Men over sixty were Berthaās weakness, especially if they wore an Italian suit. Leon was lucky to be walking into his office, coffee in hand, just as Alexander Ward began chatting up his secretary. SOS. Defcon One. Red alert. May day. (Were these military type words flashing across Leonās brain because Alexander worked for the CIA, or was it just coincidence? No one would ever know.)
āThe boss is here now,ā said Leon, breezing into the room. He held out one hand, in which Bertha immediately placed his mail. He gestured with the sheaf of memos at his door. āTo what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Alex? Come on in. I think the potatoes in my drawer have fermented into something drinkableāair conditioningās been acting up all week in this part of the building.ā
The accent usually did the trick on its own, though it helped that heād aged quite well, and it also never failed to amuse him of people commenting how he didnāt need to worry about hitting sixty. The truth was that he already was, though the man whose identity that heād stolen long ago had not. Alexi had hoped to catch the senator, though it seemed that perhaps heād missed him. Heād been about to thank Bertha for her kindness when Leon came strolling in.
Half-grin, half-puzzled expression settled on his face. āWell, evidently Iām here to quarantine your office since itās become a bio-hazard. Are the potatoes in your drawer some kind of Florida tradition?ā He proceeded into the manās office, which was indeed hot, though heās dealt with far worse. He remembered first coming to Alabama and how he thought heād die from the heat. Even now, itās easier for him to endure freezing temperatures than hot ones. āI came to congratulate you on the success of your bill,ā he said, shifting to an earnest smile. āHeard it was a real close one.ā The Vice President giving the deciding vote in the affirmative. Doesnāt get more suspenseful than that.
