登陆注册
10478000000006

第6章

Bruce Rosen was not in a good mood. He was sitting in the gloomy half-light of a television set, slumped in a leather chair. Beside him was a half-filled highball glass. The scene did not augur well for the future of their experiment.

She pulled the chain of the table lamp, throwing a yellow splash of light against the paneled walls and rows of leather-bound books. It was a "WASP" room, down to the nineteenth-century landscape that hung over the fireplace, a touch that bespoke deeper American roots than had been sunk in a couple of generations. She hated spotting details like that. Cynicism was an occupational hazard, like spotted lung to miners.

"It was the loneliness that bugged me the first time around," he said, lifting heavy-lidded eyes. In the ten months she had known him, he had never seemed so vulnerable.

"What the hell is it, Bruce?" She poured herself two fingers of Scotch and sat on the arm of the chair, putting her hand on his head. The curly touch of it warmed her.

"There's a kinky rhythm to our work," she said softly. "Murderers work odd hours, too." They had been through that before. In their time as lovers, politics had made her a grass widow as well.

"And I don't control it, baby," she said, kissing his neck.

Bruce picked up his glass, emptied it and squeezed her butt with his free hand. It reassured her that her absence alone was not the reason for his depression. A talk show was in progress, and she got up to shut off the inane chatter.

"I think I'm going to get knocked off in the primary," he said. "I saw the polls today. The bitch has got me by the balls."

She let it pass. The New Woman had scorched the earth, leaving behind her a race of injured men. They simply could not adjust to an independent woman. Was Bruce going to be one more victim? She wished his opponent was not a woman.

"So you'll fight it. You're a pro. It's not the first trip to the well."

"Too late. The fucking districts are changing. More black faces. Spanish is a second language. I've always been lousy at languages. The bitch…." She hated the word. She wondered if he was baiting her.

"But it's not over yet."

"She poses as a tough spic street broad. They love it. Maybe Jewish is out of fashion."

"Not to me. I'm just getting into it," she said lightly.

"Dumb mick." He gathered a palmful of flesh and squeezed affectionately. "Always at the tail end of a trend."

She kept silent, afraid to go too lightly. It was his life. Sixteen years. It was the only occupation he wanted. Once, just once, she had asked him why.

"I like the glory," he had said. "It fulfills my thirst for recognition and power, for manipulating others. I like to see my name and picture in the papers. I like to make decisions. I like to touch the levers of power. It makes me feel alive." It had come out like a confessional laundry list, and she had actually felt like a priest peering out at him through the veiled opening. Say three Our Fathers, three Hail Marys and a sincere act of contrition she had wanted to say, but it was too close to all those exposed nerves.

"You could do with a little more Irish." She poured more whiskey into his glass. "Here's a temporary cure."

"I just don't want to be beached here," he said. "I can't go home anymore. Home has disappeared. I'll have to stay. Be a 'usta.' I'll get a couple of invitations with honorable on the envelope. Probably lobby for big oil or the potash industry."

"You are down," Fiona said, biting his earlobe. There was something to this Jewish mommy bit, she had intuited years before. Jewish boys were puffed up with confidence by their mamas. Sooner or later, it came out in the wash. They expected their wives, or mistresses, to perform the same service.

"You'll make it," she said earnestly. "You always have. So you'll run scared."

"Petrified," he said. "I'll run petrified."

Her own mother would have put it all in the hands of providence. Her father would have called it self-pity and urge him to fight the bastards. He had characterized his entire political career on 'fighting the bastards,' mostly, in his view, Republicans.

"I needed a shoulder to cry on tonight," he said, resting his head on her bosom.

"That's not my shoulder." He seemed to be making an effort to come out of it.

"Every compulsive achiever is paranoid." He was quiet for a long time and she felt him listening to her heartbeat.

"I was thinking of Remington earlier," he said. "He was Assistant Secretary of the Navy under Kennedy. Practically a kid then. Ran for the Senate from California. Lost. Now he throws parties. Goes everywhere. But he doesn't count."

She had seen his name in the social pages of the Post and the Washington Dossier countless times. Thaddeus Remington III. Good old Tad. He lived in one of the great houses of Washington on Linnean Drive. Not important? She had been to many of his parties over the years. It was a gathering place for everybody who counted in the prevailing political party.

"Remington depressed you?"

"He's loaded, but he can't really buy his way in. It's power that counts. Oh, they kiss his ass. He gets his brownie points. Ambassadors suck up to him because he's a kind of social catalyst. He brings the mighty together, but he's never mighty himself. You know what I mean. He's a celebrity, true, but without power or achievement. Beached."

"I know his MO baby. He gets his jollies being close to power. A kind of surrogate glory."

"An empty life," Bruce sighed. "Every four years, he becomes the new version of a fat cat. A fundraiser for others. But never a kingmaker and never a king. Even his dough can't insulate from the corrosion of his failure."

"I can't see him as an object of pity. He seems to enjoy his role."

"Inside, I'll bet he's corroding," Bruce said.

"That's his problem not yours Bruce. He's hardly a role model for you."

"If I go down in November, I kiss the Senate seat good-bye. Then what? I haven't got the bucks to be a Remington."

"It's not the end of the world, Bruce." Although she was sympathetic his self-pity was growing tiresome."

"The end of my world, Fiona. In politics, to win is everything. All else is sudden death. All campaigns make me crazy, Fiona. I'm not fit to live with. None of us are. We'd shoot our mothers to get re-elected."

"Would you really?"

"My mother's already gone." He caressed her arm. "Bear with me. Pay no attention. This is not the real me."

"Who is it then?"

"Some gluttonous monster without a shred of integrity. I have this man, Clark. A hired gun. He's figuring it out. I'll do what he tells me."

"Anything?"

"Almost."

He was obviously having an anxiety attack. A hurt child, she thought. Either that or male menopause.

"I'm forty-five," he murmured, as though reading her thoughts.

"Eisenhower was an obscure colonel at fifty-two, before Marshall picked him and lightning struck. Nixon was a has-been in 1960, in disgrace a little more than a decade later, and still bounced back. Where is your instinct for survival? I thought you were Jewish." She felt like a cheerleader. "Besides, you haven't even begun to fight back."

"I'm waiting for Clark to tell me how."

She let him wallow in silence, caressing him.

"And how was your day?" he asked suddenly, turning to her. He began to unbutton her blouse. She let him. At least she was only tired, not down. His strength was one of his great attractions. He's not really weak, she assured herself, just manic.

"My day? I found myself a motive." She edited herself. "A possible motive." She explained succinctly. He was a good listener.

"How do you stand it?" he said. "Death morning, noon and night. At least old Papa Hemingway liked it only in the afternoon."

"A matinée man."

He laughed. She was drawing him out. It pleased her to see the dynamics of their relationship, she filling his need. When it was her turn, she hoped he wouldn't let her down.

Finally, he had freed her breasts and buried his face between them. She felt the tickling roughness of his chin. She pressed his head against her flesh.

Death had brought them together. The suicide of Carol Harper, one of Bruce's receptionists.

"We have to investigate every death in D.C., natural or otherwise," she had told him in his office. Like all politicians, he was wary. She knew he was wondering how it would affect his image. He was divorced, handsome, visible. A good story. She was wearing a Wedgwood blue suit and a high-collared blouse. Very neuter. Very professional.

Only three months in homicide, the only woman, Fiona was still shaky in her role, especially without the protection of her uniform and those clumpy sexless men's shoes she would have to wear. She had another partner then, Al Short, who let her do the talking. The man was a congressman and Al was heading for early retirement in a month or two and not inclined to rock any political boats. At that time, she was still na?ve, learning the homicide trade.

"You saw the medical report," Bruce had told her. "An overdose. No question about that."

"Did you see her socially?" Fiona's question had infuriated him.

"What are you trying to make of it? Your suggestion is a little presumptuous."

Fiona had been tempted to apologize, but he wouldn't let her break in.

"She was the damned receptionist. I barely knew her. I was strictly her employer. I feel rotten that she did this thing, but I had nothing to do with it. Nothing."

She had seen the color rising under his deep tan. She let him work it out.

"It's just routine, sir." She had been rocked back by his tongue-lashing.

"Is she a confirmed suicide?" he had asked, suddenly gentle.

"No question about that. She took an overdose of sleeping pills and left a note in her own hand to her parents, asking for forgiveness. Just a couple of scrawled lines."

"All right, then. Why bother me about it? There's no question of foul play?"

"No."

He had seemed fully relieved. What she had not told him was that the girl had been the mistress of an important senator, although she had been certain he knew. In the capital, young vulnerable girls were passed around by powerful men like pieces of meat. Few made it to the altar. Most remained in the closet, sometimes all their lives. Police files were filled with information about similar suicides. It was, as she had told him, routine. The juicy details were kept hidden forever, largely to protect appropriations or to be used for subtle blackmail. Even the press, with occasional lapses, joined in the conspiracy, unless they had targeted an enemy or needed the hapless lecher as a source.

"She was stupid, throwing away her life," Bruce had said with disgust. "Don't you think?" His yellow-flecked hazel eyes probing at her. She had felt his minute inspection, and involuntarily she pressed her thighs closer together. Inexplicably, the had man moved her.

"I try to stay away from emotional judgments," she said. "It confuses the facts."

Al Short, sensing the tension, said: "I think we got all we need from the congressman." He stood up and put out his hand. The congressman shook it with obvious political sincerity.

"Glad to oblige," Bruce had said, winking at her. She had learned to ignore these little macho bits. But she couldn't dispel the pull, the magnetic attraction. It had annoyed her. It interfered with business. Perhaps she hadn't been trying hard enough to be neuter that day. She had found out why a week later.

He had called and asked her to dinner at Tiberio's. She said yes, perhaps too quickly. Had she been she transparent? she wondered. She was irritated by her vulnerability. They met at the restaurant where he was waiting for her in the little alcove bar.

"I was nasty," he had said, offering his little boy's abashed look. She had gone off to Saks and bought a new dress for the occasion. "You look smashing for a cop."

"Just routine." She giggled, feeling clumsy and unsophisticated.

Julio put them side by side at a table under a bright floral painting that matched the colors of the flowers on the table. It was late October and Washington was enjoying one of its golden fall seasons. The air was clear and crisp and the moon was full. She would always remember that.

After two Scotches, she felt braced enough to face the routine litany. Men simply could not rest without knowing why she had become a cop. Knowing what? At least it was something that made her interesting.

"I'm not good at explaining it," she confessed. She had avoided the nuances of street talk, taking care with her language; she was trying to impress him. People came over to shake his hand and he reacted in practiced political style. But there was no mistaking his interest in her, and she was loving it.

"Maybe nostalgia. Maybe some filial urge. My father's family were cops in the Big Apple. Maybe it was also a deliberate attack on the old concept of a woman's place. Maybe I've got an urge to be a heroine."

"Maybe it was opportunism," he said shrewdly. "You're a double minority."

"You noticed."

"There must be a lot of pressure."

Because he was a congressman, she resisted telling him about the poor morale, the promotions based solely on race, her gripes against the Eggplant. The D.C. government still depended on Congress for its money. The department, despite its flaws, carried a special brand of loyalty. The Eggplant would have loved her tact.

"I'm all for women going as far as they can," he said, a trifle unctuously. He appeared to her then as a beautiful, elegant man, secure in his manhood, filled with an obvious sense of male superiority. It might have been intellectually repelling, but his explosive sexuality could not be denied. Soon he was telling her about his first wife. She listened, trying not to betray her impatience. God, get the preliminaries over with, she thought.

"It was my wife who wanted out," he had said over the linguini. "There's a certain type of New Yorker who could never be transplanted. She could never hack it here. Went back to the Big Apple. Anyway, we had had it. No problems with the kids. It's not a good divorce. Not a bad divorce. We're strangers with memories."

"I never found the right guy," she had told him. The Chablis had loosened her tongue. Maybe it was the sense of power in him that goaded her. His aura; it had worked on her like an aphrodisiac. She had felt a disturbing kinship with poor dead Carol Harper.

"Maybe it's the distribution system," she sighed. "I'm not exactly in the perfect mating environment. I don't think I could go home every night to a cop. They're depressing. There's a kind of stink about them. Comes from human misery."

"Does it get to you?"

"You learn to insulate yourself. Maybe I can hack it better because I am a woman. Most of the bad guys are men."

"I never thought of it that way."

He seemed to have lost his smooth edge, and she worried that she had turned him off. He became introspective, less talky.

In the car, driving to his place for a nightcap, he had admitted some confusion.

"I was watching you. I saw a beautiful woman. I looked into your eyes and suddenly realized what horrors you see every day. Autopsies. Bruised bodies. Every conceivable aberration. Death everywhere. It scared me." Reaching out, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips.

"You saw that?"

"I want to love away the pain of it."

"I told you. I keep the pain at bay."

They had been silent until he opened the door of his townhouse and they stood facing each other in the vestibule. He had taken her in his arms. Deep inside she felt the great tidal wave surge.

"Just don't love away the joy," she had said. She had felt the wave crest, carrying her forward on its inexplicable power.

The memory of that first conflagration always thrilled her. Now she stretched out beside him, her body pressed against his, her fingers tapping along the length of his long lank body. He stirred. A hand reached behind him, caressing.

"Don't work late tomorrow. Let's see the fireworks at Remington's." She understood. He didn't want to be alone, without her, another night.

同类推荐
  • When the Lights Went out
  • 复活 (吸血鬼日志系列#9)

    复活 (吸血鬼日志系列#9)

    在《复活》(《吸血鬼日志》#9中),十六岁的斯嘉丽·潘恩发现自己发生了不可思议的变化。她变得对光敏感,可以读出他人的想法,并比任何时候都更迅速更强壮。她不明白自己发生了什么,并试着不去理会这些。但是她对这些的不加理会只能到此为止了。她的妈妈,凯特琳·潘恩,太了解自己的女儿发生了什么事情。多个世纪以前,她曾经遭遇过同样的转变为吸血鬼的过程。但是,如今,作为一个纯粹的人类,她已经完全不记得了。她所有可以了解的来自于那本她在阁楼上发现的日记本——她神秘的吸血鬼日记——讲述着她在另外的时代和地方里的经历,以及讲述着吸血鬼种族被抹去的事实。但是规则之外是否有特例?她的女儿,斯嘉丽,可不可能是地球上最后一个幸存的吸血鬼?当斯嘉丽竭力与自己正在发生的改变做斗争时,她也在极力与自己对布雷克——一个与她同级的她深深迷恋的人——的强烈情感做斗争。然而,她不肯定,他是不是也爱着她。而随着万圣节前夕大舞会的到来,紧张一触即发。她愿意为布雷克付出一切。但是,薇薇安——所有受欢迎的女孩中最可恶的一个,也喜欢布雷克,而且她会不择手段得到布雷克——这让斯嘉丽的生活犹如堕入地狱。幸运的是,斯嘉丽有自己的朋友圈子支持她,这包括她最好的朋友玛利亚和贾丝明。她们同样,面临着男朋友的问题,但是那是在赛奇出现之后的事——那是一个新来的神秘男孩,那个男孩让她的朋友们着迷。斯嘉丽发现自己也被他吸引了——而让她惊讶的是,在学校所有的女孩中,他唯一只关注她一个人。但是她的心意仍然在布雷克身上——至少目前仍是,并且她仍然希望他会邀请她一起跳舞。就在斯嘉丽觉得一切触手可及的时候,她的身体发生了变化。不久,她也许就不能再待在人类伙伴中间。不久,她就要在她活着的渴望和爱的渴望之间做出选择。《吸血鬼日志》#10《渴望》,现在也已有售!
  • The Inheritance of Loss

    The Inheritance of Loss

    In a crumbling, isolated house at the foot of Mount Kanchenjunga in the Himalayas lives an embittered judge who wants only to retire in peace, when his orphaned granddaughter, Sai, arrives on his doorstep. The judge's cook watches over her distractedly, for his thoughts are often on his son, Biju, who is hopscotching from one gritty New York restaurant to another. Kiran Desai's brilliant novel, published to huge acclaim, is a story of joy and despair. Her characters face numerous choices that majestically illuminate the consequences of colonialism as it collides with the modern world.
  • Door into the Dark

    Door into the Dark

    Originally published in 1969, Seamus Heaney's Door into the Dark continues a furrow so startlingly opened in his first collection, Death of a Naturalist (1966). With the sensuosness and physicality of language that would become the hallmark of his early writing, these poems graphically depict the author's rural upbringing, from the local forge to the banks of Lough Neagh, concluding in the preserving waters of the bogland and a look ahead to his next book, Wintering Out (1972).
  • Cause to Run (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 2)

    Cause to Run (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 2)

    "A dynamic story line that grips from the first chapter and doesn't let go."--Midwest Book Review, Diane Donovan (regarding Once Gone)From #1 bestselling mystery author Blake Pierce comes a new masterpiece of psychological suspense.In CAUSE TO RUN (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 2), a new serial killer is stalking Boston, killing his victims in bizarre ways, taunting the police with mysterious puzzles that reference the stars. As the stakes are upped and the pressure is on, the Boston Police Department is forced to call in its most brilliant—and most controversial—homicide detective: Avery Black.
热门推荐
  • 一吻成情:偷心小暖妻

    一吻成情:偷心小暖妻

    她,倾国倾城之颜,琴棋书画信手拈来,素来云淡风轻笑看人生,却唯独将心遗落了他身。他,英俊潇洒,孤傲冷绝,却唯独对她却是满腔柔情。如此才子佳人,本应携手笑傲人生,却奈何情路不顺,总是在误会中一次次地擦肩而过。他与她最终能否情归一处,固然重要,但更重要的是他们一起走过的青春。谨以此文,还原那段逝去的青春。——写给逝去的韶华。
  • 无量宙之密钥

    无量宙之密钥

    一位中国高能物理学家李光瀚在国外研究学习期间落入阴谋集团的陷阱。从而意外得知自己的神秘身份和即将发生的末日灾难。他通过强子对撞机收集储存巨大能量,在平行宇宙中的昆仑智者和中国女特工的帮助下,跨越欧亚大陆,纵横青藏高原,经历生死离别。若干年后,终于在更大的末日危机爆发前,再次挫败阴谋拯救世界。
  • 神医辣妻山里汉

    神医辣妻山里汉

    新文《秀才娘子忙种田》,1V1甜宠高甜种田文已发,求支持昂~一朝穿越成了农家软弱可欺的赔钱货,身边还跟着软包子亲娘和病秧子哥哥,自己还被亲奶奶算计着给老头子当通房。苏秦觉得压力山大,撸起袖管儿,“自毁容貌”果断分家,赚大钱,养家家,虐渣渣,一手极品医术,小日子也过的风生水起。可是总有一个傻子猎户说要对自己负责,处处无怨无悔的帮着自己,岂料山里汉子不但心思不单纯,身份也不单纯,帮着帮着就以将军的名义帮进洞房了。某男超狗腿:“娘子,将军什么的,我都不在乎,我只想跟着你在乡下种包子!”
  • 豪门蜜爱:狄少宠妻成瘾

    豪门蜜爱:狄少宠妻成瘾

    一场阴谋之后,白倾城失去清白。一觉醒来,得知妹妹和男友双重背叛,而这一切,竟是父母一手操纵。为了报复,她嫁给世人眼里杀伐果决的狄晋阳。没想婚后,狄先生开启宠妻模式,吊打渣男渣女,逼的渣爹找不到北,手把手教会慕倾城对欺负她的人千倍百倍的还回去。有人看不惯慕倾城的专横,狄晋阳不屑:“我惯的,你有意见?”
  • 茗谭

    茗谭

    本书为公版书,为不受著作权法限制的作家、艺术家及其它人士发布的作品,供广大读者阅读交流。汇聚授权电子版权。
  • 战国野心家

    战国野心家

    穿越到战国初年,身份卑微到连姓都没有,却敢有野心。为了支撑野心,拜墨子为师,混入墨家隐忍数年以篡巨子之位。墨子述而不作,他编纂墨经将墨经改的面目全非。诸侯争霸、大争之世,他却偏偏相信宁有种乎。总之,这是个野心家的故事。
  • 欢喜腾

    欢喜腾

    果欢欢给一航说起她和母亲的事儿,正说到一半的时候,不知怎么就瞥见了一航鬓角窜出来的白发,好像黏在脸上的白糖。果欢欢于是分了神,不经意地伸出手去,像是要拂去这些烦人的白色糖点。手刚伸出了一半,就吓着了一航。一航倒是很灵活的一躲,躲开了果欢欢的手。一航再问:“然后呢?”果欢欢此时正说到青春期与母亲的抗争,那些与生理周期和身体相关的名词,之前一直从她嘴里坦荡利落地甚至有些欢快地鱼跃而出,她并不觉得有任何言语上的困难。但这突如其来的停顿,倒是被一航理解为她正在费力寻找一些更隐晦和委婉的措辞。
  • 挑战无极限

    挑战无极限

    影响百万学生的英语学习和感恩教育读本,著名英语教育专家.爱国演说家张雄老师倾情力作!“永不放弃挑战极限您就是下一个奇迹”
  • 穿越之山野田间尽悠然

    穿越之山野田间尽悠然

    原来穿越是这样的,真的会有这样穷的日子,真的会有极品的亲戚,真的会有爱我的亲人,真的会有穿越女的福利……家里穷困又怎样?不会种田又怎样?只要有爱着我的父母,我就要利用我的福利,空手在这世间打下我的天下,让爱我的人丰衣足食,再不受饥寒交迫,再不让别人欺辱~!我只想要过上富足安定的生活呀,我只想和亲人相亲相爱不离不弃,这个暧昧的眼神是要闹哪样,我还小呢,哥!情节虚构,请勿模仿
  • 谁拨动了你的心弦:高中生心理困惑答疑

    谁拨动了你的心弦:高中生心理困惑答疑

    养花要养根,育人要育心,如果教师不能帮助学生解决好心理问题,那么学校就不可能办成让人民满意的教育。心理问题是德育教育必须解决好的根本问题,只有解决好学生的心理问题,才可能把学生培养成有善德的人,才可能使学校真正落实德育为先的办学目标。