Them Hustlers

by Jeffrey Manber

  This doll, held in the hands of Gigi, on the fourth floor of the University Club on 16th Street just blocks from the White House, was now ready.

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter 10

  Julian Martinez listened with a drop of smugness to Congressman Robert Livingston lavish praise on his family.

  He, the son of immigrants who had fled from Cuba, was right now a very hot commodity in the halls of the Congress of the United States. Oh, if his father could know how important his youngest son had become. Calls and meetings with leaders ranging from Newt Gingrich to Bob Barr of Georgia and Henry Hyde of Illinois. These were the men standing up to the president that had besmirched the honor of America.

  It was a privilege to be eating tonight with a Republican leader like Livingston. And soon perhaps the leader of all the American people. And Julian Martinez had told him so while sipping his Cuba Libra. The drink was a favorite of his mother. On occasions like this he especially enjoyed the dark rum and coke with lime juice. The lime juice made the difference, not that Livingston would understand. His host had ordered a white wine. Imagine that? Just one sign that the evening would not go well, but still he felt the need to be overly polite. The timing was off. The most rookie of politicians would understand that if he endorsed Livingston now, if tonight he gave his word to support Livingston, there would be no more phone calls from Bob Barr, no more whispered promises from Newt Gingrich, no more quiet understandings from possible other candidates.

  Tonight was for listening and sipping another Cuba Libre. Maybe two. For showing his respect to Robert Livingstone. That had to be done; it was the unspoken custom in Washington. Nothing more need be done tonight.

  Nothing.

  * * *

  I conjure to you strong spirits, in the name of the mighty hero, to bear witness to my writings on this parchment, sprinkled it is with the blood of the bird and the egg of the reptile…

  * * *

  Julian understood that if he did throw his vote to Livingston, it would be only for his own short-term political gain. The reality was that Livingston and he were worlds apart. He just didn’t buy into the morality drive of the Republican leaders. Not at all. Julian was a Republican because the party, from the time of Goldwater and Nixon had always stood firm against Fidel Castro. John Kennedy had sold the Cubans out on the Bay of Pigs. His father had told him many times about his uncle running up onto the beach without the promised back-up from the Americans, right into the hail of bullets from Castro’s men.

  That’s why he had entered political life as a Republican. This was the party strong against the Communist bastards. Reagan standing at the Berlin Wall, taunting the Soviets. Mano a mano.

  Martinez rubbed his finger around the rim of his drink, listening half-heartedly to the stream of praise being lavished by Livingston. Truth be told, God have mercy on his mother’s soul, he had a lover. That would make him a target of Bob Barr and Bill Livingston and Speaker Gingrich, just like Bill Clinton.

  Oh, what a woman, crazy, wild Angela. A soft smile, lost in the dim light of the dining room, crossed Martinez’s face.

  Angela was a living goddess with skin bronzed from the Cuban sun and teeth pearly white. Just last month he had moved Angela up from Miami to an apartment next door to his cramped one bedroom Washington bachelor pad. She was his escape from the pressures of a life lonelier than hell with his wife and three kids still in Florida.

  When Angela laughed he laughed.

  When last week she dragged him into the bushes behind the apartment building and right then and there begged him to make love to her, he didn’t think of his wife or that he was a congressman or a member of the Republican Party.

  At that moment he was young again, stripped of the baggage of years being in the public limelight, intoxicated with a beautiful woman who lay laughing on the ground. It must have been the same with the president. If Bill Clinton felt trapped in the Oval Office and that young woman was his escape, well, that should be his secret. That’s what Julian believed.

  Why these Republicans would use a man’s private love affair to march into the White House; that was something difficult for Julian to accept.

  * * *

  Thou come to me in the name of Halighi and reveal to me all that I am asking in the blood of the bird and the egg of the reptile, one who flew close to the gods of the sky and one who knows of the evil in the earth.

  I ask that thee not tarry for the mission is of urgency. Reveal thyself not to me but to one Julian Martinez, here, in my hand, Julian Martinez, who I ask you to reveal yourself.

  * * *

  Julian smiled his thanks as Livingston told of his support for the free Cuba efforts. His staunch anti-communism. He didn’t seem that bad a guy, actually. Stronger than Julian had anticipated. Bob Livingston’s eyes, his whole body, were fixed fully on Julian.

  * * *

  I write this name on this parchment. I write this name for Martinez to be persuaded.

  A short hour later Julian was feeling the effects of the second Cuba Libra. Again he thought of his father. A proud man who was willing to die to liberate Cuba. One late afternoon, soon after the family had escaped to Miami, Julian had burst unannounced into his father’s temporary office and caught him kissing a full figured woman, with a heavy scent of perfume. A distant cousin, his father had hastily explained. But then a beautiful smile lit across the troubled face of a man who had just lost everything of materialistic value. “Son, one day you will have a cousin like her,” and then father and the woman had laughed.

  It must be the drinks, what else could make him feel this way? Damn, he had drunk far too fast; he was feeling a little woozy. Julian looked down at his plate. Neither man had eaten much. He felt light-headed.

  What was Livingston saying? That this was the moment to commit, that those that committed now would gain the most. He hadn’t looked at it that way before. Yes, the last into the room might not have a seat.

  There was logic in that.

  * * *

  The parchment is being lit and burned. The ashes will be sprinkled over the blood of the bird.

  * * *

  Over espresso, (how thoughtful of Bob, he had personally made sure the club would prepare a strong cup of espresso, knowing it was how every Cuban liked to end a full meal,) Livingston grabbed Julian’s arm and held it firmly in his left hand.

  “Julian, I want to have your support. With your support we can change the future for the people of Cuba.”

  Julian looked back at Livingston, filling with respect for this man who cared so much about the Cuban people.

  Livingstone was a leader.

  A man his mother would be proud to know her son was supporting. Not for base reasons, but for the people of Cuba. For a free Cuba. His whole body sizzled with good energy. It was time for some statement, to show this future leader of the Republicans and possibly all Americans that Julian Martinez would not be the last man in the room.

  “Congressman, on behalf of the people of my district and our freedom-loving friends in Cuba, I am proud to give you my support. You have my word.”

  The words just rolled out, as if his tongue had committed before his head. But they were the right words, and when Julian heard himself speak those words, he felt a pride, as if it was not he, as if it was someone else being so noble and eloquent.

  Bob was touched. “I will never forget your support for me, I promise. That you have done this without political motivation will not be forgotten once I’m in the leadership position.”

  Julian felt his heart pounding. Only now he remembered he had first wanted to discuss an appointment for Angela, some innocuous honorary role for her on a U.S.-Latin art committee. This would give his lovely angel an important task, as well as an excuse for them to travel together. But there would time enough later, thought a happy Julian. He had stepped up at the right moment as a key ally of the next Speaker of the House, and then the next president of the United States, The Honorable Bob Livingston.
r />   What a fantastic meeting.

  ~ ~ ~

  Part II

  The Psychic Pimp

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter 11

  Greene lay on the Egyptian cotton sheets with the sleeping Tanya turned away, with the huge white pillows propped all around the two of them. It was quiet. It was the quiet that had woken him up. No dogs. Tanya had given him a gift last night, chasing the girls out of the bedroom. There were times when Tanya made love with the drive of a man. All business. Last night was one of those times. Ever since her late night meeting at the University Club Tanya had been pawing all over him.

  As soon as they walked into the house she took off her coat, rounded up the dogs, walked him into the bedroom where she tricked him into having sex. She had flopped on the bad, stomach down, pretending to look for a pair of shoes under the other side. When he went to help, she jumped him. Greene was truly surprised. Within seconds Tanya had pulled down his jeans, mounted him, and was slamming herself forward and backwards with an intensity that was scary. Her eyes were closed, her mouth half open as if in a pout. Who was she thinking of? He wondered why the ferocity. And times like that he felt like nothing more than a sexual accessory. He was ready to quit after an hour or so but Tanya kept going, and it wasn’t until three or four in the morning that finally she let him fall asleep. Not that he was complaining.

  He opened his eyes. Her shallow breathing told him she was also awake.

  “You up?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Enjoy last night?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Want more?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “You sure?”

  Silence.

  A gift was called for to thank her for the evening. He didn’t want to do this but it was the right thing to do. “You want to work on the wedding announcements today?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  He was so surprised he had an erection.

  Was it possible this was to be a Saturday of rest? Staying in bed, reading the Post and watching old movies, later some more sex, call in for some Chinese food and just do nothing?

  Apparently not. Tanya bounced up from the bed, wrapping the top cotton sheet deftly around her thin body in that time-honored ritual of all women. “You’re so stupid,” she cried out to him in exasperation. “You’ve forgotten!”

  Running to the bedroom doors she flung them open. “Darlings, forgive me.” She threw her arms out to take in the girls, whose paws slipped and skidded over the waxed wooden floors. Only his fiancée would have exotic designer styled dogs. Tanya then ran into the bathroom. “Get ready,” she called out, “we’re leaving for Annapolis, remember?”

  Judging by the sounds from the bathroom Tanya had just turned on the shower. That mean he had some time alone. Elizabeth and Victoria whimpered, wanting to be lifted onto the bed to luxuriate under the Egyptian cotton sheets. Let ‘em wait.

  * * *

  *

  A late summer Saturday morning in the tourist town of Annapolis. Well turned out women were going about their pre-autumn sales shopping under the watchful eye of the town's local fortune teller.

  Tarot Tales stood at the bottom of Main Street, right across from the famous harbor. It was a world away from the traditional gypsy readers. Here the mostly female clientele could find a man willing to listen to their problems in love and jobs and family and it all seemed terribly chic. Herb McDermott was not only a shrewd reader of the tarot cards; he was a trusted friend for more than a hundred women of Annapolis and the surrounding bedroom communities of Washington.

  Though the shop door was propped open, signaling it was open for business, on this hazy morning McDermott was enjoying the parade of women already out shopping. Up and down West Street the fashionable boutiques were selling out the last of the summer merchandise. Herb watched the women dart first into one store, emerge with a bag and dart into the next. Even when the weather turned markedly cooler, Herb could be seen chatting in front of the store or occupying one of the harbor benches along Market Square, all the while observing the world passing by.

  The midshipmen and their dates, the tourists, the weekend sailors, the students of St. John’s and the red-faced rowdy beer drinkers all fell under the watchful eye of McDermott. With a nonchalant glance McDermott took in their manner of their walk, eavesdropped onto their conversations, or watched where the women shopped. Should one come in for a reading, more often than not he knew much about their lives even before the cards were unpacked.

  McDermott’s living was now earned this way; by pulling together those seemingly unrelated bits of information produced as strangers went about their daily lives. What Phil laboriously studied to half-comprehend about his own life, Herb could effortlessly connect in the span of a few minutes. The clothes a new customer wore or didn’t wear, what time of day the client walked into his shop, how their eyes darted about and what merchandise they focused on, all revealed parts of that person’s life-story. Assembling the pieces took a patience few could acquire. And an acceptance that the tarot cards do paint an honest picture in the hands of a good listener.

  A former sailor, Herb was the husband of Tamay, whom he had met while on shore leave in Istanbul. The young sailor was captivated on the spot by the enchanting woman with flowing dark hair, olive skin, the jet black eyes and wistful smile. The dark goddess had snuck on board his cargo ship for a weekend of bliss few men could hope to experience. Now, forty years on, she was strangely ill and landlocked, as she classified her situation, unable to easily leave their small house just around the corner on the Duke of Gloucester Street. Those early times seemed more than a lifetime ago. Like it had happened to someone else.

  The reading of the cards and the palms had started as a hobby husband and wife enjoyed together, a practice far more common in Tamay's world. But over the years he had become more accurate than Tamay, and finally when reaching the retirement age for sailors, that time when the months away from home became unbearable, Herb and Tamay set up the shop in Annapolis to read for the superstitious sailors and the lonely women.

  Herb peered out at the gray September sky. He might be able to predict the future of a client, but the weather was another matter. Especially this time of year. It could rain or the fast moving clouds could just blow away to the west. He felt a twinge, the sort of sensation he inevitably experienced before something important took place. The feeling had started an hour before, strong enough for him to call home, inventing an excuse. But Tamay was fine. Someone else then. But a premonition can’t be rushed. He would just have to wait and to learn what was destined to take place this day.

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter 12

  It had taken Tanya the full two hours Phil had predicted. Saturday meant the hair was fully washed, the nails taken care of, the dogs given special treats, the agonizing decision over what pair of the more than ten jeans neatly folded by the maid in the closet drawers to wear, and when that was all taken care of, well, then what shoes were perfect for not only the jeans but the time of year and the weather. Was it time for the dark jeans of winter, meaning a British pair she had picked up in New York, or the lighter shade of blue for summer? Tanya went with a pair of dark jeans and darkly tanned French boots. Then she tossed on her black leather jacket and a Hermes scarf. Tanya looked hot, but like one of the women in a business magazine and not from Vogue. Maybe Phil was being too picky and should just let it slide. She was hot.

  By mid-morning they were in the Lexus on the way to Annapolis. It was true; he had forgotten that Labor Day weekend had been set aside to look for a getaway place to purchase. Tanya was in a great mood, not bothering him about his business or when he would be able to hold up his half of the expenses. It hurt him deeply that he was so dependent on her largesse. But why did she need him? It was the question of the moment for Phil. She looked fantastic, had a great business and access to all sorts of national politicians. In short, Tanya could snag any of the consultants, lawyers and politicians at Tucker's b
irthday bash. Guys pulling down several hundred thousand a year. Guys who could open doors for her business. Why him?

  He didn’t like any of the logical answers.

  By noon they were just outside Annapolis. Tanya had the directions to a house that would soon be on the market by a divorcee from, of course, Louisiana. In a few minutes the shopping malls were behind them and the area was a community right up against a creek. “It feeds into the Chesapeake,” Tanya bubbled, “we could go sailing every weekend.”

  The directions took them to an intersection with a four way stop sign. Or so Phil thought. He pulled the Lexus to a full stop, and following the instructions, started turning right. On his left he saw the motorcycle. Tanya screamed, sensing before him that the motorcycle was not slowing down. Phil swerved, rolling the car into a small ditch. A police motorcycle roared past. “You stupid bastard.” The cop shouted out, shooting them the finger.

  The Lexus titled into the drainage area that ran between the road and the trees. Tanya’s head hit pretty hard the side window and she was yelling, but not in pain. At him. At the cop.

  Not saying a word he opened the door and eased himself out. Walking over to the intersection he discovered that it was not a four way stop sign. Traffic could continue without stopping but only from his left to right. He had almost illegally smashed into a cop.

  When he got back into the car Tanya was calmer but still livid. “You almost killed me and you’re not even a professional.”