by Warren Adler
From his bed he watched the flickering lights on the nearby radio towers, feeling his muscles unstiffen in his legs. The residue of alcohol in his blood made his head swim at first, but soon he slipped into sleep. The jiggling of a key in the lock and the clock chiming three sounded in his mind simultaneously and he opened his eyes, listening for her step, fully alert.
She had taken her shoes off and was proceeding quietly through the apartment. He heard a bump.
“Shit,” she cried.
“Jennie!”
“I woke you. I promised I wouldn’t wake you, darling. And now I’ve done it.” She sat on the side of the bed, the heavy sweetish scent of champagne mingled with her perfume.
She reached for his forehead, smoothed his hair. “Poor baby,” she said. He looked upward, focusing on her face, the smooth cheekbones, large, carefully shadowed brown eyes, the frosted hair long and silky against the side of his face. “We danced and danced. It was quite a do. Then the ambassador invited us upstairs for scrambled eggs and champagne, which he made himself on a big skillet. It was so veddy British, so naughty, yet so proper.”
“How cozy,” he mumbled.
“Did you miss old Jennie?” she asked, pinching his side.
“Old is hardly the correct adjective.”
“It was lovely, a charming party. I really don’t think I’ll be half bad on them. It all had a certain anglicized ambience that was refreshing. And the champagne was divine.”
“I can smell it,” he said.
“I’m gloriously smashed.” She lay her head on his stomach over the blanket. He could feel the light pressure of her hand against his penis. The suggestion of sexuality recalled his feeling of tiredness.
“And it’s so good to come home and find my man here.” She put moist lips on his and kissed him deeply, her tongue flickering aggressively against his.
He felt her hand reach down under the covers and caress his testicles. She whispered into his ear. “I love my man,” she said. “I love his balls.”
“That’s all you’re interested in, just one thing.” He smiled.
“You bet your sweet petunia.”
He felt his tiredness again, becoming anxious when his response seemed slow.
He unhooked her dress, an expected reflex, and unzipped the top, feeling her small breasts fall free when he unhooked her brassiere strap. Willing himself to respond only made matters worse. Feeling his penis shrivel, he reached for her aggressively and pulled the dress over her head, watching the uptilt of her barely developed chest, so different from Margaret’s huge breasts in which he could suckle and roam with tongue, hand, penis, an exploration of infinite variety. He moved over her, downward with his head, rolling down her panties, as his tongue sought her clitoris and she responded by caressing his head and ears, signaling her enjoyment. Pursuing her pleasure, he followed its rhythm with technical observation, hoping that he could induce a climax, perhaps end the need for further activity on his part. He felt empty and dead in his loins, ashamed of his tiredness, but still not daring to insult his maturity by a fear of impotence. It was a lurking beast that up to now he had kept at bay.
He worked his tongue around her organs, titillating, teasing, imagining some special rhythm, feeling her respond to a nerve-rending pleasure as his tongue, strained now and painful, played on this part of her body. He could feel her reaching for his penis, the tip of her tongue caressing its limpness as she sought the key to his own pleasure. He felt inadequate, his ego suddenly harassed. But she would not give up, as if it were necessary for her to validate his manhood, and soon she was concentrating the fury of her energy on the single-minded task of drawing forth his response. When erection finally came, she straddled him and inserted his tentatively erected organ, which she seemed to milk now as her lithe form swiveled on his pelvis. Willing himself to concentrate on the graphic stimulation of her swaying form, watching her lightly haired opening move upward and downward over him, he managed to spill his semen, a thankful release, giving him hardly more than a twinge of pleasure. He wondered if he had fulfilled her expectation, angered by the intimidation that the thought inspired.
“It was lovely,” she said, snuggling against him. He wondered if she were lying.
“I’ll be the wreck of the Hesperus in the morning.”
“You’ll be full of energy, alive. You’ll see.”
He lay with his eyes closed as she got up from the bed and went into the bathroom, feeling drowsiness begin again. Before he could doze off, she came back and began to move about the room.
“I spent a lot of time this evening with Burton Henderson,” she said. Henderson again. His eyes opened.
“He’s a very interesting man.”
“Was his wife with him?” Nick asked. It was too impulsive a question, angering him.
“No. Apparently she’s not much for parties, a home body.” She turned toward him, started to speak, then checked herself.
“He’s ubiquitous,” Nick said.
“He does apparently get around.”
“How did he latch onto you?”
“He didn’t latch on. You know how these parties go. You sort of drift into things.”
“And of course he was in the little egg-scrambling soirée in the chancery.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“And of course he was charming and attentive all evening, kissing your ass.”
She turned and looked at him, puzzled. “It was innocent, Nick,” she said.
“I’ll bet he brought you home.”
“Yes he did.”
“You had him drop you off in front of your place, then walked across, right?”
“Of course. Knowing about us was no business of his.”
“I’ll bet he was what heated you up tonight.”
“Christ, Nick,” Jennie screeched, “cut it out. You’re way off base and you know it.”
“Am I?” he said bitterly.
“You’re acting like an adolescent.”
“I know about Henderson. I know what he’s up to.”
“So does everybody. He’s running for President of the United States. He knows better than to go for my ass. Besides, he has them standing in line.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Small talk. Trivia.”
“To you, yes. To him, no.”
“You couldn’t expect me to ignore him,” she said. “I am a reporter, you know.”
“Allegedly.”
“That’s a crack.”
He was too tired for combat. Besides, he was saturated with Henderson. His day had been choked with him.
“Go to sleep,” he said. They lay quietly for a long time. He could feel her tossing restlessly.
“Why all the fuss about Henderson?” she whispered.
“He’s Myra’s boy.”
“How do you mean that?”
“How do you think?”
Her hesitation seemed awkward, as if she had checked her reaction.
“From what I’ve observed,” she said slowly, an edge of defensiveness in her tone, “I’d say the issue was sans flesh.”
“Is that supposed to be intuitive?”
“Well, somebody has got to stick up for the sex. You guys look at all women from the eye of your cocks.”
“I never even implied her interest was even remotely romantic.” He paused. “Or sexual.” Somehow Jennie’s response seemed uncharacteristic. He let it pass.
“She wants me to kill the Gunderstein investigation,” he said. “So far she’s been subtle, but I can feel the pressure.” He told her of his meeting with Allison in Gunderstein’s apartment.
“So you’re not sure about the story,” she said when he had finished.
“That’s what I told Gunderstein.”
She remained silent for a time but he could feel her alertness. “But you’d really like to run it?” she prodded.
“Yes.”
He was surprised at the swiftness of his response. Did he
believe in the story or the use of it as a weapon against Myra? It annoyed him to know that he was afraid. “I’m afraid . . .” he began, then checked himself.
“Of what?”
“I’m afraid I’m just too tired,” he said, hoping that it had masked his sudden outburst. How could he tell her he was afraid of his age, afraid of Myra’s authority, afraid of his own pride? Closing his eyes, he could feel himself slipping into sleep.
He was having a carefully detailed dream, one he knew he would remember later. The setting was the old library in Warren, the high-ceilinged reading room with the globes of light that hung downward from heavy chains, throwing reflections on shiny wooden tables on which he could see carved initials. He could smell the musty odor of books and beneath it the sweetish scent of some half-eaten apple that someone must have tossed into a wastebin. The old clear-faced clock ticked in its case showing 4:30, and as if confirming its accuracy, a glow from the setting sun threw reddish spears of light across the room. He was sitting at the table, turning the pages of a newspaper, listening and watching for some special aberration that would validate this imagery as a dream. It did not occur to him at first, then he saw it: the paper was the Chronicle and the stories that flashed across its pages were contemporary events. Bonville’s editorial, uncut, the blue-penciled words glaring up at him on the inked pages, filled him with rage. “How dare they,” he cried out, breaking the silence of the room, tearing at the paper, throwing it in bits and pieces to the floor, screaming with uncontrolled anger, a tantrum that had never occurred in his waking life. He heard footsteps, the sound of leather heels on wooden floors, coming at him at full speed, from behind him, then converging on him from all sides, terrifying as they grew louder and louder. Then he saw that it was Henderson running, his blue eyes piercing, moving toward him in the reddish haze. It was only a dream, he knew, but the fact of no escape from the endless impending onslaught of Henderson from all directions was a terrifying reality. The sound of the telephone brought back his sense of time and he awoke, confused at first, then thankful for being saved. He grasped at the phone, then uncradling it, let it fall against his ear. “Hello” rattled in his throat, rasping and hoarse.
“Nick.” It was Myra’s voice, smooth and calm. “Did I wake you?”
“It’s okay.” He looked at the face of his clock. It was six A.M.
“Stop over at the house for breakfast,” she said. He was suddenly alert, detecting a brief urgency quickly masked. “Could you make it by seven?”
He nodded into the phone, the fears of last night returning.
“Nick.”
“Sure, Myra. Seven.” She hung up.
He lay there for a while looking up at the white ceiling, his mind turning over possibilities, until the odd beeping sound of the telephone, lingering near his ear, recalled time. Jumping out of bed, he felt dizzy from the sudden movement. He waited for the feeling to pass, then padded into the bathroom. He felt tired, his energy drained.
But when he had showered and shaved he felt better, although his hand shook as he moved the razor on his foamed cheeks. He was at an age when things like that bothered him, a slight tremor in his hand, a brief passing pain in his chest, the intrusive stab of a headache pain, signals of the flesh’s vulnerability. Hadn’t he watched Charlie disintegrate and explode under the pressure? Dressing, he occasionally looked over to where Jennie’s naked body snuggled in the warmth of the blanket. Before he left, he bent over her and kissed her forehead, breathing the scent of her young skin.
He waited in the chilled morning for a cab. Ordinarily he might have walked the half mile to Myra’s house in the Kalorama area. It was just a stone’s throw from her father’s original mansion, which had been torn down years ago to make way for the Embassy of Venezuela. As he stepped into the cab, he felt his heart beat heavily, his anxiety uncontrolled. When he arrived at Myra’s front door and pressed the buzzer, he was annoyed that his hands were sweating. He rubbed them against his coat, hoping to dry them before he had to submit to the ritual of touched flesh. He detested sweaty hands in others.
Myra’s maid ushered him into the sun-drenched breakfast room, overlooking the neatly manicured lawn and the massive pre-Columbian sculptures that glistened in the chill morning. Myra was sitting at the table, on which stood a silver chafing dish that threw off the herbal scent of flavored eggs. Bowls of sectioned grapefruit gleamed in silvered settings. The man she was sitting with turned to greet him. The face was that of Scott Ambruster, director of the CIA.
“Well, Nick,” he said, smiling, holding out his hand. “You’ve got the head spook for breakfast.” Nick gave his hand reluctantly, knowing that the clammy feel of it put him at a disadvantage. Details like that were not lost on a man like Ambruster.
“I should have guessed,” Nick said, joining them. He looked over the grapefruit to Ambruster’s large brown eyes, set in a heavy face. He had the look of a kindly uncle, hardly the image one might have imagined, considering his job.
“It was Scottie’s idea,” Myra said, absolving herself. She was dressed in a bright green dressing gown with a trim of white fur. Could it be ermine? Her grey hair sparkled in the light. It was neatly combed and flipped jauntily on one side. The green gown brought out the green in her hazel eyes and fresh makeup masked the lines in her tight skin.
“The way we’ve been roasting the agency lately,” Nick said, “you must feel a little like Daniel.”
“Apt,” Ambruster said, smiling at the reference. Nick had known him for years, meeting him first when he was Secretary of the Air Force. “That would make you the lions.”
“Daniel survived,” Myra said sweetly.
“I wonder if I will,” Ambruster said, still smiling, charm exuding. They are good at that, Nick thought.
“We spooks are having a tough time of it these days,” Ambruster said, as if soliciting their pity.
“More eggs, Scottie?” Myra asked, uncovering the silver dish.
“You’re deliberately trying to ruin my image,” Ambruster said, patting his large middle, ladling the eggs onto his plate.
“We’re fattening you for the kill,” Nick said. Myra laughed girlishly.
“They’re marvelous,” Ambruster said, a bit of yellow dripping on his lip. “And if I’m going to be the national heavyweight I might as well look the part.”
Having been through these confrontations before, Nick waited for the moment for the trivia to be bridged. But Ambruster was not to be hurried. A man in his profession knew the value of patience. He looked about him.
“My, what a lovely room.” It was as if they were all good friends. Being in an adversary relationship increased the bond which Ambruster himself surely felt. Nick knew Ambruster would also feel at home with the head of the KGB.
“You’re a brave man, Scottie,” Myra said, showing even teeth. “The way the Chronicle’s been beating on you, I’d think you’d be entitled to be suspicious about the eggs.”
“He watched you eat them first,” Nick said.
“Actually, I didn’t,” Ambruster said, smiling quietly and turning his head toward Nick. “Your observations are not infallible, my friend.” There was a barely perceptible flicker of anger.
“As for the subject of fallibility . . .” Nick retorted, impatient with this fencing, his nerves frayed too thin for subtle thrusts and parries. Ambruster held up his hand.
“No need to go over that ground again,” Ambruster said. “I’ve read it all in the Chronicle’s editorials. You can make a good case for the carelessness . . . no, pig-headedness, of my predecessors. Mistakes were made. Perhaps they were too overzealous. But then, it could happen to anyone without accountability.” Nick looked at Myra. The reference was a well-aimed dart. “But at some point you’ve got to believe in change. After all, the premise of the CIA is still valid. We do still have enemies, you know. Or would you prefer that we stand naked?” Ambruster paused, buttering a biscuit.
“Surely, Scottie, you’re not going to use that
old wheeze,” Nick said. “We just won’t buy such scare tactics.”
“We protect you as well. However undeserving.” His sarcasm dripped with charm.
“It is amazing how parochial you people sound,” Nick said, his annoyance showing now. “You’ve made the watchdog as tyrannical as the burglar. All the things we are opposed to in the enemy have become everyday tools of the CIA. Lies, domestic spying, covert mind bending, subterfuge beyond the pale, assassination squads.”
“Now you’ve said it,” Ambruster interrupted. “Assassination squads. Not just one man. Squads. Why not armies?”
“Diem, Trujillo, Tshombe, Allende,” Nick said, counting off the names on his fingers.
“There’s not a shred of evidence.”
“You people are far too clever for that.”
“Fairy tales,” Ambruster said, washing down a biscuit with coffee.
“You mean it’s never been an option?” Nick asked.
“It’s always an option. We’re not playing dominoes by the king’s rules, old boy. I only said there’s not a shred of evidence.”
“Is that an admission?” Nick asked quietly.
“Of course not.”
“Every investigation alludes to discussions of assassination conspiracies, ties to the Mafia, hit men,” Nick pressed.
“We discuss these possibilities all the time,” Ambruster said. “But that doesn’t mean we do it. Like talking about sex when we were teen-agers. Besides, if you had the chance would you have planted a bullet in Mr. Hitler’s brain? It might have been better for the world. Or Stalin’s? We might have saved millions.”
“Does that mean you’re for its use?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied.” They were clever, Nick thought. Only a fool would expect such an option to remain unvoiced. Of course they would discuss it.
“The moral issue is one for the commander-in-chief to decide.”
“Would you act if you were ordered to?” Nick pressed.
“Absolutely not,” Ambruster said without hesitation.
“You’d resign?”
“Without question.”