American Sextet

by Warren Adler

  "This paper's a machine, Jason," Webster told him blandly. "You got a faulty cog, the whole thing rattles." His arm swept over the city room. "I got a thousand egos to placate. You're just one." Keep cool, Jason warned himself.

  "You're cutting off my cojones, Paul," he told the editor, forcing a pose of contrition. At all costs, he'd decided, he needed this job now. Avoiding Webster's eyes, he looked downward and saw a proof of tomorrow's page one sprawled across Webster's desk. A headline read: "SEC Commissioner Resigns."

  "I had no choice, Jason. It's all I can give you now," Webster said.

  "It used to be different."

  "Things change." Jason's eyes shifted again to the page proof.

  "So I see." He was being deliberately cryptic. At one time he'd practically worshipped Webster.

  "Do you good to go back to straight journalism, Jason," Webster said, winking inexplicably, as if there were a conspiracy between them.

  "The Fairfax County Council. I'm overqualified for that and you know it."

  "The opening is there," Webster snapped, showing his sense of command. "I don't have to justify it." He became absorbed in the page proof, an obvious dismissal.

  "Still playing that on one?" Jason asked.

  "They eat it up," Webster muttered, ignoring the obvious malice. Jason stood rooted before the desk. Webster looked up again. "Just do the job," he said, his tone placating now. Jason knew what was coming. The editor's system was the carrot and the stick. "We'll watch you, kid. Keep it straight for awhile." Webster studied him calmly. "Put the flame on low--it'll do you good." His eyes drifted slowly back to the page proofs.

  "And if I come up with a really big one? I've still got contacts..." There was a note of desperation in his voice now. Leave it alone, he told himself simultaneously, knowing it was Big Jake's voice prodding him.

  "Sure, kid."

  Webster said it like offering a useless trifle. It was an unmistakable dismissal. Hypocrite, Jason had screamed within himself as the offensive headline caught his eye once again. You wait, he jeered silently, I'll come up with something that will blow your mind.

  The taste of bile flooded the back of his throat as he strode out of the city room under Barrows's triumphant gaze. Screw you, he mimed to him as the elevator door closed.

  "I'm unfit for human consumption," he'd told Dorothy later. She had tried everything to dispel the gloom. For brief periods, her lovemaking comforted him, then he sank again into depression and sleeplessness. When she came at him again in the early hours he pushed her away roughly, although he apologized quickly for it.

  "All I want is for you to be happy," she'd said.

  "I know, baby."

  He had wanted to explain what had happened to him, but the thought of everything else it involved was discouraging--his childhood, his failed father, the fear of genetic emulation, the ego-bruising life with Jane, the loss of his son--a litany of outrageous self-pity. His earlier success at the paper had made the pain recede, and he had hoped he could put those thoughts out of his mind forever.

  But things had changed around him. There was no more oxygen for the pure blue flame of indignation that he thrived on. They were getting into trivia, sex as substantive newsworthiness, scandal-mongering. How could he explain to this flower of the slag heap what it all meant?

  "You've been good to me, Jason."

  "That's it? That's the criterion?" He corrected himself, knowing that she wouldn't comprehend. "Am I the missing father?"

  "What?"

  She had told him that she had only known her father briefly, a miner crushed in a cave-in when she was three. Psychological implications were Jane's bag. Raking up those coals wouldn't help here.

  "Never mind."

  "I'll do anything to help." She traced his lips with her fingers. "To get a little smile."

  Miraculously, he'd actually smiled.

  "I'd like to show that bastard," he muttered. Webster, he knew, was at the heart of the problem--he alone was setting the tone of the paper, approving every story down to the last word. "I'll come up with something that'll blow his mind."

  She giggled suddenly, her implication clear.

  "I said his mind."

  He slapped her playfully on a bare buttock, and the idea had come fully formed, screaming into his consciousness. Hadn't it been there all along?

  "Suppose it was important to me. To us..." He paused, watching her calm face, assessing her, sensing the living idea as it sculpted itself in his mind, wondering how deep an explanation would be required.

  Her eyelids flickered, long dark lashes brushing her cheeks, as if in consent.

  "You're my man now," she assured him, patting him possessively.

  "...you know," he stammered, hating the empty words, the flotsam of the inarticulate. "It's a lot to ask."

  She shrugged. Perhaps she already knew what was coming. Her face was placid, unalarmed.

  "Like having relations with other men," he said, averting his eyes, but adding quickly, "Not for money." Too late, he realized his error. She would have understood money.

  Her expression when he turned to watch her again seemed confused. But he didn't find panic there. He felt self-righteous about not saying "make love," certain that those words would profane the thing between them.

  "Would you do that?" he pressed. "For me?"

  He held his breath as she retreated inside herself, her eyes glazed with deep inner thoughts. He did not deny to himself his own shame in making the demand, nor the violation to all his past ethics. But circumstances were forcing him to chart new ground, find new rules, explore a new landscape of morality.

  "It wouldn't turn out like with Jimbo?" she whispered tentatively, revealing her consent. He wondered if it were out of loyalty or survival or even love.

  "Of course not," he said with exaggerated indignation, the plan emerging now clearly shaped.

  "I wouldn't want anything to come between us, Jason," she said firmly, as if to recapture her dignity.

  "Between us?" He kissed her deeply. "Never." He searched his mind for some disarming illustration. "It will be like play-acting. That's all."

  "Acting?" She shook her head. "I don't know, Jason. I'm a bad liar. I always get found out."

  "Acting isn't lying. It's a game. And it could do great things for us. For what I've got in mind." He checked himself, unsure about how far he could explain it. "Trust me, baby. It could be very important."

  "Important?"

  "I mean the men would be important. Powerful."

  "Powerful?"

  He was sure he was only confusing her now. This was not within the parameters of her understanding. Men were men in physical terms only. Old and young, big and small. Gradations of power seemed out of her frame of reference.

  "And you wouldn't get mad or jealous?"

  "Not if you were true to me in your heart."

  In the half-light, her body was as smooth as alabaster, her features soft.

  "You're a beautiful girl, Dot," he said with feeling. Bending over her, he kissed her again. As always, she tasted sweet and he thought of candy.

  "You're the perfect gift," he whispered. "Those lucky guys."

  She seemed so innocent. Virginal. Yet something eluded him. There seemed more to her than her tantalizing physicality. Something deep inside of her, something hidden.

  "I won't hurt you," he said with feeling. "Never."

  She turned toward him and embraced him and he felt his whole being rise to meet her. She would be his vindication.

  Poor Arthur Fellows, he thought with sarcasm, his first victim, lured into the Machiavellian web by simple uncomplicated lust. It couldn't happen to a greedier guy. Jason had known him for ten years, ever since he did his FDA stories, for which the ambitious young lawyer had been the principal source. The publicity had paid off and Arthur had clawed his way up the greasy pole to be named a counselor to the President, one of two gatekeepers. In Washington, that was prime power. Arthur Fellows had made it. As s
uch, he was a perfect potential victim.

  Arthur arrived at the townhouse door, briefcase in hand, as if he were just another hustling government lawyer. From his car, Jason had watched him approach. There was a hawklike look about him, a sense of alert caution. The horny bastard knew the risks. He'd gotten away with it for years. He didn't take many chances. And he trusted Jason. Dumb bastard, Jason thought.

  Jason had discovered Arthur's propensity to womanize ten years ago when he was sleeping with his secretary at FDA. It wasn't an uncommon development for a rising government lawyer who had just graduated to an office with a couch. Sexual harassment as an issue was not yet in vogue. Arthur was married to a very conventional woman, had two achieving children and a house in McLean. They had exchanged family dinners with the Martins in the days when Jason was being helpful. Later, of course, when Arthur's career skyrocketed, the Martins were no longer social equals. It was the Washington way, although Jason retained Arthur as a "contact," calling him periodically to keep in touch.

  Arthur was easy. He had a lascivious streak which he cleverly masked by humor. Even in the old FDA days, he was always suggestive when he and Jason would get together.

  "I'll trade one of mine for one of yours."

  Jason would kid him along. He was, after all, a prime source.

  "Hell, I'd be bringing coal to Newcastle."

  "Even when it's bad, it's good. The important thing is to get it. Hell, what's all this power for anyway but more and more pussy."

  The line, of course, was familiar. Arthur jumped to the bait like a hungry fish.

  "I thought of you immediately," Jason said. He had managed to get Arthur out for a quick drink at the Press Club. At first they had talked politics, issues, gossip. Both knew it was a keeping-in-touch situation. Jason was not lunch material in Washington power terms. Arthur was simply throwing him a bone.

  "I can set it up," Jason said, after Arthur dropped the facade. He looked about him to be sure no one was listening.

  "All she has to be is ready, good looking and safe." Arthur cleared his throat. "Above all, safe."

  "Above all," Jason assured him. It was an accepted fact that men who wielded power accepted such perks. For a newspaperman, the unwritten trade-off was that one day Arthur could again be a "source."

  Thinking about Arthur did not summon up any pangs of conscience. Behind his thin veneer of probity, Arthur was a grasping climber like the rest. He was also clever and knew how to survive in the jungle. Besides, the horny bastard would wind up making ten times his salary as a parasitical Washington lawyer. Jason would be doing him a favor.

  An hour later Arthur came out of the townhouse, wearing the look of the self-absorbed Washington lawyer. Who could possibly guess what he had just done?

  Jason's explanations about Arthur to Dorothy had been deliberately vague. She would never have understood his real motives.

  "We live on favors in this town, baby." He had reiterated the point to be sure she hadn't changed her mind.

  "I understand, Jason."

  He refused to question her own value system--he didn't need any extra baggage for his conscience.

  He'd let her decorate the apartment in her special way, an expression of her own fantasies.

  "But why don't we live here, Jason?" They still stayed at his Capitol Hill apartment.

  "Some day. If you do exactly as I say."

  "Of course, Jason." She thought for a moment. "I'll make sure he returns the favor."

  "Oh he will, baby. That's been settled."

  "Better be."

  "It'll all be perfect in the end. You'll see."

  "Sure, Jason. Anything you say."

  When Arthur had disappeared around the corner, Jason crossed the street to the townhouse. The outside door worked on a buzzer system, but he let himself in with his own key. Dorothy was in the shower. Getting out of the sooty coal area had increased her passion for cleanliness. She had shined and primped the apartment until its floors and furniture were honed to a fine gloss. Everything was tucked neatly in place.

  Dorothy came out of the shower, scrubbed and sweet smelling, wearing a flouncy white negligee. Seeing him sitting on the couch, she smiled brightly. He forced his expression to match hers, surprised at the brief stab of jealousy. Watching her now, fresh from another man's arms, oblivious in her innocence, made him feel uneasy.

  "He was very nice," she said, insinuating herself next to him, locking her fingers in his.

  "Didn't I tell you," he said hoarsely.

  "And you're not jealous?"

  "Not a bit."

  "As long as he helps you, Jason, it's okay with me."

  Her nearness made his concentration falter. He had the sudden urge to explain it further to her, to justify it, but gazing at her perfect face, it didn't seem to matter anymore. Her malleability was a phenomenon.

  From his pocket he took his small tape recorder and locked in a blank cassette. Standing it upright on the cocktail table between them, he tested it, checking its range and pitch. She watched him with childish curiosity, emitting the inevitable "gosh." He had toyed with the idea of wiring the place, but that would have required bringing another person in to do the job. Debriefing was second best, but far safer. The type of "visitors" he had in mind would all be paranoid about security. As it was, he would have to have Dorothy offer them elaborate assurances. The slightest hint of a "setup" would scatter them like frightened geese.

  "Remember. It's like a game," he explained.

  "Okay."

  "Everyone to his own aberration," he said, caressing her shoulders.

  "Aber what?" she asked, laughing, her eyes fixed on the running recorder.

  "Never mind."

  He'd already assumed that the first time would be the most difficult. "Just tell me how it was." Her eyes narrowed in confusion.

  "Tell you? I don't understand."

  "It excites me," he whispered, biting at her earlobe. He wondered if it really would.

  "It does? But I thought..." He observed her mulling it over in her tortuous plodding way. It was contrary to her experience. She looked at the recorder and frowned.

  "I'm not sure, Jason."

  "Just trust me," he whispered. "It's important to us."

  "To us?"

  "Go ahead," he coaxed.

  "What?"

  "Just tell me what happened. What he said. What you felt."

  "He smelled nice," she giggled.

  "What else?" He kissed her forehead. "How did he do it?"

  "You want to know that?"

  "Yes."

  "Just like he was starving to death." She smiled and turned to face him. He chuckled benignly, and it gave her courage to proceed. What he wanted was facts, bits and pieces, the juicy stuff. He continued to coax her.

  "He liked to talk dirty when he was doing it. Usually like dogs do."

  It came out like an instruction sheet for elaborate sexual exercises, boiled down to their ultimate simplicity. Wanting to please him, she relayed each movement with as much detail as could be hoped for. And then he did this and then that. It became more clinical than pornographic.

  "It felt good," she said. Knowing her reactions, it was always an obvious conclusion. To her, it always felt good. As she talked, staring at the recorder, obediently offering the mechanics of Arthur's technique and reactions, she reached out to caress him, stopping finally when she discovered no response.

  "It doesn't do what you said," she said, turning away from the recorder.

  "It will when I replay it," he said.

  "Did he talk about his job?" he asked. Where he worked?"

  "He said it wasn't far. A big southern mansion not far."

  A good line, Jason thought. Meant to ridicule. He felt better about what he was doing now. The bastard had played on her naiveté. He was tempted to tell her what Arthur had meant but held off. She mistook his long silence for disapproval.

  "You're not sorry?" she asked. "I did it because you wanted me to."
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br />   "I know, baby," he said, patting her shoulders.

  "He was very nice."

  "Yes, he's very nice. Did he ask to see you again?"

  "Next week. I gave him the new number." He had already hooked up an answering machine.

  "Should I?" she asked.

  "Of course."

  "As long as it will help you, Jason. I wouldn't do it if you minded. I would never do it on my own."

  "I know that."

  He turned off the recorder and put it back in his pocket. The apartment was beginning to stifle him. He took a five dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to her.

  "Take a cab home tonight," he said abruptly. "I'll be late. Another zoning meeting in Fairfax County."

  He had worked it out very carefully, both the rationale and the plan. Simple justice was too tame for today's new world. Lasciviousness was the bitch goddess now, a paradox since the sexual revolution was supposed to have made a simple exercise of the genitalia uninteresting as news. The irony was that a few years back when sex was merely a dirty little secret, reporters looked the other way. Deviates could ply their persuasions without fear, provided they didn't violate other norms.

  Now, he knew, the peccadillo brought to light could send up a national leader like a Roman candle. People cluck-clucked and said it was too bad, but an aggressive woman with a good body and a photogenic face could turn a good buck out of sexually exploiting someone with even the remotest shred of power. There was a hot market out there for that--books, serial rights, foreign translations, photos in the flesh slicks, movies, television. A well placed fuck could bring notoriety, fame. That kind of spectacle sold. It was disgusting, Jason thought. America had become vulgarized.

  What was needed was one good overdose of it. Enough to revolt even the most prurient. It would smash the taste for it in the public mind. And it amazed him that he, Jason Martin, had stumbled upon the instrument to do it. Dorothy. All that was needed now was a manipulative intelligence, the right targets and the courage to act. The former was already in his possession, the latter took a bit of research, and the guts to put the honeypot near the flies.