The First Councel

Before I can ask her to explain, I see a man in khakis standing at the side entrance of Tequila Mockingbird. He points to a reserved parking spot and waves us toward him. Even before he pushes the button in his hand and whispers into the collar of his struggling-to-be-casual polo shirt, I know who he is. Secret Service. Which means we don’t have to wait in the long line out front-he’ll take us in the side. Not a bad way to bar-hop, if you ask me. Of course, Nora sees it differently.

“Ready to rain on his parade?” she asks.

I nod, unsure of what she’s up to, but barely able to contain my smile. The First Daughter, and I mean the First Daughter, is sitting next to me, in my crappy car, asking me to follow her under the limbo stick. I can already taste the salsa.

Just as we make eye contact with the agent outside the Mockingbird, Nora rolls past the bar, and instead heads to a dance club halfway up the block. I turn around and check out the agent’s expression. He’s not amused. I can read his lips from here. “Shadow moving,” he growls into his collar.

“Wait a minute-didn’t you tell them we were going to the Mockingbird?”

“Let me ask you a question: When you go out, do you think it’s fun to have the Secret Service check out the place before you get there?”

I pause to think about it. “Actually, it seems pretty cool to me.”

She laughs. “Well, I hate it. The moment they walk in, the really interesting people hit the exits.” Pointing to the Suburban that’s still behind us, she adds, “The ones who follow me, I can deal with. It’s the advance guys that wreck the party. Besides, this keeps everyone on their toes.”

As we pull up to the valet, I try to think of something witty to say. That’s when I see him. Standing at the front entrance of our newest destination is another man whispering into the collar of his shirt. Like the agent who was standing outside the Mockingbird, he’s dressed in Secret Service casual standards: khakis and a short-sleeve polo. To call as little attention to Nora as possible, the agents try their best to be invisible-their attire is keyed to their protectee’s. Of course, they think they blend in, but last I checked, most people in khakis don’t carry guns and talk into the collars of their shirts. Either way, though, I’m impressed. They know her better than I thought.

“So, we going in or what?” I ask, motioning toward the valet, who’s waiting for Nora to open her door.

Nora doesn’t answer. Her piercing green eyes, which were persuasive enough to convince me to let her drive, are now staring vacantly out the window.

I tap her playfully on the shoulder. “So they knew you were coming. Big deal-that’s their job.”

“That’s not it.”

“Nora, we’re all creatures of habit. Just because they know your routine-”

“That’s the problem!” she shouts. “I was being spontaneous!”

Behind the outburst, there’s a pain in her voice that catches me off guard. Despite the years of watching her on TV, it’s the first time I’ve seen her open her soft side, and even though it’s with a yell, I jump right in. My playful shoulder-tap turns into a soothing caress. “Forget this place-we’ll find somewhere new.”

She glares angrily at the agent near the front door. He grins back. They’ve played this game before. “We’re out of here,” she growls. With a quick pump of the gas, our tires screech and we’re on to our next stop. As we take off, I again check the rearview mirror. The Suburban, as always, is right behind us.

“They ever let up?” I ask.

“Goes with the territory,” she says, sounding like she’s been kicked in the gut.

Hoping to cheer her up, I say, “Forget those monkeys. Who cares if they know where you-”

“Spend two weeks doing it. That’ll change your tune.”

“Not me. My tune stays the same: Love the guys with guns. Love the guys with guns. Love the guys with guns. We’re talkin’ mantra here.”

The joke is easy, but it works. She fights back the tiniest smile. “Gotta love those guns.” Taking a deep breath, she runs her hand across the back of her neck and through the tips of her black hair. I think she’s finally starting to relax. “Thanks again for letting me drive-I was starting to miss it.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’re an excellent driver.”

“And you’re an excellent liar.”

“Don’t take my word for it-look at the lemmings behind us; they’ve been smiling since you peeled out from the club.”

Nora checks the rearview mirror for herself and waves at two more of the khaki-and-polo patrol. Neither smiles, but the one in the passenger seat actually waves back. “Those’re my boys-been with me for three years,” she explains. “Besides, Harry and Darren aren’t that bad. They’re just miserable because they’re the only two who are actually responsible for me.”

“Sounds like a dream job.”

“More like a nightmare-every time I leave the House, they’re stuck watching my behind.”

“Like I said: dream job.”