The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  She tried to think. "Maybe six, seven, eight months ago. Although he didn't come around much at any time in the last few years."

  "You hadn't seen him for that long?"

  "Not at all. He'd phone once a week. That was about it." She swallowed the last of her drink. "Any more questions?" she said a little thickly.

  Armstead hesitated. "Yes. When was the last time he slept with you?"

  She tried to focus her eyes on Armstead. "You mean fucked me, Edward? I don't know—it was that long ago. Maybe six, seven years ago. And not very good. In fact, it was never very good. Ezra was just not much interested." She frowned. "I shouldn't be saying these things about your father."

  "What have you done for sex?"

  "Oh, you don't need to do much when you're drinking. Sometimes I masturbated."

  "That can't be much fun."

  She stirred, reached around to put down her glass, and started to get up. "I never heard you suggest anything better," she said. Her negligee had come apart above the waist. He could see the milky mound of one breast.

  Then she was standing. He could feel the throbbing and hardening between his legs. He fixed on her swaying form above him. "What are you going to do with yourself now? You're young. You're beautiful."

  "I'm going to have another drink," she said. But she did not move. "You think I'm beautiful? Are you just being nice because it's today?"

  He came quickly to his feet. "I'm telling you I want you, Kim. I want you. I always have."

  Her face was expressionless. She wavered, but remained where she was standing. He had her in his arms, embracing her roughly. He kissed her on her open mouth, pressing until he found her tongue, then shoving his body against hers until she could feel his erection.

  With difficulty, she drew her head back. "Edward," she said with a gasp, "do you know what you're doing?"

  "Just what I've always wanted to do since I've known you."

  She sighed. "Yes." Slowly her arms snaked around him. Her mouth found his lips and his tongue.

  As their embrace tightened, their kissing more heated, he lowered one hand and opened her negligee. His fingers touched her naked flesh, groped downward from her belly until they reached the fluffy soft pubic hair, massaging the distended clitoris, gliding over the moistening vulva.

  She began to moan in his ear, her hand fumbling below until it found his erection.

  "I—I always wanted you," she whispered.

  He scooped her up, carried her down a hallway to the master bedroom illuminated by a single floor lamp. He lowered her to the downy rose-and-white comforter that covered the bed. Yanking off jacket, tie, shirt, he undressed completely. He could see himself in a full-length mirror, his flat pale-blue eyes holding on himself at this moment of fifty-six. Just under six feet, thickset but not fat, sturdy and strong, no blotches and few wrinkles. In the mirror, he could see Kim behind him, on the edge of the bed, wriggling out of her white negligee. He could see how young she was, the flawless peach-colored skin, straight full breasts with large hardened nipples, the rise and fall of her abdomen, the long triangle of soft pubic hair.

  His eyes returned to his reflection, to his penis standing straight out.

  He turned around. She was lying back on the bed now, watching fascinated as he walked toward her. "You feel that way about me?" she said in an undertone.

  "More than ever." He was on the bed. "Move over."

  She worked herself sideways and he was beside her. He caressed her breasts, and pushed himself to his knees. She covered her eyes with an arm, licked her dry lips, lifted her knees, and spread them apart.

  He was over her, and between her fleshy thighs, and into the vaginal opening, slowly and slowly, and deeper and deeper between the clinging lips of the vulva. It was delicious, this entry, and as he slid back and forth he was aroused to a bursting point. He thought that he might come right away, and slowed, fighting it, until the wave passed, and then he settled down to a steady, relentless rhythm, fucking her straight and hard.

  After a few minutes her hips began to rise and fall with him, and make undulating circular movements that quickened and heaved, and she began to emit throaty orgasmic sounds. He was ready, and suddenly her fingers dug into his shoulders and she was ready. She opened her eyes and began to come, and with that he pumped mindlessly, felt the perspiration in his eyes, and then he came big.

  She was slack beneath him, gulping air, and he rolled off her. "Did you?" he asked her.

  "Oh, yes."

  Her hand went down to her clitoris, and he pushed her hand away and massaged her clitoris briefly until she lifted her hips and came again. After that, she had three more orgasms and wanted no more. He lay with his head between her breasts and her fingers played with his mussed hair.

  After a while, he lay back and thought of what a fantastic fuck she was, so ready, so warm, so giving. He relived their coupling in his head, and suddenly he felt an involuntary movement between his legs. This had not happened so soon since he had been a young man. But then, he told himself, he was a young man.

  His hand found her breasts and he fondled them, rubbing the large nipples of each, feeling them grow under his fingertips. She came around on her side, felt his growing erection, held it until her hand was full and able to contain only part of its hardness.

  She pulled him to her, and raised her knees, and opened herself to him. He rose above her and comfortably entered her once more, resuming as if he had done it with her all his life and this was a dance they had always done so well together.

  This time it was even better, the best. His body was slick with sweat and her skin slippery from his when she came in one long-drawn-out eruption, and seconds later he came too.

  He managed to push off her, and they both lay there side by side as if dead.

  Once she whispered sleepily. "You're never going to let me be alone again, are you?"

  He touched her cheek. "Never."

  He lay there a long time, resting, letting his mind wander. He had told his analyst today that he had been denied only two things in his life he had always wanted. One had been the newspaper. The other had been Kim. Now he had possessed Kim. She belonged to him. That left the newspaper. It was his for the moment. Tomorrow morning he would go into the publisher's office, remove the pictures from the wall, sweep the massive oak desk clear of its artifacts. It would be his alone. And now, for the first time, revitalized by his conquest of Kim, he felt confident that anything was possible and it could be his for all time. He had told Scharf that he would kill to keep the paper. And now he knew he could.

  Satisfied, he got out of bed and walked to his clothes which were heaped on a chair. He sought and found his watch. It was early evening. If he stayed away a little longer, he would miss the wake, and the mourners, and Hannah. He would phone Harry Dietz and Bruce Harmston and have them bring in some food, bring it up to the publisher's office of the Record. They could dine together, celebrating, and plan his new stewardship and his ultimate victory over the king who was dead.

  Dressing, he looked over at the bed. Kim was breathing shallowly, sound asleep.

  Going to the bed to cover her, one thought came to him as he stared at that wonderful naked body.

  He and Kim, they had fucked each other. But one of them had also fucked his father.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Immediately after landing at National Airport in Washington, D.C., from Chicago, on this sunny late morning, Victoria Weston took a taxi to her father's two-story townhouse located on Prospect Street in Georgetown. Her father, Hugh, had come home for his lunch break and was waiting for her.

  After the black housekeeper, Selma, had greeted her with a kiss, picked up her overnighter and garment bag and shouted for her father, Hugh Weston appeared almost immediately. Victoria flung herself into her father's arms. She loved him and had not seen him in months.

  At last he held her off and scrutinized her. "Far as I can tell, you look great, fit and trim," he said. "Maybe you could s
tand a few more pounds—"

  "I'm 118, and I'm staying that way until I find me a man."

  "What's with this man stuff? Ever since I can remember you've had dozens of men at your heels."

  "I mean the right man."

  "How old are you? Twenty-four."

  "Twenty-five, going on twenty-six, almost thirty."

  "Twenty-five. Correct. Forgive me. At sixty, one tends to get hazy about birthdays, other people's as well as one's own." He looked her over again. She was a tall, willowy girl with loose blond hair, luminous eyes, a pert nose and wide grin; she was vivacious and cheerful, and particularly attractive in her pale apricot sweater, slim rust-colored skirt, hand-woven leather sandals. "Sorry, Victoria," he said, "I'm not worried about you.

  There'll be many right men." He took her hand and led her into the living room. "I can't tell you how tickled I was with your winning the Chicago Hildy Johnson Award, a great coup in journalism. Congratulations again."

  "Thanks, Dad."

  "I read those clippings at least three times. That was a helluva series, that exposé. Imagine all those so-called respectable married women working part-time for that madam on Lakeview Avenue. What got them to do it? Surely they didn't need money."

  "They needed excitement. They were bored."

  "Well, you deserved the Hildy Award. Was your mother pleased?"

  "I think she was embarrassed that her darling daughter could write publicly about such things."

  Hugh Weston was not surprised. "Yes, that figures." He eyed his offspring. "How is your mother?"

  Hugh Weston's wife of thirty years had been unhappy as a newspaper widow. Their only child, Victoria, had been the product of many efforts to hold together their marriage. In the end, it had not worked. Six years ago they had enjoyed an unacrimonious divorce, and less than two years later his wife had married a wealthy businessman and now dwelt luxuriously in Evanston, Illinois.

  "Mother?" she said. "She's a meat-packer's widow, but he keeps better hours than you ever did. He comes home long before dawn. Mother is Mother, which is why I moved to Chicago and got my own apartment as soon as I could. We still talk. I see her maybe once every two weeks. Sa-ay, what about you, Dad? How's the new job holding up?"

  A year ago Hugh Weston had been appointed press secretary for President of the United States Thomas Callaway. He had given up his job as managing editor of the Chicago Journal and moved to the White House and this Georgetown house.

  "It is not exactly The Front Page," Hugh Weston said ruefully, "but I like being on television and meeting rich socialites. Now I've got to leave you for an hour."

  Victoria pointed at him. "I've just figured it out. Those are tennis shorts you're wearing. You mean you find time to play tennis? I know you did when I was a kid, but—"

  Hugh Weston held up a hand to stop her. "Victoria, this President likes to play tennis on Sundays. And he likes to play me because he can beat me." He went to the french windows, where a tennis racket was propped up against the wall. "I have a confession to make. I liked it so much, I joined two neighbors in the block in buying a court. I own a third of it and use it when I can. I don't have to be back at the White House until three, so I'm using it now. Want to watch me?"

  "Thanks, Dad. I think I'll shower and freshen up. Then I'll make us lunch. What do you want?"

  "The special Victoria Cheese Omelet. Maybe a small salad first."

  "You've got it."

  He started to leave, then turned around. "Hey, what are you doing here on a weekday? I thought you were a working girl?"

  "I was. I quit the paper last Friday, Dad. I came here because I want to talk to you about it."

  He nodded. "Okay. Make me that omelet and well talk. See you in an hour."

  After her father had left, Victoria Weston went upstairs to the spare bedroom where her overnighter and garment bag were waiting and unpacked. After that she undressed, took a quick shower, and put on a red-and-white-checked blouse and faded jeans. She went downstairs to the kitchen, told Selma to go back to her favorite soap opera, and started to make lunch.

  An hour and a half later Victoria and Hugh Weston were enjoying their lunch in the sun-filled dinette. During the salad he

  had discussed his tennis game, and his partners. Now, pushing the salad plate aside, waiting as his daughter served him a generous portion of the cheese omelet, he said, "Okay, Vicky, you quit the Citizen. You came here to talk. Tell me what you want to talk about. I'm listening."

  "My future," said Victoria, taking her seat across from her father. She sampled the eggs, approved, and looked up. "I want to talk about my future, my immediate future, like tomorrow."

  "Go ahead."

  "Dad, I was on that Chicago weekly for a full year, after getting out of Northwestern. Then I put in two years at that suburban daily, but I wasn't going anywhere. I was the best feature writer on the paper. In fact, too good for it. There was a monotony, a sameness to the kind of stories that could be dredged up.

  I needed more. I needed a challenge. So I quit. That way I knew I had to find something better." She paused for her father to say something, and when he remained silent she said, "Well, maybe there's more to it than that."

  "Want to tell me?"

  "One part's professional, the other personal. The professional part first. There I was on the women's page; I wanted out of that rut. I always wanted to be on the news side. You know that. I thought all my extra work on that exposé would do it. Especially after I won the award. But no, my managing editor wouldn't promote me. He was probably raised on Godey's Lady's Book. Woman's place? In the recipe and lovelorn section. I was really furious."

  "I see. What about the personal part?"

  Victoria hesitated. "A brief involvement. He was married, and promised to get unmarried. He didn't."

  "Were you hurt?"

  "Only momentarily." She reconsidered the episode. "Not really. I'm sure it was just as well. As I told you, I'm still looking for Mr. Right."

  "And as I told you, you'll find him."

  "Anyway, I wanted a change. Above all, I wanted to get away from that crummy suburban paper." She added with certainty, "Dad, I know I'm ready for something big-time."

  "I'm sure you are. Maybe you've made the sensible move." He paused. "I was going to suggest that you let me make a pitch for you with my old sheet in Chicago. But you say you want a change."

  "Thanks, Dad, but no. It's more than just a change. There's been one Weston there, and he can never be surpassed. My feet aren't big enough to fill your shoes."

  "I think you're overdoing it a bit."

  "I'd really like to leave Chicago. I'd like to try at the summit."

  "New York?"

  Victoria nodded. "Yes, New York."

  Weston ate his omelet and thought about it. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. "It's pretty crowded there, Vicky. Would you consider a slight detour, maybe upward, editorial staff of a magazine or book publishing house or even television? I have some contacts—"

  Victoria leaned against the table. "Dad, I want what you had, newspapering. I've always envied your life, the excitement, the craziness, the day-to-day aliveness."

  "The short money," said Weston with a wry smile.

  "To hell with the money. I'll live in one room in a ghetto, eat an apple a day, mend my own panty hose—as long as I can wake up unable to wait for my job to begin, and go to sleep knowing I want more hours of the same. I want to be Nellie Bly. I want to be Annie Laurie. I want to be Dorothy Kilgallen."

  Hugh Weston sat back in his chair. "Well. . ." he said.

  "Well what?" Victoria asked intently.

  "New York," he said. "Tough town. Let me think."

  He rose, wandered about looking for his tennis jacket, found it, extracted a caked pipe, tobacco, pouch, and lighter, and moments later was seated across from his daughter once more, smoking. She eyed him intently, waiting.

  "I was just reviewing my contacts in New York," he said, "and I just had a notion. My
mind went to Ezra J. Armstead. Remember him?"

  "E. J. Armstead. 'The Giant,' they called him. You worked for him on his Chicago paper. He died this week, didn't he?"

  "Yes, he died. That means the New York Record will probably go to his son, Edward Armstead—Edward was his only heir, far as I know—and Edward and I were very close.in Chicago."

  "I remember him well, Dad. You used to bring him home for dinner sometimes. You practically treated him like a son."

  "A good man, not that much younger than I, but in a sense he didn't have a father, and he would often turn to me. We had a close relationship. I haven't seen him in a while, but I think he still feels kindly toward me. Perhaps I should give him a buzz. We might luck out—"

  Victoria clasped her hands. "Oh, Dad, that would be perfect. The New York Record—"

  "Whoa, there." 'Weston pushed himself to his feet. "There are a few ifs along the road—if Edward Armstead inherited the sheet, if he is looking for new personnel, if he'll consider you, well, let's find out."

  Weston went into the living room, where a telephone sat upon the rolltop desk that he had brought from his office in Chicago. While Victoria nervously removed the lunch dishes, Weston called long-distance information and got the number of the New York Record. He dialed the number and waited.

  "Record? I'd like to speak to Mr. Edward Armstead. Tell him Hugh Weston is calling from Washington, D.C. . . Okay, I'll hold on."

  Weston saw that Victoria had materialized in the living room, untying her apron, also holding on.

  The telephone crackled. Weston was instantly alert, receiver pressed to his ear. "Yes, this is Hugh Weston," he said and listened. "Harry, Harry Dietz! My God, it's good to hear your voice again. . . . Oh, I'm fine, fine. . . . Yes, it is a little drafty in the White House, but I'm enjoying it. I just wanted to give Edward a ring, to see how he's doing. . . . What? He's right there? He wants to speak to me? Great. Put him on."

  Hugh Weston saw his daughter's tense face and gave her a wink.

  He was engaged on the phone again. "Hello, Edward. How are you? ...I'm glad. Anyway, my condolences. The old man had a long run and a good one, and you had a long wait Edward, I understand exactly how you feel." He paused. "I assume you're taking over the papers, and the Record." He listened. "Good, good, good. And just in time. The paper needs an infusion. You'll do a super job, Edward, nobody knows it better than I." He listened. "Well, thank you, Edward, that's kind of you, and I appreciate it. But I'm out of the newspaper business for good. I wanted to retire. Where's a better place than the White House?" He laughed. Then he sobered. "Actually, I'm calling not only to wish you well but to find out if you're going to be assembling your own team." He kept the receiver to his ear attentively. "Well, that fits in with something I want to speak to you about. You were kind enough to want an old Weston—but in fact, you can have a new Weston as good if not better than the old one."