Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

He checked the time. He buzzed his secretary, managed to clear his schedule for the rest of the day, picked up the eight-pound file and headed for conference room number nine, the firm’s smallest and most secluded, where he could hide and work. He could do six intense hours, go to the party, come back, work all night, hit the steam room, shower and shave here, finish up the comments and have them on Alvis’s desk by three, four at the latest. The little shit.

Six agreements later, Jack ate the last of his chips, finished off his Coke, pulled on his jacket and ran the ten flights down to the lobby.

The cab dropped him at his apartment. He stopped cold.

The Jag was parked in front of his building. The vanity plate SUCCESS told him his soon-to-be date for life was up there waiting. She must be upset with him. She never condescended to come to his place unless she was upset with him about something and wanted to let him know it.

He checked his watch. He was running a little late, but he was still okay. He unlocked his front door, rubbing his jaw; maybe he could get by without shaving. She was sitting on the couch, having first draped a sheet across it. He had to admit, she looked stunning; a real blue blood, whatever that meant these days. Unsmiling, she stood up and looked at him.

“You’re late.”

“I’m not my own boss you know.”

“That’s no excuse. I work too.”

“Yeah, but the difference is your boss has the same last name, and is wrapped around his daughter’s pretty little finger.”

“Mother and Dad went on ahead. The limo will be here in twenty minutes.”

“Plenty of time.” Jack undressed and jumped in the shower. He pulled the curtain aside. “Jenn, can you get out my blue double-breasted?”

She walked into the bathroom, looked around in ill-concealed disgust. “The invitation said black tie.”

“Black tie optional,” he corrected her, rubbing the soap out of his eyes.

“Jack, don’t do this. It’s the White House for godsakes, it’s the President.”

“They give you an option, black tie or not, I’m exercising my right to forgo the black tie. Besides, I don’t have a tux.” He grinned at her and pulled the curtain closed.

“You were supposed to get one.”

“I forgot. C’mon, Jenn, for chrissakes. Nobody’s going to be watching me, nobody cares what I’ll be wearing.”

“Thank you, thank you very much, Jack Graham. I ask you to do one little thing.”

“Do you know how much those suckers cost?”

The soap was stinging his eyes. He thought of Barry Alvis and having to work all night and having to explain that fact to Jennifer and then to her father, and his voice got angrier. “And how many times am I going to wear the goddamned thing? Once or twice a year?”

“After we’re married we’ll be attending a lot of functions where black tie isn’t optional, it’s mandatory. It’s a good investment.”

“I’d rather put my retirement funds into baseball cards.” He poked his head out again to show her he was kidding, but she wasn’t there.

He rubbed a towel through his hair, wrapped it around his middle and walked into the tiny bedroom where he found a new tux hanging on the door. Jennifer appeared, smiling.

“Compliments of Baldwin Enterprises. It’s an Armani. It’ll look wonderful on you.”

“How’d you know my size?”

“You’re a perfect forty-two long. You could be a model. Jennifer Baldwin’s personal male model.” She wrapped her perfumed arms around his shoulders and squeezed. He felt her considerable breasts push into his back and inwardly cursed that there wasn’t time to take advantage of the moment. Just once without the goddamn murals, without the cherubs and chariots, maybe it would be different.

He looked longingly at the small, untidy bed. And he had to work all night. Goddamned Barry Alvis and the wishy-washy Raymond Bishop.

Why was it every time he saw Jennifer Baldwin he hoped that things could be different between them? Different meaning better. That she would change, or he would, or they both would meet somewhere in the middle? She was so beautiful, had everything in the world going for her. Jesus, what was wrong with him anyway?

The limo moved easily through the dregs of post-rush-hour traffic. Past seven o’clock on a weeknight, downtown D.C. was pretty much deserted.

Jack looked over at his fiancée. Her light but very expensive coat didn’t conceal the plunging neckline. The perfectly chiseled features were covered by flawless skin that occasionally flashed a perfect smile. Her thick auburn hair was piled high on top of her head; she usually wore it down. She looked like one of those one-name supermodels.

He moved closer to her. She smiled at him, checked her makeup, which was immaculate, and patted his hand.

He stroked her leg, slid her dress up; she pushed him away.

“Later, maybe,” she whispered so the driver wouldn’t hear.

Jack smiled and mouthed that later he might have a headache. She laughed and then he remembered there would be no “later” tonight.

He slumped back in the thickly padded seat and stared out the window. He had never been to the White House; Jennifer had, twice before. She didn’t look nervous; he was. He tugged at his bow tie, and smoothed his hair as they turned onto Executive Drive.

The White House guards checked them methodically; Jennifer as usual got second and third looks from all of the men and women present. When she bent down to adjust her high heel, she almost spilled out of her five-thousand-dollar dress and made several White House staffers far happier men for it. Jack got the usual envious looks from the guys. Then they moved into the building and presented their engraved invitations to the Marine sergeant who escorted them through the lower-level entry corridor and then up the stairs to the East Room.

“Dammit!” the President had bent down to pick up a copy of his speech for the night’s event and the pain had shot up to his shoulder. “I think it nicked a tendon, Gloria.”

Gloria Russell sat in one of the wide, plush chairs with which the President’s wife had decorated the Oval Office.

The First Lady had good taste if not a lot else. She was nice to look at, but a little light in the intellect department. No challenge to the President’s power, and an asset in the polls.

Her family background was impeccable: old money, old ties. The President’s connection to the conservative wealth and influence segment of the country had not hurt his standing with the liberal contingent in the least, however, owing mainly to his charisma and skills at consensus-building. And his good looks, which counted for a lot more than anyone cared to admit.

A successful President had to be able to talk a good game, and this President’s batting average was up there with Ted Williams’s.

“I think I need to see a doctor.” The President was not in the best of moods, but then neither was Russell.

“Well, Alan, then exactly how would you explain a stab wound to the White House press?”

“What the hell ever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?”

Russell rolled her eyes. He could be so stupid sometimes.

“You’re like a Fortune 500 company, Alan, everything about you is public information.”

“Well, not everything.”

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it? This is far from over, Alan.” Russell had smoked three packs of cigarettes, and drunk two pots of coffee since last night. At any moment their world, her career, could come crashing down. The police knocking on the door. It was all she could do to keep herself from running screaming from the room. As it was nausea continuously swept over her in vast waves. She clenched her teeth, gripped the chair. The image of total destruction would not budge from her mind.