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  Come back to me/No!—this was the exchange for May, when Vi started acting as Bobbie’s banker.

  Give me one good reason, said Potter on the memo line for June. You’re boring, Bobbie scrawled and gave the check to Vi.

  July was: But I love you/Even this is boring.

  Come back to me/I hope you find someone special—August.

  I have: you/So have I: someone else—September.

  Who is this Vincent Asplund, the man who keeps depositing my checks—-is he your lover now? asked Potter in October. We sleep together yes, said Bobbie cruelly.

  Come back to me—and so on through the calendar to Christmas and beyond.

  Vi knew that Bobbie would not go back to Potter Niles. Bobbie dreamed of being Mrs. Admiral, living the gracious life she saw in magazines, throwing tinkling drinks parties for the NatSecCom set. She talked about it often, drinking in the bars—her future perfect life. This was the real Bobbie Taylor-Niles. The rest of her biography—three divorces, four abortions, seven maxed-out credit cards, one personal bankruptcy—was an accident, a draft. She would quit the Service on her wedding day and say goodbye to Vi and the crowds.

  Some nights, Vi and Bobbie sat alone in hotel bars, talking about men or bullshitting with the other agents coming in, or the campaign hangers-on, the preppies of the press pool, a stray congressman or two. Bobbie, seven years an agent at the White House, a moth at the ballpark lights of power, seemed to know every man who ever had a bit of it, and it was entertaining, watching Bobbie flirt.

  Other nights they stayed in the room. Vi would do her isometric exercises, pushing on the walls, as Bobbie had a cigarette and a Stolie from the minibar. Then Vi would do her crunches as Bobbie had a cigarette and called the Admiral back in Georgetown. Vi would take a shower, come out, towel down, and check her e-mails as Bobbie had a cigarette and watched a movie from the in-room entertainment menu, talking from a cloud of smoke, telling, in installments, the story of the struggle that was Bobbie Taylor-Niles.

  Bobbie had grown up poor in a Tulsa trailer park. She fucked her way into the Air Force at the age of seventeen (she was a minor, her stepfather wouldn’t sign, the recruiter was willing to be flexible). She joined the base police, liked the white armband, the way she looked in the white armband, went to college on the Vandenberg-Cal State extension program, made decent grades (Bobbie wasn’t stupid), joined the Service after her discharge, did her rookie tour in Crim, married Doyle Doak (thinking he was somebody important because he had his own parking space; she was so unworldly in those days), took a transfer to Protection, trying to move up, to get closer to the real people, the ones who run the world and have the money. She spent seven years inside the White House, guarding the first daughter—happy years for Bobbie. The famously feminist first lady was busy with her teas and her causes, leaving the first daughter, a doggish teenager, completely in the dark on basic woman things (the poor kid was bursting into puberty wearing baggy overalls and cotton boxers, for God’s sake, Bobbie said), and Bobbie, who loved the kid, took it upon herself to educate the first daughter in the things that every woman needs to know, how to win and keep a man, how to keep him satisfied, how to slip a condom on his hog without him knowing it, using just your lips and tongue and one index finger. The first lady caught Bobbie and the daughter in the Lincoln Bedroom covering the G-spot and its meaning to a girl, and the old witch hit the roof, sending Bobbie into exile, the Siberia of crowds.

  Bobbie told these stories in the motel rooms, talking from her cloud, gray layers in the lamplight at her head, as she had perhaps another vodka for her nerves. Vi would listen as she ironed her clothes and kevlar for the morning, and Bobbie’s too, and cleaned their weapons on the bedspread if she was in the mood. They talked and watched TV until one of them could sleep, usually Vi, and then they killed the lights and Bobbie watched the movie end. Sometimes—more and more, it seemed—Vi would wake up before dawn and find Bobbie in her bed, a shock the first few times, but not after that. Vi would close her eyes and drift away, and, through the night, the women found each other in the sheets, sleeping thigh-to-pelvis, sweating, flinching, jerking, dreaming of two ropelines, guarding each other in their dreams.

  Bobbie showed up twenty minutes late that Sunday morning. Vi got in the car and they set out for the Galleria-at-Bull-Run, which was not a mall, but an all, Bobbie said.

  “They have one of everything,” Bobbie said, digging through her Fendi bag as she drove the Admiral’s Lexus down the highway to Bull Run. “It’s a goddamn Noah’s Ark of luxury retail.”

  Vi took the bag from Bobbie. “You look at the road.”

  Searching through the bag, Vi found old charge slips from the better stores in Washington, lipstick, Chap Stick, dirt, grit and several kinds of pills, sticks of gum and foil from the gum, an empty bottle of Visine, Kleenex in a travel pack, breath mints in a roll, condoms in a gold case with a snap, a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson Ladyliner nine, and a crumpled pack of Silks, Bobbie’s brand of cigarette.

  “They have this one store,” said Bobbie, lighting up. “Little lingerie boutique, everything’s from France, shit’ll blow your mind. They cater only to the most elite mistresses in Washington, cabinet rank or higher, none of them dumpy congressional oversight babes, unless, I guess, you’re sleeping with the Whip.”

  “Why would they let you in then?” Vi didn’t mean this the way it came out. She only meant that the Admiral, though rich and well connected, was not of cabinet rank.

  Bobbie said, “Because they recognize in me a woman of rare taste, you pissy little cunt. We’ll stop at Neiman afterwards, get you something nice to wear. Remember, Vi, there’s no excuse for being plain.”

  “I’m not plain, I’m functional.”

  “Yes, but we can help you.”

  They saw the first sign for the Galleria-at-Bull-Run and after that they watched the signs, searching the horizon for the megamall. Exit 8 was for long-term parking and tour buses. Exit 9 was for RVs needing sewer hookups.

  Vi said, “You ever think of Felker?”

  Bobbie said, “I do. That poor dear, dear man. I get weepy when I think of how he risked his life to save that dog.”

  “No, he killed the dog. It was the baby that he saved.”

  Bobbie said, “Well anyway, he risked his life and that’s what counts.”

  They rode along and Bobbie talked about her wedding plans, a full-dress ceremony in the festive Pentagon Rotunda, big names on the guest list, senators and such, drinks and dinner for three hundred, on and on and on, the band, the wine, the parting gifts, the finger bowls and napkin rings. She had every detail nailed except the year. Vi was always glad when Bobbie talked about the napkin rings. It meant that Vi could just nod for a while and not have to listen very hard. All of this—planning for a wedding, shopping, lingerie, the compulsive gabbing—was Bobbie’s way of dealing with the stress of vacant mode.

  “I want to get the Admiral something special,” Bobbie said. “Sort of a peace offering and early Valentine, me in something sinful. I want to make that motherfucker buckle at the knees.”

  “Did you guys have a fight?”

  “We’re adults, Vi. We don’t fight, we have miscommunications.”

  “Did you guys have a miscommunication?”

  “No, I understood him loud and clear.”

  They got off at Exit 12 and trolled for a parking space. Bobbie saw one in the distance, but a sports car beat her to it. She found another spot farther out. They parked and caught the shuttle bus.

  The bus was standing room, packed with shoppers going to the mall or riding with bulging bags to rejoin their cars. Vi and Bobbie pushed their way to the back and found two hanging straps not far apart.

  They rode the bus around the mall to the grand entrance. They strolled the indoor boulevards of the Galleria. They stopped at the mall map and, after some cross-triangulation, found the you-are-here dot.

  Vi said, “Okay, we’re there.” She consulted the directory. “What’s
the name of this boutique?”

  “It’s a secret,” Bobbie said. “Known only to the chosen few. They’re notoriously discreet—they have to be, with their clientele—so they keep the name and whereabouts a secret. Don’t bother with the map. I’m pretty sure it’s down by Sears.”

  They started for the far end of the mall.

  “How do they advertise,” said Vi, “if it’s such a fucking secret?”

  “Legend, myth, word of mouth,” Bobbie said. “How did people advertise before advertising?”

  “Do you know the name?”

  “Of course I know the name. The Admiral and I, we travel in those circles, Vi. We go to parties, closed parties in large houses on tree-lined private drives.”

  “So what is it? If you know, that is.”

  “I just told you that I know. Don’t try and goad me into telling you the name.”

  They kept walking.

  “Oh all right,” said Bobbie, “but don’t tell a soul and for God’s sake don’t tell Herc Mercado. He’ll have every stripper in the District camped out at the door.”

  They stopped at a pretzel cart. Bobbie whispered in Vi’s ear: “The name of the boutique is Inside the Beltway.”

  “No really, what’s the name?”

  “Isn’t it amazing, Vi? Makes me hot, just saying it. Inside the Beltway. Inside the Beltway. O, the way around my belt, power sleeping in my region. O, my hidden inner, my soft and rotten fruit. O, my throbbing Washington. Makes me want to touch myself, the name.”

  “Why’s it in Virginia then?”

  “The Beltway is a state of mind. Everyone has noticed this but you.”

  They passed Neiman’s, Godiva, Pulitzer, and Wurlitzer.

  “You know, sometimes I wonder,” Bobbie said.

  “What?”

  “I wonder if the Admiral’s using me, promising to marry me, promising and promising. I give him all I can, but he only wants more. Can I ask you something weird? Have you ever been with more than one man at the same time?”

  Vi laughed. “I was with ten thousand men in Iowa last week.”

  “Sexually I mean.”

  Vi knew what she meant. “Can’t say as I have. Why—is the Admiral into that?”

  “Every man is into that—you’re so fucking innocent. When I was your age, damn. I remember once in El Paso. I met these two cute postal inspectors at a weapons refresher. We went back to my place. It was nice. Even been with three men, Vi?”

  Vi figured you had to be with two before you were allowed to move up. “Nope,” she said.

  “I remember once in Crim, we hit a warrant on the border, this big ol’ hacienda in the desert. We seized eight million bucks in cash that day, a gloryosky stat, and some of us went upstairs to celebrate. I’m lying on this big old iron bed in this big adobe room, cash spread all around me. Me and these three agents—Lord, I wore ’em out. I felt sorry for those agents, afterwards. I saw ’em lying on the floor. They were young guys, they had their whole lives ahead of them, but they would never see another woman half the woman I was in that bedroom. One of the three was one of the two from the weapons refresher, just so you don’t think I’m a total fucking strumpet.”

  They came to a cement oasis, a fountain, benches, and some palms.

  “I remember this other time,” Bobbie said. “Super Tuesday in Atlanta, when the president was running the first time. You’ve never worked Super T, but let me tell you, it’s a fucking scene—six hundred delegates selected, the nomination on the line, careers are made and ruined, and bourbon is the balm. Everyone was staying at the same hotel on Peachtree, the candidates, the campaign staff, the press, and us. Georgia’s coming in, Tennessee is coming in, Florida is coming in, and everybody’s smashed. I’m in the hotel bar with Fundeberg, the president’s Rasputin, the architect of victory, the toast of Super Tuesday. We had a thing back then.”

  “You and Fundeberg?”

  “Why—is he so horrible? Don’t answer that. We’re drinking Charlie Mansons in the bar, and we go up to his suite with this twerpy little talking head from cable. We ride the elevator and it’s glass. The lobby had its own indoor jungle and we rose over it, like going up to heaven. We get to the suite and the phone is ringing. It’s a well-known syndicated columnist—I shouldn’t say his name.”

  She said his name.

  Vi said, “Him? But he looks so owlish.”

  “Mr. Family Values, always calling for a moral renewal, horny little wormwood that he is. So he shows up, flings off his bow tie and we keep on drinking and I’m feeling good, you know. I’m feeling free. Here’s trashy little Bobbie Taylor from a Tulsa trailer park, drinking drinks with these big important men, and this is what I want and this is all I want, and we keep drinking and I lie back on the bed. I close my eyes and then I feel their hands on me. It’s like they’re searching me.”

  Vi said, “Was it nice?”

  “Not at first. The mood was off—ringing phone, three TVs, beepers beeping, and this moaning, keening, grinding sound like a goddamn ghost in chains, which turned out to be a fax-paper jam. The talking head was talking dirty and the columnist was bragging about the opinion-making power of his weekly dozen inches, but the body’s an amazing thing—I started going with it. You know that feeling, Vi? Your mind is here, your body’s there. You float away. That’s how Super Tuesday felt to me. The talking head’s between my legs, the columnist fills my mouth, but just as I’m about to come, Fundeberg starts leaking.”

  “Leaking?”

  “Some incredibly hot nugget of inside campaign dirt, I forget exactly what. They left me on the bed and went off the record. Deep background, they call it.”

  They were sitting on a bench in the oasis. Dimes shimmered on the bottom of the fountain pool, magnified by water, looking like nickels. The fountain was on some kind of timer. It rose to a halo, fell to a burble, rose again and fell.

  Bobbie said, “Oh well. Someday I’ll get there, Vi—the inner ring of power, sure. Come on, girl—let’s find this damn boutique.”

  The elite boutique had no sign and no windows. They found a plain steel door under a surveillance cam.

  “This must be it,” Bobbie said.

  Vi looked at the camera.

  Bobbie said, “That’s so they can peruse us and see if we’re their sort of person.”

  She buzzed. They waited by the door.

  Driving back to Washington, Vi said, “It was probably closed, that store.”

  Bobbie didn’t say much, depressed by the rejection.

  Vi said, “Let’s go up to Beltsville and goof off at the range.”

  Bobbie didn’t say much and they didn’t go to Beltsville. Crossing out of Fairfax, their beepers beeped, first Vi’s and then Bobbie’s. They didn’t check their beepers, didn’t need to. They knew it was the Movements Desk. They were going out again.

  In a small act of rebellion, Vi put off calling Movements for almost an hour, waiting until she was back in her apartment and alone. Her orders, when she got them, were as terse as a road sign: the VP’s team was scrambled for New Hampshire through the primary on Tuesday, rendezvous and jumping-off at eighteen-thirty hours. Vi thanked the duty agent only half sarcastically and started unpacking from the trip to Iowa so that she could start packing for New Hampshire. She was thinking of Lloyd Felker—There is no theory, there is only what we do.

  She heard the Fiends laughing by the elevators. Some days they took the stairwells down from the penthouse, headlong, forty floors, urban mountain biking. Vi listened to them as she unpacked her bags, kicking her dirty laundry in a pile in the middle of the floor, socks and pants and underwear. The Fiends came down the hall and moved off again, bumping into doors, their voices growing faint.

  Vi’s life was on the bed. Two suits, both blue, one dirty and the other wearable. Six blouses, five dirty and one boxed. An Uzi Model Z, black, specially modified, reasonably clean, a level three kevlar vest, folded over once, and, on the pillow, her sidearm from New York, a simple semiau
tomatic nine.

  Vi waited, standing by the door of the studio, but she didn’t hear the Fiends again. She fit the Glock into her mouth, butt up, her knuckles in her eyes.

  What we do.

  She wasn’t suicidal. It was not that kind of act. It didn’t even mean as much as self-annihilation. It was just a bored thing that you do—you have a gun and a mouth, a thing and a hole, and you’re a little curious. Sex was probably invented this way. She stood there, counting one one-thousand, two one-thousand, thinking of the undertaker’s shady lawn, the games of hide-and-seek with Peta Boyle long ago. She stood there until she was sure that she felt completely idiotic (one one-thousand later), then she tossed the pistol on the futon and finished packing for the primary.

  There was always bullshit with the cars or actually the car, because they only owned the one and it belonged to Shirl. Shirl’s car was a silver Nissan Sentra with forty thousand miles and light opera in the CD. Tashmo’s car—or what she called his “car”—was, in fact, a truck, a sporty little pickup, fully loaded, cherry red. Shirl called his truck a car just to get his goat. (Tashmo knew this, and resisted, and yet it got his goat.) When she was pissed, she called the truck a toy. When she was really pissed, as she might be now—sitting in the kitchen, it was hard to tell—she called the truck a goddamn stupid toy.