Free The Silent Places by James Patrick Hunt Page B

heading west on the Forest Park Parkway, downtown fading behind them as the car dipped down the incline underneath Grand Boulevard and came up and out on the other side.
    Hastings said, “Not about everything. I mean, I met the wife and, yeah, she’s concerned. But I don’t buy it when Preston says he’s not worried. I could see that he
is
worried. So this notion about he’s only doing this because his wife wants him to, that’s a lot of shit.”
    “Maybe,” Klosterman said, “but he’s not going to admit that.”
    Hastings said, “Did I tell you about why he said he didn’t want feds involved?”
    “Yeah, you told me.”
    “That’s fishy, too. If it were me and my family, I’d call in every man possible to guard me. I wouldn’t care what anyone said.”
    “No,” Klosterman said, “but you’re not a politician. And you don’t have anything to prove, either.”
    “What’s he got to prove?”
    “I don’t know. He said something about enemies wanting to embarrass him?”
    “Yeah. He said if he had federal agents guarding him, he would be ‘compromised,’ or some nonsense.”
    “Didn’t Anthony tell you he might run for president?”
    “Yeah, that’s what Anthony says. I don’t know. Maybe he will. If that’s the case, he’s probably more concerned about his political livelihood than anything else.”
    “You met the wife?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What about her?”
    “She’s all right,” Hastings said.
    Hastings slowed the Jaguar for a light, coming to a stop behind an SUV. He thought of the cool blonde in her upscale dress, wondering if she had been a model when she was younger. Looking directly in his eyes, trying to push him around …
    “I think she’s all right,” Hastings said again. “She was the first person in that house who didn’t talk to me like I was there to cut the lawn.”
    Klosterman said, “You remember Bill Malone?”
    “Yeah.”
    “He got on with the Secret Service a few years ago. He guarded that little guy who ran for president.”
    “Edwards?”
    “No, the little guy with that good-looking young wife.”
    “Kucinich.”
    “Yeah. Bill said that the old hands talked about the best presidents to guard. Apparently, Ford was a real nice guy. Used to bring coffee to the agents when they had to stand out in the cold. Reagan liked to tan himself at his ranch, using one of those reflector thingies. Nixon was weird but okay. They said Carter was one of the worst.”
    “How so?”
    “You know, looked down his nose at them. Treated them like they didn’t exist.”
    “That right?”
    “Yeah. Funny, don’t you think? Him being a Democrat and all.”
    “Why should that be unusual?”
    “Well, don’t you remember? When Carter ran, he said he was a simple peanut farmer and all that crap. He used to wear those sweaters and he carried his own suitcases into the White House.”
    “Shit,” Hastings said. “That was all show. I put more stock in what the people say who had to work with him.”
    “You ever think about something like that? Secret Service?”
    “God no. I’d die of boredom.”
    “Yeah, I know what you mean. Bill said it was boring but pretty stressful, too. I mean, a lot of doing nothing, and then when you’re in crowds with the president or whoever, you’re anxious as hell. Looking out there to see if there’s a Hinckley or a Travis Bickle.”
    “Travis Bickle? That’s not a real guy. That’s from a movie, isn’tit?”
    “Is it?”
    “Yeah, Joe. Don’t you remember? ‘You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?’”
    Klosterman pointed a finger at him and said, “Dustin Hoffman.”
    “Robert De Niro.”
    “James Caan.”
    “No. It was De Niro,” Hastings said, then realized that Klosterman knew it all along.
    Joe Klosterman rolled his shoulders, acting out the rest of the scene. “‘I don’t see no one else here. Who the fuck you talking to?’”
    “Okay,” Hastings said, hoping that would shut it down.
    But then he was doing