turned as they spotted Dorothy, easily the most attractive woman in the
room. They moved to one of the many bars. He ordered her a Scotch and water.
"But I want a beer," she protested.
"You don't drink beer here."
"You don't?"
Standing in a corner, sipping their drinks, he surveyed the
crowd. He'd made a list of potential targets, about twenty-five newsworthy gentlemen
of varying degrees of importance. Not far from them, he spotted Senator Charles
Hurley, a tall well-nourished jovial fellow, recently elected majority leader
of the Senate.
"Him," Jason told her. "The big fellow with
the pink face."
Watching her, he waited until she registered recognition.
"He's cute," she said.
They moved over to where a knot of people surrounded the
senator, who was telling a story. As he finished, they all laughed politely. He
prodded Dorothy to move forward.
He saw the senator's peacock response, a stiffening of
shoulders, a sucking in of gut, a little flush on his cheeks that hadn't been
there before.
The tight circle around him dwindled, and Dorothy was left
alone with him for a moment.
A tall woman beside him stirred, poised for protection. She
was obviously the senator's wife or companion.
"I'm Jason Martin," he said pleasantly,
deflecting her. " Washington Post ." He knew such an
identification had an intimidating effect.
"I'm Ann Chase, the senator's AA." She seemed
uncomfortable. "Mrs. Hurley is out of town. Got to be on call for these
things." Her air of defensiveness was embarrassingly transparent.
"Know what you mean," he said, noting
peripherally that Dorothy had engaged the senator. She was smiling, listening,
occasionally nodding as the senator postured. It was a special talent, he knew.
She was a natural magnet, and, best of all, she wasn't acting. Everybody's
dream girl.
He soon noted that the senator's AA was more interested in
the senator's conversation than in her own with Jason, and she managed to shoot
him a stony glance when he momentarily looked away. The senator's eyes became
furtive and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. As she had been instructed,
Dorothy palmed him the card which he put into his jacket pocket.
"He was very funny," Dorothy said when they had
moved away.
"You were wonderful," Jason said, embracing her
shoulder.
"This is fun, Jason."
He spotted other possibilities, pointing them out.
"Sprinkle your rosebuds," he said. He was elated.
She had met the challenge. As they moved about, the possibilities seemed
endless. It was like a hunting expedition.
At one point he lost her in the crowd. It was an odd
sensation that inexplicably frightened him. Suddenly she seemed beyond his
control, on her own. The idea twisted his stomach into knots. He stood at the
bar and ordered a double Scotch, suddenly feeling out of place and
uncomfortable. He was confronted, too, with a sense of inadequacy in himself he
did not wish to face. Was he using her to compensate for all his lifetime
failures and frustrations? He had never been able to mix, to make human contact
without anguish, a quality that he felt doomed him forever to loneliness and
disconnection. Perhaps he could only satisfy his craving for human contact by manipulating
others. As his gaze drifted through the crowd, he imagined he saw kindred
souls, standing aloof, acting out the charade of participation, desperately
wanting to be somewhere else where the confrontation with themselves would be
less painful. Where was she? he fumed. He had not given her permission to
desert him. Not yet. Not now.
Fifteen minutes passed before he spotted her gliding toward
him, head high, wearing a smile like sunshine.
"You scared me, baby. I thought I'd lost you."
"Lost me? I was doing what you told me to."
"I didn't tell you to get carried away," he said,
his irritation and frustration suddenly surfacing.
"What's wrong?" she pleaded, the smile fading.
"We have to be selective. You can't just flirt with
anybody." He moved to the bar where he ordered
room. They moved to one of the many bars. He ordered her a Scotch and water.
"But I want a beer," she protested.
"You don't drink beer here."
"You don't?"
Standing in a corner, sipping their drinks, he surveyed the
crowd. He'd made a list of potential targets, about twenty-five newsworthy gentlemen
of varying degrees of importance. Not far from them, he spotted Senator Charles
Hurley, a tall well-nourished jovial fellow, recently elected majority leader
of the Senate.
"Him," Jason told her. "The big fellow with
the pink face."
Watching her, he waited until she registered recognition.
"He's cute," she said.
They moved over to where a knot of people surrounded the
senator, who was telling a story. As he finished, they all laughed politely. He
prodded Dorothy to move forward.
He saw the senator's peacock response, a stiffening of
shoulders, a sucking in of gut, a little flush on his cheeks that hadn't been
there before.
The tight circle around him dwindled, and Dorothy was left
alone with him for a moment.
A tall woman beside him stirred, poised for protection. She
was obviously the senator's wife or companion.
"I'm Jason Martin," he said pleasantly,
deflecting her. " Washington Post ." He knew such an
identification had an intimidating effect.
"I'm Ann Chase, the senator's AA." She seemed
uncomfortable. "Mrs. Hurley is out of town. Got to be on call for these
things." Her air of defensiveness was embarrassingly transparent.
"Know what you mean," he said, noting
peripherally that Dorothy had engaged the senator. She was smiling, listening,
occasionally nodding as the senator postured. It was a special talent, he knew.
She was a natural magnet, and, best of all, she wasn't acting. Everybody's
dream girl.
He soon noted that the senator's AA was more interested in
the senator's conversation than in her own with Jason, and she managed to shoot
him a stony glance when he momentarily looked away. The senator's eyes became
furtive and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. As she had been instructed,
Dorothy palmed him the card which he put into his jacket pocket.
"He was very funny," Dorothy said when they had
moved away.
"You were wonderful," Jason said, embracing her
shoulder.
"This is fun, Jason."
He spotted other possibilities, pointing them out.
"Sprinkle your rosebuds," he said. He was elated.
She had met the challenge. As they moved about, the possibilities seemed
endless. It was like a hunting expedition.
At one point he lost her in the crowd. It was an odd
sensation that inexplicably frightened him. Suddenly she seemed beyond his
control, on her own. The idea twisted his stomach into knots. He stood at the
bar and ordered a double Scotch, suddenly feeling out of place and
uncomfortable. He was confronted, too, with a sense of inadequacy in himself he
did not wish to face. Was he using her to compensate for all his lifetime
failures and frustrations? He had never been able to mix, to make human contact
without anguish, a quality that he felt doomed him forever to loneliness and
disconnection. Perhaps he could only satisfy his craving for human contact by manipulating
others. As his gaze drifted through the crowd, he imagined he saw kindred
souls, standing aloof, acting out the charade of participation, desperately
wanting to be somewhere else where the confrontation with themselves would be
less painful. Where was she? he fumed. He had not given her permission to
desert him. Not yet. Not now.
Fifteen minutes passed before he spotted her gliding toward
him, head high, wearing a smile like sunshine.
"You scared me, baby. I thought I'd lost you."
"Lost me? I was doing what you told me to."
"I didn't tell you to get carried away," he said,
his irritation and frustration suddenly surfacing.
"What's wrong?" she pleaded, the smile fading.
"We have to be selective. You can't just flirt with
anybody." He moved to the bar where he ordered
Similar Books
