Glenn Beck - The Overton Window

“I did notice.”

“Yeah. With great power comes great friskiness. They’ve all got a lust for something.”

“He lives here?”

“That’s not all. This five-million-dollar co-op apartment that we’re going to stay in tonight? My father owns that. Spitzer’s father owns the whole building.”

“Gosh.”

“Yup.”

“He resigned, right?” Molly asked. “What was it that brought him down again?”

“The short answer is, he was caught on a federal wiretap hiring a hooker who makes more in one day than your buddies in the mailroom take home in a year.”

“Wow… And he fell pretty fast.”

“He’ll be back in politics before long, don’t worry. The public memory is pretty shallow, and like I said at the bar, up at the top in this world, it’s just a big club.”

“And we’re not in it,” she said. “At least, I know I’m not.”

The elevator dinged and the doors parted, revealing his apartment’s elegant entryway.

“Maybe not,” Noah said, “but you really shouldn’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

The instant he’d keyed them inside, Molly took off to explore, marveling at the panoramic floor-to-ceiling view, running from room to room like a toy-starved moppet cut loose in FAO Schwarz.

“How big is this place?” he heard her call from somewhere in back.

“It’s just half the floor. If you’re impressed by this you should see the penthouse sometime.”

“And it cost how much again?”

“Five million, plus about sixty thousand a year for maintenance.”

She emerged from the guest suite, pointing back behind her. “The shower in that bathroom is bigger than my bedroom back home.”

“Speaking of which,” Noah said, “I’m going to get cleaned up and turn in. I feel like I’ve still got jail funk all over me.”

“Oh, I do, too.”

“Go ahead, then. Everything you need should be in there, and go through the drawers in the dresser, you’ll find something to sleep in.”

“Okay.” She smiled at him then, and it was the one he’d been waiting all these hours to see.

“Okay,” he said. “I realize it’s seven-thirty in the morning, but good night.”

Squeaky-clean at last and dressed for bed, blinds pulled closed, Noah chose a novel from the night table and reclined against a stack of pillows to try to read himself to sleep, within a pale circle of light from his bedside lamp.

In the middle of chapter two he heard a soft knock from the hallway, looked over, then sat up a little straighter when he saw her peeking in.

“Me again,” Molly said.

“Hi.” He laid his book beside him, holding his page.

“I used your phone. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine, anything you want.”

“I was calling about Danny. Remember him? Danny Bailey, from the bar?”

“Yeah. I wish I didn’t, but yeah.”

“Nobody remembers seeing him after the raid, and he wasn’t with the rest of us at the police station. I called around to see if anyone had heard from him.”

“And they hadn’t, I gather.”

She shook her head.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Noah said. “God knows he’s old enough to take care of himself. Go ahead, try to get some rest. We can check again later on.”

“Okay,” Molly said. But she made no move from the doorway.

“Do you need another blanket or something?”

“Could I come in?”

“Sure,” he said, and she did. “Hey, you found my lacrosse shirt. Ten years I’ve been looking for that thing.”

“You played lacrosse in school?” The faded jersey was much too big, of course, and she’d gathered the slack and tied it up, leaving a spellbinding glimpse of a taut, smooth waist above the northern border of a lucky pair of his own navy boxers.

“Rode the bench mostly,” he said. Her hair was down, towel-dry and glistening, dark and curly and caressing her shoulders as she walked. “It’s funny, that shirt looks a lot better now than I remember it.”

When she reached the edge of the bed she crawled up onto the far end of the tall king-size mattress, walked its length on her knees, and then flopped down next to him with an easy sigh, sharing his pillows. “What are you reading?” she asked.

He showed her the title briefly, and then put the book back down. “I thought you were going to sleep in the other room.”

“Do you mind?”

“No, not a bit. It’s just like that time my aunt Beth took me to the candy store and then wouldn’t let me eat anything. I didn’t mind that, either.”

“I’ll go if you want.”

“No, stay, stay. I’m kidding. Kind of. Just try not to do anything sexy.”

“Thanks.” She ran her hands through her hair and stretched again, wriggled herself under the covers, and rolled onto her side with one arm across him, the long, cool silkiness of her bare legs against his skin.

“Now see?” Noah said. “That’s what I just asked you not to do.”

“I’m only getting comfortable.” Her voice was already sleepy, and she shivered a bit. “My feet are cold.”

“Suit yourself, lady. I’m telling you right now, you made the rules, but you’re playing with fire here. I’ve got some rules, too, and rule number one is, don’t tease the panther.”

“Okay, I’ll be good.” She pulled herself up by the collar of his T-shirt, as if with the last ounce of strength remaining after her long day, and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Good night,” she whispered.

“Good night, Molly.”

Noah picked up his paperback and tried his best to rejoin the story there, but when he found he’d read the same paragraph at least twenty times over, he gave it up and put the book aside. In that author’s defense no arrangement of ink on a page could possibly hold a candle to the twists his actual day had taken, nor could any fiction likely lure his mind from this strange, beautiful character lying beside him, right there in real life. He was more than satisfied to simply listen to her quiet, steady breathing and watch her settle into a peaceful, deepening slumber. Before too long he’d joined her wherever she was traveling, having begun to dream quite a while before he finally drifted away.

Stuart Kearns flipped his black ID folder closed when it seemed his credentials had been sufficiently absorbed by the desk sergeant. The man’s face was a classic deadpan, but when he looked up a faint glimmer of engagement had finally dawned there.

Kearns passed across a manila envelope that carried authorization forms for the interview and a conditional catch-and-release waiver for the prisoner in question. The papers were curtly received and slid into the queue with all the care and attention of a career man on the assembly line. Then, as he was directed with a wordless tic of the head, Agent Kearns took a short walk to a seat in a small side office to wait his turn, just like everybody else.

It was just another privilege of the badge, he supposed. Civilians have to go all the way to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get this kind of white-glove treatment.