THE PRESIDENT IS COMING TO LUNCH

by Nan

  “Darling! This is Phyllis.”

  “Somehow I just knew I’d be hearin’ from you. What airport you callin’ from?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Donald and I are holed up at ‘21.’ At least for the duration.”

  “That’s real stoic. Anybody there I’d be interested in?”

  “Me.”

  “Oh, c’mon Phyllis. I gave at the office. I love Libby too much not to go along with the ‘let-me-show-you-my-antique-gun’ routine. But enough is enough.”

  “That’s yesterday’s news,” Phyllis snapped. “I’m calling to let you break the story that yours truly is bringing Cal Dennis back to Broadway. And darling, don’t think that was easy!”

  Fay shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it, honey, but you always manage to come up spittin’ diamonds.”

  Libby made herself appear very busy. She walked up and down the aisles replacing used ash trays with fresh ones, dirty silverware with clean, old worries with new.

  As Libby reached for an empty glass, J squeezed her hand. “Darling, this terrible business with Cal . . .”

  “I’m not interested in your personal life,” Harriet said. “I came here for Truffle Pot Pie.”

  “Did you? What a pity. We’re all out,” Libby lied. “Frankly, Harriet, if I were you, I’d stay with something simple. Certainly nothing with a sauce. That way you can be sure no one spit on it.”

  Special Agent Davis left his table and came over to Libby. “Excuse me, Mrs. Dennis. It’s time.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. It was the way he said It’s time. It’s time to shave your head. It’s time to say your prayers. It’s time to put the noose around your neck. But before Libby had a chance to say anything, Harriet grabbed her by the wrist.

  “Why is the President coming here? Why did he choose this dump? There’s got to be a reason.”

  Libby pulled her hand away, gasping as loudly as she could. “Damn you! Is nothing sacred?”

  J was shocked. “Harriet! Behave yourself!”

  “It’s all right, J. I know when I’m licked. A crack reporter like Harriet would find out sooner or later. She might as well hear it from me.” Libby put a hand on J’s shoulder as though to steady herself. “I can no longer hide the truth. I was once the mistress of the President of the United States and by his seed brought forth an illegitimate offspring who knows naught of his political provenance. And that, Harriet, is why the President is coming to lunch.”

  J, unable to control her laughter, sprayed a mouthful of margarita across the table. All over Harriet.

  Libby walked triumphantly up the aisle. Perhaps this was an even better moment to open her book. Then, while everyone was getting paper cuts from turning the pages quickly, she’d drop in three or four hundred pages of flashbacks that would bring her to the climactic moment. The arrival of the President. The revelation of her secret. Anna Karenina on the train tracks. The lady or the express.

  Libby put her hand on Birnbaum’s arm. He moved his head slightly but, like a dancer, never took his eyes from the point. The point was Steven. “Birnbaum, I want to give you one last chance.”

  “To do what?”

  “Rejoin the human race.”

  “Later.”

  “There is no later. I’ve run out of time.”

  “Listen, your problems and my problems . . .”

  “Birnbaum, don’t give me the King and Country speech. Please!”

  He smiled. “Goddamn you.”

  “Everybody gets one last request.”

  “The hell they do. I don’t owe you anything. I owe the President. I owe him my loyalty. My life.”

  “You don’t owe him my life, Birnbaum.”

  “I have to protect him.”

  “I have to protect Cal.”

  “Cal’s not in any danger.”

  “Don’t be dumb. There are lots of ways to die.” She tightened her grip on his arm. “I want to tell Cal before he finds out.”

  “Cal isn’t going to find out anything right now. My job is to protect the President, not deliver the Six O’Clock News. I decide what happens when.”

  “You can’t make time stand still, Birnbaum.”

  “Yes I can.”

  Libby shook her head. “Only in your apartment.”

  He faced her for the first time. “Last night, you scared the shit out of me. Nothing like you ever happened to me before. Never will again.” He stared at her. “I want you to leave me the hell alone.”

  Libby knew that she had finally run out of track. She took a deep breath. “Okay, Birnbaum. But one last thing before the President gets here.”

  “What?”

  She spit onto her fingertips and slicked back her bright red bangs. “Tell me I’m gorgeous!”

  * * *

  Four policemen on motorcycles sped out of the UN driveway and into the “frozen zone” along First Avenue. Two Coast Guard helicopters filled with countersniper teams hovered over both sides of the street. Marine One, the President’s chopper, with its communications link to the Command Van across the street from Libby’s, paced nervously in the sky above the UN garage.

  Special Agent Cooley, watching all three video screens in the van, spoke into the microphone on his headset. “Phase One alert. Comet rising.” He leaned close to the screen that received images from Marine One. “Headstart, do you copy?”

  Birnbaum’s voice responded. “Affirmative. All units copy.”

  “Barfly copy.”

  “Kitchen copy.”

  “North roof copy.”

  “South roof copy.”

  “Sixth Avenue copy.”

  “Fifth Avenue copy.”

  “Crosstown one copy.”

  “Crosstown two copy.”

  “Crosstown three copy.”

  “Crosstown four copy.”

  “Second Avenue copy.”

  “First Avenue copy.”

  “All right, then,” boomed Anders’s voice. “This isn’t Starlight Express. Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

  The four motorcycle cops were pure attention grabbers, the conductor tapping his baton. The next vehicle in the motorcade was the “pilot” car, a NYPD squad car filled with uniformed police.

  The “point” car was a quarter of a mile behind, allowing time for the pilot car to signal if there were any signs of trouble. It was an unmarked car filled with armed Secret Service agents and high-ranking police. They scanned the streets for anything or anyone that looked suspicious. An empty window. A glint of metal. An unpredictable movement. The men in the point car operated on pure animal instinct.

  The presidential limousine, the most secure vehicle in the world since FDR used Al Capone’s armored car, had a standard six-digit Washington, D.C., blue-and-white license plate. It remained five lengths behind the point car and was driven by an agent from the White House detail. Anders sat in the right front seat, maintaining radio contact with the Command Van and all other vehicles in the motorcade. He was glad to get out of the UN with its goddamn extraterritorial rights and a security force that was a real pain in the ass. Once the President was in the car, Anders didn’t have to share him with anyone.

  The President of the United States sat on the right side of the rear seat. The Secretary of State was in the middle, and the Chief of Staff on the left. The President’s personal attorney and the White House Press Secretary sat in jump seats facing him.

  “Time?” the President asked, looking out of the window.

  “Twelve-thirty, Mr. President,” said his Press Secretary. One of the perks of being President, in addition to never having to say you’re sorry, was not having to carry a wallet or a watch.

  The President shook his head. “I hate empty streets.”

  Sherman Simon, the President’s attorney, spoke softly. “I wish you’d reconsider lunch at Libby’s.”

  “What’s the matter, Sherman?” asked the President. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “This is one lunch the Administration c
an do without.”

  The President raised his tinted aviator glasses. “The Administration? You’re talking like an old man, Sherman. Who the hell do you think the Administration is?”

  The Secretary of State, who was an old man, said, “Fuck it, Mr. President! You do what you want. To hell with the history books. As far as anyone knows today, John Foster Dulles is nothing but an airport.”

  Sherman leaned forward. “We’ve got a wide enough window in the schedule. There’s still time to change your mind.”

  The President sat back and smiled. “Are you kidding? I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.”

  As the motorcade headed uptown on Second Avenue, Anders heard Cooley’s voice in his earphone. “Comet on Second. Please copy.”

  Right behind the presidential limousine was the “chase” car. Admiral John Ellis, the President’s physician, rode alongside Secret Service agents holding Israeli-made Uzi submachine guns. Next in line were two staff vans filled with electronic gear and weapons. Navy Lieutenant Commander Susan Forrest carried the “red telephone.” The vans were followed by additional Secret Service cars, NYPD cars, and, finally, six motorcycle cops to signify the end of the motorcade.

  “Comet turning left,” Cooley announced, watching the images sent by Marine One. “Full zone alert. Please copy.”

  “Affirmative,” Birnbaum said. “Headstart copy. All units copy.”

  When the motorcade reached Fifth Avenue, the driver of the pilot car slowed down, allowing the other vehicles to close ranks. As the presidential limousine approached the restaurant, it veered left, drove up onto the sidewalk and was surrounded by the rest of the motorcade.

  Cooley’s voice. “Comet has landed.”

  Libby moved into place as easily as finding her mark on stage. Meehan and Conaway stood at attention. Roth slipped the magnetometer into his pocket. Taylor put down the clipboard and opened the front door. Six agents walked in, glancing at Birnbaum for confirmation that the premises were secure. Once he nodded, they formed a human corridor—three men on each side—preparing to flank the President. While waiting for him, they looked rapidly around the vestibule, focusing with such impact, point to point, that the movement of their eyes could almost be heard.

  The President of the United States came through the doorway. Upon seeing Libby, he stopped. He lifted his aviator glasses and smiled. “I should be very angry with you.” He took hold of her hands. “I waited at the Willard Hotel for two hours.”

  “I never thought you’d come.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “You should have trusted me.” And then he whispered, “I’m still waiting.”

  “I’m still waiting,” Birnbaum said into his walkie-talkie.

  Libby looked up, suddenly short of breath. “Where is he?”

  The President of the United States came through the doorway. Upon seeing Libby, he stopped. He lifted his aviator glasses and smiled. “I’ve heard a great deal about your restaurant. I’ve been wanting to have lunch here for years.” He shook her hand and leaned close. “I apologize for all the hoopla.”

  Libby was stunned. He didn’t know who she was. Suddenly that was even worse than the knowing half-smile of recognition she had expected.

  “What hoopla? Mr. President, it’s a pleasure to have you here.”

  Libby had seen hundreds of pictures of him. She knew exactly what he looked like. She had followed his campaign from the day he first announced himself as a candidate. She had watched his press conferences on television, seen him sign bills into law, stared in fascination as he greeted world leaders and led them into the White House. But nothing, least of all having once slept with him, prepared her for the intensity of the force field around him. He wore power the way other men wore cologne.

  As he let go of her hand, she saw something in his eyes, a look she had seen many times over the years. There was someone else who looked at her just that way. “Mr. President,” she said, grabbing hold of Steven, “I’d like you to meet my son.”

  Suddenly, the world melted into slow-motion photography. Click. Click. Click. Steven’s hand reached out. Click. Click. Click. Innocently, irrevocably, forbidden flesh had touched, held tight, let go. To everyone but Libby, it was a casual moment in a disposable world. It was a moment Libby would remember forever.

  “We’re honored to have you here, Mr. President,” Steven said.

  The President turned to Libby. “Surely, this young man can’t be your son?”

  Libby smiled at the President. He is your son, she told him in utter silence. Afraid that her thoughts had been overheard, she turned quickly. “By the way,” she blurted out, “Have you met Special Agent Birnbaum?”

  The President shook his hand. “Head of the New York detail,” he acknowledged. “You’ve done a terrific job.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  The President laughed. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

  “Mr. President,” Anders said impatiently.

  The President winked at Libby. “They want to put me in my playpen.”

  “May I?” she asked, pointing toward the dining room.

  “You damn well better. I’m hungry.”

  Libby walked down the steps, the President at her side. Everyone at the front tables automatically stood up. Within a moment, the entire room was on its feet, applauding. Libby felt the corners of her eyes moisten with tears. Of all the thoughts that had crossed her mind, there was one that caught her by surprise. Libby couldn’t help wondering what it would be like if she were the First Lady.

  The President stopped to say hello to Meryl. Fay stood up and shook his hand. Julie Andrews and Tommy Tune. Senior and Esther Williams. Horton had a diagram of the room with a list of who sat where. He followed behind the President, alerting him whether to turn right or left or keep going.

  “Right,” Horton whispered. “Señor Ensesa. Bolivia. Money. Anti-drugs.”

  “Señor Ensesa.” The President smiled and extended his hand.

  Alfero broke into a cold sweat. “Señor Presidente!” As he leaned across the table to shake hands, he spilled his coffee into the caviar.

  “I appreciate your help on that drug matter.”

  Alfero could hardly speak. “You need more, you let me know.”

  As the President walked away, he told Horton to invite Ensesa to the White House dinner for the Venezuelan ambassador.

  Alfero watched with a broken heart as Juano, the busboy, stood at attention while the President took his seat.

  “Well,” Norm said, “we don’t have to worry about Mr. Pérez anymore. He’s never going to get in now.” Norm handed Alfero a menu and smiled. “You might as well get on with it.”

  Libby stood at the desk, holding onto the reservations book as though it were the edge of a cliff. The President of the United States was at Table 42. Unbeknownst to him, his own son was taking the drink order. It was not unbeknownst to Birnbaum, however. He stared at Steven like a bird watcher on the first day of spring.

  She answered the phone, “Libby’s Last Chance Saloon.”

  “Babe?”

  “Cal! Where the hell are you?”

  “These fuckers won’t let me through the barricade on Fifth Avenue. They say my name isn’t on the reservations list!”

  “Of course it isn’t. Let me speak to them.”

  “It’s no use. They say even if it was, no one can get in or out while Der Führer is there!”

  “Cal, you’ve got to get in. I just spoke to Junior. You won’t believe what he said.”

  “Nobody believes Junior.”

  “Listen to me. Meryl is here with Sam. She wants to do The Last Cowboy!”

  “With Rikki?”

  “No! Janos’s option lapsed. Meryl wants to do it with you.”

  Cal was stunned. He let out a deep groan. “Goddamn, I knew I should have read it!”

  “Cal, will you shut up and cut to the chase? You’ve got to get here.”

&nbs
p; “How? These clowns won’t let me through.”

  Libby clutched the phone. “Leave it to me.” She slammed down the receiver and went over to Birnbaum. “I want to make a deal.”

  “No.”

  “I want you to let Cal in. I love him, Birnbaum.” Her voice cracked. “You and I know he’s about to get shot again and it’s your finger on the trigger. There’s nothing I can do to stop you.” She smiled. “But he’s a movie star. He can get along without me. He can’t get along without this movie.”

  “You said you wanted to make a deal. What do I get in return?”

  Libby smiled. “Nothing.”

  He laughed. “You’re one hell of a piece of work.”

  Libby grabbed him by the lapel. “Birnbaum, he’s America’s sweetheart! Let him in!”

  “No one goes in or out while the President is here,” he said. “I told you that.”

  “It’s not as though you’d be doing it for me. Meryl Streep wants to talk to him. What did she ever do to you?”

  “No one in. No one out.”

  “Don’t you ever make exceptions?”

  “Never.”

  The entire population of Hell gathered in her stomach. “Birnbaum, I beg you, don’t do this. Don’t make it rain for forty days and forty nights.”

  Andre tapped his fingers on the table as Al poured a sip of the Puligny-Montrachet “Folâtières” ’85. Smiling at Mark van Heuven across the table, Andre picked up the glass. He held it to the light, swirled the wine around and watched it coat the crystal. He sniffed suspiciously, sipped it slowly, and sloshed the chardonnay from cheek to cheek. Andre swallowed with a loud gulp. Finally, he sucked in air and tilted his head to one side. He narrowed his eyes and tapped his finger on the table. “Piss! Pure piss! Take it away!”

  “Yes, Mr. Riley. I’m terribly sorry.” Al handled it perfectly. Just as Andre had rehearsed it with him. “Is there something else I can bring you?”

  Andre shook his head wearily. “I’ll try the ’84 Corton-Charlemagne.”