Naked Ambition

by Rick Pullen

  “You need a drink. What can I get you?” he asked.

  “Vodka tonic. Thank you.”

  He turned to the bartender, who was rearranging glasses and bottles of beer on the backbar. While Beck was getting her drink, Geneva scanned the room. Congressman Joy appeared to have taken up permanent residency in the living room, expounding on the day’s events to anyone willing to listen. She looked beyond Joy to see who else was there. The party had grown to about thirty people. She hoped that wouldn’t interfere with her attempt to monopolize Rik-ki’s attention.

  “Here you go.” She turned back as Rikki handed her a vodka tonic. “So, Mr. Rikki, you must have an interesting job.” “Beck, please. Only police officers call me Mr. Rikki.” “Do you meet a lot of them in your job?” “Only when I drive too fast.” “Speed limits not your thing?”

  “No limits are my thing. In a way, we reporters are just like politicians. We like to make our own rules.”

  “At a heavy cost to your wallet, no doubt.”

  “No doubt. Between the speeding tickets and the hikes in my insurance premiums—yep. Kinda expensive after a while.” “No chance of reform, I take it.”

  “I’m afraid not. I have to constantly race to keep up with what’s going on behind the scenes in this town. That’s where you’ve got an advantage on me. You’re a participant. I’m merely an observer.”

  He certainly seemed confident enough, she thought, and rather charming. “Don’t be modest, Mr. Rikki.” “Beck,” he corrected her.

  “Beck, your reputation is quite well known. Weren’t you on the New York Times best-seller list?” “I’ve done okay.”

  A waiter banging a small chime rang cocktails to a close. “It was nice meeting you,” Beck said.

  “You too.” She would let him discover on his own that they were tablemates. She turned away. That was unexpected. She had no experience with reporters. They all seemed so callous and boastful on television, yet Beck was a strange combination of modesty and confidence. She wondered just who was charming whom.

  Ellen Elizabeth led the crowd to her conservatory filled with exotic ferns and a small koi pond. It was still light outside, making the formal gardens visible through the large glass walls. Oval tables covered with white tablecloths and flower centerpieces, probably from Ellen Elizabeth’s garden, decorated the expansive room. Each table had seating for eight. Geneva smiled at the arrangement; her friend entertained with such ease.

  She saw Congressman Joy and Senator Jesse Zadlo from Texas, who had just arrived, led to two tables at the far end of the room. Well, she knew where she wasn’t sitting. Eager to get things rolling, she found the seating chart on an easel near the doorway and slipped into her chair long before Beck reached the table.

  “Well, we meet again. What a pleasure,” he said when he saw her.

  She extended her hand in a playful manner feigning formality, and he gently grasped it as if meeting for the first time—this time holding on far longer than necessary. This time his hand was gentle and warm. She liked his touch and felt sad to let go.

  Their other tablemates consisted of three congressional staffers and two lobbyists—the equivalent of the kids’ table at Thanksgiving dinner. The seat on the other side of Beck was supposedly a no-show, not uncommon with Washington dinner parties. Geneva however, knew the real story. At her request, Ellen Elizabeth had guaranteed the chair next to Beck would remain empty—the place card a ghost guest—giving Geneva exclusive face time with the reporter.

  “Do you know Ellen Elizabeth?” she asked.

  “We actually met briefly one summer at the University of Tennessee. She took some summer classes and interned at the school newspaper, the Daily Beacon. I was trying my hand at photography at the time, so we worked on some of the same stories.”

  “I remember. Her family is from East Tennessee—Greenville, I believe.”

  “Or as they say in Tennessee, ‘Green-vul.’ I’m a graduate of the UT College of Communications. I think they call it the College of Media or Information or something like that now. It’s all about digital these days.”

  “You speak Tennessean?”

  “Not anymore. I’m a southern half-breed. Mom from Richmond. Dad from Chicago. A couple of aging hippies. I grew up in Richmond. Still have a sister there. As for work, I’m fortunate I’ve still got a job. I’ve navigated the paper’s downsizing. We used to have a big investigative team. Now we are all solo artists. I’m lucky. I no longer have a beat position. I just write what I want.”

  “Why is that?” Geneva quickly sipped her water and took the measure of her table for any obligations. The other guests were all engaged in conversations. Good, she thought. She needed time with Beck. She needed to gain his trust.

  “It’s funny,” he continued. “People come out of the woodwork with stories once they realize you’re willing to investigate and won’t burn them.”

  “Meaning?” The waiter poured Geneva a glass of red wine.

  “Well, first off, most reporters are just lazy. I’m certainly susceptible. But I learned early on to follow up on every string of information. That takes work. Once you get the reputation as a reporter who will actually dig, all of the nutcases in the city start calling with tips about the conspiracy of the week.”

  “And you follow up on every one?”

  “Every one. It takes time. Sometimes I won’t make that phone call for a month, especially when I’m on another big story. Most times, the tip was malarkey, and a simple phone call ends it. But sometimes that phone call launches a new adventure.”

  Beck looked out over the room and stroked his mustache. She wondered what he was thinking and if it was the right time to bring up the Bayard issue. And just how would she do that? Oh, by the way, Beck, I have a story for you about a dirty presidential candidate. No. That certainly wouldn’t do. She needed to bide her time and figure out a good approach.

  Beck began again. “My work is Alice in Wonderland. I just keep opening doors until one leads someplace. One of my biggest stories—in fact, it was about the Pentagon getting ripped off—came from one of my favorite crazy sources. Do you remember the Nordact Arms munitions scandal a few years back?” “That was you?”

  “Yep. But I didn’t follow up on the tip for about three weeks. I kicked myself that I hadn’t jumped on it sooner, but I literally had to go through a dozen other totally worthless tips before I got to it.”

  “That was a huge story. Weren’t you up for a Pulitzer for that?”

  “Yep. That was one of my first really big stories. I’d done a lot of investigations prior, but they didn’t move public policy the way that one did.”

  “That makes you one of the most dangerous people in this town.” The thought excited her and gave her confidence that Beck was the right man for the job.

  “Thanks for the compliment, but my editor will assure you I put my pants on one leg at a time and tend to spill coffee all over my desk—just like everyone else.” Beck took a sip of his wine and munched down on a breadstick. “Okay, your turn, Geneva. Tell me about you.”

  “You’re so much more interesting. Call me Jen, please.”

  “Okay, Jen, stop stealing my methods of avoidance.”

  “Guilty as charged.” There was something about this man. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she was thoroughly captivated by their conversation.

  “I’m a military brat,” she said. “Grew up all over the world. My dad transferred to the state department as some sort of military liaison later in his career. Frankly, I think he was a spook, but he would never say. We were all over Europe and South America. I never made it to Asia.”

  Beck visually perked up when she mentioned her father was a spy. Interesting, she thought, how a reporter’s mind must work. He must always be looking for a story. Another point in his favor.

  “I came back to the States for college,” she continued. “I went to school here at GW, got the political bug, worked on the Hill, and met my husband. I couldn’
t work for him after we married, so I got a job lobbying. Three companies later, I’m one of the lobbyists for Serodynne. It’s interesting work.” No, not really, she thought. Her job was a grind and she dealt with jerks on a daily basis. “You must be good at your job.”

  “I’d like to think so, but you know, Washington is a shark tank and things change quickly.”

  “Frankly, I don’t know how you keep up with it all. Do you ever get tired of this scene and just want to say chuck it and sit in a beach bar for the rest of your life?”

  “Oh, you have no idea.”

  Beck laughed. “Maybe we have something in common.”

  “Really? Tell me more.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin, placed it in her lap, and crunched down on her breadstick, never taking her eyes off him.

  “Oh, it’s just that it all seems the same over time.”

  “You ever see the movie Groundhog Day where the main character lives the same day over and over again?” she asked.

  “Exactly. That’s Washington. Don’t get me wrong. I love the chase— putting all of the puzzle pieces together to create a big story. But all of the puzzles form the same self-serving picture, the same typical corruption.”

  He paused and took another swig of the red wine. “In college, I wanted to be Perry Mason, the hottest defense lawyer around. Then I realized that defense lawyers represented the scum of the earth, and most of their clients were guilty. Kinda blew the image for me. In my sophomore year, I took a journalism course and was hooked. I discovered investigative reporting, and soon realized I could be judge, jury, and prosecutor. So who needed to be a lawyer?”

  “I like your logic.” Maybe reporters aren’t so bad after all—at least this one, she thought.

  As waiters laid the main course plates in front of them, their conversation ceased, but their eyes lingered on each other. Geneva looked down and blushed, realizing she had forgotten to eat her salad. She quickly grabbed her glass of wine, took a sip, and looked away. Beck picked up the conversation again, and they talked nonstop for the next half hour, managing to eat a few bites in between sentences.

  Before the dessert course, Ellen Elizabeth stood and thanked everyone for coming, then pointed out the elected members of Congress in attendance, who stood as the group applauded. They each made a few remarks about the upcoming political conventions and congressional elections and quickly sat down. The party broke right at 9:00 p.m., a Washington rule of the game. Geneva realized she and Beck had virtually ignored everyone else at their table the entire evening. She hoped that worked in her favor.

  “Share a cab?” Beck asked.

  “Love to,” Geneva said. “I’m heading to Pennsylvania Avenue.” Senator Bayard, she reasoned, could wait a little while. She needed to find the proper opening, but what she really wanted was to get to know Beck.

  “I’m going to Old Town, so you’re not much out of the way.”

  16

  The air had cooled considerably since the sun had gone down. Now in the low seventies, the humidity seemed to have disappeared, giving Washington a temporary reprieve from late summer’s steamy countenance. Enjoying the cool night air, they walked two blocks to Wisconsin Avenue to hail a taxi.

  Geneva navigated the uneven brick sidewalks in her four-inch heels with the skill of a woman who knew the gentrified neighborhood well. She noted Beck kept a slow, deliberate pace—not really a necessity, she reasoned, but she appreciated the gesture. He said something about women torturing themselves instead of wearing sensible shoes, and she wondered about the choice herself.

  Geneva was glad she hadn’t reserved her car service for the evening. She would have missed spending a little more time with Beck. The second taxi passing by did a U-turn and pulled up to the curve. The Indian driver smiled and greeted them in broken English. Geneva knew exactly why he was so eager to dodge traffic to pick them up. A well-dressed white couple in Georgetown made for a safe bet at night, and they were almost always good tippers.

  Beck asked for her address. They sat in silence, looking out the window as they turned onto M Street in the direction toward downtown. She didn’t want this moment to end. She felt something—his shaggy hair, his droopy mustache. He was different.

  “You know what I really need?” she said.

  “What?”

  “I need a drink. You have time for a nightcap?” “Sure. Where would you like to go?” “I’d love a cigar and a brandy.” “You’re kidding. You like cigars?” “Why? Have I broken some sacred rule?”

  “No. I think it’s great. I love them. Let’s have cigars. But where? The cigar bar downtown will make you smell like a chimney for a week.”

  “I know. I was there once. Too little room, too little time, too many cigars.”

  “If I’m not being too forward, I have a great balcony where I enjoy a smoke. And the brandy’s a bargain.”

  “You’re on. That sounds like fun.” She felt a thrill. Again it was like a first date, but the jitters were different. She was happy to be in his company instead of dreading it. And he smoked cigars. Who’da thought?

  Beck directed the cabbie down Fourteenth Street across the Potomac and down the G.W. Parkway to Old Town Alexandria.

  Geneva glanced at him. Had she been too forward?

  He turned her way. “So how did you become a cigar smoker? It’s not exactly a woman’s sport.”

  “Well. I work in a man’s world. Long ago, I told myself if I wanted to be successful in Washington, then I needed to be in the room. So I play golf, drink scotch, and play poker. I even know how to ride a Harley.”

  “Really?”

  “And I watch sports.”

  “And who are your favorite teams?”

  “Oh, come on. I have to be a Nationals and Redskins fan, no matter how good or bad they are.”

  “Not the home state teams?”

  “That’s Harv’s problem. Not mine.” That was awkward. She had just brought reality crashing down on her little fantasy. What was she doing? This could never work. Could it? Why did she bring her husband into the conversation? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  She could tell Beck was attracted to her, or at least he enjoyed harmless flirting. Had she just thoughtlessly smothered a potential fire or was she just kidding herself? She stared at her wedding band. Damn it. She had to be more careful. She might have messed up her chance with him, but she couldn’t afford to slip up nudging him toward Senator Bayard. She had too much at stake.

  They fell silent. That did not bode well for the rest of the evening.

  GENEVA WAS RELIEVED WHEN THE cab arrived at Beck’s condo. Their attention was diverted, and Harv’s essence no longer lingered in the air.

  Beck lived in a six-story brick building near the Braddock Road metro station edging along Alexandria’s historic area.

  “I love Old Town,” Beck said. “It’s a mixture of one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old mansions and town houses mixed in with condominiums like mine. I almost bought a condo on the Potomac, until a jet flew over, landing at Reagan National Airport while the Realtor was showing it to me. The view was beautiful, but the noise—worse than the newsroom. I was renting this at the time, so when it went on the market, I settled for privacy and convenience instead.”

  They rode the elevator to the third floor, and Beck led Geneva through his front door. The living room had a comfortable overstuffed leather couch. Good quality, Geneva thought. He must make a pretty good living.

  A pile of books was stacked neatly on an end table. A large wingback leather chair stood in the corner, next to another small table stacked with books. So this is what a big deal journalist’s home looks like, she thought. It seemed to fit with what little she knew of him.

  “Now here’s the best part.” He walked across the living room to a set of French doors, then swung them open with gusto, proudly revealing a large balcony. “I got the corner unit and have twice the balcony. And since it’s still summer, I’ve got total privacy. The pin oak makes it impossible to see
my neighbors.”

  The slender branches of a large tree came within arm’s reach of his balcony. Geneva leaned on the railing and could barely make out the yards of several homes that backed up to the building.

  “I sit out here at night and enjoy a cigar. Sometimes the neighbors have a barbecue outside, and I can enjoy the aroma.”

  She noticed Beck smiling at the thought. He ducked inside, leaving her alone to take in the balmy evening. She closed her eyes momentarily, luxuriating in the temperate air against her skin. The luscious feeling made her body tingle.

  Beck quickly returned with two brandies. He handed her one and then exited again, this time returning with a cigar humidor.

  “What’s your choice?”

  “You have any Padrons? Sixty-fours?”

  “And twenty-sixes,” he chimed in. “Naturals, not maduros.” “You have good taste.” “Apparently, we both do.”

  He handed her a 1964 Anniversary Padron. He chose the 1926.

  “Before I get started, do you mind if I get comfortable?” Geneva asked. It had been a long day. She’d given up on anything more than a cigar with him tonight. Might as well make herself comfortable.

  “Well, I suppose not.” Beck raised an eyebrow. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall on the left.”

  A FEW MINUTES LATER, Geneva padded barefoot back to the balcony and sat on his couch, curling her legs under as her skirt rode up her thighs. Beck noticed they were now bare. God was she a babe, he thought.

  His eyes quickly traveled up to her satin blouse, whose neckline teased him with a hint of cleavage. It clung loosely over her curves, but remained faithful to every peak and valley of her figure. There was no doubt she was no longer wearing a bra. Beck looked away quickly, aware he was staring, but his glance apparently did not go unnoticed.

  “My business uniform chafes after a long day,” Geneva said. “I need to wind down and ditch the political armor.”