Hope Never Dies Page 9

  “Barack Obama?” he said with a smirk.

  “You must hear that all the time.” She stepped back and sized him up. “He’s a little younger than you, though.”

  Barack’s smirk dropped. “Maybe you can help me out. There was a guy in here Tuesday morning. Eating by himself. A white guy with white hair, a little taller than my friend here. That ring any bells?”

  She shook her head. “I was busy from start to finish. It was all a blur. There was a wrestling show in town. Those guys have big appetites—triple, quadruple omelets. One of them destroyed the men’s toilet. Just destroyed it.”

  “Which wrestler was it?” I asked.

  Barack glared at me.

  “Anyway,” I said, “the guy that was in here. He comes here all the time. He’s a conductor, for Amtrak.”

  “Oh!” she said. “Finn. Always sits at the counter, always orders decaf.” Her face dropped. “Y’all cops or something?”

  I realized that, yeah, we probably did look like cops. Three guys with short hair and sunglasses, two of us in suits. Me in the aloha shirt, looking an awful lot like Magnum P.I. Only thing missing was the mustache.

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Is Finn in some kind of trouble?”

  Barack and I looked at each other. She hadn’t heard about the accident.

  “There was an incident,” he said. “The railroad sent us. We’re just talking to people. Nothing formal.”

  “I get it. You want to know if I could smell alcohol on his breath, or if he smelled like reefer.” She leaned down. “Half the people who come in on my shift are coming here straight from the bars. Even worse on a Friday or Saturday night.”

  “Except tonight,” I pointed out.

  “It’s still early,” she said. “The bars don’t close ‘til two.”

  We all looked up at the clock. It was only half past ten. It felt much, much later.

  “But Finn,” she continued, “I would have noticed if there was anything funny about him. You can’t walk around in a uniform smelling like liquor—it’d be like a pilot walking onto a plane with a bottle of Jack Daniels. People tend to notice those sorts of things.”

  “So what do you remember about him? Tuesday morning. Did he seem nervous?” Barack asked.

  Tina shrugged. “Everybody’s a little squirrelly these days, ain’t they? I think we all got a little ADHD.” Her eyes went to Steve, who was checking his pulse again. Barack asked if she’d seen Finn Wednesday morning, too, but she hadn’t. Just the morning before the accident.

  I asked, “You didn’t happen to see him with a bag of—”

  Barack kicked me hard under the table.

  “I wasn’t going to say heroin,” I whispered through my teeth, though I don’t think Barack—or anyone—heard me.

  “He did have a bag,” Tina said. “Now that you mention it, yeah. It was a black bag, you know, like for the gym—”

  “A duffel bag?”

  “That’s right. He usually didn’t bring nothing in, but that night he had this black duffel bag. Kept it real close by, too. Kind of strange, if you ask me. He coulda just left it in his car.”

  “In this neighborhood?” I asked.

  “What’s wrong with this neighborhood?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “Nothing at all.”

  As soon as she left us, I turned excitedly to Barack. “A duffel bag. That’s something, right?”

  “It’s not nothing. That doesn’t, in and of itself, necessarily mean it’s something.”

  I pulled out my phone to call Esposito, but Barack told me to hold up. “The lieutenant hasn’t called back. If she does call us, then we can ask her if they found a duffel bag near the tracks or at the motel. Until then, there’s no point. If you call someone and leave a message, you wait for them to call you back. You don’t keep calling, and calling, and calling, and leaving more messages.” He paused, then added, pointedly: “Unless your goal is to annoy them.”

  Steve wasn’t listening to us bicker. He was in another reality completely, a reality that I wished I could slip into.

  Our waitress brought out our orders. Barack and Steve had both ordered grilled chicken breasts. They weren’t looking at their plates, however. They were staring in horror at my plate as I reached for the bottle of Heinz 57.

  “Are there even hash browns under that mess?” Barack asked.

  “I’m pretty sure,” I said. My hash browns were—in the parlance of Waffle Depot—“hot and bothered” (i.e., covered with cheese, onion, diced ham, and jalapeño). Seven hundred and forty calories, all gristle and grease. This was what I’d been doing to myself for months now. Jill had caught me more than once eating Ben and Jerry’s straight out of the pint, in my boxers and undershirt in the middle of the night. I only had the foggiest of memories of even getting out of bed. It wasn’t sleepwalking, but it was something close to it.

  “How can you eat all those carbs?” Steve said. It was good to see him slip back into our realm and make conversation, even if he was being a little snot.

  “Calories are good for you,” I said between massive bites. “They give you energy.”

  “Caffeine gives you energy.”

  I looked into his eyes, half-shaded by drooping eyelids, and then down at his coffee cup, which he’d just emptied for the third time in under twenty minutes. “And how’s that working out for you?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  While we were waiting for the check in silence, Steve stared deep into what was left of my shredded potatoes like he was looking at a Van Gogh. I was seriously beginning to worry about his state of mind. Could we trust him with his weapon?

  “You’re hungry,” I told him. “Have the rest of my hash browns. A couple of extra calories isn’t going to hurt you.”

  He picked up a fork and stuck it into the mess on my plate, tentatively, like he was poking a dead animal with a stick. He took one bite…and then another. Before I could tell him to slow down, the plate was empty. He even licked it clean. He seemed to spring to life afterward, but it didn’t take a psychologist to know he was being eaten alive by guilt. He was an impressive physical specimen, I’d give him that. If swearing off carbs and being constantly run-down was the cost, though, I wasn’t sure the trade-off would be worth it. Us old fogeys need a little padding. Otherwise our skin begins to hang in folds over our curtain-rod bones.

  Barack noticed the dour look on my face. “We’ll get to the bottom of this thing. Don’t worry.”

  “There’s no way you can guarantee that,” I said.

  “I didn’t guarantee it. I just have faith.”

  “Here comes the hopey-changey stuff,” I said, affecting my best rural Alaskan accent.

  “Don’t go negative on me, Joe.”

  “We need to be realistic. What are we doing? What are we really doing here?”

  “Right now, I’m visiting the little boys’ room,” Barack said, sliding out of the booth.

  I was about to say I’d go with him, but Steve was already on his feet before I could get a word out. I was left there, my mouth hanging open like a schmuck.

  “What’s that, Joe?” Barack asked, straightening his suit jacket.

  “Never mind,” I muttered.

  18

  Barack picked up the tab, and I didn’t argue. Afterward, we paused on the sidewalk outside the Waffle Depot. Mayflies started dive-bombing us from the fluorescent lights overhead. We tried swatting them away, but they had the numbers advantage. I wasn’t ready to get in the car yet, though. Not until we’d charted a new plan of action.

  Barack, chewing a post-meal Nicorette, had a different idea. “It’s time to call it a night,” he said.

  “You think the bad guys are going to call it a night?”

  “The bad guys?”

  “What else wou
ld you call them? We’ve got people breaking into houses, into motels. Into nursing homes, for God’s sake.”

  “They could all be part of one organization. Law enforcement, the mob…the Secret Service,” Barack said, winking at Steve.

  Steve did not wink back.

  “Let’s go through what we have so far,” Barack continued. “We have a man on the tracks killed by an oncoming train. He has heroin in his pocket. We’ve got a missing square of carpet in his room. There’s a duffel bag, which could be in evidence or even picked up by his family, for all we know. Is that it?”

  “From everyone I’ve talked to, he didn’t get high,” I said. “I’m not ruling it out, I’m just saying I don’t buy it. And we don’t know for sure if he was killed by the train. He could have been dead already.”

  “An overdose or a heart attack,” Barack said.

  “Or…”

  “Oh, for cripe’s sake,” Steve said under his breath. “Here it comes.”

  “You can’t tell me foul play’s not a possibility,” I said.

  Steve looked at Barack. “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

  “You don’t need my permission.”

  Steve took a deep breath. “Okay. I think this has gone far enough. I was willing to indulge this little fantasy of playing detective, but that was before you disregarded my instructions and dove raw-dog into that motel room.”

  “There was a woman,” I said.

  “A woman who may have been a transient, or a prostitute. Or maybe a drug user looking for a place to shoot up. She may have been armed, in which case you both could be on gurneys right now—or, worse, on your way to the morgue. I can’t guarantee your safety, Mr. President, if you continue on this…this absurd quest.”

  Steve was breathing heavy.

  “Is this the carbs talking?” Barack asked.

  Steve ignored him. He was on a roll. “If a torn-up patch of carpet is evidence of anything other than a spilled glass of red wine, I’ll be surprised. Very surprised.”

  “That’s not the sort of place you’d expect to find a wine drinker,” I said. “You have to admit that.”

  Steve shot me a look of pure disbelief. “You’re hung up on this, aren’t you? Say it. Just say it: murder. You think someone killed him.”

  “I didn’t say that. But it’s one possibility. It’s a possibility no one else has looked at, as far as I know.”

  “You know why? Because no one else has time for this nonsense. You have zero evidence of foul play. Bad things happen. Burglars break into houses. They break into motel rooms. People spill drinks. And you know what it all means? Nothing.”

  I could feel my temperature rising. Steve knew exactly what buttons to push. Barack must have noticed I was about to blow because he stepped between us.

  “This Lieutenant Esposito seems quite capable,” Steve said. “She was in the National Guard. Served in Afghanistan. I don’t have any reason not to trust her judgment.” He pointed a finger at my chest. “You, on the other hand…”

  “I’m just some old bag of bones who’s seen too many episodes of Law and Order.”

  Barack threw up his hands to prevent us from going at each other. “That’s enough. Steve’s right—we need to call it a day. We’re not done, though. Tomorrow’s a new day. If the lieutenant gives us a hard time, we’ll follow the leads wherever they take us. Finn was Joe’s friend, and Joe is my friend. We don’t abandon our friends just because the going gets rough. If that bothers you, Steve, perhaps you’d feel better if you were reassigned.” He paused. “To Bo.”

  “I’d rather scoop up dog shit than clean up whatever mess you two make out of this ‘investigation.’ If anything happens to you—if you trip and skin your knee—that’s a black mark on my record. It could mean another year on the ex-presidential protection detail.” Steve was sweating like a sinner in church, but he couldn’t stop. “Plus, what do you think Renaissance would say if she found out you were playing Sherlock?”

  “She wouldn’t say anything,” Barack said sternly, “about something she doesn’t know about. You don’t report to her—you report to your supervisor. Tell him whatever you need to, but we’re not going to discuss any of this with Mrs. Obama. Got that?”

  “If she asks—”

  “She won’t.”

  “But if she does—”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but your agency’s motto is ‘Worthy of Trust and Confidence,’ ” Barack said. “I’m not asking you to cover for me while I sneak Marilyn Monroe in the back door of the White House. I’m just asking for a little discretion. A little trust.”

  Steve started to object, but then grabbed his side.

  “You okay, Steve?” I asked.

  Steve put his other hand in front of his mouth. Before our eyes, his skin went pale and clammy. It looked like he was trying to contain Mount Vesuvius.

  “The hash browns…” Steve croaked out.

  “How you feeling, Joe?” Barack said.

  Before I could answer, Steve doubled over and hurled onto the sidewalk. Wet chunks splattered Barack’s slacks. Barack and I both looked away. A man and woman were on their way into the restaurant, and Barack gave them a little wave. They picked up their pace.

  When the awful retching noises finally stopped, we both turned to see if Steve was alive or dead. The Secret Service agent was wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his black jacket. He was mostly alive.

  “Why don’t you go clean up,” Barack said.

  “Can’t…leave you…here…alone. Have to stay…within arm’s length.”

  “Forget whatever they tell you in training,” I said. “I say you’re not getting in my car smelling like a Jersey sewer rat.”

  Steve made another uncomfortable gurgling noise. He dashed inside, leaving us on the sidewalk beside the puddle of upchuck.

  “What a wet blanket,” I said. “He can’t even handle his hash browns. They’re greasy, but c’mon.”

  “He’s a good guy. But…”

  “But?”

  “But he’s a third wheel. A classic third wheel.”

  I had a thought. It was a pretty wild idea, but Steve was on the verge of blowing our entire operation. “I can’t work with this guy looking over my shoulder,” I told Barack. “Telling me to be careful all the time. We’re playing things safe, and all we’ve got so far is a fistful of nothing.”

  Barack smiled slyly. He knew where I was going. It was the same place he was going.

  “You’re a horrible person, Joe. A horrible, horrible person. What does the bro code say about leaving a wounded man behind?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What does it say?”

  “I don’t know, either. I’m not even sure the bro code exists. But if it did, it would say if we’re in pursuit of the greater good, we’re well within our rights to drop any dead weight that’s dragging us down.”

  We went back inside to the men’s room, where we found Steve praying to the porcelain god. Barack slipped two hundred-dollar bills in Steve’s pocket so that he could catch a ride back to the Walmart parking lot.

  My heart was aflutter as we stepped outside. I couldn’t believe we were ditching Barack’s detail. It was a dangerous world, especially for politicians in the public eye. Especially for presidents. Especially for Barack, who had received more death threats than any other president in history. So many plots against him had been foiled—more than the public would ever know. More than I would ever know. Half those whackjobs probably thought he was still the president, or running some sort of “deep state” operation behind the scenes. I wasn’t hip to all the latest ramblings of the black helicopter crowd, but there was one conspiracy theory that said Barack and I were both “lizard people”—half-alien half-human hybrids who’d infiltrated society and were secretly controlling the government. We were behind everything—terroris
t attacks, natural disasters, even the interest rate. It was a comforting thought, that someone was in control of this chaotic world.

  I didn’t think I’d look very good with a tail, though.

  “Let’s go back to my place,” I said, unlocking my door. “We have a guest room—it’s made up like a ski lodge. There’s a pair of skis and everything.”

  Barack stared at me over the top of the car. “That would be the first place Steve would look. We’d be busted before we even got to sleep.”

  “Fine. How about my vacation house on Rehoboth Beach?”

  “That’s the second place Steve would look,” Barack said. “We need to brainstorm on this. What’s the last place Steve would look?”

  I didn’t need to think long on this one. “Zap-bam-bingo, I’ve got it.”

  “Don’t say my house. Please don’t say my house.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve got something even better.”

  19

  We were dropped off at the Heart of Wilmington Motel by a taxi, which I paid for with cash. I wasn’t happy about leaving my Challenger at the Waffle Depot. If Steve put out an APB for my car, however, we’d be nabbed just like that.

  After the taxi peeled out, I turned and saw the sign.

  NO VACANCY.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said under my breath. There were only eleven cars in the lot, including Finn’s.

  Barack slapped me on the back. “This type of motel, all we have to do is wait. Something will open up within the hour.”

  I dragged my feet to the front desk. Barack wasn’t wrong, however. Within twenty minutes, a room opened up. I paid in cash. The clerk didn’t ask for ID; he didn’t even ask for a name.

  The first thing I noticed when we entered our room was that one of the beds was missing. Or rather there were two beds, but only one of them had a mattress.

  “Did you book the honeymoon suite?” Barack asked.

  “It’s not funny,” I said. I was tired and cranky, and didn’t want to deal with a missing mattress.

  “I’ll call the front desk and get it straightened out,” Barack said. “You can use the shower first.”