either side of Lopez were introduced as local television news anchors. The journalists were seated mid-table, perhaps to soak in the nightâs positive energy despite the ongoing guerilla war waged by Reaganâs rag tag Contras.
The first course was served ninety minutes before Chaseâs sharpshooter would be in place. He surreptitiously checked his watch and picked at his salad. There were eleven people between him and the president, and he could sometimes hear the manâs laughter. He watched as Ortega took a glass of wine from a waiterâs gloved hand and raised it to toast the people nearest him. A stunning young woman in a black evening dress who sat to his left seemed to be interpreting his words. After he finished speaking, Ortega drained the glass, made a bitter face, and reached for a sip of water. A moment later he used a napkin to wipe sweat from his forehead and from under his huge, black framed glasses. From where Chase sat, the president looked suddenly pale, brown cheeks having gone ashen. His crystal wine glass was definitely shaking. Was he somehow sensing his own mortality, his impending death? Chase peeked at his watch, wondering if the CIA shooter was taking a position on the distant rooftop.
***
Geraldo Lopez took his seat among the journalists, morose over his recent run of lousy luck and resentful of the phony pomp and circumstances.
His first foreign assignment was a ridiculous public relations fiasco masquerading as a state dinner. Who the hell cared what happened in a Third World shithole such as this? These Frito Banditos probably didnât have a working helicopter, let alone anything dangerous, like a nuke or a flamethrower. A small fleet of unarmed UPS drivers could hold them off at the Texas border if the shit really hit the fan. A real foreign assignment meant safari and flak jackets, tracer missiles being fired in the background of hunched over stand-ups. His cameraman had been ushered off with his fellow lowlifes to eat in a separate room, probably one that could be hosed down easily.
Geraldo had begun the year with a formidable contract deal at the network, getting him away from the grind in San Diego and onto the national desk. The managing editor had made a hundred promises about his future, explaining the path heâd take doing serious interviews and then getting a full thirty minute slot at 6:30 within the year. He was even provided a tutor to work on his accent, to add some color by juicing it up a little. Within the first few weeks, he could roll his Rs and artfully pause to decide on the most appropriate English word while in pressure situations, as if he hadnât been born and raised in Gary, Indiana. He had been surprised to learn there was more than one N in the Spanish alphabet.
Geraldo had suddenly found himself in a Manhattan apartment with a doorman, an around-the-clock concierge, and a great tip for an extremely discreet escort service. What more could a single guy still on the right side of forty want?
Then, six weeks ago, a call had been put through to his tiny but smart office with a peek-a-boo view down West 66 th Street. It had been some shady ass lawyer from San Diego, saying he was willing to work something out on behalf of his client and her baby she claimed was his. Impossible, heâd told the lawyer. A sixteen-year-old virgin, the lawyer had countered. Virgin, that was, until becoming a statutory rape victim of a famous news personality.
Geraldo remembered her vaguely at first, then the details had come back. Sheâd been a piece of work, a real stalker type from the get go. Sheâd first appeared with a little pen and pad outside the KGTV front doors, begging for an autograph, big wide eyes and pouty lips working on a Ring Pop. Then sheâd shown up at his favorite lunch spot with a little plastic camera and wearing some kind of cotton candy perfume. Thatâs when Geraldo had noticed the long legs and white cotton
The first course was served ninety minutes before Chaseâs sharpshooter would be in place. He surreptitiously checked his watch and picked at his salad. There were eleven people between him and the president, and he could sometimes hear the manâs laughter. He watched as Ortega took a glass of wine from a waiterâs gloved hand and raised it to toast the people nearest him. A stunning young woman in a black evening dress who sat to his left seemed to be interpreting his words. After he finished speaking, Ortega drained the glass, made a bitter face, and reached for a sip of water. A moment later he used a napkin to wipe sweat from his forehead and from under his huge, black framed glasses. From where Chase sat, the president looked suddenly pale, brown cheeks having gone ashen. His crystal wine glass was definitely shaking. Was he somehow sensing his own mortality, his impending death? Chase peeked at his watch, wondering if the CIA shooter was taking a position on the distant rooftop.
***
Geraldo Lopez took his seat among the journalists, morose over his recent run of lousy luck and resentful of the phony pomp and circumstances.
His first foreign assignment was a ridiculous public relations fiasco masquerading as a state dinner. Who the hell cared what happened in a Third World shithole such as this? These Frito Banditos probably didnât have a working helicopter, let alone anything dangerous, like a nuke or a flamethrower. A small fleet of unarmed UPS drivers could hold them off at the Texas border if the shit really hit the fan. A real foreign assignment meant safari and flak jackets, tracer missiles being fired in the background of hunched over stand-ups. His cameraman had been ushered off with his fellow lowlifes to eat in a separate room, probably one that could be hosed down easily.
Geraldo had begun the year with a formidable contract deal at the network, getting him away from the grind in San Diego and onto the national desk. The managing editor had made a hundred promises about his future, explaining the path heâd take doing serious interviews and then getting a full thirty minute slot at 6:30 within the year. He was even provided a tutor to work on his accent, to add some color by juicing it up a little. Within the first few weeks, he could roll his Rs and artfully pause to decide on the most appropriate English word while in pressure situations, as if he hadnât been born and raised in Gary, Indiana. He had been surprised to learn there was more than one N in the Spanish alphabet.
Geraldo had suddenly found himself in a Manhattan apartment with a doorman, an around-the-clock concierge, and a great tip for an extremely discreet escort service. What more could a single guy still on the right side of forty want?
Then, six weeks ago, a call had been put through to his tiny but smart office with a peek-a-boo view down West 66 th Street. It had been some shady ass lawyer from San Diego, saying he was willing to work something out on behalf of his client and her baby she claimed was his. Impossible, heâd told the lawyer. A sixteen-year-old virgin, the lawyer had countered. Virgin, that was, until becoming a statutory rape victim of a famous news personality.
Geraldo remembered her vaguely at first, then the details had come back. Sheâd been a piece of work, a real stalker type from the get go. Sheâd first appeared with a little pen and pad outside the KGTV front doors, begging for an autograph, big wide eyes and pouty lips working on a Ring Pop. Then sheâd shown up at his favorite lunch spot with a little plastic camera and wearing some kind of cotton candy perfume. Thatâs when Geraldo had noticed the long legs and white cotton
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