The President would stand firm, as always, but he sure needed some help. The handsome, gold-embossed, three-page letter ended with a plea for cash, and lots of it. Clay called Patton French, who, oddly enough, happened to be in his office in Biloxi. French was abrupt, as usual. “Write the damned check,” he said.

Phone calls went back and forth between Clay and the Director of the Presidential Review. Later, he couldn’t remember how much he had initially planned to contribute, but it was nothing close to the $250,000 check he eventually wrote. A courier picked it up and delivered it to the White House. Four hours later, another courier delivered to Clay a small envelope from the White House. The note was handwritten on the President’s correspondence card:

Nice, but for a quarter of a million bucks he expected nothing less. The next day another courier delivered a thick invitation from the White House.

was stamped on the outside. Clay and guest were asked to attend an official state dinner honoring the President of Argentina. Black tie, of course. RSVP immediately because the event was only four days away. Amazing what $250,000 would buy in Washington.

Ridley, of course, needed the proper dress, and since Clay was paying for it he went shopping with her. And he did so without complaining because he wanted some input into what she wore. Left unsupervised, she might shock the Argentines and everyone else for that matter with see-through fabrics and slits up to her waist. No sir, Clay wanted to see the outfit before she bought it.

But she was surprisingly modest in both taste and expense. Everything looked good on her; she was, after all, a model, though she seemed to be working less and less. She finally chose a stunning but simple red dress that revealed much less flesh than what she normally showed. At $3,000, it was a bargain. Shoes, a string of small pearls, a gold and diamond bracelet, and Clay escaped with just under $15,000 in damages.

Sitting in the limo outside the White House, waiting as the ones in front of them were searched by a swarm of guards, Ridley said, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Me, a poor girl from Georgia, going to the White House.” She was wrapped around Clay’s right arm. His hand was halfway up a thigh. Her accent was more pronounced, something that happened when she was nervous.

“Hard to believe,” he said, quite excited himself.

When they got out of the limo, under an awning on the East Wing, a Marine in parade dress took Ridley’s arm and began an escort that took them into the East Room of the White House, where the guests were congregating and having a drink. Clay followed along, watching Ridley’s rear, enjoying every second of it. The Marine reluctantly let go, and left to pick up another escort. A photographer took their picture.

They moved to the first cluster of conversation and introduced themselves to people they would never see again. Dinner was announced, and the guests proceeded into the State Dining Room, where fifteen tables of ten were packed together and covered with more china and silver and crystal than had ever been collected in one place. Seating was all prearranged, and no one sat with his or her spouse or guest. Clay escorted Ridley to her table, found her seat, helped her into it, then pecked her on the cheek and said, “Good luck.” She flashed a model’s smile, brilliant and confident, but he knew she was, at that moment, a scared little girl from Georgia. Before he was ten feet away, two men were hovering over her, grasping her hand with the warmest of introductions.

Clay was in for a long night. To his right was a society queen from Manhattan, a shriveled, prune-faced old battle-ax who’d been starving herself for so long she looked like a cadaver. She was deaf and talked at full volume. To his left was the daughter of a Midwestern shopping mall tycoon who’d gone to college with the President. Clay turned his attention to her and labored mightily for five minutes before realizing she had nothing to say.

The clock stopped moving.

His back was to Ridley; he had no idea how she was surviving.

The President spoke, then dinner was served. An opera singer across the table from Clay began to feel his wine and started telling dirty jokes. He was loud and twangy, from somewhere in the mountains, and he was completely uninhibited when it came to using obscenities in mixed company, and in the White House no less.

Three hours after he sat down, Clay stood up and said good-bye to all his wonderful new friends. The dinner was over; a band was tuning up back in the East Room. He grabbed Ridley and they headed for the music.

Shortly before midnight, as the crowd dwindled down to a few dozen, the President and First Lady joined the heartier ones for a dance or two. He seemed genuinely pleased to meet Mr. Clay Carter. “Been reading your press, son, good job,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Who’s the chick?”

“A friend.” What would the feminists do if they knew he used the word chick?

“Can I dance with her?”

“Sure, Mr. President.”

And with that, Ms. Ridal Petashnakol, a twenty-four-year-old former exchange student from Georgia, got squeezed and hugged and otherwise networked by the President of the United States.

27

Delivery on a new Gulfstream 5 would be a minimum of twenty-two months, probably more, but the delay was not the biggest obstacle. The current price tag was $44 million, fully loaded, of course, with all the latest gadgets and toys. It was simply too much money, though Clay was seriously tempted. The broker explained that most new G-5’s were bought by large corporations, billion-dollar outfits who ordered two and three at a time and kept them in the air. The better deal for him, as a sole proprietor, was to lease a slightly older airplane for say, six months, to make sure it was what he wanted. Then he could convert it to a sale, with 90 percent of his rental payments applied to the sales price.

The broker had just the airplane. It was a 1998 model G-4 SP (Special Performance) that a Fortune 500 company had recently traded in for a new G-5. When Clay saw it sitting majestically on the ramp at Reagan National, his heart leaped and his pulse took off. It was snow-white, with a tasteful royal blue striping. Paris in six hours. London in five.

He climbed aboard with the broker. If it was an inch smaller than Patton French’s G-5, Clay could not tell. There was leather, mahogany, and brass trim everywhere. A kitchen, bar, and rest room in the rear; the latest avionics up front for the pilots. One sofa folded out into a bed, and for a fleeting instant he thought about Ridley; the two of them under the covers at forty thousand feet. Elaborate stereo, video, and telephone systems. Fax, PC, Internet access.

The plane looked brand-new, and the salesman explained that it was fresh from the shop where the exterior had been repainted and the interior refurbished. When pressed, he finally said, “It’s yours for thirty million.”

They sat at a small table and began the deal. The idea of a lease slowly went out the window. With Clay’s income, he would have no trouble obtaining a sweet financing package. His mortgage note, only $300,000 a month, would be slightly more than the lease payments. And if at any time he wanted to trade up, then the broker would take it back at the highest market appraisal, and outfit him with whatever he wanted.