“...and that’s why I fired her. Because if she couldn’t understand the importance of trickle-down economics, how could I trust her to groom the cats correctly?”
From underneath the mint green Bentley, Rachel groaned.
“What was that?” the Bentley’s driver demanded. Rachel froze. “Who did you say you were?”
“Chris Hayes, ma’am. With the Weekly World News. So let me ask you about...” Chris’s voice faded as Rachel rolled out from the other side of the car and under the gate.
Ezra was waiting at the back door with an emblazoned polo shirt and a clipboard.
“Why didn’t I get to come in with the caterers?” Rachel asked, tugging the polo on over her T-shirt.
“Are you kidding? I’ve had to spend the night handing champagne to people while they mischaracterize Keynesian theory. It’s torture.”
“Woe is you,” Rachel said. “Any word on our target?”
Ezra nodded towards the back of the house. “In the blue parlor - no really, that’s what they called it. Melissa’s been keeping an eye on him from the security room. He just has to give the countersign to you, and we roll into action. Good luck.”
Rachel switched her glasses out for boring don’t-look-at-me ones and made her way carefully to a quiet corner of the quote-unquote blue parlor, where her quarry was bent over a newspaper, avoiding all eye contact with partygoers. “See anything you like on A-1 in the Times, sir?” she asked quietly.
“More like page 6 in the Post,” he said. He looked over at her. “What? They sent you?”
“Me,” Rachel said firmly. She put her hand on Shepard Smith’s arm. “Come with me if you want your journalistic integrity to live, Shep.”