by Tim Green
Jenny let her hands drop to her sides, and she stared at him in the mirror without turning around.
"I had to do that dinner, Jenny," Cody said, angry at himself for sounding defensive. "I've been telling Greer since last season that I'd do that dinner, and
I couldn't say no, you know that. It was for the Leukemia Society, for God's sake! His kid's sick with it--"
"Here's what I know," she barked, unzipping the back of her dress and wriggling out of it. 'That party tonight was important to me. Clarence Wyzanski was supposed to be there. He doesn't have a leading lady yet. That movie could be the break I need, Cody. I had to go, and you should have gone with me. Is Greer going to pay the bills when you can't play anymore?"
"Supposed to be? You mean he wasn't even there?" Cody said incredulously.
'That's not the point," she huffed.
"What do you mean when I can't play?" Cody said with a scowl when he suddenly realized what she had just said. "Who said anything about not playing? That's got nothing to do with this. I'll be playing for a long timr I'm not thinking about not playing."
Jenny shook her head and the dress dropped to the floor. She kicked it into the comer where the marble floor met the teak-framed Jacuzzi tub. Cody felt the sexual desire for her boil up inside himsetf. She stood there in a black thonjj with a strapless bra made of black lace. Her body was still hard, and her smooth, white skin was unblemished. He wanted to cross the space between them and touch her. He wanted to take her where she was, angry and impudent, bend her over the vanity and take her right there in the bathroom. The thought excited and angered him even more. Here he was, her husband, but somehow she was off-limits. That was the way sex was with him and Jenny. If she was in the mood, they did it. If she wasn't in the mood, he waited until she was. He couldn't remember how it got that way, but there it was. He hated the feeling. It was complete helplessness.
Jenny took her toothbrush out of its gold wire holder and gobbed on the toothpaste she had taken from the drawer.
"It's like everything else, Cody," she said before sticking the brush into her mouth, "you don't want to look at the way things are. You're hurt. How much more do you think that knee can take? How much more time have you got? They won't keep you if you can't run. Get smart. You can speak at a dinner for Greer every night from now until the season starts, but if you can't cut it, you're gone."
It was the way she said it. Cody sensed she was almost glad, like she was laughing at him.
"You're supposed to be my fucking wife, Jenny. What the hell are you talking like this for?" he snarled.
She spit in the sink and looked at him. She looked almost sad. It made Cody take half a step back.
"Cody," she said with a calmness that he didn't like. A thin line of white foam circled her lips. "You don't see it, do you? You don't see the big picture?" "What the hell are you talking about?" he said. "Either 1 make it big fast," she said, "or we're in trouble, Cody." "What do you mean, 'we're in trouble'?" he said. "Why'd you say it like that? What the hell does that mean?"
"1 mean we're in trouble," she said simply. "Everything's in trouble, for you, for me, for us. We need things to go our way. I like the way we live. I don't want to change it. I don't plan on it."
"What the hell does that mean?" He was prepared for an argument but not this. This kind of talk was bewildering. It created a nauseous feeling that closely resembled fear, although Cody would never call it that. For all his tough exterior, Cody couldn't tolerate the thought that his wife, his life partner, would ever not be there. For all his suspicion and resentment, Cody's dependence on Jenny was almost addictive.
"See?" she huffed. "That's how you are, something's got to mean something negative. What do you think I'm saying? I'm just saying that I've got to get things going, Cody, for when the time comes when you can't play anymore,- not now, but sometime, later. Don't you want me to succeed?" "Of course I want you to succeed," he said, twisting his mouth. "Well maybe that's what this is all about," she replied with a thoughtful look into the mirror.
"This is bullshit!" he said suddenly. "I was talking about why the hell you waltzed in here at two-thirty, and you've turned it around to me not wanting you to succeed! This is so fucking typical of you."
"You want to talk about me coming in like you're my damn father?" she screamed. "I thought we were past that! I was giving you the benefit of the doubt, Cody. I was going to let your possessive crap go by, but you want to talk about it? I'll talk ..."
Cody nodded with a scowl, "Yeah, where the fuck were you?" "I'll tell you, and then I'll tell you why it is so fucked up that you're treating me like some child!" she said, turning on him in a fit of rage.
"I went to the party. I went alone. Wyzanski didn't show up. It's the same old thing! I'm in the same old rut, Cody! I want a life! I want something to happen! Don't you understand that?"
Cody continued to glare.
"I went out for a drink with Peg," she said, throwing her hands up in the air. "We had a glass of wine,- we had two. We kept drinking, Cody. I had to talk to someone, and you weren't there, not that you'd have talked if you were."
"I don't believe you," he said flatly.
"It's true, Cody," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "If you don't believe me, then I'm sorry for you. There's nothing more I can do, there's nothing more I can say. It's true."
Cody searched her face for the truth. He thought he found what he wanted. He digested it patiently before crossing the space to kiss her. She responded, but then pulled away.
"I want you," he whispered, pulling her close, his hands slipping insidr her panties and palming her muscular buttocks.
She turned her head and pushed away gently. "Not now."
"I want you, Jenny," he said urgently.
"I know," she said quietly, with her saddest eyes, "but I'm tired. I'm depressed. I don't want to. I want to go to sleep. Think about what I want, Cody. Think about me for a change. Please?"
Cody nodded resolutely and removed his hands from her behind.
"Okay," he said, "let's go to bed."
She hugged him to her and kissed him lightly on the cheek, but to Cody she was a million miles away.
Chapter Five
On the other side of the Colorado River, Marty and Madison were dining at the Four Seasons. The restaurant sat on the water's edge. From their table they could see the nearby hills to the west. The lights from the bridges shimmered on the river's surface. It was a peaceful and elegant evening. At first the conversation between them was strained. Both of them were uncomfortable. Neither knew quite what to say or how to say it. Madison didn't want to be too familiar and thus suggest that this was something more than it was, but on the other hand she didn't want to be too distant and hurt the feelings of a good friend. What it was, though, was a date. In the excitement of the not-guilty verdict she had won for one of the firm's biggest clients, in a vehicular manslaughter case, Madison had rashly agreed to Marty's proposal. She regretted that now, and it wouldn't surprise her, from the way Marty was squirming uncomfortably in his chair, if he wasn't having second thoughts of his own.
It was the wine that saved them. Marty chose an excellent German Riesling. Even before their meals were served, they ordered another bottle. Things started to loosen up. Talk turned from their law firm to a more intimate subject. Marty finally confessed in a forthright but inoffensive way his obsession with Madison dating back to their days in law school. Madison was flattered with his description of how much she meant to him. She was sad for him when he described the pain he'd experienced when she had taken up with joe. The story was poignant, but the wine, and Marty's easy smile, didn't make Madison uncomfortable.
She looked across the table at Marty and found herself actually wondering if she could love him. He was tall and lean, with a hard jawline and bright blue eyes,- not unattractive at all. There was something about him, though, that just didn't get her excited. She wondered if she shouldn't put the notion of animal attraction be
hind her. Joe had attracted her. From the moment she met Joe she was hungry for him. Now she knew firsthand the value of such an attraction. But Madison was a dreamer, her father had always told her that. When she lay awake, alone in the bed that was once Joe's as well as her own, she would think about finding someone, out there somewhere, a man whom she could adore the way she adored Marty, but whom she desired the way she had desired Joe. But maybe that was nothing more than a dream. Maybe she was a fool who hadn't seen the answer to her happiness when all along it was right before her eyes. She said none of this to Marty because she wasn't sure. Wine or not, she was smart enough to know not to hurt him that way. She was determined not to give Marty false hope.
The meal was as good as the wine, and afterward they walked out the back of the hotel and down to the river walk. A full moon drew a brilliant, dancing beam across the surface of the river, and the bridges loomed above them like sleeping giants adorned with sparkling jewels. Madison pushed her breeze- blown hair behind her ears and crossed her arms. Marty noticed immediately and removed his jacket to wrap around her. The cool night air seemed to break the spell of dinner.
"How's it going with Brayland?" Marty asked, referring to her case with the doctor who allegedly killed his wife.
Madison shrugged and said, "Could be better. The trial is just around the corner, and I can't convince him not to take the stand."
"Why don't you want him on the stand?"
"Because he'll tell the jury he did it," Madison said. "I talked with a psychologist about it. She told me that he needs to say it to the jury to reassure himself that what he did was right. If he kept silent, it would be paramount to admitting that he really did murder her, which he doesn't believe he did. He spared her suffering."
"There's a difference between moral murder and legal murder. Doesn't he understand that?" Marty said, kicking a stone off of the asphalt path and into the grass.
"No," Madison said. "He doesn't want to understand."
"So," Marty said, "you've got a client that's going to get on the stand and basically tell the jury he did it. That's a tough one."
"Yeah, and combine that with the fact that the judge on the case, Walter Connack, keeps asking me to take on a pro bono murder case to defend some kid who shot his two friends in the head for some drug money, a case I have no intention of taking."
Marty stopped walking and took Madison by the shoulders, turning her toward him. He looked down into her eyes. They were illuminated by the moonlight. Marty didn't think he'd ever seen her look so beautiful. His voice shook when he spoke.
"Madison,fICarl 1 kiss you?"
Madison gave him a small, gentle smile. She knew how hard it was for Marty to ask. It was so unthinkable that they should kiss, really kiss. They had been together alone countless times. They had kissed each other on the cheek countless times. Because of all that history, a passionate kiss was unimaginable to her. She knew that he knew how she felt, and she admired his bravery
"Yes, Marty," she said, closing her eyes and resting her hands on the insides of his arms, "you can kiss me."
Marty leaned over awkwardly and touched his lips to hers.
"Hey!"
Marty pulled away and looked over Madison's shoulder. The shout had come from above, on the grassy bank. A large figure was moving down the slope toward them. The voice and the body were a man's. He had long hair, Marty could see that, and he appeared to be wearing some kind of windbreaker that flapped around him as he jogged their way. Marty couldn't see the man's face in the darkness. Adrenaline pumped through his body, and he had to stifle the urge to run. Instead he pulled Madison behind him and stood protectively between the advancing man and the woman he loved.
"Hey!" the man barked again.
Marty's heart raced. The river was not known to be a dangerous place, even at night, but the man who was loudly advancing toward them didn't look or sound familiar. Marty wished that he had a gun, or that he knew how to fight. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. He'd do what he could, or whatever he had to. If it meant Madison's safety, Marty wouldn't go down easy.
The man got right up to Marty, and he pulled up short, only about three feet from Marty's face. Marty could only vaguely make the man's features out beneath the shadow of his long hair. He had a thick beard and mustache, and his hair hung limply down to his shoulders. The man was even bigger than he had looked running, and even though he was no taller than Marty, he probably had a hundred pounds on the tax lawyer. Marty was afraid. Madison stayed safely behind her date. Marty held his fisted hands slightly in front of his body at about his belt line. His stomach sank.
"1 hate to interrupt you two young lovers," the man said with a rude chuckle. His voice was gruff. He had a big gut, but he was powerfully built.
Marty could smell whiskey on the man's breath.
"But," he continued, stabbing a finger into Marty's chest, "I had to check to make sure my old buddy wasn't getting in a little over his head here, a little hot water here.. .. Hello, Maddy."
"Joe!" Madison said in a shocked voice, and stepped ever so slightly closer to Marty.
Marty's stomach sank even deeper.
The sun, not quite up, was rising beyond the buildings of downtown Austin. The emerald green water of the Colorado River rolled by. Striker sat sideways on the end of a bench with one leg crossed over his knee, wearing an expensive, dark green running suit. The sweat from his run in the predawn dark was almost completely dry. He alternated his gaze between the river and the open lawn that separated the running path from the towering old trees of Butler Park. Striker liked to run. The trail around the area of the river that was called Town Lake was just over ten miles and included short hops over two bridges. Striker ran it often. Austin was full of beautiful places, but to him there was nothing like the park when the sun was just about to glow above the buildings to the east and swarms of bats made their final flight back to their homes underneath the bridges.
Striker had been in Texas for years. At first he didn't have a choice. The agency wanted an operation in Texas because of the number of arms manufacturers located in the state, as well its proximity to Central America. Later, when Striker was established and had the leeway to go where he pleased, he decided to stay on and make Austin his home. It had what he wanted: warm weather, beautiful golf courses, good restaurants, music, an airport that could take him anywhere, and beautiful women. Basically, it had all the good things that you could ask for in a big city without a lot of the bad things that seemed to be inherent in New York, L. A., Atlanta, or Chicago. Gem Star could really be run out of a closet anywhere in the world. He was Gem Star, not the other way around.
Gem Star had served him and the agency well. Most properties owned by the agency were functional businesses. Very few, however, made a profit. All agency companies were funded by the U. S. government through a series of straw corporations that enabled employees like himself to be paid and to maintain the facade of legitimacy while conducting specialized intelligence work. Striker was a trouble-shooter of sorts. His cover as an arms dealer allowed him to move freely about the globe without drawing unnecessary attention to himself. If the agency had a problem, Striker was the man who could fix it. If someone had to disappear, then they did. Striker always cleaned up quickly and quietly. Part of being an intelligence agent entailed making sure one never got caught. It was essential that Striker never have any connection to the U. S. government. Exposure as an agent would result in his termination--total extermination.
Striker knew that in peacetime, the only sanctioned killing was contracted to criminals with no official ties to the government. Striker's job was >>. C rinJ the appropriate criminal to make the kill. Striker never made it clear to tnos*- he retained who exactly he worked for. If one of his people were to be caught, the authorities would be unable to make any connection at all to the agency. The real problem for a janitor like Striker was finding competent criminals. But Striker always seemed to find the right people. He had been so
successful, the agency had allowed Striker to indulge himself. No expense was too great for Striker's comfort. The agency could rationalize almost any expenditure because Striker was also making money with Gem Star. That, and his image as a high-rolling arms dealer, only helped his international mobility.
It was Striker's sensitive operations that necessitated his being paid and contacted through his notional, which is what front operations like Gem Star Technology were called within the intelligence community. Likewise, he himself had no name. He was simply Striker, and he took pride in the fact that only a handful of people had ever known his real name. The nature of his work also meant that Striker was not an official employee of the agency. He had no social security number or pension plan. He had no official rank. He was a contract employee, a free agent of sorts, an NFL superstar in the world of intelligence.
Striker had lived well and been paid well. Lately, though, things had begun to change. Striker felt a tightening. His assignments were less and less frequent. He knew this was partly a result of the end of the Cold War. The organization no longer had its fingertips on the pulse of the entire world. In fact, these days Striker could learn almost as much from the media as he could from the agency's intelligence reports. More and more, the agency and its activities were being openly discussed in newspapers and magazines. More and more, Congress was meddling with the protocols and traditions that had set the agency apart from the other sluggish, ineffective agencies of the bloated U. S. government.
Controls and checks and audits and reporting committees had no real place in effective intelligence. The ability to make decisions and strike quickly was imperative. But when the Berlin Wall came down, Striker got nervous. He knew this could be an opportunity internationally for liberal elements to rein in the kind of the military and special forces intelligence work he needed to do. When the armed forces began shipping their nuclear weapons back to Pantex, where many of them had been made in the first place, Striker knew that he had to do something to preserve himself and his ways. Watching the nation that he and others had worked so assiduously to help become the preeminent world power voluntarily remove its own teeth was unacceptable. This was a certain harbinger of the end awaiting intelligence specialists like himself, and Striker was not about to be left out in the cold.