James Grippando: Born to Run

Chloe poked at her dinner, a bowl of microwave popcorn and a tangerine. She was already too thin, down to one hundred pounds of anger and bitterness, and the mere sound of President Keyes’ voice was enough to kill what little appetite she had. Her office had been in the Old Executive Office Building, next door to the White House, but before getting fired she’d earned herself a blue pass, which afforded access to all nonresidential parts of the White House. She was one of the lucky interns who’d actually gotten face time with the chief executive, and even though she would never forget what President Keyes looked like, the snowy image on her television screen made it difficult to discern his likeness as he delivered tonight’s message from the East Room. The audio was fine, but the picture sucked. Her cable had been disconnected for nonpayment, and she was relying on rabbit ears.

“I also sought and received suggestions from my cabinet, staff, and other sources outside Congress.”

To be fair, Chloe’s loss of the White House gig had been only the start of her troubles-the first in a series of dominoes that had kicked her into the journalistic gutter. Two years ago she would have turned up her nose at a newspaper that didn’t require its reporters to corroborate information from an anonymous source. Now, she worked for a rag that paid its sources in cash- lots of cash.

“I indicated just two qualifications for the job,” the president told his television audience. “First, that the nominee be capable of serving as president; and second, that he or she be able to work with members of both parties in Congress and be capable of confirmation by both houses.”

Chloe pushed the bowl of popcorn aside and brought up her e-mails on her laptop. Lucky for her, the downstairs neighbor had unsecured Internet. Chloe’s Wi-Fi piggybacked onto it just fine, free of charge.

“In response to my request, the White House received hundreds of recommendations, including some very thoughtful suggestions from fifth and sixth graders at the Adams School in Lexington, Massachusetts.”

Chloe scoffed. Nice line about the middle schools, but Chloe was losing interest in the rhetoric. She scrolled down on the LCD screen to the most recent e-mail from her source. She’d been going back and forth with him for at least two weeks now, ever since her editor had put her on the assignment.

“I studied each of these recommendations, and yesterday afternoon I returned to the White House with my mind made up.”

Chloe reread the e-mail. It would be one hell of a story-her biggest about a White House she’d been attacking since her abrupt dismissal. There was just one hitch: she had to convince her editor to pay for it. More money than they’d ever paid before. Much more.

“Two hundred fifty thousand,” the e-mail read. “Final offer.”

“My fellow Americans, it is my pleasure to tell you that my nominee to be your next vice president of the United States is my good friend, one of the most fair-minded men I have ever met, the former governor of Florida, Harry Swyteck.”

Chloe switched off the television. It was time for something truly newsworthy.

She picked up the telephone, took a deep breath, and started to dial her editor. Then she hung up. She knew the answer would be a firm NO. “Find out if there’s a story,” her editor had told her, “and if it’s as big as this joker claims it is, pay him twenty grand-not a dime more.”

Twenty thousand dollars. Her editor was an idiot. This story was too big to let a dolt like him screw it up. She’d made that mistake before, putting her trust in people far less capable than herself. Never again. It was time for her to take charge of her own life, play by her rules-not someone else’s.

She banged out a short reply to her source’s e-mail and hit SEND.

“Let’s meet,” was all it said.

“Some party, huh?” said Jack.

“Sure,” said Andie, “if you call a press party without Playgirl a party.”

They were standing before the magnificently decorated Douglas fir in the White House Blue Room. Andie was gorgeous in her red dress, even if there were two other women wearing the same design.

Tonight’s party for six hundred members of the press marked the halfway point of a presidential Iditarod of holiday receptions and dinners at the Executive Mansion. As always, the president and First Lady were fully committed to a two-hour block of handshakes, posed photographs, and thirty-second conversations that would test the superhuman strength of their smile muscles. It was a veritable Who’s Who in White House press coverage, and Jack’s unofficial business was to keep his ears open and find out who his father’s friends and enemies were in advance of his congressional hearings. Jack looked off toward the Cross Hall, where guests were streaming through a forest of red poinsettias toward the State Dining Room. The sense of history here was inspiring, but Jack could see in their ambitious eyes that it was mostly about proximity to power. Some would have sacrificed a vital organ for the promise of an invitation to next year’s party, and no matter how blase the regulars pretended to be about it, they would for months find a way to work into every conversation a sentence beginning with the words “When I was at the White House Christmas Party….”

“Happy Birthday,” said Andie, raising her glass.

Jack raised his. “Not a bad way to celebrate my fortieth, even if it is a couple of days late.”

“I still wish you would let me and Theo throw you a party.”

“No. Absolutely not. No party.”

“Crab cake?” asked the server.

“No, thank you,” said Jack.

Not that the food wasn’t tempting. The White House chef had cooked up everything from chicken-fried tenderloin (good with gravy) to marzipan. Even the gingerbread replica of the White House looked good enough to eat. The whole experience struck Jack as somewhere between magical and over the top, from the boughs and lights twinkling in the East Room to the Marine Band playing Christmas songs by the grand piano in the foyer.

“Would you mind snapping our picture?” said a young man with a British accent.

“We just got engaged,” said his fiancee, flashing her ring.

“Mazel tov,” said Andie. It wasn’t a term Jack had heard her use often, but it seemed to pop from her mouth instinctively, as if the Christmas overload had struck an ecumenical funny bone in her body.

Jack snapped their photo, and Andie moved closer as the love-birds walked away, arm in arm, the crystal ornaments on the tree glistening like the 2-karat diamond on the bride-to-be’s finger. Holidays were notorious turning points in relationships, and Jack wondered how many women at tonight’s party would get diamonds this season, how many would throw their arms around their man and say yes, and how many had their stomach in knots just thinking about it. He wasn’t anywhere near ready to pop the question, but he wondered if Andie was on the latter end of that continuum.

“Quite the ring,” said Andie.

Jack’s cell rang, and they both laughed at the mechanical play on word.

Jack checked the number. He didn’t recognize it.

“You’re not going to answer that, are you?” said Andie.

“Aw, come on. I’ve never taken a phone call in the White House.”

Jack hit Talk and said hello, but no one was there.

“Still never taken a call in the White House,” he said.

It rang again. This time it was an e-mail. Again, Jack didn’t recognize the sender, but the subject line was enough to give him the creeps.

“What’s up?” said Andie.

Jack’s first reaction was to delete it, and his second was to open it up and read the entire message. He did neither. Jack wasn’t entitled to his own Secret Service protection, but they had warned him about this, and he knew the protocol.