“I know, right?”
“No, I mean, it’s very romantic, but, like, you’re married to the President of the United States. You’re the First Lady of the land. You can’t just—”
“Why not?”
“And anyway, how will you ever find the dude?”
“I don’t have a phone, an iPad, or a computer that’s not bugged.”
As if he knew what was coming next, he said, “You expect me to find Vaclav?”
“Why not?”
“Chica, I don’t speak Slovak. I don’t even know where pinche Slovakia is!”
“It’s just south of the Czech Republic. You see, until 1993 the Czech Republic and Slovakia were one country, called Czechoslovakia. Then—”
“Chica, this is loco!”
She swiveled the salon chair around to face him. “Please! You’re my angel!”
“But—”
“You’ve got a safe phone. The White House can’t monitor you—”
“Mi amor—”
“…Go to Slovak Google, Google.sk. Go to Slovak Facebook. Slovaks love Facebook. Please find him. Vaclav is my Zlatorog!”
“Your what?”
“Zlatorog is an old mythical Slovak god that looks like a mountain goat.” She cupped Angel’s face with her hands. “But in Vaclav’s case he’s a mountain goat who becomes a good man.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Find Vaclav!” She opened a drawer below the counter. It held a scramble of mascara wands, eyebrow pencils, and lipsticks. She rummaged around and located a ballpoint pen. She grabbed Angel’s hand and wrote the name on his palm: Vaclav Szabo.
Chapter 8
The White House
December 16, 11:00 a.m.
James Conner, officer of the White House Secret Service Uniformed Division, checked his watch. Only two hours until my shit-ass shift ends, he thought. He could almost taste the doobie he would light the minute he walked into his shit-ass apartment, kicked off his regulation thick-soled U.D. shoes, and turned on FOX News.
Killing time, he chewed off a hangnail and spit it on the floor of the staff-entrance security checkpoint. “I wonder which cabinet guy POTUS is gonna ‘You’re fired!’ tonight?” he said, though he knew that U.D. Officer Tallisha Jones wouldn’t answer, that she wouldn’t even look up at him from her Galaxy. She had that sullen “poor me/fuck you” black-lesbo attitude that he had hated since he was a beat cop in Baltimore, breaking up gang fights. He longed to tell her, but he didn’t want her branding him a me-too dupe, like the clueless black janitor in the staff cafeteria who got canned last week for calling her an “African Bush Mama.” Conner grunted. He bet Tallisha’s huge Afro was a sign that she didn’t shave her pubes, but so what? He liked bush more than a furry arrow pointing to a ho’s pussy. Take the one on the bitch he hooked up with last weekend. He grunted again. He couldn’t remember the bitch’s name, or her face. Just that goddamned furry arrow.
Tallisha smiled when she saw Angel walking out of the tunnel from the White House and over to their security checkpoint. “How’s it goin’, bro?” she called to him. Conner didn’t get why she thought the pint-sized wetback faggot with the red-alligator cowboy boots was cool.
“Yo, Tallisha, when are you gonna let me do your hair?” asked Angel. “I’ll make you look like FLOTUS.” He reached up to pat her Afro, but she playfully swatted his hand away.
“I don’t wanna look like no Natalia,” she said. “But how ’bout Michelle?”
“You’re on!” He slapped her a high-five.
Conner turned to the shelves holding staff personal items and rooted around. He came up with Angel’s iPhone and keys and slapped them down on the counter. “You got a Chihuahua?” He pointed to the tiny plastic dog on Angel’s key ring. “Perfect mutt for a runt.”
“Yo, it’s a xoloitzcuintle, mascot of the Xolos, TJ’s soccer team.” Angel pocketed his keys. “These dogs been around since the Aztecs. They’re small, but they’d rip your balls off!” As he slipped his iPhone into his red Gucci satchel, he nodded toward Conner’s high-and-tight haircut. “Too bad they make you U.D.s shave your heads. If you were a Secret Service special agent, you’d get to keep your hair and wear a boss suit and Ray-Bans.” He stepped away from the counter. “But I hear you gotta have a brain to be promoted to special agent.”
Conner was about to shout, “Fuck you!” He noticed that Tallisha was evil-eyeing him. He grunted instead.
Angel hustled out of the security checkpoint, toward the gate to the street.
“Hey, Angel!” A man waved to him from among the crowd of tourists and paparazzi glued to the White House perimeter fence.
Angel recognized the slight young man in the frayed jacket and blue L.A. Dodgers baseball cap: Phil Smith. The paparazzo was so persistent, that Natalia called him her shadow.
Phil pushed his smudged eyeglasses up on his nose. “Angel, you and Natalia are besties. I read it in People. How about you get me a photo op with her?”
“Dude, that’s what you always ask me. You know the answer: I wish a could, but—”
“You do?” Phil asked in earnest.
“Maybe next time!” Angel shot him a thumbs-up, then jogged two blocks to the Willard Parking Garage, his silver cowboy-boot heels clicking on the icy pavement. Seeing a line for the elevator, he pulled open the stairwell door and tore up the steps, two at a time. A homeless man was slumped on the landing of the third floor. Barely a teenager, he had dark, Latino features and was shivering in his threadbare hoodie, his grimy toes poking out of worn-through sneakers. The kid held out his hand. “Por favor, señor,” he said in a weak voice.
Angel had seen more than his share of homeless people when he was growing up in Tijuana. “I know where you’re at man,” he said in Spanish. He pulled out his wallet and came up with $100 in ten-dollar bills. He handed five to him. The boy’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “It’s Alexander Hamilton,” explained Angel in Spanish, pointing to the face on the ten-dollar bill. “He was an immigrant, like you and me. He got rich and famous. He did good things for this country. He was a good man.”
The teenager’s eyes filled with tears. “Gracias, señor! Gracias!”
Angel walked through the parking structure toward a shiny red Mustang and pressed the button on his car keys. The car’s interior lights flicked on and he heard the click of the locks. He licked his finger and wiped a smudge from the windshield, then opened the door and slipped behind the wheel. Angel looked around the interior, as he did every time he climbed in, as if to remind himself that it was really his car. Thanks to his success, which he owed all to Natalia, he could have afforded to buy a BMW or a Range Rover when he passed his driver’s test and went car shopping. But a red Mustang had been his dream car since he was a kid. It was the car that UCLA frat boys and Marines from Camp Pendleton drove when they came down to Tijuana to party.
He started the motor; the radio blasted Mexican salsa music. He was about to back out of his parking space, but decided he had something more important to do right now. He pulled his iPhone from his satchel and turned it on. When the screen lit up, he tapped in the address for Slovak Google. The Google search box appeared, but the words under it had strange accents.
“Slovak! Puta madre,” he muttered. “Shit.”
Then he noticed a line: “Google sa ponúka aj v jazyku English.” He highlighted “English” and clicked “Enter.”
Excited by the discovery he had made on Google, Angel ran the two blocks back from the Willard Parking Garage to the White House. Camera in hand, Phil was still among the crowd outside the perimeter fence. “Hey, Angel,” he called to him. “Don’t forget me!”
Another thumbs-up. “No worries!”
Angel slowed to a walk as he approached the staff entrance. He could see that U.D. Officer Conner still was on duty at the security checkpoint. He knew the pinche redneck would love nothing more than to fuck over a maricón. Eager to share his news with Natalia, he didn’t want to give him any reaso
n. He caught his breath and walked in.
Tallisha smiled at him. “Yo!”
Conner grunted. “Back so soon?”
“I, like, forgot my, uh, blow dryer,” Angel said.
Conner snickered. “Right. Can’t give blow jobs if you don’t gotta blow dryer.” He scanned his computer. “Sorry. You’re not on FLOTUS’s guest list.”
“Please call and let them know I’m here.”
“How ’bout I call and have them send your blow jobber down. I don’t want POTUS distracted by a midget in red cowboy boots running around the White House. They might think you’re some kind of weirdo-spic-leprechaun spy.”
Tallisha stuck her face into Conner’s. “Shut up, fool!” She turned to Angel and scanned the ID around his neck. “I’ll let ’em know you’re coming up.”
“Thank you.”
Conner held out a metal collection bin for Angel’s possessions. He tossed in his keys. “Phone?”
“Left it in the car,” said Angel.
Tallisha motioned for him to walk through the metal detector. As he passed through it and headed into the White House, he fought the urge to break into a run.
Chapter 9
The White House
December 16, 12:00 p.m.
Natalia sucked in her breath. Standing behind her in the First Lady’s mirrored dressing room, Hilda strained to zip up her gown. The Slovak maid frowned. “Nebude.”
“You’re right. No damn good!” Natalia exhaled, frustrated. Thanks to the bloating from the hormone shots—and, okay, the midnight snacks too—she couldn’t squeeze into this exquisite red tulle-and-silk Valentino evening gown. What would she wear for the Presidential Family Christmas photo session tomorrow? She ran her hand over the bosom of the $15,000 dress, admiring how beautifully it was decorated with hand-beaded, red-and-black satin butterflies. Last week, when a Valentino stylist sent it to her, she worried that it was too bold. “It’s so…red,” she said to Angel, who was doing her hair at the time.
“Go for it, chica! You’re gonna upstage the First Daughter,” he whispered.
Natalia nodded for Hilda to unzip the gown. She stepped out of it, kicked off her matching red-satin Manolos, and jumped down from the fitting platform. In her scarlet Prada thong panties and bra, she padded into the cavernous walk-in closet. She punched a button on the wall and the motorized racks of clothes began to move, zigzagging around her like a garment carousel in a dry-cleaning shop. As she scanned the clothes moving by, each carefully cocooned in tissue paper and plastic, she recalled how she fell in love with fashion when she was a little girl. Her babika had taught her how to stitch dresses out of rags for her dolls. She remembered the time she promised her little brother that if he watched her doll fashion show, she would give him her one leftover candy cane from Christmas. Franc sat through the fashion show, but he made nasty faces and told her, “Ugly clothes, for witches!” To punish him, she ate the candy cane in front of him, enjoying every crunchy bite. In revenge, Franc ripped her doll dresses into pieces. Papa took the strap to him, but he didn’t cry. She knew then that her baby brother would end up in jail. If it wasn’t for Rex, she thought, Franc would still be in a Slovak cell that stank of urine.
“Need help finding something to wear?” Angel stepped into the closet behind her.
“Hovno, what are you—”
“Shhh!” He closed the door behind him, then punched the button on the garment rack. It launched into high speed; the hum of the motor and the swooshing of the tissue paper and plastic grew louder. He grabbed her hand and they ducked under the first row of moving clothes, so that they were surrounded by them. Natalia knew that here they couldn’t be heard by prying ears.
She read the excitement on Angel’s face. “You found Vaclav?”
“Chica, do you know how many Vaclav Szabos there are on Slovak Facebook?”
“You didn’t find him?”
“Your Vaclav Szabo isn’t on Facebook.”
“How can you be sure?”
“The Vaclav Szabos on Facebook are either old farts, or teenage boys with pinches espinillas, pimples!”
“Oh no!”
“So I didn’t find your Vaclav.” He grinned. “But I found his rock band!”
“Rock band?”
“Vaclav plays guitar in a band called that other name you mentioned.”
“What name?”
“The god that’s, like, a mountain goat? Starts with a ‘Z’?”
“Zlatorog?”
“Zlatorog and the Dragons! That’s the name of his pinche rock band in Prague.”
“Zlatorog and the Dragons! That’s another sign!” Natalia crossed herself, put her hands together in prayer and squeezed her eyes shut. “Ďakujem, Mother Maria! Thank you, Saint Jackie!” She embraced Angel. “Vaclav played guitar in high school. I knew he had talent!”
“I found the band’s website. It was in Slovak. The Google translation was pinche weird, but I got Vaclav’s email address.”
“You did? Thank you soooo, soooo much! I’ve got to figure out a way to email him!” She paused, thinking, then blurted out, “How about we meet for lunch tomorrow at that vegan restaurant in Georgetown I like. I’ll sneak your iPhone into the ladies—”
“Chica, I’m way ahead of you.”
“What?”
“In Mexico, there’s a saying, Camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente.”
“What does that mean?”
“‘The shrimp that falls asleep is swept away by the current.’ In other words, ‘You snooze, you lose.’ I emailed Vaclav ASAP.”
“But I wanted to email Vaclav!”
He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Chica, I did my best!”
She grabbed his hand. “Of course you did! I’m sorry, Angel. I’m glad you emailed him. What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Yo, Vaclav, like, this is top secret, but I am writing for…’ I realized I don’t know your maiden name, but I figured he’d know ‘Natalia Funck.’”
“Gosovic.”
“What’s that?”
“My maiden name. What else did you say in the email?”
“That you want to see him and be with him, like, forever, right?”
“Absolutely!”
“So, I put it to him: ‘Dude, are you cool with this or not?’”
“That’s perfect!” She hugged him. “I can’t wait to see what he emails back!” She frowned. “If he emails back!”
“He already did!”
“Seriously?”
“It was in sort of half Slovak, half English.”
Natalia sucked in her breath, eyes wide. “What did he say?”
“I think what he said was, like, ‘Go fuck yourself.’”
“No!”
“He thought I was conning him. He said, ‘Fuck you! You insult most beautiful woman in world!’”
“Vaclav said that?”
“There’s more. He said, ‘Love me life!’”
“Love me life?”
“I think he meant, like, ‘love of my life.’”
Natalia shook her hands excitedly. “Vaclav still loves me!”
“I had to convince him we’re BFFs before he’d believe me.”
“How did you do that?”
“The valentine on your ass.”
It took a moment for that to sink in. “How did you know I have a mole shaped like a heart on my zadok?”
“Natalia, you can never make up your pinche mind what to wear! Do you know how many times I see you get dressed, then undressed, then dressed again, then undressed? Like, look at you right now!”
Natalia glanced down and realized that she was wearing only her red bra and thong undies. “Oh!”
“Chica, you wear a pinche thong. I see your heart-shaped mole mucho.” He turned her around and pointed to her right butt cheek.
She craned her neck around and tried to spot it. Without a mirror, it was impossible.
“No worries. It’s still there.”
&nbs
p; “I didn’t know I had that mole until Vaclav kissed it. He loved it. When Rex saw it, he said I should get it cut off. So did Dr. Hormone.”
“Vaclav still loves it.”
“He said that?”
“Not exactly, but he said he’s ready to risk his job, his life, for you.”
“Seriously?”
“Natalia, this is me, your angel!”
“Yes, I know! Of course!” She grabbed his hand. “What do we do now?”
“Yo, don’t I always take care of you?”
“Yes! Yes! But how? Where?”
“You gotta authorize a White House pass tomorrow for ‘Moon Kusnetzov.’”
“Who’s Moon Kusnetzov?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow, when I come to do your hair. But to make this work, I need something else from you.”
“Anything.”
“Do you have any compas, pals, in the White House kitchen?”
“No, but I do in the staff-cafeteria kitchen. In the basement.”
“Where you told me you go at night to pig out?”
“One biscuit is not ‘pigging out’!”
“Whatever.”
Her eyes brightened. “Biscuits. It’s osud!”
“What’s osud?”
“‘Fate!’ Biscuits are another sign that Vaclav and I are meant to be together!”
“A sign? Like, how?”
“Last night, Stella, the baker, pointed to these two Vietnamese girls who work in the kitchen. They’re shy. Stella said, ‘Them sisters don’t talk much, but I always say what’s on my mind.’ She hopes that’s okay with me. Since I’m eating her biscuits, it better be.”
“What’s on Stella’s mind?”
“The ghost in the kitchen.”
“A ghost?”
“She says she’s sure it’s the ghost of Abraham Lincoln, who freed the slaves. Then she blurts out, ‘I don’t think President Lincoln likes your husband!’ She leans closer and says, ‘From what I see on TV, and from what I see in your eyes when you come down here hungry in the middle of the night, like you hope food’s gonna make everything all right, or like maybe you can sneak outta here or somethin’, I don’t think you like your husband either!’”
The First Lady Escapes Page 6