Chapter 88
Chapter 88
C lay, an elderly, tall, white-haired, chisel-chinned, and handsome black man, and Jess, a young, fit, and incredibly beautiful white woman, would normally attract some second glances in most surroundings. Which the Gilded Kilt was not. As a result, the duo walked in the front door of the pub and actually fit right in. They found a booth with a bird’s-eye view of both the front and back doors, along with the door that led downstairs into the key-holding-members-only club, and settled in for what we suspected would be Maynard’s victory lap. Word had spread. Several hundred of Maynard’s closest friends came out of the woodwork and packed every square inch, hoping to tilt one back with everyone’s favorite senator and soon-to-be president.
Admittedly, our plan hinged on one thing over which we had no control. With the vote tomorrow, and the tally a mere formality, we felt certain Maynard would make one or two prime-time evening news shows, stop in at several political dinners or fundraisers where he’d slap backs and promise favors, and then possibly visit a late-night talk show. But not too late, because after he’d kissed enough babies and patted enough backsides, he’d end up here. Where he really wanted to be all along. Along with several other close-knit legislators who knew the real conversations, including cabinet appointments, would occur downstairs when the crowd wore thin. This meant timing was critical. We had to catch Maynard at his strongest, then crush him and capitalize on his weakness.
Ashley would be the nail in the coffin, and what better place to drive it in than the front steps of the house where Maynard planned to spend the next eight years. So Summer, Bones, and Stackhouse had returned to the Naval Observatory with Aaron to await our call. Which was a strange thought. The future POTUS awaiting our signal, who would then communicate with the current POTUS so that the two of them could tell the world that Vice President Aaron Ashley was not stepping away. Far from it. In fact, he was stepping back in the ring. We knew, given the story that had spread like wildfire of Ashley’s heroic landing on the ice—in which he’d risked his own life to save his daughters—that Maynard could not compete. He’d have to bow out. Defer. Once again play the obedient servant, which was what he’d been all along, though we did not know his master.
Maynard thought his time had finally come. Ashley was about to tell him it had not. And while we thought he’d play nice in public, we hoped he’d come unglued in private.
Maynard arrived at 10:47 p.m. Earlier than I’d thought, but I guessed he was eager to celebrate. He’d made the rounds on the news channels, dropped in at two diplomatic dinners, and literally poked his head into one of the earlier nighttime talk shows before asking his driver to reroute to the Gilded Kilt.
Maynard entered to a prolonged and rousing standing ovation, but most were standing already as it was standing room only. A few of the news outlets had parked trucks out front in anticipation of adding to the 11:00 p.m. news cycle. Maynard, who was not necessarily a tall man, was ushered to the bar and then lifted on shoulders and set on top of the bar so that he might be seen by those in the back. Camp and I had thought we’d wait out Maynard’s internal combustion from one of the private residences two or three blocks away, but then I realized I wanted to see the look on Maynard’s face when Ashley pulled the rug out from underneath him. So we surfaced, donned ball caps, fake eyeglasses, and Georgetown hoodies, and watched with some enjoyment as Waylon Maynard, lifelong politician and the man destined to be the next president of the United States, was carried on the shoulders of staffers and placed on his bar-top pedestal amid shouts and earsplitting whistles.
When the applause quieted, the bartender, obviously a longtime friend, handed Maynard a microphone that would amplify his voice to the growing crowd outside. An unconventional site for a celebration of one of the most powerful men in the world, but organic nonetheless.
In interviews, Maynard had praised Ashley, his service, his commitment, his integrity. He’d also said how he had wished we as a country were not in this place. Replacing a broken man. He teared up talking about how he mourned the events of the last few weeks, and said continually how he was praying for the girls and knew firsthand that they were getting the care they needed. He then turned the corner and began speaking of himself. How, during his more than fifty years in this city, he’d always wanted to be the “people’s president,” which was just what he intended to be. A statement that brought down both the house and the ever-growing crowd outside.
“I believe there are some things we can do, and we can do them quickly, to get better. Be better.” Maynard then listed those things as if he were reading them off a teleprompter in his head. Each one bringing more applause than the last. Finally, he said, “Honestly, I never thought I’d be here. Thought my time had passed. But if Vice President Ashley cannot serve, and I wish to God he could, then I will take up the mantle. I will serve.”
Given the choice, polls showed people chose Ashley two to one over Maynard. But that was not an indication that they didn’t like Maynard. They did. A lot. They simply adored Aaron. After what he and his family had endured, and how he’d come through it, they loved him all the more.
As the applause drowned Maynard out, I called the vice president. He answered, and given the noise, I had trouble hearing him. “Sir, this would be a good time.” A pause. “And, sir, we’re all pulling for you.”
The line went dead just as Maynard loosened his tie, an action commensurate with the president of the people, and announced he’d like to buy the house a round, his first gesture that he was extending his hand across the aisle. “With a good beer.” The crowd went nuts and then launched into a raucous chorus of “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” followed by three cheers. At the end of the third cheer, the forty-seven televisions mounted on every wall and angle in the pub flashed a “Breaking News” banner along the bottom. Every screen then switched to a nighttime shot of the front steps of the White House, where the president, in dark slacks and a sweater and ball cap, stood in front of a microphone. Next to him stood Ashley, wearing a lambswool fighter pilot jacket, with Esther at his side, her arm locked inside his.