Warren Murphy: Power Play

"Do you know a woman named Flamma?" Remo asked.

"Flamma? What do you know about her?" Theodosia said. She turned on her bench to look at Remo.

"Who is she?" Remo asked.

"She works sometimes for Wesley," the young woman said. "She... er, entertains for him."

"What kind of work is... er, entertains?" Remo asked.

Theodosia paused. "Okay," she said, as if forcing herself to tell the truth. "She's kind of on the payroll as a hooker. When out-of-town bigshots visit Wesley, Flamma is assigned to make sure they enjoy themselves. She poses for some pictures for Gross too. What about Flamma?"

"She's in town."

Theodosia's face wrinkled up. Unconsciously she began to pick at her the polish on her shiny fingernails. "What the hell is she doing here?"

"I don't know. She arrived this morning. There's somebody else in town too."

"Who?"

"The name Will Bobbin mean anything to you?"

"No. Should it?"

"He's a big shot with the fuel industry."

She stood up quickly and looked at Remo, almost in triumph. "There," she said. "The oil business again. Those bastards."

"You're really sure about that, aren't you?" Remo asked.

"No one else had any reason to try to kill Wesley," she said. "No one but those people."

"All right," Remo said. He put his hands on the woman's shoulders and drew her close to him.

"Rachmed," he said.

She pulled away. "What about him?"

"He's a fraud," said Remo. "He's a pimp and a pickpocket. He runs a whorehouse for little girls."

Theodosia seemed to relax. "I know that, Remo. I know all about that."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"What Rachmed used to be isn't important," she said. "Right now, he's a healer and he's helping to heal Wesley."

"You don't really believe that about lifting up the blankets and letting the sun shine on his legs, do you?"

"What I think doesn't matter. What you think neither. What's important is that Wesley thinks it helps. He wants to live again. That's worth more than anything."

"Whatever you say." Remo tried to draw her to him. Twenty-two steps and she had shown almost no reaction. He would like to try that again.

She raised an arm between their bodies to keep him away from her, without it being an obvious rejection.

"You've been busy," she said. "How'd you find this all out?"

"Don't forget, lady, you're paying us top dollar. Enough money to hire people to help," Remo lied.

"When did Bobbin arrive?" she asked suddenly.

"Last night," Remo said.

"And last night our bodyguards were killed." She raised her hands and touched her fingertips to both cheeks. Remo noticed that her ring fingers were longer than her index fingers. "Those goddam oil people," she said. "I hope Flamma's not involved with them." She wrapped herself in her gown and walked away from Remo. "I'm going to check on Wesley," she said.

The Reverend Higbe Muckley had not gotten where he was by being insensitive to how television worked.

Morning press conferences were no good. First, reporters liked to sleep late. Second, from a morning press conference, they would be reassigned to an afternoon story too, and they would get to thinking they were overworked, so they were grouchy, bad audiences in the morning.

Afternoon press conferences usually got cut short because TV men had to get their film back to the studio and hustle to write their story in time for it to get on the six o-clock evening news. If their piece was late, they might get squeezed out of the program by some story that was filmed earlier.

Muckley had learned this by watching television and figuring. The optimum time for a press conference was noon, give or take a half-hour, based on the following indisputable rules:

1. A reporter had a chance to get up and sober up.

2. It gave him a free lunch and he could still bill his station for a lunch cost.

3. It gave him plenty of time to complete and file his story.

4. If the invitation came from a sexy-voiced woman, the lure was irresistible.

So Muckley got his secretary, Sister Corinne, on the telephone right away, alerting the television people that he would hold a press conference at noon and he had proof of "a conspiratorial plot by Wesley Pruiss, a plot so cruel and evil that it would stagger their minds." The secretary read this from a card that Muckley had printed out for her. Then, also at Muckley's directions, she dropped a hint that a former employee of Pruiss's, a one-time Grossie Girl, would be at the press conference. And there would be plenty to eat and drink.

While she was making the calls, the secretary glanced frequently at the office door, worried because she had heard it being locked to keep her out. What were they doing in there?

Inside the office, Muckley and Flamma were discussing the costume she would wear to the press conference. She had a model's hatbox with costumes in it.

"How about this one?" she asked, holding up two flimsy pieces of nylon.

"I don't know," Muckley said. "Better try it on."

"Where can I change?" she said.

"You can change here," he said. "I'll turn my back."

He turned away from Flamma and watched her in the window as she peeled off her raincoat and put on the costume. She smiled at his reflection as she dressed.

"Done," she said.

Muckley turned and gulped. The nylon costume was transparent, her breasts totally visible. The rest of the outfit was a pair of brief panties covered over with thin nylon pantaloons that showed every pore, every rippling smooth muscle of her long legs.

"What do you think?" Flamma asked.

Muckley came close to inspect her. He walked around her as she stood in the middle of the room. He gulped several times as he eyed her milky body.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with the human body, you understand," he said. "Under the proper circumstances, I think it is the most beautiful of God's creations," He cleared his throat. "And, of course, your body is exceptional. From a purely esthetic viewpoint, that is."

"Of course," said Flamma. She had heard that many times before.

"But I'm afraid, for television, this won't quite work. With lights, it might turn out a little too transparent and then they might not be able to use their film. What else you got in there?"

She reached in and brought out a red satin bra.

"How's this?"

"That might do. Try it on."

"Okay," she said, purposely forgetting to tell him to turn his back again. She reached behind her for the bra clip of the transparent top but pretended she couldn't reach it.

"Can you help me?" she asked.

"Of course, girl," he said. He fumbled with the clip. The palms of his hands were wet with perspiration.

"How long have you been a dancer?" he asked.

"Well," Flamma said, "I'm not really much of a dancer. I can do a turn or two, I guess. But really what I'm good at is tricks. Straight, half-and-half, around the world."

Muckley gulped as the bra clip opened. He let his fingers linger on the bare flesh of her back.

"Of course, you're not going to say that at the press conference," he said.

"Why not?"

"We don't want to harm your credibility. You and me, we're people of the world. We'd understand how some forces could push a young woman into such a life."

Flamma shook her head as she removed her bra. "Nothing forced me. I like it. I always liked it. I still like it. I'd rather do it than anything."

"I can understand that," Muckley said solemnly. "After all, people have needs, desires." He tried to chuckle but it came out like a chicken squawking as its neck was being wrung. "Even us men of the cloth have needs," he said, "although most people would try to deny us. They don't understand the heavy burden we bear, trying to be an example for other people and still having to live with the fires that rage within us." His hands were still on her back.