The Takeover

by Stephen W. Frey

  Jenny tapped her nails on the bar. She sensed the man’s discomfort. “You don’t even know what a slow, comfortable screw is, do you?” She checked the thin gold band of his ring finger and laughed to herself. His wife would probably vouch for that too.

  “Beer and more beer. That’s what people here want.” The bartender wanted to get away from this woman quickly. He realized immediately that she was a great deal sharper than he, and probably making fun of him somehow.

  “Okay then. How about a beer?”

  “Oh, great choice,” the man said sarcastically. “Wanna be a little more specific?”

  “Heineken.”

  The man shook his head. “Budweiser or Miller. No foreign beer.”

  “Fine. Budweiser.”

  The bartender moved away, toward the cooler.

  Jenny spun slowly on the vinyl-covered barstool. Andrew was immersed in a tricky shot on the pool table at the very back of the dank establishment. He brought the cue back smoothly and then forward just as easily. The white ball rolled the length of the table, kissed the eight ball, which dropped into a corner pocket, and came to rest in the middle of the green felt.

  Falcon’s opponent, a young man clad in a white T-shirt and dark jeans, shook his head dejectedly. The boy—Jenny judged him to be no more than sixteen—replaced his cue on the wall rack and reached for the pack of Marlboros tucked under a sleeve of the shirt. He removed a cigarette, lit it, replaced the pack under the sleeve of the T-shirt, then removed his wallet—attached to a belt loop of the jeans by a gaudy silver chain—threw several bills on the pool table, and stalked off. Falcon scooped up the money and began to count it, grinning as he did.

  Falcon carefully inserted the money into his leather wallet, smiled at Jenny, and moved toward her.

  “So how much did you take from that poor boy, Andrew?”

  Falcon’s face contorted into a look of disgust as he sat down on the barstool next to Jenny. “Poor boy? That’s a good one. Kid’s no boy. He’s probably got a police record as long as your legs. But just for your information, I won eighty dollars.”

  “He thought you were an easy mark, didn’t he?”

  Falcon flashed the crooked smile. “Are you asking if I hustled him?”

  “I’m not asking. I know you did.”

  Falcon shrugged. “You walk into a pool hall in this section of Trenton, you’d better be ready for whatever happens to you. Buyer beware and all that. He asked for the game.”

  “Yeah, after he watched you missing all those shots while you practiced.”

  “Good, wasn’t it?” Falcon smiled widely. “But that wasn’t what hooked him. We bet only twenty dollars on the first game. It was the way I just barely missed the shots to lose the first game. By that much.” Andrew held up his thumb and forefinger, just slightly apart. “That’s what got him to bet a hundred dollars on the second game.”

  “Well if you’re so good, then you can teach a beginner like me how to play.”

  Falcon shook his head as he finished his beer. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on,” Jenny said. She was feeling the alcohol and she didn’t want the afternoon to end yet. She sensed that he was ready to leave. “Please.” She smiled sweetly and batted her eyes.

  Falcon’s face took on a pained look. He put down the glass. “All right, but we need to get back at some point.”

  They moved away from the barstools to the nearest table. Falcon racked the balls, then moved toward Jenny to show her how to hold the cue.

  “It’s okay. I can manage.”

  “Huh?” Falcon gazed at her.

  “I know how to hold the cue. The question is, what’s the wager?” She bent over the table and slid the stick back and forth through her fingers.

  Falcon laughed. “You don’t have to do this, Jenny. Really.” He didn’t like how smoothly the cue was moving in her hands.

  “You think I can’t shoot?”

  Falcon shrugged. “You might be able to play a little, but you can’t beat me. You’d be wasting your money.”

  “How about betting me that eighty dollars you won from the kid?”

  “Jenny, don’t do this.”

  “Is it a bet?”

  “No.”

  “Are you afraid?” She knew that was the easiest way to get a man’s attention, to question his virility. She had two older brothers—whom Andrew should have asked about by now—who had taught her how to play.

  “Do you have any older brothers?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Falcon stared at her, sensing that somehow he was making a mistake. He knew that a pool hall was no place to expect a straight answer from anyone, including Jenny Cagle. Sweet, adorable Jenny Cagle. He nodded at the table. “Okay. Eighty dollars. You break.”

  It was over quickly. In less than five minutes Jenny had pocketed all of the striped balls as well as the eight ball. She walked slowly to Falcon and took the four twenty-dollar bills he held up in his right hand. “You said something about walking into a pool hall in this section of Trenton. Be ready for whatever happens to you.” She winked and sauntered toward the door.

  Falcon watched her as she walked away. A pistol. No other word for her. What was it Granville Winthrop had said to him one night at the estate? “When you’re done with all of the veneer, like the one sleeping upstairs, get yourself something real.”

  Falcon glanced at the bartender, who was leaning across the counter to catch the last glimpse of the fading sun coming through Jenny’s dress as she walked out the door. “Hey, Freddie! Put your eyes back in their sockets.”

  Freddie raised his hands to show that he meant no harm.

  “And tell your mother hello for me.”

  Freddie nodded.

  * * *

  —

  They moved into the tiny room of the hotel, locked in a savage kiss. Jenny’s tongue explored his mouth as her long fingernails ran through his hair. Falcon turned to close the door of the room, unclenching his lips from hers in the process. Her tongue and lips moved to his neck and he felt her fingers unbuttoning his white dress shirt. In seconds it was open. She pulled it apart and began to tantalize him with just the tips of her fingernails. Slowly she moved her fingers from his chest to his navel and then back. Falcon felt the pressure in his pants growing. He stood in the darkened room, head back, and allowed himself to enjoy her magic. Alexis would never do this for him. She wouldn’t know how, and she didn’t want to learn.

  Jenny slid her hands along Falcon’s shoulders and into the arms of the shirt. It and the suit coat fell to the floor as one. She bent over and began to bite his chest and stomach. Her tongue traced tiny circles on his tight skin.

  “Jenny.”

  “Does it feel good?” she asked, her breath short.

  “You know it does.” Falcon’s breathing was as fast as hers.

  She sank to her knees before him. In seconds his pants were sliding down his legs. He could feel her lips on the inside of his thighs, and the coolness of the evaporating saliva aroused him wildly. She helped him off with the suit pants and boxers and then her mouth was on him.

  Jenny’s hands and mouth worked in unison and it would be only seconds before he would lose control. Falcon did not want that yet. He pulled Jenny to her feet and moved her back against the wall. He followed her, pushing his nakedness against her still clothed body.

  “Mmm.” She moaned as his mouth covered her soft neck. His hands moved up under the loose sundress and closed around her buttocks as he bit into the skin of her neck. “God, Andrew. You know…mmm…you remember I like it rough.”

  “Yes.” He lifted the dress over her head and let it fall to the floor. He kissed her again on the lips hard, then turned her so that she faced the wall. He undid the bra, then with one quick pull, ripped the sheer G-string from her crotch and dropped it. “I�
��ll buy you another one.” He bit her ear gently as he whispered the words.

  “I don’t care. Just keep going. Don’t stop.” Her breathing was labored now. “Don’t stop.” She was reaching around her body for him, lifting herself onto her toes and pushing her buttocks high into the air. And then he was inside her.

  It felt so incredibly wonderful. How could it be so different with her? It was flesh on flesh. That was all. Nothing else. Why was it so much better with Jenny than with Alexis?

  “Harder, Andrew. Come on!”

  Suddenly Falcon pulled her to the bed. He was down on her and within seconds she was writhing in a tremendous orgasm. Finally she screamed and rolled away from him. She could take no more. Falcon moved up her body and pressed himself inside her. Her mouth caught his tongue and she did not let go. Moments later Falcon collapsed onto her body, exhausted.

  * * *

  —

  Jenny lay quietly under the sheets with her head resting on his chest. She caressed his thigh lightly as he faded in and out of consciousness. They had been going at it now for two hours, and this was their first rest of more than five minutes. “Are you all right?”

  He laughed. It echoed in his chest. “No. I feel like I might have a heart attack.”

  Jenny kissed his chest. “Good.”

  They were silent for a few moments.

  “Andrew.”

  “Yes?”

  “Does she make you feel this way?”

  “No.” His voice was almost inaudible. There it was again, the truth.

  Jenny touched his face. “This is a pretty good deal for you, isn’t it? Two women whenever you want them. It doesn’t seem fair somehow.”

  “Jenny…”

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to. Are you enjoying it?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then I want to keep seeing you. And don’t worry. When you come back to the office I will remain completely professional. No one will ever know. Promise. No more silly temper tantrums.” She paused. “But there is a price.” She feigned a serious expression.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I want to become at least a little bit more a part of your life than I am now.”

  That sounded strange. “How so?” Suddenly he wondered why she had become so understanding.

  “I have a deal for you. You have me whenever you want, but we talk at least once a day. As long as you are out, you call me. When you get back, I get to come in your office once a day and just talk. For let’s say ten minutes. Would that be so hard?”

  Falcon shook his head and smiled. “No. I think I could do that.”

  “And one more thing. I get to learn more about you. If you aren’t one of the most secretive people I’ve ever met, then I don’t know who is. You’ve always been like that.” She kissed his chest again.

  “It’s just the nature of my business, I guess. It makes me that way. The truth is, there isn’t much to know. I’m pretty boring.”

  “You let me be the judge of that.”

  “Fine. If you think I’m so interesting, then ask me questions. Go ahead. Fire away.”

  Jenny put her head back down on his chest and slipped her hand between his legs. She felt his stomach muscles tighten involuntarily. “For starters, why don’t you tell me about this project you are working on so diligently?”

  15

  The sun was rising quickly above the horizon and becoming hotter by the moment. Filipelli checked his watch. Just after 9:30. He removed the heavy wool sweater he had donned at the lodge early this morning to protect himself from the cool Montana morning. Even in July, Montana mornings could be chilly.

  Filipelli scoured the sky. It was cloudless. “You think the weather will hold today, Bugsy?” Yesterday, Filipelli’s first on the river, had started off clear and warm but by noon had turned cool and rainy. Now the weather was beautiful again.

  “Don’t know, Mr. Filipelli.” Bugsy was busy rigging a nine-foot fly rod for nymph fishing and clearly did not wish to be disturbed. But here was a perfect opportunity to feed shit right down a city slicker’s throat. It was too much to resist. “There’s an old saying out here in Montana, Mr. Filipelli. If you don’t like the weather, wait an hour. It’ll change by then. Course, they say that over in Wyoming also. Idaho as well. I was out East one time many years ago. Maine, I think it was. They said it there too.” Bugsy cackled for a moment, then refocused on the task of rigging the long fly rod.

  Filipelli smiled. He rather enjoyed the fact that his crusty old fishing guide couldn’t give a rat’s ass that today’s client was the chairman of the Federal Reserve. He could take a little ribbing from this crusty old salt. In fact, it was refreshing not to have people cowering before him. Hell, if he had asked the question back in Washington, people would have written reports or hooked up a live line to the National Weather Service. No, Bugsy couldn’t care less about the Fed or the fact that Filipelli was a big swinging dick in world affairs. Bugsy lived in the real world. Montana. Where men were men and government officials were just lucky to be alive.

  The air was crystal clear. Filipelli breathed in deeply. It was good to be out of Washington and the limelight for a few days. He had to go back Tuesday, but for the next two days he was going to forget about everything—Wendell Smith, the FOMC, even the President—and just enjoy himself.

  Filipelli gazed out from the riverbank at the pristine waters of the Bighorn River rushing through the Yellowtail Dam a quarter of a mile upstream. The Bighorn spilled out of the mountain range of the same name rising up steeply on the southern horizon, then alternately tumbled and meandered to its meeting with the Yellowstone River a hundred miles to the north. On the long journey, these waters would converge with the Missouri and then the great Mississippi before ultimately flowing into the Gulf of Mexico south of New Orleans.

  He watched the river drift by and wondered if General Custer had seen this same place on his way to the Little Bighorn. Even at this early stage the Bighorn was a large river, perhaps a hundred feet across, shallow enough to be waded in most spots, but very deep in some areas too. More important, the Bighorn was one of the most prolific trout rivers in all of the lower forty-eight states, filled with huge browns and rainbows.

  Filipelli was an avid trout fisherman, when he had the opportunity, which unfortunately had not been often in the last several years because of his hectic schedule. Friends who also adored the sport had recommended this river to Filipelli on numerous occasions, but he had never had the chance to come. He had already fished many of Montana’s other jewels: the Madison, the Gallitan, the Yellowstone, and even the spring creeks of Paradise Valley, but never the Bighorn. Now he was here and he was going to fully enjoy himself. His aides were under strict orders not to call unless something unprecedented occurred.

  Filipelli was fishing out of Fort Smith, a town of no more than three hundred people located two hours southeast of Billings. When the West was being won, Fort Smith had been an outpost for government troops on the Bozeman Trail. Now it was little more than a trading post for the farmers and the Crow Indians of this desolate corner of the state. That and a base of operations for sportsmen such as Filipelli, who came in search of the huge rainbows inhabiting the Bighorn’s depths.

  Bugsy finished tying the knot attaching the clear monofilament leader to the thicker, bright-green fly line. He laid the graphite rod on one side of the fifteen-foot dory and glanced up at Filipelli. “Let’s go. Time’s wasting.”

  The two men pushed the heavily laden craft into the clear waters of the Bighorn. “Get in, Carter!” Bugsy screamed to be heard above the din of the water rushing through the dam just upriver.

  Filipelli lifted himself awkwardly over the side of the boat. This movement was made more difficult by the aging rubber waders he wore to protect his body from the forty-seven-degree water.
For a moment he balanced on the gunwale, almost capsizing the craft in the process, then tumbled clumsily onto the bottom of the boat. He pulled himself up quickly and sat in the bow facing back, toward the stern.

  Bugsy gave the boat one more strong push, then pulled himself easily over the stern, climbed over the fishing gear littering the floor, and took his seat on the bench in the middle of the dory. He adjusted the oars, and began to row the boat toward the middle of the river. Filipelli marveled at the dexterity with which the older man had accomplished the entire maneuver. Bugsy was seventy if he was a day.

  Bugsy smiled at Filipelli. “Little trouble getting in the boat there, Chiefy?” Bugsy rowed methodically as he flashed a nearly toothless grin.

  “A little.” Filipelli did not smile back. A little ribbing was fine, but it need not become routine. He was, after all, one of the most powerful men in the world. It was time to assert himself. And where had he come up with “Chiefy”?

  The older man glanced over his shoulder at the other dory moving out into the river behind them. “Those guys gonna be with us all day?”

  Filipelli nodded. “President’s orders. I must have at last two Secret Service people with me at all times.”

  Bugsy grunted. “One of those bastards took the Colt revolver I carry to shoot rattlesnakes. Told me I’d get it back when the day was over. I’d better get that gun back. It was my great-grandfather’s.”

  “You’ll get it back. Don’t worry.”

  “So they thought I might try to shoot you, huh?” Bugsy began to laugh hysterically. It sounded as if he were having an asthma attack.

  “You’re a pretty rough-looking little character. Wouldn’t surprise me if you had shot a few of your clients.”

  “Only the ones that don’t catch the fish I find for ’em.” Bugsy spat tobacco juice into the water. “Hope we don’t run into any rattlers.”

  “Are there rattlesnakes around this river?” Filipelli scanned the banks nervously.