by Rick Pullen
This kid was focused and driven and wanted to get out—just what she needed. She recognized they were looking for the same thing. This just might work, she thought.
Just as she prepared to go on the full charm offensive, he brought it back to business.
“To be honest, Geneva, I’m not sure your company is in as good a shape as you think, or at least its condition isn’t as good as you let on. I need to spend more time with the numbers, but I might be forced to recommend to our clients that they sell the stock.”
She saw her opening. “What would it take for you to recommend a buy or hold instead?”
“The stock is already selling at a high price in anticipation of the Pentagon contract.”
“The unmanned aircraft contract.” She smiled.
“Yes, the unmanned aircraft contract. I’m not sure, though, how I could come up with a buy recommendation on Serodynne stock. The price is just too high. You expecting some of those commercial contracts to come through and raise the value of the company?”
“What if I could deliver that deal you’re looking for that would allow you to write for the rest of your life—no financial worries ever again?”
He fell silent. He gazed into her eyes. She watched his expression run the gamut from wide-eyed astonishment to wrinkled brow realization. He quickly looked around the restaurant before turning back to Geneva.
“You’re serious?” He fingered his half-full beer glass. “I could be.” She watched him closely.
His eyes widened. He grinned and looked down at his beer.
“It would involve risk,” she said, “as well as your pledge of complete confidentiality. And there is no guarantee, but the odds are pretty good. The upside could be huge. And like you said earlier, you’re young. If it fails, you look for the next deal.” She looked intently at his eyes. He was looking down, eyes leveled at her chest, yet she could tell he was elsewhere, thinking, contemplating what she had just said.
He looked back up at her. “I’m willing to listen.”
“Then we need to talk more.”
And they did. For the next hour, she laid out her plan, almost in a whisper at their table as the waiters scurried about, occasionally stopping by to ask if they needed anything. Each time she waved them off. She asked Keith dozens of questions about the workings of his office, explaining she needed to understand how it operated if her plan stood a chance. At first he didn’t understand, but then she could see excitement in his eyes as she laid out the details. He began to fidget in his chair so much that at one point she reached out and laid her hand on his forearm and told him to calm down.
He was a strange concoction of creative enthusiasm and financial zeal. As long as she could keep his creative passions in check and focus his financial acumen where she needed it, she thought, this might have a slim chance of working.
12
Geneva’s meeting with Keith lasted more than two hours, yet a cooperative cab driver delivered her in time to Penn Station where she made the three o’clock train back to Washington. After a brief swim in the pool, she now lounged naked on the terrace of her Pennsylvania Avenue penthouse. The sun’s rays warmed her soul, while a soft breeze bathed her in freedom.
She loved the feeling, and her rooftop location gave her complete privacy, even from presidential helicopters, whose flight path over the Potomac, nearly a mile away, ferried the president regularly between the White House and Andrews Air Force Base. She wondered if the spy satellites over the city ever focused in on her. Maybe some air force satellite jockey staring at a big screen in a bunker in Colorado was getting his jollies in real time, she thought. It took all kinds.
She glanced down on the Navy Memorial thirteen floors below, a circular plaza dedicated to sailors around the world. Across Pennsylvania Avenue, she gazed at the shadows cast by the giant granite columns of the National Archives building. It always gave her goose bumps knowing the nation’s history and official secrets were kept there, along with one of her own.
On their first date, Harv had taken her on a private tour of the building after closing time. It was a curious gesture, she thought, until he surprised her with a lavish private four-course dinner on the roof terrace. After it became dark and the waitstaff left, they made love under the stars. But it was during dinner that she first eyed the penthouse across the avenue, which a year later they would occupy as their new home. But that was in a happier time.
She yearned to look beyond the National Archives and gazed at a faraway place that existed only in her imagination. It was not real, just like much of the nation’s capital. Washington’s Mall and national monuments might be built over an old rancid swamp, but official Washington cleverly paved over it long ago to glorify itself in time-honored granite and marble. Granite for strength and marble for polish. Who were they kidding? Washington had neither, she thought, but it cornered the market on self-delusion—the renewable biofuel that kept the city humming.
She took another sip of her martini and closed her eyes, content to have the sun’s heat engulf her body—a momentary real-time escape from political Disneyland. She lay back in the lounge chair as she felt her own sweat mix with the pool’s chlorine. It was drying her skin. She sat up quickly and slathered on sunscreen. The sweet smell of coconuts toyed with her senses. She swept her bangs to the side and pinned her damp hair back off her neck and shoulders.
Geneva looked at the beads of sweat dripping down the narrow valley between her breasts. The valley of the shadow of death, she reminded herself. She winced at the thought. She knew she could still turn a man’s head, yet her body did nothing to lure her husband’s advances. She grabbed a towel and erased her perspiration, rubbing her skin until it started to hurt.
Geneva propped her sunglasses on her forehead and reached for the daily Post-Examiner. It felt grainy, almost dusty, and began turning yellow less than sixteen hours after rolling off the presses.
The news was retro: the same old stories about upcoming legislative battles on Capitol Hill; the same tired stories about the presidential campaign. The names changed every four years. The debates never did. And no, this year’s presidential election was no more important than any previous one, but the flood of political campaign commercials was aimed at convincing voters otherwise. She was so tired of it all, and she had to get out. Now she saw her chance.
She closed her eyes again. A horn blared in the post-rush hour traffic. She felt a trickle of sweat run down her belly to between her thighs. Tranquility was scarce in the city, but she cherished her spot atop it all. Then another post-rush hour sound: the distinct clack of the front door bell rung twice.
She raised her eyes and lowered her sunglasses. She swung her legs over the side of her lounge chair, sliding her feet into her sandals. She strode across the hot stone patio and wondered if any neighbor might catch a glimpse of her bare bottom from this vantage point far above the city’s hypocrisy and partisan thuggery. Inside her brightly colored living room, the air-conditioning gave her a sudden chill. Mother Nature’s radiant heat was no match for a blast of man-made cold air.
She grabbed her black yukata—the one splashed with vibrant pink flowers—off the back of the white cloth couch and slipped it on. The light weave clung to her damp skin. She wrapped the cloth belt around her waist and then thought better of it and untied it, letting her robe hang open.
She heard the wall clock chime once for seven thirty as she entered Harv’s bedroom. His tie was already off and three buttons of his shirt undone. A small fund-raiser had been penciled in on his evening agenda. A senator’s life really wasn’t his own Tuesday through Thursday, she thought, even when Congress was out of session.
Geneva had forgotten he was coming home early tonight. Harv loved the Senate, and most nights, he wasn’t home until after nine. She was saddened he’d crashed her solitude, but she was glad he was home. They needed to talk.
“Scotch?” she asked.
“It’s been a hard day, Jen. I had wine at the rece
ption. I don’t want to switch.” He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.
She looked into his pale green eyes, then reached up and ran her fingers through his long, thick, white hair. “Harv, you need a haircut.”
“First thing tomorrow, dear.”
“You might want to ask him to cut it a little shorter this time.”
“Much sun today?”
“It’s very hot, just the way I like it.”
A cabernet waited for him on the balcony when he joined her in his black linen robe, closing the living room French doors behind him. Wine meant a Cohiba cigar—his latest supply, a gift from President William Croom.
“He’s one of the few Republicans I can work with,” the president had whispered in Geneva’s ear at a White House dinner five years ago. Croom showed his appreciation with occasional private conversations on the White House Truman balcony. Just the two of them, smoking Cubans, even though boxes of the cigars were still banned in the United States. Geneva knew the Cuban issue was just another constituency to be managed at election time. The two politicians weren’t going to let a trivial law deny them a momentary pleasure.
She clipped the end of his cigar and placed it next to his wineglass on the small glass-top patio table between them. She loved the aroma of a good cigar—not the cheap ones that often served as shorthand for backroom deals. She preferred to smoke Padron 1964 Anniversary Churchills. As for a good cigar, size did matter, she thought. She flicked the lighter and held it up toward Harv, her supple, evenly tanned skin covering his mottled wrist as she steadied his hand. She then lit her own and grabbed her martini.
“Harv, I had a strange meeting yesterday with an FBI agent.”
“FBI?”
“He was asking about Dave Bayard. He implied something is going on with my bid on the Pentagon contract. It could be in jeopardy.”
“I thought you had a huge advantage over those Lamurr people.”
“We should. Lamurr’s track record in the sky is not very good.”
“And Bayard’s committee, no doubt, will have its fingers all over the contract.”
“No doubt.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised. Bayard is all about Bayard. And if the FBI is interested, it’s more than politics. They must suspect something. He’s running for president, for Christ’s sakes. You just don’t know what kind of deal that bastard would come up with to secure the nomination.”
“The agent said this happens every four years during a presidential campaign. Something about all of the crazies coming out of the woodwork.”
“Hogwash. He’s downplaying it, trying to make you think it’s routine. The FBI doesn’t walk into your office unless its suspicions are pretty damned strong. There is something there, and I’d be worried if I were you.” Harv drew deeply on his Cohiba, not looking at her, and exhaled.
She shuddered. He just confirmed her fears—all of them. “I’m pretty sure Lamurr is paying him off,” Geneva said. “At least the FBI agent implied that. We can’t compete with that. We maxed out our contributions to his presidential campaign.”
“Are you willing to go any further? Take Lamurr on its own turf?”
“Come on, Harv. We’re based in Minneapolis. The guys out there don’t have a clue how to play Washington. They still believe in their junior high civics texts. My hands are tied. I’ve hit the limit of what I can do.”
“Legally.”
“Obviously.” She felt unease coarse through her veins. Harv was fortifying every suspicion she’d had in the last thirty-six hours.
“That’s why I’ve always supported my old pal Ford Patton for president over that slimy bastard Bayard. He’s not on the take the way Bayard is. I think Ford will do well at the convention, but he needs to keep an eye on Bayard. He may need Bayard on the ticket to keep New Jersey in the fold. Bayard could fuck him over if he isn’t on the ticket.”
“Strange bedfellows.”
“Exactly, and they never stop fucking over anyone who’s not in bed with them.”
“Washington’s version of safe sex.”
They laughed. It was good to hear Harv laugh. What had happened to their fun together?
“It makes no sense for Bayard to take a payoff in exchange for a contract, no matter how big it is,” Harv said. “There’s plenty to be made on the Hill. My god, the lobbyists are practically shoving stock tips down my shorts on a daily basis, and they give us cheap access to those super-profitable IPOs. You’re either a damned fool or damned honest if you can’t get rich in this town after Election Day. And we sure know Bayard doesn’t qualify as one or the other.”
“And he still gets their campaign contributions on top of all of that legal graft.”
“Exactly, my dear. It’s a great system.”
“Still? What about Bill Croom’s push to get Congress to change its insider trading rules for members a few years back?”
“Window dressing, dear, nothing more. Neither the Senate nor the House Ethics Committees will be any more aggressive in the future at ferreting out ethics violations or corruption. What you don’t realize, dear, is a year after the insider trading rules were enacted, we gutted them before they took effect without even a floor vote. The public had no clue. One thing you’ve never accepted about Congress, Jen, is how exceptionally adept we are at tap-dancing around the public’s latest perceived outrage. We simply convince voters the problem has been taken care of.”
She cocked her head slightly and looked at him. He was right. What politicians did and what the public perceived were miles apart—just as Congress intended.
Geneva stirred her olive and took a sip of her martini. She liked it dirty. As she turned to set it down on the small table, her robe gaped open and slipped off her thigh, revealing her long, tanned legs all the way up to her hip. She looked toward Harv. He paid no attention. Instead, he looked into the darkening sky and blew out yet another stream of smoke from his cigar.
She felt a chill. Her understanding of their relationship was all too apparent. She pulled the gown back over her legs. Harv continued his monologue.
“The ethics committees don’t investigate the ethics of members of Congress. They defend them.”
“Nothing ever changes here, does it?”
“Insider trading and unethical behavior are very difficult to prove. We can always argue we traded on the day’s headlines. The difference, of course, is we know what tomorrow’s headlines will be. The voters aren’t concerned with a little graft. They’re angry we accomplish so damned little.”
“I’ve never heard you talk this way,” Geneva said. “You’re not getting fed up with this town too, are you? I can’t imagine you would call it quits.” She wondered if there could be a future for them after all.
“Don’t kid yourself, dear. No, I love having a staff at my fingertips to do anything I ask, even picking up my dry-cleaning. I like power. I’m all too human. I married you, when you were my beautiful young staffer—and I appreciate that you take care of yourself and you are still beautiful. Would you have ever married an old guy like me twenty years ago if I weren’t a US senator?”
“Harv, we would never have met if you weren’t a US senator.”
“Nice dodge, dear. But you get my point. Lobbyists, staff, the news media—they all want my attention. Who would I be if I left my job? Who would care about my opinion?”
Geneva said nothing, but instead took a draw on her cigar and blew out a stream of smoke. No, she thought. There is no future here. Not for them. Not for her.
“I know, they say get out before you’re shoved out, but at sixty-six, I feel I still have a good game. There’s no one on the horizon able to take me down—although there are plenty in the Senate who would love to. And if one of these Republicans wins the presidency this fall, we not only own the Senate and the House, but the presidency. It’s a whole new ball game. Bill Croom is nice enough, but he’s still a Dem.
Imagine what I can do with my committee with a Republican in the W
hite House.”
“It’s all about power,” Geneva said. “Harv, nothing seems to change here. Just new labels on the same old battles—over and over and over again. One congressional session blurs into another.” Just like her life, she thought, an endless run on a treadmill going nowhere. She thought of her earlier conversation with Keith and the plan they were hatching. Harv only hardened her resolve to see it through.
“Dear, Washington is all about never-ending turmoil.”
“My job security.”
“And mine. If we move too quickly, your profession won’t have a need to give us all of that lovely campaign cash.”
She smiled at him and relit his cigar. It had gone out during his monologue. Even though the fire in their relationship had dimmed, she still enjoyed the tiny gestures, like pouring his wine and lighting his cigar. He always seemed so appreciative of those small intimacies. But she didn’t kid herself. She realized she was grasping for something that was no longer there.
They sat in silence, above the city lights, enjoying the stars. Geneva turned away and looked over the other buildings down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol, its lit white dome shining like a beacon.
Harv began again, but her thoughts were drawn to the light. Why had she married this man, Senator Michael Harvey? What had she seen in him back then? She had been only twenty-three, and he had been forty-six. For the first sixteen years, she had been convinced it was a wonderful union. But over the last four, Harv had grown disinterested, especially in any physical relationship, as she had entered what she considered her sexual prime.
She turned her head back to him. Only the orange glow of Harv’s cigar was visible, and it moved rhythmically up and down as Harv talked, waving his hand in the air. She shifted her stare back to the light.
Because of their age difference, she was not interested in children and, truthfully, never had the urge after her brother’s sudden death when she was a teenager. Did she want to avoid the pain again of loving someone so much? She’d never really considered that, but now that she looked at Harv puffing away, she realized maybe she’d married him because he was safe—and distant. And it didn’t hurt, she reminded herself, that he provided her with instant access to money and prestige. And because of their age difference, no one ever inquired about them having children. And now they slept in separate rooms.
