One Safe Place (29 page)

I don't hunt him down when he is busy. I give him all the space he wants, yet there are a few times I want his attention right then and there, and I should get it, since it's not often I demand.

What I wanted to share with him was to his benefit.

“Driver, take me to 1401 Pennsylvania, the Willard Hotel, and to the back entrance. Let my security detail know.”

I look out of the windows of the limo and see structures of architectural and design beauty, but this town is ugly and racist. Lawmakers, with their lobbyists thriving on the cow shit from a hundred cows, all lodged on the senate floor.

After I gave my speech this evening and shook hands with people, many of whom don't wash their hands, the first place I wanted to go was to the VIP bathroom. Often for a high-profile person where there could be a security issue, they would go to a private bathroom and a back staging room. I was in the bathroom and the wife of a philandering former senator of a redneck state came into the VIP bathroom—and not to use the bathroom.

“Why, Gabrielle.” She spoke to me as if she knew me, and she didn't. One should not call me by my first name, and in Washington D.C., and most other places, I'm afforded my title whether it's former or present. I let it slide. “My dear, your speech was terrific, although bordering on the liberal side of things, but you were lovely and, my-oh-my, you're absolutely gorgeous.

“As tall as you are, you could have been a good player on one of our state college sports teams. And your heels—everybody speaks of your heels. I must say they are nice, if not rather large, but then again you people have such great bones. Why, of course, gorgeous. That dress is just wonderful. You are well-trained in what to wear and what not. Your skin is so perfectly brown. When I was a young girl, our maid had skin like you, but your hair is straighter, and prettier.

“My husband thinks your face is so pretty I almost get jealous, but he thinks you should run for office, maybe a Senate seat.”

The war paint on her face didn't hide the evil in her mind, and the bile that spewed from her mouth.

“Well, that's lovely of him to say, but I have too much of an independent mind to follow blindly with straight party lines. I would vote for laws to move the country forward, and not ass backward to the days when you had a maid with hair you didn't think was as pretty.

“I know so many people like you want a pretty black face, but with a closed white mind. I will run, all right. I will run as far away from people like you, and your young intern-chasing, drunkard husband.” Her war paint about chipped off. “As if you didn't know? You knew, but the nice house on the old plantation and the purebred dogs that you don't train just to take pictures with make you happy. You look the other way while your husband pressures young interns to screw him like Thomas Jefferson screwed his slave girl because she had no options, either.

“A lot of meetings in the White House had nothing to do with public policy; it was about men like your husband, and who they were screwing, and whether it could come back on the administration. By the way, I assume you don't sleep with the old dirt bag of a husband because I'm sure he would need plenty of pills to get it up when he looks at you. I would guess he didn't have any problem getting it up to screw those young intern…boys. You have to give it to him though, he had a perfect voting record against any and all gay rights.

“Now, if you don't mind, the smell of the gas you just passed from your bubbling stomach is tearing you a new asshole. You and your husband are exposed like dead meat in the desert, and vultures are picking at boney-ass meat.”

Backroom deals can be sinister, and backroom conversations can bite with a deadly scorpion sting.

I'm in a bad mood. I need another drink, but I'll get another once I'm inside. I'm gonna need it, when I give the okay on what I should have done a long time ago. It will give me the peace of mind; it will rid me of this distraction.

Before I go inside this lounge, let me call Psalms again…and damn, he's not answering again. It's Evita, it has to be, she…fuck it!

I'm trying to talk to Psalms about…his birth mother wants to meet with him. It is one of the saddest pieces of history and he has refused to deal with the pain. With his mother, the rich meet the almost poor—well, with his mother and their family's money, being rich makes anyone poor. With his mother, white met black and created the most unique man I know. With his mother, shame meets hurt, and their story will never end.

Shortly after Psalms and I became a couple, if that's the right label, he let me know he had little knowledge of his birth mother. His grandfather shared almost everything known to man except the knowledge of his birth mother and father. Psalms had some basic information on his father, a rebellious child and man, and the devil is in the details of his father. He hardly knew much about his mother.

It turns out she's about as famous in history as any one woman can be. She would be well-known in certain circles of life, despite what became one of the most newsworthy situations in history.

As Psalms and I became more than just lovers, and he became my confidant, I realized that his mysterious past troubled him. Throughout his career, he felt commanders and superiors whisper knowledge about him. To be confirmed in to a high-security position, a complete background on every person is done through research and even spying in to a person's past with unlimited resources. When it comes to clandestine service officers such as Navy SEALs, Secret Service agents, FBI, and CIA operatives, it is imperative that the government know everything about them, even down to where their tiniest birthmarks and pimples, are located. They need to know what they last ate, even if it requires a stool examination. Who your parents are, and where they are—and they will find out, trust me.

Routine assessments are the order of the day and week and month. No one can do anything that is dubious or potentially compromising to national security. Even lie detector tests could be a routine part of personal inquests of truth. Too funny though, that Psalms passed his lie detector test, even when asked whether he had any lovers or love interests while he and I were sleeping in beds around the world. I used to joke that he didn't really love me. I know he does…I have to believe.

In my capacity as the Secretary of State, I had access to confidential files. I had, and still have, connections make the right call to get information if not accessible in a confidential file. I put information in Psalms' hands. When he received the information, what happened was good and bad, but mostly sad.

The story of Psalms father, DaDa Q Black, was that of a bad guy turned to an armed robber to domestic terrorist. He went from an angry black kid to a bank robber, kidnapper, and killer and he ultimately died from a brutal shootout with the police.

Psalms' mother, Picia Darling, is a magazine millionaire heiress, a socialite, and an alleged kidnap victim of DaDa Q Black. She finished her part in a crime wave as a convicted bank robber. Many believe she faked having Stockholm Syndrome, an emotional experience in which captives show positive feelings toward their captors, sometimes joining forces with them to do crime as in Picia Darling's case.

It was one of media history's biggest news frenzies. The case is often studied to this day. The rich little white girl and the black thug domestic terrorist were lovers long before any of the kidnapping and bank robbing with the urban guerillas called the Black Star Emancipation Army.

Picia Darling and DaDa Q Black were teenage lovers. The billionaire
Darling family of old American money owned several estates, a famous one in southern California and another smaller, but still large, estate on Orcas Island.

Psalms' grandfather, the landscape engineer, worked on the estate spending the weekends with his wife, and his son, DaDa Q. DaDa Q and Picia played as children all over the grounds, but as kids do, they come of age. DaDa Q at the age of sixteen and Picia at fourteen made the backwoods into a young lovers' bed.

A scared young girl, she had missed three periods before she told her mother and father she was pregnant. All the money they had made no difference: it was too late for an illegal abortion. Money did make a difference in persuading Psalms' grandfather and grandmother to raise the baby. They signed an agreement promising to hide the truth, and Psalms' grandfather made it clear to his grandson a man must keep his promises: it's biblical.

DaDa Q ran away from home, angry, because he and Picia were not allowed to see each other. Years later Picia, ran away with him—or he kidnapped her. It appears she joined in willingly and joined the criminal activities. DaDa Q died in a police shootout, and she was captured. Picia served a short sentence only because the courts believed she was a sweet, little white girl that the big, bad black man made do terrible things. That's what the history books tell us.

Her family's money and political clout, and cluelessness had misled the public, and unlocked her jail cell. America loves little lost white girls and a president granted her a complete pardon a decade later.

Fast forward to decades later. I secured the truth of his hidden past, and arranged a meeting for Psalms to meet his mother. We thought she was anticipating meeting her half-black, grown,
successful, noncriminal son. We thought she'd be happy to have a son who was protecting the president of the United States, and other high-profile people like me.

My limo is driving past the meeting place right now. When he'd walked into the office, it was full of lawyers, and there was a contract on the table offering millions upon millions. All he had to do was keep the same agreement his grandfather had made. Keep hush-hush; tell no one, and there was a green dollar heaven that was the culmination of the reunion.

Rich and poor. Psalms became both.

I sent her a long letter while I was the Secretary of State, with ways to contact me if she ever needed to. I had the letter stamped from the president of the United States, so I know she got it. This past week, Picia Darling contacted me. I'm hoping Psalms' pride will lead him to meet with his mother. She's married, and he has a brother and sisters in their mid-twenties.

Psalms' grandfather showed to be a man of morality. In his will, he set Psalms up to receive another inheritance upon his retirement. Psalms retired from the Secret Service after he received millions from the Darling family to continue keeping the family secret. Then his grandfather's inheritance kicked in. Unknown to Psalms, all his life he had millions in holding from when his grandparents received a payoff at his birth. They never spent a dime; they made sure he was to be taken care of after he had worked hard in life and was ready to rest. Psalms works just as hard now as always, doing for others. It's just who he is as a man. Now, if I can only make this other problem disappear.

“Driver, take me to the back entrance of the Willard Hotel. I have your number. I will text when I'm ready to leave. Alert my security.”

I have certain access to people who are loyal to me. If I have a problem, I can have it handled. I've got a problem that Psalms won't handle, so I've made up my mind, enough is enough.

• • •

I love this bar. It's private enough. People know to mind their business, or they could find trouble and regret. I spent many evenings here talking shop, making deals. Before Psalms, before I was the Secretary of State, I had a man-friend; an older man who went from playing in the NBA, to the Hall of Fame, and to front office management. We met here often before going upstairs to a room.

Unfortunately for him, I had my connections do surveillance on him. I didn't mind sharing him with his wife, but sharing him with the other women, that was a bit too much for me.

I'm sitting and waiting for my connection. The bartender makes the best My Fair Lady martini. 1 part gin, 1 part lemon juice, 1 part orange juice, 1 part strawberry syrup, 1 dash of egg white, shake with ice and strain into a cocktail glass.

• • •

“Madam Secretary, may I have a seat?”

“EL'vis. Please have a seat. As I remember you don't drink; that's orange juice in front of you.”

“Thank you, Madam Secretary.”

“Now that you're out of the Treasury, are you getting enough work to keep you busy, and fed?”

“I'm doing well, but honored to serve you.”

“Thank you, EL'vis.”

“May I ask how my former commander is doing? Captain Psalms?”

“He is well.” I'm looking into eyes that are cold, but not deceiving. He's all about doing his assignment, no questions asked. He wants to be Psalms. He wants my admiration. Psalms knows I have EL'vis do certain kinds of work.

Psalms is my man, not a spy or doer of deeds for me that could come back on either of us. I need to know things sometimes. I need to know who is doing what sometimes. I need people to do what I need them to do.

“EL'vis, I need this to happen. I need to rid myself of the problem as I expressed to you the other day. You'll find your compensation deposited in the off-shore account I set up from the last time.”

I'm careful of what I say if it's not meant to be heard by anyone else other than the person I am speaking to. I have a piece of equipment on in the form of a bracelet that scrambles any electronic listening device. Otherwise, people in my situation would be forever tricked and trapped. I trust EL'vis, but one never knows who else might be trying to eavesdrop.

“Madam Secretary, with all due respect, I must ask: Are you sure?”

I nod my head.

“I'll handle it as you requested,” EL'vis says, and leaves my table taking his cold eyes with him. My decision makes me cold, but my life, and some others, will be better in the long run.

I text my driver to have the car in front in twenty minutes; I want to have one more martini. I'll have a light one. I'm feeling that I've almost had enough; I'll sleep well tonight.