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“And in this case, the sonofabitch is the Honorable Matthew Hall? Why does he want you to put on your uniform?”
“Worse,” Castillo said, as he unzipped the bag. “The President does.”
“What’s that about?”
“I have no fucking idea,” Castillo said. “But like the good soldier I used to be, I will show up at the appointed place at the appointed hour in the prescribed uniform.”
“What is the appointed place and the appointed hour?”
“Nineteen-thirty at the Seventeenth Street entrance, from which Hall will convey me to the White House for reasons unknown.”
Castillo started taking off his clothing, laying his suit, shirt, and tie neatly on the bed so that he could change back into it as soon as he could get away from whatever the hell was going on at the White House.
The lobby of the Mayflower Hotel runs through the ground floor from the Connecticut Avenue entrance to the Seventeenth Street entrance. The elevator bank is closer to Connecticut Avenue, and it is some distance—three-quarters of a city block—from the elevators to the Seventeenth Street entrance.
Nevertheless, Major C. G. Castillo, now attired in his “dress blue” uniform, saw her just about the moment he got off the elevator. She was wearing a pale pink summer dress and a broad, floppy-brimmed hat. He decided she was either waiting for someone to meet her there or was waiting, as he would be, for someone to pick her up.
She didn’t see Castillo until he was almost at the shallow flight of stairs leading upward to the Seventeenth Street foyer and doors. Then she looked at him without expression.
When he came close, Castillo said, “Good evening, Mr. Wilson.”
She said, softly but intensely, “I thought it was you, you miserable sonofabitch.”
“And it’s nice to see you again, too,” Castillo said, put his brimmed uniform cap squarely on his head, and pushed through the revolving door onto Seventeenth Street, then walked to the waiting Secret Service GMC Yukon XL.
He did not look back at the lobby, but as the Yukon pulled away from the curb he took a quick look.
Mr. Patricia Davies Wilson still was standing there, her arms folded over her breasts, glaring at the Yukon.
He remembered what Miller had said about her death rays freezing his martini solid.
[FOUR]
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, D.C.
1950 4 August 2005
Castillo recognized the Marine lieutenant colonel standing just inside the door in the splendiferous formal uniform, heavily draped with gold braid and the aiguillettes of an aide-de-camp to the commander in chief. He had last seen him on Air Force One at Keesler Air Force Base in Mississippi. He even remembered his name: McElroy.
“Good evening, Mr. Secretary, ma’am,” Lieutenant Colonel McElroy said to Secretary and Mr. Matthew Hall. “The President asks that you come to the presidential apartments.”
Then he looked at Castillo, who thought he saw recognition come
slowly to McElroy’s eyes.
“And you’re Major Castillo?” Lieutenant Colonel McElroy asked.
“Yes, sir,” Castillo said and, smiling, pointed to his chest to the black-and-white name tag reading CASTILLO.
“The President desires that you go to the presidential apartments, Major,” Lieutenant Colonel McElroy said. It was evident he did not appreciate Castillo having pointed to his nametag.
Well, fuck you, Colonel. All you had to do was look.
“Yes, sir,” Castillo said.
