Chapter 64

Chapter 64—Allison and Bob meet face to face—pleasantries exchanged

12:02 p.m., Friday, December 30

The group emerged from the building just as Bob’s limo pulled up. Bob did not get out of the car to greet his wife. Instead, Roger opened the door across from where her husband was sitting, and offered his arm to Allison as she slid in. Bob then leaned over and said, “Rog, how are you?”
“Fine, Mr. President. … Anything I need to know before I join your boy and girl?”
“No, they’re expecting you.”
“Thanks, Mr. President,” Roger said, as he closed the limo door, and walked back to join the agents in the trailing SUV.
There was no real animosity between Roger and the former President’s detail. Actually, they all knew each other and were friendly, when not on duty. But when on the job, all good agents become highly territorial, with that “territory” being the geography under the feet of the one they have been assigned to protect. So, as Roger opened the rear door of the trailing SUV, the agents seated in the front seats did not turn around to acknowledge him. Instead, Sammy, the driver, started humming an old RL Burnside blues song. Sammy and Roger had a history. They both worked on the White House detail when Bob was President. They got along fine, then. They were okay now, it was just that Sammy was not pleased to have Roger tagging along. The reason for the Burnside blues song was that Roger had come to be called RL during his years in the White House. Roger’s middle name was Lawrence, and he liked the blues. Roger got in and sat down.
“Got your seat belt on, RL?”
“All set here.”
“Wouldn’t want to see you get hurt. The President’s driver thinks he’s a cabby.”
“Hell,” the female agent added, “he thinks he’s Jimmy Johnson.”
Roger did not respond to either comment.
The limo sat at the curb for only a few seconds when the driver lowered the passenger side window and summoned the doorman over to talk to him. Sammy and Roger both chuckled as they could see that the doorman was feverishly nodding his head in agreement. It was obvious that he was getting his ass chewed out by Bob’s driver.
The doorman then turned toward oncoming traffic, and started blowing his whistle. The idea was to signal traffic to stop, clearing a path for the two vehicles. But Bob’s driver did not wait for the doorman’s signal. He just hit the accelerator and shot out into traffic, as though he were aiming at the doorman’s left knee cap. The terrified doorman jumped out of the way at the last split second.
“Look at that bastard!” Sammy exclaimed, laughing loudly. “He thinks he is pulling out of the pits at Talladega. He damn near ran his crew chief down.”
The rear of the limo dropped as it accelerated. Heavy dark smoke shot out from dual chrome exhaust pipes. Sammy floored the accelerator, causing Roger’s head jerked back and forth like a bobblehead doll.
“That’s novel,” Roger observed. “No lead car.”
“Oh, there’s a lead car, alright. We’re following it. … Sometimes we lead, but only when we know where we’re goin’. … Like some formal function.”
“Not one of those times, I suppose.”
“No, not one of those times. Only the President knows where we’re headed, and he might not have made up his mind yet. … He might just drive around and talk. Depends on how heavy the traffic is. … Wouldn’t surprise me if he hit the Lincoln, and headed down the turnpike. That’s probably what he will do.”
Both cars flashed alternating four-ways, as they repeatedly sped up, and stopped, doing the best job possible to get through traffic. Sammy kept his left foot on the brake all the time, with his right on the accelerator.
“If we hang a left in the vicinity of 59th, we’re goin’ to Brooklyn,” Sammy said. “My money is still on the Lincoln. … Turnpike traffic is usually not so bad this time of day.
“Hell, I’ve seen him cut through Central Park, when he thought it’d be quicker. And I mean cut through. I’ve followed him over the curb and through the Park. Cops don’t bother with him. As long as he doesn’t hit one of their mounted.”
By “mounted,” Sammy was referring to members of the NYPD Mounted Unit who patrolled Central Park on horseback.
“Where’d the President get this guy?” Roger asked.
“You remember his father. Everyone called him by his last name—Jones. He was the President’s driver back in the White House days.”
“From Louisiana, right?” Roger asked.
“Exactly. He was a Louisiana State Trooper. Well, so was his son. The President brought him up to drive for him earlier this year, when the old man had a heart attack. The President calls him Jones Junior.”
“Holy hell, did I see that right?” Roger asked, in amazement.
Sammy had no time to respond, as he flew over the curb and down a sidewalk, doing his best to stick to the rear bumper of the limo. The two vehicles passed a horse-drawn carriage, and pulled back into traffic.
“The kid wears a baseball cap, with a number ‘8’ on it. That should tell you all you need to know about Jones Junior,” Sammy said, after he imitated the curb maneuver.
“There, I was right. We’re headed to Jersey,” Sammy concluded, as the mini-motorcade crossed 59th Street, continuing to head south down Fifth Avenue.
Inside the limo there was far more silence than usual. After some perfunctory greetings, the former President and his wife did not talk. Instead, Bob busied himself directing Jones Junior through New York traffic.
“Where to, Mr. President?”  Jones Junior asked. Bob pushed the “talk” button, and said to his driver, “stay on Fifth. Then find the best route west when you can, and head to the Lincoln.”
“Yes Sir.”
As the limo crossed 60th Street, Bob looked over at Allison, and said, “this guy, the driver, is the son of Jones, our old driver. Isn’t he somethin’ special?”
“Something special alright. He scares the hell out of me.”
“He was a trooper down in Louisianna, just like his daddy.”
“That figures,” Allison said in a sarcastic tone. She had not liked Jones the senior. She felt that Jones was loyal only to her husband. She suspected that it was he who set up “dates” for her husband, and that it was he who would secretly squirrel her husband out of the White House in the middle of the night to meet women. She could never prove it, nor did she ever really wish to, but she resented the rumors just the same.
After several minutes of silence, Allison finally asked, “where are we going?”
“Oh, if traffic permits, we’re takin’ the Lincoln to the Jersey Turnpike. Then we’ll see. … Maybe I’ll take you to a motel. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Allison did not respond audibly, but she couldn’t block a small smile.
Bob continued, “Maybe we’ll go to the motel where you and James meet up. Shall we do that?”
Bob then hit the “silence” button on car’s intercom, ensuring privacy—then he loosened his collar. His face was visibly growing red, as it always did when he was beginning to lose his temper. Sometimes he just unbuttoned his collar to intimidate—like a male lion exposing his mane.