James Patterson: Step On A Crack

But he couldn’t quite resist the inviting looks on the faces of the press column along both sides of the cathedral entrance. Adrenaline burst into his bloodstream as a firefight of camera flash packs blistered his eyes. He looked up at the gray sky and scratched his head.

Then Rooney unleashed the day’s first high-kilowatt smile.

“I don’t know if this is such a great idea, guys,” he said casually. “Anyone hear if there’s lightning in today’s forecast?”

He quickly scanned the ranks of mostly grinning newsies, then stopped the next joke in his throat as he spotted offended alarm on the face of some pretty brunette standing near the entrance. She was right, of course. What an attention slut he was. Grandstanding at a funeral.

Rooney made his face go somber, and then he entered the church.

He could see people in the back pews turning and nudging one another as he gave his invitation to the red-coated security guard.

Yep, it’s me. I’m here, Rooney thought, irritated. That was one aspect of fame that had gotten old real fast. In a real-world setting, a restaurant or an airport, having people gawk at you was simply uncomfortable. It was as if people wanted something from him, but what? He didn’t know, and he suspected they didn’t either. People thought stars wore sunglasses to disguise themselves, but really it was to avoid eye contact.

Rooney turned back toward the church entrance as he heard cameras pop and click like an angry swarm of metal crickets.

Well, look who’s here!

Linda London, twenty-year-old reality TV socialite, had arrived at the same time as Mercedes Freer, twenty-year-old bubblegum pop diva. That the two ladies were sharing the same slab of sidewalk was news enough, Rooney knew. But what was really creating a frenzy was the fact that they were both wearing the same micromini black-widow outfit and veil.

To make things a little more interesting, seventies rock legend Charlie Conlan climbed out of his stretch and walked up the church’s stairs a few feet from the potential catfight. The tall, hopelessly cool icon had to be close to sixty now, but he still looked real good. He shook Rooney’s hand in the vestibule.

Charlie had written and performed three magical songs for a children’s movie Rooney had starred in the year before. They’d gone on a brief promotional tour together. The whole time, Conlan had never stopped smiling; tipped every waiter, doorman, and limo driver they came across; and signed autographs for any and all. Even the paparazzi seemed to like him.

“Friggin’ circus, huh?” Charlie said in his patented gravelly voice. “You one of the clowns, Johnny?”

“If I am, then you’re the ringmaster,” said Rooney, laughing as the cameras went off again.

Another loud cheer rose from the crowd. Out on the street, Eugena Humphrey was exiting her trademark pink Lincoln Town Car limousine.

“Now, now, people,” the charismatic “Queen of LA” talk show host chided the crowd. “This is a funeral, not the Emmys. Let’s have a little respect, please .”

Amazingly, the crowd quieted right down.

“Eugena rules,” someone said, and that seemed to be the God’s honest truth.

NEW YORK TIMES REPORTER Cathy Calvin didn’t know where to look for the day’s next startling image. She turned as the First Lady’s hearse appeared over the northern rise of an emptied Fifth Avenue. It was led by a nine-strong V formation of NYPD parade-speed Harleys, their mufflers popping smartly in the cold hush of the world-famous street.

It was as if a contingent of the cathedral’s statues had come to life when the honor guard broke rank in the vestibule and marched slowly out onto the sidewalk.

The guard arrived at the curb the moment the hearse did.

Flashbulbs popped as they ceremoniously slid out the American flag-draped casket from the long black car.

Two Secret Service men in dark suits appeared from the crowd and completed the line of pallbearers as the former First Lady’s body was effortlessly raised to shoulder height.

The soldiers and agents stopped at the top of the stairs, just behind the former president and his daughter, as a low, violent rumbling began to the south.

A moment later, a group of five F-15s appeared low in the slot of downtown sky. As they swooped over 42nd Street, the most western aircraft suddenly broke rank and arced upward and upward as the remaining planes roared over the cathedral in the “missing man” formation.

The pallbearers waited until the last echo of the jet engines’ thunder had dissipated from Fifth Avenue ’s stone-and-steel canyon, and then began to enter the church carrying Caroline Hopkins.

The high skirl of the lone bagpiper didn’t start until the former president passed over the church’s threshold. It was as if the whole city was observing an impromptu moment of silence as the familiar strains of “Amazing Grace” began.

Cathy Calvin looked out over the crowd, and the Times reporter knew she had the lead she would never write. People were taking off their hats, had their hands over their hearts, and were singing along with the hymn. Everywhere, jaded New Yorkers were weeping openly.

But that wasn’t the biggest shock to her.

No, the big surprise was when Cathy Calvin, seen-it-all reporter, put her hand up to her own cheek and realized she was crying, too.

SEND-OFF LIKE THAT almost brought tears to your eyes, the Neat Man thought as he stared through binoculars from his swivel chair in the back of his black van.

Gaw-damn, he thought, and was grinning so hard it was starting to hurt his cheeks.

Tears of joy.

The van was parked near 51st and Fifth Avenue, kitty-corner to the grand cathedral, and for the last hour, through the one-way tinted window at the van’s rear, he’d been watching the nonstop parade of arriving celebs and dignitaries.

It was one thing to predict something, the Neat Man thought as the church’s entrance doors closed behind President Hopkins and his entourage of inspired toadies.

Quite another to watch your each and every prediction come incredibly true.

He lowered the binocs to rip a baby wipe from the top of the plastic canister at his feet. His red hands stung wonderfully when he started scouring them. He usually carried a supply of soothing Jergens hand lotion to counteract the chafing, but he’d forgotten it in all the excitement.

About the only thing I missed, he thought, smiling as he dropped the used wipey onto the mound at his feet and raised the binoculars again.

He scanned the perimeter of the church’s wide block, lingering at each security post with his high-resolution Steiner 15×80 field glasses.

There was a line of Manhattan Task Force beat cops scattered about the front of the church with the press, and an NYPD Emergency Service Unit truck blocking the side streets at each corner.

The baseball-hat-wearing ESU police commandos had intimidating Colt Commando submachine guns strapped across their chests, but there were coffee cups in their hands, and cigarettes. Instead of being vigilant, they were standing around goofing on one another, telling lies about what they would do with all the overtime they were raking in.

Question: Were they that stupid? the Neat Man thought. Answer: Yes, they were.

His cell phone went off when the bagpiper’s screech started winding down. The Neat Man lowered the binoculars and raised the phone to his ear.

The excitement of what was about to go down hissed along his nerve endings.

“All clear, Jack,” the Neat Man said. “It’s a go. Now make us proud.”