Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

“Yes, but. .”

“I’m sorry. I don’t go out. Not on a first date,” she says.

“Next you’ll be telling me that you don’t kiss on a first date.”

She laughs. “That all depends where you want it,” she says.

“I want it in my hotel room,” I tell her.

“I’m sorry. That’s just not possible.” She says it with a tone of finality. I don’t want her to get up and walk.

“You mean they won’t let you?”

“It’s not that.”

Good! At least it’s not a house rule, something she can’t violate.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s just that I don’t know you that well.”

“What’s to know?”

“For one thing, how do I know you’re not a cop?” she says.

“Have you ever known a cop to come in here, undercover, I mean?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet, at least. But then, there’s always a first time,” she says.

“Raise my right hand and hope to die,” I tell her. I put up my left.

“I don’t think you’re really that drunk.” She reads me like a book.

“Give me another bottle and I’ll show you.”

She turns toward the waiter.

“Let’s do it in my room,” I say. “I’ll make it worth your while.” The final resort.

“How much?” she says.

I take a deep breath. “Five hundred,” I tell her. “Besides, how do I know you’re not a cop?”

“If I were, I would be arresting you right now,” she tells me.

The thought has never even entered my mind until this moment. What if she were working undercover? Stranger things have happened. Judges have been defrocked and lawyers pilloried for what I have just done, conversed about sex and money in the same sentence.

“You think I’m a cop, you can search me, see if you can find a badge.”

“Sounds like fun.” I try to keep her talking.

“But not for five hundred,” she says. “For that we can go upstairs. If we are going to go to your room, I’ll need more than that.” The door is open, if only a crack. “Besides, if I leave early I have to buy my way out. The house will fine me. I have to pay them.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred and fifty,” she says.

“So how much do you need?”

“To go to your hotel room?”

I nod.

“Fifteen hundred.” She says it without batting an eye, the price she already had fixed in her mind probably from the moment she sat down. She looks me up and down and figures from my pained expression that it’s a no-go. “It was nice to have met you,” she says, and starts to get up.

“No need to run away,” I tell her.

“Time is money,” she says.

I don’t want her walking away. I need to find out what she knows. “Twelve-fifty!” I blurt it out so loudly that the guy at the next table hears me, whips around, gives me a smirk, and says, “Go for it!” He looks at her with lust in his eyes and licks his chops.

I wonder if I’ve just screwed the pooch. I lower my voice an octave. “You clear a cool thousand.” My attempt at reason comes off sounding desperate, Milquetoast the bookkeeper sporting a green shade with a pencil behind his ear.

“I knew you weren’t that drunk.” She thinks about it. “Do you have a room?”

Maybe she likes vulnerable guys.

“I do. Down the street, on the beach. Place with the blue neon sign, says Hotel. Next to the tattoo shop.”

“I know the place. I can meet you there,” she says. “Give me a few minutes.”

“And what if you don’t show up?” I ask.

“Then you get to take a cold shower.” She smiles.

“OK.” I look at my watch. “See you in half an hour.” I start to get up from the chair.

“Didn’t you forget something?” She looks at me with a deadpan expression, like Bacall asking me if I know how to whistle.

“What’s that?”

“Your room number,” she says. “Unless you want me to knock on all the doors.”

“Room number seven.” The room Herman already rented in hopes we’d get lucky.

She stands. The top of her head doesn’t quite reach my shoulder even in her platform spiked heels. She comes in close and gives me a soft kiss on the cheek, like the wings of a butterfly flicking my skin. Her hand on mine. There is a reason this stuff is against the law. I can smell her perfume, more intoxicating than the champagne. I open my eyes and all I see is her back, sensual curves and shapely legs as she floats away from me through ankle-deep fog on seven-inch heels.

This time he rang her at home, the brownstone in Georgetown. She picked it up and recognized his voice instantly, the chill up her spine, the hound from hell.

“I thought we weren’t doing this anymore, conversing on the phone.” It was after nine in the evening. Maya Grimes was in no mood to be jerked around. She’d had a tough day on the Hill. Her smile muscles ached from greeting people she disliked.

“As I recall, that was one of your rules, not mine,” said the Eagle.

“What is it this time?”

“Got another job for you.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Fine.”

“I want you to call the White House,” he said. “Talk to some people. The appointments section, judicial nominations. You know lots of people there.”

“Go on,” she said.

“There’s two slots open, an open seat on the Federal District Court, Southern District, your state, as well as the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals in San Francisco. I want you to put a bug in somebody’s ear. Do it first thing tomorrow morning. Tell ’em you’re pushing two candidates, one for each position. And as far as you’re concerned, they’re the only people for the jobs.”

“Who are they?”

“I’ll give you the names later.”

“I can’t tell them I’m supporting people and then refuse to give them the names.”

“Sure you can. You’re a US Senator. You can do anything you want. Tell them if they try to nominate anyone to fill either spot you’ll use your office to stand in the way. You’ll give them the names as soon as your staff is finished checking the candidates out. Tell ’em it could take a while.”

“Senatorial privilege,” said Grimes.

“You got it.”

“You can’t just leave these positions open. The one on the Ninth Circuit already has a short list of qualified candidates approved by the ABA, the American Bar Association.”

“They have their criteria, I have mine,” said the Eagle.

“I’ve already committed,” said Grimes.

“Tell them you’ve changed your mind. Woman’s prerogative.”

“The White House will think I’m crazy.”

“Tell them you’re going through a change of life. I don’t care what you tell them, just do it.” He slammed the phone down in her ear.

What the Eagle wanted was to keep the positions vacant so he could use them when the time came. Under the ritual of senatorial privilege, the senior home state senator could effectively blackball a nomination to the federal courts in his or her own state. Or, as in the case of the Ninth Circuit, block any candidate coming from that state and then wheel and deal with other members of the Senate to get what he or she wanted. It was an unholy practice. But even members who didn’t like it had to go along, part of being in the club.

Because the judicial nominations required Senate confirmation before they became final lifetime appointments, a hearing would never be set unless the candidate had the blessing of the state’s senior senator. It was a corrupt custom dating back eons and had been used more than once to shake candidates or their supporters down for money, or to exact favors from other politicians and the White House.

The Eagle knew that if Grimes used her muscle, she could keep both positions vacant indefinitely. It was nice owning your own US senator. The Eagle possessed a stable of them, like racehorses, and with a single phone call he could work any one of them into an instant lather.