Gigi wondered where Tanya Lyn was heading. Was this business or personal?
“And the reporter?”
“Rachel?”
“Yeah, the creepy snoop. She in the picture?”
“Yup.”
Tanya tensed up. “You think the bastard is spilling the beans?”
“Depends on what he knows.” Gigi cruelly answered.
It was the truth, but the words were also a jab against the usually tightly controlling woman. How much had Tanya revealed of Tucker's business? Tommy was sick with worry that Tanya had freely spoken in front of Phil, shared their tricks on money laundering, the names of clients and their fun times. Tommy knew damn well how a hard-hitting expose could hurt his political career.
Or that of Livingston God forbid.
The reporter was capable of doing real harm in these critical weeks leading up to the mid-term elections, the Speaker selection and the presidential impeachment. It was a time to keep your head low and not be the lead in an AP expose.
“Go on.”
“Not much to add.” Gigi replied. “I asked around, hangin' out at the dive bar across from her office. Rachel shows there some nights. I spent time drinkin' with her boss. Got me some of his hair.” Gigi revealed gleefully. “Never know when that might help.”
Tanya couldn’t muster the energy to break in and ask just how the voodoo priestess had snatched a sample of the boss’s hair.
“I said to him, straight out, are you reporter folks gonna bring down the White House? The boss laughed and his pale face crinkled up into all these little puzzle-like pieces, you know what I mean?" Gigi asked. "That man spends too much of his time inside a cubicle. It must be what makes them reporters weird.
"‘Republicans will do that without our help.’ Was the editor's succinct answer.
"So what about the Republicans I next asked after an appropriate time had passed by. Y'all gatherin' stories on Newt and some of them other folks like, say, Livingston? You can't think they all have skeletons in the closet. Here he gave a different answer girl.” Gigi stared directly into Tanya’s eyes. “‘You could be a spy,’ was his snickery response. He was jestin' of course,” she assured Tanya. “But on the point of Livingston he got awful careful, and if you ask me, and you are askin' me, darlin’," here she leaned over and touched Tanya for assurance, so it may have seemed to Tanya, but also a reminder how she, Gigi, was helping Tanya clean up a sticky situation brought on by the otherwise sophisticated Washington-insider, “that boy of yours is talkin’ to that tramp.”
While Gigi babbled on she was also watching. Her grandmother had taught her how to both affect and observe. It was a harder trick to master than many might believe. A lot of folks, whether congressmen or fortune tellers or Georgetown hostesses, could master the art of one, but not both.
When Gigi spoke of Rachel she saw how Tanya’s neck muscles contracted. While Gigi spoke her mind on Phil’s spilling the beans, a little throbbing action began under Tanya’s left eyelid. Some serious emotional reaction. Gigi would have to report to Tommy that their levee had indeed been breached. The voodoo practitioner knew she was sealing the fate of Phil Greene. No matter what Tanya might really be feeling, there would be no return. Phil would more than likely henceforth be labeled a dangerous traitor to the group at this, the most sensitive of political moments.
But there was another motivation at work here other than protecting Tucker. No one had caught on how much Phil had turned her on. She liked his primitiveness, liked his disdain for politics. Liked his instinctual spirituality. His recently acquired desire to be married. From the moment she had made sure to bump into him on the crayfish line at the New Orleans bash she had wanted to break up Tanya's engagement. Nothing deep about her motivation; just a simmering chick fight. There had been times when Tanya had kept Gigi from having some fun, all in the name of business first. Well, now it was her turn.
Anyway, it could be months before any punitive actions were necessary. First, she still had to get some physical samples-- that would give her the excuse to be with Phil. Not for the first time did Gigi fantasize about having sex with Phil. Good enough for Tanya Lyn--the guy must be a sex machine.
Sitting with Gigi, Tanya also intuitively sensed there was no turning back. Her softer emotions towards Phil were tempered by the business considerations. Still, it was difficult to let go. It was not like she loved Phil. Oh, she loved him, sure. Of course. She had allowed him to make love to her. He had seen her at her most fragile and exposed moments. But it was not like the affections she felt towards Victoria and Elizabeth. That was a feeling more permanent and far deeper. But she had made the investment, both emotionally and monetarily. Yes she had. What could have changed for Phil? She had been open, too open maybe. She had given him great sex. Whenever he had needed it. She played no games in that regard. Gave him a roof over his head. And the chance to be on the inside of a great political revolution. Damn him.
What hurt the most for Tanya was that by now she should be Mrs. Tommy Tucker, not the old bag. Tucker always laid out a half dozen reasons why he couldn’t leave his wife and marry her, but it never really added up. You just can’t argue with the silver tongue of a politician. Tucker was a dead end. Phil was a dead end. All the men in her life had been dead ends. They wanted a ‘liberated’ woman, one who loved sex like they loved sex. Who loved to smoke and wolf down a steak and drink bourbon but stayed to have a toss in a hotel room or bedroom of a campaign supporter. And when they had enjoyed her --well, then, it was the same lack of commitment. The next man, swore Tanya, will have to beg on his knees for sex.
Gigi observed Tanya going through her series of rapid-fire thoughts. Her grandmother had spoken often that done correctly, the most powerful spell was the one folks cast upon themselves.
As the two women sat together on the crushed velvet loveseat, the party moved on without them. Relationships were being re-kindled, new ones being made. Some thirty or forty of Washington’s most powerful insiders hovered by the long bar, the mostly Republican crowd a mixture of elected officials, lobbyists, senior staff members, a few somewhat known Hollywood types and a scattering of executives from Washington area corporations.
Having exhausted their conversation Gigi and Tanya went off in different directions. Each left with a better intuition of how different were their motivations, and each believed it their deepest secret.
Tanya Lyn was driven by a pragmatic bottom-line, making sure her clients were happy and the business continued to roll in the front door. She was absolutely devoted to Tommy Tucker. But had circumstances been different, if ten years ago Tanya had connections into a congressman from New Jersey or Arizona and not to Tommy Tucker of Louisiana, Tanya Lyn Owens could well have become a lobbyist in an entirely different industry. And today would be just as devoted. That was Washington loyalty. Not to any one cause or politician per se but to the proximity to power.
Not Gigi. She had no clients but a patron. Tucker's support permitted her to continue to practice the skills passed down from mother to daughter. Tucker gave her purpose and truth be told, it was fun to be part of earth shattering events like the impeachment of the president. It continued the family tradition. Her grandmother had been steeped in Louisiana politics, and so too her great-great grandmother. Now, one day soon, she might be able to walk into the White House with Tucker and Livingston....wouldn't that be something?
Her distrust of Tanya was old-fashioned maternal protection. Tanya’s reliance on Tucker as a revenue source for her extravagant lifestyle irked Gigi. She had warned Tucker more than once that Tanya Lyn was all about money--but the congressman had just laughed her off.
Tanya watched Gigi wander off down the long hallway. Yet again she wondered if Gigi was sleeping with Tucker. She saw how Tucker stared at Gigi, but couldn’t read whether the feelings were reciprocal. Tanya headed in the opposite direction, towards the main dining room, deflecting the interest from the passing men. She still wasn’t fully in the mood for flirt
ing. But that could change later. At midnight, according the invitation, there was to be a “deliciously wicked live event for ladies and gentlemen of sophisticated political tastes.” How wonderfully tantalizing.
* * *
As Tanya wandered away from Gigi, it seemed to her that the evening had taken on a fin de siècle feeling. Outside of the Mansion there was a historic campaign underway to impeach the president, led by some of the men attending this event. Of all the rumors the most believable was that within a week Starr would release to the public his long-awaited report, detailing in thousands of pages of sworn testimony how Bill Clinton had lied. The mood was euphoric - almost sexually tinged-- among the fairly young Republican crowd, the sense that a new era of political morality created by their own effort was soon to dawn.
The tingle of excitement was not just from the politics. There was the exotic allure felt by both sexes towards well-dressed women smoking cigars. Throw in the men in black tie, the women in designer outfits and the wispy blanket of tobacco haze that rendered the light translucent, laying a grainy image onto the moment. It was as if a series of black and white photographs had been converted into a moving film of this unique moment.
Yes, accepted Tanya as she sipped her second apple martini, this was a special night. As the martini spread warmth through her body she realized it had been silly of her to feel any trepidation.
* * *
*
Right on schedule, a white limousine pulled up outside the Mansion a few moments before midnight. Inside the limo were the hosts of the evening. The European publisher, his wife and Goldstein. With them were two dancers from Archibald’s, the gentlemen’s club on K Street and two male strippers from Chippendales.
In the main dining room the last preparations were being made for the evening's show. Stagehands dressed in black had efficiently moved furniture, laid carpet, put up lights and activated a sound system. Near midnight, the lights powered up to reveal an unexpected scene. The Mansion’s dining room had been transformed into the Oval Office of the White House. The floor was covered by the famous blue rug with the Great Seal of the United States. There were the telltale windows looking out into the garden. In front of the bay windows was the presidential desk. Up and front in the center of the room were two large armchairs, done in pale white, the same sort as seen on television when Bill Clinton was sitting with foreign leaders.
Considerable effort had been spent to replicate the Oval Office. There was scattered applause and some low whistles of appreciation as the politically savvy audience took in the unexpectedly realistic stage.
To larger applause the hosts made their entry into the dining room. The crowd was juiced up and excited. It was show time.
“Let the night begin,” shouted out the publisher. “And everyone, join with the performers in enjoying your cigars.”
On cue a woman appeared in the Oval Office dressed in a white translucent nightgown looking like the beauty queens at a heavyweight prizefight, the babes who announce the start of each round of fighting. This one carried with both hands a large placard over her head, which read:
Ladies and Gentlemen
Welcome
To A Demonstration
Of the Topical Importance
Of Cigars
In Our Political Life
To more applause and a few catcalls the stage lights beamed on to reveal a man and woman in the Oval Office. He was dressed in a cream colored suit eating a hamburger and holding a cigar in the other hand. Under his shirt was a pillow, no doubt to hide his muscular body while duplicating the shape of an overweight middle-aged man.
This would be the president.
A young girl, one of the strippers from Archibald’s, was on her knees on the famous blue carpet with the great seal of the United States.
This would be the infamous White House intern.
With theatrical effect the president munched on the greasy hamburger as the oil stains rolled down his chin and onto his suit.
“Look at this,” exclaimed the president in mock wonderment. “I’m makin' a mess of this burger when I’d shore rather be doing that to you.”
The crowd hooted in appreciation as the president, wiping away the grease on this sleeve, began teasing the willing girl with the unlit cigar, stroking it along her chest and then down her legs.
“Ever play with one of these?” Mocked the chief executive.
The hooting grew louder, and not just from the guys in the audience. The women were showing themselves just as capable of producing some noise. The president now picked up a red phone on a small table. “Get me Congressman Tom Daschle,” said the stripper-actor-president, naming one of Bill Clinton’s biggest congressional supporters.
While he waited for the call to be placed, the cigar-foreplay grew more risqué. The intern stripped off her shirt. Then off came the bra.
“Hey, Congressman. How’s the wife? Great. Never forget to say hello for me. Beautiful woman, that’s for sure. Listen, I’m just calling to assure you man-to-man that this Kenneth Starr business is pure nonsense. No basis of reality.”
The stripper-president tucked the phone under his chin while “listening," dropped to his knees, and pulled up the skirt of the intern, exposing her bright pink underwear. The president showed great dexterity in juggling both the phone and the cigar.
“As the First Lady was candid enough to say to the press….”
The cigar was now underneath the panties.
“This whole sordid business is nothing more than a right-wing conspiracy…” The girl pushed her hips up allowing her underwear to be snapped off.
“A draconian attempt” swore the president in a husky voice, “to derail the good accomplishments of this Administration and dedicated public servants like you.”
On the Oval Office blue carpet the young girl was writhing in pleasure from the cigar-teasing. Her moans grew louder.
To a huge applause of appreciation, the president cupped his cigar-holding hand over the phone admonishing his intern to “be careful baby, I’m doin' the people’s business here.”
From the other side of the makeshift stage the second male stripper appeared dressed in a banker’s three-piece suit. No, nothing had been spared for tonight’s show. The second stripper carried a sandwich board that labeled him as none other than the special prosecutor.
“I know,” breathed heavily the president into the phone, “I can continue to count on your support to squash this impeachment circus. We need good Americans to stand up against this nonsense.”
The president then put down the phone and pulled off his shirt, revealing the pillow strapped to his well-muscled chest. Down on one knee, with both hands, free, the Leader of the Free World threw all his effort onto the very willing intern.
Showing a bi-partisan slant to the show, the stripper-prosecutor theatrically joined in with the couple on the Oval Office carpet.
The women in the crowd, wearing designer dresses or not, smoking cigars or not, being sophisticated political creatures or not, Republican or not, went bonkers. Teenage-like screams of delight rang out from all corners of the crowded room, lobbyists and staffers gone wild at a male strippers show.
* * *
There were several ways Tanya Lyn could have responded to the commotion.
The first was to be sickened that she was present at a trampy sex show that took delight in having a young woman excited by a cigar being used as a sexual foil.
Second was to be shocked and then intellectually delighted -- that before her was a tawdry but realistic re-creation of a White House moment, a single snapshot of the rushing kaleidoscope that is the history of the Oval Office and may well define the Clinton presidency.
A third possible reaction would be fear. That some over-eager Republican operator had crossed the razor-thin line between decency and political humor in their enthusiasm to make fun of the president.
Imagine the headline: “Republicans gather at midnight tastelessly mocking the pr
esident,” could squeal tomorrow’s Washington Post in full 24 pt. indignation. Imagine the lead editorial hammering at the immaturity of the Republican Party: “A degrading sexual farce based on the president’s alleged escapades cheapens the upcoming impeachment proceedings and begs the question of just how can Newt Gingrich and his fellow Republicans secure the so-called high ground on morality when they engage in high-school sexual pranks.”
This was the very reason that Tanya had begged Tommy not to attend tonight. The risk of public disclosure was slight, but it was a chance the cautious operator believed not necessary on the eve of their greatest victory.
The fourth possible emotional reaction to the Oval Office show at the Mansion could be something far more complex than excitement or fear or surprise or anger. This emotion would spring from deep within Tanya. A dose of pure primitive feelings like that from sitting ringside at a heavyweight boxing match and experiencing the roar from the thousands of fans intermingling with the body odor of the fighters, hearing the deep thump-thump-thump of gloved fists pounding unmercifully into muscle and flesh for round after round, seeing up close the blood trickling from the open cuts, before finally an unconscious muscular body crashes onto the ring floor. Any worry for the fallen boxer pushed aside by the tantalizing thrill of being a witness to something so primitive, so real.
That emotion has no name.
It is deeper than desire. More powerful than lusting.
That resulting feeling is not admitted to in the sort of company that a woman like Tanya Lyn keeps. But feeling this emotion unleashed by tonight's mix of sex and politics, and a sense that history would soon label them the winners in the political arena, the most brutal game left to play in America, left Tanya bewildered and then exhilarated. The raw sensations caused her to laugh and then to effortlessly join in the pandemonium. She mimicked exactly the other women who pulled up their dresses, pulled down their panties, and threw them onto the stage. Dozens of pink and white and black and some red rained down while the men hollered.
Them Hustlers Page 13
