went back to the kitchen then and glanced at his television and, frozen, took a second look, remembering what real problems were made of.
Chapter 12
“…now give you our First Lady, Ms. Linda Barnes Sheldon.”
It was Monroe Fielding at the podium, finishing his enthusiastic introduction. The band just below the risers where Deal and the others were seated burst into a reprise of “Gonna Fly Now,” and the sound would have been loud enough without the amplification that sent it roaring out of massive speakers hanging behind the makeshift stage.
Deal turned one ear from the speakers, tried holding a finger to the other, but it didn’t do much good. Both were still ringing from the opening processional that had had them all marching down the central aisle of the ballroom in the eye of several spotlights while the music blared and the crowd, which must have numbered five hundred or more, roared and applauded as if they were a bunch of pro footballers returning with the Super Bowl trophy.
Onstage now, he leaned close to Roland Wells, where Deal had planted himself despite the organizer’s attempt to keep the group lined up in alphabetical order, tried to make himself heard above the music. “The President
and
the First Lady?” he said.
Wells shook his head. “Nobody told you?”
“Told me what?” Deal said.
“Fielding made an announcement in the waiting room, before you showed up, I guess. President was called away. The First Lady’s a stand-in.”
The music died away at “stand-in” and Wells’s phrase sounded loud enough to carry to the first rows of the audience. A couple of shushing noises came from in front of them, and Deal straightened back in his seat. Maybe it was just as well Isabel hadn’t come. Though he was just as willing to accept his accolades from the President’s wife, he wasn’t sure what kind of weight first ladies carried with the second-grade crowd.
There was no such question in the ballroom, however. Outspoken Linda Sheldon might have cut a controversial figure in the press, but here she was among friends. Her ascent to the podium was buoyed by the stroboscopic effect of hundreds of cameras flashing and a wave of thunderous applause. Even as the applause began to fade, there came whistles and shouts of approval, and a burst of laughter when someone in a foghorn voice called out, “You the wo-
man
.”
A regular political rally, Deal thought, not a bad showing for a liberal president in a town that had come to be dominated by political thinkers who found Genghis Khan a bit too far to the left. While he’d been offered a half-dozen tickets for his own use, Deal had heard that most of the invitees to the ceremony were party regulars who were expected to cough up a thousand dollars for the privilege of seeing him and the others decorated.
The stuff of an election year, he mused. And if not for that fact, the President would never have come to Miami, and Deal and the others would be in the Rose Garden, sweltering in the summer heat of Washington, and his daughter would have been there…and if and if and if, he thought. If the dog hadn’t stopped to take a leak, he would have caught the rabbit, too, that’s what his old man would have said.
Deal glanced out at the audience, wondering briefly if Valerie Meyers were out there somewhere, going down her checklist of heroes to turn into movie-of-the-week subjects. And it also occurred to him, with a curious pang, that were his old man still alive, he’d certainly be out there with a score of fellow movers and shakers and their wives, holding court in the hotel he’d built himself and toasting his heroic son.
Deal, who expected a fair amount of the blah-blah-blah associated with any speech to be delivered at a quasi-political event, had drifted into a state of moderate awareness, a part of him wondering why he’d ever come here, another part noting that the First Lady was not only taller but also considerably more attractive than
Chapter 12
“…now give you our First Lady, Ms. Linda Barnes Sheldon.”
It was Monroe Fielding at the podium, finishing his enthusiastic introduction. The band just below the risers where Deal and the others were seated burst into a reprise of “Gonna Fly Now,” and the sound would have been loud enough without the amplification that sent it roaring out of massive speakers hanging behind the makeshift stage.
Deal turned one ear from the speakers, tried holding a finger to the other, but it didn’t do much good. Both were still ringing from the opening processional that had had them all marching down the central aisle of the ballroom in the eye of several spotlights while the music blared and the crowd, which must have numbered five hundred or more, roared and applauded as if they were a bunch of pro footballers returning with the Super Bowl trophy.
Onstage now, he leaned close to Roland Wells, where Deal had planted himself despite the organizer’s attempt to keep the group lined up in alphabetical order, tried to make himself heard above the music. “The President
and
the First Lady?” he said.
Wells shook his head. “Nobody told you?”
“Told me what?” Deal said.
“Fielding made an announcement in the waiting room, before you showed up, I guess. President was called away. The First Lady’s a stand-in.”
The music died away at “stand-in” and Wells’s phrase sounded loud enough to carry to the first rows of the audience. A couple of shushing noises came from in front of them, and Deal straightened back in his seat. Maybe it was just as well Isabel hadn’t come. Though he was just as willing to accept his accolades from the President’s wife, he wasn’t sure what kind of weight first ladies carried with the second-grade crowd.
There was no such question in the ballroom, however. Outspoken Linda Sheldon might have cut a controversial figure in the press, but here she was among friends. Her ascent to the podium was buoyed by the stroboscopic effect of hundreds of cameras flashing and a wave of thunderous applause. Even as the applause began to fade, there came whistles and shouts of approval, and a burst of laughter when someone in a foghorn voice called out, “You the wo-
man
.”
A regular political rally, Deal thought, not a bad showing for a liberal president in a town that had come to be dominated by political thinkers who found Genghis Khan a bit too far to the left. While he’d been offered a half-dozen tickets for his own use, Deal had heard that most of the invitees to the ceremony were party regulars who were expected to cough up a thousand dollars for the privilege of seeing him and the others decorated.
The stuff of an election year, he mused. And if not for that fact, the President would never have come to Miami, and Deal and the others would be in the Rose Garden, sweltering in the summer heat of Washington, and his daughter would have been there…and if and if and if, he thought. If the dog hadn’t stopped to take a leak, he would have caught the rabbit, too, that’s what his old man would have said.
Deal glanced out at the audience, wondering briefly if Valerie Meyers were out there somewhere, going down her checklist of heroes to turn into movie-of-the-week subjects. And it also occurred to him, with a curious pang, that were his old man still alive, he’d certainly be out there with a score of fellow movers and shakers and their wives, holding court in the hotel he’d built himself and toasting his heroic son.
Deal, who expected a fair amount of the blah-blah-blah associated with any speech to be delivered at a quasi-political event, had drifted into a state of moderate awareness, a part of him wondering why he’d ever come here, another part noting that the First Lady was not only taller but also considerably more attractive than
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