"We've gained the capital. I need your help." He sounded calmer this time. There was silence behind him.
"Do you have time to really talk?" I asked, making a note of the time in my book.
"Yes. Can I ask how I pay you for your services? My South American friend didn't give me those details." The general's African accent was luscious. I gave him my Swiss bank account number and told him how payment should be made. "You're a bargain, my friend."
"Feel free to deposit more if you'd like. I also love the paintings of the French Impressionists and nineteenth and twentieth century Americans. I only require that those be shipped with their paperwork and obtained legitimately." I stressed the last word for emphasis.
"Very well." There was a moment of silence. "As you may know from the press, we've arrived at our goal a day early."
As he spoke I could feel my team swirl around me. I quickly relaxed and let them do their work.
"Don't count on it. There's a group of fighters, the last one, who will now blockade you in the building you're calling from. The fighting will last for about a day."
"Nonsense. No one knows where I am," he said with the over confidence of one who thinks he's won the war, when really it's only a battle success.
"Sir, your military mission is not yet accomplished. But, it will be over soon. You will survive.”
"Mr. Donovan, how do you know these things?" The general was angry.
"I just know them," I said, my desired chuckle stifled. “For example: The assistant of your second in command, who I believe is near you right now, taking a shower perhaps?" I'd learned long ago that I only had to share information, not convince the one hearing of its truth or accuracy. I also often reminded those I read for that free will is very active in our universe and that the future, as I see it, can be altered based on their thoughts and actions and the thoughts and actions of those also involved.
"Let’s not waste time with parlor tricks. What are the next steps I need to take?"
"General, you need to establish stability as quickly as feasible by killing as few civilians as possible. The people are supportive of you at this moment, most of them. They hated the dictator as much as you did. It's good that you killed him. He would have been great trouble if you'd allowed him to live. The son of someone very famous in your country, a performer of some kind. I want to say the son of a singer, but he's something else. A writer perhaps. Very famous person. His wife died recently. Their son, you should put him in a very high position of power as the people's representative. You actually need to hold some type of elections. Do not fear, you will be chosen. You should place the dictator's brother on the ballot with you. The two of you know each other well. Did you go to school together?"
"Yes." The general's tone showed his skepticism. "Do you really see this as the way to go? What if the brother wins? I don't have enough connections to rig an election.
"Sir, I'm telling you, the people, the populous is behind you, they support you and what you've done."
"As you said." He didn't sound convinced.
"Oh, I get it. Okay, the famous son, he's to be put into the position as transition advisor. He knows the will of the people very well. He'll bring you up to speed. And, you must not sleep with his wife or his sister. You've a tendency toward being a randy one."
I'd learned over the years that people in power tend to take what they want on all fronts, including sexual. While it makes sense, I admit that I'm always a bit shocked by how many wives and sisters of those wives these men slept with.
There was a deafening explosion near the general.
"Duke, I'm going to have to call you back." The phone went silent.
I hit the clicker to turn on the television news. The breaking report showed a small, solid government complex being bombed and shot at. It would be a long day for General Samovar. I wrote the call’s ending time in my book and left the office.
Sam was in the shower as I slipped back into bed. I had to attempt to get a little more sleep or the party that evening wouldn't be any fun for me. As I drifted off I could hear Sam saying something. I tried to pull myself back to him, but couldn't. I had entered a dream realm where I continued to watch the bombing of the general's location. I could see him and a naked man running down stairs and slamming themselves into a fortified room. They both suited up with body armor and helmets, hunkering down for the onslaught.
Chapter Eleven
“Barton, it’s wonderful,” I said as we walked from room to room, floor to floor. I was amazed that all of this had come together around me without me really taking much notice. But, now, as we visited each room, bath, hall, and the kitchen, I was simply amazed at the beauty all around me. “Your eye for detail is wonderful.”
The designer smiled and patted me on the back. “I’m just so pleased that you’re pleased.”
I sensed that he wanted to talk about something else. We stood together in the middle of the second floor hall, near the staircase that led up to the third floor. “Is there something else?”
“I’ve left the top floor rather plain, as you asked. It does feel incongruous with the rest of the house. Just carpet, paint, and white tile.”
“Fine. That’s fine. I’m not yet sure what that floor will become, so I’ve decided to leave it clean and simple. When the idea comes, I’ll let you know.” I turned from the staircase. Barton remained near the corner. I’d never seen him lack animation before. “Come into my office and I’ll write you the final check.” I moved toward the door. I absolutely loved the room with its walls of bookcases, large solid desk, wing-backed sitting chairs, and a table that was the perfect size for tarot card readings. I’d stopped having people in my home for readings, doing most of my work either over the phone. Still, I loved the table and looked forward to doing a reading there.
I sat at my desk, unlocked the right drawer, and removed my checkbook. Barton produced his final invoice and I filled out the check with its comma and many zeros. “May I call on you in the future? I’ve got some more art arriving and may need your expert eye.”
“Of course,” said Barton as he tucked the check into his leather bag.
“Is there something else?” I asked, not moving from the comfortable desk chair. I knew he wanted or expected a reading. But, I wasn’t feeling it and was rather sure that if I didn’t actually offer, he wouldn’t request it.
As we shared a silent moment, the phone rang. “Duke Donovan,” I said crisply into the new telephone. I listened for a moment and then held my hand over the mouthpiece. “Sorry, Barton. I’ve got to take this. Can you let yourself out?”
The designer placed my house key on the desk. We shook hands. He left and I turned my attention back to the client on the phone.
"Duke," the voice was soft in my ear. Sam gently rubbed my back. I slowly rolled my hind end toward him to expose more surface area and the rub turned into a light scratch. "Time to get up. The party is in a few hours. Malcolm said you like to get up about three hours before."
I rolled again and faced the handsome man looking down at me. I pulled him to me and we kissed.
An advantage to dating young men is that they're always ready and usually willing to make love with little encouragement. As we kissed, Sam pulled off his clothes, then mine. He moved his attention with a trail of kisses down my body to my cock. His mouth was hot on my hardening member. I placed my hands behind my head, feeling like the ruler of the world, I thought of General Samovar and the new dictator who was in the middle of a civil war, leading a revolution.
Sam rolled the condom over my dick and stroked it with a hand covered in lube. A moment later, he’d straddled me, sliding down on to me. I looked into his eyes. He smiled at me before closing them. I watched his face contort at the feelings caused by his rocking motions and could sense that he was fantasizing about someone else. I contemplated that for a moment and realized it didn’t bother me at all. He could fantasize about anyone he wanted, so long as my needs were being met with him.
Sam reached down and took his cock in his hand, stroking slowly, obviously enjoying the experience. As he stroked and rode, his chest heaved. His motions sped up and I thrust my hips quickly upward to meet his downward pushing.
“I’m close,” I whispered.
Sam didn’t open his eyes, instead increasing his own actions. His ass tightened around by cock, his hand moved harder and faster until it was a blur before me.
I reached a hand forward, taking his balls into my palm and rolled my hips as high as I could get them under his weight. Sam moaned. I raised my hips a little higher to meet his downward push and we both came together. It was a sweet moment as he rolled forward and kissed me hard on the mouth as his cock shot its warm jism onto my belly. We continued kissing until my dick softened a bit and slid from his ass.
After catching our breath, we headed into the bathroom for a shower, still silent. It wasn’t until we were finishing up at the double sinks that we finally spoke again to each other.
"Should we dress for the party now?" Sam asked between floss strokes.
"We've still got some time. No need to be wrinkled when the guests arrive." I finished shaving, rinsed my face, and moved on to attending to my teeth.
One of the things I love about being with Sam is that we enjoy being in the bathroom together. Our routines fit well. We usually talked in between shaving, teeth brushing, and nose hair trimming. So many of the men I've been with over the years have preferred being alone for those rituals. Not Sam. He loved standing naked in front of the mirror, primping and trimming, while we talked.
Knock on the bathroom door.
"What is it Malcolm?"
He didn't open the door and pop his head around.
I put on my robe, Sam followed my lead. I opened the door.
"Sir, it's the General."
I headed to my office. Malcolm had placed two cans of Diet Coke on my desk along with a fresh, opened pack of cigarettes. I lit a smoke with my favorite Zippo, picked up the phone. "Yes?"
"Duke?"
The line crackled. I knew the State Department was in on this one. "Sir, this isn't a secure line. We're being listened to by someone."
"Understood," he said in an officious voice. The bombs and gunfire rang through the line.
"Just stay where you are. Take this time with the other one to make plans for the future. Understand?"
"Yes."
"I won't be available to you until tomorrow."
"Very well, Duke."
We rang off.
I made a notation in my book before locking it away with my favorite tarot cards. One disadvantage to having a house full of people is that there was always at least one who snooped and wandered. The fact that the last phone call was bugged didn't add to my sense of comfort. I pushed the call button. The butler appeared within seconds.
"Malcolm, we're going to have to change the phone line again. It doesn't need to be done at this exact moment, but first thing in the morning."
"Yes, Sir."
My thoughts trailed off into the list of those who would have to be notified. Several would be missed, they'd call the house line and that would then have to be changed. Still it must be done.
"Sir, the press has started to arrive."
"Excellent." I was back in the moment. Guests would be arriving soon. My heart fluttered in anticipation. "Is everything ready?"
Malcolm's look shifted.
"What?"
"Yes, I think everything is ready, but there's something I forgot and it's too late to do anything about it."
"Spit it out, man."
"The piano. I forgot to get the piano tuned."
Ten, nine, eight…. I pulled a stylish pocket notebook out of my desk drawer. "My friend, it appears it's time for you to start taking notes. Unless…"
"Sir?" He didn't reach for the notebook.
"Malcolm, are you still happy here? Do you like being my butler?"
"Oh, I do, Sir. I feel like this is meant to be my work. It's just that lately—"
"What?" I asked, softly.
"Lately, I haven't been feeling like myself. I haven't been feeling on top of my game."
"Give me your hand."
"Sir," he said with trepidation. "You know I don't like that." He offered his hand all the same.
I held it and listened.
"Well?" he asked, impatient.
"I thought you didn't want to know," I said playfully. He shot small daggers from his eyes, more fun than angry. "There is a problem with your kidneys. It's not serious, not yet. You need to see the doctor. There’s also a problem with your mind. There's a drug that will help. But, I have to tell you my friend, like Denny Crane, you're in the early stages of mad cow." His eyes dropped along with his shoulders at the reference to the Boston Legal character. "Buck up, old man, you've got many years left of mostly clear thought. And, I need you to know, this is from me, not them, that when the time comes, you'll be well cared for, even if you're not really aware of it. If you're willing, I'm in your life for the long haul. But, this is all a long way off, many years."
"Not long enough." He took back his hand, turned to leave.
"Malcolm." The butler turned back. I offered him the notebook. "Make a note to see the doctor."
He reluctantly took the little black book like detectives use. I watched as he wrote it down.
"Sam!" I called into the house. He appeared in my office door in just his boxers. "Sam," I smiled at him. "God, you're handsome!" He beamed, his eyes lit up, his chest puffed out a bit. I moved my thoughts from the little brain below to the main one on top. "Poor Malcolm, he forgot to have the piano tuned. Is that going to be a problem?"
I could see Sam working through the numbers he planned to play. "Shit."
"Really?"
"I'll take care of it," he turned and was gone. A moment later I could hear the unmistakable sounds of the piano being tuned. It stopped. "SILENCE!" he shouted to the house. The plunking resumed.
I dressed in my favorite Bernini suite. When I got downstairs, Sam, still only in his boxers, was tucked into the piano. He came out, hit a key, hit another key, "there," he said.
"You need to dress, Sam. Our guests will be arriving any minute."
"Shit," he said.
When he passed me in the doorway I patted his ass and kissed him. "Hot. You're so fucking hot," I whispered. An erection popped out of his boxers.
"Stop, you old letch." He laughed, kissed me again, lightly, and bound up the stairs.
Chapter Twelve
My talents grew stronger; my client base grew larger. As I said earlier, it all began with those men I met in the bars. I'd read for them, have sex, and that was that. My schedule began filling with clients. Money started coming into the picture when I'd had enough sex. Well, that's not exactly true. I don't know that we ever have enough. But, I'd had so much that I felt I could start being choosy about who got that added service. The others, they just got readings. They paid. They kept returning. They paid more.
At first, my clients were whoever I'd met. Mostly men. They started recommending others. More women came into the picture, but still, most of my clients were men. The recommendations kept coming. I had to get a calendar to keep track. I had to create rules about how often people could take advantage of my services. At first that was every month, then every three months, then six.
I met a high profile, New York business man, Randall Marks. He started asking me questions about the markets. I was right a lot of the time, not all of the time, but most of the time. My usual fee then was around $100 for thirty minutes. He offered me $500 for fifteen minutes if I'd talk to him every week. That amount covered my entire month's rent. Four meetings, sixty minutes, my rent was paid for the month. How cool is that? I agreed to Randall's offer, warning him that I couldn't guarantee that I'd have solid information for him that frequently. He didn't mind. He said he was willing to take the risk.
A few months passed. Randall's suits were nicer. He no longer took the subw
ay, instead a car and driver waited for him outside my apartment building. Gold appeared on his fingers and wrists. He quit his job at the investment house, working now only for himself, using the information I was giving him. I felt taken advantage of and doubled my rate. He agreed without blinking an eye. A month later, I doubled it again. I repeated this until my bank account overflowed. He kept coming back. His cash payments to me turned into direct deposits to my bank account. When the government started reviewing me, Randall helped me open a Swiss bank account.
It was around that time, around the time of the new bank account, that I got a call from Prime Minister Sabine. She'd heard about me from "a banker friend." She asked my rate. I gave her the rate I charged Randall. She asked how it could be paid. I offered the Swiss bank account option. Whenever she needed me, she called. The agreement was that I had to be available. No exceptions. We didn't speak frequently, not as frequently as I helped Randall. But, I helped Betsy Sabine stay in power for a long time. I helped her keep her people happy, while siphoning off a fortune. When Betsy died she left me my first Monet painting. It was a small piece, but lovely.
Randall was a nice old man. Through my advice, and his own savvy, he amassed a fortune. He didn’t have any children. He had no one. He left most of his money to his alma mater, Columbia University. The rest, he left to me. That’s when I purchased the brownstone.
My father and Lola were the first to arrive. I knew they'd also probably be the last to leave. That was my father's style. He was always about getting all that he could from me, even if it was only drinks and jumbo shrimp. The press ignored them when they arrived, even though Lola, with her ample rack barely tucked into the expensive, ill-fitting cocktail dress, stopped at the front door and turned toward them for a photo.
"I can't believe those SOBs aren't interested in taking my picture," she said loud enough for everyone on the block to hear.
"They'll get us on the way out," my father assured her. "Who the fuck are you?" he asked the big, solid man in the tuxedo who opened my door.
The Middle Man [A Broadway Romance] Page 8
