“RNs are trained to have nerves of steel.” She wiped away the few traces of blood. “Earrings please?” Natalia slipped them into Moon’s palm. Moon expertly inserted them.
Natalia sized up Moon in the mirror. “The rubies do make the red pop!” She attached the matching pendant around Moon’s neck. “And you hardly notice the choker.”
“Told ya, girlfriend!”
Natalia turned to Angel. “Shall we take some jewelry along? It’s not like I have a credit card or checkbook. We can pawn them for cash.”
“They don’t usually X-ray stuff going out of the White House, only going in. But if they do,” he said, “and we get caught with FLOTUS’s jewelry, we’re fucked.” He braced one cowboy-booted foot against the wall. “But I have a little space in here.” Using the tip of the hypodermic needle, he pried open the secret compartment in his silver boot heel.
Natalia opened a small jewelry drawer filled with unset diamonds. “These belonged to Rex’s first, second, and third wives,” she said. “When they got divorced, he reclaimed their jewelry, trashed the settings, and the put the stones in here. He said they have bad karma.”
Angel examined the diamonds, picked out six of the smallest ones—Natalia figured they were from one to three karats each—and fit them into the boot-heel compartment. “Bad karma’s bullshit,” he said.
Moon looked up from the drawer full of Cartier LOVE bracelets. “I’ll pass on the bracelets. I don’t do guilt gifts.” She closed the drawer and peeked into random drawers, searching for something. When she found what she was looking for, she opened the drawer wide. It held dozens of expensive watches. “I need to know when it’s Cinderella time tonight.” She selected a Cartier tank watch with a pavé-diamond face and slipped it on.
“Leave that here too when you split tonight,” said Angel. “Vamanos!”
Natalia closed the jewelry safe and locked it. She followed Angel and Moon out of the closet.
Moon primped nervously in front of the salon mirror. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, I’m getting stage fright! Girlfriend, you’ve got to tell me what to say to the fucking Funck fuckers at the photo shoot. They’ve got to believe I’m you!”
“Say nothing,” she said. “Funck family members never talk to me. When they’re together, I’m a piece of furniture. All you have to do is smile.”
“One more time?” Moon struck the pose she showed Natalia earlier, her eyes evocatively narrowed, a bland fish-gape smile. She gracefully brushed her hair from her face.
“Perfect!”
Moon took her hands. “Natalia, beautiful, sweet Natalia! Thank you for giving me this chance to live my dream today.” She gave her air kisses on both cheeks. “Girlfriend, I will do everything in my power not to screw it up.”
“Thank you for giving me this chance for my freedom.” She saw tears brimming in Moon’s eyes. “Sorry, Moon, but First Ladies don’t cry,” she said gently.
Chapter 15
The White House
December 17, 10:45 a.m.
“Here comes the faggot-patrol again,” said Conner.
Tallisha saw that he was looking at the black-and-white image of Angel and Moon on the security screens. They were walking toward them through the tunnel from the White House basement. “Trans folks aren’t gay,” she said. “It’s just they feel they were born in the wrong body.”
Conner nodded toward the trans woman in the pink-streaked black wig on the screen. “So, it’s not that this dude hates his wanker cuz it’s not big enough, or cuz it points kinda sideways. He wishes he had a pussy instead?”
“Uh-huh. It’s a matter of nature.”
“Like it’s nature you’re a bull dyke?”
“Maybe,” she said, unfazed. “Or maybe like it’s nature you’re dumb as dog shit.”
In the tunnel, Angel shot Natalia a warning look that she knew meant, “Are you ready?” She took a deep breath and nodded. Then she made the gesture that Rex always made before he walked into a room, the move she’d seen men make her entire life anytime they needed to reassure themselves that they were men. She put her hand on her “crotch” and “rearranged” what was underneath.
Angel snickered. “You got that part right!”
They walked into the security checkpoint.
As if he couldn’t help it, Conner hitched up his pants and made a similar gesture. He grunted at Moon. “So, did FLOTUS let you wear her silk undies?”
“Just give the lady her stuff,” Angel said.
Natalia felt a wave of relief that he answered before she could put her trans-woman voice to the test. Moon had rehearsed it with her, but she didn’t feel confident. Conner kept staring at her. Was it contempt or suspicion?
Tallisha handed Moon’s passport and iPhone to Natalia. For a moment, their fingers touched. Tallisha glanced up at her. Natalia worried that her hands had given her away. She turned quickly to leave.
“Throw it on the X-ray belt.” Conner pointed to her garment bag. “Gotta make sure you didn’t steal nothing.”
Natalia glanced at Angel, hoping he would say something to prevent the X-ray scan. She didn’t want the nasty guard sorting through her shorn hair and nail clippings inside. She saw beads of sweat on Angel’s forehead.
Conner nodded to Natalia’s wig. “Head bush too!”
“Ignore the dumbass,” said Tallisha. “He sucks shit.” She waved Natalia and Angel through the exit gate, bags and all. “Y’all have a nice day now.”
“Hovno,” Natalia whispered once they were outside and heading toward the White House grounds exit. “I thought we were screwed.”
“C’mon, piece of cake,” Angel joked.
Ahead, the usual horde of tourists and paparazzi were milling around outside the perimeter fence, hoping to spot VIPs exiting the White House.
“Hey, Angel!” a voice called from the crowd. “Did you get me that photo op with FLOTUS?”
Natalia recognized the man pushing his way closer to the fence: Phil Smith, the paparazzo who creeped her out. “He’ll know it’s me!” she whispered to Angel.
“Chill.” He waved to Phil. “Not yet, dude, but hang in there. It’s gonna happen!”
Natalia focused on the turnstile exit ahead. The finish line; fifteen feet to go. Ten feet. Her stomach clenched in cold terror. She remembered feeling this way the first time she walked down a runway in Paris. You felt this way on your first date with Rex, she reminded herself. Look where that got you!
She glanced over her shoulder at the gleaming white mansion that had been her prison. Praying it would be her last look at it, she murmured, “Goodbye and fuck you.”
In that instant, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Phil behind the perimeter fence. Like a hunter with his prey in his crosshairs, he was snapping photos of her. “My shadow!” she whispered to Angel. “He’s taking pictures of me!”
He turned to see. “It’s all in your head.”
She glanced back at the fence: no sign of Phil. “He was there! I saw him!”
“You’re uptight. Your mind, like, fucks you over when you’re uptight.”
She nodded, but she wasn’t convinced.
Angel nudged her ahead of him, to push her through the turnstile first. “Welcome to the real world, chica!”
Part III
Chapter 16
The White House
December 17, 11:15 a.m.
Perspiration soaked Moon’s armpits, threatening to drip down the sides of her red Valentino gown. Ohmygod, ohmygod, she thought, as Sally-Ann escorted her down the sweeping staircase of the White House. What if I show up at the photo op with ginormous sweat stains on this $15,000 dress? What if my makeup runs? They’ll know I’m an imposter! Wait, I’ll blame it on the hormone shots. Moon repeated the excuse in her mind to reassure herself, but it only made her sweat more profusely.
She had stayed cool when Natalia’s tight-ass social secretary bustled into FLOTUS’s bedroom five minutes ago. “Wow! You look fantastic!” Sally-Ann gushed, taking in
the gown, shoes, and jewelry. “And red is perfect for Christmas!” Moon had caught the moment when Sally-Ann spotted her red choker: Her mouth tightened, as if she were hiding her disapproval, afraid to offend FLOTUS. “Chokers are hot this season,” Moon had said in her best Natalia voice. “I saw it in Vogue.” She wasn’t sure the zaftig blonde with the Alabama drawl believed her, but so what? I’m fucking FLOTUS, she thought. She works for me.
To make small talk as they walked down the staircase, Moon was about to ask Sally-Ann if she’d had her social-secretary job long. Then she realized that Natalia would know the answer to that. She had hired Sally-Ann. On second thought, it was more likely that President Funck gave Sally-Ann her dream job. Moon imagined that Sally-Ann’s father was a filthy-rich, hardcore Republican who donated the big bucks to Funck’s campaign coffers. No doubt, Sally-Ann’s Alabama ancestors owned a cotton plantation right out of Gone with the Wind, with thousands of slaves, and fought for Dixie in the Civil War. For sure her family owned an arsenal of shotguns and hunted deer, quail, and pheasants, anything with fur or feathers and a heartbeat. She bet that her father went big-game hunting in Africa with one of President Funck’s sons. Maybe Sally-Ann tagged along. She imagined fleshy Sally-Ann in a Ralph Lauren safari shirt, pants, and pith helmet, flanking her pot-bellied father in the same attire, posing with their rifles next to a dead elephant. Not a pretty picture, she thought.
Enough with the fantasies, Moon told herself. You know the reason why your imagination is having diarrhea right now: You are scared shitless about meeting President Funck and his family face-to-face.
They reached the bottom of the grand staircase. “Have a wonderful time, ma’am,” said Sally-Ann, turning to walk back upstairs.
“Aren’t you…?” Moon was about to say, “coming with me,” but realized that it might give her away. FLOTUS doesn’t have her social secretary by her side 24/7, she thought. She can’t stand Sally-Ann; she thinks she spies on her. “Thank you, Sally-Ann.”
One strapping Marine guard was posted on each side of the staircase. They stared straight ahead as she walked past them into the grand foyer, its marble floors shimmering like ice. She spotted the Funck children and grandchildren at the other end of the room. No sign of the President. Good, she thought. I can try out my FLOTUS impersonation on “my” stepchildren and grandchildren before facing “my” husband.
She approached the grandchildren first. They sat primly on antique high-backed chairs along one wall, lined up by ages that she judged were from about two to fifteen. The boys wore dark Brooks Brothers suits and red ties; the girls wore red party dresses. At least I match, she thought. But will they find me out? As she stepped toward them, not one glanced up. All the children, even the two-year-olds, were bent over iPads nestled in their laps, earbud wires dangling from their ears like marionette strings. The boys were playing blood-splattered video-combat games. The girls were watching insipid girl-band music videos, humming along. At least they’re not watching FOX News, Moon thought. Not yet.
Funck’s three sons and their wives were positioned around an oversized Christmas tree that reached up to the crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling and rivaled them for bling. Enveloped in twinkling lights and gold ornaments, each shaped like a different Funck international hotel, the tree should have looked spectacular. To Moon’s eyes, it looked tacky, unnatural. As tacky and unnatural as the Funck offspring, she thought. She judged that hundreds of thousands of dollars had been spent on plastic surgery for the blonde Funck Barbie wives: tits, asses, noses, cheekbones, chins. The President’s sons looked like clones of their father when he was a young playboy, with carefully plucked eyebrows, chiseled features that she guessed resulted from gel-dermal filler, and maybe plastic surgery as well. Their slicked-back hair gleamed in the light from the chandeliers, like furniture with too much polish. They wore obscenely large Rex Funck watches and absurdly long ties, just like their dad.
Natalia had said that the President’s children never spoke to her at family gatherings, that she felt like a piece of furniture among them. I get it, thought Moon. But right now she didn’t feel like one of the antique side tables that no doubt belonged to George Washington. She felt like a sagging, secondhand sofa with rusted springs that someone had dumped in an alley.
She walked past a black-clad goateed photographer and his slim female assistant. They were setting up lights and camera equipment. She caught up with an African-American butler carrying a silver tray. The butler bowed obsequiously as he passed out glasses of champagne to the Funck litter. Moon snagged one, nodding “thanks.” The butler’s eyes widened. Before she could take a sip, she stopped, her glass poised in midair. She realized that everyone in the room was staring at her.
Shit. Natalia doesn’t drink, she thought. Like her husband. The motherfucker probably forbids it. As much as she was dying to drain her glass, she placed it back on the serving tray. Within seconds, Moon was a piece of furniture again.
“Are we pregnant yet?”
She turned to face a blonde in a skin-tight white dress whose tits seemed way too inflated for her anorexic body. Her overly filler-pumped lips attempted to curl into a smile. They reminded Moon of the lips on the koi at the park in Miami where she played when she was a little boy. There was no doubt in her mind that this was Gretchen, the First Daughter.
Gretchen pointed to the red-ribbon choker around Moon’s neck. “Nice touch.”
“I saw it in Vogue,” she said in her best Natalia voice. “It’s the new hot thing.”
“Perfect for hiding a turkey-neck, right?” Gretchen said it as a statement, not a question.
Moon felt her face flush. Natalia had warned her not to speak to family members, but she couldn’t resist. “Y’know what, Gretchen? White’s just not your color. Makes you look like a stiff.” She turned on her heel and walked away.
But where could she go? She was surrounded. Trapped.
“Listen up!”
James, Funck’s oldest son, branded by the press as the most pompous, motioned for his siblings to gather around him. “I just got word that Daddy had to bail on the photo shoot today. Some shit came up. Maybe North Korea. Maybe Iran. I don’t know, cuz damn, I lost my fucking security clearance! Thanks a lot, Pops!” He wiped away a pretend tear. The others laughed.
“Shall we adjourn to the bar at the Funck?” Conrad, Funck’s second son, whom the press dubbed the sleaziest, smirked. There were murmurs of approval. Moon knew that when the Funck offspring were in Washington, but not at the White House, they hung out on the government’s dime at the family’s posh Funck hotel a block away. “No wives. No brother-in-laws,” said Conrad. “Just brothers!”
“And Gretchen,” added Rex Jr., son number three, named the dimmest by the press.
“Sorry,” Gretchen said. “Daddy needs me with the Joint Chiefs in the Situation Room.” She strutted over to a tall, slender young man with pallid skin and a blank expression. He was standing alone in a corner holding a half-empty glass of champagne. Moon hadn’t noticed him before. She assumed that this was Jacob Cohn, Gretchen’s husband. It looked as if he felt as much like a piece of furniture here as she did.
“Jacob,” Gretchen said in a tone that Moon found soft, yet haughty. He raised his eyes to his wife, but said nothing, as if waiting for her command. “I may be hours with Daddy, so make sure the children have a healthy dinner. No yogurt with additives, no beef that isn’t grass-fed. Also figure out which of the nannies scared the shit out of them last night with her bedtime story.”
“It was Marianne, the French girl your celebrity-divorcée friend Whitney pawned off on us.”
“Remind me to put Whitney on my shit list, fire Marianne’s ass, and get one of the other nannies to do bedtime.” She walked away. “And make sure Elizabeth wears her night guard.”
“It’s Amanda who wears a night guard,” Jacob said in a voice so subdued, he reminded Moon of a squashed bug.
“I knew that,” Gretchen snapped at him.
“And Frederick gets a tablespoon of Robitussin.”
“It’s Samuel who gets Robitussin, but only one teaspoon.”
Gretchen walked back to Jacob, stopping when she was nose to nose with him. “Do you think I don’t know the needs of my own children?”
“How about, ‘Do I think you don’t know the names of your own children?’”
Eyes flashing, Gretchen stormed away from Jacob. Moon was standing close enough to hear her hiss, “Shithead!”
Moon wondered if the “fake news” was true that Gretchen and Jacob only stayed together to keep up a “happy family” facade. It was common knowledge that Rex had opposed his daughter’s marriage to the Orthodox Jew, but that with Rex Funck, money talked. The New York Times reported that Jacob’s father, a developer with a larger net worth than his, offered him a lucrative partnership in a Chelsea real-estate project. The next day, Rex approved the union.
Now, six years and four children later, Gretchen spent more time at her father’s side than at her husband’s. The press hinted that it was because she realized she had more to gain from allying with President Funck than with a junior real-estate mogul who could end up doing time, like his father.
She also wondered how true the “fake news” was that since her father’s election, Gretchen was considering running for President herself someday, that she pictured herself becoming the female version of President George Bush Jr. I sure as hell hope not, thought Moon. The father and son President Bushes fucked over America enough. We don’t need the father and daughter President Funcks finishing it off.
She grabbed a smoked-salmon canapé from a silver tray. As she savored it, she watched Gretchen furiously punching the button to call the elevator.
“Wait!”
The photographer ran over, trailed by his assistant lugging an umbrella-hooded light stand. “How about we at least get a few shots of the family without the President?”
The Funck boys rolled their eyes.
The First Lady Escapes Page 9