“What, you want to check out my ass, now?” Thomas spun around and stuck his butt out.
“Nice, but I need an aspirin for the flowers,” she replied. “Makes them last longer.” She didn’t sound angry anymore.
“That’s a relief. I thought you were about to say I gave you a headache.”
Ignoring his remark Jeanne turned off the water and reached over to pick up the flowers, stopping to inhale the rich fragrance before placing the flowers in the vase. “Mmmmm,” she looked up from the bouquet and smiled. “They smell wonderful,” she said as she stepped back to appreciate the way they added a warmer, softer appearance to her otherwise austere kitchen. As she did, she felt Thomas’s eyes again. Without turning around she said, “When we were watching you on TV the other night, before, well, you know. Oh God, Thomas it was, so, so horrible...”
“I don’t want to talk about that right now.” Thomas waved his hand to stop her. “I’m not insensitive. It’s just that I haven’t thought or heard of anything else since it happened. Every time my watch phone rings it’s another well-meaning person who wants to bring me some kind of comfort by telling me all about how they admired my dad. Well, hell, I know how great he was, but I need to take a break from the pain.” He exhaled, leaned back against the counter, looked down at the floor and shook his head.
Jeanne nodded, understanding.
He looked up again and said, “While I appreciate my friends and my dad’s friends trying to cheer me up, I’m overdosing on sympathy. I don’t need anymore — not from them and not from you, either.”
Feeling suddenly awkward in his gaze because she knew she had sympathy written all over her face, Jeanne didn’t know what to say, or do, or even how to properly rearrange the frozen features on her face. How could silence be so overbearing, so dominating it drowned out everything to the point that it became hard to speak over it?
Thomas recognized Jeanne’s classic, deer caught in the headlights look. Realizing that he caused it, he offered a little help by asking, “So, uh, anyway, who were you watching with?”
Breathing a small sigh of relief, Jeanne replied, “Oh, you know, Bill, Bev, Janis, Dottie, and the rest of the regular Cambridge Brewery crowd.” Seeing Thomas’s face and mood brighten, as if the sun were emerging from behind a dark cloud, her spirits began to lift as well. “All my girlfriends thought you were pretty darned cute, you know,” she smiled coyly.
He smiled back with a loveable, “aw shucks,” look.
“Now don’t go getting too big headed over this, but I had to admit they were right.”
Thomas wasn’t sure how to respond, but he liked what he heard. “Well, you never really acted like you thought so,” he complained.
“Well,” she turned around. “You never really looked at me like this before, either, you know.”
“Yes I did,” he countered. “But you were too busy dreaming of floating down the Nile, being fanned by ostrich feathers and watching half-naked muscle men rowing your barge.”
“Are you sure they were only half naked?” Jeanne kidded. Seeing that Thomas appreciated the humor she took a step forward, twirled a strand of her raven black hair around the index finger of her right hand and asked, not so shyly, “Well, what if I’m having another dream now?”
“Filled with half-naked men?”
Jeanne took another step forward. With a sultry voice that would have left smoke curling in the air if such a thing were possible, she said, “More than half.” Her raised eyebrows, framing the look in her blazing green eyes, hinted strongly of her intentions. The kiss that followed confirmed them.
Wind, coal, natural gas and nuclear generating plants be damned. The current of sexual electricity that arched between the two of them at that moment could have illuminated all of Boston, while the heat could have burned it to the ground. To him, she tasted and smelled like a sweet field of clover in the summertime that made him want to roll around in it forever.
Traveling down from the firmness of her neck, Thomas’s hands encountered the delicate softness of her thin T-shirt stretched over her otherwise unencumbered breasts. How long had he waited and dreamed of this moment? They were not so small as to disappoint, and not so large as to be disproportionate when compared with the rest of her, and he ached to make all of the comparisons humanly possible.
Mesmerized by her emerald eyes that commanded his attention, wiping out everything else that ever was or will be, Thomas thought he had died and gone to heaven. What could ever be better than this? And then he knew. Oh Jesus, she was tugging at his belt.
“Do you like to take showers?” she whispered in his ear. She pulled the belt free from his Dockers and slung it to the floor while pulling him out of the kitchen saying, “I love showers.”
“Oh yeah,” Thomas agreed, giddy with anticipation. “Showers are great!” He had barely finished the last word when she locked onto his lips again and slipped her tongue into his mouth. He responded by wrapping his arms around her narrow waist and holding her as tight as he could, pressing the entire length of his body against hers.
Not to be outdone and unwilling to let him take control, she pushed him back against a wall and ground her lower extremities against him in a way he had never even dared to dream.
Encouraged by the bulge growing beneath the pressure she exerted, she pulled him off the wall and pushed him back, although he offered no resistance. They kissed and groped their way through the living room, into the narrow hallway and further, until he found himself in her bathroom.
Raging hormones and pheromones led to uttered moans as they reached an organic facsimile of atomic critical mass. A nuclear explosion of desire mushroomed as fingers fumbled with buttons, zippers and waistbands. After his yellow, smiley-face boxers and her bra and panties were kicked aside, his greedy hands closed over her bared breasts. Breathing rapidly, she glanced down at his hands and beyond, while he manipulated her nipples, causing her to gasp and her eyelids to flutter.
Flushed cheeks pink with sexual excitation rubbed together, while parted lips, darting tongues and searching hands and fingers continued to press, intertwine and explore, seeking ways to please and to be pleased.
Soon, bubbles and warm water cascaded down their bodies, failing to douse the raging fire that burned out of control. Thomas pushed forward, causing Jeanne to gasp when her bare back brushed against the still-chilly shower tile. At the same moment, she felt something stiff yet rubbery press against her lower belly. He was close, oh, so very close to the empty, sensitive, love-starved area that begged to be rubbed and filled to the bursting point. After enduring the momentary frustration of feeling Thomas’s contribution to their union slip and slide this way and that, without finding the desired path, she reached down, curled her fingers around him, bit her lower lip in ecstasy, and guided him in.
The literal and metaphorical steam rose, spilling over the top of the enclosed shower in a misty cloud that fogged the surrounding glass and the nearby mirror over the sink. Undulating and shuddering with each powerful thrust, Jeanne stood on tiptoe, closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around Thomas’s neck to help maintain her balance.
Finally, after both had experienced near-disastrous slips on the wet tile and after Thomas’s elbow banged against the glass of the shower stall so hard they were amazed it hadn’t shattered, the lovers experienced a tsunamic wave of pleasure that swept over them in a way that no assemblage of eloquent words could describe.
Later, after making love a third time, bewildered by the sudden emergence of unanticipated desires and emotions, Thomas and Jeanne recuperated in a twisted pile of damp sheets, moistened by their still wet, hastily toweled bodies.
Thomas kissed her forehead, remembering how she had stood on her toes, then one leg, then the other. At last, she resorted to mounting him by wrapping both of her long, shapely legs around his hips while he supported her weight with his strong arms, assisted by the tile wall behind her as a brace.
“You know what?” he aske
d
“What?” she purred.
“You’re amazing, that’s what. You’re my sexy shower acrobat. You belong in Cirque De Soleil.”
She responded with a tired, sleepy smile.
The burning desire and extreme urgency in her sparkling eyes had disappeared. Now, Thomas beheld a relaxed and replete woman.
Jeanne ran her delicate, perfectly manicured fingers through his short hair while he hummed the old Gene Kelly classic, “Singin’ in the Rain,” in acknowledgment of her provocative performance during their sensual shower ballet. After the final note she snuggled up to his ear and whispered, “I don’t know if you can tame a pair of enraged crocodiles or not, mister, but right now I’m pretty damned impressed.”
Chapter Thirteen
At five ‘til seven that evening, dressed in a waiter’s uniform, Horus opened the back door to the kitchen at Aldo Donatello’s, a popular gathering place for DC’s well-heeled lovers of fine Italian cuisine. Located in the refurbished Watergate Hotel, ostensibly chosen for its part in Richard Nixon’s downfall, Donatello’s offered a breathtaking view of the Potomac. The river provided the perfect backdrop for a rousing, patriotic speech, expected to raise millions for the Gillpatrick campaign.
The evening’s theme, “Down with tyranny — Up with the economy,” had been chosen to remind the nation’s industrial leaders and the American people of the Democratic Party’s robust health. They had no intention of allowing the Republicans to regain seats in the Senate or Congress. Even after the devastating events in Jerusalem, the Democrats remained dedicated to the ideals of energy independence and education for all.
Security had been doubled. Secret Service, C.I.A. and F.B.I. agents were stationed throughout the hotel and restaurant. They were on the lookout for a tall, powerfully built, black man, but had also been told to watch for an equally tall, young man of Arabic origin, an oil cartel sympathizer named Horace Khenemetankh. Each agent carried a picture copied from Horace’s college I.D. photo.
Earlier that day, Senator Kevin Gillpatrick had called his wife after arriving at the home of his late brother. He told her, after conferring with President Daley, that he had decided to run for the presidency and intended to announce his candidacy, putting an end to the charade of posing as the vice president, as soon as they apprehended the assassin. Her reaction had been less than enthusiastic.
“Are you out of your goddamned mind?” Shannon screeched, while pacing up and down the narrow runner that padded the wooden, first-floor hallway of their colonial styled home. “You’ll be shot, or blown up, or something, just like your brother, and there’ll be one more Washington widow whose life will be destroyed, just like poor Sonya Franklin. You know she’s still under psychiatric care, don’t you, Kevin? I understand she might not ever fully recover, which isn’t surprising. Imagine watching your husband being killed on primetime worldwide satellite coverage. Is that what you want for me? Is it? And what about Chloe? She needs you. She has a right to have a father around to see her graduate from high school, go to college and to get married. You do want to be around for those things, don’t you, Kevin?”
~~~
A master of diplomacy, Gillpatrick hadn’t a clue as to how he might soothe his wife’s wholly justified fears. He knew the risks, but his country needed him and he believed the risks were justified. He leaned back on the comfortable leather couch in his brother’s sports memorabilia room and did the only thing he could — he let her vent. As her angry words, born of fear, spewed forth from the Cartier, Roadster Chronocom on his wrist, he looked around the room remembering how his brother had so loved the Boston Red Sox.
Mounted on one paneled wall, an impressive collection of bats used throughout the ages by famous Sox players caught his attention. A small, bronze plaque over one of them proclaimed Babe Ruth had hit a home run with it in 1919, his final year with Boston. The growing embarrassment caused by Babe’s womanizing, voracious drinking habits, and the fact that he no longer wanted to pitch, led the owner of the Sox, Harry Frazee, to accept the cash buyout offer of Ruth’s contract from the Yankees. Ruth would go on as a Yankee to become idolized and immortalized, but certainly never came close to being canonized.
How does anyone know when a seemingly good decision is going to backfire and turn out to be a bad one? When Christopher had announced his candidacy for the presidency of the United States, nobody could have foreseen the events that took place. As Shannon continued to rant, Kevin shook his head, mystified, as he pondered the unpredictable twists and turns that life could take.
“Are you listening to me, Kevin? Kevin? Kevin!” The sound of his wife’s voice, distorting as her shouting over-modulated the watch phone’s sound processor, brought him back from his daydream.
“Yes dear, I’m listening.”
~~~
Alan Harrison, the secret service agent stationed at the back door of Aldo Donatello’s, stared at the tall, bearded black man whose credentials seemed in order. Holding the driver’s license in his right hand, he raised his digital watch-phone to his lips and spoke to Morgan Robinson, the man coordinating the event’s security efforts.
“Harrison here. I have a tall, black man, driver’s license issued in DC. He claims to be a waiter scheduled to work the banquet tonight. His I.D. looks authentic, but he fits the description of the suspect.”
“Is he on the list of employees that were cleared?” Robinson asked, his words audible, via ear bud receiver, only to Harrison.
“Yes sir.” Harrison whispered, attempting to keep others from hearing. “But something’s not right sir. He’s too, well, he’s just too damned arrogant for a waiter if you ask me.”
“Why?” Robinson wondered, “What did he say?”
“It’s not so much what he said, sir, because he hasn’t said much of anything. It’s his mannerisms. He’s all full of confidence and purpose. He’s got an attitude. You can see it real clear. The rest of the kitchen staff seemed nervous and uncomfortable, the way people usually are when I ask for their credentials. I’m tellin’ you, this guy’s not a waiter.”
Robinson’s reply followed a short pause. “Do a wireless digital fingerprint and transmit it to me. I’ll have an answer for you in less than three minutes.”
Prepared to follow Robinson’s suggestion, Harrison pulled the slim, digital, fingerprint pad from his jacket.
“Excuse me, sir,” the tall black man raised his hand. “I need to get to work. If you have any doubts as to the validity of my identification or my right to be here, why not simply ask the chef? He would recognize his own employees, wouldn’t he?”
Harrison nodded in reluctant agreement, slipped the pad back into his jacket and motioned for Horus to follow him. The heels of his Florsheims beat a brisk rhythm on the clay tile floor as he made his way through the spotless kitchen to the preparation area. There, a tall, obese, white-haired man dominated the scene.
Wearing a traditional chef’s hat and a white uniform, he whirled theatrically in a huge cloud of steam that escaped from two enormous aluminum pots. In his cup towel-protected right and left hands he clasped the scalding hot metal handles to the shining lids. He brandished them as if they were orchestral cymbals to be clanged together at the climactic moment in Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture.”
Bent low over the gleaming pots, inhaling the aroma of the soup that bubbled therein, extreme satisfaction registered upon his face. His expression resembled that of a great athlete whose efforts had secured a world championship for his team. Redolent with rich Italian spices, the misty vapors from the boiling pots bore a delicious, light, discernibly zesty flavor that settled in the nasal passages and throats of all who gathered in the food preparation area.
Beaming, Aldo looked around at the admiring, worshipful faces of his employees and apprentices who regarded him as a true culinary artist. In a moment of triumph, he clanged the silvery lids together before placing them back on the pots.
His cheeks and nose were as crimson as a cherry, redd
ened by the effort of bending over and made rosier still by the heat. With his height and considerable girth dwarfing those around him, he looked like a beardless, Italian Santa Claus in a white chef’s apron, surrounded by elves, ready to bark the traditional Christmas liftoff commands to his reindeer. But instead of Donder and Blitzen, he called out in a thick accent for Luigi and Gino, and began to add finishing touches of garnish or dashes of spice to various dishes brought before him for his final approval.
With arms crossed, Harrison stood in the aisle between the state-of-the-art gas ranges and ovens and the long, stainless steel, double-tiered counter. Stacked upon the counter, entrees awaited delivery to hungry patrons. Less than five feet away from the rotund chef, Harrison’s black suit stuck out among the white-clad cooks, waiters and waitresses. They scurried back and forth, squeezing around him and Horus in the narrow passageway.
Tired of waiting, Harrison announced his presence with a clearing of his throat and said, “Excuse me.” He might as well have been invisible and remained silent for all the attention it attracted. No one glanced in his direction. Unsure as to whether he was being ignored, or had not been heard over the din, Harrison again cleared his throat, louder than before, and shouted, “Excuse me!” but got the same result.
Tired of playing games, he chose a more aggressive approach. Intending to duplicate Donatello’s dramatic waving and clanging of the pot lids, the agent stepped forward and grabbed them by their shiny metal handles. By the time he raised the silvery lids above his head, gaining the entire kitchen staff’s attention, his unprotected hands began to burn. His expression changed from triumphant confidence to desperation. His eyes bulged as he flung the lids through the air, propelling them across the kitchen. Everyone followed the trajectory of the gleaming metal covers, tumbling and wobbling like two out-of-control UFO’s. After ricocheting off the wall, the lids crashed into a metal supply cabinet and slid to a clattering halt on the floor.
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 11
