Executive Pink (exerpt)

The Sting

Guests are filling the place up now. It’s funny the attraction Hollywood has for people - even the real people that Hollywood people pretend to be. A dozen Medal of Honor winners would hardly draw the likes of both House Speaker Edith Glick and House Majority Leader Gus Rosenow and Sen. Jay C. Tillers and Edna Usher and the Vice President and Sen. Bart Gladstone and…Bart Bullshit is here? Why that sure as hell is him, and that’s Crowell Kenyon pushing him in a wheelchair. Well, shit, will wonders never cease. But of course. The old lecher wouldn’t miss a chance to try and pinch Lorelei Walquer, death bed or no. I suppose I gotta give the fat prick some credit for gumption.

My kids’d be here, too, under normal circumstances. As it is, they don’t even know Lorelei Walquer is in town. The President’s nanny is tending them and has instructions to keep them away from the West Wing, no matter what.

So which TV crew is Lorelei’s? There is quite a pile of them gathering in front of the colonnade, but I should be able to recognize one or two of our villains if they look anything at all like the photos I studied. Trouble is, all the men are wearing hats, or caps or bandannas - not because it’s sunny, which it has become, which is why I’m wearing my faded black Leon Russell cap (visor forward), but because it’s fashionable. I am not being condescendingly judgmental of them. Simply stating a fact. I assume they’re the same bunch that routinely attends White House press events and their heads are covered, always, as they are now whatever the weather, outdoors or in.

My watch says three o’clock. This is it. Any minute now. My god, here comes the President. Adele is with her. I should be with her, too. They came out of the Colonnade Door precisely seven steps from where the dais and bank of microphones are set up. [sustained applause] And there’s a group right behind them. I see Lorelei. [applause continues] She’s wearing white pants. God, I love white pants on women. Don’t know why. Just do. Her blouse is black. Great combination. Hair is kind of piled in back. Parted a little left of center over her forehead. Devastating. Thank god she’s wearing shades. I’ve been worried about the danger of looking in her eyes. Now I won’t have…

Jayzuz, something’s wrong! Roger Ashmore is supposed to be with the decoy van, but he’s up there with Lorelei. He looks funny. I’m, what, ten feet from the dais and it looks like…oh, shit. Ashmore’s wearing the girdle! Something is wrong. WARREN! GODDAMMIT, WARREN, WHAT’S HAPPENING?”

People all over the garden are yelling FREEZE! and DON’T MOVE! Where the hell are Warren and Rose? This is totally out of control.

“OOOF! Get off me, god damn you!”

“It’s all right, sir, it’s Special Agent McClean. Just stay down..”

“What the hell’s happening, Orlo? Where’s Bob…where’s your boss?”

“I’m not permitted to say, sir. But you know he’s supposed to be with the President. I’m assigned to you right now, but if it looks like the President needs help I’ll be following my secondary assignment, sir, and I’ll have to go to her.”

“Well you damned well better, Orlo. Protecting the President is your primary assignment. Always has been, always will be.”

“Strategically, yes, you are correct, sir. But this is a tactical assignment, and until I learn differently I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

“Not going to argue with you, Orlo. You have the gun. Just don’t freak when you hear me talking to myself. I’m wired. Transmitting to a tape recorder in my office. Historical record, you see.”

“I see, sir. You go right ahead, sir. I won’t pay it no mind.”

“OK.” Ashmore’s face has gone almost as white as Lorelei’s pants. A couple of men wearing reversed baseball caps are moving from the press area toward the dais. They’re reaching into their vests. Guns? No doubt. Orlo McClean is raising his pistol toward the two men. He’s holding it with both hands. I think he’s going to shoot.

“Wait, Orlo! Follow the script!”

“Can’t do that, man. Looks like the script’s been tossed out. [UNGH] Orlo’s just collapsed in front of me. Someone’s grabbing my shoulder from behind. “What…”

Executive Pink (excerpt)

Spirit of Security

The usual rooftop gunners are at the stations they man twenty-four hours a day every day, but today there seems to be more of them. Maybe they’re just more exposed than usual. Can’t imagine why, unless it’s so they can get a better look at Lorelei Walquer. I can dig it, although I should hope they have a better reason, a security reason. I hope they’re taking this job as seriously as Special Agents Orlo McClean and Hector Cyre. Assigned specifically to guard the President’s body, they are standing next to the Oval Office, in front of the colonnade where the ceremony will take place, practicing their surveillance swivels.

Of the two, McClean is the runaway smoothest. He may be the smoothest who ever lived. By contrast Cyre seems like a mechanical doll: left, 180 degrees right, then quarter back, center, quarter left, left, 180 degrees right, 180 degrees left, then quarter back, center and so forth. His moves aren’t grotesquely jerky, but there’s a certain sameness about them. The timing didn’t vary. Anyone keying in on him could figure out the pattern in no time, then do whatever they don’t want him to see when he’s at the back of his arc, like the Stalag 17 boys playing mouse to the Nazis’ searchlight cats.

McClean is an artist, an actor. His baggy suit, sunglasses and earplug give him away as an agent, but his head swivels are much craftier than Cyre’s. McClean uses a syncopation - a little quicker here, an elongated pause there - and other movements, such as rubbing his fingers under his chin, to distract from the positioning of his head. And he looks like he’s really looking at things, that things have gotten his attention. There’s brow movement as if he’s squinting to get a better focus. He’s so convincing in appearing to be actually looking at something that if you’re watching him and if it’s not you he seems to be looking at you’re inclined to take a look yourself and try to find out what it is he may be seeing.

Only if you watch him awhile does it become obvious there can’t be that many different things of interest to a Secret Service agent that don't require more action than hard looks. There’d be running, leaping, tackling or even gunfire, surely. And if you’re watching Cyre, too, you’d know that if he saw something really suspicious he’d become less mechanical, more reactive or, one would hope, more improvisational. Their lips would be moving as they murmured into their little throat-worm microphones.