F Wilson: Deep as the Marrow

But it was more than that. Paulie took good care of her. She needed that, because whenever she tried to go it alone she like always seemed to mess up. She could see staying with Paulie forever. Because as far as she knew, he didn’t want kids. And that was just fine with her.

“Everything will be all right,” she told him.

“Yeah. I know that. I’m just a little edgy is all. I could use a couple of hits of Mary. You know… to relax me.”

“That’s all you need. You know how Mac feels. He finds out you been tokin‘, he’ll like kill you.”

“You got that right.” He straightened his shoulders inside the leather coat; then he clasped her head between his gloved hands and kissed her hard on the lips.

“See you later.” Before she could grab him for a last hug, he had picked up his cap and was heading for the side door to the garage.

“Be careful.” Poppy watched as he backed the old white panel truck out of the garage and coasted down the street.

“Please let everything go smooth,” she whispered. Almost like a prayer. She used to pray, but you couldn’t pray about something like this, could you? Maybe she could pray that this time nobody got hurt. Yeah. Somebody might answer that one.

With the truck out of sight, she turned away from the window. Now the hardest part: waiting. She stretched. She felt so tense. Used to be she’d pop a pill to loosen up. Now she had another way.

She went back to the thirteen-inch portable TV-VCR combo they’d brought along and restarted the Buns of Steel tape. Best way she knew to kill time. She turned down the sound, jacked up the latest Jawbox on the portable CD player, and got down to it.

She was determined to get in shape again. She’d been a real hard body back in high school but she’d let herself go to hell. Drugs and fast food—bad news. She still ate too much garbage, and she’d get around to changing that.

But first the drugs. She wanted off the drugs.

She’d been so totally rattled by the last snatch that as soon as it was over she dove head first into the coke… and did way too much. She’d never been strung out like that before. Scared the hell out of her.

That was when she’d decided: no more coke. No more downers, either. Oh, she’d take a hit on a nail now and then, and maybe keep a few thrusters handy—just for diet help—but for the most part she was going to get back into her body and start treating it right. And once this was over she’d like keep treating it right.

Once this was over…

The job had just started and already she had this bad feeling.

She concentrated on the routine on the screen, adding two-pound steel dumbbells to work her upper body. She felt her heart start to pump, the sweat begin to sheen her skin. Soon she’d be working into a high—not a pill high but another kind. And it was almost as good.

Almost.

8.

“One-fifty over ninety,” John said, not happy with the numbers but relieved they weren’t through the roof.

Usually he took Tom’s blood pressure in the ground floor clinic, but today he was upstairs in the Monroe Room. He’d been to the top floor of the White House on numerous occasions, but this was the first time he’d ever done a medical exam here.

“What do you call that?” Tom said. He had his suit coat off and his left shirtsleeve rolled up.

“Borderline. And considering the circumstances—”

“Not bad.” John unclipped the cuff from Tom’s arm. “Watch that sodium. I don’t much like you staying at ninety on the diastolic; it gets above that and I’m going to hit you with some pills.”

“That mean no more pork rinds?”

“Damn right! They’re loaded with fat and sodium; Pure poison for a guy like you.” Tom fell silent as John rolled up the BP cuff and stowed it in his bag. When he looked up, Tom was standing at the window. His sharp profile was why the Secret Service had come up with “Razor” as his presidential code name. As he stared out at the protesters beyond the front fence, he looked very much alone.

“Surprised by the response?” John said.

Tom turned and shrugged. He’d left his leader-of-the free-world face downstairs. “George Reedy says the White House robs people of their political instincts. We begin to think we can do anything.” His smile was tight, his eyes bleak. “Maybe he’s right. Look at them. They want to crucify me.”

“You expected less?”

“I thought I was pretty persuasive last night. A whole hour of network prime time… I thought I’d convince somebody.‘”

“You probably did. But they’re not out there marching, and they probably can’t get through on the phone or fax. Maybe e-mail.” He barked a laugh.

“E-mail! The queue is endless!”

“You’ll probably find a lot of support on the Internet. Lots of free-thinkers out there.” He stared at John, holding his gaze.

“How about you, good buddy? I change your mind?” Clearly the answer was important to him, and John longed to tell him what he wanted to hear.

Tom had announced last night that he was going to the International Drug Summit in The Hague next week to advocate a cease fire in the war on drugs. John was already familiar with most of the arguments, but he’d hoped some rhetorical magic would make him a believer.

He shrugged. “Intellectually I can see it. But emotionally…” He shook his head as he tapped his chest. “Something in here won’t go along with the idea of an America where I can drop by the local drugstore for some toothpaste, some dental floss, and a fix of heroin.”

Tom smiled tightly. “Et to, Brute?”

“What can I say? You’ve got a fight on your hands. The fight of your life.” And you’re going to go down in flames, old buddy.

“I need your support, Johnny.”

“No, you don’t. I’m just one guy. You need the support of those four-fifty odd guys on the Hill.”

“No, Johnny,” he said softly. He put his hand over his heart. “I need your support here. I need to know the one guy I could always count on is still watching my back. Somehow it’ll be easier to win knowing you’re with me.” He jutted his jaw defiantly at the protesters. “But with you or without you, I am going to win.”

John knew that look. He remembered the time when they were seventeen and had been tipping a few brews behind Ebersol’s gas station outside Freemantle. A couple of the guys started making fun of the beat-up old Kharman Ghia Tom drove, wondering if it could top fifty.

Tom couldn’t defend the car’s speed, so he said something like, “Yeah, but I can drive all the way home without ever using the brake.” Well, nobody believed that, so they challenged him to prove it. A crazy idea, an insane dare—he’d have to drive through the center of Freemantle to reach his house on the far side of town. Four traffic lights stood between him and home, and they were not sequenced. Freemantle’s lights changed whenever they damn well pleased.

John never expected Tom to take them up on it, but he drained his beer and said, “Sure. Follow me and watch. You see my brake lights once, you guys can have the car.” Truth was, nobody wanted that pint-size rust bucket, but after checking to make sure the brake lights worked, everybody piled into their cars to follow. Everyone except John. He got in beside Tom. No discussion. It was understood, expected.

Off they went. John still got shaky when he remembered that ride. The first light was green, and that had been fine. But the next three turned red as Tom approached. He never slowed. Playing the manual gear shift like a Stradivarius, he passed stopped cars ahead of him on the left or swung onto the shoulder and shot by. But never once did he hit the brake pedal. Ran three red lights, and each time he flashed through an intersection his face wore the same expression it did now, with that same jutting jaw.