American Sextet

by Warren Adler

  "Why did you split up?"

  "That's also my business."

  "I think you're full of crap," Fiona said vehemently. She was pushing it now, skirting caution. It was, she knew, professionally dangerous. Verging on harassment.

  "You're insulting her memory," he said sharply. "She was my friend. We were lovers once. If that's a crime, then you can arrest half of this town."

  "Show him the pin," Fiona ordered. Cates hesitated. She could see he was very unhappy with her behavior. Reluctantly, Cates drew the pin from his pocket and gave it to her. Holding it up, she glared at him.

  "Ever see this?"

  Martin looked at it curiously, while she studied his reaction.

  "No." Was something awry in his expression?

  "General's insignia. Four stars. Tell him where you found it, Cates."

  Cates appeared to force his concentration as he explained where he'd found it.

  "So?"

  "Means nothing to you?"

  "I'm no general."

  He got up and turned away. When he faced her again, his eyes were moist and his Adam's apple was sliding up and down in his throat.

  "Get the hell out of here," he said, his lips trembling.

  She pointed a finger in front of his nose. "I'm going to watch you, Martin," she warned, seeing Clint's face. This was no damn interrogation, she realized. She'd been conducting an inquisition. But against whom?

  "Just get out," Martin said.

  She moved toward the door and Cates followed her.

  Something about the man gnawed at her. Was it because he reminded her of Clint? It annoyed her to connect them.

  "You were rough on him," Cates said cautiously when they were in the car again.

  "On myself," she mumbled, ashamed. Why couldn't Dorothy leave her alone.

  VI

  Jason had always been contemptuous of the Washington social scene, an endless round of parties faithfully reported in the newspapers and recorded by the Capital's social chronicle, the Washington Dossier.

  Like most Washington media types, he loudly proclaimed the exercise an orgy of back-scratching and hors d'oeuvre munching; nothing more than a chance to dress up and exchange trivia. When not officially invited for press coverage, media people publicly criticized these events, as if the act of putting them down was, in itself, a badge of superiority. Privately, they thirsted for invitations, knowing that they provided easy social access to people who wielded power. For that reason, Jason knew that the party circuit would be the principal channel of accessibility to the types he wanted to cast in his sexual extravaganza.

  The cocktail and buffet arena was a cornucopia of potential victims. What good was fame or success if you couldn't receive the plaudits of your peers? Egos required stroking. Power as a rule was so splintered that even those who exercised it needed the validation of their fellows to appreciate the joys of having a piece of it.

  Since he was not on any favored lists, he had to pursue a program of research that would give him the access he needed. It was easier than he'd imagined. Meeting places were everywhere, in the hotels, the private and government office buildings, the restaurants, association headquarters and, of course, the private homes of Washington's social elite whose status was determined by who attended their receptions and dinner parties. Celebrities gloried in being with each other, and because these events were a spotlight for media coverage they came; and because they came, others came. And what good was being a celebrity if there wasn't a claque of inferiors present to further insure their superiority?

  Crashing these parties, Jason discovered, was simple. Except when the President or vice-president attended and all guests had to be carefully screened, it was considered bad form to make a fuss about invitations. At some events, guests did present their invitations, but most of these looked alike. Usually, those charged with responsibility at the door merely nodded appropriately-dressed guests through without recourse to a minute inspection of the invitations.

  If a sit-down dinner was planned, guests were assigned places with name cards alphabetized and assembled on long tables for easy access. But that didn't stop anyone who looked the part from attending the obligatory cocktail mixer before the dinner, which was, for many, the main event. Once seated, there would be obvious limitations to social contact.

  Still there were risks. Dorothy would inevitably attract attention, no matter how demurely she dressed. Flirtations did not go unnoticed, especially by the wives of important men. And the camera lens, despite all caution, was ubiquitous. An attractive woman was a photographic magnet. Notoriety and media exposure could strike a death knell to his plan. For his chosen victims, Dorothy had to be the forbidden fruit, reasonably anonymous, absolutely discreet. Excessive risk in public would scare them off, however appealing the honeypot.

  He had already calculated that Dorothy's ingenuousness would pass for poise and her patrician good looks for sophistication. A beautiful, well-groomed woman did not need intellectual assets in such a social setting. Besides, Dorothy was not awed by any man, regardless of his title or so-called power. They were all merely men to her. In these terms, she had all the assets she needed to approach them. A gamble, yes, but one that he knew he had to take.

  He pursued his investigation with scientific zeal, determined to find the one event that might net a number of candidates in one swoop. To help finance the operation and provide her with a credible occupation, he encouraged Dorothy to get a job. She quickly found one in the makeup department of one of Washington's fanciest stores, a branch of Saks Fifth Avenue.

  Using her discount at the store, he bought her a spectacular evening gown. She looked good in every one she'd tried on, but he knew she truly wanted the one that was all white, that clung to her hips and offered just the right promise of her cleavage. It cost him twelve hundred dollars and got him further behind on his support payments. He bought himself a tuxedo at a second-hand clothing store.

  "Nobody has ever been this good to me."

  They lay in his rumpled double bed. She had thanked him in the only way she knew.

  "You're good to me, too, baby."

  "I am?"

  She was beyond mere docility, she was loyal and obedient to a fault.

  "Will you always take care of me, Jason?" It was, for her, at the root of everything.

  "Of course."

  "And never leave me?"

  "Never."

  "Just be good to me, Jason."

  "Haven't I been?"

  "You've been great."

  "You just trust me, baby," he told her. "Whatever I do is for the both of us."

  "Of course I trust you, Jason."

  She embraced him again.

  "You're my man," she said. Had he detected a bit of uncertainty?

  "You're sure you don't mind?"

  She looked at him, puzzled at first, then her face brightened.

  "If it's important to you, Jason."

  He wondered about that look. He would have to watch her very carefully.

  Arthur Fellows had become a weekly event, and their debriefings had already filled a number of cassettes.

  "He thinks the President doesn't like him." She was a slow learner, but once she found the track, she chugged along in a straight line.

  "He told you that?"

  "He says that somebody is bad-mouthing him."

  "Who?"

  "I can't remember."

  "It's important, baby."

  "I'll try to listen harder next time."

  Paranoia in the precincts of power was a common Washington ailment. It added spice to any story.

  "You did fine, baby," he assured her whenever a note of despondency crept into her voice. Reassurance was always her best medicine.

  A benefit for the National Symphony, to be thrown at the Corcoran Gallery of Art, provided what he considered his best shot. The guest list, easily obtainable, included some of Washington's most prominent people, among whom were some likely candidates for his purpose
s. The inevitable cocktail hour would provide the perfect opportunity to mingle. To simplify any potential follow-up, he had her name and the telephone number of the apartment printed on little cards.

  Dorothy looked spectacular in her white evening gown. She had taken great care with her makeup, adding a few extra touches she'd learned at her job.

  "You're beautiful," he said.

  "You really think so, Jason?"

  "Of course, baby."

  He was, he knew, betting on the instinctive egomania of men who wielded power, the Achilles heel that breached their invulnerability. Because they lived exclusively within their own exalted orbit, these men knew the aphrodisia inspired by their aura, sensed its special attraction to women. The few exceptions were those who were absorbed so deeply in power's pursuits that all sexuality was blunted.

  At the other extreme were those who considered themselves objects of phallic pride, encouraging the image, sometimes overtly, accepting any sexual favors offered if the circumstances were reasonably safe. Still others covertly lusted, quietly hiding behind their facades of propriety, anxiously waiting for some outside force to answer their need.

  Perhaps, he thought, he was exaggerating Dorothy's own power to touch the chord of male sexuality. It would not do for her to seem overly aggressive. Nor was it in her character. She was guileless and whatever social poise she had was more apparent in her carriage and passivity; in the innocent arrangement of her near perfect features and the wonderful roundness of her body, shown to marvelous advantage in her new clothes.

  Was it naive to think he could point her like a missile and find an instant mark? No! But Dorothy, he was dead certain, was double-barreled buckshot. If there were a likely target within shooting distance, a piece of shot would find its victim.

  "I'll point out the people I want you to talk with."

  "But what will I say to them?"

  "Tell them," he said, "that you are the goddess of the forbidden fruit, one bite of which will send them soaring to a sublime paradise."

  Because he was nervous, he had overly fortified himself with Scotch. His giddy facetiousness confused her and he forced his seriousness.

  "Tell them how much you admire them. Tell them how handsome and wonderful they are and how you've wanted to meet them. Offer them the unspoken promise."

  "The what?"

  "Dammit. Just be yourself. If there's no sexual energy between you, forget it. They just have to respond to the calibration. Their own egoism will do the rest. If you see a connection, hand them the card. It's a very tangible message."

  "Wouldn't it be easier if you just made the arrangements? This way seems so ... so unnatural."

  "You trying to make a pimp out of me?" he snapped, immediately feeling the flush of his own stupidity. "What I meant was..." She hadn't really grasped the full implication of his outburst. "...you really don't need any help from me." Even as he spoke the words he felt an unexpected pang of jealousy.

  They walked into the large main gallery without incident. Eyes turned as they spotted Dorothy, easily the most attractive woman in the room. They moved to one of the many bars. He ordered her a Scotch and water.

  "But I want a beer," she protested.

  "You don't drink beer here."

  "You don't?"

  Standing in a corner, sipping their drinks, he surveyed the crowd. He'd made a list of potential targets, about twenty-five newsworthy gentlemen of varying degrees of importance. Not far from them, he spotted Senator Charles Hurley, a tall well-nourished jovial fellow, recently elected majority leader of the Senate.

  "Him," Jason told her. "The big fellow with the pink face."

  Watching her, he waited until she registered recognition.

  "He's cute," she said.

  They moved over to where a knot of people surrounded the senator, who was telling a story. As he finished, they all laughed politely. He prodded Dorothy to move forward.

  He saw the senator's peacock response, a stiffening of shoulders, a sucking in of gut, a little flush on his cheeks that hadn't been there before.

  The tight circle around him dwindled, and Dorothy was left alone with him for a moment.

  A tall woman beside him stirred, poised for protection. She was obviously the senator's wife or companion.

  "I'm Jason Martin," he said pleasantly, deflecting her. "Washington Post." He knew such an identification had an intimidating effect.

  "I'm Ann Chase, the senator's AA." She seemed uncomfortable. "Mrs. Hurley is out of town. Got to be on call for these things." Her air of defensiveness was embarrassingly transparent.

  "Know what you mean," he said, noting peripherally that Dorothy had engaged the senator. She was smiling, listening, occasionally nodding as the senator postured. It was a special talent, he knew. She was a natural magnet, and, best of all, she wasn't acting. Everybody's dream girl.

  He soon noted that the senator's AA was more interested in the senator's conversation than in her own with Jason, and she managed to shoot him a stony glance when he momentarily looked away. The senator's eyes became furtive and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. As she had been instructed, Dorothy palmed him the card which he put into his jacket pocket.

  "He was very funny," Dorothy said when they had moved away.

  "You were wonderful," Jason said, embracing her shoulder.

  "This is fun, Jason."

  He spotted other possibilities, pointing them out.

  "Sprinkle your rosebuds," he said. He was elated. She had met the challenge. As they moved about, the possibilities seemed endless. It was like a hunting expedition.

  At one point he lost her in the crowd. It was an odd sensation that inexplicably frightened him. Suddenly she seemed beyond his control, on her own. The idea twisted his stomach into knots. He stood at the bar and ordered a double Scotch, suddenly feeling out of place and uncomfortable. He was confronted, too, with a sense of inadequacy in himself he did not wish to face. Was he using her to compensate for all his lifetime failures and frustrations? He had never been able to mix, to make human contact without anguish, a quality that he felt doomed him forever to loneliness and disconnection. Perhaps he could only satisfy his craving for human contact by manipulating others. As his gaze drifted through the crowd, he imagined he saw kindred souls, standing aloof, acting out the charade of participation, desperately wanting to be somewhere else where the confrontation with themselves would be less painful. Where was she? he fumed. He had not given her permission to desert him. Not yet. Not now.

  Fifteen minutes passed before he spotted her gliding toward him, head high, wearing a smile like sunshine.

  "You scared me, baby. I thought I'd lost you."

  "Lost me? I was doing what you told me to."

  "I didn't tell you to get carried away," he said, his irritation and frustration suddenly surfacing.

  "What's wrong?" she pleaded, the smile fading.

  "We have to be selective. You can't just flirt with anybody." He moved to the bar where he ordered another double Scotch.

  "But I thought..." She didn't finish the sentence, but instead stood near him, pouting.

  How could she understand, he thought. He could not control his irritation.

  Ignoring her while the bartender poured, he took his drink and moved nearby to a deserted corner. The cocktail crowd was thinning as the guests made their way to designated tables. She followed him.

  "I did what you told me, Jason," she repeated, her voice small and remorseful.

  He started to move toward the doorway, assuming she'd again follow. When he arrived there, he noted that she'd been waylaid by a tall man with a colorful decoration pinned to his lapel. From the corner of her eye, she looked at him, hesitating. He signaled approval with a nod, the smile bloomed, and the brief moment of contact continued. Dutifully, she slipped the tall man the card which he looked at briefly before sliding it into a pocket. Jason recognized him. He was Edward Templeton, Army Chief of Staff, slated to be the next chairman of the
joint chiefs.

  Passing through the doorway he stood waiting on the stairs, ignoring the questioning eyes of those who still manned the entrance. He breathed deeply, trying to control the strange inner eruption as she approached him.

  "Are you mad at me?" she asked, confused. He was as confused as she about his strange reaction. They walked down the wide stone steps. Attempting to keep up, she held the hem of her gown to free the movement of her legs. Her high heels made pocking sounds along the pavement.

  "But I thought..."

  "Don't think."

  He had parked near the Ellipse, a lawn setting behind the White House, across Seventeenth Street. An early fall chill had come in with the darkness, chasing the Indian summer's day. A three-quarter moon cast an eerie light from the cloudless sky. The Ellipse was deserted, although the twinkling lights of the White House and the old State Department Building gave the illusion of activity. Occasionally a car drove past.

  "What did I do?" she asked, facing him.

  He said nothing, lit a cigarette and puffed smoke between them as if to obliterate her. Why was he so annoyed? It was all his doing. Dammit, he thought, am I jealous?

  Watching his eyes, she seemed to be trying to penetrate his and her own confusion. Maybe, he thought, he hadn't the courage to go through with this. He returned her stare, softening. Her eyes had the look of a hurt puppy. Just be good to me, she'd said. That was always her one condition.

  "Maybe we should stop now," she said. Tears had begun to spill onto her cheeks. "I'm afraid, Jason."

  "Of what?"

  "You promised it was all right. That you wouldn't get upset."

  "No. It's fine." His sudden hesitation sobered him.

  "If it comes between us, it's not good."

  "It won't. I promise."

  They stood near the trunk of a tree. A stone's throw away was the booth of the White House guard at the south entrance. He could see the man's vague outline in the lighted booth.

  Was it time to seek some validation? He looked at Dorothy, her face shadowed, its expression distraught, as if all she needed for her happiness was his approval. Was what he needed now a test of his surety? Something to thwart his hesitation about the project? And hers? Reaching out, he drew her toward him, enveloping her in his arms. He was leaning against the tree, watching the guard's booth while he breathed in the sweet smell of her. He unfastened the top of her gown freeing her breasts, which caught the glint of the faint light.