“You gotta go over there, Prez,” he says to me.

“That’s absolutely not what you want to do, Bill.” Jay says. “Her house isn’t secure like this one. You could be photographed. Listen, get her to come over here.”

“Naw, just go ring her doorbell,” Bobby says. “Be all like, ‘I’m Bill, from next door!’”

“But what will I say to her, guys?”

“What are you talking about, Prez? Like you ever got nothing to say to a beautiful woman?”

“He’s right, Bill. You’re pretty good on your feet.”

“Yeah, I am, aren’t I?” I don’t need much more convincing. “Bobby, see where she’s at.”

Bobby puts his wrist to his mouth and speaks into the microphone in his sleeve. “Can we get a location on Grace Kelly?” There’s a pause. Someone’s talking into his earpiece. I’m getting excited.

Bobby lowers his arm. “You’re in luck, Prez. She’s out back.”

This is why I keep these guys close. Jay goes inside and comes out with a tennis ball. I scarf down the last couple bites of my sandwich. Bobby makes sure there’s none in my teeth. Then he takes the ball and throws it in a high arc over the hedges, into the woman’s back yard. It’s a great throw. We all hesitate for a couple seconds, but the first move’s been made, so there’s no backing out now. “You’re up, Mr. President,” Jay says.

I slip out of my loafers and into a pair of tennis shoes sitting by the door. I jog over to the tennis court, pick up a racket. The short run gets my breath going, moistens my hairline a little. It’s all part of the game. Then Bobby and I get in one of the Suburbans and drive around the block, out in front of her house. It takes a couple minutes. I don’t bother with the doorbell, just walk around back. She’s out by her pool, but I know this already because of the surveillance. Also know the husband would be at work. Also know there are no kids in the equation. She’s kneeling by a flowerbed in khaki shorts and a pink t-shirt, putzing with the plants. “Excuse me, ma’am, I don’t mean to bother you,” I say.

She turns around and then there’s the look, the surprise, the smile. She quickly brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s prettier up close, this white-blonde shade that some women get before they go gray.

“Mr. President,” she says, then stands up and brushes off her shorts. She reaches her hand out to shake mine and I take it. I hold on for a second. Give it a quick squeeze. This is my favorite part. “Oh, that’s not necessary,” I say. “Call me Bill.”