Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TRISTAN
The President and Mrs. Fox
request the pleasure of your company
at a luncheon to be held at
Cadaveri Restaurant
on the tenth of August
at one o’clock
I am not cut out to be a party planner.
Getting faux White House stationery was surprisingly easy. An associate of mine has a talented wife whose calligraphy is exceptional. Having them delivered to the Senate Committee was as simple as dropping them off in a random mailbox in D.C.
A fake lunch menu is easy to whip up with plenty of examples on Pinterest.
Creating a fake restaurant from the shell of a building that used to be a Pink Salmon… there’s the rub.
It took two days to remove any logos inside the building after I snuck in. The tables and chairs were still there. The framed nautical flags hung on indigo walls, only slightly coated in dust.
But more importantly, there was a private dining room beside a door leading into a hallway for servers going to the kitchen—the perfect area to stage my masterpiece.
To avoid detection, I focused on the building's interior so no one would notice a handyman coming in and out. I made sure to stage the dining room perfectly with linen and porcelain and everything to make this an elegant feast fit for the kings these pathetic sons-of-bitches wish they were.
Luckily, I don’t think these senators have seen the inside of a Pink Salmon in thirty years, if at all. Too low-brow and tacky for them.
Meanwhile, Pink Salmon was my family’s special occasion treat for a graduation or a milestone birthday.
I have fond memories of fried shrimp, cheddar biscuits, and endless refills of Pepsi—the only time my family had name-brand soda.
Dad bought Pep-tastic Cola, a dollar-store brand, but it never tasted the same.
Not that three kids needed sugary soda in the house, but Dad didn’t want us to go without because money was tight.
He was a saint who earned his wings, putting up with three of us on his own.
After whipping up a mock website for a new Italian fine dining experience at this location, I mailed out my invitations.
Three barrels of gunpowder were brought over.
I’d arranged them strategically around the private room like old wine barrels, so it appeared bougee and elegant.
I even set framed stock pictures of Italian cities on top of the barrels.
Top-notch interior design, if I do say so myself.
At quarter to one, the seven main healthcare-hating Committee members trickle in one by one. First is Arnold Hoffnagle of Nebraska, his arms swinging like an ape as he wanders into the lobby. He’s on the list for Representative McArthur’s pedo ring. And he isn’t the only Committee member on it.
Standing in a suit and tie like a good little host, I instruct him to take a seat on the benches lining the wall.
His eyes scan the empty restaurant in confusion until I tell him, “The Secret Service asked to reserve the entire restaurant for the afternoon. For security.”
Arnie nods as he makes the connection with the few brain cells that remain. His beefy hand runs through his two-toned grey hair.
William Vandike from Wisconsin enters with his cane clutched in his left fist, leaning on his antique walking stick that costs more than the last car I borrowed.
Well, the last car I stole. Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe.
“Will, how are you?” Arnie doesn’t bother to stand as he holds out his hand for Will to shake, which he does before sitting.
Will adjusts his Rolex before notching his cane between his thin knees, his pant legs rising enough to reveal a glimpse of blue socks with white stars.
How patriotic. But not as patriotic as him slashing his healthcare relief for veterans all across Wisconsin.
The homelessness rate among veterans nearly doubled in his state within six months. And the suicide rate rose too.
But, hey, he got a really nice luxury camper van out of it for him and his wife to tour the country. I guess in his eyes, a few veteran lives for a camper van is a bargain.
“I was worried I’d be late,” Will wheezes in his weak voice. “My driver took a wrong turn and had to do a U-turn. It banged my shoulder against the door.”
Arnie shakes his head in disapproval. “I’d be speaking with his company if I were you. Lawsuit waiting to happen, reckless drivers.”
Or you could follow the law and wear a seatbelt?
I pretend to flip through my fake menu—one that still has the Pink Salmon specials printed inside—man, a Maine lobster tail and popcorn shrimp sound good. I’m starving.
Ronald Cronulla from Florida and Dennis Levick from Oregon arrive together, both sporting shit-eating grins in their bespoke suits—the most expensive ones in their closets.
Two more members of McArthur’s pedo ring.
Probably why they’re thick as thieves. Spots on the Committee probably aren’t the only thing these men have shared interests in, and the thought hollows my stomach.
The four of them are decked out in designer watches and gold pinky rings with fancy patterned socks and ties—enough to say I have a personality, but not bold enough to be noticeable.
Until Larry McKinley from Tennessee strolls in wearing a navy blue suit, an American flag tie and a matching pocket square, and American flag cufflinks with a matching flag tie clip.
Is this a faux-Italian lunch or a Fourth of July barbecue?
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Will flashes his dentured smile and strikes the bottom of his cane against the floor in approval. “You look like you should be running for office yourself.”
“Don’t tell Grover.” Larry winks and shakes everyone’s hands, like he hadn’t seen them all on the Congress floor yesterday.
Marie Witherspoon from Alaska steps through the door, her red-bottomed shoes clacking on the tiled floor as the men glance over at her with wary smiles.
“Marie,” Will nods at her.
“Gentlemen,” she says with a stiff smile.
The only woman and the odd one out. I almost pity her, but she’s a Congressional she-devil in Prada.
In her three terms, she’s managed to close four women’s shelters, two women’s health clinics, and redirect funds for women seeking shelter after leaving abusive relationships.
Those funds didn’t go to a camper van, but she has an endless rotation of designer clothing.
She is the embodiment of internalized misogyny.
That was a term my brilliant friend Daphne taught me during one of our phone calls.
Obviously, I knew about misogyny, but when I brought up Marie, Daphne unleashed the floodgates about how despicable this woman really is.
I knew about the women’s centers and clinics, but to reroute that money towards a designer wardrobe? How shallow can you get?
“Why, Larry, such an interesting ensemble,” she notes with distaste.
Before Larry can defend his bold wardrobe choice, the door opens again.
Gerald Gillespie from Alabama struts in wearing his sleek black suit and tasteful red tie with an American flag pin on his lapel.
He doesn’t even glance at the servant in the room—a.k.a.
me. And why would he? To him, my highest achievement is being a mid-day host at an Italian restaurant—or so he thinks.
In fact, he thinks so little of us that he made sure to slash public school funding across the poorest districts in Alabama and managed to reroute those into the public Christian school his kids attend.
He waltzes right over to his posse and grins like the bloodthirsty shark he is.
“Well, look who’s here.” His voice booms with authority.
Even though Will and Ronald have fifty years more experience between them, Gerry’s the Committee Chair.
He runs the show, and they all know it. Judging by the forced smiles and dead-eyed glares they give him, they despise him for it.
The only men that these senators hate more than poor men are men with power over them.
And Gerry’s the powerhouse in the room.
Or so they think.
“Good afternoon,” I interrupt. “I was advised there would be a party of seven. Since you’re all here, let me show you to the dining room.
” As they stand, Will calls Marie over to help him, like she’s a nurse and not a Harvard-educated attorney and senator.
And a despicable human being in her own right.
I clear my throat. “The Secret Service advised that they’ll be in to brief you before the President and First Lady arrive. If you’ll please follow me.”
I take slow steps to give Will time to keep up with the group as I wind my way through the labyrinth of empty chairs and tables and into the private dining room tucked away in the corner.
“Why did he want to meet here, do you think?” Arnie asks in a hushed voice to Dennis.
“Guess he can’t be seen meeting with us this close to the election,” Dennis answers.
“Maybe he wants to prep us before his fundraiser tonight. He might have some news,” Larry chimes in.
Oh, if only they knew the real reason the “President” invited them tonight.
All three barrels are there, and with the room dimly lit, it would be hard for them to notice the black wire taped to the floor, each leading into a barrel, ready to be set off.
I hope this works, because I couldn’t exactly test my plan. There are no windows in the private dining room, so there’s no plan B if this goes south.
The guests take their seats, with their names written in elaborate calligraphy on place cards.
“I’ll advise the Secret Service that you’ve arrived.” I give them a polite smile and let my gaze linger over the senators who don’t even spare me a glance as they launch into idle chitchat about why they’re there, what to expect for lunch, and if they’d been to this restaurant before.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek when Ronald tells them that he’d been here last week with his wife and that, although the food was good, the President owes the Committee a proper White House meal if he’s re-elected.
Bull-fucking-shit. The way lies ooze so easily from his mouth like pus from a boil makes me want to smash one of the barrels over his bald head.
But instead, I walk. And walk. Behind the hostess table, I retrieve my bag and grab a Guy Fawkes mask—one I haven’t worn before to avoid any DNA detection if this mask even survives the explosion.
I leave it on one of the tables and quickly wipe down where any of my fingerprints would have been.
I’ve been careful to clean after each visit, and tonight I triple-check that not so much as a wig hair is left behind before I leave the restaurant.
I get in my borrowed car and drive across the parking lot.
Retrieving the detonator from my passenger seat, I check the button that should set everything off.
This is it. The biggest opportunity I’ve had to stop this bill from being passed is literally at my fingertips.
It’s always these moments that make me pause and soak it all in.
I know these people have families, partners, and children who will mourn them once they’re gone.
But there will be rivers of tears when parents and children die from not being able to afford life-saving care.
These people swore an oath to protect the citizens in their states. And have they? Absolutely not. Their own staff earn a mere sliver of their salary and can barely scrape by.
Like Larry’s receptionist, Willow, who bartends on weekends to make ends meet so she can afford to live a commutable distance and pay her sky-high rent in a slum house she shares with two other roommates.
Then there’s Dennis’ new law clerk, Jalen, who earns only two-thirds of what his white counterparts earn but is probably too afraid to ask for equal compensation.
Ronald’s had a senior scheduler there for over twenty years, but she still only gets two weeks of vacation every year.
Oh, I know all about these people and how they run their offices—let alone their states—with minimal health insurance for everyone else.
Tacky emails at Christmas reminding staff that they’re family when they get a box of chocolates instead of a real bonus.
Mandatory potlucks where employees are forced to pay out of pocket and use their personal time to make some shitty casserole to feed everyone instead of treating staff to a proper catered lunch.
Meanwhile, the Committee lunches every month at a fucking steakhouse with a sommelier, where side dishes cost extra.
Their employees deserve better. Their constituents, too. And honestly, every one of those old-boy’s-club fuckers deserves so much worse.
The anger of a thousand Congressional aides radiates through my hand as I slam my thumb on the button.
The blast rattles cars, shaking my own windows, and an orange fireball bursts through the restaurant wall. White smoke billows upwards like the announcement of a volcanic eruption—my own Mount Vesuvius, with no survivors.
As onlookers rush out of restaurants and shops, phones whipping out, I pull into the flow of traffic and get the hell out of there. I try to focus on the road ahead of me, but the view in my rearview mirror is spectacular.
The smoke keeps rising, and orange flames lick up at the brilliant blue sky. If this doesn’t stop the Bradshaw Bill, I don’t know what could.
I do, but killing the President is the last thing I want to do. But if I have to, then the President will be next on my list. Even if it means losing Daphne’s trust.