Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

“Fine, but it shouldn’t be put off much longer. That’s the thing about publicity, you know. If it’s to be effective, it has to be a steady barrage. The public’s memory is on about the same level as their intelligence.”

  “I’ll speak to the agency first thing, Senator. Incidentally, they said they’d like to have new photos of you. Shall I tell Doris to make an appointment with Bachrach?”

  “I suppose so.” He went on signing his name. “But what’s wrong with the picture they’ve been using? I like that one.”

  “So do I. Why don’t I just tell them to keep on using it.”

  He looked up. “Good. We’ve made a major decision.”

  Behind the horn-rims, her eyes crinkled. “The wheels of progress are turning.”

  He signed the last of the papers and shoved the stack back to her.

  She gathered the papers and returned them to the folder, then got to her feet. “Thank you, Senator. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Not just now, thanks. I’m expecting someone.”

  “Yes, I know. Jessica Silk, for the article she’s writing. I checked your appointment calendar. I’ll show her in when she arrives.”

  “You don’t have to do that. Montrock knows she’s coming.”

  “It’s all right. I like to be helpful, when I can.”

  He nodded. That was one of the good things about Ardis. As administrator of the Cunningham Foundation, hers was an important position. Yet he never heard any feminist crap from her. She was intensely loyal, always ready to serve him.

  “You must have quite a bit of material by now,” Ardis said.

  He chuckled. “Almost enough for a book, I’d think.”

  “Have you considered that? Turning it into a book, that is?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. It’s something Jessica has been talking about, as well. She wants it to be a biography, but it would also cover my ideas on a lot of different subjects—social issues, politics, and so on.”

  “I think a book would be wonderful. You’ve never written one yourself, and yet you’ve had such a great career. I’ll bet it would be a huge hit.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. The world is hardly holding its breath waiting for a lot of blather about me.” But he was flattered, nevertheless.

  The telephone on his desk buzzed softly. He picked it up, listened, said thank you, and hung up.

  Ardis stood up. “Is she here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll go down for her.”

  Before he could protest, she turned and left the room.

  Alone once more, the senator straightened his tie and brushed his hair back with his hands. He was vain about his appearance; his thick black hair was one of the reasons he managed to keep himself looking so youthful—along with maintaining an interest in activities like the one he’d planned for this evening.

  A moment later, a knock again sounded. The door opened and Ardis showed Jessica Silk into the room.

  As always when he saw her, Clayton Cunningham felt a surge of pleasure. Silk was stunningly attractive, tall and lissome, with hazel eyes and dark hair that fell to her shoulders in soft waves. Her wide mouth was curved in a smile. She was wearing a navy blue suit with broad shoulders and a short skirt that showed off her legs, which were superb. In her left hand, she carried a black attaché case. He could smell her perfume as she approached his desk.

  “Sorry I’m late, Senator.”

  He took her extended hand in his. “By five minutes? I think I can forgive you.”

  “Where would you like to work?”

  He waved toward the table across the room. “The usual place, I suppose. Gives you room to spread out your notes.”

  “I made coffee a little while ago,” Ardis said. “Let me get you some.” She left the office.

  Cunningham took the cigar with him to the table. He and Jessica sat down facing each other and she opened her case, taking out a sheaf of papers, along with a pad and a ballpoint.

  “How’ve you been?” she asked. “Have a good week?”

  “It would have been a lot better if I’d seen you.”

  She smiled. “And now you’re seeing me.”

  “Not yet I’m not. I’m just looking at the outer wrapping.”

  “You make me sound like a present.”

  He laughed. “Which is exactly how I feel. You’re a marvelous present and I can’t wait to unwrap you.”

  “Senator, please. We have work to do.”

  She was being coy, of course, but that was fine with him. They had plenty of time, and besides, he liked her to resist his approaches a little. Made it more interesting.

  The office door opened. Ardis was back, carrying a tray bearing a china coffeepot, cups and saucers, and a small plate of petits fours. She placed the tray in the center of the table and went about setting out its contents.

  “Ardis, you’re a dear,” the senator said.

  She smiled as she poured coffee for him and his visitor. “I’ll take the tray along. If you need anything else, just buzz me. I’ll be up watching TV.”

  “Thank you.”

  When she’d left them, Jessica said, “She’s quite a help to you, isn’t she?”

  “Ardis? She’s wonderful. And as unassuming as she is, she’s also a crack administrator. Thanks to her, the foundation has never been run more efficiently.”

  He picked a book of matches out of an ashtray on the table and lighted the cigar, puffing blue clouds of smoke into the air.

  Jennifer leaned forward. “That’s what’s so wonderful about you, Senator. With all you have on your mind, you always seem to be aware of somebody doing a good job. And then you’re so generous about acknowledging it.”

  He puffed on the cigar again, relishing its flavor and aroma. “It’s the way I’ve lived my life. Choose good people and encourage them to do their best. When they do, reward them.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I want to use that.” She made notes on her pad.

  “How’s it going, by the way?”

  “Very well. You’ve given me so much material.”

  He drew on the cigar. “Glad you’re pleased.”

  “As you know, I think there’s a fine opportunity here for a book.”

  “So you’ve mentioned. Do you really think it would be worth doing?”

  “Absolutely. It would be a very good book on the life of a very distinguished man.”

  She unbuttoned her jacket, and his gaze went to the blouse she had on under it, her full breasts pushing out the thin white material. She seemed not to notice.

  He kept his eyes on her blouse and felt himself stir. “Well. A book is something I’ve been giving some thought to, as well … ever since you first mentioned the idea. But would many people be interested in reading such a thing?”

  Her tone was very earnest. “I feel certain they would.”

  He got up and went to the door, his brow furrowed as if he was deep in thought over her proposal. “Would it take long to do?”

  “That would be up to you. It would depend on how much time you could give it.”

  He locked the door, aware that his pulse had picked up for reasons that had nothing to do with the subject they were discussing. “I see. No deadline, in other words.”

  “No.”

  “Wouldn’t the magazine article take some of the edge off it?”

  “Not at all. If anything, the article would help to promote interest in the book.”

  Returning to the table, he put the cigar into an ashtray and stood beside her. His breathing had quickened, as well. “What do you see as a format? Still think it should be a biography?”

  “Yes, but I also think it ought to be much more than that. The book should express your views on how the country should be run, where it should be going.”

  He took her arm and drew her to her feet. “Sounds like quite a project.”

  She moved close, her arms encircling his neck. “I think it would be fascinating.”

  His li
ps brushed her cheek. “Inspiring?”

  “Thrilling.”

  He pressed his body tightly against hers. His voice grew hoarse. “Thrilling. Yes, I think so, too.”

  She returned the pressure, tightening her grip on his neck and grinding her pelvis. “I’ve been looking forward to this for days.”

  “So have I.” He ran his tongue around her mouth and she gasped as his hands slid down her back and gripped her buttocks.

  “God, how I want you,” she whispered. “You always get me so excited.”

  He stopped talking then, not wanting anything to intrude on the mood of sensuality. Leading her to the sofa, he fumbled with her clothing, keeping his mouth close to hers, licking, kissing, nipping as they undressed each other.

  When they were both naked, he pressed her down onto the squashy leather cushions. He picked up the cigar and puffed on it again, then touched the lighted end against her thigh. She flinched, stifling a cry and inhaling through clenched teeth.

  Seeing her reaction was intensely stimulating. He put the cigar back into the ashtray, then lay down on the sofa and took her into his arms.

  The sensation of her warm flesh against his was delicious. She was breathing heavily, and he was aware that he’d become as aroused as any man his age could ever hope to get.

  He bit her neck and was delighted when she groaned and her body writhed against his. He felt her chest rise and fall with her rapid breathing, felt her lips moving, her tongue licking his ear.

  “I have a surprise for you,” she whispered.

  “Wonderful. A new toy?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What is it?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  He kissed her once more and lost himself in a whirl of emotion as they made love. Over the next half hour, his senses seemed to be as gloriously alive as they’d ever been. It was like being young again, he thought. Not pretending, but truly reliving those heady times when he thought his youth and strength would last forever.

  When finally he was completely spent, he collapsed and lay sprawled atop her body. He struggled for breath, his pulse still racing, his skin coated with sweat. He was exhausted but happy and deeply contented, waiting for his breathing and heartbeat to return to normal.

  A few minutes went by and then she slipped out from under him and got up from the sofa. She was back a moment later, and there was an object in her hand, but he couldn’t see what it was.

  He raised himself on one elbow. “What have you got there?”

  She smiled. “Close your eyes and do as I tell you.”

  “Is that the new toy?”

  “Don’t be so nosy. Just close your eyes. You’ll love it.”

  He did as instructed and she slid back under him and spread her legs. She had to work on him a little, but at last he was able to enter her once more. He was amazed that he could do it, although he realized the prospect of a new experience was reawakening his excitement.

  Suddenly, he felt a sensation that was totally different from anything he’d ever known before. He tensed, but she breathed reassurance into his ear, continuing to move in a slow rhythm, and he relaxed and resumed moving with her.

  The feeling was fantastic. Whatever she was doing was stirring intense feelings deep inside him. He was infused with lust, rising to a level he wouldn’t have thought possible, drawing on reserves he didn’t know he had.

  At that moment, he felt a violent shock.

  The sensation suddenly changed to one of excruciating pain, as if he were in the grip of monstrous pincers that were squeezing the life out of him. He opened his mouth to cry out but was unable to make a sound. Even worse, he couldn’t breathe.

  The anguish was incredible. He was dimly aware that she was calling out to him, but the sound of her voice had changed and was much more distant, as if she was shouting across a chasm, yelling to him from a place far away.

  The light in the room was changing, as well; it was growing dark. That thought had no sooner registered than he realized he couldn’t see.

  Which didn’t matter anymore; nothing did—except the desire to shut out the awful pain. He wanted desperately to do that, wanted that more than he’d ever wanted anything.

  He tried once more to breathe.

  And failed.

  And then the pain crushed him totally and he felt nothing.

  3

  In his apartment two blocks from the South Street Seaport, Detective Lieutenant Ben Tolliver got out of bed and stretched. One of the best features of his bedroom was a skylight, and looking up through the slanted bank of windows overhead, he saw that this would be a nice day: cold, probably, but invigorating, with a bright blue sky. And judging from the cloud movement, a fresh breeze was coming out of the north. Scratching his belly reflectively, he went into the bathroom.

  He was feeling a little rocky this morning. He’d worked late the night before and then had stopped off at Grady’s and put away more bourbon than he should have. But his eyes were clear, their color much the same as the sky he’d been looking at a few moments earlier. The skin under them was smooth and tight and there were no new flecks of gray in his tousled black hair. His mustache could use a trim, however, and his teeth felt as if they were wearing wool socks. He yawned and went to work on the teeth first, scrubbing away the crud with his toothbrush.

  Next, he stepped into the shower and stood there for several minutes, letting the hot spray pound his skin. It felt almost as good as a massage. Afterward, he toweled down and took his time shaving.

  This was the one time of the day when his thoughts often turned philosophical, probably because he hadn’t yet gone to his office at Sixth Precinct headquarters to plunge into the stack of felonies awaiting him there: robberies, burglaries, assaults, rapes, homicides. And today the thoughts were much more agreeable because he didn’t plan to go in until later in the morning.

  Instead, he’d hit the gym and work out for an hour or so, lose what was left of the hangover. He tried to get there at least once a week and usually failed to make it. Today would be different. He was looking forward to pumping some iron, pounding the speed bag.

  He wished he could also drive out into the country, get some fresh air. The trees were bare now, so there was no more color to look at, but at least it would be a change from the crowds and the concrete and the noise and the smoke. Maybe he could do that this weekend.

  By and large, Ben Tolliver considered himself a fortunate man. As commander of a detective squad, he was doing the work he wanted to do, and doing it well enough to be in line for a promotion to captain. That was largely the result of having cleared a number of high-profile cases over the past several years, and he was glad they’d come his way. There were plenty of qualified men in the NYPD who hadn’t had those breaks, who were sweating it out in the misery precincts of Brownsville and Washington Heights and the South Bronx, with nothing to look forward to but retirement—if they made it that far.

  But life was like that, wasn’t it? Good was just for openers. After that, you needed luck.

  When he’d scraped away the whiskers and trimmed the mustache, he rinsed his jaw and splashed on some after-shave. Then he got dressed in what for him was more or less a standard outfit: gray flannels, white oxford button-down, black loafers, navy blazer.

  No ankle holster, however, although wearing one had been a practice he’d followed for years. Recently, he’d switched to new technology, in the form of a custom-made Gaylord that rode in the small of his back and held a .380 Mauser semiautomatic. Unlike his old standby, a Smith & Wesson Detective’s Special, the Mauser was compact and flat, carried a nine-shot magazine, and was constructed of alloys that made it much lighter than the Smith. It was also considerably more accurate.

  Glancing out the window of his bedroom, the lieutenant thought about how his life had changed in many ways recently—not just in the weapon he was carrying but also in his overall lifestyle. This apartment, for example: It was by far the nicest
place he’d ever occupied—it even had a view. From up here, he could see the old sailing ships tied up at their wharves in the Seaport, the Manhattan Bridge spanning the roiling gray waters of the East River, and on the opposite shore, the buildings along the Brooklyn waterfront.

  The apartment was another example of what luck could do for you. He’d gotten it because he’d closed an extortion case that had been threatening to put a developer out of business. In gratitude, the developer had offered him the choice space in this building, with a long-term lease at very favorable rates.

  Just how ethical that arrangement might be, Tolliver wouldn’t worry about. Basically, he was as honest as any cop in the NYPD, and far more than many he knew. If the developer wanted him for a tenant, that was fine with Ben. It was a great place to live.

  In the kitchen he got a carton of orange juice out of the fridge and poured himself a glass. As he drank it, he turned on the small Sony radio, which was set on WINS so that he could catch the news whenever he was in here. A sports announcer was estimating the chances of the Giants against Dallas this coming Sunday, draping his comments in black crepe.

  Only half-listening, Ben put coffee and water into the Braun on the counter and turned the machine on. Then he dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. The Giants had been crippled by injuries, the announcer was saying, with both their offensive and defensive lines far below strength.

  A pitiful story, Tolliver thought, that probably had been put out by the Giants PR office for the Cowboys’ benefit.

  A rash of commercials followed and mentally he tuned out. So far, he’d bet a total of eighty-two bucks on pro football since the season began, and at this point he was twenty-four in the hole, which went to show what thinking with your emotions instead of your head could do for you.

  Another announcer came on. “On a sad note, former U.S. senator Clayton Cunningham died last night, the victim of a heart attack. The senator was in his offices at the Cunningham Foundation, next door to his home on East Seventieth Street, when he was stricken at approximately nine-thirty P.M. At the time, he was being interviewed for a magazine article. The head of one of America’s richest and most influential families, Clayton Cunningham served two terms in the Senate and was active in many charities and business affairs, as well as in politics. He was seventy-two years old.”