"What makes you think it was Clete," Sam asked. "He's a buddy of ours, and tight with Johnny, he was."
"I know, man, I know." Billy twisted his hair in anguish. "But I know he's got the hots for the bitch. That night, Johnny was taking him some shit to use on her to get her high so he could fuck her. And remember how he wanted us to plant some in her bedroom? That was so he could get her in his power. Didn't work, and he blew his cork. Remember?"
Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, yeah, I think you're right. So what do we do? Take a gun and shoot the bastard?"
Billy shook his head. "No way. I'm not shooting no cops, no way. We'd never see the light of day again. But the bitch, I say we get some revenge through her. Clete's crazy about the bitch, and whatever happens to her he feels quite hard, right in his pants."
"So what? What do we do? Kill the bitch? Cut her up and deliver Clete the parts in one of his sheriff's uniforms?"
Billy smiled. "That's a damn good idea. Let's think about it. That and, maybe, plant some drugs in Clete's office at the local station. Get him sent away for twenty and send him Christmas cards every year. Yeah, good idea." Billy began to laugh. It was the manic laugh of a nervous personality driven by grief for the death of his brother, unobservant of the fact that that brother was a source of misery in a miserable world and worse than worthless in this community of decent, religious people.
When they arrived at the Buchanan mansion in the hills outside the capital, a servant took their bags and showed them to one of the twenty-five luxurious guest rooms upstairs. Mark seemed apprehensive, as well he might be at first meeting the man that might ultimately be able to make him or break him. Of course, the young politician could always run a grassroots campaign against the odds, without special interest or industrial "contributions" and support, but chances of success were virtually nil. Such an effort would be like an ant trying to move a rubber tree plant, without Frank Sinatra's encouragement.
After the long drive, DesirЋe decided she needed another shower, and while Mark tidied up she went into the gold-plated and marbled bathroom, shed her slightly sticky clothes, and stepped toward the shower stall. She caught a glimpse of herself in a large mirror over the dressing counter and stopped. She saw her body, slightly tanned to a creamy olive, blessed with large breasts, wide at their base and slightly conical near the flushed, pink tips, though globular and heavy but without the fall of gravitational strain. The nipples were distended and glowing with her unfulfilled sexuality, peeking out over her flat belly that flowed smoothly into her fat, lushly-furred labia. She turned and her breasts jiggled in concert with her buttocks, lately now a bit plumper and more loaf-like since her wedding day. She had not had regular exercise since then, and she resolved to get back to the gym as soon as they returned to Pickford's Meadows.
DesirЋe turned on the shower and started soaping her delicious flesh, her hand lingering at the sticky vaginal crease momentarily before seeing to her breasts and underarms. Hearing the door open, she pulled the shower door ajar and peeked out. Mark was beginning to shave.
"How about coming in here with Dezzy," she said suggestively, pushing her great tits forward.
Mark swung to face her and saw those adorable nipples and the warm muff of her pussy and for a moment his face softened and he smiled, just slightly, with the same old loving warmth. Then, it was gone again, and he turned back to his shaving.
"I'll wait until you're done," he said quietly.
With a disappointed pout, DesirЋe went back to freshening a young and beautiful body long neglected by her resentful husband.
When they walked into the dining room arm-in-arm, DesirЋe appeared much happier than she really felt, for she felt like a piece of rotten meat rejected by a straw dog, as low as she could go on the road to low self esteem. While Mark went for some punch for the two of them, she stood like a statuesque icon in her white, satin dress, drawing the stares of every man in the room, while her sharp ears picked up the occasional comment or bit of information.
"They've invited this new pretender, Mark Denning, here tonight."
"Where is he?"
"I've no idea. I've never seen him before."
"Sid's going to feel him out about his attitudes, like he did that other one, that Richard Donaldson, a couple of weeks ago at the last party. Remember his sexy little wife Sarah? Only I hear this Denning fellow is younger and smarter."
"My money's on the younger one then, if he pleases Buchanan."
"But Sid's not easy to please. He likes his politicians docile and obliging."
"Doesn't everybody?"
"What do we know about this Mark Denning? I've got a number of interests myself. I'm with Sid on the food catering for the armed forces business. I'd hate to see that one go down the shitter."
"Is he married?"
"I think so. Pretty sure he's not gay like that other one, Robert Dibbs."
"Well, that's important too. Sid's always got his eyes on the women."
"Yeah, Dibbs had no wife. Nothing to offer."
"I hear she's a real looker with a big pair of tits and a great singing voice."
"Rumors abound."
When Mark turned, she took his arm dutifully again, discreetly turning for a quick look at the four men behind her, who thought their conversation was only between themselves.
Women hear everything, fellas, she thought. We have to.
DesirЋe stayed with Mark like a pilot fish with a shark as he cruised among the guests. He spoke briefly with a little fat man and his wife who seemed to be somehow involved in some business with Buchanan, something to do with sewing machines and vacuum cleaners. It seemed that Sid Buchanan was into everything and then a little bit more.
Mark was not his usual gregarious self and DesirЋe knew why. She knew he still carried in his mind the lewd tableau of her jerking and grunting beneath the rutting body of Lobo, that that was affecting his mood, and she inwardly urged him to be himself and make the points he was here to make. But by the time the servants came and informed them that dinner was served, he still appeared to be fighting his nerves and inner demons.
They were escorted to their places at the long banquet table. They found that their place was next to the head of the table, where a lone chair, unfilled, sat promisingly next to theirs.
"I've never seen so many spoons and forks," Mark whispered. "Do you know anything about all this silver?"
"Use the one I use," DesirЋe said quietly. "Daddy sent me to charm school."
Mark snorted. Charm school, indeed! he thought. Is that where they taught you to hump dogs?
DesirЋe watched the guests sit down, noting that the four men who had spoken so cavalierly about Mark were now sitting with their wives. When she saw that they now knew who she was, she smiled quietly. All eyes at the table were on here, she noted with more than a mild embarrassment. The men couldn't take their lustful eyes off her, and the women's blazed with envy. It seemed that at least half the room was enemy.
Suddenly, there was a quiet settling over the room, and a big man made his entrance, sitting directly to Mark's left at the head of the table. He was large and heavy-set, his dark hair greyed at the temples, his sun-dried skin crinkly at the corners of the eyes, which were pale, almost yellow. It was plain to see from his body's configuration and his noticeable pot belly that bulged against his belt and white shirt that he was the most comfortably prosperous man in the room. And from the way the other women's eyes were fixed on him, DesirЋe knew that this big, imposing, overweight, and not entirely unattractive, man was Sid Buchanan, their host.