough campaign, but—whew!—now it’s over.”
The self-deprecating way in which Mowbray uttered the word whew drew laughter and cheering from the adoring multitudes. He showed them the campaign had been just as hard and strenuous on him as it had been on them, and they appreciated it.
“Tomorrow, we begin the great process that exemplifies the peaceful Transition of American power, a system unparalleled in the history of the world.”
More cheering, and more comments about the rigorous campaign and the sturdiness of the American political structure.
“And next I would like to thank everyone involved with the campaign, beginning with the next Vice President of the United States, Bill Dumaine—” Mowbray swung out his arm to indicate Dumaine, who quickly kissed his wife and rushed over to raise clasped hands with Mowbray in a victory salute.
A wild ovation ensued. Aides pushed Gloria and Bianca out to join their husbands. Gloria leaned over to Bianca and said, “Finally.”
It was at this point that Bianca saw Tim walk out with the ten-year-old twins, Jennifer and Allison. A sour look suddenly overwhelmed her face. Phil Thuris was standing next to her and touched her elbow, drawing her attention.
“What’s the matter?” he said, leaning in.
“I don’t like him touching the girls,” she said in a nasty little whisper.
Phil smiled a deadly sweet smile as he waved to the crowd and spoke to her between clenched teeth.
“Will you just put a good face on it, and stop this shit?”
Tim leaned down, putting his face between the girls and whispered to them. Then he patte
d them on the back and they rushed over to their parents. Each Dumaine picked up one of the girls and turned to the crowd that was roaring madly.
Showing off the twins was always good politics, Bianca thought as she hoisted Jennifer onto her hip and waved to the crowd, smiling at Bill at the same time. But she hadn’t remembered to trot them out at that particular moment. But Tim had. He was getting better and better at politics, she thought.
Too good.
* * *
CHAPTER 40
After everything was over, after the last speech was made, after the last streamer was thrown, after the last balloon was popped, after the last reporter left, after the last drink was drunk, after the last light was turned off in the Ritz-Carlton ballroom, everyone made his way back to the thing each most coveted: a bed.
President St. Clair decided against returning to Washington, instead opting to retire to Flagler Hall, his estate on St. Clair Island.
Jack Houston St. Clair took Francesca Santopietro to his house not far from his father’s mansion.
The island was connected to South Beach by a small two-lane bridge. The Secret Service patrolled the island day and night, and had small craft continuously circling the island—this routine continued whether the President was in here or not, much to the dismay of some of the island residents.
* * *
Bill Dumaine, despite being exhausted, was a little wired, and headed for his suite to have a nightcap with his wife and Phil Thuris before turning in.
A Secret Service agent closed the door behind them as they went in.
Dumaine gave Bianca a great big bear hug.
“We did it, honey! We did it!”
“We certainly did.”
Then Dumaine hugged Phil in turn.
“It sure was exhausting, though, huh?” said Phil.
Just then the Secret Service agent opened the door and Tim walked in.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said.
“Not at all,” said Bianca, with just the slightest edge, but edgy enough to draw a reproving look from Phil.
“Just wanted to know if you need anything before I turn in.”
“Nah, we’re good,” said Dumaine. “We’re just gonna have a nightcap.”
“I’ll make them,” Tim volunteered, moving quickly over to the bar.
Tim quietly made the drinks as the others talked about various points in the campaign and how they thought they could influence Mowbray’s decisions when it came to Cabinet appointments that had to be decided during the Transition.
Tim unobtrusively passed out the drinks: a Ketel One on the rocks for Bianca, an Appleton 21 for Phil and a Scotch for Bill.
There was a little casual conversation about judicial nominations likely to come up in the first term. Two liberal Supreme Court justices were expected to retire, and it was widely known they’d both been holding out to see if a Democrat or a Republican got elected before making up their minds. Now that Mowbray had won, they’d definitely retire, leaving two all-important vacancies on the Court for the Democrats to fill.
“Let’s have another round before we turn in,” said Bill. “You didn’t have one, Tim.”
“Well, I’ll just have a beer,” he said, popping open a Becks and making another round for the others.
Finally, it was time for bed.
Bill got up from his chair and went over to Bianca, rubbing her shoulder.
“You gonna check on the girls?” he asked.
“Yes, on my way in. They’re just on the floor below.”
“Let’s both go check on them,” he said suddenly, very high-spirited and upbeat.
“Okay,” Bianca said, just the slight hesitation in her voice.
“Then why don’t you come back and stay with me tonight?”
Their backs were to Phil and Tim. Phil was busy checking messages on his iPhone and Tim was getting the bar in order, but both could clearly hear the conversation.
“Well, that’s nice, Bill. Let’s go check on the girls, tuck them in, if Mary hasn’t already got them to sleep. But I just took a couple of Tylenol PM and I’m about to collapse.”
“No problem,” said Bill, as positive as before, no hint in any change of attitude. He turned to look over his shoulder. “We’ll be back in five, guys.”
“I’ll be gone,” said Phil. “I’m as tired as the rest of you, and I’m old!” he said with a gruff laugh.
“I’m turning in, too,” said Tim. “Anything else you need?”
“Yeah, you got any of those chocolate roasted peanut bars?”
“Sure. A whole bag.”
“Leave me a couple on the bed, will ya?”
“Yes, sir.”
And with that, Bianca and Bill left the room and closed the door. Phil and Tim could hear them talking to the Secret Service agent outside.
Phil drained his glass as Tim, sleeves now rolled up, continued to tidy the bar.
“What the fuck—might as well have another,” he said, strolling over to Tim at the bar.
Tim looked up, smiled, and took his glass, pouring it half full of the Appleton. The bottle was almost empty. He glanced up at Phil for a second, then filled the glass to the top, emptying the bottle.
“What the fuck? Right?”
“Right,” said Phil.
“Quite a night.”
“Quite a campaign.”
“I’ll say. I’ve never had such an interesting experience.”
Phil moved to a chair by the couch in the center of the room and plopped down with a heavy thud, sipped his rum and looked at Tim’s back. He wasn’t sure how far he should go right now. All he knew was that he and Bianca had some serious decisions to make as to the future of this thorn in their side, this Tim Harcourt.
“So,” Phil began slowly, “have you thought about your next move?”
Tim turned around and looked at Phil, who had his index finger in the glass twirling the ice cubes around.
“Well, no. Not really. Until tonight, I haven’t even thought about tomorrow.”
“Ah, so you have given it some thought,” Phil pressed, just a little harder.
Tim walked over, till he was standing directly in front of Phil. Phil looked up at him. His finger stopped.
“Well, no, not specifically,” he said, holding out his left hand. Phil looked at it. “More ice?”
“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”
Phil held his glass out and Tim eased a few ice cubes into the glass.
“Don’t want too much ice in that fine dark rum,” said Tim as he moved back over to the bar.
“No.”
“Bill hasn’t mentioned anything to me, and of course I’ve never said anything to him—about the future, you know?” His back was still to Phil as he fiddled with the decanters and bottles and other bar items on the sideboard.
“They have maids to do what you’re doing,” Phil said, almost with a snap in his voice. Then softer: “Why don’t you come over here and sit down and tell me what you see for yourself—moving forward.”
Tim turned, but didn’t come over, and he didn’t sit down.
“Like I said, I haven’t thought about it.”
“I’ll be heavily involved in the Transition, so I can make a big difference, depending on, you know—what you’re looking for?”
Tim took a step toward him and smiled a little deprecating smile.
“Bill will be involved in the Transition, too, won’t he?”
As if to say: Who the fuck are you to offer me something when all I have to do is ask the Man?
Phil got the message.
‘Well, if you’ve talked to him about it,” Phil stumbled.
“I haven’t talked to him about it,” Tim said forcefully. “I haven’t even thought about it till you brought it up just now.”
“I was just thinking—theorizing—that you’re young, how old?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-eight, that’s right. And you don’t want to be the Vice President’s Body Man for
four years. You don’t want to be carrying around his chewing gum and breath mints. There are all kinds of opportunities in the new Administration that ought to appeal to an up-and-comer like yourself.”
“Like what?”
“Whatever.”
“Well, speaking of breath mints, I better get those peanut bars Bill wanted.”
Tim went to a door on the other side of the sitting room that led to an adjoining bedroom. Phil could see clearly as Tim went to the bed and rummaged through the duffle bag that he constantly carried that held all those little thing Bill might want at a moment’s notice, like breath mints or chocolate roasted peasnut bars.
Phil rolled his eyes.
How am I gonna get rid of this fucker? went through his mind.
The Running Mate (A Jack Houston St. Clair Thriller) Page 15
