“Oh, Matthew Hawkins.”
The guard looked at Jack.
“And Jack Houston St. Clair.”
“Thank you, sir.” He consulted his clipboard. “If you’ll leave the cab, we’ll take you up from here.”
Matt paid the fare and got out. The cab made a U-turn and left the grounds. An enclosed utility vehicle like a gussied up golf cart pulled up and Matt got in after Jack.
Matt’s attention was fixed on the curving driveway ahead as the golf cart moved along it. The White House stood out massive and solid before him, the top of it seemed lost to his peripheral vision as they got closer. The cart stopped and the doors snapped open as if by magic. He fumbled his way out and followed one of the guards who led them toward the Mansion.
They gave their names and another guard made a telephone call as they were led to a waiting room in the old part of the White House. They sat alone in a room furnished with fine antiques and carpeted with one large Persian rug.
Matt wondered why they were alone. Surely there must be others waiting to see the President.
In a moment a man entered. They stood.
“How do you do, Mr. Hawkins? And Jack?”
They all shook hands.
“I’m Charles Roebuck, the President’s appointments secretary.”
Matt nodded and said, “Hello.”
“How are you, Charlie?”
“Just fine, Jack. You’re missing Miami in this weather, I bet.”
“Sure do, Charlie.”
Matt recognized Roebuck’s face now. He remembered seeing his picture in the papers. He envied Jack’s natural ease in these surroundings. Jack was used to being places like this. It was even more obvious and painful to Matt that he wasn’t.
“Please follow me, gentlemen,” said Roebuck, moving away gracefully. They walked alongside him down a long, richly furnished corridor to the West Wing.
“The President forgot to tell you which gate to use, Mr. Hawkins. You came in the formal entrance. I had to run down here to get you,” Roebuck said affably.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Oh no, it’s nothing. He seldom meets with people who haven’t been here before. It never crops up,” said Roebuck with a friendly smile. He didn’t recognize how much Hawkins felt his remark. Matt felt the unique nature of his visit. He was a nobody. On the same level as the Boy Scouts coming to get an award from the President. They have to be told which gate to use.
They entered the West Wing and Matt noticed how much more like a normal business office the surroundings looked, only the ceilings were high and imposing. Expensive moldings. People were coming and going until they reached the area around the Oval Office itself, which was quieter.
“I’ll take you right into the Oval Office, Mr. Hawkins. The President’s been expecting you,” said Roebuck, approaching unprepossessing white double doors. “Jack, you can join your father. He’s waiting in the anteroom just through that door.”
“Thank you, Charlie,” said Jack.
“Wish me luck,” Matt smiled.
Jack took a long look at the naïve Wyomingite and shook his hand.
“Gook luck, Matt.”
Roebuck turned and opened the double doors into the Oval Office.
As Jack turned to go where he was told, he caught a glimpse of President Norwalk sitting behind his desk. A thought raced through his mind:
He’s going to eat that boy alive.
* * *
Matt shot a glance to Norwalk at his desk before Roebuck made his announcement.
“Thank you, Charlie. Come in, Matt,” he said as Roebuck stood aside.
Matt took a tentative step or two into the room and cast a quick glance around. It was empty. He wished in a perverse way Slanetti had been there. It would fuel his determination and resolve. Alone with Norwalk, he knew he would feel more intimidated. He heard the sound of Roebuck closing the doors behind him and returned his eyes to the President. Though hyper tense, he felt like everything was happening in slow motion, every movement seemed special, selected, emphasized, every sound piercing.
“Come in, Matt,” repeated Norwalk.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, moving towards a chair.
Norwalk came from behind his desk to shake his hand. The President’s grip was strong and sure. Matt tried to make his clasp just as firm. He looked into Jeffrey Norwalk’s lined face, which was not a smiling one, but neither was it a threatening one. It was serious, real—he could tell he sweated like any other man. Norwalk motioned to a chair beside his desk and Matt sat down as Norwalk returned to his seat. He watched as Norwalk filled his pipe and lit it. Matt eased his eyes closed for a moment. He opened them and looked out the windows behind the President to the White House lawn beyond, to freedom it seemed. He thought he would suffocate. He returned to the President just as he was leaning back. A light blue stream of smoke rose from the bowl of the pipe. The President of the United States was about to speak to him and yet he still found it impossible to comprehend that this was all happening to him.
“I’m sorry to call you over here on such notice, Matt,” began Norwalk.
“That’s quite all right, Mr. President.” He felt like a little boy about to be chastised.
“Allow me if you will to get right to the point.”
“Certainly, Mr. President.” He sat with his hands in his lap. His stomach emitted a growl that sounded like a wolf howling at the moon.
“Are you all right, Matt?”
“Oh, yes, sir, I’m fine. I was just going down to lunch when you called and never got any breakfast.”
“Do you like chicken salad sandwiches?”
“Well, sir… ”
“I don’t know what they put in it, but for eight years I’ve had the best chicken salad in the world.”
Norwalk punched a button on his console.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Have them send up two
