Another Notch in the Beltway (7 page)

“You forgot marriage, babies, extended family. But seriously, this isn't a book plot.”

“Can be.”

“It's bad reality TV in the making.”

“Ye of little faith.” He leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose. “I'm not backing away; plus, we have work to do, a book to write. I'll be in your face day in and day out. Why not enjoy my face?”

“Maxwell, you're a flaming asshole,” Gerald Morris spat at his boss and longtime friend.

They were in Morris's home office. Maxwell didn't want to discuss the matter at hand in his office on The Hill and couldn't discuss it in his own home, because he was convinced Mrs. Maxwell had his office bugged.

“I know I handled it poorly.” Maxwell had spilled the scene at Lenore Held's house to his senior staffer.

“Poorly is an understatement. You fucked the woman over, literally, years ago, but she's kept her mouth shut and never caused a moment's grief, and you go to her house and verbally attack her?”

Maxwell sat in the wingback chair that flanked the fireplace, staring into his scotch.

Morris continued. “She wasn't like all the others or all the others after. She was a decent girl. A GD virgin that you bragged about deflowering. Then you tell her to get an abortion—you prolife hypocrite. She could have sunk you, your political career, and your equally political marriage if she had chosen to, but she didn't.”

“I know.”

“By your own admission, you let yourself into her house, find her with a man, and as much as call her a whore. You are a piece of work.”

“I saw her with that guy, and I snapped. I don't know what came over me.”

“Jealousy, lust, want—take your pick. You're a pig.”

Morris could get away with saying these things to his boss, because he didn't need to work. He came from a very prosperous, well-to-do family who had closets, trunks, and attics full of skeletons. He could never run for office himself but was able to impact many things by working behind the scenes and manipulating Maxwell. Maxwell was too stupid to know he was being manipulated.

They had been fraternity brothers in college. Morris had helped get Maxwell elected as frat president on a platform of better beer at parties and a condom dispenser in the common area restroom. Things were so simple back then.

“I should have left Corrine for Lenore all those years ago.”

“While you might have had the balls to fuck her, Byron, you never had the balls or the backbone to leave her. But that's neither here nor there. Why did you go to Lenore's house? She could have called the cops. Her companion could identify you. She could tell him her tale of the former intern done wrong, and he could go to the press. You're a dumb fuck.”

“He's a foreigner. I don't think he knows who I am. Only introduced myself as Byron. His name is Michael Patrick Finnegan.”

“Foreigner?”

“British, Scottish, Irish, Australian—something with that kind of accent.”

“Are you as stupid as you appear to be?”

“Look, Morris, are you going to help me or not? I know I fucked up. Seems to be my life's work. But Jack needs that bone marrow transplant, damn it! While I don't even like the kid, he's my kid and I won't let him die.”

Morris didn't point out that he'd be a sympathetic figure on the upcoming campaign trail if he were the father of two dead sons. In fact, he tried to soften his approach. “Okay. Do you want Corrine and Jack to know of the donor's origin, if indeed Nathan Held is even a match?”

“God no! I wanted Lenore to convince him to get tested.”

“You are ignorant. While Cater and Jack were/are wastrels, Nathan Held is, by all appearances, a brilliant, decent young man. He takes after his mother.”

“That's why I thought Lenore could convince him.” Byron commented, oblivious to the disgust in Morris's voice.

“You're the bastard, not your unacknowledged son.”

Maxwell gave a wary laugh. “That's exactly what Lenore said before she threw me out.”

“Imagine that,” Gerald offered with scathing sarcasm. “The point is you're attempting to prey on his goodness as you did on Lenore's all those years ago.”

“She's been paid well to keep her silence.”

“If she'd gone public, written a book, she'd have made millions, and it would have launched her own writing career into the stratosphere a lot sooner. But no, she was honorable, worked and established her own success, raised a decent son, and you're looking to suck blood, or should I say bone marrow, from them?”

“Enough insults and bad clichés. I need help.” Maxwell ran a hand over his face.

“You're the epitome of a bad cliché, any number of them,” his friend taunted.

“You seem to be her champion here, Gerald. Are you sure you weren't doing her, too? Maybe I should have demanded a paternity test all those years ago.”

“Poor kid looks exactly like you and, unlike you, Lenore didn't hop from bed to bed, but yeah, I liked her. If things had been different, I might have made a move on her myself, but unlike you, I wasn't married with a child.”

Maxwell looked at Morris for a moment but said nothing.

Finally, Morris said, “I'm sure the kid will ask questions and I'm sure that Lenore will tell him about it being his half brother needing a bone marrow transplant. I bet he's had plenty of questions over the years about who his father is.”

“Lenore said as much. She told him she didn't know. He didn't believe her.”

“Like I said, smart kid. Knows the measure of his mother and, short of rape, she wouldn't have sex with a man she didn't know.”

Maxwell winced at the comment.

“A little too close to home for you, Byron?” A sardonic laugh resonated from deep in Gerald's chest.

“You son of a bitch. You know I cared for Lenore.”

“Not enough to do the right thing by her all those years ago.”

“I would have ruined her life—the media circus, the loss of my career. Like you said, I didn't have the balls to leave Corrine and even if I had, there would have been nothing left. I would have been a bleached carcass on the side of the road.”

“I hate to admit it, but you're right. You would have ruined her life. I for one am thankful that she didn't let that happen.”

Both men were quiet for a while.

“Are you going to help out here?”

“You shouldn't have gone to her house in the first place.”

“We've established the fact that I'm a stupid, pussy-whipped, fucking prick bastard, but my kid still needs a bone marrow transplant. I've already lost one son—”

“You lost Carter before he died, Byron.”

Morris knew that while the words stung his boss, they were true. Carter Maxwell had been strung out on drugs and alcohol when he smashed head-on into the tree. No one knew if it was an accident or a suicide, but there was never a note found, so the death was ruled an accident.

Morris shamelessly orchestrated Carter's death into Maxwell's public appearances, garnering him sympathy and votes. Carter's legacy was to be a warning to others that there are consequences to one's irresponsible behavior. He'd even gotten Maxwell to do public service announcements about the tragic effect Carter's death had on his family.

The truth was Morris was secretly glad Carter Maxwell was dead. His addictions and conduct were an embarrassment to the senator. Morris thought that's why Maxwell's kid did the outrageous things he did, to embarrass and damage his father's reputation. Well, it came back to haunt the little SOB. And, oh yes, Carter Maxwell was a son of a bitch, Jack, too, for that matter.

Byron refilled his empty glass with a trembling hand.

“I'm not sure why I keep you around, Gerald.”

“Sure you are,” he said. Fact was Maxwell couldn't form a comprehensive thought without Morris.

“I should have him kidnapped,” Maxwell said, tossing back his scotch and going back for more.

“Jesus, have you lost your mind? I'll pretend I didn't hear that,” Morris said and took the bottle of scotch from Maxwell's hand before he could refill his glass.

Maxwell looked up, surprised.

“I'll take care of it. Are you willing to meet with Nathan Held? I don't think you'll have much choice.”

“I don't want to, no. But if that's the only way, I will. It all needs to be under wraps.”

Morris raised an eyebrow. “That goes without saying. I'll give her a few days and contact her again. But you are to stay away from her and her son.”

“He's my son, too.”

“No, he's not. Genetic material does not a father make. Plus, your name isn't on the birth certificate; it's blank.”

“Come on, he even looks like me, except for the eyes; he has his mother's eyes. Lenore's eyes.”

“How do you know that?”

“There were several pictures of him online for the things he did in high school and college.”

“Don't Google him again, Maxwell. If it ever becomes an issue, the media vultures will comb through your computer files, and won't everyone wonder why you were looking at Nathan Held? Same goes for LaSandra Lacey,” Morris added.

Neither man said anything for a long while. Finally, Morris got up from his chair, signaling the meeting was over.

Lenore received another call from Gerald Morris, as she knew she would, early the following week. In order to save herself another scene, she called him back.

But she wasn't dealing with this on her own. Lenore wanted her attorney involved, and the meeting would take place in his office two days from now. Morris stressed that time was of the essence.

Lenore paced her office talking on a hand held phone. She absently straightened books as she walked.

“I don't know why he doesn't try for a match in the national data base,” Lenore commented.

“He has, and there are no matches. Some people offered to be tested after the news went public, but nothing so far. Plus, Maxwell doesn't want to take the chance of the blood not being tested properly and Jack getting AIDS or hepatitis or something equally as gruesome,” Morris offered.

“I didn't know he was smart enough to realize the potential pitfalls of an unknown donor. I'm sorry there were no matches in the database.”

“Thanks, we all are too,” Morris lied smoothly. “Corrine might have been the one to put the tainted blood idea in his mind.”

When she made no comment, he said, “So we'll meet in your attorney's office at 10:30 on Wednesday?”

“Yes, but I don't want Maxwell involved. If he's there, I'll walk out, and there will be no further discussions. If he doesn't want to send you, have him send his own counsel.”

“Not sure he trusts them. He's paranoid they'll tell his wife anything he says.”

“Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone isn't out to get you.” Lenore mumbled the overused adage in an inaudible tone.

“I'm sorry, Lenore, I didn't hear you.”

“Still afraid of Corrine, is he?”

Morris's response to the question/comment was a sarcastic laugh that told her what she already knew.

Lenore hung up the phone and let out a sigh as MP and Nikko entered the room.

She pushed back her dark thoughts and went to embrace her agent.

“You look fabulous,” Nikko trilled, holding Lenore at arms' length.

Lenore was wearing a gray cashmere sweater dress that skimmed her curves; her hair was loose and wavy, and she wore a bit of make-up that looked natural but somehow accentuated her eyes and lips, making her look sexy and kissable.

“She does, doesn't she,” MP said, looking into her eyes from behind Nik. A smile formed, causing small, appealing crinkles to appear in the corners of his eye.

Lenore turned her gaze to Nikko who simply raised a well-tended eyebrow at her.

“Let's go into the great room, shall we?” Lenore asked but continued out her office door, forcing the other two to follow.

“I thought we'd do lunch at the Lambertville Station Inn in New Jersey for a change,” Lenore continued. “Are you game?”

“Fine with me, although your food is better than any restaurant I've ever had,” Nikko complimented.

“I thank you, but I'm sure you've had better.”

“Don't count on it,” MP said, taking her hand and kissing it as they sat on the couch.

“Life imitating art?” Nikko asked, unabashed.

“Life, Nik,” MP said.

“A word to the both of you: take care of one another's hearts because if either of you hurts the other, there'll be hell to pay.”

“Hear that, Lenore? Be nice to me,” MP teased.

The two women laughed.

Nikko got down to business. “I've read what you've sent me, and I like the story line, the plot is solid. But, Lenore, where is the squirm factor? Your vestal virgins are more creative in the carnal knowledge area than your smart-mouthed, take-no-prisoners Amanda. And, Michael Patrick, what in the hell kind of name is Casper Grossman?”

Lenore smiled at MP, her eyes dancing. “I thought the same thing at first, Nik, but it kind of grows on you after a while, and we call him Cass most of the time.”

Their agent waved her hand dismissively. “It's of no consequence at the moment; a name is easy enough to change. But this is supposed to be a romance, and all I see this couple doing is snarking at one another.

“There needs to be a thaw between them. I get why Cass continues to call her Ms. Loring after she was a bitch to him the first night, but you're 120 pages in, and Amanda has asked him repeatedly to call her by her name or Mandy. But does he? No, Casper tells her Mandy makes her sound like an under-aged hooker—nice, MP. Then Amanda tells him Casper sounds like a ghost, a very little, very wispy ghost, as she looks at his crotch, I might add.”