Barack Obama and I were two fairly high-profile individuals, so it made sense that we should take some measures to conceal our identities. We couldn’t risk causing a scene parading around town. There was already enough hoopla surrounding Finn’s case. Despite this perfect logic on my part, Barack had a fit when he saw me emerge from the house. “What is that thing on your head?”
I touched the brim of my baseball cap. KISS MY BASS, it blared with all the subtlety of a trumpet in your ear. There was an embroidered bass on it, with its mouth open, ready to be reeled in.
“It’s called a disguise,” I said. “Here, I got you one, too.” I handed him a maroon cap embroidered with a large letter P. “Phillies. Y’know, since you’re a White Sox fan. No one will ever suspect it’s you.”
“Hmmmmmm,” Barack said, staring at the cap.
I put on my aviator shades, then smiled. “What do you think?”
“Remember when you flew into Minnesota to interview for the V.P. slot?” he said. “We were so worried people would learn about the interview…and you showed up wearing a plain denim baseball cap and those same sunglasses you’re wearing now.”
“It was a different pair.”
“Point is, nobody recognized you,” he said. “But it wasn’t because of your so-called disguise. It was because you were a senator from Delaware. Most people outside the Mid-Atlantic region don’t even know where the Delaware state lines are.”
“Most Delawareans don’t know, either.”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is whether we wear hats or welder’s masks, it’s going to be pretty difficult to avoid drawing attention. Plus, everybody’s seen you in those glasses.”
“You’re saying I need to take them off to disguise myself,” I said, whipping my Ray-Bans off. “How’s that?”
Barack stared at me. “You look like Joe Biden either way.”
“Forget it, then.”
“No, no. Wear them if it makes you feel comfortable.”
“And you’ll wear the Phillies hat.”
“We’ll see,” he said. “You ready to go, then?”
I dangled the extra key for my Challenger. She was sitting in the garage, begging to be let out of her cage. “Want to take my car?”
“What’s wrong with the Little Beast?”
“We might not be able to avoid attention completely, but we can be smart about it. Think what will happen if we roll up anywhere in that…thing. Pull into that motel parking lot, and people are going to stare.”
“Says the guy who’s dressed for a safari.”
I glanced down at my sandals, blue chino shorts, and orange-and-yellow aloha shirt. Barack had gifted me the shirt one year for my birthday. I’d called it a Hawaiian shirt, and he’d told me not to call it that. He explained that in Hawaii, they were called aloha shirts.
“I can go back inside and change—”
Barack held up a hand. “We just waited twenty minutes for you to change, Joe.” He nodded at the Escalade. “As for the Little Beast…you have to weigh the benefits here. The body’s been reinforced with military-grade armor. Its windows can withstand armor-piercing bullets. The shocks are so good, you can drive over a land mine and not spill your tea. Plus, there’s a button you push, and it turns the exhaust into a flamethrower.”
“Really?”
“No, but that’s damn near the only thing it doesn’t have.”
I hit the button on my keychain and waited for the garage door to dramatically unveil my baby: my neon-green 2017 Dodge Challenger T/A. A throwback to the 1970s Trans-Am series muscle cars. “You weren’t the only one who bought a new car.”
Barack’s eyes opened wide. “What’d you do with your Stingray?”
“It’s at the beach house.”
Barack pinched the spot between his eyes. He was trying to be nonchalant about my new muscle car, but I could tell he was itching to get in and go for a test drive. “Steve would never go for it.”
Steve was leaning against the SUV in the driveway, staring intently at his wristwatch. He had two fingers to the left of his Adam’s apple, feeling his pulse.
“There’s plenty of room in back for Steve.” I slipped into the driver’s seat and started her up. She purred to life. A real beauty, no denying it. Over the sound of the engine, I shouted, “3.6-liter Pentastar VVT V6 engine with an 8-speed Torque-Flite automatic transmission that really gets up and goes.”
I gave her a little gas, and Barack jumped.
“Turn it off,” he said.
“When you get her on the open road, she flies like Christ on a bike.”
“No way,” Barack said. “There’s no way.”
I nodded toward the Little Beast. “What’s the gas mileage on that thing?”
The Challenger was an old-school gas guzzler, a muscle car in a world of flab. Still, it had to get better mileage than Barack’s armored SUV, which looked as if it drank gas like the Tweeter-in-Chief drank Diet Coke.
Barack sighed. I had backed him into a corner and used his own ethics against him—a cruel trick. A career politician’s trick.
He said, “Where do you want us to park the Little Beast?”
If we parked it in the garage, there wouldn’t be any room for Jill to pull in. Barack’s SUV was so wide it would take up both spaces. If we parked the SUV in the driveway, neighbors might start whispering. It looked just enough like the old Beasts that someone might put two and two together. The last thing I wanted was a couple of Johnny Crabapples trying to do the math.
“There’s a Walmart not far from here,” I said. “Plenty of people park their Winnebagos there. It’ll be fine.”
“Why not here?”
“It just wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Barack stared at me. “Did you tell Jill you were going out with me?”
“It’s none of her business who I go out with. I’m in the seventh decade of my life—I can do whatever I want. No one’s the boss of me.”
“I used to be your boss.”
“The American people were our boss,” I told him. “But things have changed.”
He shook his head and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “Did you bring that heater you were packing the other night?”
I felt a twinge of embarrassment. Of course Barack knew I was a gun owner—I’d talked about my shotguns enough that he could probably tell you the make and model. But he wasn’t talking about my shotguns.
“There’ve been reports of prowlers,” I said. “You can’t be too careful.”
“You’re right about that. A lot going on in this world. Even when it comes to friendly faces, it’s hard to tell who to trust these days.” He paused. “So you’re bringing it?”
“I’m not bringing it.”
He looked me steady in the eye, as if he was trying to assess whether I was lying or not. Finally satisfied, he fit the Phillies cap on his head. “Then let’s go, Joe.”