The Running Mate (A Jack Houston St. Clair Thriller)

by Andrew Delaplaine

  “Doug said to thank you for something, Tim,” Dumaine said with a smile.

  “Me? What?”

  “Getting him to pick me as his running mate.”

  Tim smiled in that “Aw, shucks” way he sometimes did that Bill found particularly attractive.

  “Hey, it takes one running mate to know another.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER 66

  The unrelenting weather quieted around midnight and the sky cleared completely over Washington, but by early morning, the sky clouded over again, the temperature dropped and snow began to fall. When the winds picked up, creating a driving snow, it was just as bad as it had been for the last two weeks.

  Tim woke up in his one bedroom apartment on Wisconsin Avenue across the street from the National Cathedral, shivered as he got out of bed and moved into the kitchen to make some coffee.

  Every week or ten days he made a point of returning to his own apartment, just to show everybody that he wasn’t actually living with the Dumaine family. Though actually he was. He’d moved into the old servants’ quarters on the far side of the garage and stayed there almost every night. But every now and then, it made sense for him to show the staff that he had a life that was not connected to Bill Dumaine. But he didn’t. He was as tied to Bill as the twins were.

  Tim worried what the new “arrangement” would be once Bill moved into the White House. It was one thing to be sneaking through a closed garage to a secluded tryst in a back room. It was quite another to be doing that in the White House.

  The Kennedy days of sneaking lovers into the White House in a refrigerator were over. Or were they? Poor Bill Clinton, stealing blowjobs in a corner off the Oval Office when his wife was out of town. (Who could blame him, really, knowing he’d never get another one from Hillary?)

  What would he and Bill do? How would they handle it?

  Tim had one of those Senseo machines that took little coffee pods. He popped a Douwe Egberts Kona coffee pod into the machine as it warmed up, opened a packet of Equal and poured it into a cup, punched a button. As the coffee gurgled down, he went to the fridge and got some Half & Half out and splashed a little into his cup, thinking only afterward to look at the expiration date on the Half & Half. These days, he spent so little time at home, things like Half & Half tended to go bad.

  He took his coffee over and looked out at the image of the National Cathedral shrouded in the driving snowstorm. It couldn’t have been a more romantic picture, the Gothic cathedral looming ominously behind the leafless trees battered by the wind. He looked over his shoulder at his empty apartment, thinking how nice it would be to have someone—Bill—to cozy up to in bed right now.

  Glorious morning sex!

  But of course, that was out of the question.

  He knocked back the coffee and went to brew another cup. That was the best thing about these machines, he thought. Every cup was just perfect. Nothing worse than thirty-minute old coffee.

  He glanced at his watch. He was up early. The car wouldn’t come for him for another hour, so he had plenty of time. He looked at his cell phone. No calls from Bill’s office changing any scheduled plans, which today, besides the normal morning run, included a trip to Bethesda to visit Mowbray, a short meeting with the President after that and then Bill had Thanksgiving dinner with the family (not including him) at home.

  He half-hoped the Secret Service would call to say Bill had canceled the morning run, but he knew Bill wouldn’t do that. Even in this god-awful weather.

  But, while Bill and the family had Thanksgiving turkey, his evening would be free.

  What would he do with it?

  He couldn’t go hang out at Mova or any of the other gay bars. Although he had a very low profile, he couldn’t start hanging out anywhere for fear of attracting attention. And it wasn’t that he wanted to go pick up guys. He had Bill, and was very happy with him. What he didn’t have was company. He didn’t have any social interaction. He didn’t have—friends.

  And, generally speaking, he didn’t have Bill, either.

  Tim knew he was good looking. He knew he could get guys. But he didn’t want them. He wanted Bill. And the way things were shaking out, it looked like Bill was drifting farther and farther away from him, into the gilded cage of a political cocoon.

  He knew he couldn’t live his life stealing kisses behind palm trees in the Caribbean just to have them replaced by oak trees up at Camp David.

  That was no way to live.

  He shaved but didn’t shower. The car would pick him up soon to take him to the Dumaine house in Georgetown where he’d join his “running mate.” Then he’d shower at the Dumaine house where he kept plenty of back-up clothing.

  Tim was pleased that, aside from the occasional nasty glare, Phil and Bianca were treating him with some measure of respect. If not respect, then at least tolerance. They weren’t nearly as chatty as they had been before they found out about him and Bill, but at least their hostility was contained. But he knew both Bianca and Phil to be tough as nails, individually. Together, they were… could be… Tim didn’t want to think about it.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 67

  Over in the White House, President St. Clair was having breakfast with his sons and Antonia in the Residence, Rafael helping himself to three servings of eggs Benedict while Jack’s focus was on demolishing the chafing dishes full of sausages and scrambled eggs. Antonia contented herself with a single slice of French toast. Butter, yes, but no syrup.

  “Well, we’re going to have a nice Thanksgiving tonight. It would be as lot nicer if Francesca could join us. What was the problem, Jack?”

  “She had problems last night at the office. She might make it down this afternoon. She has an early afternoon thing with her parents in New York, then might take the shuttle down to be with us.”

  “And how are your parents doing down in Miami, Antonia?”

  “They’re fine, Mr. President, thanks for asking. They’re doing the whole lechón asado thing for a large group of friends and family.”

  “Mmm,” said the President. “I love that roasted pork, nobody does it the way the Cubans do it.”

  “I was thinking, Dad,” Jack broke in. “Since it’s only going to be us, why don’t we invite Mowbray’s wife Gloria over along with the Dumaine family? Gloria doesn’t have any family and the Dumaines had no plans because they’re supposed to be in St. Barts right now.”

  “That’s a good idea, Jack.”

  “Shows how smoothly the Transition is going, especially with a sick Mowbray.”

  Rafael gave his older brother a friendly punch in the arm.

  “I think Jack here is looking for a position in the new Administration.”

  “He wouldn’t even take one in my Administration,” joked the President. It was true. Though offered a position many times, Jack preferred to perform “unofficial” tasks for his dad. He had a steady income from St. Clair Island in Miami, plus what his mother had left him, plus a big trust fund from his grandfather on his mother’s side. And then there was the little he brought in helping out his pal Tony Florio at the detective agency in Miami. (Though the agency cost him more than it brought in.)

  “Well, at least you have one Republican son, Dad,” Jack said with a glance at Rafael.

  “And a proud Republican, I might add,” said Rafael. “After what those fucking Kennedys did at the Bay of Pigs—”

  “Oh, please,” said Jack, throwing up his hands. “Don’t get started on all that Bay of Pigs crap. You Cubans have been fighting the same battle for generations—and losing every time!”

  “Why, you—!” Rafael said, rising from his chair.

  “Now, boys,” the President intervened. “Lonnie!”

  Lonnie appeared in a doorway.

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Bring us all some café con leche, and hurry!”

  Rafael settled back into his chair.

  “Sorry.”

  “Enough of this nonsense,” sa
id the President. “Jack, I think you’ve got a good idea. Why don’t you set it up? At least feel them out, make the offer. If they’re busy, or would rather not, no problem.”

  “People don’t turn down an invitation from the White House, Dad, even if they’re going to be the next occupants.”

  “I agree with Jack on that, Dad. If you invite them, they’ll show up.”

  “Then invite them. It’ll be good for the country to see how we all get along so well.”

  “All right, then. I’ll make the arrangements while you guys are up in Connecticut.”

  “Don’t wanna come with us, son?” asked the President.

  “No, you guys have a good time.”

  Jack’s military days were over. And that’s just the way he wanted it.

  The President was held up a bit by high gusts, so his party was a little late leaving. Jack walked with them out across the South Lawn to the helicopter. The winds were still a little blustery, with intermittent rain replacing the snow. The President had gone over to the rope line to speak to reporters. They got to the base of the chopper and Jack gave Antonia a hug and a squeeze. Aides held umbrellas.

  “Wish you were coming along, Jack,” she said.

  “Plenty of work to do here, Antonia,” said Jack, thinking how much Antonia’s beautiful dark eyes reminded him of her older sister Raven’s. His dad had mentioned the fling he’d had with Carlos’s sister back in Miami. At this moment, all Jack was thinking about was the thing he’d had with Raven Fuentes. Now there was a hot-blooded Latin woman.

  As if she could read his mind, Antonia said:

  “Raven told me she might want to come to the Inaugural,” she said.

  “Anything your sister wants, she usually gets,” Rafael snorted.

  Antonia looked from Rafael back to Jack.

  “Not everything,” she said softly, leaving it at that.

  She turned and went up into the chopper.

  Jack shook hands with Rafael, who clapped him on the arm.

  “See-ya later for dinner, Jack.”

  “You got it,” said Jack.

  Rafael looked over Jack’s shoulder and Jack followed his gaze to watch their dad walk toward them. The rotors whirled above them. The young Marine to the fore side of the gangway standing in the drizzle, saluted smartly, catching the President’s eye.

  St. Clair stopped and went to stand right in front of the Marine, who didn’t blink but turned bright red.

  Jack thought the boy couldn’t have been older than twenty-two or –three.

  “Shake my hand, son,” said the President, an aide awkwardly walking beside him holding an umbrella over his head.

  The blushing Marine blinked furiously, then lowered his white-gloved hand to shake St. Clair’s.

  “I want to thank you for your service to me and to the country,” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. P-President,” the young Marine stammered.

  They were standing just under the pilot’s open window. Jack looked up and saw the pilot smile.

  “Let’s go, kids!” shouted St. Clair over the sound of the rotors, and Rafael turned to board Marine One.

  St. Clair shook Jack’s hand.

  “That’s something he’ll talk about all his life,” St. Clair laughed. “I finally got one of them to look me in the eye. Take care of everything, Jack.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  The President went up into the chopper, a steward raised the gangway and Jack backed off to watch the chopper rise up and vector off for the short hop to Andrews AFB where they would board Air Force One for the flight to New London. Jack had checked the weather forecast: the skies were clear up there, so the ceremony wouldn’t be marred by inclement weather.

  * * *

  Bill and Tim kept up a grueling pace as they ran through Georgetown Waterfront Park not far from the Dumaine home. The four Secret Service agents behind them kept a respectful distance, so it was easy for them to talk through their huffing and their puffing. Other agents followed in SUVs. They’d put off their run till mid-morning in deference to the awful weather.

  “So, what are you doing tonight for Thanksgiving?” asked Bill.

  “Nothing. No plans.”

  “I didn’t think so. Holidays aren’t much fun for either one of us.”

  “At least you have the kids. A family.”

  “And you should be a part of it. Why don’t you join us tonight? We have plenty of room.”

  “And Bianca?’

  “She invited Phil. Maybe it’s time we showed them you’re here to stay, get them used to the idea.”

  “Thanksgiving would certainly send a message.”

  * * *

  Jack Houston St. Clair called the chief usher and told him the family’s Thanksgiving dinner plans had changed, that there would be another dozen or so people. Rather than move to the larger President’s Dining Room (also known as the Prince of Wales Room) upstairs, Jack elected to serve dinner in the Family Dining Room as originally planned. “Just bring in the longer table,” Jack told the chief usher. He thought the more intimate setting would relax everyone.

  Then Jack got on the phone to the parties involved, reached Gloria Mowbray, who was thrilled to accept.

  “Oh, Jack, that is so sweet of the President,” she cooed. “I’d love to come over.”

  He got Bianca Dumaine on the phone.

  “I’m sure we’d love to accept,” she said. “I was just ordering in a big dinner because we came back so suddenly. Bill’s out on his morning run and I’ll tell him as soon as he gets back.”

  As an afterthought, Jack called Bethesda Naval Hospital and was put through to Dr. Gerald Moore. He told the doctor what they were doing and asked if the President-elect could possibly come by the White House for an early dinner and then return to the hospital.

  “He ought to rest,” said Dr. Moore. “It’s only been a day since he had that massive coronary.”

  “Well, you know, doctor, we do have a complete medical facility here at the White House. And of course if you could accompany the President-elect, you’d be here to supervise our medical staff if anything went wrong. My main concern is that he doesn’t get too excited.”

  Jack was not surprised how fast Dr. Moore changed his patient’s prognosis.

  “Well, he has stabilized quite satisfactorily in the last twelve hours, and he might be able to make a trip over. We could use an ambulance and transfer him very quietly.”

  “It might be just the tonic he needs to make a full recovery,” Jack offered.

  “You should have been a doctor, Mr. St. Clair,” said Dr. Moore.

  “No thanks. Too scary.”

  “But you were in the military—a Navy SEAL, correct?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “Really?”

  “Especially mine.”

  * * *

  When Bill and Tim returned from their run, Bianca told Bill about Jack’s call.

  “He asked us to bring along the girls and whoever we were having, so I told Phil he could join us.”

  “Oh, great,” said Bill, “then Tim can come, too—I asked him to join us tonight.”

  “Thanks,” Tim said.

  They could both sense her immediate displeasure with the idea. But all she could muster was a meek little:

  “Oh.” And an ever-so-slightly raised eyebrow.

  Tim saw that Bill pretended not to notice her little game.

  “He doesn’t have any family, so I asked him to join us,” Bill said, clapping Tim on the shoulder. “See how lucky you are, Tim? Now you get to share Thanksgiving dinner with the President in the White House.”

  And with that, Bill went upstairs to take a shower while Tim crossed through the garage to the old servants’ quarters and took his shower there.

  Maybe it was going to work out with Bianca and Phil after all.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 68

  Jack called his dad up in New London to tell him how the Thanksg
iving dinner party had changed, especially with the surprise addition of the President-elect.

  By the time the President returned from New London with Rafael and Antonia, there was just a little time for them to freshen up and get ready to meet their guests for drinks in the second floor Center Hall, often used for informal cocktail receptions before an intimate dinner in the Residence.

  While his dad was still taking a shower and changing, Jack played host to early arrivals like Gloria Mowbray.

  The Dumaines arrived early. Their party consisted of Phil Thuris (he was divorced), Tim Harcourt, the girls and a nanny. (The girls were allowed to mingle with the adults until dinner, when they would be served with their nanny and some low-level staff in another room.)

  “Jack, this is Tim Harcourt, my Body Man and morning jogging partner. I don’t think you’ve met.”

  “I don’t believe we have,” Jack said, shaking hands. But I know plenty about you, mister.