But Hayley won’t be dissuaded. “Why did James Odom take that computer, sir? I saw it under his arm with my own eyes. Is the Central Intelligence Agency that hard up with their budget that a deputy director needs to steal computer equipment?”
The journalist has heard enough, gesturing with his index finger as if to a panhandler. Hayley’s persistence grates on his nerves, her intensity an affront to his taste for frivolity and informed wit. He is determined to humiliate her in front of Asher, for whose welfare Homer is now concerned.
“What’s the point?” he asks Hayley sharply. “Do you even know why the CIA’s deputy director of Intelligence Integration would be involved in a plot to kill the White House chief of staff and, if I’m understanding you correctly, the president of the United States? Before you start lobbing accusations, you’d best understand the motivations.”
Hayley reacts with some surprise, startled by such a simplistic and obvious question. “James Odom and others in the government don’t agree with the president’s policies and agenda. They think he’s selling out the country to the Russians.”
Homer makes a face like he just drank spoiled milk, with a denigrating chuckle as chaser. “How little you understand Washington massively undercuts your credibility, darling.”
Hayley is genuinely insulted, but not completely certain that the journalist is wrong in his assessment of her. “Sir?”
Homer leans closer across the table, toward Asher and Hayley, speaking in an undertone. “Let’s say you’re one hundred percent correct. James Odom and all of his Deep State brethren are in a conspiracy to take down the Monroe administration, even if that means assassinating the president himself. All horrifically true. Why would they do such a thing? Over contrary policies and agenda? That’s a hoot! Power, my dear, is the currency in this town, not policy. Our heroic warrior/president has been undercutting the intelligence community with quiet, relentless consistency. At this rate, in six more years of a Monroe presidency, the CIA, NSA, House and Senate intelligence committees will have all the power in this town of a 30-watt lightbulb. If there’s any reason to kill that bombastic buffoon, it’s that. Forget about Russia.”
Hayley is uncharacteristically quiet. Homer’s effort to make her appear ignorant in front of Asher is a success. With some embarrassment, she must concede the journalist’s point. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
Homer continues, falling in love not for the first time with the sound of his own pontificating. “Presidents come and go. The men and women who run federal agencies and departments, they survive in one capacity or another from one administration to the next, clinging to the same position sometimes for decades, accumulating power and influence like casino chips. Threaten to claw back some of that power, and you’ve got a war on your hands.”
But Asher is confused by the journalist’s frank assessment of the infamous Deep State. “And so, judging by what you’ve said, maybe these people really are gunning for Monroe.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Who knows? But who’s to stop them if they are? The Deep State is the US government.” Homer sits back in his seat and takes a self-satisfied sip of his twenty-year-old bourbon. “Why would James Odom take a tablet from a side table in the Oval Office? Haven’t the foggiest. Perhaps we should call him and just ask. I’ve spoken to Jim off the record a few times in the past.”
Hayley reacts with alarm. “You can’t do that, sir. You mustn’t do that!”
Homer raises his arms in mock surrender. “Fine. I won’t call him. But I’ll need much more from you to take a run at this. Just being honest.” He retrieves his wallet, withdraws three twenties, and throws them on the table. Addressing Asher directly, “Stay in touch, my boy. You have an excellent mind and enviable prospects. Just don’t be careless with that future.”
He stands up out of his seat at the booth, briefly letting his gaze fall on Hayley. “Pleasure, Ms. Chill.” Without further ceremony, the journalist strides out of the neighborhood restaurant with the gait and bombast of a Roman emperor.
Asher orders more drinks after Homer has left. The journalist’s sixty dollars will easily pay for a second round, especially given Hayley’s tonic and lime. She processes all of what Homer has said and attempts to formulate their next move. For his part, Asher is a bit weary of the business. He hopes Homer doesn’t contact his father. Life is good at 3303 Water Street. If the money spigot is turned off, God knows what Asher would do. Get a real job? “Are you still close to your family?” he asks Hayley, hoping to take her mind off plots and assassinations. “What about your mom?”
A distracted Hayley takes a drink of her tonic and lime, eyes on Asher’s straight Patrón Reposado over ice. Up until her enlistment, she had been an enthusiastic and joyful drinker. You don’t get elected prom queen by being abstinent, at least not in Lincoln County, West Virginia. Hayley reflects on those days that seem like a different lifetime ago. “My mother died while I was stationed at Fort Hood. Base commander let me attend the funeral on a three-day bereavement leave. It was the first and last time I returned home since joining up. I felt no connection there anymore. Had no idea what to say to old friends, my brothers and sisters. It was all very awkward. Most of my friends never escaped.”
“God, I can’t even imagine. My childhood and family life was embarrassingly normal and happy.”
“You were never rejected … ?” Hayley awkwardly fails to finish the question.
“Because I’m gay? God, no! You want rejection in Greenwich, Connecticut? Bring a quarter pounder with cheese to a picnic with your friends.”
“That’s Thanksgiving dinner where I come from,” Hayley remarks dryly. A void has yawned open within her. Her past and its misery-infused incidents suddenly loom large, rising up from the darker recesses in her consciousness where she had relegated them. What she had said was no joke. When Hayley was ten years old, her mother did serve them McDonald’s for Thanksgiving dinner.
Oblivious to the shift in Hayley’s mood, Asher continues with his cheerful recitation. “Gay or not, I’ve always been the good son, keeping it between the white lines. A regular gay Eagle Scout. I still send my mother a Valentine’s Day card every year! Embarrassing, I know, but I love my mom and dad.”
“No shame in having good parents, Asher. You’re lucky,” she tells him with flat expression. She abruptly drains her glass, signaling a desire to leave.
“What’s wrong?” Asher asks. Hayley walks off without answering.
Asher catches up with her on the sidewalk out front. “Wait. I’m confused. Did I say something to offend you?”
Hayley burns with a renewed fire to act. Her frustration is obvious. “Your journalist friend wasn’t much help,” she tells Asher accusingly.
“I’m sorry. What did you expect, a story above the fold in the Washington Post? Who’s going to play you in the movie, Hayley? Amy Adams?”
“Fuck you, Asher.”
He is understandably perplexed by Hayley’s attitude. “What did I do but try to help?!”
“Help better.” She starts to turn away but then stops to face Asher again. “Must be nice. Loving parents? Nice. Multimillion-dollar condo on the Potomac? Super! Sexy job in the White House. Why not? Hell, you’re even gay with privilege and entitlement. Thing is, rich people don’t even know how to be angry. They just get pissy.”