William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

“You sound like you’re speakin’ from experience.”

“Are you kidding? How much could I take off before…you know. Some of my girlfriends are strippers, and they’ve told me about it. It’s not an easy life.”

“Then why do it? Go to typin’ school.”

“And spend the rest of your life fetching coffee for the man? No thanks.” Trudy leaned in closer. “In an A-list place like this, a good dancer can make two thousand bucks a night.”

“How?”

“By pleasing the big tippers.”

“Pleasin’ ’em how?”

“You probably don’t want to know.”

“You’re probably right.”

“For five hundred bucks, you can get a fabulously good-looking girl and pay a bouncer to look the other way while the two of you disappear into one of the many small side rooms.”

“Disgustin’.”

“Maybe. But very profitable.”

Loving almost crashed into a waitress. He knew she was a waitress because she was wearing clothes. “Get you something?”

“Yeah. I’ll take a beer. And another one for my…” He gestured toward Trudy. “…friend.”

Once again he pulled a five out of his pocket, and once again it was refused. The waitress smiled. “Your money’s no good here, big boy.”

Loving blinked. “You mean it’s on the house?”

Trudy whispered in his ear. “She means you need Action bucks.”

“Huh?”

“This place issues its own scrip. It’s all the waitresses—or the dancers—will take.”

“Scrip? How do I get that?”

“Give the waitress a credit card. She’ll sell you some. With a twenty percent markup.”

“That’s highway robbery!”

“Maybe so, but it’s the only way you’ll get a drink in here.”

Loving shoved his wallet back in his jeans. “Then never mind.” The waitress shrugged and moved on. “Scrip? What kind of idiot would agree to a rip-off deal like that?”

“Well, with most guys, when the most beautiful woman they’ve ever seen in their life straddles them and starts doing a lap dance, they don’t want to make a trip to the ATM.”

Loving plowed ahead, muttering to himself about how he was gonna have to talk to the Skipper about a raise.

At long last, they reached an alcove where, unlike the rest of the entire club, men were the center of attention. Most of them were sweaty and had their sleeves rolled up. And at three different tables, the men were arm wrestling.

“What’s this about?” he asked Trudy. “Trying to impress the chicks?”

“More like, trying to blow off some steam because you can’t afford to do it with any of the chicks. Give me a minute.”

Loving watched Trudy approach another gatekeeper. He spotted a windowless door at the rear of the alcove. The back room.

“I’m here to see the Boss,” Trudy said.

The gatekeeper shook his head. “You’re not on the list tonight.”

“Doesn’t matter. I need to talk to him. About a job I did.”

“Sorry. You’re not on the list.”

Loving watched as Trudy snaked an arm around his neck and leaned forward, pressing—what? rubber padding?—against his chest. Fake as it all was, he didn’t know how the gatekeeper could resist. She— he, damn it—was a total hottie. “Surely you can make an exception. Give a girl what she needs.”

The gatekeeper grinned from ear to ear, but he didn’t budge. “Sweetheart, I’ll be happy to give you what you need any time, any place. But I can’t let you in that room.”

Trudy recoiled and stomped away in a snit. “I gave it my best shot, Loving. I couldn’t get in.”

“So that’s it? We give up?”

“Of course not. You’re going to have to enter the tournament.”

“The tournament? What, poker or somethin’?”

“Arm wrestling!”

“This is a contest? I thought they were just…you know. Showing off.”

“No. The winner gets inside the back room. It’s like, the grand prize.”

“Why is that a prize? Does everyone want to see Renny?”

“I doubt if any of these rubes know who Renny is. But they’ve heard about the infamous back room. It contains some…rare delicacies.”

“Just give it to me straight.”

“Women. Real women. Willing to have sex with anyone. No questions asked.”

“Prostitution.”

“No money changes hands.”

“Renny keeps them doped up.”

“Point is, they’re there, they’re willing, and they’re better-looking than anything most of these muscle-bound clods have seen in their dreams. So, done any arm wrestling?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Good. Then we’ve got a shot.”

“I haven’t done it in a long time.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll have me to help you.”

“You? How the hell are you gonna help?”

She slithered up close to him. “By exercising my feminine wiles, sugar.”

“Don’t call me ‘sugar’!”

38

“This just in,” Beauregard said, flying into the conference room with a blue-rimmed piece of paper in his hands. “We’ve crossed the Rubicon.”

Ben squinted. “I don’t understand.”

Senator Hammond smiled. “When Julius Caesar was fighting the Gallic Wars—”

“I understood the historical reference,” Ben said, trying not to appear annoyed. After the day he’d had, he was a little tired of being cast as the political equivalent of the village idiot. “What I don’t understand is what he’s talking about.”

“The latest instant polls indicate that more people favor the Roush nomination than oppose it. And this is the first time that’s been true since he made his coming-out speech in the Rose Garden.”

“Swell,” Roush said. “Does that mean we’re winning?”

“Hard to say. This was a poll of the public, not the eighteen members of the Judiciary Committee. Still, one tends to lead the other.”

Carraway pushed her glasses up on her nose. “I’m getting the same intel from my media contacts. Apparently Ben’s little speech touched a few of the right chords,” she admitted grudgingly.

“What?” Ben said, pressing his hand against his chest. “Can this be? Are you suggesting that I did something right?”

Christina kicked him under the table. “Gina’s trying to be nice,” she muttered. “Don’t push it.”

“To be specific,” Carraway said, avoiding Ben’s question, “the reference to partisan politics played very well. People are sick and tired of partisan politics. At least that’s what they always say to pollsters. In reality, of course, they love it. Scandal is great fun, and they’d much rather read about someone’s sexcapades than their views on foreign policy. But at any rate, that bit played well. Also, the line about McCarthy’s ghost. Pure genius. Who wrote that for you?”

“Actually,” Ben said, “it just came to me as I was speaking.”

She gave him a long look. “You’re saying you…extemporized? Used a line that hadn’t been tested? Instant-feedback polled?”

“I wasn’t even planning to give a speech. But after Roush declined to respond, I knew I had to do something.”

Beauregard stepped between them. “Your remarks were not vetted in advance? Not approved by the oversight committee? Not play-tested before a shadow audience?”

“Nope. Just made it up.”

“And what the hell do you call that?”

“Ummm…speaking from the heart?”

Carraway pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “God help us. That’s so…amateur. Hammond, I can’t work with this.”

Hammond smiled. “The kid did good, Gina. Leave it alone.”

She closed her eyes, her disgust unmasked. “I’m a kingmaker,” she muttered. “A kingmaker surrounded by peasants.” She left the room, slamming the door behind her.