Presidential Deal by Les Standiford Page A

question.
    “I don’t have the first regret about doing what I did,” Wells said. “I just don’t feel like any hero, you know what I’m talking about?”
    “I know,” Deal said. “I know.”
    Wells managed a smile. He raised his hand in a fist, sent it forward in a slow tomahawking motion, tapped Deal lightly on the chest. “Didn’t mean to go on like that,” he said.
    “It’s all right,” Deal said. “I’m glad you told me.”
    “I’m gonna get me another Coke,” Wells said. He gave Deal a glance. “Probably be busting a kidney before this thing’s over. You want something?” He pointed to the nearby table.
    “You find a Red Stripe in there, you can bring me one,” Deal said.
    “That’s a beer, right?”
    “The best,” Deal said.
    Wells laughed. “Yeah? Well, then, I’ll bring us both one,” he said, and moved away toward the table.
    Deal watched him go, thinking that his expectations for this event had already been exceeded.
Just goes to show you
, he thought.
You can’t get too cranky, can’t turn yourself into a recluse. You just never know where or when you might meet a kindred spirit, somebody who just might have the same, nearly inexpressible feelings you carry around day in and day out
. He turned to toss his own soda can into a trash receptacle, wondering if Wells were married, if he had trouble at home as well…when he heard a woman’s voice at his shoulder.
    “Mr. Deal?”
    He turned to find the dark-haired woman in the cocktail dress standing before him.
    “I’m Valerie Meyers,” she said, eyeing him carefully. “
Are
you John Deal? The pictures they sent out in the packets weren’t very good, you know.”
    Deal caught the subtle scent of some perfume that even he knew had to be expensive, some mixture of exotic flowers that grew only in France and Nepal and then got ground up into a powder along with hundred-dollar bills. Her skin was pale and flawless, her hair even darker up this close. He had to will his gaze away from the plane of her chest.
Act like a human being
, he told himself,
show her there are men of higher purpose in the world
. He ignored the donkey’s bray that sprang up from somewhere to accompany these thoughts.
    “I’m John Deal,” he managed.
Now there’s a suave rejoinder, Deal
. What on earth
had
she done to find her way into this company? Why hadn’t he bothered to read the packet of material the organizers had sent along?
    She reached into a small bag, withdrew a business card. “I’m with Far Horizons, in Los Angeles,” she said, holding out the card to him. He took it speechlessly, turned the card over a couple of times in his fingers.
    “We make films, feature films,” she continued. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
    Deal felt himself shaking his head dumbly. “You’re a movie producer?”
    She smiled in response. “I work with Carson Parks.”
    Deal shook his head again.
    “He made
The Last Brotherhood, Three Friends, Shiver Rules
.”
    When Deal didn’t respond, she paused to give him a closer look. “Is there something wrong?”
    “A producer,” Deal said. He was feeling a bit giddy all of a sudden. He turned to the buffet table, but Wells was nowhere in sight. “Sonofabitch.”
    “Excuse me?” she said. She was still wearing her Isis-like smile, but now he saw some shadow behind this appearance, something he might never have spotted from across the room. Dark red lipstick, flipped-under hairstyle something like the pageboys from his distant past; he realized she reminded him of the gangster’s moll John Travolta danced with in that movie about good-hearted killers. A guy could spend the rest of his life trying, Deal thought, no thing he could do which would ever get a rise out of this woman.
    “Nothing,” Deal said. “There was a guy here wanted to meet you, that’s all.”
    “Well,” she said. “Carson and I have been talking. He’s very interested in your story…”
    “You came all the way to Miami