Primary Storm Page 2

  She smiled. "Quite good. Which will no doubt serve me well when I get my law degree, also known as a license to make money."

  "Just what the world needs. A good-looking redhead lawyer who likes money."

  "And likes magazine writers as well."

  I smiled back. "Lucky me."

  "Damn straight," she said, and we ate for a while longer, and she said, "So, what's new with you?"

  "Well," I said. “When I came back from the post office today, like you, there was a man waiting for me at the house. But he wasn't here to make dinner."

  "Really? A campaign volunteer?"

  "Not really," I said. "A Secret Service agent. From their Boston office. Seems he's in the area, doing prep work for tomorrow's rally for Senator Hale."

  "What kind of prep work?"

  If I do say so, the fettuccine and lobster dish was delicious, and I hurried in another bite before replying. "The Secret Service maintains a list of what they call 'persons of interest' that they interview before a campaign appearance by a presidential candidate. Guys who write threatening letters to the UN. Guys who're known to be stalkers. Guys with interesting criminal records."

  "You've got any of those things in your background?"

  "Nope."

  She pursed her fine lips. "Then you must be interesting indeed. Did he take you down to headquarters? Pull out the rubber hoses? The folded-over phone books?"

  "None of the above, counselor. We had a nice little chat in the living room, he determined that I'm not watching for black helicopters to come kidnap me, and then he left. End of visit."

  Another forkful of dinner went into her mouth. "So why the interest in you?"

  "Because of my years at the Department of Defense, I imagine."

  She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I think it's because of what happened to you at the DoD, and the circumstances of your departure. That's why."

  I didn't reply. She was skating into an area I really didn't want to visit, and I think she sensed it, for she smiled and said, "I guess they were looking for a disgruntled nut and came up empty."

  I returned the smile. "I may be a nut, but I'm not disgruntled. If anything, I'm very gruntled."

  That made her laugh and she tossed her napkin at me, and in a matter of minutes, dinner was complete.

  In the living room I started a fire in the fireplace, and Annie took the couch and watched one of the early evening cable network shows, as I did cleanup in the kitchen. Before I started I gave her a kiss and she said, "Lacey, one of the communications people back in Manchester, she said if she had a man waiting to make her dinner and clean up afterward, she'd jump him on the kitchen table when he was done."

  "Sounds like marvelous campaign advice."

  She touched my cheek and said, "Kitchen tables can be so uncomfortable."

  I nodded in agreement. "Sure. Crumbs. Butter dishes. Odd pieces of silverware."

  "But your bed is nice and wide and warm."

  "Sure is."

  "Hurry up in the kitchen then, sport."

  I walked back. "Free advice from a lawyer-to-be. Better not let the Massachusetts Bar Association hear about that."

  I thought she'd say something sharp in reply, but by then, she was curled up on the couch, remote control in her red-painted fingernails. I kept an occasional eye on her as I scrubbed out the pots and washed the dishes and silverware and glassware. There were no leftovers --- thankfully, for usually leftovers in my refrigerator transmute themselves into science experiments within a week or so --- but there was entertainment as I worked. Annie takes her work and her politics quite seriously, and from the kitchen I heard her shout back at the television, "Moron!

  "Idiot!

  "No, you're behind in the polls because your candidate can only debate the issues when a script is written for him!"

  I kept on cleaning and then wiped down the kitchen countertop, and when things were dried and put away and the lobster shells were put into the trash, I went out into the living room.

  The television was still on, another cable news show was broadcasting a couple of campaign operatives screaming at each other, the fire had died down, and Annie Wynn, my Annie Wynn, was lightly snoring on the couch, the remote still in her fingers.

  I gingerly pried the remote from her hand, set the television timer to shut down in fifteen minutes so the sudden quiet wouldn't wake her, and I gently picked her up. She started murmuring and through a quiet yet forceful touch, I got her off the couch and upstairs in my bed in just a manner of minutes, holding on to her tight as we maneuvered up the stairway. There were two highlights of bringing her into my bedroom: undressing her and seeing what manner of undergarments she had chosen that day, and the sweet wine-tasted kiss I got from her as I slid her under the sheets, and the way she murmured, "Thank you so much for taking care of me."

  I pulled the sheet and blankets up. Taking care of someone.

  It had been a very long time since I had taken care of anyone, and though I was seriously out of practice, I found that to my surprise, I was liking it.

  I checked the clock. It was not even 9:00 P.M. I wasn't tired but I didn't want to go downstairs and watch television by myself, so I got undressed and slipped inside the cool bedding, and switched on a reading lamp. By now I was learning about Annie and her habits and foibles, and one thing I knew was that once she had fallen asleep, it would take something on the order of a tidal wave to wake her up.

  So I read for a long while, a biography of Winston Churchill, and I enjoyed the sensation of being warm and safe and having a woman slumbering in bed with me. I read until the book seemed to gain weight in my hands and fall on my chest, and soon enough, the reading lamp was out and I was asleep. The touch woke me up, and I was startled for just a moment, wondering where I was, wondering where my weapons were. Then I felt the touch again, the light scraping of fingernails against my back. I kept still and silent, just liking the touch of her hand upon me, and then her lips were at my ear, whispering, "Are you awake?"

  "I am now."

  The scratches were wider on my back. She kissed and licked and nibbled at my ear, and then her hand moved about, so it was now scratching at my chest. She snuggled up against me, her warm skin upon my back and rear and legs, and she said, her voice still quiet, "I meant to tell you something earlier, but I forgot."

  "You did, did you. What is it?"

  Another kiss, a flick of her tongue against my ear. "You're a secretive man, Lewis, but I have secrets of my own."

  "Keep on talking."

  She giggled. "I'm part of a confidential organization, providing technical support to the Secret Service. And I've been tasked to subject you to a severe interrogation."

  I rolled over and she was in my arms, and I kissed her and she kissed me back, and I looked up at her in the faint moonlight, and said, "I surrender."

  She moved about, so that she was gently straddling me, and the bed suddenly got warmer. She bent down, her red hair tickling my nose. "Have you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist party?"

  "No."

  She started moving on top of me. I held her tight, with my hands against her side, her flesh smooth and warm. "Have you now, or have you ever been, a member of a group advocating the violent overthrow of the government of the United States?"

  "No... ma'am."

  I kissed her and she lightly moaned, and said, "Have you now, or have you ever been, a male with extensive lovemaking fantasies?"

  "Guilty as charged," I managed to say.

  "Good," she said, holding on to me with her strong hands.

  "Interrogation over."

  "Best news I've heard all night."

  "Oh, stop talking already," she said. "

  You started it."

  And she didn't say anything for a while after that, and neither did I.

  Chapter Two

  Sometime in the morning the shower was running, and I suppose a male who subscribed to Playboy magazine and worked out and wa
s in top shape and form would have leapt out of bed to jump in the shower and wash Annie's back and see what else happened. However, since I'm one of those few who do buy Playboy occasionally for the articles and its fine fiction, I confess that I looked at the time and rolled over and went back to sleep. She's a dear but she can thrive and flourish on four or five hours of sleep, which I still didn't understand. I suppose I could give it a try, but I doubted I would live that long.

  So when I eventually woke up, got dressed, and went down-stairs, she was finishing an English muffin and a glass ·of orange juice and she had gotten changed into the contents of her overnight bag, which was now slung over her shoulder. For some reason my stomach felt queasy and the sight of the food and drink made me just a bit nauseous. Probably the after affects of not enough sack time and a too-rich dinner.

  Annie said, "I would have made you breakfast, except you were still snoring and sleeping."

  "Only half true, counselor. I was sleeping. I wasn't snoring."

  "Says you. Give me a kiss good-bye."

  "Sure," I said. "But not here. Up at the parking lot."

  "Oh, you romantic, you."

  I took the overnight bag from her shoulder and grabbed a coat from the downstairs closet. We both went outside into the early January morning. It was overcast. It seemed like every day this past week had been overcast.

  Annie said, "Brrr. Damn cold. Sick of it, I really do get sick of it."

  "Part of the grand plan," I said.

  "What's that?"

  "To make us appreciate summer more," I said.

  "Bah," she said. "Sounds like crap our Puritan ancestors made up to justify the lousy weather, and for settling their poor butts in this part of the world. Come along, sport, let's go."

  She slipped her arm into mine as we maneuvered our way up my frozen driveway. To our left were a mess of boulders and rocks that marked this part of the eighteen-mile New Hampshire coastline, and to our right was a sharp rise of land and more rocks, hiding Route l-A --- also known as Atlantic Avenue ---- from my house, and vice versa. Before us was the Lafayette House's parking lot and Annie's BMW ---leased from a Boston law firm that she did work for as a paralegal ---- and I said, "Still can't believe the firm lets you drive that Beemer, seeing how you took a leave of absence and all."

  She squeezed her arm against mine. "They see it as an investment, Lewis. All those potentially juicy contacts I can make during the campaign might payoff down the road. You know what the three biggest pastimes in Boston are, don't you?"

  "Sports, politics, and revenge."

  A quick laugh. "You've learned well."

  At her BMW she turned and I gave her a quick kiss, and she said, "See you at the rally today?"

  "I don't see why not. What time is it again?"

  "Two p.m. At the Tyler Conference Center."

  I had my hands on her hips. "Will I see you?"

  "Probably from a distance, Lewis. But I'd like to know you were there."

  "Then I will be."

  She touched my cheek. "Two o'clock. Don't be late."

  "I won't. Maybe I'll see my Secret Service agent friend."

  "Maybe you will. Maybe he'll show you his gun and everything."

  "Sounds like something you'd like."

  That got a big smile and she got into her BMW, started it right up, and then left the parking lot, and I got a toot-toot from the horn as she turned onto Atlantic Avenue, and that's how this day started, a day before I was to be arrested for attempted murder. About halfway down the driveway, there came another blare of a horn, and I turned, half hoping and half expecting to see that Annie had come back, perhaps having forgotten something, perhaps deciding that crawling back into bed with me and seeing what Turner Classic Movies had to offer for the day on television sounded more appealing than a campaign rally, but no, I wasn't that lucky.

  A blue Mercedes-Benz convertible had stopped at the parking lot, and a man came out, clad in a long gray winter coat, gray slacks, and wearing black leather gloves. He waved and I waved back. I stopped, putting my hands in my coat pocket, as the man quickly made his way down my driveway. Any other guy wearing those kind of dress winter shoes would have taken his time walking down the slippery driveway, but Felix Tinios isn't what one would call any other kind of guy. He came down to me, nimble as a mountain goat, and gently slapped me on the shoulder as he came up to me.

  "Lewis, good to see you," he said.

  "And the same. Did you give anybody a wave back there?"

  That confused him. "From the parking lot? Why?"

  "Dumb joke, that's all. The Lafayette House has seen a number of its guests lose radios and other stuff from parked cars over the past several weeks. Rumor has it they now have the lot under surveillance. "

  "Then I would have dropped trou, if I knew that."

  "A lovely sight to some, I'm sure. What brings you by?"

  Felix said, "Was heading down to Boston and gave you a call. No answer on your end, so I thought I'd swing by and see what's up."

  "I was seeing somebody off. Didn't hear the phone."

  Felix grinned, cocked his head. "The lovely and talented Annie Wynn?"

  "The same."

  "Good for you. C'mon, it's too cold out here. I need a quick chat."

  "What for?"

  "Need your advice, that's what."

  I looked at the smooth-shaven face, the thick mat of black hair, the cocky confidence in his brown and happy eyes. Felix was originally from the North End of Boston, and told people he didn't know that well that his occupation was security consultant, but I knew him well and I knew him better. I folded my arms and I said, "You feel that?"

  "Feel what?"

  "Felt like the Earth was spinning off its axis. Because I thought I heard you say you needed my advice."

  Felix grabbed my upper arm with a firm grasp and said, "Come on. Maybe this will be a day full of surprises."

  In my house I made us both a cup of tea, and though I should have been hungry, I wasn't. We sat at the kitchen counter and Felix had his coat off, revealing a black turtleneck sweater and the usual bulk of his shoulders. He clasped the hot mug with both of his hands and I said, "Advice. What in hell kind of advice can I give you? Spelling? Grammar? How to get an agent?"

  He looked hurt by my comments. "I'll have you know that when I was in seventh grade, at St. Mary's Academy, I won a rosary for a spelling bee."

  "A rosary? Do you still have it?"

  “Of course."

  "And do you say your rosary?"

  He lifted up the mug, smiled. "Every goddamn night. Look, here's the deal. I've got a job lined up for the next couple of weeks, and I want to make sure that it won't cause any difficulties with you and yours."

  "What kind of job?"

  He took a slurp. "Working for one of the presidential candidates."

  "Which one?"

  "Senator Nash Pomeroy. From our fair sister state to the south."

  I took a sip from my own tea, grimaced. The nausea down there was perking right along. Two thoughts: I hoped I didn't have food poisoning, because it sure as hell would mean Annie would have the same problem. And I sure as hell hoped it wouldn't keep me from this afternoon's rally.

  "I knew the senator was in trouble when he lost the Iowa caucuses, but now his campaign must be really collapsing."

  "Why's that?"

  I resisted an urge to burst out laughing, because Felix had such a serious look on his face. "My God, Felix, your background... I mean, no offense, but how many times have you been arrested?"

  "No offense taken, and trust me, I don't particularly care about the number of arrests. It's the number of convictions that matter. And that number is quite, quite low. Just so you know."

  "Maybe in your world arrests don't matter, Felix, but this is politics. Any hint of scandal with the campaign and... well, hell, it can't matter to them, because you've said you've been hired."

  "That I have."

  "Doing what? Security? Drivin
g around the candidate?"

  "Nope." Another sip of tea. "Oppo man."

  "What?"

  "Oppo. Opposition research. You've heard of that, I'm sure."

  "Sure. Digging up dirt on the other guys. Sounds beneath you, Felix."

  "Maybe so, but it's good money ... and can I tell you a secret?"

  "Sure."

  He made a point of looking around, and again, I was going to laugh, but that look on his face... It was a different look, a hesitant one. "Here's my secret. Tell anybody and... well, I know you. You won't tell anyone. Thing is, Lewis, I don't know why, but this winter is slowing me down. Get up in the morning, the usual aches and pains I got, they don't disappear like they used to. Working out... the thought of starting up a cold car and driving out to the gym in the morning, when it's so goddamn dark... I don't know, maybe I'm getting old. More often than not, I stay home instead."

  I tried to keep my voice innocent. "Getting old is the secret I should be keeping?"

  "No," he said, his eyes flashing at me. "Slowing down is the secret you should be keeping. And a lawyer acquaintance of mine, we were talking a couple of weeks ago, said that the Pomeroy campaign needed some help. Wondered if I could do it, and he mentioned the money, and it's good money for work that mostly involves talking. This winter, talking I can handle. The other stuff... well, there's always spring."

  "Yeah, you can count on that. So. What's the advice you're seeking?"

  He put the mug down on the counter. "Okay. Maybe it isn't advice. Maybe it's just reassurance. I like Annie. I like you and Annie together. It's a good thing, something good you've needed for a while. But I don't want her pissed at me --- and through me, you --- because she's working for the Hale campaign and I'm working for the Pomeroy campaign."

  I nodded. "A sweet attitude, but I don't think it'll make a difference... except, well, there's two other candidates besides Hale and Pomeroy. Congressman Wallace and General Grayson. Who will you be doing the opposition research on? If it's Wallace or Grayson, I doubt she'd care. If it's Hale, she might be pissed no matter what I say."

  That made Felix smile again. "I'm doing oppo research on Senator Pomeroy."