by Rick Goeld
Justin Gage glanced out the floor-to-ceiling window. The view of the Capital grounds, dotted with live oak and pecan trees, was magnificent. He lowered himself onto the edge of one of a pair of exquisitely carved arm chairs, relaxed, and immediately slid to the back of the chair.
“Beautiful chairs,” Gage said, shifting his weight forward, trying to balance on the front edge. “What kind are they?”
“They’re Adirondack chairs, Mr. Gage. Gifts from an old, old friend: the Speaker of the House.” A lie, but what-the-hell, it sounded good. She grinned as she watched Gage try to get comfortable. Adirondack chairs, designed for casual relaxation, have seats that slope backward. When polished with high-quality furniture wax, as these were, they were impossible to sit on for any length of time.
Gage gathered himself and smiled. “Please call me Justin.”
She noted Gage’s powder-gray Western-style suit with natural leather piping, his turquoise-studded bolo tie, his snakeskin boots, and his ten-gallon Stetson. A buff Texas cowboy with a George Clooney smile … but remember, Vicki: he’s a damned lobbyist. “We hardly know each other. Why don’t we leave it as senator and mister for now?”
Her staff had briefed her earlier that day. After graduating from Texas State University, Gage had worked for a handful of politicians before landing at Americans for Healthy Food. He’d been a midlevel manager for a couple of years before his surprise promotion to senior vice president for the Southwest region. In terms of experience, intelligence, and debating skills, Gage was no better than average. Her chief of staff suspected he’d gotten the job because of his youth—he was just thirty-six—his good looks, and his Texas drawl.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Victoria continued. “I’ve got a busy schedule.”
“Of course,” Gage said, leaning forward. “As you know, I’m here in support of a bill that’s being considered by your committee.”
“The Soy Bill.”
“That’s the one.”
“I understand the purpose of your visit, Mr. Gage.”
The muscles around Gage’s eyes tightened. “Then I’ll get right to the point. Texans deserve access to healthy, high-quality, cost-effective food. Soy mix has proven to be the best way to deliver that to the people of this great state … of any state.”
“Let’s be clear. You’re talking about one hundred percent soy, correct? What they’re calling ‘all-soy’ mix?”
“Absolutely. Current regulations, which are ambiguous and poorly worded, allow for synthetic food—mix—to contain up to eighty-five percent soy. With our new gene-tailoring technology, we can go all the way to one hundred percent.”
“Tailored genes. Sounds like something I’d wear to a rodeo.” She smiled, noting the startled look on Gage’s face. “In any case, Mr. Gage, when you talk about synthetic food, you’re referring to that stuff that looks like … creamed spinach?”
“Creamed spinach, or beef stew, or an ice-cream sundae. It can be made to look like, and taste like, just about any kind of food. Think of it, Senator: synthetic food, made exclusively from soy, genetically engineered to deliver the optimum combination of proteins, vitamins, minerals, carbs, and fiber.”
“Synthetic food …” God, he’s beautiful. “Isn’t manufactured food good enough any more, Mr. Gage?”
“Regarding synthetic food and manufactured food, I think our friends in the media have confused everyone. In industry terms,” he said, smiling, “manufactured food is food made from a variety of raw materials that are forced through nozzles, stretched into fibers, and then pounded, molded, pressed, sliced, and diced to look like real food. Synthetic food generally refers to mix: a combination of ingredients combined in a high-speed blender.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with manufactured food. I like the idea of food that looks like real food.”
“Looks can be deceiving, Senator. In any case, manufactured food is old technology. Synthetic is the wave of the future.”
Lord help us. “When you described all-soy mix, you used the word ‘optimum.’ What do you mean by that, Mr. Gage?”
“I meant the optimum combination—the optimum balance—of proteins, vitamins, minerals, carbs, and fiber.”
He’s got that memorized.
“I can show you the studies,” Gage continued, again shifting his weight, trying to get comfortable.
“Done by your own people, I assume?”
“My own people?”
“The soy industry.”
Gage reached for his leather briefcase. “Actually, these studies were done by professors at some of this country’s finest universities.”
Funded, of course, by the soy industry. “Don’t bother, Mr. Gage. I believe our staffers already have copies.”
A satisfied look on Gage’s face. “Passing the bill will remove the ambiguity in the current state law. Entrepreneurs will be able to open restaurants serving all-soy mix—synthetic food—with no fear that they will be shut down.”
“Entrepreneurs, Mr. Gage?”
“Absolutely, Senator. Small businesses will benefit. Jobs will be created.”
Now that’s bullshit. “Why Texas, Mr. Gage?”
A look of surprise on Gage’s face. “Why not Texas, Senator?” His hands opened in a gesture of confusion.
“Why not Pennsylvania, Mr. Gage?” Her hands mirrored Gage’s. “Or Virginia? Or Illinois?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, let’s see now. So far, you’ve managed to get this type of legislation passed in just one state: New Hampshire. Not much soy grown in New Hampshire. Correct, Mr. Gage?”
“Actually, my responsibility only covers the Southwest region.”
“I’m referring to the soy industry as a whole, Mr. Gage.”
“I understand,” he smiled.
“This type of legislation would never pass in one of the influential states in the Northeast, would it, Mr. Gage?” She held his gaze. So beautiful … I can hardly stand to be in the same room with him. “Or how about California, Mr. Gage? That’s an influential state.”
“Our studies …” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Texas influences the entire Southwest region. Texas is where we want to begin.”
“Hmm … right after New Hampshire. Correct, Mr. Gage?”
He again shifted his weight. Sweat was starting to soak through his collar.
After this much time on the chair, Victoria thought, his back will ache, his butt will be sore, and his hamstrings will be singing the blues.
Gage forced a smile. “Senator, with all due respect, how do you know that legislation hasn’t been introduced in California, and Pennsylvania, and Virginia, and other states?”
“Research, Mr. Gage. We have researchers, too. They tell me that Texas is the only state where this type of legislation has already been introduced.”
“Well,” Gage said, again shifting his weight, “I’m sure that, at this very moment, our national organization is preparing to introduce legislation in other states. In the meantime, our studies show that Texans will benefit greatly from the passage of this bill.”
“Mr. Gage, I’m sure what you meant to say was: your organization is working with elected officials in other states, so that they can introduce legislation. Isn’t that what you meant?”
“Yes, Senator.” Droplets of moisture were forming on his forehead. “I misspoke.”
“In your position, you need to be careful about that.”
“I understand,” he mumbled, staring at the floor.
“So you’re starting with Texas.”
He looked up. “What better place to start.”
“After New Hampshire, of course.”
“Yes. New Hampshire, and then Texas, and then the other forty-nine.”
“Forty-eight, Mr. Gage.”
“Yes. Forty-eight. I stand corrected.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Gage?” She checked her wrist displ
ay. “As I said, I have a busy afternoon.”
“Yes, Senator,” he said, gathering himself. “One more thing. Can you tell me the current attitude of the committee members toward the bill?”
“The current attitude? Let me think …” She raised her hand to her chin, assuming a pensive look. “Well, there are five Republicans. They’re probably on your side, Mr. Gage. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t know, Senator.”
As if. “And then there are three Democrats and two So-Whatters. Where do you think they are, Mr. Gage?”
“Again, I have no idea, Senator.”
Right. “And then … there’s me.” She smiled sweetly.
“The most important vote, Senator,” Gage said, nodding slowly.
“Just one out of eleven, Mr. Gage.”
“Oh, come now, Senator. You’re just being modest. Your influence …”
“I hear you, Mr. Gage. Anything else?” She leaned back in her chair. The embroidery on her cream-colored business suit—yellow roses—caught the sunlight.
Gage stood, hat in one hand, briefcase in the other. “I was wondering … I’m free tonight, and alone in town. Would you join me for a casual dinner? How about a burger and a beer? Real beef and real beer …”
After that conversation, he’s still got the balls to ask me out? I’m impressed. She stood, her golden hair bouncing in the sunlight. “Why Mr. Gage … Justin … I’m flattered by the offer.” She flashed her best campaign-poster smile. “But a burger? Not really my style.”
“Then how about a steak? I know a place …”
“I’m really sorry, Justin. I’m booked solid. Perhaps another time?”
“Marlena? I need you.” Too much urgency? “I mean, would you please …” Oh, who am I kidding? “Just get in here, please.”
Seconds later, Marlena Gutierrez, Victoria Blackburn’s executive assistant, stood in the doorway. “Should I bring anything?”
That coy smile … that whiny little voice. “Just yourself.”
She moved through the doorway between the outer and inner offices. “Anything wrong, Senator?”
“No, but lock the door behind you.”
“It’s only five o’clock.”
Do I detect reluctance in her tone? “Actually, it’s after five.” Attractive, well-dressed, a little on the heavy side, but that’s okay. “My display says it’s ten after.” Victoria watched as her assistant turned, locked the door, and moved slowly toward the Adirondack chairs.
“Not there, Marlena,” Victoria said, standing. “On the sofa.”
“It’s awfully early.”
“I’ve told you before,”—touch her arm, smile sweetly, calm her down—“there’s no one around after five.”
Marlena sat, legs crossed, hands in her lap, head high, and gave her boss a sideways glance. “He was very handsome, wasn’t he?”
“Gage? The imitation cowboy?” She’d been turned on—she was wet the minute he’d walked in—but she hadn’t shown it, and she certainly wouldn’t admit it to her assistant.
“Yes,” Marlena smiled. “I thought he was very sexy.”
“Lean back,” Victoria said, sliding onto the sofa. She unbuttoned the first button of her assistant’s blouse, and then the second.
“He turned you on,” Marlena said, leaning forward, “didn’t he?”
“Whether he did or didn’t”—Victoria reached inside the blouse, unsnapped the bra, and removed it—“is irrelevant.” Those wonderful breasts. Her lips brushed one, then the other, and she felt a chill as Marlena’s nipples hardened. She slid a hand between parted legs … no panties … just wetness. “What a nice surprise,” she mumbled.
Marlena leaned back and relaxed. “I thought you’d like it, Senator.”
Chapter 3: Charles Nelson Smith
Charles Nelson Smith parked his car and let himself in through the side door, which led into the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of Bud Soy, twisted the top off, and sauntered into the living room. Manta Ray was half-asleep, sprawled over an easy chair. He noted a near-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. At least she used the cheap stuff. A lipstick-stained glass … a puddle of dark liquid, seeping into the carpet … gang-bang porno, the sound muted, on the multi-screen.
“Manta,” he said, sitting down on the sofa, picking up the remote, turning off the porno.
No response.
“Manta.” Louder.
Nothing.
“Manta! Wake the fuck up!”
Nada.
Shaking his head, he tossed the remote, hitting her dead-smack on the left breast.
“Fuck you, Charley.” She rubbed her breast, eyes still closed.
“Hey, Sis.” He took a long pull of beer. “Welcome to the land of the living.”
She sat up, ran her fingers through her hair, picked up her glass, and poured herself more wine. “What time is it?”
He flicked his wrist and glanced at his display. “Five-thirty.”
“God, I was tired.”
Must be all that fucking and sucking. “Tell me what happened after I left.”
“After you left …” She gathered herself. “Well, let’s see. He finished my burrito … and I invited him over here for a glass of wine.”
“And then you did him.”
Her lips curled. “What do you think?”
He smiled. “How many times?”
“Just once. I’m trying to bring him along slowly.”
“Hmm …” He took another pull of beer. “Is our friend any good?”
“Fucking? Not really.”
“I could have guessed that.”
“Well built, though.” A sly smile. “But my jewelry spooked him. I had to take it off.”
“Down there?” His smile broadened. “I could have guessed that, too.” Smith figured Blackburn to be a pretender, a wannabe. He leaned back and put his boots on the table. He still had his Texas techie gear on. “So is our story holding up?”
“So far.” She moved to the sofa, sat, and kissed him gently on the lips. “But why the ‘blow-job’ remark?”
“Why the ‘name-change’ remark?” Shit. That was my mistake. There was no need to tell her.
“I’m sorry.”
“That wasn’t in the script.”
“Well, neither was yours.”
“I couldn’t resist. Anyway, I was trying to pick a fight with you. Remember the plan? Generate sympathy? Or empathy? Whatever?”
“Well, just be careful. We’re walking a fine line here. I’m supposed to be a co-ed, not a hooker.”
“I know, Manta. This is my game, remember?”
“And what would have happened if there were no seats near what’s-his-name? For you or me?”
“Blackburn. For Christ’s sake, Manta, don’t forget his name. And I had men in the restaurant, remember? They would have moved some people around, if it had been necessary.”
“You mean those two goons standing in the doorway?”
“Goons?”
“I saw them.” She ran her hand over his crotch. “Can you trust them?”
“Forget them. Did Blackburn say anything about his sister?”
“He mentioned her while we were still at the Retro.” Her hand was on his zipper.
“Nothing else?”
“I didn’t push it. I told you it’s too soon.” His zipper was halfway down.
“How’d you leave things?”
“Tentatively, we have a date this weekend.”
“A date. How quaint.” He was hard. “Let’s go to the bedroom.” He took a last swig of beer, stood and moved toward the hallway.
She stayed on the sofa, pouting.
Playing hard to get? As if. “Come on,” he beckoned. “I’ll let you keep your chains on.”
Chapter 4: Manta Ray
Manta Ray’s eyes popped open. Shit. I must have fallen asleep. All this fucking is wearing me out. She tried to move, but couldn’t. She was wrapped in a blanket of sweaty flesh. Something wet and
hairy was lodged against her thigh.
“Charley?”
No response.
“Charley!”
“What?” he mumbled.
Your breath. “Let me up.” She lifted his arm and pushed, rolling him onto his back. He groaned, then turned away, and she was free. Covered in sweat and slime, but free. God, I could use a cup of coffee.
Five minutes later, she’d peed, thrown on a robe and slippers, walked to the kitchen, and started a pot of coffee. She picked up her cell phone and speed-dialed a number.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mom. How are you?”
“Manta?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Well … it’s so good to hear from you.”
Sarcasm. “I’m sorry I haven’t called, Mom.” The coffee maker hissed as black liquid dripped into the pot. “I know it’s been a while.”
“Well, dear … I know you’re busy.”
Jesus. Make me feel even worse. “How are you doing? How are things at the commune?”
“Here? Oh, you know. About the same.”
“Are you still living with the same, what, uh, three roommates?”
“Oh, yes. The same three ladies.”
“And how’s your boyfriend? What was his name? Paul something?”
“Do you mean Jean Paul?”
That coffee smells so good. “Mom, hold on.” She got up, poured herself a cup, stirred in some artificial sweetener and whitener. “Okay, I’m back. What were you saying?”
“Were you asking about Jean Paul? The man I introduced you to?”
“Yes. Jean Paul.” He seemed like a nice guy.
“He moved away.”
“Oh? Where did he move to?”
“Arkansas. Somewhere in Arkansas. But I have another boyfriend.”
Jesus, Mom, you could always attract men. “What’s his name?”
“Stewart.”
“Well … good.”
“He’s from Dallas.”
“Good.”
“But he travels some. It does get lonely here.”
Here comes the guilt trip. Change the subject. “Uh, what about the food, Mom? Are you getting enough to eat?”