No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(20)

Forbes was privilege personified. He knew it. But he sure as hell didn’t apologize for it, unlike the squeamish liberals. Why the fuck should he? He was not embarrassed to have made it. Like his father, he was a libertarian. His father had worked his way up from a dirt-poor coal mining town in West Virginia to build a fortune. It was the American Dream.

Forbes cultivated useful friendships. He was only twenty-seven. But he already knew a ton of people, mostly through his father’s extensive contacts in business, which were cultivated over forty years. He knew everyone who was anyone. Powerful industrialists, venture capitalists, tech start-up kids, billionaire philanthropists, NBA stars who needed to invest their money—his father knew them all. In turn, over the years, Forbes had grown to know the same people.

He ate in fashionable Washington restaurants. He hung out in the Hamptons. He skied in Switzerland. He vacationed in the Bahamas. He understood offshore tax havens like the back of his hand. But in the last eighteen months, Forbes had only one job: the President’s body man.

If the President needed his suit mended, he would take care of that. The President needed a pal to watch Monday Night Football, he was there. The President needed cotton swabs for his ears, he had that covered. Dental floss, mouthwash, nasal spray. Gum. Advil. Coke. Not the small C variety. Vitamin pills. But he also provided steroids and amphetamines if he needed a pick-me-up. That was their little secret, among others.

The body man carried it all.

Forbes leaned farther back in his seat. Pain shot through his right knee, and he winced. The injury was the result of a snowboarding accident in Gstaad the previous winter. He popped a couple of oxycodone tablets, washed down with his morning coffee. Thirty minutes later, the pain began to slowly subside. He felt better. Calmer. Way more relaxed.

Forbes stared at his cell phone, waiting for the call. He checked his watch. It was 5:45 a.m. The West Wing was wide-awake, with the sound of the President shouting at an advisor. A few moments later, the President walked in, shutting the day quietly behind him. Forbes got to his feet. “Mr. President, how are you this morning? Can I get you some coffee?”

“Not now. You saw our latest polling numbers?”

“Highest ever, I believe.”

“Economic growth. Jobs. They’ve never seen numbers like it.”

Forbes smiled. He loved the President’s positivity and boundless optimism.

“Tell me, how do I look in this suit, Andrew? They say it’s got a nice cut. But what do you think?”

Forbes thought it was a badly cut, off-the-rack suit that didn’t convey the power of the President or flatter his body shape. He had talked to the President before about his need to get a proper tailored suit. “Honest answer, Mr. President?”

“Of course.”

“Get a new tailor. My father uses a guy from Savile Row. He flies in once a year. Very picky about his clientele. I’m sure I can get him access to you whenever you want, at a time of your choosing.”

“This is an expensive suit I’m wearing,” he said.

“It’s not bespoke, sir. Do you want me to make a call?”

“This guy is good?”

“Prince Charles gets his suits from this guy.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah. My father gets two brand-new suits every year, made to measure. A pure wool suit and a lighter suit for the summer months. But only from this guy. This guy will rock your world.”

The President stared at Forbes’s suit. “What are you wearing?”

“A bespoke Huntsman suit. I got measured up in London last summer.”

“I must be paying you too much, Andrew.”

Forbes laughed. “Leave it to me. I’ll make a call.”

“I want a dozen fantastic suits. Great suits. All weathers. And some shoes.”

“We’ll get the best.”

“I think even the Iranians seem to be getting better dressed these days.”

Forbes laughed again. “Not for long.”

“Good work, Andrew.”

The cell phone began to vibrate on his desk.

“You better get that,” the President said.

“Will do, sir.”

The President patted him on the back. “Tell your dad I asked for him. See if he wants to play a round at St. Andrews in a couple weeks. I’ll be at a NATO summit in Edinburgh.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll pass that on.”

The President slammed the door shut.

Forbes picked up his cell phone and answered. “Yeah?”

“We have a problem.”

Forbes took a few moments to choose his words carefully. “What kind of problem?”

“The cop . . . the husband of the dead journalist?”

“I’m listening.”

“The cop got a call. From his late wife’s therapist. He’s headed down there.”

“He’s headed to DC?”

“It’s problematic. The therapist was privy to the journalist’s innermost thoughts.”

“So, what are we going to do?”

“Don’t worry. We already have a plan in place. I’m hopeful the problem will be resolved very soon. I’ll be in touch.”





Fourteen

It was late afternoon when the FedEx truck pulled up outside Jack’s Westport home.