Roscoe ushered Parker into the backseat of the car and slid in beside him.
“Get us out of here,” Roscoe ordered.
“What the hell happened in there?” Delchamps asked. “We watched it on the Brick.”
“My pal is about to tell us. John, say hello to Edgar and Two-Gun.”
“I thought you looked familiar, Mr. Parker,” Two-Gun said, turning in the seat to offer his hand.
“So the President said, ‘When I get back to the White House, I will announce that I have accepted your resignation. Now get off my goddamn helicopter,’ and I did,” Parker finished.
“And when you went back in the building, they wouldn’t let you in the auditorium?” David Yung asked.
“They even took my ID badge,” Parker said.
“I don’t suppose anyone cares what I think,” Delchamps said, “but just off the top of my head, Roscoe, I think your pal was set up.”
“Otherwise, the security guys wouldn’t have been waiting for you to take your ID badge.”
“So what do I do now?” Parker asked, and then answered his own question. “Go back to my apartment and lick my wounds, I guess.”
“If you go back to your apartment, the press will be there for your version of what happened,” Roscoe said. “And until we figure this out, no matter what you tell them, you’re going to look like an incompetent who got fired for cause, or a disgruntled former employee saying unkind—and frankly hard to believe—things about our beloved President. Or both. Probably both.”
And I won’t have a story.
“So what do I do?” Parker asked again.
“When in doubt, find a hole and hunker down until things calm down,” Delchamps said.
“Go to a hotel or something?” Parker asked.
“Or something. Roscoe, is Brother Parker really a pal of yours?”
“He’s a pal of mine,” Roscoe declared.
Did I say that because Porky is a good guy who’s always been straight with me? Or because I can see my story getting lost?
“Problem solved,” Delchamps announced.
“Meaning what?” Roscoe asked.
“You’ll see.”
[TWO]
7200 West Boulevard Drive
Alexandria, Virginia
1255 12 April 2007
The house, which was large and could be described as a “Colonial mansion,” sat on an acre of manicured lawn well off West Boulevard Drive. The landscaping on a grass-covered rise—a berm—in the lawn prevented anyone driving by from getting a good look at the front door of the house.
There was a neat cast-bronze sign just inside the first of two fences:Lorimer Manor
Assisted Living
No Soliciting