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 aCongressional 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 brilliantfriendDaphne 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 thesesenators 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.
