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Ty fell into step with Holy as they left the room. “That was brilliant,” he said.
“No, just logical,” she replied.
“I’m going to start thinking of you as Spock.”
“I don’t have the ears for it,” she said, “but putting together this list ought to be more fun than keeping surveillance on that record store.”
“I’ll second that,” Ty said.
Holly looked her partner up and down. He was wearing a new tweed jacket, cavalry twill trousers and a yellow-striped shirt with a knit tie. “Ty, you’re looking pretty swift these days.”
“I took your advice,” he said, “and bought some new clothes. I hope I look less like an FBI agent.”
“Let your hair grow a bit,” she said. “Then you’ll look less like an agent.” He was a nice boy, but he wasn’t going to solve her man problem. “Excuse me a minute,” she said. “I forgot to ask Lance something.” She went back into the room and found Lance still in his seat.
“Something I can do for you?”
“I just wanted to thank you for setting up what I needed for the co-op board application,” she said. “I moved in yesterday, and the place is great.”
“Glad to be of help,” Lance said. He went back to the pad in his lap, then looked up again. “Something else?”
“Well, yes. I wonder if it would be okay if I… got in touch with Stone Barrington. I mean, if it would be okay from a security standpoint.”
Lance seemed to suppress a smile. “Sure, why not? After all, he’s under contract to the Agency, so he’s one of us, in a way.”
“Thanks, Lance.” Holly turned and walked out of the room again, happy.
Thirty-eight
THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES and the director of Central Intelligence were sitting on the floor of the White House residence living room, eating pizza, drinking beer and watching “The West Wing.” A commercial break arrived.
“You know,” Will said, “Jed Bartlet has an easier time being president than I do.”
“What? With his getting shot in an assassination attempt and his daughter getting drugged by her boyfriend and kidnapped and having to let John Goodman be president and throw him out of the Oval Office? You think that’s easier?”
“Well, not that stuff, maybe, but he seems to have an easier time being right than I do. And Leo, his chief of staff, seems to do all the hard work, too. My chief of staff doesn’t do all the hard work.”
“You don’t have the slightest idea what she does when she’s out of your sight,” she said. “She probably works three times as hard as you do.”
“Are you questioning my work ethic?” Will asked. “You wound me.”
“Oh, horseshit! Sure, you work hard, well, pretty hard anyway. And anyway, there are compensations when you’re president.”
“What compensations?” Will demanded. “I don’t see any compensations. I mean, you could say I get driven everywhere, but I’d really rather drive myself, but the Secret Service won’t let me, except on the farm, and even then they get all nervous.”
“Poor baby,” she cooed, patting his knee.
“And why can’t I ever get a pizza through security while it’s still hot? I hate cold pizza, except at breakfast, and why won’t Domino’s leave the green peppers off the Extravaganza special, like I ask them to?”
“Well, maybe if they knew the Extravaganza was for the president instead of the guard at the main gate, they’d pay more attention.”
“I thought of that, but the Secret Service won’t let me tell them it’s for me; I guess they’re afraid there’s somebody at Domino’s who would poison me if they knew. And why can’t I own a Porsche instead of a Suburban? I always wanted a Porsche.”
“Then why didn’t you have one before you were president? I like Porsches.”
“Because I was a senator, and I had to drive a Suburban, because it was built in Georgia-at least, I think it was. And even if it wasn’t, I couldn’t be seen driving a foreign car. Can you imagine what the Republicans could make of that? ”A white wine-drinking, quiche-eating, “West Wing”-watching, Porsche-driving president?“ They’d go nuts.”
I think the American people might like a pizza-eating, beer-drinking, Porsche-driving president,“ she said, handing him another beer. ”Wouldn’t the NASCAR dads like that, if they knew?“
