Authors: Allan Topol
"But you'll give me ten and a half 'cause you love them asshole Cowboys."
"Bullshit!"
The man in the tan coat approached the end of the driveway, where Hines and Mac maintained their vigil. Close up, he looked younger, in his thirties, Hines thought.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
Without saying a word, the man reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a black leather billfold. It was expensive shiny leather with the Gucci insignia embossed in gold. It figures, Hines thought. A bunch of goddamned parasites.
With a gloved hand, the man took a California driver's license from the wallet and held it out to Hines, who scanned it quickly. The photo ID was for George Nesbitt. The picture matched the man standing in front of himâminus that stupid hat, of course.
Hines nodded to Mac, who picked up the cell phone resting on the hood of the Crown Vic and hit the one and five buttons, connecting him to the house. As he expected, the secretary, home alone, picked up. "Mr. Secretary, George Nesbitt is here."
"Send him right up," Winthrop said.
Hines nodded to Nesbitt. "He's expecting you."
Slowly the visitor put away the driver's license, then crossed to the flagstone steps that led to the front door.
"Talkative fellow, isn't he?" Hines said to Mac.
"I don't care if he says shit. I'm interested in what you're going to say. Will I get those ten and a half points or not?"
"Eight and a half."
"Nine and that's my last offer."
"You've got it for nine. Twenty bucks. And I win on a tie."
"Deal."
Hines glanced up the stairs. Nesbitt was approaching the front door. He even walks like a damn woman, Hines thought. Suddenly he felt tired. It was his turn to get into the car and out of the cold. He might even take a short nap.
* * *
Inside the house, Robert Winthrop was trembling with excitement, as he had been since the call came this morning from Alexandra in New York, telling him to expect a surprise at two o'clock today. It was an absolutely perfect Saturday afternoon. The maid had the weekend off, and Ann wouldn't be back for another couple of hours. Eagerly, he climbed the stairs from his lower level study to the front entrance hall. Dressed in charcoal gray slacks and a blue oxford button down shirt, he opened the door as soon as the bell rang.
"We're going downstairs," he said to his visitor. Then he proceeded to lead the way down the dark blue-carpeted stairs to the two rooms below. The first functioned as his study, with a green leather-topped antique desk in the center that held a red phone running directly to the White House. He wasn't worried that the phone would ring this afternoon. Philip Brewster, the President, was at Camp David for the weekend. Today, the agenda was domestic policy, and Philip was working with Jim Slater, his chief of staff, trying to reshape the administration's proposal for a tax reduction in the face of congressional opposition. With only twelve months until the voters decided on his reelection bid, Philip desperately needed to find some way to stimulate the economy, and he was pinning his hopes on a retroactive tax reduction, if he could pull it off in Congress early next year. Tomorrow morning, the presidential helicopter would be taking Winthrop down to Camp David to meet alone with the President for a broad-ranging review of pressing foreign policy issues. It had been a struggle, but Winthrop had managed to exclude Marshall Cunningham, the Secretary of Defense, from tomorrow's meeting. Winthrop had known Brewster a lot longer than Cunningham, and he was getting damn tired of the SecDef wanting to run everything in Washington the way he had run Blue Point Industries in Dallas.
In one corner of the room, a television set was broadcasting a Notre Dame football game. He decided to leave it on to drown out any noise.
The room in the back was a library with three of the walls overflowing with books that he had begun collecting in his Exeter and Princeton student days. Against the fourth wall was a brown leather sofa that opened into a king-size bed. The spacious backyard, dotted with trees, mostly hickory and oak, could be seen through the window behind the sofa, but Winthrop had drawn the drapes. Through the window, he heard Clyde Gillis's bamboo rake scraping the ground.
At the bottom of the stairs, Winthrop said to his visitor, "We only have an hour. The bed's in the other room. Why don't you go in there and get ready? I'll find some money for you."
The visitor's mouth opened. The sound that came out was a woman's voice, soft and enticing. "I understood that Alexandra was paid direct."
He laughed. "She always is, but you wouldn't refuse a little gratuity."
She removed the cap, then a man's black wig. After that, she shook her head until long blond tresses fell to her shoulders. "Tips are always welcome. Give me a minute to go into the other room and change clothes. I'll call you when I'm ready. I promise, you won't be disappointed."
Still carrying her briefcase, with Winthrop's eyes riveted on her rear end, she disappeared into the other room. When there was nothing left to leer at, he walked over to the credenza against the wall and opened the third drawer on the right side containing several red file folders, the first two of which were crammed with diplomatic papers. He untied the third one, then reached inside, groping around until he found what he was searching for: a roll of hundred dollar bills and a box of three condoms.
For several minutes he paced, waiting for her to return. She would be well built, he knew that, with large round breasts that he could bury his head in and a firm, tight ass, because Alexandra knew that was what he liked. Ah, Alexandra, he thought. No matter what he paid her, it was never enough. In his current position, he needed someone like Alexandra to work for him, and she had contacts all around the world from her Upper East Side apartment in Manhattan. He had been delighted when the woman now in the other room, Laurie, had called him this morning an hour after he'd spoken to Alexandra, on his private number that Alexandra always used. "I'm the surprise," she had said. "I'm visiting from New York. I'll be there at two o'clock."
"It might be difficult," he had replied.
"I can dress as George Nesbitt, and I have a California ID to match," she had said in a soft, sensual voice.
God, what a voice. He had felt a stirring in his loins even then on the phone. Still he had hesitated. "I don't know."
"Alexandra tells me that you're special. If you have an hour, I'll make it worth your while. If you doubt me, call her. She'll tell you how good I'll be for you."
He had quickly yielded. Now he tried to visualize what she would look like when she stripped off that man's shirt, suit, and tie. He didn't have long to wait.
"Robert," she called to him from the other room, "you can come in now."
She was standing next to the couch, dressed in black leather gloves, a black leather G-string covering a sea of blond pubic hair, and nothing else. Her breasts were round and full, the nipples jutting out like little peaks. Her legs were long and sinewy, with powerful calf muscles as evidence of the long hours she spent jogging. She stood, legs spread, rubbing her tongue over her lips, while she stroked her right hand over the front of the G-string. She moaned softly, then slipped her hand inside and cupped it over her vagina.
"I told you that you wouldn't be disappointed," she said.
"Why the gloves?" he asked nervously.
"I'm into leather. Haven't you noticed?"
"Not S and M."
"Of course not. Only pleasure for you, Robert. No pain."
He could feel his penis stiffen in his pants. He reached into his pocket, took out the roll of bills, and peeled off ten hundreds. "A thousand altogether," he said.
She walked over to him. With her left hand she took the money, and with the fingers of her right, she touched him gently on the tip of his erection. His whole body trembled.
"That's a preview," she said. "I'm going to put the money in my briefcase. You stand here with your eyes closed, and let me take care of everything else."
Winthrop meant to do exactly what she said, but he peeked slightly, when she was leaning over the briefcase resting on the couch, with her rear facing him. She was so beautiful from this view. He couldn't wait to take her from the back. He would put her up on the bed on all fours, and he wouldâ
"Remember, eyes closed," she ordered. "I'm in charge of the fun."
He closed them tightly.
"You can look now," she said softly.
Quickly he opened his eyesâand gaped. She was gripping a .380 Walther PPK automatic pistol with a Sionics suppressor in her gloved hand. Rays of late-afternoon sunlight cut through a narrow opening in the curtains and glinted off the metal.
Stunned, Winthrop cried out, "Hey, what is this?"
In response, she squeezed once on the trigger. A bullet slammed into Winthrop's chest and drove him up off his feet. She squeezed again. This time Winthrop collapsed on his back on the Oriental carpet. Blood oozed from his chest, saturating his blue shirt, and spilled freely onto the carpet.
Still clutching the gun, she hurried across the room to Winthrop's body, then reached down to check his pulse. He gave one final shudder, and his hand clutched for her head, grabbing her hair for an instant, then dropping helplessly to the floor.
After returning the gun to her briefcase, she reached into his pants pockets and extracted the rest of the money, mostly hundreds. She also removed the package of condoms. The Mark Cross wallet came next. Inside, there were more hundreds. She took those, then tossed the black leather wallet into the pool of blood on the floor. Most of the money and all of the condoms went into her briefcase. Glancing at the antique grandfather clock in a corner of the room, she saw that she had been in the house for a half hour. No point rushing. Slowly and methodically, she put on her man's suit and tie, the wig, and the cap.
Fully dressed, she walked toward the staircase that led up to the first floor. Halfway up the stairs, she scattered half a dozen hundred-dollar bills, trying to make it appear as if they had fallen from her hand or her pocket. She wasn't worried about fingerprints. The gloves had never come off. Calmly she walked out. She didn't want to seem out of breath to those two bozo guards in front of Winthrop's house.
* * *
Clyde Gillis finished raking the last pile of leaves onto his large piece of burlap, slung it over his right shoulder, and carried it to the front of the house. Last one, he thought with relief. He tossed the leaves along with the burlap into his truck and then walked around back to gather up the rest of his equipment.
Raking on a windy day like this was a lot tougher than normal, and Clyde would have preferred to have skipped today. The difficulty was that he didn't like missing a Saturday because that was the one day of the week either Mr. or Mrs. Winthrop was usually at home. Then they handed him a check for the week's worth of gardening. If they weren't home, he had to leave a bill and wait for the check to arrive in the mail. Mrs. Winthrop was real good about paying promptly, but he needed to take that check to the bank every Monday morning.
Clyde's fourth child and first boy, Clyde Junior, now seven years old, had been diagnosed last year as having a rare kidney disease. That meant dialysis on a weekly basis, which was expensive, and insurance didn't pay all of it. The medical bills had already taken every cent he had saved in the twelve years since he had moved his family to Washington from southern Mississippi, and he had no other way to make more money. He worked every daylight hour, but he couldn't make enough. Once, when he was thinking about it, he began crying. Mrs. Winthrop had asked him what was wrong. He had worked at this house before the Winthrops bought it when they moved to Washington from New York three years ago, and he had always found Mrs. Winthrop to be a kind person. He told her about Clyde Junior. She wanted to lend him money, but he knew he could never pay her back. "Consider it a gift," she had said. He couldn't do that. It was a matter of pride. That night, at home, Lucinda had told him he was crazy to turn down Mrs. Winthrop's money, but he refused to change his mind. If a man didn't have pride, he didn't have anything at all. So he toiled, he squeezed his money, and he prayed.
Behind the house, Clyde picked up his rakes. Then he approached the back door, put everything down, and rang the bell. He waited. There was no answer. So he rang again. Still no answer.
Before leaving the house, Mrs. Winthrop had told him that the back door would be unlocked and that he should come right in if no one answered the bell. "You find Mr. Winthrop in the house," she had said. "He'll have your check."
Clyde heard the football game on the television set downstairs. At the top of the stairs, he called, "Mr. Winthrop, it's Clyde Gillis."
He waited. There was no answer.
Cautiously, he walked down the stairs. "Mr. Winthrop?" he called again.
That was when he saw the hundred-dollar bills scattered on the stairs. Alarmed, he drew back and stopped. Then he continued down. He needed that check. He had to get it to the bank Monday morning.
Still no answer, but he was detecting a powerful odor from the other room. With hesitation, he walked toward the doorway. Seeing Winthrop's body lying in a pool of blood, he stopped short and screamed. Instinctively, he knelt down and placed his hand against Winthrop's heart. He felt Winthrop's wrist for a pulse. The man was clearly dead.
Perspiring heavily, trembling, Gillis was enveloped by panic. He wanted to race up the stairs, out the front door, and tell those two guards what he had found. That was the right thing to do. He knew it. But it also would lead to trouble for him, lots of trouble, answering questions and explaining. They would try to blame him, the same way that sheriff had grabbed his daddy when somebody had raped a white girl back home in Hattiesburg. His daddy had been gone for a whole month. They beat his daddy almost to death until a white man raped somebody else, and they caught him and charged him with both crimes. Sure, this was Washington, not Mississippi, but he couldn't take the chance. He decided to take the safe way out. He retraced his steps to the back door, pretending he had never seen a thing.