Free The Book of Fate by Brad Meltzer Page B

“So what’re you still doing in the lobby?”
    “Waiting for one of the—”
    Through the phone, O’Shea heard a slight ping followed by a low rumble. Micah’s elevator had finally arrived. “I’ll have him in—”
    Micah’s voice went silent. But from the background noise, O’Shea could tell Micah was still on the line.
    “Micah, what happened?” he asked.
    No response.
    “Micah, you okay!?”
    There was another low rumble. Elevator doors closing. Then a rough swishing. Like two windbreakers being rubbed together. Micah was moving. The swishing continued. At that pace, he was clearly not in the elevator, O’Shea thought. But if he wasn’t in the elevator, that meant . . .
    “Wes just stepped out, didn’t he?” O’Shea asked as his sedan made a sharp left onto a well-manicured drive.
    “Not bad, Watson,” Micah whispered. “You should do this professionally.”
    “Anyone with him?”
    “Nope. All alone,” Micah said. “Something happened up there, though. Kid’s got his tail between his legs. Like he got dumped.”
    “Is he leaving the hotel?”
    “Nope again. Headed for the restaurant in back. I’m telling you, he really looks terrible . . . I mean, even more than those Frankenstein marks in his face.”
    “That’s a shame,” O’Shea said as his car curved into the horseshoe driveway of the main entrance. “’Cause his day’s about to get a whole lot worse.” On his right, the car door sprang open and a valet with blond hair offered a slight tip of his hat.
    “Welcome to the Four Seasons, sir. Are you checking in with us today?”
    “No,” O’Shea offered as he stepped out of the car. “Just grabbing a little something for breakfast.”

 
    13
    H unched forward in a big wicker armchair, I stir my coffee with a silver spoon and watch my reflection swirl into oblivion.
    “Is it really that bad?” a voice teases behind me.
    I turn just in time to see Dreidel enter the hotel’s open-air restaurant. His black hair is gelled and parted. The boyish bangs are long gone. Combined with his monogrammed white shirt and antique wire-rim glasses, it’s clear he’s mastered the art of sending a message without saying a word. Right now he’s selling confidence. Too bad I’m not buying.
    Ignoring the foamy waves of the Atlantic Ocean on our left, he puts a hand on my shoulder and crosses around to the oversize wicker seat next to me. As he moves, his hand runs from my shoulder to the back of my neck, always holding tight enough to reassure.
    “Don’t use his moves on me,” I warn.
    “What’re you—?”
    “His
moves
,” I repeat, pulling away so his hand’s no longer on my neck.
    “You think I’m—? You think I’d pull a Manning on you?”
    Dreidel was with him for almost four years. I’m going on nine. I don’t even bother to argue. I just stare back down at my overpriced, still-swirling coffee and let the silence sink in. This is why the in crowd turns on him.
    “Wes, what you saw up there—”
    “Listen, before you say it, can we just spare ourselves the awkwardness and move on? My bad . . . my fault . . . clearly none of my business.”
    He studies me carefully, picking apart every syllable and trying to figure out if I mean it. When you shadow a President, you become fluent in reading between the lines. I’m good. Dreidel’s better.
    “Just say it already, Wes.”
    I stare out across the open terrace and watch the waves kamikaze into the beach.
    “I know you’re thinking it,” he adds.
    Like I said, Dreidel’s better. “Does Ellen know?” I finally ask, referring to his wife.
    “She should. She’s not stupid.” His voice creaks like a renegade floorboard. “And when Ali was born . . . marriage is hard, Wes.”
    “So that girl up there . . .”
    “Just someone I met at the bar. I flashed my room key. She thinks I’m rich because I can afford to stay here.” He forces a grin and tosses his room key on the table. “I didn’t realize you had so many