“JIMMY FINGERS!”
James “Jimmy Fingers” Fahey turned to his left and spotted Eric Blica coming down the steps of the exposition hall. Jimmy Fingers immediately veered away from the campaign people he’d been walking with.
“Eric, howareya?” he said, pumping Blica’s hand.
“Your nickname’s a liability in a place like this,” said Blica. “Looked to me like half a dozen people were ready to pull out handcuffs and arrest you.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” said Jimmy Fingers. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s a law enforcement conference. FBI needs to be represented, right?” Blica was a deputy director at the agency; he ranked third or fifth in the hierarchy, depending on the whim of the director.
“The FBI is involved in law enforcement?”
“Yuck, yuck. What’s your boss up to?”
“Sitting on a panel and hoping to get an endorsement from the sheriffs’ association, among others. I think there’s still time to work in something about the Bureau into the speech,” added Jimmy Fingers. “How their budget ought to be cut.”
“Hey, come on. We’re working for you.”
“You haven’t found that shooter yet,” said Jimmy Fingers.
“We’re working on it,” said Blica. “There’s a theory that the Vietnamese are involved.”
“The Vietnamese?”
“I don’t have any details. I’m not in the working group.”
“I thought you were in charge.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“Well, if Bolso retires, you’ll be a top candidate,” said Jimmy Fingers. “And there’s always the McSweeney administration.”
“Give me a break. You guys have so many IOUs out, you’re going to have to triple the size of the government to pay off.”
There was actually a lot of truth in the remark, and Jimmy Fingers smirked good-naturedly. “So tell me more about this Vietnamese thing,” he said.
“You didn’t get it from me.”
“You? I don’t even know you.”
THE CRAZY VIETNAMESE conspiracy theory was so good, so delicious, that Jimmy Fingers wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t some sort of ruse. He decided to call Jed Frey, the head of the Secret Service, to see if he could smoke anything else out.
Frey had an assistant call him back. While technically that was the proper etiquette—aides dealt with aides—it still angered Jimmy Fingers.
“What’s this rumor I hear that the Vietnamese were trying to assassinate my guy?” said Jimmy Fingers.
“I’m not prepared to discuss that,” said the aide.
“Well, what the hell are you prepared to discuss?” said Jimmy Fingers, tongue-lashing the assistant. The senator deserved to know what was going on, the Service was not unassailable, the American public deserved better, blah blah blah. When he finished, Jimmy Fingers actually caught himself feeling sorry for the poor sap, who could only sit there and take it.
Having softened him up, Jimmy Fingers moved in for the kill.
“So, listen, between you and me,” said Jimmy Fingers. “Is this thing true or not? Should I tell the security guys to screen out anyone from the hall with squinty eyes or not? I don’t want to give this guy another chance, you know what I’m saying?”
“It is a valid theory that’s being pursued,” said the aide. “But it’s not the leading theory.”
“What is the leading theory? The nut-job assassin?”
“I wouldn’t quite put it that way.”
“And you’re still looking at those e-mails, right? You know we got that other one the other day. You never told us what came of it.”
“We’re definitely investigating. If you don’t hear from us, it’s only because we have nothing of interest to say.”
By the time Jimmy Fingers hung up the phone, he was convinced that the Secret Service had no idea what was going on. He was also convinced that the Vietnamese theory, as off-the-wall as it was, would benefit McSweeney immensely.
Which reporters, Jimmy Fingers thought, thumbing his cell phone’s phone book open, did he want owing him a big favor?