by Warren Adler
"We think we have a fix on our old bones," she said, glancing quickly at Cates, looking for support. She found none. He had turned away.
"Must we, FitzGerald?" the eggplant said, shaking his head. The sunny weather in his expression changed abruptly.
"Won't hurt to check it out," she said, trying to head off any impending storm.
"But it will, you see. It will hurt time. Time is more precious than riches. In this place, time is our most important commodity." He was starting to launch one of his sarcastic tirades, gaining momentum. "We have lots of recent travesties against women that need solving. There are more than enough modern-day killers to keep us busy. In fact, we need an army just to keep up with the traffic."
He was right, of course. But agreement would get her nowhere.
"There's a lot of cache in solving an old crime. Shows we're on the ball."
"Shows who?" the eggplant said with contempt.
"Him?" She moved her head in the general direction of the Mayor's office.
"He, too, has his head in the immediate present. Therefore..." He paused and focused a penetrating gaze on her face. "...Do you capish?"
"I understand Spanish, Captain."
"Funny lady."
What she understood, of course, was that the Mayor had given him his marching orders and he was marching. She could hear the crack of the Mayor's bark. "I win. You win, Luther." Winning for Luther was becoming Police Commissioner in the next administration. Inwardly, he may have railed against such manipulation and kowtowing, but he surely understood what running after such a carrot meant. So did Fiona. The idea of being thwarted could make him very mean.
"Who would know better about such matters, FitzGerald. You, a Senator's daughter."
Whenever he needed to batter her with stinging ridicule, he would pull that from his quiver of sarcasms. As always, it struck her deep and hard.
"Are you saying we shouldn't pursue this?" she said, the challenge in her voice clear.
"Did I say that?" The anger in the retort was meant to be intimidating. She realized suddenly that she had, indeed, picked the wrong time. Most of all, he seemed to resent her for forcing a change in his mood. All goodwill in his earlier expression had clapped shut and he stormed out of the squad room.
"Go ahead," she told the slammed door. "Doodoo on integrity."
"Let go, Fi. Poor bastard is between a rock and a hard place."
She waited until her anger subsided, then she motioned with her chin to the pad that lay on the desk in front of Cates. "Poor Betty Taylor might have some comments on that old chestnut."
5
NATURALLY, MONTE had arranged a good table in the front room of the Jockey Club. Martine, the headwaiter, fussed and fawned and Monte did a round robin of handshakes to those among the privileged and influential seated at nearby tables.
"Politics is perception," he said, smiling, satisfied that his restaurant clout and performance had impressed her. His mood was ebullient, jovial, a far cry from the whining cynicism of the other night. Yet he made it clear in his attitude and demeanor that it was all part of the game not to be taken seriously and certainly not to be confused with the real Monte Pappas.
She ordered a vodka martini. He raised two shaggy eyebrows and cocked his head, then doubled the order.
"Nevertheless," he said, "I've placed severe limitations on the intake. Tonight, I'm determined to get high only on the company."
The martinis came and they clinked glasses. She took a deep sip, hoping to let go of the anger that still clawed at her.
"And how was your day, honey?" he asked.
"You noticed?"
"Is the Pope Catholic?"
"I shouldn't take it home," she said. "I should be dispassionate. It's not professional."
"Passion is good," he chuckled. "At the proper time." The double entendre rode through the air like a Mack truck. He was so transparent, it was almost refreshing. Also boyish and unsure. He reminded her of a small, cuddly bear, all soft and furry. Yet his seduction attempt seemed more focused than the other night. Then he had been sidetracked by other concerns. Now he appeared eager and obvious, although the objective was probably less of a priority than he allowed himself to believe.
She knew the type well from her days observing her father's political groupies. Politics was all, an addictive obsession, and the heat of the campaign was the orgasmic nadir of their lives. Even the winning or losing was secondary to the action of it, the involvement, the emotional roller coaster that struggled up the track to elation and bottomed out in depression. Up and down. Down and up. She was not surprised that he was divorced. Such men, or women, feared any relationship that inhibited their addiction. Often, perhaps more often than others, they needed the solace and validation of a truly human experience. Although never permanent, their relationships were, nevertheless, intense and sincere within their parameters of compressed time and tenuous involvement.
Perhaps that was why she was comfortable with Monte Pappas. She understood him. He was a classic specimen of the genre. Watching him across the table, his soft brown eyes observing her, his smile flashing out all the charm he could muster, his soft, slightly chubby fingers with their scraggly spines of black hairs nervously strumming the checkered tablecloth, she decided that, barring an unforeseen turnoff, she would sleep with him tonight.
"Things must be going well," she said, determined to erase the tension of her confrontation with the eggplant. Nothing must interfere with the broadcasting of her intentions. Although she knew what buttons to press for the political side of him, she had heard that Greek men were very complicated and acted only when they were absolutely certain that they would not be rebuffed. This required, she assumed, sending clear signals of consent, yet allowing him to feel that he was making a conquest.
"You betcha," he said, looking about him at the others in the small front room. He bent closer to her and lowered his voice. "We got him to kick it."
"Kick it?" She was confused.
"The habit," he whispered. She continued to be puzzled, definitely not getting his shorthand. His nostrils flared as he sucked in a deep breath. "The habit," he repeated. "He's mothballing the torpedo."
The image was strongly suggestive, considering where her own thoughts had headed, and it triggered her understanding.
"The Senator?" she asked. He quickly put a finger on his lips and shook his head. Only then did he nod and smile his confirmation.
She remembered his running commentary on the escapades of Sam Langford. Also, the subtle erotic manner in which he had danced with the beautiful Helga. And, if the truth be known, with herself.
"And just how did you accomplish his acceptance of this extraordinary feat of self-denial?"
She quickly fell into the pattern of shorthand that they had adopted to protect the conversation from the ears of the adjacent diners. Paranoia was a rampant Washington disease, and an overheard conversation, especially this one, had enormous currency.
"Read him the riot act." He lowered his voice still further and she had to strain to hear him. "I told him. Take heavy doses of saltpeter. Concentrate on one aberration at a time. Make love to the TV camera. He's a master of that as well. You just can't play in this game with your fly open. He has everything going for him. Good looks. Articulate as hell. Good-looking family. A great record. Dead-center on most issues. No rocka da boat. The election committee is being formed. The do-re-me is on its way. If we go, he has the whole primary thing ahead of him and the press will go over his life with a hundred-power telescope. Like the honeybadger, first thing they go for is the crotch." He chuckled at his humor and took another sip of his martini.
"But can he hide his past completely?" Fiona asked, remembering her father's media wars.
"No. But he's been pretty cagey. And he's had old Bunkie to camouflage his peccadillos and 'Dear John' them when things got sticky."
The idea, perhaps the cavalier way in which he described it, offended her.
"
And they all go quietly, I suppose."
"Let's say not disruptively. They haven't made waves, which means he's been lucky enough to escape the wrath of female outrage." He shrugged. "Maybe they figured they got their money's worth. On the other hand some of them might have gained a leg up to that elusive place where they were headed. That ring around the finger is not the only prize available in the pantheon. In this town women gain clout if they have a powerful scalp on their belt. Starfucking is a Washington sport with a paramutual payoff. There are lots of subtle ways to reward sexual cooperation. Sometimes even the act itself is reward enough. The fact is that, despite what you've read about exceptions, the general rule is that disengagement occurs more often than not."
She felt mildly offended by his observations, not because they were inaccurate. More because they contained some raw truths about the vulnerability of her gender peers.
"Don't dismiss the exceptions so easily, Monte. For five minutes of fame and some serious bucks, women have been known to succumb. Shall I tick off the careers that have been ruined by some who have not gone quietly?" They had become household names with remarkable staying power—Elizabeth Ray, Fannie Fox, Paula Parkinson, Donna Rice.
"Are you trying to ruin my evening?" he said, half joking. She could detect the tiniest evidence of anxiety.
"Not at all. I just wanted to scrape some of the smugness away. Women, I have observed in my work, can be quite vindictive. When they murder, for example, the victim is invariably a husband or lover."
She was teasing him with the truth and it appeared to be more than he bargained for. Worse, she worried that it would make him fear her, which, she knew from experience, could be devastating to his libido.
She reached out and patted his chubby hand. It felt soft and warm and comfortable.
"I'm not saying you didn't have it right. Just offering my own knee-jerk defense. The fact is that none of us can be sure about the motives of other human beings, male or female."
"You sound like a politician. Coming down on both sides of the issue." He chuckled and caressed her hand. She hoped that her warm flesh showed him the first happy signs of compliance.
"Anyway," he said, "we think we've got that part of it on hold." He pursed his lips as if repressing a sly giggle. "I can assure you, Fi, the double entendres are not intentional."
"Just good old-fashioned dirty talk," she said, squeezing his hand, "never killed anybody." Their eyes locked for a moment. Deliberately, she disengaged first, hoping he would see it as shyness, and restore his sense of aggression. Not yet, she cautioned herself.
"So the beautiful Helga has been dispatched," she said. Her voice had risen and she put a hand over her mouth. He looked about him to see if she had attracted any attention. It appeared not. "Sorry."
"Let's say the process has been initiated."
"And who does the doing?"
"Ve haf our methods," he mocked.
"Not the man himself?"
"We thought it unwise. He understands." He bent closer. "Besides, she has her own problem."
"The Ambassador?"
"He likes his job. Perhaps he has overlooked the affair deliberately to, copping another pun, save his own ass."
"She'll go quietly?"
"For her there is no choice."
"But what of love?" Fiona asked. Despite the sarcasm, she knew her question had the bite of truth. Love has been known to be a stimulator of bizarre and often counterproductive actions.
"Show me a single instance of a politician who gave up his ambition for love. I have observed that political ambition is always more powerful than love. My theory has always been that if King Edward the Seventh had real power he would never have given up his throne for his ladylove."
"You have no romance in your soul," Fiona whispered. He raised soft brown, imploring eyes.
"I'm only an advisor. My soul stays with me. Romance and all."
He signaled the waiter, who offered his ceremony of the specials, which they declined. Then he took their order, a salad for starters and grilled soles for both of them. They ordered a French white.
"Crazy, isn't it," he said when the waiter had gone, "that this issue should transcend all the others."
She sipped further on her martini. "What were the grounds of his divorce?" He did not take offense at her curiosity. Nor did she think the question was out of order. He trusted her and needed to tell, and she was, after all, a detective.
"Not too bad, actually. They just agreed to disentangle. You saw her. They're not buddies, but they exchange pleasantries. Besides, he was very generous and they had no kids. The woman understood. Sam spreads it around. That's Sam. Accept it or get the hell out. She chose the latter. He was single for a whole year before he met Little Nell. Which means you could never accuse her of being the vixen who broke up his first marriage. That's very important. Besides, she's almost boringly traditional. Country club, white bread-and-mayonnaise type."
"I saw a troubled lady."
"Very perceptive. Wouldn't you be, married to him? But Little Nell gets high marks for dissimulation. She seems to go more for appearances. Keeps her own counsel. That's the mark of a good political wife."
"She's also human."
"And being so, she knows the value of a long leash. Probably more upset by others seeing Sam playing pelvis touchee with the beautiful Helga. That's appearances, a different mad than jealousy. But she also knows that he has to keep it in the barn if he wants to be President. The fact is that, for now, at least, she's won. No more sharing for a while. Until he's President. Then he's got a whole army of Secret Service men to cover his ass. Like Jack Kennedy. He did more exercise of the venery in office than out."
"You say he was single for a year. Has to be media grist in that."
He looked at her and shook his head.
"The affairs of a single man are not the stuff of scandal-mongering. Sam's drive in that regard actually subsided. They tell me that the lack of danger inhibits the intensity of the activity." He nodded and upended his glass.
"That judgement, I assume, is based on personal experience," she said. Her own as well, she thought. It had to do, she had concluded, with time-frame and anxiety level. She had, after all, had experiences with married men, an unwise exercise at best, although the emotional and sexual intensity had been extraordinary.
There had been a touch of humorous sarcasm in the remark, but he responded with dead seriousness.
"Has to do with comfort level, Fi. Even in a bad marriage there is some security. Which leaves you the luxury of concentrating more on the other." A sudden faint blush dappled his dark skin. "A single person needs more than just..." His voice trailed off and he picked up his martini and finished it, avoiding her gaze. He had revealed the full extent of his vulnerability and at that moment it appealed to her. When he had put down his glass, she edged her leg closer to him, felt it touch along the side of the shinbone. He responded with his own pressure. Message sent. Reply received.
The waiter brought their salads and for a few moments they ate in silence. With the evening's agenda agreed to, they could both relax.
"I'm not saying it will be easy," he said, as if there had been no break in the conversation. He had never left his sphere of interest. Par for the genre, Fiona knew. A manifestation of the addiction. Everything personal was also political.
"But I think we can mount a campaign with real legs. It's a long haul. The election is two years away, but you've got to start the ball rolling. He's a natural, don't you think? Hell, you know this business, Fi. Is that man not the perfect candidate?"
"I have only one question, Monte."
"What's that?"
"What does he stand for?"
"That's simple," Monte said, picking at his salad, his leg rubbing against hers. "He stands for getting elected." She could feel his eyes studying her.
"And if he does get elected what will he stand for?"
"Getting reelected," Monte said without hesitation.
"And after? There are only two terms."
"In the last two years of his last term, he will stand for assuring his place in history. He will graduate from politician to statesman."
It did not offend her. She had expected the answers. It was no different in her father's time. Except that he had finally risen above it, chosen crucifixion and martyrdom to political expediency, thrown in his lot with the anti-Vietnam war movement at the worst possible political time. It had defeated him as a politician, but he had regained himself as a man, although he had, despite the doctor's report, died of a broken heart. She had been quite young, but old enough to understand, and it had validated her respect for him, and his memory continued to enrich her life and give her the assurances she needed to fight her own daily battle for moral rectitude.
The waiter brought their sole, which was soft and tasty, and they washed it down with cold white wine. Throughout the dinner they continued to caress lower extremities.
It was only later, after he had followed her home in his car and they had made love in her wide queen-size bed and she had discovered that he was, indeed, soft and furry all over and quite cuddly, effective and endearing as a lover, that she broached the question that had probably nagged at her all evening.
"Why aren't you outraged?"
"About what?" he asked.
"About selling a straw man to the public for President."
"That's the best kind. No baggage. We can fill him with the right kind of straw. Make him salable. Package him to attract the widest possible segments. The campaign is won on simplistic symbol-mongering and television-picture opportunities."
"But what does that say about us? I shake my head in understanding. Not outrage, understanding. Are we such jaded, cynical and corrupt people that we acquiesce and go along? Know it's wrong, but go along?"
She wrapped her arms around him and fingered her way across his wide expanse of hairy softness. As she had suspected, he felt comfortable, warm, his body a kind of metaphor for generosity. She felt comfortable and secure and she could barely summon up a sliver of outrage.
