The Running Mate (A Jack Houston St. Clair Thriller)

by Andrew Delaplaine

  “We got a lot to be thankful for, Mr. President.”

  “That we do, Lonnie, that we do.”

  St. Clair was thinking about his schedule for the day. It would begin by going downstairs to officiate at a meeting in the Cabinet Room with President-elect Mowbray and senior members of their Transition team.

  “Coffee’s ready, sir,” said Lonnie, leaving the room.

  St. Clair had just turned to go sit when his son Jack stumbled into the room, looking quite the worse for wear.

  President St. Clair regarded his wayward son with humorous displeasure.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

  “It wasn’t exactly the cat,” moaned Jack.

  A smile crept across the President’s face.

  “I already know Francesca spent the night with you.”

  “You peeking around corners again, Dad?” said Jack, plopping down into a Queen Anne chair and grabbing his forehead.

  Lonnie reappeared.

  “Would you like one of those café con leches you taught me how to make, Mr. St. Clair?”

  “I would, Lonnie. Thanks.”

  When he first entered the White House, President St. Clair had insisted on changing the protocol for his early morning routine—forcing the staff to set up an English style breakfast. So all kinds of breakfast foods were available on a long sideboard against the far wall: sausages, scrambled eggs, black pudding, hash browns, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, etc. Every member of the private household served himself. No waiters. Or ushers, as they were called in the White House.

  After his second wife died, President St. Clair didn’t have a lot of family staying over in the Residence. It was only when Jack or Rafael came up from Miami that he had any true family staying with him, and it was nice when they brought their girlfriends with them. Both Francesca and Antonia were beautiful women.

  “Eggs, Mr. St. Clair?”

  “Scrambled eggs and sausages, Lonnie, thanks,” said Jack.

  Lonnie nodded to an usher standing by the door, and while Lonnie went to make the café con leche, the other usher went to the sideboard to plate up Jack’s breakfast.

  Lonnie smiled. As much as the President had wanted people to get their own breakfast, almost nobody ever did, except occasionally the President himself. So that’s the way they kept it, every morning, day in and day out. Lonnie wondered what changes the new President would make to their daily routine.

  “Where is she, anyway?” asked the President, dabbing a little Tiptree marmalade (a gift from British Ambassador Lord Ellsworth) onto his buttered croissant.

  “Still in bed, if she has any sense,” said Jack, holding his head. “I think we drank a whole bottle of tequila last night.”

  “Well, hurry it up while the taxpayers are footing the bill,” said St. Clair.

  Just then, Francesca came into the room, not too steady on her feet. She grabbed Lonnie by his arm to hold her steady.

  “A bloody bull, Lonnie, and eggs Benedict.”

  “Yes, Miss Francesca,” said Lonnie, moving to the sideboard to plate up some eggs Benedict while whispering to another usher the bloody bull order.

  Within sixty seconds, Francesca had her eggs Benedict placed in front of her alongside a bloody bull richly spiced with horseradish.

  She took a long draft from the bloody bull.

  “Mmm,” she cooed, suffused in a satisfying aura of relaxation. “Just like they make ’em at Joe Allen’s in New York.”

  Jack heard it when Lonnie leaned over and whispered to his dad, “Mr. Clougherty is on his way up, Mr. President.”

  The President just nodded.

  “Good. We’ll get rid of some of those eggs over there,” he said with a gruff laugh. “And you better pour out his coffee right now. You know how he has to have his coffee.”

  Just then, the door flew open and Francis Clougherty came charging into the room.

  “Hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr. President,” he said in a manner that indicated that he didn’t really give a shit whether he was disturbing the President or not. Suddenly, St. Clair felt like a real lame-duck President.

  “Not at all,” said President St. Clair. “Help yourself to breakfast, Francis.”

  Clougherty dropped his file on the table at an empty place setting.

  “Hi there, Jack, Francesca,” he said in his gravelly voice.

  “Hi,” said Francesca.

  “Morning, Francis,” said Jack, wolfing down a spicy sausage and gulping down his second café con leche.

  Lonnie loomed over Jack’s shoulder as he placed Clougherty’s cup of black coffee in its place.

  “Another one, Mr. St. Clair?”

  “Yes, Lonnie, thanks.”

  “Your coffee’s here, Mr. Clougherty,” said Lonnie.

  “Thanks, Lonnie.”

  The chief of staff was at the sideboard buffet filling a plate that ended up with what President St. Clair thought was a rather large array of foods: large sardines grilled in the Portuguese style (there was a new chef down below), tarragon roasted potatoes, sliced ham, two sausages, three eggs over easy and some whole wheat toast.

  He sat down and dug into the food without any ceremony.

  “What’s in the file, Francis?” asked the President.

  “Umff,” grunted Clougherty, egg yolk dripping from the left corner of his mouth, pushing the file across the pristine white tablecloth. “Here are the papers you’ll need for the Transition meeting this morning. This is your copy of the President’s morning briefing outlines, the economic report, the national security report. That’s about it.”

  “I think I might go back for a nap,” Francesca murmured, getting up and kissing Jack on the lips. She half stumbled to the other side of the table to give the President a kiss on the cheek, before leaving the room and going down the hall back to the bedroom where she’d spent the night with Jack.

  “Can’t say’s I blame her,” said Jack. “Lonnie. Let me have one of those bloody bulls you gave her!”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. St. Clair,” and Lonnie nodded to the steward, who rushed to the next room to make the drink.

  ‘Those are really good sausages,” said Jack.

  “Kentucky sausages,” said Lonnie.

  “Yeah?” said Jack, looking over his shoulder.

  “Louisville,” said Lonnie.

  “I can’t believe we’ll be outta here in a couple of months,” said Clougherty, looking around.

  “At least I won’t have to read all these reports about trouble in countries I never heard of before I got here,” said the President, leafing through the briefing papers.

  “How’s the job hunt going?” asked Jack.

  Clougherty chuckled.

  “I can’t decide whether I want to be a senior partner in a prestigious law firm or the chairman of a major multi-national corporation. The law firm offers huge money, but the chairmanship includes travel all over the world.”

  “Life’s tough,” said Jack, chewing on the last part of a sausage patty and thinking of Francesca back in their room luxuriating between two 400-thread count sheets.

  “I guess it could be a lot worse,” said Clougherty. “Of course, you have to put together a post-Presidential staff, Mr. President.”

  “Yes, I’ll be giving that some thought over the next few weeks, Francis. You wouldn’t be interested in spearheading the fundraising for my Presidential Library, would you?”

  “Of course I would, Mr. President.” A pause. “Part-time.”

  They all laughed.

  “Whoever heard of a Presidential Library in a place like Miami?” Jack said. “Or any other kind of library?”

  “We could have a surfboard attached to the outer wall,” the President laughed. “Bring in the tourists.”

  Everybody laughed, but not very heartily. A year ago, no one had given the slightest thought about a Presidential Library. A second term seemed assured for St. Clair.

  The President leaned forward in his chair and pic
ked up a copy of The Washington Post.

  “Well, the other side will be here in a little while to continue with the Transition,” said St. Clair. Lonnie silently came up behind the President and topped off his coffee. ‘Thanks, Lonnie.”

  Lonnie didn’t say anything, just nodded. He came back to clear away the President’s plate.

  “It does seem to be going well, Mr. President,” said Clougherty. “More of that coffee when you get a chance, Lonnie.”

  St. Clair put the paper aside and settled back in his chair, picking up his cup of coffee.

  “It’s one of the miraculous things about American democracy. The people take a vote, throw me out, put in another guy, and we all just accept it. Accept it. Like there was nothing we could do about it.”

  Now Jack leaned forward.

  “What could we do about it, Mr. President?” Jack was always careful about calling his dad “Mr. President” instead of “Dad” in front of people. Unless he was angry with his dad, which was often enough.

  “Well, nothing, of course. I’m just saying that in most countries in the world—and throughout history—there would be a fight going on. We wouldn’t be going into the Cabinet Room in a few minutes and shaking hands with the son of a bitch, you know what I mean?”

  “Well,” said Clougherty with a hint of resignation. “That’s the way we do it.”

  “Yeah,” the President mumbled. “That’s the way we do it.”

  Clougherty dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and got up. “See you both downstairs.”

  “Right,” mumbled St. Clair.

  Clougherty left and the President was alone with Jack.

  “What does Agent Rodriguez have to say?”

  Lonnie placed the bloody bull in front of Jack, who waited for Lonnie to leave before speaking.

  “Just more evidence that Dumaine is sleeping with the guy.”

  “Dumaine seems like such a smart man. Why is he doing this? And Bianca. Don’t even get me started on her. Suppose she knows?”

  “Rodriguez doesn’t know,” said Jack.

  “Now that it’s all over for me, what do we do with this information? We never used it in the campaign.”

  Jack shrugged.

  “All it can do now is damage the country. Sure, you could throw it out there and create one mother of all scandals, but for what?”

  “So we sit on it and hope the bomb doesn’t go off after I’ve left office.”

  “That’s what they’re going to have to do when they move in here,” said Jack, looking around the elegantly appointed room. “What else can we do?”

  What else, indeed,” said the President in a low tone.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 55

  At the same time Wednesday morning that President St. Clair was enjoying his second cup of coffee, Shahzad was having a conniption fit in St. Barts.

  “What is this Thanksgiving shit?” he asked Gilani. “Will it change anything, do you think?”

  “It’s what they do—the Americans do—on Thursday in November every year,” said Gilani.

  “The third Thursday of every November,” clarified Saleem Malek, looking askance at Gilani.

  Shahzad was berthed in a safe house in Lorient on the north coast of St. Barts. He moved between the north coast and the south coast and a safe house there in Grande Saline.

  “But it is not of any consequence,” said Gilani, “since they are here and the holiday is in America,” the commando shrugged.

  “All it means,” said Malek, “is that they have ordered a turkey—a whole turkey—from the butcher to be delivered later today so they can roast it tomorrow for their American holiday.”

  “They had to fly it in from St. Martin,” said Gilani.

  “Oh,” said Shahzad, slightly deflated. “Then this could work slightly in our favor. We will find out what time they sit down to this turkey feast and try to time the assault for that precise moment.”

  Shahzad was still vacillating between going over the wall and in through the front gate, and had contingency plans for both approaches. Still, he wasn’t quite certain...

  * * *

  CHAPTER 56

  An hour later in Washington, President St. Clair and President-elect Mowbray sat in the Cabinet Room where they led off a meeting of their senior Transition staffers.

  “Things couldn’t be going better. I don’t think we could be moving any faster than we are,” said St. Clair.

  “Everything seems to be going quite well, Mr. President,” said a buoyant and happy Mowbray. “Your son Jack is making sure our people get everything they need.”

  The President smiled, reached over and gave his son a clap on the shoulder.

  “He’s certainly a little more efficient than he is back home in Miami. Maybe it’s because he’s a Democrat.”

  The whole room broke out in laughter.

  “Well, we couldn’t be more pleased with how seamless the Transition is going.”

  “It’s our pleasure, sir,” said St. Clair, “and our duty.”

  Mowbray suddenly let out with a big sneeze.

  “You coming down with something?” asked St. Clair.

  “Been fighting a cold last couple of days, that’s all,” said Mowbray.

  Just then, the President’s press secretary came over and whispered into Jack’s ear. He then leaned over and whispered into his dad’s ear. The President nodded.

  “All right, then. Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, the President-elect and I have to meet the press to confirm that the Democratic process is continuing apace. We’ll leave you to your good work.”

  The President then led the way as some of his senior aides and Mowbray and his people followed him down the corridor outside the Cabinet Room to the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room. They went in and the President mounted the platform to address the White House Press Corps already gathered.

  “President-elect Mowbray and I have just come from a meeting of the Transition team, and I think it’s a fair thing to say that everything is proceeding quickly, expeditiously and efficiently toward a smooth Transition.”

  The cameras picked up plenty of pictures of a beaming Mowbray.

  Mowbray and tops aides Sidney Eismann and Henry Westmoreland then went off to have lunch with the President, Jack and Francis Clougherty.

  After a leisurely and friendly lunch, Mowbray and his people began making their way out of the West Wing, and found a gaggle of reporters gathered outside by the cars. Mowbray saw them and walked over to a cluster of microphones set up where he could make a few remarks.

  The weather was bitingly cold, rainy, a snow-and-sleet mix that made things even more foul. An aide held an umbrella over the President-elect.

  After a few initial questions about the Transition, a reporter asked about the Vice President-elect.

  “Are you a little jealous of the Vice President-elect being down in sunny St. Barts?” she said, making a little joke.

  Mowbray smiled and sneezed.

  “I certainly wish I was there because of this awful weather. I think I’m coming down with a cold. But this is a very exciting time for me, and I’m sure if the Vice President-elect didn’t have a wife and two cute little girls that needed a little rest after a long and arduous campaign, he’d rather be here with me than there basking in the sun.”

  “What are your plans for a holiday?”

  “I’m going to leave for a short holiday as soon as the Vice President-elect returns. I’m going to enjoy a fine Thanksgiving tomorrow with my wife, Gloria. And then over the weekend, I’ll travel to Miami for a few days in the sun myself.”

  “Miami?” asked a reporter.

  “Yes, the President, in what I thought was a very gracious gesture, has offered his estate on St. Clair Island to me and Gloria for a little holiday.”

  “Republicans and Democrats seem to be getting along quite well this year,” said another reporter.

  “I’m frankly surprised that the Transition has gone so wel
l. The President’s son, Jack Houston St. Clair, has been the driving force since the election to ensure a smooth Transition.”

  “Any plans for including the President’s son in your Administration? Everyone knows that he’s a lifelong Democrat.”

  “No. No plans now, but I think you might have a good idea. If Jack Houston St. Clair wants a place in my Administration, I’ll sure as hell find him one.”

  After a few more questions, Mowbray said he was cold and wet and wanted to get out of the terrible weather, stopped taking questions and turned to go to his car.

  A Secret Service agent was just opening the door to Mowbray’s car when the President-elect took a sudden deep breath, turned to Westmoreland with a look in his eyes that mixed pain and horror, and dropped to the icy driveway with all the dignity of a burlap sack of coal.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 57

  Chuck Todd of NBC News, who’d asked about Mowbray’s vacation plans just a minute before, tapped a fellow reporter on the shoulder.