Ill Wind (14 page)

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. Though his return flight did not leave until noon the next day, Spencer had no intention of staying a minute longer.

Chapter 16

The pile of papers from the “To Be Signed” stack fell off the conference table and scattered over the plush carpeting in the Speaker’s office. Jeffrey Mayeaux was too preoccupied with getting his hands up the young
speech writer
’s dress to notice.

She slid back on the polished wood grain of the table, spreading her legs and finding purchase for her feet on the heavy padded chairs. The fabric of her skirt hissed across the surface. Mayeaux’s fingers stroked her waist—she was firm and muscular, no flab. Probably worked out at The Hill health club, running around in Spandex, sweating, jiggling her bodacious gazonkas. He closed his eyes and grinned at the thought.
Time for some different aerobic exercise.

She remained silent, without the usual cooing, gasping sounds he expected. Rather than letting it deter him, Mayeaux took it as a challenge. What was her name?
Tina . . .
Tanya.
Great name. It made him as horny as a fallen priest just thinking of it.

He hooked his fingers around the waistband of her pantyhose and slid them over her hips, her buttocks, lingering on the warm skin with his fingertips. He felt sweat tracing
a damp
line up his spine, in his crotch. She arched herself, giving him room to work with his hands.

Tanya wore a slick peach-colored dress that slipped up nicely. Mayeaux pushed it out of the way and rubbed his fingers on the mound between her legs, rapidly growing impatient with the fabric of her pink cotton panties. He slipped a finger under the panties, tickled the crisp pubic hair for a moment, teasing her. The strong musk of her arousal drifted to his nostrils, bringing back a memory of that first time he’d ventured into the French Quarter. His pulse felt all watery with excitement. He slipped his middle finger inside.

“Oh!” she said.
Finally
. The young
speech writer
glanced at him, then looked away.

This was a lot different from when Mayeaux had been much younger in New Orleans, cruising down Bourbon Street alone at night, gawking at the whores and the transvestites. He remembered screwing a dozen different women in humid and musky upper-level apartments, with the drapes open and the sounds of competing jazz bands drifting in from the street. Back then, he had to do a lot of work to get laid, but now the women came to him.
One of the little bonuses of being the senior member of the House.
He had to be grateful to a system that could do this for him, simply because he came from a state with no term limitations. And the best part was, his own wife let him get away with it. It was part of their agreement.

Tanya arched back on the table, closing her eyes and tilting her chin in ecstasy. Stretching her arms above her head, she ran a tonguetip in a slow circle around her lips. She had fawn-colored hair, long with subtle curls held back by barrettes. Her crotch hair was full and tan.

“Hold on for a Louisiana hot link with the works,” Mayeaux said, chuckling. Tanya didn’t seem to notice, and he didn’t give a coon’s ass. He had powerful constituents; he had already set himself up for life with enough pork-barrel projects in Louisiana that he could ease into a lobbying job at the end of his term. He did not intend to get reelected; he just meant to get his well-deserved reward before he left office.

Unbuckling his belt, he pushed his pants and underwear down to his knees. He grabbed Tanya’s hips, positioned himself, and pushed inside her without further foreplay. He had a meeting in ten minutes.

Mayeaux began pumping, and Tanya raised her legs further, opening herself wider for him. They both breathed harder. Her bare skin squeaked on the polished wood surface of the table. He grinned to himself, knowing that the Joint Chiefs would sit down at the same table in another hour. If they asked, he could convince them that the damp stains on the table were doughnut frosting. He wondered if they’d be able to smell the sex.

Mayeaux kept himself in shape, and he did a good job in bed—or on the floor, or on the conference table . .
. .
But none of these sweet young things would look twice at him if he
was
an insurance salesman, a grocery store manager. The women in the Beltway knew how to advance their careers.

Power was such an aphrodisiac.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mayeaux noticed a brief, odd expression on Tanya’s face, a hint of boredom. She knew how to play the game—he had explained it to her in perfectly clear terms; it was part of the post-Anita Hill era. He just hoped Tanya didn’t give him some disease. At least after his vasectomy he had no worries about being slapped with a paternity suit.

His escapades were becoming legendary, like JFK’s. He kept trying to push the limit, but somehow the boundary moved one step farther away for each indiscretion he committed. The media liked him, too; they seemed amused rather than outraged.

Thrusting over and over again, Mayeaux ground his hips against Tanya’s, holding tight to her waist to keep her from sliding across the table.

The door to the Speaker’s office popped open. His chief of staff Franklin Weathersee stepped inside. Mayeaux cursed himself for forgetting to lock the door. Weathersee glanced at the spectacle on the conference table,
then
calmly stepped back out of the room.

Tanya gasped in shock and scrambled away, rolling off the table. Mayeaux fought back the urge to laugh. She snatched her pantyhose, pulling them up and yanked the smooth peach fabric of her dress back into place. As she brushed back her hair, Mayeaux thought he saw a look of relief on her face.

Mayeaux buckled his pants and turned to call through the door. “Dammit, Weathersee, couldn’t you knock?” But he could never be angry
at
Weathersee—the man had saved Mayeaux’s butt too many times in the past.

The door inched open. “Sorry, sir.” Weathersee dropped a stack of papers on the floor. “These are the briefing materials you wanted in preparation for the trip to Kirtland Air Force Base. It’s for the Tech Transfer Act.” Poking his head into the room, he glanced at the
speech writer
, then back at Mayeaux. “And whenever you’re finished here, sir, Vice President Wolani is on the phone for you.”

Without a word, Tanya fled past him. Mayeaux scowled, but looked admiringly at her ass as she went out. He wondered when they would be able to finish what they had started. Or, if not with her, he’d get somebody else.

For now, he’d just as soon have kept the Vice President waiting.

Chapter 17

After spending the morning in jail, Todd didn’t mind the long drive to Alex Kramer’s house, as long as he could keep the window rolled down and the fresh air blowing in his face.

A load of crap had come down since that morning, and the rolling Marin foothills calmed him. He turned up the radio, tapped on the wheel, and sang along with an old Willie Nelson song. He was ready to unwind at the Oilstar “victory party” at Alex’s home. By spraying Prometheus, Todd had turned on the light at the end of the tunnel.

As expected, Oilstar bailed Todd and Alex out after only a few hours in the Contra Costa County jail. Oilstar lawyers had been prepared and waiting. By early afternoon, Emma Branson had gone on TV, railing at the interference from do-nothing government agencies.

Todd had never been in trouble with the law before, and having an arrest on his record really ticked him off; but once the charges were dropped, his sheet darn well better be clean. He’d placed an awful lot of confidence in Kramer’s microbes.

Unexpectedly, he came upon Alex’s ranch house, half-hidden in the tall trees; he braked quickly in his Ford pickup, coming to a dead stop in the road before turning right into the long gravel driveway. Among the cars parked on the lawn and in the drive, no vehicle looked more than three years old, and there were more foreign cars than American ones. He shook his head. These same mineral-water-drinking lamebrains complained about America’s economy and then handed their buying dollars to some German or Japanese
car company
.

Getting out of the truck, he jammed his cowboy hat down on his head. As he crunched up the driveway, he glanced at the split-rail fence extending along the one-story ranch house; a small barn stood just around the corner. He took a deep breath. The familiar damp, musty smell of manure told him Alex kept horses. Not what he expected from the quiet scientist.

One of the secretaries from the bioremediation offices answered the doorbell. Not a secretary, he corrected himself; in California, the women called themselves ‘administrative assistants.’ She wore lots of makeup and was dressed to kill. He wondered what she would look like in jeans.

Todd didn’t have time to say anything before she waved him inside. “Hey, everybody, our other convict is here!”

Pianos and violins played snooty classical music on the stereo. People milled around the main living room near a small wet bar where they served themselves. Prepackaged hors d’ouvres sat out on a table: crackers, cut vegetables, cheese. A sliding glass door stood half-open, leading to a patio and the back yard. Other people chatted and laughed in the kitchen, leaning against the tile counters. From their dress, Todd supposed the guests had stopped by on their way home from work.

 
He hadn’t yet seen the host. He wondered if Alex lived alone in such a big place. Somehow, this did not strike him as a bachelor pad. Even with all the gathered people, the sound of the music, the conversations, the house felt . . . unused, as if it had been closed up for a long time.

Todd got himself a bottle of Coors from the small wet bar and stood nursing it, sloshing the foamy taste around in his mouth. He stood by himself in between other conversations, looking at all the people he didn’t know. He tried to smile as he shook hands, accepting congratulations for getting the work done and for bucking the system. Trying to escape further conversation, he wandered down a narrow hall.

Someone squeezed past him to the bathroom. Poking around, he opened the door to a closed room. Medals, newspaper clippings, and a battle streamer hung on the wall, just above the photo of a young man in a starched Army uniform. Other pictures surrounded the memorial—Alex himself standing by the boy in hiking gear, the boy crouched by the ocean holding an abalone shell.

An adjacent wall featured a young girl. Photos of her at various ages were arranged in a circle: a ballerina, a Pioneer girl, a high-school cheerleader next to her mother—everything a proud and loving father would put together . . .

Todd’s musings were interrupted by a loud voice and a slap on the back. “Cowboy Todd! Come on, loosen up,
celebrate
!”

Todd turned to see Alex’s big-mouthed deputy, Mitchell Stone. “Mitch, how are ya?” He wondered if Mitch had gone to some expensive college to learn to be such a horse’s rear-end.

“Just friggin’ great.” Mitch hung an arm around Todd’s neck. A fruity wine-cooler smell surrounded the man, mixed with the aroma of cheese dip. Mitch took a sip from the glass he held in one hand. “You know, the way things are going, we’re going to owe you a lot more than that consulting fee.”

“How’s that?”

“You made us heroes!” Mitch roared. Todd couldn’t figure out what was so funny. “It’s a great day for the future!”

Todd squirmed out from under Mitch’s arm and steered him into the hall, closing the door behind them. He wondered about the pictures—who were those people?
The displays of Alex’s
. . . children?
. .
. made him uncomfortable. He wanted to protect Kramer’s privacy.

“Give the bug time to work, Mitch, before you—”

“Hell, I saw it with my own eyes. It
can’t
fail.” He raised his glass to Todd; it held a peachy drink with tiny bubbles rising to the top.

Todd held up his half-full bottle of beer. “I think I’ll get a refill. See ya!” He escaped before Mitch could articulate a reply. He hurried down the hall back to the crowded room, hoping to lose himself among the fifteen or so people. Todd wished for some Outlaws, or Charlie Daniels, or any country music, but the
foot-stompin
’ beat might stir things up too much.

He thought about going to the patio, maybe take a look at the horses, when he spotted Alex Kramer standing alone outside, leaning on a porch rail and holding a drink. Alex had a bemused look, holding his folded eyeglasses in his hand as if pondering a secret joke. Squinting into the distance, he studied the rolling hills behind the house. He barely seemed aware of his own party.

Todd started toward the sliding glass door when he bumped into someone backing away from the bar. A plate fell to the floor. “Gosh, I’m sorry!” Todd said, looking at the petite woman stooping down to pick up spilled munchies. She wore a bright red blouse and black pants.

“I didn’t expect you to be a ballerina wearing those cowboy boots,” Iris Shikozu said, then snatched her glass from the floor. “But I would hope for a little bit of coordination.”

Todd glanced down at his large boots with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “Who backed into
who
?” he asked, bending to help her.