by Ted Bell
“It’s fine, thank you.”
She pulled a chair closer to the couch and sat down, crossing her long legs. There was the faintest whisper of silk on silk as she did so.
“Comfy?” she asked.
“Quite.”
“Then let’s begin, shall we?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“What would you like to talk about today?”
“My addiction.”
“Addiction? I wasn’t aware that you had one.”
“Neither was I. Until quite recently, that is.”
“Are we talking about drugs? Food? Alcohol?”
“We are talking about sex.”
“Sex?”
“Yes. I’ve discovered I’m a sex addict.”
“I see. And how did you come by this amazing discovery?”
“I’m constantly overwhelmed with…thoughts. Day and night. I can’t sleep at night. I can’t function by daylight.”
“These thoughts. Can you describe them?”
“Some of them. Others—”
“All right. Let’s begin with the ones you’re comfortable describing.”
“Well, a recent one, then. I’m in your office, lying on the couch, and there’s a fire in the fireplace. It’s early evening. It’s sleeting outside, you can hear icy pellets beating against the windowpanes and—”
“Wait a minute. My office?”
“Yes.”
“And where am I? Am I in your dream?”
“Yes. You’ve turned the lights down, so most of the light comes from the fire. I can see its shadows flickering on the ceiling above my head.”
“And where am I?”
“You’ve pulled up a chair next to the couch. My eyes are closed but I hear you. You’ve crossed your legs. I hear a rustle of silk when you do it and open my eyes. I try to catch a glimpse of—”
“Yes?”
“You know. When you cross them, I try to see.”
“What I’m wearing, you mean. Underneath my skirt.”
“Yes.”
“And in the dream, do you see?”
“No. I see nothing.”
“But sometimes I do this. Is that part of your dream, too? What do you see then?”
“I see everything.”
“In these dreams. Do I ever unbutton my blouse like this?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
“Remove it? Drop it to the floor? Like this?”
“Yes.”
“And you can smell my perfume when I bend over you, can’t you.”
“Yes. I breathe it. Deep into my lungs.”
“Perhaps I kiss your mouth. Like this?”
“Yes.”
“And touch you…here.”
“Yes.”
“And how does it make you feel?”
“Like I’m drowning. Like falling.”
“I’ve missed you, Alex. So much.”
“Be here, Doc.”
“Yes. I’m here. I’m here now.”
22
Victoria Sweet took one last look in the mirror in her front hall.
Hair? Check.
Makeup? Check.
Dress? Check.
Jewelry? Check.
Sanity? Well, maybe not, but what the hey? She was in love. She and Alex had spent a wonderful hour together earlier, and, already, she was aching to see him again. Getting dressed, she had imagined him standing before his mirror shaving, perhaps even feeling just the way she was feeling.
“Ta-da,” she said to her reflection, as she slipped into her warmest winter coat and opened her front door. Stokely was out there at the curb with the engine running and, hopefully, the heat on. It had stopped sleeting finally, but the temperature was dropping.
She somehow managed to negotiate her icy walkway without ending up ass over teakettle. And there was Stokely standing on the curb, holding the passenger side door open. Holding the door open? It was not a Stokely thing to do.
“Evenin’, Miz Vicky,” he said in his best Driving Miss Daisy accent. “Y’all lookin’ partickly fine, this evenin’. Yas’m. Y’all in partickly fine fettle tonight all right.”
“Fine fettle?” she said, climbing in. “Let me guess where you came up with that.” Stokely smiled, shut her door, and went around to the driver’s side. He eased his big frame behind the wheel.
“Fine fettle, yes indeed!” he said.
“Okay, Stoke,” she said. “What’s all this stuff about?”
“What’s all what stuff about?” He cranked up the Hummer and pulled out into the snowy neighborhood street. It was mercifully warm inside the bizarre vehicle.
“Oh, holding my door open,” Vicky said. “All this ‘shufflin’ shoes and silver trays’ stuff.”
“Actin’ on orders, is all,” Stoke said, pulling away from the curb. “Bossman say jump, old Stoke, he leaps around like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs!” Stoke slapped his knee. “Yassuh!”
“Are you on some kind of medication, Stoke?” Vicky asked, grinning at him. “I can tell, you know. I’m a professional.”
“Alex, he says, ‘Stoke, you be nice to Vicky,’ is all I’m sayin’,” Stokely said. “So, I’m bein’ nice to Vicky.”
“Funny, I thought you were always nice.”
“Try to be, mostly. But the boss, now he thinks I need noodging. That’s what folks call encouragement in New York.”
“Noodging.”
“That’s it. He asked me put on this damn sport coat, just for you. Sharp, ain’t it? Boss looks sharp tonight, too. Got on his tux. Man is fixated with tuxedos. Hell, wouldn’t surprise me he wore one he was taking you to KFC.”
“I know. Weird. Do you think he’s weird?”
“Hell, everybody’s weird. You ought to know that more than most folks.”
Vicky nodded her head and said, “I mean, do you think he’s a little bit…abnormal?”
“’Course he’s abnormal! Normal folks is a dime a dozen. Now, maybe I ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I do know one thing. Alex Hawke is a fine man. Maybe the finest I ever knew. Rich as he is, that man will do anything for anybody at any time. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Vicky was silent the rest of the way, lost in thought. Stoke had taken a series of turns that brought them to the entrance of the Georgetown Club. A doorman stepped out from under the canopied walk and opened Vicky’s door.
Before she got out, she said, “Thanks, Stoke. I wasn’t trying to get you to say anything negative about Alex, you know. I love him, too. I just thought you could help me understand him a little better.”
“I know what you’re sayin’. He does act funny sometimes, way he dresses and talks and shit. Part of that whole English thing, I guess. But I think it all comes down to this. That boy is chipper.”
“Chipper?” Vicky said, shaking her head. “Yeah, now that you mention it, he is chipper.”
She blew Stoke a kiss and turned away to go inside. It was freezing out in the wind.
“I’m going to tell you something, Vicky,” Stoke said then.
“Yes?”
“I seen ’em come and I seen ’em go. Women been chasin’ Alex all his life. Ain’t no thing. He never cared about one of them. Until you, I mean.”
“Thanks, Stoke,” Vicky said.
“See, you figured the boy out. You want to catch Alex Hawke, rule number one is you don’t chase him.”
“Nobody’s chasing anybody here, Stoke,” Vicky said. “Believe me.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right. Must be the reason why he’s so happy these days.”
The maître d’ didn’t bother to look up as she approached his podium. He was new, she saw, and didn’t know who she was. When he deigned to lift his head from his reservations book, he was somehow able to look down his nose at her at the same time. Even though Vicky was a good foot taller than he was.
“Oui?” the man said, assuming she was French for some unknown reason.
“I’m meeting some
one,” Vicky said. “He may be waiting.”
“The name of the reservation?”
“Hawke. Alexander Hawke,” Vicky said, and started a mental countdown to see how long it took the name to have its predictable effect. One point five seconds.
“Ah, mais oui, mademoiselle! Monsieur Hawke. Oui, Monsieur Hawke, il attenderait au bar. Mais certainement!” the man said, bowing from the waist.
He had metamorphosed from an imperious little snob into a groveling little toad in just less than three seconds. It wasn’t even a world record.
“You prefer smoking or nonsmoking?” he asked.
“You’re new. You probably never heard what my father said about smoking sections in restaurants?”
“Mais non, mademoiselle. He said?”
“He said having a smoking section in a restaurant was just like having a pissing section in a swimming pool.”
He looked at her for a second, not sure if this was funny or serious.
“Monsieur, il est là,” the man finally said, pointing in the direction of the bar. “You go through the door and—”
I’ve known where the bar is a lot longer than you have, buster, Vicky wanted to say, but she merely plucked the menu from his chubby little fingers and headed happily for the bar.
She’d been wondering why Alex had chosen the Georgetown Club. Alex had no idea how happy the choice had made her. It was her favorite restaurant in all of Washington. She still recalled the countless hours she’d spent here alone with her father, Senator Harlan Augustus Sweet. There were fireplaces in every room, all ablaze on a cold, snowy night like this. Large, overstuffed leather chairs were scattered everywhere, and the dark paneled walls were adorned with gilt-framed English landscapes and foxhunting scenes.
Coming here as a little girl had always felt like sneaking into the secret world of men. There was the intoxicating aroma of fine whisky and illegal Cuban cigars, and the clink of ice in crystal glasses. There were whispered stories she was too young for and the raucous laughter at their completion.
“Cover your ears, Victoria” was the way she knew when one of those was coming.
Her father, the retired United States senator from Louisiana, had been a much-loved figure in these rooms. He loved a good story and could tell one better than any man. He could also drink most of them under the table and frequently, to her mother’s dismay, did just that.
If the senator wasn’t at his office or on the Senate floor, he was on the Chevy Chase golf course. If he wasn’t on the golf course, he was here, holding down the bar at the Georgetown Club.
And his curly-haired daughter had always been the little princess by his side. Now she squeezed her way through a press of loud, cigar-smoking lobbyists and politicos and saw Alex waiting for her at the cozy little bar.
23
Fidel Castro had gone pale as death.
He had not said a word in the last hour, which was fine with Manso. He still had his big black Cohiba stuck between his teeth, but had never gotten around to lighting the trademark cigar. He sat hunched against the window, staring down at his green island. His silence had become as ominous as the furious diatribe that preceded it.
Through the forward cockpit window, you could see lush mountains and valleys rushing beneath your feet. To the south, you could already see the blue waters of the Guacanayabo Bay, now tinged with the gold of the setting sun. Endless echelons of whitecaps were rolling in, row after row breaking upon the white beaches. He was almost home.
Beyond, Manso could see a pale green hump of land lying about a mile off the town of Manzanillo. The island known as Telaraña. He could only imagine the state his men on the ground must be in, seeing the approach of the familiar olive-green chopper. It would signal the end of all their endless planning and plotting. Events now would take on a life of their own. Every move they made would write a line in history.
Manso himself would be happy just to get this goddamn machine on the ground. His nerves were like strings of barbed wire running from the base of his skull down his arms to his fingers. He had a death grip on the control stick of an aircraft that demanded a light touch.
In the last half hour, Manso had lost anything even resembling a light touch. The chopper was pitching and yawing as he corrected, overcorrected, and then overcompensated for every correction.
It’s like flying in combat, Manso tried to tell himself; you have to keep your wits about you. Steel your nerves and fly the plane. He had many happy memories of his days as a narco, flying for Pablo. The Colombian army and the americanos had shot up his planes many times. He always counted the holes in his wings and fuselage once he’d returned to one of the cartel’s secret airstrips.
All the pilots considered their drug runs “combat.” In their minds they were at war with the norteamericanos. The gunpowder their planes carried was white and it killed an enemy not only willing to die, but to pay outrageous fortunes for the privilege. In their jungle hideouts, they would laugh at the stupidity and poor marksmanship of the U.S.-sponsored government soldiers.
This was just another combat mission, he told himself.
But what about when your adversary was seated only two feet away?
“Save yourself, Manso, my son,” the leader said, breaking the silence. “Tell me where this bomb is hidden, and I will put a stop to this insanity. I will see to it that you and your family are allowed to leave the country safely.”
“Too late, Comandante.”
“You can buy a fancy mansion in Miami and fill it with whores, just like Batista.”
“It’s too late for these lies, Comandante.”
“Lies? No. Not to you, Manso. I have always treated you as a son. I am not a father who would harm his son. No matter how disgracefully he would betray me.”
“I am sorry for so much pain between us. But our country has suffered much pain in much silence for long enough. Something had to be done. Someone had to do it. I am only sorry that it had to be me.”
“What exactly is it you think you’re doing, Manso? Do you even know the answer to that question?”
“I am taking the first steps toward saving what is left of our beloved Cuba, Comandante.”
“So the son stabs the father and anoints himself savior. It’s too biblical for words. Even in Hollywood they would call this shit.”
“Your life will be spared. And, of course, your son, Fidelito. I promise you that. I have bought a beautiful finca for you in Oriente.”
“You promise me? Your life is as worthless as your promises. You were never a revolutionary. You have no political philosophy, no idealism. Money is your religion. You are nothing but a highly paid killer, a terrorist. And you should kill yourself before I do. I guarantee it will be less painful.”
“I learned much from Pablo during my time in the jungle, Comandante. Terrorism is the atomic bomb for poor people. It is the only way for poor people to strike back. The old experiment must make way for the new. The old one is over.”
“For you it is, I can promise.”
“We will be landing at Telaraña in twenty minutes. My guard will escort you to the main house. I have set up a television studio at Telaraña, Comandante,” Manso said. “After you have had some refreshments, you will be escorted to the station where you will address the nation.”
“You will be hunted down like a dog and killed like one before the eyes of your family.”
“You will tell them that the revolución has been a great political success. But, sadly, you have come to believe, not an economic one. So, after great thought, and with the good of your country at heart, you have decided to step down. It is time for a new generation of leadership.”
“Leadership? This is a farce!”
Castro turned toward Manso and spat in his face.
Manso ignored the saliva dribbling down his cheek and said calmly, “Sí, Comandante, spit. Spit until you are dry. It’s the only weapon you have left.”
“Fool. I have the hearts of my country. I hav
e my army. You are a dead man when this is over.”
“The few remaining officers loyal to you will be imprisoned. My men are prepared to seize control of all telephone, television, and radio stations. It will happen as soon as you address the nation and announce that you are stepping aside. When I said the word mango over the radio, the wheels started turning.”
Castro reddened. That particular song not only mocked him and his green fatigues, it said that though the mango was still green it was ripe and ready to fall down.
“And as for the hearts of our country,” Manso continued, “their hearts have too long been the prisoners of their stomachs. I will feed one and so win the other.”
“You are nothing. No one. I made you. I will unmake you. The country will spit you out. And then spit on your grave. Just as I spit on you now.” Castro unbuckled himself, leaned over, and spat on Manso again, square in the face.
“No, Comandante, they will not,” Manso said, ignoring the attack once more. “The entire country, like the army, is successfully brainwashed. You have erased cause and effect in the mind of the populace. You have achieved a magnificent success in that regard, no one will dispute. The result is a total lack of loyalty. Of values. Of beliefs. We could install an illiterate jinetera, a stupid whore, as presidente and the whole of the country would bow down.”
“It sounds like exactly what you intend to do, Colonel Manso de Herreras. It sounds as if it is you who is to be the new presidente.”
Manso knew better than to rise to the bait.
“After you have told the nation your decision, I will speak. I will tell the people that our new government has your blessings. That we remain united against the Americans. I will name the new presidente. We will then be giving the americanos exactly thirty hours to lift the paralyzing blockade and evacuate every last soul from Guantánamo Naval Station.”
“And why the hell should they listen to you, little pissant?”
“I have initiated certain reprisals if they do not.”
“Idiot! The americanos will take any provocation as a declaration of war. They will bomb our country into a fucking parking lot. Do you understand nothing? Does your pitiful memory not even stretch back to the year oh-two, when the Amerians flattened what was left of Afghanistan? The Soviet traitors have left us completely exposed and vulnerable! The americanos have been praying for just such an excuse as yours!”