Hillwood
4155 Linnean Avenue
Washington, D.C.
0746 EDT, the next morning
Shirlee hadn't minded comin' to work half an hour early, not at all. Wasn't ever'body, 'ticularly ever'body in her 'hood, was gonna see the president up close 'n' personal.
For the tenth time in as many minutes, she looked out the windows beside the front door, searching the driveway for that procession of long black cars she'd always seen on TV. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she smoothed her uniform, making sure no wrinkles marred its appearance. Shouldn't be none. She done took it home and washed and ironed it herse'f. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she walked back into the kitchen, making sure the big coffee urn was turned on and the doughnuts and other breakfast pastries were in neat rows on the trays that Mr. Jimson used for special events. This time, though, granola bars, high-fiber cereal, and fresh fruit occupied equal space on those things Mr. Jimson used to call salvers.
Why he'd call a silver tray spit was beyond Shirlee.
Mr. Jimson… Wouldn't he proud, he be 'live? Havin' the president hisse'f come to Hillwood?
The thought was interrupted by two men in dark suits entering the kitchen. Both in their mid-thirties, both with athletic builds. Both with small tubes in their ears and murmuring into the little mikes pinned to their lapels. "Bout the fifth time one of 'em had come through here, lookin' into the oven and microwave like they thought mebbe Shirlee done put a bomb in there.
Them mens were 'bout the politest Shirlee ever seen. Always a smile that look like it be stuck on with glue, always, "Yes, Ms. Atkins, No, Ms. Atkins," when she axed questions. But they be so serious, they scary. But nowhere near as scary as them other fellas, the Russians, the ones that wore what looked like pajamas belted at the waist stuffed into knee boots. They really scary, lookin' around with angry expressions like they done eat a mess o' collards somebody done put too much pepper sauce on. They didn' much care 'bout the house like the mens in suits. 'Stead, they kept lookin' at them whitish-colored rocks and scrawny little bushes right outside the French doors in the dinin' room, doors Shirlee been tolt to open so the room wouldn't get all stuffy during the meetin'. What them Russians think, like mebbe them stones an' plants gonna disappear somehow? An' they didn' care much for women, either, least not Shirlee and Cornicha, the other custodian work there. Ever' time either Shirlee or Cornicha speak to 'em, even a "good mornin'" or somethin', them mens just glare like they angry.
The sound of sirens made her forget the two types of men. She rushed to the front door. Must be the president come a little early.