The President's Henchman

by Joseph Flynn

He decided it was time to back his way to the basket, interposing his body between the ball and McGill’s quick hands. He’d use his two-inch height advantage and his strength to get in close. He’d bulldoze McGill and put up a little two-foot jumper or a baby hook shot.

  Possibly, this strategy was inspired by the senator’s trainer, who yelled, “Muscle him, muscle the sonofa —”

  The trainer’s exhortation ended in an abrupt squeak; Sweetie didn’t approve of profanity in general, and especially not directed at those people close to her heart.

  Vulgarity aside, Michaelson got deeply involved in his new tactic. He led with his backside, slamming it hard into McGill’s midsection. Knocked him back a step. Checking his spot on the court, Michaelson flexed his knees more deeply. He battered McGill again, going for the groin. Forced his opponent back another step. Two more hard bangs, and he’d be in position to flip a little hook off the board and into the basket.

  Michaelson was having fun now. But the next time he thrust his ass out, McGill met it with a knee. A bolt of lightning shot up the senator’s anus and traveled the length of his spine to his brain. He fell face forward, getting his hands up to break the fall only at the last second. Saving him from breaking his nose. Not sparing his forehead from hitting the floor with a bang.

  Dazed, he looked up in time to see McGill calmly hit a shot from the free throw line — 6–1. This time the ball came back to McGill on the backspin. He dropped it in front of the senator.

  “Check ball,” McGill said.

  His forehead bleeding, Michaelson got to his feet to continue the game.

  From that point on the two men played full-contact basketball. Pat Riley’s old New York Knicks teams would have admired the fight. Getting the ball into the basket was only incidental to the exchange of forearms, elbows, shoulders, knees, and kicks. Which was exactly what McGill had wanted. He’d taken Michaelson out of his game, basketball, and gotten him into McGill’s game, Dark Alley.

  Not that the senator, a true competitor, didn’t give the latter his best effort.

  As McGill grabbed a rebound, Michaelson’s hand shot out. Not to take the ball away, but to jam a finger or two into one of McGill’s eyes. Relying on Uncle Ed’s training, McGill dipped his head, putting his skull not his eyes in line with Michaelson’s jabbing fingers. He heard at least one and maybe two of the senator’s metacarpals snap. But that was just McGill’s defensive move. Counterattacking, he drove the top of his head into Michaelson’s chin.

  Knocked him flat on his ass.

  Left himself a bit wobbly, too. His scalp was bleeding where Michaelson’s fingernails had torn his skin. A rivulet of blood ran between his eyes. McGill blotted the flow with his sleeve as it came off the tip of his nose.

  A glance to his right showed McGill that the senator’s trainer was leaning forward, wanting to take his man out of the battle. For that matter, Deke had entered the gym, and he, too, was on the verge of interceding. Only Sweetie was having a good time. She wanted more.

  So, apparently, did Michaelson. He waved the trainer back. Getting to his feet, taking a moment to reestablish his balance, he said, “Check ball.”

  McGill bounced the ball to him and took it back, another bullet pass, at the free throw line. Michaelson probably hoped to jam one or more of McGill’s fingers with the hard pass, but didn’t succeed. McGill drove past the senator, despite taking a knee to his left hip, and laid the ball in — 10–4.

  Michaelson fired yet another hard check pass at McGill. He sidestepped that one. Let it go to the far wall and roll most of the way back. When he bent over to pick the ball up, he thought his head was going to fall off. It remained attached to his body, but he wasn’t sure that was such a good thing. The worst headache of his life had arrived like a thunderclap. The consequence of hitting Michaelson’s chin with his head was just making itself known.

  Well, Dark Alley wasn’t for sissies.

  He’d have to remind Abbie of that.

  Assuming he wasn’t brain-dead when he finished this game.

  McGill shifted into high gear the moment he crossed half-court. It looked like he was driving right for another layup, but as Michaelson got close, McGill lowered a shoulder and cut hard left. He slammed straight into his startled opponent’s sternum and knocked Michaelson off his feet again.

  McGill made his shot from the point of the collision. It went in off the backboard. He’d been trying for straight in — 11–4.

  Michaelson got to his feet, still refusing to quit. He couldn’t fire the checked ball at McGill. Didn’t have the juice. Just let it go on a bounce. McGill caught it with his knees bent so he wouldn’t have lean over. He took a set shot from where he stood. The ball actually circled the rim a couple of times before rolling out. Michaelson hobbled over and got the rebound.

  From that point on, the senator began dropping bombs from deep in NBA three-point land. More impressively, he was making them with his left hand. The ring and pinkie fingers on his right hand had swollen to the size and color of blood sausages. He made five in a row, McGill laying back, giving the Anvil Chorus playing in his head a chance to sound its last note.

  The score was 11–9 when Michaelson finally missed a shot, and McGill got the ball back.

  The contest became a series of streaks. McGill made four layups, Michaelson, now wary of having his breastbone split in two, didn’t get close enough to take another hard shoulder — 15–9. Michaelson hit six more outside bombs while McGill was still trying to gather a plurality of his resources. Fifteen all.

  McGill made five more layups with Michaelson now daring to inch closer on defense. With the score 20–15, and only one more point needed to win, McGill tried to go to the hole one last time. Having nothing to lose, Michaelson stuck his leg out once more, trying to trip him, and succeeded. McGill sprawled onto the court with a thud, skinning his knees, elbows, and chin.

  More important, the ball got away from him and rolled out of bounds.

  Michaelson’s possession, as they weren’t calling fouls.

  The senator rattled off another six long-range shots in a row, the last three with McGill’s hand in his face. For the first time, Michaelson was ahead, 21–20. But it took a deuce, two buckets, to win.

  McGill rolled the checked ball to him, intending to take it away the second Michaelson picked it up. But the senator let the ball roll between his legs as if they were a croquet wicket. He picked up the ball behind his legs. He palmed the ball with his left hand, brought it around his own body and behind McGill’s back.

  To the onlookers it seemed as if the senator was embracing his opponent. He whispered into McGill’s ear, “You really thought you were going to win, didn’t you?”

  Then he kneed McGill in the crotch.

  Things didn’t work out quite the way he intended. His forty-eight-year-old kneecap hit not McGill’s genitals but the hardened plastic cup McGill had presciently inserted in his jockstrap. The jolt hurt McGill, but not badly, and the family jewels remained intact. Michaelson’s patella, on the other hand, suffered extreme pain and three hairline fractures. He had to let go of the ball to cover his injured kneecap with both hands.

  McGill spun around and retrieved the ball, his right elbow slamming into Michaelson’s jaw, knocking him down for the third time. He laid the ball in to tie the game, 21–21.

  This time, however, the senator was unable to get back to his feet. His knee injury, the bane of the older athlete, had put him out of the game. The senator’s trainer started forward, but when McGill shook his head, both Deke and Sweetie pulled him back.

  McGill lowered himself to one knee next to Michaelson.

  “Game ends in a draw,” he said in a quiet voice.

  Michaelson had no reply, content to fix McGill with a hate-filled stare.

  “Maybe we’ll have to do it again,” McGill said. “But if you decide to hold hearings to question whether Lindell Ricker confessed freely, whether Erna Godfrey deserves to be on death row for killing Andy Gra
nt … well, then I’m going to dedicate my life to investigating your life. And I’m much better at police work than I am at basketball. I’ll look into every minute of every day you’ve been in politics. You think you can give the president and me a hard time? Try it, and I’ll make the last half hour seem like Sunday brunch.”

  To emphasize his point, McGill stepped on Michaelson’s broken fingers as he limped off the court.

  Patti found McGill in his bathtub, the whirlpool jets on high. Doctor Artemus Nicolaides had been by to check him for, and clear him of, a concussion. Both White House massage therapists had worked on him simultaneously for ninety minutes. Blessing had brought him a pitcher of White House ice tea and drawn his bath for him. Sweetie was probably saying a rosary for him somewhere. And now Patti had stopped by. In the middle of the morning.

  “I thought your job kept you pretty busy,” McGill said.

  Patti ignored the joke. She asked, “What did you do?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Tell me in your own words.”

  “I beat up Roger Michaelson for you.”

  “You assaulted a United States senator?”

  “In the guise of a basketball game. He won’t complain.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “To save you some pain.”

  “I can take all the political heat Roger Michaelson can generate.”

  “Personal pain.”

  He told her of Michaelson’s scheme, which could conceivably have resulted in Erna Godfrey’s guilty verdict being overturned. He didn’t mention Galia’s role in the day’s events, but Patti was smart enough to figure out that she had to have one.

  “I didn’t think you should have to relive US v. Godfrey,” McGill said.

  Tears welled in Patti’s eyes, and she nodded. “Did you hit Michaelson hard?”

  “Many times.”

  “Do you think he’ll back off?”

  McGill told her of his threat to Michaelson.

  “Thank you,” Patti said. “I’ve got to get back to work now.”

  Chapter 25

  Abbie McGill went to Saint Viviana’s High School that morning. She was luckier than her brother, Kenny. While Abbie’s friends weren’t allowed to travel with her, their parents let them pal around with her once they’d all reached a safe place. Safe being a site the Secret Service had already inspected for and cleared of all imaginable threats, a location that was then protected by Abbie’s contingent of Evanston PD coppers.

  St. Viv’s made the grade by those criteria. Abbie’s best friends, Clare Daniels and Lissa Mulvay, met her inside the main entrance. All three girls would be starting their junior year at the school in September.

  The junior class had the responsibility of welcoming the student body back for the new school year. Abbie, Clare, and Lissa were the coheads of the Welcoming Committee. Each of them had two years invested in St. Viv’s, and two more to go. The way the administration saw it, that was the right combination of experience and continuing interest.

  Their responsibilities went beyond hanging banners and bunting, and picking a band for the annual Are You Getting Smart with Me? Dance. There were also substantive matters to consider. Past welcoming committees had addressed everything from replacing worn-out P.A. speakers to improving hallway traffic flows for class changes and fire drills; from upgrading the cafeteria menu for both nutrition and appetite appeal to refining the dress code in ways that pleased both student and parent aesthetics.

  The goal was to create a school that offered no excuses for failing to excel.

  That year’s committee heads took their work seriously.

  Abbie, Clare, and Lissa walked the otherwise deserted halls of St. Viv’s. It was a lot easier to see what needed fixing when the building wasn’t jammed with kids. The only sound was their sneakers squeaking on recently waxed floors. They covered the three main floors of the building before anyone said anything.

  “You know what I’d like to see?” Clare asked.

  Abbie and Lissa looked at her.

  “A wider selection of magazines in the school library. Maybe get Vanity Fair.”

  “Vanity’s one of the seven deadly sins,” Abbie said with a grin.

  “Boredom’s deadly, too. I’d like to read something with a little sass. Show the faculty and our parents we’re ready for controversial takes on current events and politics. You know, I bet Vanity Fair does a story on your stepmom before too long, Abbie.”

  Abbie only nodded. Most of the time her friends were pretty good about not making a big deal that her dad was married to the president. But it was getting harder with all cops and Secret Service around. Besides, Clare was probably right. Once the media got over their honeymoon with Patti, they probably would start writing snarky stories about her.

  Geez, she thought. Maybe about Dad, too.

  “What I’d like to see in the library is more DVDs,” Lissa said.

  “Undercut NetFlix?” Clare asked. “That’d be great.”

  “No, I’m serious. Think about this. The school library should have a DVD movie of any book that’s on the assigned reading list of any class that’s taught here. You know, as long as a movie’s been made from that book. You get to watch the movie only after you’ve done the reading, not before, not instead.”

  “What’s the point?” Abbie asked.

  “This is: You know how some teachers always think they understand better than anybody else what an author is really saying in his or her book?”

  The girls agreed they all knew such teachers.

  “But if you have a movie made from a book that takes another point of view, then you’ve got a dissenting voice. Another opinion that could be just as valid.”

  “From somebody who can’t be given a failing grade,” Abbie said with a smile.

  “What about you, Abbie?” Clare asked. “You got any big ideas for the school?”

  “Big, yeah … dramatic, no. The one thing I’ve never liked about St. Viv’s is the lockers.”

  The girls were in the corridor where they would take most of their classes in the coming year. As a privilege of their position, they’d already been assigned their lockers, ones that were centrally located so they wouldn’t have to race from one end of the hall to the other between classes. Abbie stopped at hers. She’d been given the combination but had yet to open it.

  “I mean, you get to school the first day, they seem big enough, if a little beat-up. But when your book bag is bulging, and you add your gym bag …” She started to dial her combination. “And the weather turns cold, and you add your winter coat, these things just get too cramped and smelly. I know it would cost a lot to buy better lockers for the whole school, but maybe we could start a fund so kids five or ten years from now could have something nicer.”

  “Miss Generosity,” said Clare. “Always thinking of others.”

  “I like the idea,” Lissa said. “There’ve been times I’ve opened my locker and thought I’d find —”

  Abbie opened her locker and shrieked.

  Her friends jumped, then crept forward to peek over Abbie’s trembling shoulders. There was no dead frog or pile of dog poop or anything disgusting like that in Abbie’s locker.

  Only a note. But it said: There’s nowhere we can’t reach you.

  Welborn pulled up to the northwest gate of the White House. The uniformed Secret Service detail knew him and Kira by both sight and name. They checked their security passes anyway. Looked them over closely. Made sure no bad guys were trying to impersonate them.

  After they were cleared, Welborn put Kira’s sports car in motion, intending to drop her off. He said, “You know, way back when, the White House gates were open to the public. In the thirties, young people even used the driveway as a lover’s lane. That all ended not because of any security problem but because Eleanor Roosevelt thought it was unseemly.”

  Kira was not amused.

  Welborn asked, “If security weren’t a problem now, you think Mr. M
cGill would mind people making out in front of the White House?”

  That notion tickled her. The corners of her mouth started to turn up, but she quickly squelched her amusement and went back to frowning.

  “I don’t think he would,” Welborn continued. “Not unless it was his daughters doing the making out.”

  He got her there; she laughed.

  Then she said, “I’m still mad at you, flyboy. Don’t think I’m not.”

  Welborn had told Kira that she could no longer accompany him as he went about his work; she had to stay safely ensconced in the White House. He’d promised the president.

  “I could quit my job, you know,” she said.

  “What are you qualified for besides government work?”

  The look she gave him should have stopped his heart.

  “Besides,” he said, “if you were an everyday civilian, you wouldn’t even get to hear about what I turn up.”

  A telling point, and she knew it. Not that she was about to give up.

  “I should at least take my car away from you.”

  “I’m sure the White House could find me another one.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I know. I still feel the same way.”

  Welborn stopped in front of the entrance to the White House. A Marine in dress uniform stepped forward to open the car door for the vice president’s niece.

  “Really?” Kira asked.

  “Really.”

  A bright smile appeared on her face, but there was mischief in her eyes. She abruptly leaned over, put an arm around Welborn’s neck, and planted a good one on him. A kiss deeper than any they had shared before. Right in front of the Marine.

  Meaning everyone in the federal government would know about it within twenty-four hours. That was what he got for telling her about people making out in the White House driveway.

  Kira sat back, and told him, “You’d better call me. I expect progress reports.”

  Welborn saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The Marine closed the door after she got out of the car. The guy was supposed to keep an impassive demeanor while on duty … but he grinned at Welborn.