Capitol Threat

by William Bernhardt

  If his experience had taught Loving anything, it was that the best weapon against bravado was its polar opposite. He made a strategic about-face. “Well,” he said, shuffling his feet slightly, “you’ll probably humiliate me.”

  “He will not!” Trudy insisted.

  “But I gotta try,” Loving added sheepishly.

  The Boy in Black commiserated. “I understand. Hell of a thing, being pussy-whipped in public.”

  Loving managed to keep a straight face.

  The Boy in Black gave Trudy one more lascivious look. “Last chance to sit with the champ.”

  “No thanks,” she replied, grabbing Loving’s arm. “I told you already. I’m with him.”

  He turned to Loving. “That right?”

  “Yeah,” Loving said, steely-eyed. “She’s with me.”

  Loving lowered himself into the chair.

  “Wait a minute,” the Boy in Black’s bimbo said. “You gotta pay to play.”

  “I paid a bundle just to get in here.”

  “And you’ll pay a bundle more if you want to rumble with my baby.”

  Muttering under his breath, Loving pulled out a wad of real money—not scrip Trudy had collected earlier. “That do?”

  The Boy in Black swept it away. “That’ll do.” He put his elbow on the table and opened his fingers. “Ready to play?”

  Loving was.

  He could see almost immediately that they were evenly matched, at least in terms of strength. The Boy in Black could see it—and was surprised and irritated by it—as well. They both grunted and strained, but neither made any headway. At first, Loving had a slight edge: he could feel his opponent’s fist tilting ever so slightly to the side. But the Boy in Black soon corrected the situation. This could potentially go on forever, but Loving knew he couldn’t afford a protracted match. It had been too long since he’d been to the gym, and unless he missed his guess, his obnoxious opponent was a daily visitor. If it turned into a stamina match, he would lose. He needed a different approach. The Drag.

  Every bar rat in western Oklahoma knew the Drag, but he was betting that this East Coast pseudo-redneck wouldn’t. At a moment of equilibrium, Loving hooked his wrist around the Boy in Black’s till his palm faced him. Then, pulling with all his strength, he tried to drag his opponent’s wrist, not to the side in the traditional manner, but toward him.

  The Boy in Black was not prepared for the Drag. He tried to compensate, but Loving could see it was a struggle. Loving pulled hard, bringing all the strength in his enormous chest, back, and shoulders to bear. In this position, the Boy in Black had to fight back with his biceps, putting him at a distinct disadvantage.

  Pull! Loving told himself, trying to force all his might into the maneuver. He could feel sweat dripping down his brow. His arm began to tremble slightly, the first and surest sign that his strength was ebbing. He might have the power position, but maintaining it was tough. The longer this went, the harder it would be. The Boy in Black’s arm descended lower, then lower still…

  The kid made a loud grunting noise, heaved himself back, and restored his arm to the upright position. Square one. Loving had taken his best shot—and failed.

  He looked up and saw the Boy in Black grinning, those sickening teeth glistening. Damn, he wanted to beat this twerp! But the kid had the edge, and Loving knew it.

  “Hang in there, sugar,” he heard a voice whisper in his ear. “We can take this steroid stiff.”

  We? Where was the “we”? Loving gritted his teeth and tried to hold on. His opponent had him on the defensive, forcing him to use his biceps to keep himself in play. He couldn’t hold this position for long. He had one more trick in his bag, but he couldn’t implement it while his fist was on the way downward. If he was going to have any chance, he had to get his fist back upright.

  Slowly, surely, he righted his fist to the twelve o’clock position. The Boy in Black was sweating a little, which gave Loving no end of pleasure. He had a hunch it had been a good while since this overblown clod had done any real perspiring.

  Loving took a deep breath. Time to implement the Roll. This move was designed to take advantage of the weakest part of the opponent’s body—at least, the weakest part in play in an arm-wrestling match: his fingers. Instead of pushing against the other guy’s palm, Loving abruptly switched to pushing the meaty part of his thumb against his opponent’s fingers.

  He saw the Boy in Black wince. Good. The Roll was having its desired effect. Ever so slightly, his hand was starting to bend.

  Loving twisted his wrist around to roll the primary pressure point of his assault onto the tops of the kid’s fingers. His limp wrist buckled. Loving pushed hard. The Boy’s hand went downward.

  Downward, but not down. Loving knew he was close, but not close enough. This arm-wrestling machine had recovered before. He couldn’t allow it to happen again. But what could he do about it?

  Once again he heard whispering in his ear. “I’ll take it from here.”

  What the hell did that mean? Loving didn’t know, and he certainly couldn’t turn around to ask, but a moment later, he became aware that Trudy was not only standing behind him but…moving. Sashaying, perhaps. Swinging her—his—hips from side to side, no doubt in the most provocative manner possible. Loving could only imagine the facial expressions that accompanied the movement. Correct that: he did not want to imagine the facial expressions that accompanied the movement. He was pleased that he could not see what Trudy was doing.

  But the Boy in Black could. He resisted at first, but as the match progressed and the pressure on his fingers became more intense, he glanced away more frequently, distracted by the show taking place behind Loving’s back. It had to be good: several of the other men in the room were watching as well.

  The primary tenet of arm wrestling, the single most important factor, is concentration. If your mind isn’t on the game, you’re going to lose. And sure enough, not thirty seconds after Trudy went into action, Loving managed to push the Boy’s hand onto the plush red pillow.

  He’d won the match.

  The Boy in Black was furious. He leaped out of his chair, then turned on his attending bimbo. “How come you never make moves like that?”

  Her face flattened. “I’ve never even…seen moves like that.”

  He whirled around to face Loving. “This wasn’t a fair fight.”

  “I didn’t break any rules.”

  “Yeah, but it still wasn’t…wasn’t…” This guy’s vocabulary didn’t have words for it. Loving wasn’t particularly surprised. He knew the Boy in Black had lost more than a match; he’d probably lost his job as well.

  “All right, damn it. You can go in. Both of you.” He sneered as he opened the door. “After all, it was a team effort.”

  “Let’s go then, partner.” Trudy offered him an arm.

  “I am not taking your arm,” Loving hissed quietly.

  “Show some gratitude.”

  “I didn’t see you sweatin’ in that chair!”

  “I did my part. You know I did.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “It’ll look better if we go in together.”

  Loving rolled his eyes, feeling as if he might explode at any moment. But the sad truth was—Trudy was right.

  His linked his arm around hers. His. Whatever. And they stepped into the inner parlor.

  41

  Here he was again. Sitting at home. Alone. Because he had stopped taking calls days ago. It was too dangerous to make any. And his lover of seven years wouldn’t speak to him.

  At least the police had finally removed the crime-scene tape. That was a relief. He could pretend that his home was, once again, his home. Also home to a hostile roommate. But home.

  Roush had never expected to be here. Never expected the nomination to advance this far. Maybe, truth be told, that was the real reason he had come out of the closet during his acceptance speech in the Rose Garden. Risky, ballsy, controversial—but if he derailed his own nomination,
then it could never proceed far enough to uncover his real secret. The one for which he still bore the guilt. His failure would be attributed to homophobia, not any problem on his part, and the secret would remain secret.

  Except that no matter how he might privately want this nomination to die, it didn’t. Hammond was working too hard. Sexton was too influential. Even Kincaid was helpful, in a goofy sort of way. They kept pulling his fat out of the fire. And only he knew how disastrous that could be in the long run.

  They all acted as if he had been physically raped when those paid whores started rattling on about gay bars. Not him. He knew that would come out. He hadn’t anticipated all the lies about orgies and threesomes, but that was okay. Ironically, it had backfired, ended up reinforcing the claims of homophobia, especially when it was proven that the witnesses—at least some of them—were liars. Paid liars.

  The truth always emerges, eventually.

  That’s what he was worried about. It was not possible to keep a secret in this town. At least not for long. Certainly not forever.

  He tiptoed down the hallway to Ray’s door, then knocked gently.

  No response.

  Probably wasn’t locked, but he wasn’t going to test it. If Ray had shut the door to his room—the room in which he’d been sleeping for the past many weeks—he’d done it for a reason. Nothing good could come from entering a room where he wasn’t wanted. It had been so long since the two of them slept in the same room that Roush couldn’t even remember when it was. Before this endless media conflagration. Before his life was turned topsy-turvy. Which was mostly his own fault.

  He just hoped Ray wasn’t avoiding him for the wrong reasons. Not that there was a right reason. But if there were more to it than just his irritation, his humiliation at having his private life made public…

  Well, Roush preferred not to even think about that.

  Was withdrawing still an option? Could he decline the nomination, after so many had done so much to keep him in the game? How would he possibly explain it?

  He couldn’t. And so, tomorrow, he would dutifully walk into that Caucus Room, waiting to hear sixteen people decide his fate. With his friends, support staff, and co-workers. All the while knowing that, of all the hearts beating on the Roush confirmation team, his was the one that had the least faith in the nominee.

  When Jessie Matera turned thirty—not yet a senator, but close—she had blown her first perfect smoke ring. Since then, she had mastered the art. She didn’t smoke much; she didn’t smoke cigarettes at all. But occasionally, in times of great stress or jubilation, she allowed herself a good old-fashioned stogie. Why should the boys have all the fun?

  Except tonight, it wasn’t working. This was her third attempt, and it still wasn’t right. More oblate than circular. Like the shape of the earth as viewed from outer space.

  “Care for a smoke, Richard?”

  Trevor reacted as if he had been offered a sneak peek at a porn flick. “I don’t smoke, Jessie.”

  “Sure? Might relax you a little.”

  “I’m fine. Smoking is a vice.”

  “You seem a bit uptight tonight. But then, you always do.” She passed the humidor toward the young man in the blue suit. “Try one.”

  “No thank you.” Trevor smiled a little. “Jesus never smoked.”

  Matera took a long drag on her cigar, then exhaled. “Jesus never lobbied Congress for favors, either.”

  “In a way, he did. When he turned over the tables in the temple and tossed out the moneylenders—”

  Matera raised a hand. “Spare me. I’m too old for fairy tales.”

  “Are you suggesting that the Holy Bible is not the word of God?”

  “Perish the thought.” She took another long drag. “I know the party line. Every word contained in the Bible is literally true. Just like it says in the Gospels. Even though the Gospels contradict each other constantly, they’re still all literally true. Somehow…”

  Trevor pointed a finger. “Don’t be sacrilegious with me. I won’t tolerate it. I can withdraw my funding—”

  “Don’t threaten me,” Matera said, cutting him off. She didn’t have to point. She could get her message across with her eyes. “You need me.”

  “You need me, too.”

  “That, unfortunately, is correct. I mean, I don’t, not really. I couldn’t care less if Roush gets to wear a black robe. And I’m not planning to run for reelection, as you know. But I do care whether I get nominated for the vice presidency. I’d make a damn good Vice President. And our current Commander in Chief seems to share my opinion. All he requires in exchange is that I serve as his personal lickspittle and perform every nasty job he needs done between now and then. A small sacrifice for such a distinguished position, don’t you agree?”

  Trevor looked at her directly. “Hasn’t been a Republican Vice President named in the last twenty years that didn’t have the support of the Christian Congregation.”

  Matera covered her mouth and yawned. “You don’t have to wave your dick at me, Richard. I already know how big it is.”

  “I don’t appreciate that kind of talk.”

  “I know. Jesus probably never said ‘dick,’ either, did he?” She put the cigar to her lips and savored the slightly woody aroma. “What’s your big interest in this thing, anyway? Is it just that you want what President Blake wants?”

  “The President wants what I tell him to want.”

  “As I suspected. So why are you so dead set against Roush? He’s a smart man, you know. A good judge. Fair. Rational. Has actually read the Constitution.”

  “The man is a sodomite. That’s still illegal in some states, you know.”

  “So is spitting on the sidewalk. Seriously, though, is that all? You oppose him because he’s gay? ’Cause that’s a dying cause, you know. And I say that as a prominent Republican senator who raked the man over the coals about his gayness during the hearings. I can see the handwriting on the wall. This is another form of prejudice, and future generations aren’t going to look on you any more favorably than current generations look on the KKK.”

  “The Bible expressly forbids—”

  “You’re talking about that bit in Leviticus, right? Which was written about…what, 1750 B.C.? That was the Bronze Age, for pity’s sake.”

  “I had no idea you were a Biblical scholar. I myself just read the words and follow them, and the Bible says, ‘A man shall not lie down with a man—’ ”

  “Except, taken in context, it’s talking about a married man, right? It’s saying that it’s still adultery, even if you aren’t having intercourse with a woman.”

  “That’s not how I read it.”

  “And God didn’t say anything about homosexuality in the Ten Commandments, did he?”

  “No, but—”

  “So this Biblical imperative didn’t even make the top ten. Did Jesus say anything about it?”

  “Not that we have a record of, but—”

  “So in the end, it’s just that one Bronze Age passage from Leviticus. And scholars aren’t even sure what it’s saying.”

  Trevor lowered himself into the nearest available chair. It had been a mistake to meet Senator Matera in her office. Something about being on her home turf gave her too much confidence, just as the fact that she wasn’t running for reelection gave vent to a singularly unpleasant rebellious streak. “Satan produces false evidence to tempt the weak. Sometimes even people of great power can be weak.”

  “Oh, don’t be so touchy. I’m not trying to threaten your narrow little worldview. I can’t oppose the Christian Congregation and we both know it. I’m just curious. Is that really all this is? Political gay bashing? Pandering to the public distrust of anyone different from themselves?”

  Trevor hesitated. “I happen to believe the President made a mistake when he nominated Thaddeus Roush.”

  “But you must’ve approved it. Or he never would’ve done it.”

  “We didn’t know then what we know now.”
/>   “Namely, that he’s gay.”

  “That’s just the tip of the iceberg. An indicator of so much more that’s wrong with this man. It’s a mental illness, you know.”

  “Being gay is a mental illness?”

  “Many prominent psychiatrists have said so. On the record. Even in these PC times.”

  “Would these prominent psychiatrists be members of the Christian Congregation, by chance?”

  “That’s neither here nor there. The Mark Foley scandal did incalculable damage to our cause. This could be even worse.”

  Matera rolled the cigar between her fingers, still eyeing her companion closely. “You’re a stubborn man, you know that, Trevor?”

  “I believe the same could be said of you, Senator,” he replied, with a tiny intimation of a grin.

  “Did you by chance have a better candidate in mind?”

  Trevor tilted his head to the side as if trying to decide how much was safe to say. “I prefer a national hero to a national disgrace.”

  “Right. Haskins.” Matera was sad to see that her cigar was almost at its end. She really shouldn’t have a second, not at her age. Even during times like these. “Is Haskins on board with this?”

  “I think he has made it clear that he would be willing to step in, if called, assuming he felt there was sufficient support for his nomination. But he wants no part of the effort to defeat the Roush nomination.”

  “Understandable. So you’re sure he’s your man?”

  Trevor stared at her through steepled fingers. “There is a…well, a test pending, if you will. A loyalty test. A measure of determination. Or character.”

  “Stop talking in riddles. What’s he got to promise? To bury Roe v. Wade?”

  “He needs to prove he’s someone we can work with.”

  “Someone who will take orders when given?”

  “I liked it better the way I said it.”

  Matera shook her head. “You’re a devious man, Trevor.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as a clever strategist.”