The Book of Fate Read Free

Mr. Calinoff, who was loving every split second in his folded-down, completely uncomfortable hot seat.
    “Those are real, y’know,” the President told him. “Don’t put ’em on eBay.”
    It was the same joke he used every time he gave a set away. We all still laughed. Even Boyle, who started scratching at his chest. There’s no better place to be than in on an inside joke with the President of the United States. And on July 4th in Daytona, Florida, when you’d flown in to yell, “
Gentlemen, start your engines!
” at the legendary Pepsi 400 NASCAR race, there was no better backseat in the world.
    Before Calinoff could offer a thank-you, the limo came to a stop. A red lightning bolt flashed by us on the left—two police motorcycles with their sirens blaring. They were leapfrogging from the back of the motorcade to the front. Just like a funeral procession.
    “Don’t tell me they closed down the road,” the First Lady said. She hated it when they shut traffic for the motorcade. Those were the votes we’d never get back.
    The car slowly chugged a few feet forward. “Sir, we’re about to enter the track,” the detail leader announced from the passenger seat. Outside, the concrete openness of the airport runway quickly gave way to rows and rows of high-end motor coaches.
    “Wait . . . we’re going out on the track?” Calinoff asked, suddenly excited. He shifted in his seat, trying to get a look outside.
    The President grinned. “Did you think we’d just get a couple seats in front?”
    The wheels bounced over a clanging metal plate that sounded like a loose manhole cover. Boyle scratched even more at his chest. A baritone rumble filled the air.
    “That thunder?” Boyle asked, glancing up at the clear blue sky.
    “No, not thunder,” the President replied, putting his own fingertips against the bulletproof window as the stadium crowd of 200,000 surged to its feet with banners, flags, and arms waving. “Applause.”
    “
Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!
” the announcer bellowed through the P.A. system.
    A sharp right-hand turn tugged us all sideways as the limo turned onto the racetrack, the biggest, most perfectly paved highway I’d ever seen in my life.
    “Nice roads you got here,” the President said to Calinoff, leaning back in the plush leather seat that was tailor-made to his body.
    All that was left was the big entrance. If we didn’t nail that, the 200,000 ticket holders in the stadium, plus the ten million viewers watching from home, plus the seventy-five million fans who’re committed to NASCAR, would all go tell their friends and neighbors and cousins and strangers in the supermarket that we went up for our baptism and sneezed in the holy water.
    But that’s why we brought the motorcade. We didn’t
need
eighteen cars. The runway in the Daytona Airport was actually adjacent to the racetrack. There were no red lights to run. No traffic to hold back. But to everyone watching . . . Have you ever seen the President’s motorcade on a racetrack? Instant American frenzy.
    I didn’t care how close we were in the polls. One lap around and we’d be picking out our seats for the inauguration.
    Across from me, Boyle wasn’t nearly as thrilled. With his arms crossed against his chest, he never stopped studying the President.
    “Got the stars out too, eh?” Calinoff asked as we entered the final turn and he saw our welcoming committee, a small mob of NASCAR drivers all decked out in their multicolor, advertising-emblazoned jumpsuits. What his untrained eye didn’t notice were the dozen or so “crew members” who were standing a bit more erect than the rest. Some had backpacks. Some carried leather satchels. All had sunglasses. And one was speaking into his own wrist. Secret Service.
    Like any other first-timer in the limo, Calinoff was practically licking the glass. “Mr. Calinoff, you’ll be getting out first,” I told him as we pulled into the pit stalls.