Things You Should Know(69)

“Margaret,” he says, “she’s left me, gone for good, now it’s just the two of us. Are we on the same team? Are all our soldiers in a line? Are you packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice? Is there enough oil? Are we on the same team? Did I just ask you that?”



When she goes, she’s gone. She passes through her dressing room, freshens her face, sprays her hair, puts a red suit on, and practically runs out to the car.

Whenever she wants to be seen she wears a red suit—she has a dozen of them: Adolfo, Armani, Beene, Blass, Cassini, Dior, Galanos, Saint Laurent, Ungaro. When she goes out with him, when she goes incognito, she wears pastels. No one looks at an old woman in pastel pull-on pants.

“The Hummingbird is in the feeder.” Her agents talk into their lapels.

“Where to?” Jim asks as the gate swings open.

“Let’s go down to Rodeo and window-shop. Maybe we’ll stop at Saks or Barney’s.”

Sometimes she has the men drive her to Malibu to clear her head, sometimes she goes walking down Beverly Boulevard, like a tourist attraction. Sometimes she needs to be recognized, reminded of who she is, reminded that she is not the one evaporating.

“Notify BHPD that we’ll be in their jurisdiction. Anticipate R&W.” They radio ahead. “R&W” stands for the vicinity of Rodeo and Wilshire.

They notify the Los Angeles field office and the local police department just in case. A couple of months ago an old drag queen paraded up and down Rodeo Drive doing a convincing imitation of her, until he asked to use the ladies’ room in the GAP and came out with his skirt tucked into the back of his panty hose, flashing a flat ass and hairy thighs.

They pull into the public lot on Rodeo Drive.

The attendant waves the white car away. “Lot full,” he says.

“It’s okay,” one of the special agents says, putting the OFFICIAL GOVT. BUSINESS placard in the window.

She carries a small purse with almost nothing in it: a lipstick, some old Republican Party pens and tie tacks to pass out as little gifts, and a bottle of liquid hand sanitizer. She is one of the few who, with good reason, regrets gloves having gone out of style—too many clammy hands in the world.

A couple comes up to her on the sidewalk. “We’re here from Terre Haute,” the husband says, snapping a picture of his wife with her.

“We’re such big fans,” the woman says. “How is the President feeling?”

“He’s very strong,” she says.

“We voted for you, twice,” the husband says, holding up two fingers like a peace sign.

“We miss you,” someone calls out.

“God bless,” she says.

“I’ve been hoping you’d come in,” Mr. Holmes in the shoe department of Saks confides. He is her regular salesman. “I’m holding some Ferragamos for you—they’re on sale.” He whispers as though protecting her privacy.

“There’s nothing nicer than new shoes,” she says, sliding into the pumps. She looks at her legs in the half mirror. “At least my ankles are still good,” she says.

“You are very thin,” Mr. Holmes says, shaking his head.

For years she was a six, and then a four, and now she’s a two. After a lifetime of dieting she is just four sticks and a brain, her thin hair teased high, like spun caramel sugar, hard.

“The shoes are down to one-sixty but with my discount I can get them for you at one-thirty-five.”

“You’ve always been good to me.”

He knows enough to have them sent. He knows to put it on account, not to bring her the bag or the paperwork. She doesn’t sign bills of sale or carry bags, and the agents need to keep their hands free.



In Barney’s, she stops at the makeup counter.

“Is that really you?” the salesgirl asks.

“Yes.” She glances into the magnifying mirror. Blown-up, she looks scary, preserved like something dipped in formaldehyde. “I need something for my skin,” she tells the girl.

“I’ve got just the thing for you,” the girl pulls out a cotton ball. “May I?”

She nods. “You may.”

“It goes on light.” The girl dabs her face with the moisturizer. “But is has enough body to fill in any uneven spots. Your skin is lovely, you must have a good regimen.”

“Smoke and mirrors,” she says. “Hollywood magic.”

The agents look away, their eyes, ever vigilant, scan the room. In Los Angeles, the agents dress down. They dress like golf pros—knitted short-sleeved shirts, sweaters, and permanent-press pants. They keep their guns in fanny packs under their sweaters. Their ear buds are clear plastic, like hearing aids.