Latinos flocked to J., who posed with Puerto Rican and Dominican baseball stars. No, that Texan in the tall hat had been scouring the badlands for something else.
“Mr. President, help me, please. Who the fuck are you afraid of?”
“Son,” Calder said, “I’m afraid of God and the devil, just like everybody else.”
Something still bothered the Big Guy. Sidereal, Sidereal .
“Calder, did you send a bunch of army engineers into Claremont Park to survey the badlands of the Bronx?”
The Prez wrinkled his nose. “Isaac, I’ve never been near an army surveyor in my life.”
He snapped his fingers once and turned away from Sidel, who was tossed out of Marine One and landed on his ass. And before Isaac could blink, the blades began to whirl and Calder rose into the sky again. Winter dust flew across the lawn. And Isaac felt like some embittered child, beaten in a game he’d never get.
7
T HE BIG GUY NO LONGER cared what embargoes had been placed upon him. He ran to Clarice’s apartment on Sutton Place South. Marianna’s own Secret Service man, Joe Montaigne, wasn’t that eager to let him in. Montaigne was a sharpshooter from Missouri who could have shot out Isaac’s lights.
“Jesus, Joe, I’m not here to see the Little First Lady. I need Marianna’s nurse.”
“She doesn’t have a nurse,” said Joe Montaigne.
“Then her shopping companion, her diction coach—Amanda Wilde.”
Clarice was in the living room with an enormous tumbler of Scotch. She was shivering, and Isaac had to take the tumbler out of her hand.
“Fuck J.,” she said. “Fuck the White House. J. can live there with that little bitch. I’m not moving out of Manhattan.”
“Ah, Clarice,” the Big Guy said. “It’s the media. Those mothers are the real ghouls. Once you occupy the White House, they’ll be mad about you.”
“Shut up,” she said. Her gray eyes had gone all glassy. She fell into Isaac’s arms, and he sat her down on the sofa, while Marianna spied at him from her own playroom, which was larger than the flat Isaac had once had on Rivington Street. Like some blond femme fatale with a little baby fat, she was wearing lipstick and mascara at twelve. Marianna could throw him into immediate despair. She herself had a wistful look, but Isaac wouldn’t give her a chance to say a word.
“I didn’t break our pact. I’m here to see the star clerk—Amanda Wilde.”
And then Amanda appeared; she was no longer roly-poly. She wore lipstick, like Marianna, and was dressed in a perversely seductive black. The Little First Lady must have groomed her. Isaac clutched the star clerk and went out on the terrace with her.
“Amanda, I’m in the dark. What the hell is Calder afraid of? Why does he hover over Manhattan on Marine One ?”
“He isn’t hovering,” she said. “He’s marking time.”
“I’m slow,” Isaac said. “I don’t get it. He has to bump around in the sky?”
“He’s waiting for Cassandra’s Wall to open.”
Isaac was more confused than ever. “What is Cassandra’s Wall?”
“A very exclusive private club. Even Calder had a hard time getting in. He’s still on probation.”
“The president of the United States has to audition for a club like some college freshman? He’s the one who can kick ass. Cassandra’s Wall should be auditioning for him. But how come I never heard of it? I’m the mayor.”
“Mayors don’t count,” she said. And Isaac was more aggrieved than ever.
“I’ll close it down.”
“You couldn’t get near Cassandra’s Wall . . . without an escort.”
Amanda winked at him. They went back inside the apartment, where Amanda found a sleek winter cape she must have borrowed from Marianna or Clarice. Isaac was wearing a World War II infantryman’s foul-weather coat that he’d swiped from a barrel on Orchard Street. The Big Guy was always searching for bargains. He looked like a refugee from a Manhattan gulag. Amanda went to hug Marianna.
“Baby, I’ll be
“Mr. President, help me, please. Who the fuck are you afraid of?”
“Son,” Calder said, “I’m afraid of God and the devil, just like everybody else.”
Something still bothered the Big Guy. Sidereal, Sidereal .
“Calder, did you send a bunch of army engineers into Claremont Park to survey the badlands of the Bronx?”
The Prez wrinkled his nose. “Isaac, I’ve never been near an army surveyor in my life.”
He snapped his fingers once and turned away from Sidel, who was tossed out of Marine One and landed on his ass. And before Isaac could blink, the blades began to whirl and Calder rose into the sky again. Winter dust flew across the lawn. And Isaac felt like some embittered child, beaten in a game he’d never get.
7
T HE BIG GUY NO LONGER cared what embargoes had been placed upon him. He ran to Clarice’s apartment on Sutton Place South. Marianna’s own Secret Service man, Joe Montaigne, wasn’t that eager to let him in. Montaigne was a sharpshooter from Missouri who could have shot out Isaac’s lights.
“Jesus, Joe, I’m not here to see the Little First Lady. I need Marianna’s nurse.”
“She doesn’t have a nurse,” said Joe Montaigne.
“Then her shopping companion, her diction coach—Amanda Wilde.”
Clarice was in the living room with an enormous tumbler of Scotch. She was shivering, and Isaac had to take the tumbler out of her hand.
“Fuck J.,” she said. “Fuck the White House. J. can live there with that little bitch. I’m not moving out of Manhattan.”
“Ah, Clarice,” the Big Guy said. “It’s the media. Those mothers are the real ghouls. Once you occupy the White House, they’ll be mad about you.”
“Shut up,” she said. Her gray eyes had gone all glassy. She fell into Isaac’s arms, and he sat her down on the sofa, while Marianna spied at him from her own playroom, which was larger than the flat Isaac had once had on Rivington Street. Like some blond femme fatale with a little baby fat, she was wearing lipstick and mascara at twelve. Marianna could throw him into immediate despair. She herself had a wistful look, but Isaac wouldn’t give her a chance to say a word.
“I didn’t break our pact. I’m here to see the star clerk—Amanda Wilde.”
And then Amanda appeared; she was no longer roly-poly. She wore lipstick, like Marianna, and was dressed in a perversely seductive black. The Little First Lady must have groomed her. Isaac clutched the star clerk and went out on the terrace with her.
“Amanda, I’m in the dark. What the hell is Calder afraid of? Why does he hover over Manhattan on Marine One ?”
“He isn’t hovering,” she said. “He’s marking time.”
“I’m slow,” Isaac said. “I don’t get it. He has to bump around in the sky?”
“He’s waiting for Cassandra’s Wall to open.”
Isaac was more confused than ever. “What is Cassandra’s Wall?”
“A very exclusive private club. Even Calder had a hard time getting in. He’s still on probation.”
“The president of the United States has to audition for a club like some college freshman? He’s the one who can kick ass. Cassandra’s Wall should be auditioning for him. But how come I never heard of it? I’m the mayor.”
“Mayors don’t count,” she said. And Isaac was more aggrieved than ever.
“I’ll close it down.”
“You couldn’t get near Cassandra’s Wall . . . without an escort.”
Amanda winked at him. They went back inside the apartment, where Amanda found a sleek winter cape she must have borrowed from Marianna or Clarice. Isaac was wearing a World War II infantryman’s foul-weather coat that he’d swiped from a barrel on Orchard Street. The Big Guy was always searching for bargains. He looked like a refugee from a Manhattan gulag. Amanda went to hug Marianna.
“Baby, I’ll be
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