Them Hustlers Read online

  Phil was like an unexpected child - there had been no intention of getting married. Then Tommy and the boys - all of them-- had explained that a boyfriend would be good. A husband better. Their wives were jealously suspicious, and there had been whisperings from a couple of the wives of campaign supporters, the old farts. A steady boyfriend, or a fiancé, or a husband would be good for business. And maybe good for her. A good lover waiting after a long day, along with the beautiful Shih Tzu girls was not so bad a future.

  Four hours after Tommy had first raised her need for a serious long-term relationship Tanya had finished up a meeting in Annapolis with clients returning from the eastern shore and stayed, alone at the table, for one more Cosmopolitan. Annapolis was where she came to relax and do a little shopping. That’s when she had seen Phil sitting alone at the bar. With his silver mane of hair, his close set eyes, his jaw, it all reminded her of Richard Gere ten years later. Local material, not a political player, but the guy had this sexual air.

  Watching him watching her, Tanya could read his thoughts, which was good. The guy wanted a pick up tonight. Well, she wanted one as well. Lately all she had gotten was the hurried drunk fumbling from a married politician missing his mistress. No, this guy pound for pound looked good. And he had a salesman-like confidence, walking over to her table with no pretense, just a huge boyish smile on his face. Spurred on by Tommy’s admonitions on finding a man, she had taken Phil home and home again and three months ago onto a four day Caribbean voyage. The time together had been better than she would have predicted. The guy made love like an unsatisfied teenager, hard and fast. She needed a man like that. There was the problem that romance was not the strong suit as Phil was broke. That was definitely not how she had imagined her marriage, but it did give her control, which was just about as desirable as romance.

  When they returned from the cruise she allowed him to move into her place, seeing how he had been living in a student boarding house in Annapolis. “I didn’t even have time to put ‘finding a husband’ onto my to-do list she told the boys over a bourbon get-together. Everyone had roared with laughter. Good in bed, uninterested in politics, honest; Phil was husband material.

  Maybe this weekend she would lock Elizabeth and Victoria out of the bedroom and give Phil a surprise. Tanya smiled and this time it wasn’t a laugh that escaped from her lips, it was a moan.

  * * *

  *

  “Honey. Honey.” A light touch flickered across her arm. “Honey, y'all right?”

  She opened her eyes to take in all six feet of Tom Tucker. How did men know whenever a woman was thinking about sex? Had she revealed anything? She worried. But the concerned look on the congressman’s face suggested he thought she was in pain.

  “Congressman, how nice to see you.”

  Tucker straightened up and in a louder voice asked about the wedding plans. Tanya had a close-up view of the man and his clothes. Lately, everything about Tucker had started to wrinkle. He had lost weight, no one was sure why. His clothes now hung over his body, the slacks matched wrinkle-for-wrinkle by the lines on his face. The mistress didn’t concern herself with making sure Tommy looked as smart as when she had snagged her catch. And his wife was too tired to care. There had been some whispering by the opposing campaign that Tucker was seriously ill - but no one in the media or even among the campaign staff had really taken notice. Tucker was up comfortably in all the polls and nothing should impact the campaign’s final months.

  Tanya Lyn cared. She worried how Tucker’s dark face had become deeply etched with lines leading out in all direction from years of smoking, of drinking, of laughing and spending far too much time in the unforgiving Louisiana sun.

  “Don’t worry congressman; invitations will be in the mail any day, especially for you and Mrs. Tucker.” Phil damn well better be ready to help stuff and stamp the three hundred invitations.

  The congressman leaned back down, but his eyes stayed solid on the young reporter for the Hill newspaper standing a few feet away. “We need a Pow-Wow,” he exclaimed evenly. “Newt is getting pretty wobbly.”

  His voice went even lower. “Secret meetings and all sorts of rumors floating about. I figure it’s time for Gigi.”

  Tanya took in a quick breath. Pressure was building, she kept hearing, on Congressman Newt Gingrich to step down as the Republican majority leader of the House. Newt now carried the aura of vulnerability. Politicians were no different than packs of wild dogs, and fellow Republicans sensed their leader had lost his timing. Returning from Israel Gingrich had complained to reporters - to reporters--about sitting in the back of Air Force One. A mistake made either by a green rookie or a hurt veteran. And Gingrich was no rookie. Worse was the ongoing campaign to attack Bill Clinton for having an affair with that White House intern. It seemed the public had enough for the whole sordid affair, and Gingrich found himself hanging out on a political limb.

  Tanya had no feelings of sympathy. No more no less than when the boys took her duck hunting on the marshy land in the Chesapeake, out past Annapolis near the small town of Easton. It had been a gorgeous morning and she felt resplendent in the brand-new boots, overalls and down jacket purchased from L.L. Bean. Her boys had looked so strong, Tommy with a rifle casually draped over his left arm. Rodney bouncing along the marsh inlet with a hunting dog’s enthusiasm. His sagging stomach far less noticeable under the windbreaker and his thinned hair hidden by a Tulane University baseball cap. She had stood apart, watching as the first beautiful blue-green duck had fallen, wings flapping until the body crashed to the earth. There was no remorse, none whatsoever. The stark gray landscape, her new clothes, the sharp boom of the rifles, the death of the bird, all had made her powerfully horny.

  That whole day she felt turned-on. Her men had won. She felt young and vibrant and part of a victorious team of warriors in an old-fashioned brutal conquest.

  Her feelings were much the same for the battle over the Speaker of the House.

  Gingrich was caught up in the frenzy to bring down President Clinton for lying about having sex with that Jewish girl. The most fervent of those in the Republican pack had been driven crazy over the scent of a wounded president. Independent prosecutors, leaked tapes, friends spying on friends. The whole town was wrapped up in the mess, all snapping at one another to figure out how to gain or how not to lose. Blood in the Washington waters. No one gave a damn about the president's immorality. Most the politicians in the game had their own affairs and their own mistresses. All that was important was another battle was underway and soon another high politician would fall to earth. The question was which one and how to gain from this turmoil?

  If the Republicans didn’t do well in the upcoming mid-term elections this November Gingrich could be the fall guy. If Clinton was publicly humiliated - and Gingrich survived, the Speaker could probably propel himself into the White House on a wave of righteous morality.

  The stakes could not be higher.

  But there was a twist in all the maneuverings. If Gingrich was forced out as Speaker over poor showings in the mid-term elections, one of their Louisiana own, Bob Livingston, the respected Republican from the Jefferson parish might just rise up as the Majority leader. For Tanya, for her congressmen of both parties, for her oil and gas and health insurance and shipping clients, it would mean the ability to bring home pet projects, and influence legislation with an ease only friends of a House Majority leader could dream. How to assure Livingston’s ascension was the reason for a Gigi Pow-Wow. This was not about being Democratic or Republican but how to do what's right for the boys. It had taken on more importance in Tucker’s schedule than his final campaign appearances. Livingston was rising up and the whole team was being mobilized for this once in a lifetime opportunity.

  Bringing in Gigi was the final and most deadly weapon. A scorched earth policy for this must-win situation. No, she had no sentimental feelings for Newt Gingrich and his failing White House dreams. Tanya wanted this one badly.

  Tanya thre
w Tucker a sharp military salute. “Tanya Lyn Owens ready to report for duty.”

  Tucker laughed. “Stand up when you salute, private.”

  Tanya stood up, leaving a paper-thin gap between their bodies. She knew she looked damn good today, with a tight white business shirt with two buttons open tucked into her cherished side-zippered dark blue wool Prada skirt, and her solid no-nonsense Dolce & Gabbana shoes, with blissfully low-heels.

  “Tanya Lyn Owens reporting for duty,” she repeated in a low voice slightly more husky. Tanya noted with satisfaction that Tucker’s face had taken on a faraway look of pleasure.

  “Imagine,” he whispered softly, “if Livingston grabs the brass ring. Could the White House be next?”

  Hell. Hell. Hell. She should kill him right on the spot.

  Tanya moved away. “I’m late, congressman,” she tossed over her right shoulder. “Best to the Mrs.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter 4

  The hottest ticket in Washington in August of 1998 was the surprise Mardi Gras bash for Congressman Tommy Tucker’s 65th birthday. The big to-do included five French Quarter chiefs and a dozen Bourbon Street jazz, blues and Creole bands flown from New Orleans for the pleasure of the congressman, his wife, and hundreds of obliging K Street lawyers, consultants, lobbyists, fellow politicians and Louisiana beauty pageant winners, all of whom were jammed tightly together eating and watching carefully one another.

  The spare-no-expense-budget assured the chefs piled high the jambalaya, the crayfish, the huge bowls of red beans and rice and heaps of raw oysters dished out by the shucking crew from the New Orleans Acme House. Strategically yet generously placed along the back wall were stacks of shrimp, oyster and sausage po'boy sandwiches, as well as freshly made powdered sugar beignets. The mingling of the food with the music and the booze and the hundreds of sweaty bodies in the packed house gave a down-home feel to the Grand Ballroom of the Washington Hilton. “An intimate celebration” was the promise on the invitation, which was also stamped with an imposing “not transferable under any situation.”

  The beauty pageant winners lent a wicked innocence to the otherwise business attired attendees. Freshly scrubbed in pastel dresses and white patent leather shoes, the women were between the ages of 18 and 21, having been selected the finest at State Fairs and talent shows and bathing suit competitions. Each was propelled by their own or parents’ ambitions, using their God-given looks supplemented with a few thousand dollars’ worth of cosmetic surgery to escape from their small towns. Imagine seventy-five ambitious girls packed into a huge ballroom with four hundred Washington insiders all drinking Hurricanes and bourbon except of course the girls didn’t drink, being as they were watched over by a dozen handlers from a Louisiana church. No drinking here, but no worries. These girls sought and obtained a different sought of intoxication from the evening.

  In Washington, the hunt for power takes on many forms, and the gathering this night was no exception.

  * * *

  Greene found himself separated from Tanya, who had "a bit of business to finish off, hon." What sort of business could be done in this packed ballroom?

  After downing a beer he had helped himself to a dozen oysters and was now on a long snaking line for crayfish. This crowd loved to eat - as long as the plate had ample piles of hot sauce, the food was good enough.

  “Are you ri-ych?”

  “Sorry?” Greene was startled by the question from the young girl standing ahead of him.

  “Sorry? What kind of answer is that? Sorry for what?” And here the young girl giggled.

  Phil felt embarrassed. As sometimes happened to him in tense social situations, he had trouble speaking, needing to gulp down a breath or two. He finally forced out a weak “I didn’t understand you.”

  “Tell-me-are-you-ri-ych?” The woman enunciated each word which also gave her the chance to show off her newly bleached perfectly white teeth. Daddy had warned her on the drive to the airport this very morning how northerners could be pea-brained so she was ready to repeat the question slowly for the good looking stranger, who looked like one of her favorite Hollywood stars, that Richard Gere.

  Still not understanding the heavily dripping accent, Phil took in the woman in front of him. The girl’s shoulder and chest was draped by a green sash that proclaimed her “Miss 1998 Northwestern Louisiana Agriculture.” With her streaked blonde hair, a bright red dress sharply cut to show off her ample cleavage, too much makeup and squinty eyes, she was cute, in a farm-like sort of way. A roll in the hay sort of way.

  “She’s wonderin' if you might just be loaded, ya know, rich,” said an appealing New Orleans voice from behind. Phil turned to see a woman, in her early 30s, pulled together nicely in a tan suit which complimented her dark Creole complexion. At the front door volunteers had been handing out Mardi Gras paraphernalia and many of the women present, including Tanya, elected to appear all the more mysterious in feathered Mardi Gras face masks. This woman had on a mask adorned with purple and green feathers. Garish, New Orleans style. Her dark rouge lips could be seen through the mask and they were inviting. “We say it down home with two syllables, rich becomes ri-ych. Red becomes re-yad.”

  Phil was aghast and this time at no loss for words. He confronted Miss 1998 Northwestern Louisiana Agriculture. “You want to know if I’m rich? Right here, standing on the line to eat crayfish?”

  Squinty eyes was not apologetic. “Daddy tells that there be men here tonight who be either parafull or that they be wonfullee riych, so I am wonderin' which you be.”

  The intensely dark-haired woman leaned around Phil, her hand lightly resting on his shoulder. “Listen you little hussy, this ain’t no Baton Rouge meat market, this here is a classy event. You get goin',” she hissed.

  Miss 1998 Northwestern Louisiana Agriculture didn’t move.

  “Get goin' girl or am gonna fetch your guardian.” In an eye blink she was gone.

  “Names Samantha.” He took the offered hand. It was a warm and strong handshake. A woman comfortable shaking a man’s hand. “Friends call me Sam.”

  “Phil,” he replied, shouting over the din.

  Samantha shook her head. “Her Daddy spent mebbe $10,000 to fly his precious daughter here for three days in the expectations of meeting a promisin' husband. Not to mention the cost for the hair and makeup and style consultants. It’s a hell of an investment.” Samantha took a deep look into Phil’s face. “Yeah, they’re payin' for that look.” She read Phil’s face again. “If you've never lived in a no-nothing town, you can't understand there is no price too high to give your baby a boost up the social ladder."

  This woman would, Greene knew immediately, be a fun one for a night. Good figure. The face, though hidden, was no doubt sexy. The strong handshake showed her to be the sort of woman who cared about her man. Took care of him in bed. Tanya in the bedroom treated him brusquely, like the clock was ticking. It was her dogs that got the love.

  He should try and get Sam’s phone number. Tanya would never know in this crush of humanity. She and her boys and their wives were a good fifty yards removed.

  “Oh,” brightly bubbled Samantha with a wink seen through the mask, “congratulations to you on Tanya and all that.” Then a conspiratorial whisper, difficult over the din. “I’m bettin' you man enough to keep that naughty girl in her place.”

  * * *

  The unexpected disappointing turn of events could not be explored further as just at that moment the lights in the huge ballroom blinked off. Rising from an underground pit just a few yards from the line for crayfish was none other than the octogenarian rhythm and blues piano player Jerry Lee Lewis with a backup band of rockabilly musicians.

  The crowd exploded. Businessmen and debutantes rushed to the stage to catch a glimpse of a historic slice of Louisiana culture. Greene stood his ground in what was now a prime location as Great Balls of Fire exploded through the loudspeakers. Jerry Lee was only twenty feet away. The guy looked good, Phil clinically observed. Skin
taut; voice strong, though the theatrics on the piano a far cry from what had once been possible.

  Lewis pounded the keyboards for all he was still worth, while the beauty pageants squeezed right along the stage, the closer to see a living legend known as the “killer,” who had married his 13 year old cousin a lifetime ago. Here was a guy who was rich and powerful in a Bayou sort of way.

  Samantha was gone. He would have to carefully ask Tanya about her later. How had Samantha known who he was? Did Tanya send her over? He couldn’t see Tanya, but she must be in the center of the crowd pushing up onto the stage. Was it a set-up from Tanya to test Phil? She was certainly capable of doing something like that, Phil figured.

  Over there far on the left, now coming through the main doors, was birthday boy Congressman Tucker, punching a large black umbrella into the air New Orleans-style, clearly enjoying the attention. Behind him was his usual party entourage including his ever faithful Congressman Wilkes, Congressman Richard Davids, Senator Tom Corwin and the top lobbyists for the oil, gas, fisheries and insurance companies. Tanya was nowhere to be seen. Probably working her mysterious deal.

  Senator Corwin of some southern state--Philip still couldn't keep track of everyone, had also congratulated him on the upcoming marriage, so Tanya was telling everyone. It still just didn’t seem right, and it gnawed at him. He wasn’t happy. Sure, his business was bad and he had fallen in with a woman taking care of the bills, buying him expensive clothes, introducing him to famous people. He could do far worse; he had done far worse with the dozen pickups from bars over the past year.