The First Counsel Read Free Page B

e-mails later, Nora gained her most notorious sobriquet—and her father saw his favorability numbers fall. When the story ran, President Hartson called up the editor of Rolling Stone and asked him to leave his daughter alone. From then on, they did. Hartson’s numbers went back up. All was well. But the joke was already out there. And obviously, from the look on Nora’s face, the damage had already been done.
    “I didn’t mean anything,” I insist, backing away from my unintended insult. “I just meant that your family gets the limo treatment. Motorcades. You know, other people drive you.”
    Suddenly, Nora laughs. She has a sexy, hearty voice, but her laugh is all little girl.
    “What’d I say?”
    “You’re embarrassed,” she answers, amused. “Your whole face is red.”
    I turn away. “I’m sorry . . .”
    “No, it’s okay. That’s really sweet of you. And it’s even sweeter that you blushed. For once, I know it’s real. Thank you, Michael.”
    She said my name. For the first time tonight, she said my name. I turn back to her. “You’re welcome. Now let’s get out of here.”
    Turning around on 14th Street and still searching for the small strip of land known as Adams Morgan, home to Washington’s most overrated bars and best ethnic restaurants, we find ourselves weaving our way back from the direction we came. Surrounded by nothing but deserted buildings and dark streets, I start worrying. No matter how tough she is, the First Daughter of the United States shouldn’t be in a neighborhood like this.
    When we reach the end of the block, though, we see our first indication of civilized life: Around the corner is a small crowd of people coming out of the only storefront in sight. It’s a large brick building that looks like it’s been converted into a two-story bar. In thick black letters, the word “Pendulum” is painted on a filthy white sign. A hip, midnight blue light surrounds the edges of the sign. Not at all my kind of place.
    Nora pulls into a nearby parking spot and turns off the ignition.
    “Here?” I ask. “The place is a rathole.”
    “No, it’s not. People are well dressed.” She points to a man wearing camel-colored slacks and a tight black T-shirt. Before I can protest, she adds, “Let’s go—for once, we’re anonymous.” She pulls a black baseball hat from the shoulder strap of her purse and lowers the brim over her eyes. It’s a terrible disguise, but she says it works. Never been stopped yet.
    We pay ten bucks at the door, step inside, and take a quick look around. The place is packed with the typical D.C. Thursday night crowd—most still in their suits, ties undone; some already in their Calvin Klein V-necks. In the corner, two men are playing pool. By the bar, two men are ordering drinks. Next to them, two men are holding hands. That’s when I realize where we are: Besides Nora, there’s not a woman in this place. We’re standing in the middle of a gay bar.
    Behind me, I feel someone grab my ass. I don’t even bother to turn around. “Oh, Nora, how I wish you were a man.”
    “I’m impressed,” she says, stepping forward. “You don’t even look uncomfortable.”
    “Why should I be uncomfortable?”
    From the gleam in her eye, I can tell she’s setting up another test. She needs to know if I can hang with the cool kids. “So it’s okay if we stay?”
    “Absolutely,” I say with a grin. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
    She stares me down with that sexy look. For the moment, I pass.
    We squeeze up to the bar and order drinks. I get a beer; she gets a Jack and Ginger. Following her lead, we head to the far end of the L-shaped bar, where it runs perpendicular to the wall. In a move that’s been honed by years of being hounded and gawked at, Nora motions me into the last seat and puts her back to the crowd. For her, it’s pure instinct. With her baseball cap covering her hair, there isn’t a chance she’s going to be recognized. The way