Hot Ticket

by Janice Weber

  The buttons on his shirt rose and fell as he teetered on my advice. “I don’t think you understand,” Bobby seethed at last. “I’m the president.”

  “What can I tell you? She prefers princes.” I reached for the door handle.

  He grabbed my sore wrist. I winced: years on the campaign trail had given him a bionic grip. “You tell your friend,” Bobby whispered, “I am not amused.”

  I brushed away his hand. “Tell her yourself.”

  He couldn’t even choke out a good-night. I aimed the Corvette for the Beltway and started to weave in and out of traffic, not that I was in a rush to get anywhere, rather the Corvette wasn’t made for going only seventy in a straight line. An exodus of commuters, grandmothers puritanically obeying the speed limits, and yuppies in their budget BMWs made this road more dangerous than the Autobahn. Good: kept my mind off that clod Marvel. When the sun sliced into the horizon, I finally saw that a gray Chevy had drifted across the dotted lines behind me once too often. The driver, still in the baseball cap, never allowed me more than three cars leeway: maybe that was a compliment. I veered right, poked along the shoulder. Chevy copied. I tapped the gas, notched left: soon we were back in the fast lane. Fear riddled my gut as a million phantoms began to thaw and writhe. Where had I made the fatal error that six of Maxine’s seven agents had made before me? For miles I purred in the wake of a rusty Caddy, awaiting a slim coincidence of exit ramp and fender gap. I got it at the Merrifield turnoff. Ripped the ’Vette right, screeching across three lanes, barreling around the cloverleaf. Chevy never had a chance.

  I drove in a few loops before ditching the car at a twelve-screen cinema in Fairfax. Sat through a loud, bloody movie as my watch crawled forward. When the hero destroyed his nth opponent, I left. Bad place, movies: shallow sex, shallower death, all so sickeningly easy. I cabbed back to Washington. Night had not relieved the heat, but it had decimated the tourists around the Reflecting Pool. I took the Metro to the Zoo. Connecticut Avenue still pulsed with people who either hated air conditioners or didn’t own one. Cut into Rock Creek Park and followed the black, burbling water to the bear house. There I slipped into my pocket in the rocks, grateful as the door sealed me in with my machines.

  JUSTINE CORTOT, I typed. Her face came up in a second. Native of Kentucky, where mothers groomed daughters to become Miss America or marry tobacco. Same alma mater as Bobby Marvel. Rhodes Scholarship, English major. History would have been more relevant, but Justine wasn’t interested in events larger than herself. Twice divorced from minor dignitaries, zero kids. Once she and Bobby put that little shooting incident behind them, Justine had joined his carnival winding from state senator to governor to president. Had she known about Barnard? Hell, Justine had probably procured her! The press secretary saw a hundred supplicants a day, made or destroyed dozens of careers a week … yet she had found the time to lunch with Duncan Zadinsky three days running. Unbelievable.

  Next, BENDIX KAAR. The computer finally located him under Political Contributors, a subset of white-color criminals. After serving with distinction in Vietnam, Bendix had made his fortune in exotic hardwood. Ten years ago he’d sold his business to play environmental consultant to any PAC that could afford him. He had given Bobby Marvel enough money to be invited regularly to the White House and had been Aurilla’s Svengali since her first day in the Senate. Age fifty-three, two grown children, no known wife. Fausto had said they were old college friends: which college? I cruised through the Harvard file: nothing. The Royal College of Music wasn’t even in Maxine’s database so I switched to e-mail, asking if Bendix Kaar had ever graced their hallowed halls. That answer might take weeks, so I moved on to superwidow AURILLA PERLE.

  Born in Chicago, full scholarship to Princeton. She had tied the knot with a family of meat packers who supplied the entire Northeast with pastrami. Hubby appeared fairly masculine in the early photos; then, as Aurilla’s smile inflated from shy to imperial, he began to age drastically, as if she were sucking his blood. His death in a plane crash had had no effect on her mouth. Gretchen, three days old, appeared in only one photo; even at that tender age, the child had impressive fists and a face ready to explode. Aurilla’s political record, like her smile, was mathematically perfect.

  I snuggled the cassette from Barnard’s answering machine into the tape recorder. My breathing paused as her sultry voice, now forever silent, filled the headphones. “Sorry, darling. Let me know you called.”

  “Darling,” Fausto mimicked acidly. “We missed you last night. Naughty naughty.”

  I played the next message several times just to kill my doubts. “The ice-cream man will see you at midnight. Don’t be late”: Justine Cortot speaking. Should have recognized those overworked t’s the moment I heard her voice at Ford’s Theatre.

  I phoned Berlin. “Good morning.”

  The Queen would have gone to bed only two hours ago. “What’s up.”

  “Barnard and Marvel were for real.” I told her about my little palaver in the president’s limousine. “He’s most upset at losing her.”

  Maxine laughed huskily: join the crowd. “How’d you learn that?”

  “Aurilla Perle invited me to her house to hear her daughter play the violin. Marvel happened to drop by.”

  “Her idea or his?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. Aurilla had already bugged me about her daughter the night I played at the White House. Bobby’s been eyeballing me since Ford’s Theatre. And it could have been an accident. None of this would have happened if Aurilla hadn’t caught me at Fausto’s.”

  “You don’t run into the president of the United States by accident,” Maxine yawned. “Sorry.”

  “There were two messages on Barnard’s answering machine,” I continued. “One was from Fausto telling Barnard she had misbehaved.”

  “Eh? How did Barnard know Fausto?”

  “Didn’t she tell you anything?” I snapped. Of course not. Damn. “The last message was from Justine Cortot, arranging a tryst with Marvel.”

  “Cortot’s in on the act? Have we got two pimps here?”

  “Maybe she handles scheduling after the first date.” I sighed. “Bendix Kaar happened to be playing Scrabble with Fausto as I rehearsed there this afternoon.”

  “People do lots of things in the afternoon. How was breakfast, by the way?”

  Insulting. “Fausto wants me to practice at his place. He loaned me his Corvette. I’d take it out more but I’m being followed.”

  “Surprised? You’re screwing around with every heavy in town.”

  Beautiful. “I hope Marvel’s discreet. I don’t need his wife coming after me with a two-by-four.”

  “Wouldn’t worry about it. Nothing upsets Paula but a dip in her husband’s approval rating. Listen, I got a lab report on Barnard’s blood. The only compounds we could identify were zonirene and gamma-gafrinol.”

  “Okay, I give up.”

  “Phytochemicals found only in the rain forest. Not synthesized, not really known outside of the military.”

  “Application?”

  “Paralytics. Once Barnard took it in the neck, she could only watch that tampon go down her throat.” A moment of black static. “Bastards.”

  “I’ve got one last concert Saturday night,” I said. No big deal. Just Carnegie Hall. “Then I’ll go to Belize.”

  “Barnard left some surveillance gear behind. You might pick it up while you’re down there.”

  “She left it behind?”

  “Just get it back,” Maxine said wearily. “Everything’s on the map in your kit.”

  My kit was burning a hole in a locker at the Miami airport. I turned off the lights and headed into the woods. Whatever Barnard had left in the jungle, it was more than a camera.

  Chapter Four

  I HAD STRIPPED and was about to step into the shower when the phone rang. “Hello, Leslie.” Marvel sounded agitated, as if he had been calling for hours. “I’d like to see you.”

  Shit! “When would be good, s
ir?”

  “Now. A car’s on its way.” He hung up.

  Sixty seconds wet, another sixty yanking on clothes. No time for underwear. I painted the face, blew on a little scent. Just as I hit the revolving doors, a Lexus pulled up to the hotel. Chauffeur nodded, I got in. No president in the backseat. No surprise: he’d be the soul of discretion until his reelection. The car sailed past the White House. “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Out of town.” He joined the Beltway herd. “Sit back and relax.”

  City lights eventually faded, as did traffic. Without a word, we headed deep into Virginia. I had been here on the Harley just the other day, trying to forget about Barnard; now I was rushing into her lover’s embrace. I hoped Bobby hadn’t invited me out here to take a bubble bath. Maybe he wanted to ask a few more questions about the only woman who had ever dumped him. Ah, Barnard. Why had she lured him into that bathtub? And who had the original video? Were it with a friend, Bobby would probably have seen it by now. Foe? He’d have no idea.

  Eventually the Lexus turned onto an unmarked dirt road. Pine branches swished at the doors as darkness engulfed us. Many bumps, one last swerve before a guard with walkie-talkie and submachine gun blocked our path. He checked the driver’s ID, asked me to step out for a modest pat-down. That done, he unchained the gate. Bobby’s discretion now verged on the paranoid: I liked that.

  The president, plus cigar, waited on the porch of a spacious old house. Since our chat in his limousine, he had changed into khakis and sport shirt. I stood next to him a moment inhaling smoke and cologne, running my eyes only once over the hair on his chest. Now that Marvel had put aside the presidential act and reverted to his natural state, stag in heat, he seemed much more dangerous than he had a few hours ago. “Thanks for coming.” He peered at my face in the dim light. “Can I get you something?”

  Gin and a chastity belt. While he was inside, I looked around the yard for Secret Service agents. Exceptionally well hidden, wherever they were. Maybe in the trees. Over the past three years Marvel had probably asked them to get lost so many times that invisibility was a job requirement now. As the president returned to the porch, he motioned to a swing in the corner. “You were out tonight,” he said, serving me.

  Zoo. “Rehearsal. I have a concert in New York this weekend.”

  Bobby smiled insipidly. “Ah. Will you be seeing Polly?”

  “You never know.”

  Chains creaked as the swing moved in tandem with our breathing. “Where did you meet her?” he asked.

  “On a beach in France. She was with a Hungarian count.” I had been buffing this story for the last hour. “I next met her in Paris. She was with an Italian from one of the sports car families. Our paths have crossed a lot since then. She was always with a different man.” I swallowed gin. “If it’s any consolation, you’re her first American. Where did you meet her?”

  “At a fund-raiser. She was with Fausto Kiss. A different sort of prince.” Bobby chuckled coldly. “What did she tell you about me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then how did you know my nickname?”

  “Polly said I’d be sitting behind a hunk of ice cream. I had no idea she meant you.”

  Bobby’s irritation increased. “Did she say why she wasn’t going to be there?”

  “She had a date with a football player.” I tried to look embarrassed. “Unlike you, he left his wife at home.”

  “That was the problem? Paula?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a woman thing.”

  “But our going to that play was official business!”

  Unless he was the best actor in the universe, Bobby had no idea that Barnard was dead. Why was he so upset now? Did he have genuine feelings for her? Or was the concept of anyone leaving him insupportable? “Official for you, maybe.”

  “Shit.” He got himself another beer. I looked into the trees, around the lawn: no witnesses but the stars. Bobby’s bodyguards had no idea how easily I could assassinate their charge and slip away into the night. Maybe they did know and were keeping their fingers crossed. The chains wheezed as Bobby returned to the swing. “You don’t live in America, do you?”

  “I grew up in Berlin. It’s home to me.”

  “Will you be going back soon?”

  “After a few more concerts.”

  He laid a warm, thick hand on my thigh. “That’s not much time.”

  So much for genuine feelings. I put my drink on the floor and looked Bobby full in the face. His mouth was inches from mine and closing in fast when I said, “May I use the bathroom?”

  It had to be upstairs because of the skylight. Behind the first door I found the marble tub and potted plants I had seen in Barnard’s video. Camera not too cleverly stashed atop the linen cabinet, aimed at the bathtub: Barnard would have noticed it within seconds. Maxine was correct: Barnard had made that video on purpose. If I went to the toilet, I’d pass right in front of the lens: no way Frost would go on record here. Not yet. First I wanted to know who’d be watching. I went across the hall and saw another camera aimed at the gigantic bed.

  Bladder unrelieved, I returned to the porch. Bobby was staring at an airplane as the head on his beer opalesced in the moonlight. He had slid another five inches toward my side of the swing. I detoured to the railing, inhaled the damp breeze. “Whose house is this?” I asked the trees.

  “A close friend gave me the keys on Inauguration Day. Every president needs a special hideaway.” Bobby slipped behind me. I caught my breath as he kissed the nape of my neck. After a moment he drew my hips backward, against his pelvis. Maybe he had stashed a piece of the Manhattan aqueduct in there.

  I turned around. “What about Polly?”

  Now his lips started in on my collarbone. “She’s history.”

  “Not to me.”

  Bobby smiled indulgently, as if I were kidding. “I’ve never made love to a woman who didn’t want me.” He resumed at my throat. “On the other hand, I never met one who didn’t.”

  I was beginning to understand how he had convinced the voters to put him in the White House. My stomach fluttered as he nibbled with absolute concentration beneath my sternum. Resistance impossible: this man’s gift was persuasion. With crowds, on the tube, he was reliable as a diesel; one-on-one, he was overwhelming. As his hand slid beneath my dress, wilted a moment as it encountered no underwear, enlightenment struck. Forget about his mark on history: Bobby Marvel lived to fuck. Being president was just the best means to that end. He truly believed he was conferring some sort of Purple Heart on the women he seduced. What higher honor than to be taken by the president? His sincerity was stupidly endearing. But I had known too many finer men.

  “You’re very nice,” I sighed, retreating. “However, not my type.”

  Momentary disbelief, then that dazzling smile. “No one’s made me wait in twenty years.” Bobby sniffed his hand languorously, ecstatically, as if inhaling purest cocaine. “Believe me, you’re my type.” He jerked my hand to the ridge in his pants.

  “I didn’t come here for this,” I snorted.

  “No? What did you come for?”

  “Professional courtesy.”

  Two fingers dug between my legs. They felt as thick as his penis. “Next time you don’t wear panties,” Bobby whispered, “you’d better mean it.” One quick, rough kiss and he sprang me loose. The driver came to the porch. I got back to Washington after four in the morning. Duncan was not in his room. I couldn’t sleep: bodies were apolitical, and mine had wanted Marvel’s.

  Several hours later I returned Fausto’s Corvette to his driveway. Judging by the paucity of cars outside his house, not many people had felt up to breakfast this morning. But that lurid orange sun lurking above the smog would drive any sane human into the hills. Only the truly depraved, like Justine and I, would still want to eat. Her silver Mercedes occupied the space closest to the front door: she had arrived first. Maybe she had slept over.

  Fausto greeted me in flowing white
pajamas embroidered with watermelons. Weak flesh puffed around his eyes. His complexion matched the smog. No smile: maybe I should have phoned beforehand. “Darling.” He squeezed my fingers. “Come in.”

  I signed the guest book. A dozen visitors looked up as we entered the dining room. I got fewer, but longer, stares than I had yesterday. Justine actually stopped chewing for a few moments to check out my dress. She looked delicious, a little wild, as if she had been up all night. When she actually smiled at me, I knew with whom.

  Fausto settled into his chair in the corner. “I had no idea you were such an early riser.”

  “Jet lag.” I told the butler to bring just coffee and bread. “Sorry we missed you after the rehearsal. Duncan is not into coed bathing.”

  “I forgive him. He’s a good pianist. You’ve been playing together a long time?”

  “From the beginning.” I stuck a toe in the water. “I try to look out for him.”

  “Ah, you’re worried about Justine? Join the club.” Fausto lit a cigarette. “No secrets in this town, my dear. And the two of them are not exactly discreet.”

  Last I had seen Duncan, he was barreling off to some dowager’s dinner party. That had probably ended around midnight: seven long hours ago. “Okay, let me have it.”

  “The evening started mildly enough. Apparently your accompanist loves to tango. He burned up the floor at the Argentine embassy.”

  “His mother made him take dancing lessons for ten years.” I sighed. “Then what.”

  “I understand he carried Justine to her car. They cooled off a bit in the fountain in front of the Capitol Building. They hit a disco, then committed a few carnal sins on the steps of the National Cathedral.” Fausto waved at Vicky Chickering, who had just entered with a glum attorney general. “Thereafter Duncan may have reconsidered his antipathy to coed bathing. Justine rolled in an hour ago with stars in her eyes. Extraordinary.”

  Damn! “What does she get out of this?”

  “A priceless opportunity to make Bobby jealous. Not to mention stud service.” Fausto patted my hand. “There, there. Duncan’s a grown boy.”