While Dorothy was working, he listened to the tape of the
answering machine in the apartment. It was sufficient justification for his
earlier discomfort. As he had suspected, she had been too indiscriminate in her
zeal and had dredged up unlikely candidates. Of the three messages, he noted
that one had been scared off by her recording.
The recordings indicated that he had to amplify his
strategy, invest more time and money. He bought her additional dresses, and
together they began a furious round of cocktail parties, diplomatic receptions,
pre-dinner cocktail hours, whatever event seemed likely to attract Washington's powerful elite. Obediently, she proffered her card to senators, representatives,
diplomats, and high administration types. Not that he recognized all of them.
Sometimes he had to ask fellow guests, always eager to oblige, as if knowing
who was important somehow increased their own status.
Is the man newsworthy? As always, that was his principal
criterion, although there were others. He naturally looked for married men,
although single men were equally vulnerable. But those who reached the pinnacle
of power were careful to preserve the married state. Even when they divorced, they
quickly remarried. Marriage, they'd all learned, was good for their careers. He
marveled at how simple it was for a beautiful woman to make contact with a
powerful man. Youth and physical beauty transcended all barriers and the
promise of availability was a powerful ice-breaker. Under all the discreet
politeness and articulation, under the finery and finesse, there was a
pervasive predatory instinct. People searched and scrutinized each other like
eagles alert for prey. Whether the prize was power or profit, the event itself
formed the boundaries of the jungle and everyone hunted for their own reasons.
The new strategy brought its rewards, vindicating his
tenacity. The calls she was now getting pleased him.
Dorothy basked in his admiration, relating her own
effectiveness and self-image directly to his reactions.
"I did good?" she asked, after she told him who
called. He had carefully briefed her on how to respond. He had also drummed
into her some basic caveats: Never be seen with them in public. Tell as little
about herself as possible. Put them completely at their ease. Never talk to one
about any of the others. Remember as much as possible about what they said and
keep them coming back to the apartment. He was truly confident she could do
that.
When she grew curious, he offered vague explanations that
satisfied her, at least for the moment.
"It's who you know that counts," he told her.
"And what better way to get to know important people than this?"
"Are they really important?"
"Very."
"And will me knowing them help you very much?"
"You, too, Dorothy."
"How?"
"Having friends in important places is the name of the
game. It's called Vitamin P."
"Vitamin P?"
"Pussy Power," he added playfully.
She giggled. Sometimes what she was doing troubled her and
he had difficulty dispelling her blues.
"And you're not jealous?"
"No. Because I know that what we're doing is strictly
business."
"Business?"
"That's what it all adds up to, Dot."
"Then I guess that's okay. As long as nobody hurts
anybody. They're really very nice."
"Hurt anybody? Where did you get that idea?"
"Sometimes I feel, you know, funny. Like it's
wrong." She would pucker her lips and her brow would wrinkle.
"Wrong?" He looked at her sternly. "Just do
it, Dot. If anything's wrong I'll make it right. I promise you. I know you
don't fully understand, but trust me. Do you trust me, Dot?"
"You know I do."
"Then don't worry about it. Everything will work out
for us. Just trust me."
"Sure, Jason. I'll do anything you want.
Anything."
"Just this, baby. Just this."
Soon she was juggling three men around, a schedule that
required careful coordination since he had decided that it would make sense for
her to continue at her job. To be unemployed implied that she was a prostitute,
a role that would seriously diminish the ultimate story.
He was overjoyed at the two others who had fallen into the
net: Senator Charles Hurley, majority whip of the Senate and a close friend of
the President, and Army Chief of Staff Edward Templeton, a four star general.
Arthur Fellows continued his weekly visits.
Fearful that the debriefings would become a chore for her
that would induce boredom or forgetfulness, he encouraged an air of lightness,
of fun. Often, she dissolved in giggles as she described some sexual variation.
"He makes me paint my tits with lipstick and he likes
me to paint his thing with little squiggles."
"Squiggles?"
"Like wormy little circles."
She was referring to General Templeton, who had other
special preferences as well. Like watching them doing it in the mirror. And talking
baby talk.
"It's fun," she said, imitating the general.
"Sometimes he spanks me like a bad little girl."
"But what does he talk about?" It was always a
persistent refrain.
"His wife can't get it off without a vibrator."
"He told you that?"
After awhile, the sexual oddities, which she would dwell on
in detail, became repetitive.
"The general's wife sounds horrible. She gets drunk a
lot and he keeps her locked up in her room all day long. I feel sorry for him.
He's a very nice man."
"Does he say anything about his work?"
"He calls some man the chairman. Says he's an
asshole."
"You're kidding." Despite his professional glee
at receiving such information, his excitement was always tempered with a
personal revulsion. Every man, after all, was entitled to his dirty little
secrets.
"He's also very worried about the Army boys. Says
they're not worth shit as soldiers. Too many spics and coons."
"He said it just like that?"
"What's wrong with that?" she asked innocently.
Always, once she'd falter, either from boredom or lack of
anything more to say, he would ask, "That's it?"
Expecting it, she always seemed to withhold something for
that last moment, as if to especially please him.
"He gave me this little pin." She opened her robe
to show him a little silver four star pin fastened to the crotch of her
panties. Accepting gifts was another caveat. If they gave her anything of
value, she had to turn it over to him. It was, after all, tangible evidence.
But the pin didn't amount to much and he was feeling so good about the material
that she was providing that he let her keep it.
He might have been even more generous after the Senator
Hurley debriefing, only the senator provided no little gifts. He had come to
her very drunk after a dinner at the Saudi Arabian Embassy, but it hadn't fazed
Dorothy. She was used to that.
"He was very mad about something. He called the
President a Zionist bastard." A frown gathered on her forehead. "I
think that's what he said." She obviously had no idea what it meant and
shrugged it off.
"Did he say something else?" He wanted to keep
her train of thought running.
"He said the ambassador from Saudi Arabia gave him a bad time. That he'd made a deal and was being double-crossed. I
can't remember. He kept going on and on about it."
"What happened?"
"I undressed him. He couldn't get it up. So I made him
some coffee and gave him a massage. He loved that. He said I was the most
beautiful girl he'd ever been with." Such compliments never failed to
please her and she remembered them and their source long after they were
spoken.
"So nothing happened?"
"Oh it did. I danced for him, like at Johnny's."
"That did it?"
"No. It wasn't until he danced for me. He was cute. He
loved doing that dance. It gave him a hard on."
The image of the overweight senator doing a dance with an
erection made him burst out laughing.
"He got so excited, he came in the middle."
"You're kidding."
"He was cute. Like a little boy. He had a great
time."
"Did he say anything else? Anything about his
job?"
"Oh, he hates that. He told me so."
"It's unbelievable," Jason said with
astonishment. "The things they tell you."
"Why?"
The insight excited him. A lover was better mental therapy
than any priest or psychiatrist. She apparently had qualities beyond even his
earlier imaginings.
"You're fantastic."
"Me?"
"You set them free," he told her, patting her on
the head appreciatively.
"We have fun. I like them, Jason."
"Just don't like them too much."
She watched him, pouting.
"Not the way I feel about you, Jason. Not like
that."
After a month of debriefings, he had enough information for
a big story. But he wanted a bigger one. Even when it became apparent that
Webster had planned to keep him out in the Fairfax Siberia indefinitely, he
resisted. He wasn't ready. Not yet.
"I'm working on something really big," he told
Webster one day as they passed in the city room.
"Great."
The response was overlarded with enthusiasm, the kind given
as a placebo, without sincerity. He had the impression that the editor had
actually forgotten his name. Angered, he was on the verge of expanding the
hint, but by then the editor had moved away. Not yet, he decided. His send-up
was still not strong enough; he would keep to his original plan.
But it was not without its minefields. He had to be more
cautious about where he exhibited Dorothy. Not only did he want to keep the
principals in his little drama separated, he did not want to risk them
observing her in active pursuit of others.
Their outings on the party circuit grew sparse and he would
not make a foray if he couldn't manage to get the guest list in advance, a
tactic that considerably diminished their activities. When too many questions
were asked, he quickly retreated.
"No more parties?" she sighed. Sometimes she
would try on her party dresses and prance around the Capitol Hill apartment.
Between trysts, he tried to keep her amused. They went to lots of movies,
mostly horror films at her choosing. He also bought her movie fan magazines.
Because of his caution, the infrequent parties he took her
to didn't provide good pickings and, usually, they left early. He detected a
growing restlessness in her.
Fortuitously, Arthur Fellows provided a welcome
breakthrough.
"He wants me to meet a friend of his," Dorothy
told him at one of the debriefings.
"Who?"
"Some man named Tate. A congressman."
"Tate O'Haire?"
"He just said Tate."
Tate O'Haire was chairman of the powerful House Ways and Means Committee.
"Great."
"You want me to meet him?"
It was, of course, an unexpected windfall that had come
just in time. Dorothy was becoming less sharp about their debriefings. Her
concentration meandered and his rebukes only made it worse.
"Why must we keep doing this, Jason? It's hard to get
new things."
"You're doing just fine, baby."
"Sometimes it seems silly. I mean, telling all that private
stuff." She shook her head. "And them not knowing that here I am
telling you all about it. Sometimes it just doesn't seem right."
"You're only talking to me," Jason said, sensing
that he was on dangerous ground.
"And that thing?" She pointed to the recorder.
"Why do we need that?"
"It's important," he said.
"But why?"
Hadn't she surmised it by now? Surely she had some inkling,
but if she did, she was keeping it to herself. If she was confused about his
intentions, it didn't inhibit her willingness to meet new men.
Jason had flattered her by telling her that the man, Tate,
had seen her once at a party and was dying to meet her. What Arthur was doing
was simply passing her along, a blatant bribe. Apparently, the White House
minions were under pressure to get some legislation passed to which Tate
O'Haire held the key.
"We really had a good time together," Dorothy
told him as the tape recorder whizzed. Her concentration had returned. She had
needed the injection of new blood.
"He likes me to tie him up."
"Tie him up?"
"He brings this special kind of rope. It's a silly
game. I tie him to the closet rod and close the door."
For a moment, he was so shaken he turned off the recorder.
"What's wrong?"
"He's one of the most powerful men in the
country," Jason said with amazement. "No money is spent, no tax laws
are changed without his approval." It was the furthest he'd ever gone to
explain any of it. She looked at him blankly and shrugged.
"It's just a game."
Jason shook his head and turned the recorder back on. He
made her describe in detail the man's reactions, which she did as if she were
describing the plot of a movie, replete with "and thens." This time
he had to deliberately turn away from her, afraid his reactions would seem
judgmental.
"He cries like a baby. I tell him I won't let him out
of the closet until he promises to be a good boy."
"My God!"
He had always thought of such behavior as aberrations. In
her descriptions, after the initial shock, they sounded like no more than a
mild form of recreation, like playing bridge or going to a ballgame.
Even his elation at having been given such a juicy morsel
could not temper his amazement. The idea of it also left him unguarded.
"What a book it will make."
"Book?"
Quickly, he backtracked, sensing a ripple of indignation,
not quite expected.
"I mean if someone wrote about that."
"Why would anyone want to do such a thing?"