"I don't know, Senator," says John McCain's assistant. "There's no return address. Just a Phoenix postmark." "The bastard." "J.D.?" "Who else?" McCain holds up one of the black flip-flops. "Not even my size." He flips the rubber sandal back into the box, tosses it to his assistant. "Get Shiree in here." Fifteen minutes later, McCain, his composure reclaimed, leans back, hands clasped behind his head.