Men over sixty were Bertha’s 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 Leon’s brain because Alexander worked for the CIA, or was it just coincidence? No one would ever know.)
“The boss is here now,” 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. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Alex? Come on in. I think the potatoes in my drawer have fermented into something drinkable—air conditioning’s been acting up all week in this part of the building.”
The accent usually did the trick on its own, though it helped that he’d aged quite well, and it also never failed to amuse him of people commenting how he didn’t need to worry about hitting sixty. The truth was that he already was, though the man whose identity that he’d stolen long ago had not. Alexi had hoped to catch the senator, though it seemed that perhaps he’d missed him. He’d been about to thank Bertha for her kindness when Leon came strolling in.
Half-grin, half-puzzled expression settled on his face. “Well, evidently I’m here to quarantine your office since it’s become a bio-hazard. Are the potatoes in your drawer some kind of Florida tradition?” He proceeded into the man’s office, which was indeed hot, though he’s dealt with far worse. He remembered first coming to Alabama and how he thought he’d die from the heat. Even now, it’s easier for him to endure freezing temperatures than hot ones. “I came to congratulate you on the success of your bill,” he said, shifting to an earnest smile. “Heard it was a real close one.” The Vice President giving the deciding vote in the affirmative. Doesn’t get more suspenseful than that.
