“At this time of night?”
“Get one in front of the hotel.” I dug in my wallet and gave him sixty bucks from my dwindling cash supply.
His parting shot was, “Try to stay out of trouble. I know it’s tough for you, but tonight, for my sake, give it your best shot.”
“Yeah.”
He took my umbrella and locked the door behind him.
But what, I wondered, if it came out that the president did a deal with the Russians, way back when? In that event, my guess was that he would need every vote he could beg, borrow, or steal. Say hello to the devil, folks!
I wondered what the Big Dog was thinking tonight as he sat in the White House.
The rain kept pounding on the roof.
An hour later I was having trouble staying awake. I sat watching the comings and goings on the penthouse floor of the Hilton on the monitors and listening desultorily to the conversations in the suites. And this convention was going to run on for two more days. Friday was the last day; the delegates couldn’t stay longer even if God asked them to. The television networks had other programming scheduled for the weekend and next week. The prez had to decide his choice for VP, get him or her nominated, and the delegates would vote on Friday. The cleanup people would work all weekend swabbing out the Javits Center, then next Monday a home products industry convention was opening there. Come hell or high water.
The crowd in Royston’s suite emptied out. A bunch of drunks were finishing a bottle of Scotch in one of the adjoining suites, and in the other some aide was getting laid by one of the true believers from Iowa, some woman who had something to do with the school system. No one in Dorsey’s suite on twelve.
Ah, me.
Just where was I going to be next week? Lodged in a jail someplace with a platoon of FBI agents shouting questions at me, or puking my guts out on a banana boat, sailing south under a false name? Wish I knew more about extradition treaties.
Of course, I could be making wedding plans with Dorsey, renting a tux and visiting lawyers’ offices and making big plans to spend a huge heaping pile of cabbage. On which the taxes had already been paid, thank you very much. Assuming the FBI didn’t latch on to me in the meantime.
What kind of yacht should I buy? What ocean should I put it in? Should I pop for gold faucets in the head? How big should the bed in the master suite be?
Say what you will about poor, rich Dorsey, the woman was flat-out dynamite in bed. Sure, she had been spreading it around — so had I — but with marriage and all, I could negotiate some sort of exclusivity deal.
Choices. Eenie, meenie, minie, moe, catch a tiger by the toe…
I checked Dorsey’s pad one more time and managed to hear a woman say, “Thank you, gentlemen. Please wait for me downstairs.”
The sound of a closing door. Water running in the bathroom. The faint sigh of a chair taking weight.
Who was that? Wasn’t Dorsey. I was sure that wasn’t her voice. Had she checked out?
I punched the button to record this.
As I looked up from the control panel, I got a glimpse on the monitor of Dell Royston coming out of his suite. Still wearing that suit and tie, of course. He walked to the elevator and pressed the down button. The camera beside the elevator gave me a good look at the thinning hair on the back of his head.
The elevator door opened and he entered.
Hmm…
Five minutes later someone rapped on the door of Dorsey’s suite.
“Oh, Dell. Come in, come in.”
Was this his wife? A secretary? The California car dealer’s AC/DC wife? Or a working girl who sucked toes for fun and profit? I guess I’m naive: Prior to this week I had no idea how much screwing went on at these conventions.
The door closed, and I heard the sound of the privacy latches being thrown. I doubted that Isabel from San Juan was bustling about at that hour, but a man in Royston’s position couldn’t be too careful.
A short silence followed, then the sound of the bed taking weight. Oh, boy.
After a bit I began to hear moans and so on. There was serious fucking going on, or I miss my guess.
It was over pretty quick. Four minutes by my watch. One thing about Dell Royston, it didn’t take him long to breed.
“Oh, baby, that was so good,” Royston said, panting.
“I needed that, darling. It’s been too long.”
“I talked to him a few hours ago. He still hasn’t made up his mind.”
“The bastard! He’s stringing this out to make me sweat.”
My eyebrows shot up into my hairline. Holy cow! The “gentlemen” who accompanied her to the door must have been Secret Service. Royston was fucking Zooey Sonnenberg, the first lady!
“Whoever he picks is going to be the next president of the United States,” Zooey declared. “With the vote of the party faithful and a huge chunk of the female vote from the other party, she’ll be unstoppable four years from now.”
“Maybe he isn’t thrilled about being first husband in four years.”
“Pffft.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to spend the next four years in bed with the heir apparent.”
“Dell, he doesn’t—”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what he thinks. The troll sits in the Oval Office all day talking to his cronies, making deals, parading before the press, trotting off for photo ops and speeches in front of every civic group that will have him from Maine to San Diego — I am about at the end of my rope. He has my life — my future — in his hands and he plays with it. Sometimes I wish he would just drop dead.”
“Let’s hope you’re the vice president if he does.”
“He’s healthy as a hog.” She sighed. “No, my chance is selection as his running mate. Give me four years to line up support and be seen by the public and I could beat Jesus Christ in the next election.”
“Maybe he’s worried you’ll steal the limelight now, during this election and during the next four years. The man has a titanic ego. He’s spent his whole life fighting to be in the center of the stage.”
“Perhaps.” She paused, then launched into an assessment of the strengths and weaknesses of the other female politicians who had been prominently mentioned as possible candidates. As Zooey saw it, she was the logical choice.
“Sometimes logic doesn’t carry the day,” Dell said gently.
Amen! I added.
“So what should I do?” Zooey asked poignantly.
“There’s nothing you can do except wait. It will happen or it won’t.”
“By God, I hate that son of a bitch!”
“Hang tough! You’re almost there.”
“Almost but not quite.”
I heard the bed creak. “Let’s get dressed. I have to go up to my suite and get some sleep. Thanks for coming. I needed you badly.”
“Why didn’t we meet in your suite? He wouldn’t find out, and he wouldn’t care if he did.”
“It’s bugged.”
Goddamn, I muttered. How in hell did he learn that?
“Oh.” That was her only comment. Not “Who?” or “Why?” Just “Oh.”
They dressed in record time, kissed some more — I think — and whispered good-byes at the door. Royston left first. Three minutes later I watched on the monitor as he popped out of the elevator on the penthouse level and marched briskly to his room.
After some serious bathroom noises, Zooey left Dorsey’s room ten minutes after that, pulled the door closed until it latched and rattled it to be sure.
I stopped recording and sat staring at nothing.
Well, well, well.
After a few minutes of thought I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Jake Grafton.
When he finished his conversation with Tommy Carmellini, Jake Grafton got out of bed. He held on to his cell phone. “Who was that?” Callie asked.