Banksters 38: Lesbos

I drove myself home, and was just getting undressed when my phone rang. It was Elizabeth Grey. I was surprised she was still using the same phone number she'd given me earlier. “That thing you were going to do for me...”

 

“That thing has a name: Teryl.”

 

“I'm glad you know it, but you might want to start warming up your pipes on your way over here, so you can scream it without hurting your throat.”

 

“Thought you were going to go in an entirely different direction with 'pipes.'”

 

“Sorry, tiger. Tonight your myriad pipes belong to Teryl.”

 

She texted me the location of a party while I showered and dressed. I entered quietly. It was some kind of a ball, debutantes or some other strange ritual for people with more money than shame. But I watched as Teryl Morgan talked to Elizabeth, watched her body language as she walked away. I snuck up behind Elizabeth, who seemed to be chaperoning, though I could never quite tell who or what.

 

“You lied to me.” I said. “You said it was a matter of convenience. But you already took a run at Teryl. It's in the quiet moments, but she's awkward around you. Intrigued, but too terrified to chase after the love that dare not speak its name.”

 

“When it's two girls it's fine to say its name: lesbos. In fact, most of the time, its name alone can get you free drinks- of course by 'you' I mean me and the gorgeous lesbians I make out with.”

 

“But I am right. You're at an impasse. She's into you, but not quite ready to go bungee jumping  into Box Canyon.”

 

“Shock. Disbelief. That I could lie to you.”

 

“Just pointing it out. I'm not sure why you still try to lie to me.”

 

“I'm not sure why you don't understand it. Is there anyone you don't lie to?”

 

“Myself- which is why I'm so surprised you try to lie to my self.”

 

“You know how attractive I find it when you wear your ass like a hat like this in public.”

 

“Anything I need to know about her?”

 

“I'll introduce you. She likes moonlit walks, steak and red wine, and a hard dick between her legs.”

 

“I never would have guessed you had a romantic side.”

 

“Careful, or I'll fist you with a copy of Lady Chatterly.”

 

“Love her.”

 

Teryl came back with three waters, and handed me one. “Ter, I'd like you to meet Mark Zane,” Grey said.

 

“He's gorgeous.”

 

“We almost had a thing, back in my straight days, before I realized...” Grey cut herself off, and bit her lip. She was still flirting with her- evidently she didn't care which of us seduced her so long as she fell for somebody. 

 

I could see why Richard had lost interest in his wife. She was just old enough, just heavy enough, just wrinkled enough. Don't get me wrong, she was attractive enough for an woman in her late forties, but Richard had managed to amass enough money and power that he wasn't in her league anymore- though she did have a nice bust. Gun to my head, I'd say shoot. Sorry, old joke. I'd say K. But I'm reasonably informed that this was for a good cause- even if that good cause was just me trying to get back into Grey's pants.

 

“Teryl’s an interesting name.”

 

“It’s short, for Terylyn. It was a compromise, between Grandpa Terry and Grandma Marilyn. Why one of them couldn’t wait two years for my sister to be born is anybody’s guess.”

 

“Teryl and I met in a salsa class.”

 

“I assume the dance, not the dish.”

 

She nodded. “You should take her for a spin.”

 

“There’s no music.”

 

“Then you won’t have to worry about losing the rhythm.”

 

“But I don’t know how.”

 

“She can teach you. She helped me.” She was practically shoving the two of us together; I’d never felt more like a purebred Dalmatian before. “But I’m going to stop hovering like a demented mother hen and let the two of you alone.” 

 

The way to seduce an older woman is to treat her like she isn’t one. She’s more aware than anyone of the parts of her gravity has already claimed- but there’s nothing worse than knowing someone else knows.

 

But you also have to move more slowly, deliberately. Maturity brings with it a certain expectation of refinement, technique, finesse. An older woman doesn’t have patience to put up with boyish idiosyncrasies- unless of course she’s dating boys. 

 

“When Lizzy told me about you, I never thought you’d show. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been set up, only for the man to be a no show, or, more often, I suspect, he showed, took one look at me, then turned around. In this city it feels like, the moment I left my early thirties I lost all of my value- like youth is the only commodity women have to trade in.”

 

“Can I be honest with you? Cards on the table?”

 

“I expect it.”

 

“Liz wants you off the market. She’s smitten, but she values your friendship enough that she doesn’t want to pressure you. So she called in a wringer, hoping we’d fall for one another and I’d take you out of play, where she doesn’t have to long for you. Where she can just be happy for you, instead of desperately wanting to make you happy herself.”

 

“She’s wonderful, it’s just… I’m not like that.”

 

“You misunderstand. I’m not cheerleading for her. I just didn’t want to, if you had any lingering doubts about her, I wouldn’t want to come between you two. She’s one of my favorite people, and you… you could come to be.”

 

“That’s very sweet.”

 

“I don’t think so. Because calling it sweet implies a lack of sincerity, that I’m being nice to you when the facts don’t dictate that behavior. And I think you’re wrong. I can see why she’s into you. You have a presence, an intelligence that’s sharper. You’re a woman of substance, and a woman of great beauty.”

 

“Now I know you’re being sweet,” she said.  

 

“I have a confession: I have no idea what we’re doing here. Liz didn’t tell me what the occasion is, and I certainly don’t know anyone her. I guess what I’m getting at is she’s got me craving a dance, so is there anything keeping you here?”

 

“Only the fact that nobody had asked me to leave- until now.”

 

We left, and found a hole in the wall karaoke bar that had a salsa night advertised on its sign. We danced a few rounds, and I remembered to be clumsy and handsy enough to be convincingly amateurish, and convincingly interested.

 

When we took a break I ordered tequila shooters. “I don’t usually drink this early in a night, or a relationship.”

 

“I’m not usually this forward,” I told her, still a bit winded from dancing. “Or this fast. But I say we drink, to a night outside our comfort zones.” That seemed to make enough sense to her to get her to raise her glass.

 

The bartender had given me a lemon wedge on a plate, and I picked that up in my other hand. We clinked glasses, and downed them. I bit the fruit off the rind, and kept it in my mouth. Then I kissed her, deeply, passionately, with lots of tongue, and a hint of lemon.

 

We did two more rounds, alternating who bit the lemon, and each time the kiss lasted longer. Then she dragged me back out onto the dance floor, which is where we were when the liquor hit, but by then neither of us cared. We stayed until the place closed, at which point she was stepping slowly, and I realized her shoes must not have been very salsa friendly. “Oh, god, I’m so sore. You should take me back to my car,” she said.

 

“You’re still too tipsy to drive. And my place is within walking distance. Where I could rub whatever hurts.”

 

“Even my feet?” she asked hopefully.

 

“Especially your feet,” I said, but not because I wanted to touch them; Julee hadn’t successfully made me develop a foot thing. “And I don’t want you to think my intentions are anything other than gentlemanly. I can sleep on the couch, if that would make you more comfortable.”

 

“Oh, hush; you had me at foot rub.” 

 

And I did, at that. Screwing an older woman was different; the bits maybe weren’t as taut, but that was basically made up for with experience- she knew her body, and her way around a man’s- better than any twenty-something possibly could.

 

Getting her into bed was just step one. I made her breakfast, and woke her with a back rub, and I continued to rub her while she ate. “Oh, god, do I ever have to leave here?”

 

“You don’t have to, but in a couple of hours I have to get up and go to work.”

 

“Does that mean you’ll have to put on pants?”

 

“I’m afraid so.”

 

“Then we should take advantage while we can…” she said, and grabbed me with surprising strength and rolled me over onto the bed. She was asleep again by the time my alarm went off. I smelled enough like sex that I knew I needed another shower, so I took one, dressed and went to work.

 

On my drive in my phone rang. The number was blocked. I wondered if I should bother answering it at all. “I need to see you in my office.” It was Richard Morgan. Dread shot through me. Did he know something had happened with his not officially ex wife? 

 

If he was the jealous kind of estranged husband, it was possible he had his wife followed, the occasional private investigator on a nightly prowl, snapping pictures. But surely Grey would have known about that. Would she have set me up like that? She wanted him divorced, but did I think she'd sell me out?

 

Of course she would. Because I would- if it was pragmatic; just because there's no use crying over spilt milk is no excuse to going running around spilling willy nilly.

 

Richard liked uncomfortable silence. He got to inflate himself, make himself look smarter and more important when he didn't open up his mouth. Of course, if you keep your mouth shut forever, people will begin to suspect you're a bigger idiot than the guy who won't shut up about it. “Why was my brother part of a sting?”

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“Last night, your new employee practically put her hand in his pants. Are you telling me that's a coincidence? Why are you investigating my brother?”

 

“The more pertinent question is why would your brother be part of a takeover of his own company?”

 

“Shit,” Richard said. “Because they promised he could run it. Whatever survives the takeover, they told him they'd put him in charge. And not only that, I bet they've even built a court jester of a position for me, too. My fuckwit of a brother. But your investigation ends. We know he was helping Warwick-- we don't need to know anything else.”

 

“Fine. Lots of other people to look into.”

 

“Good. That's part of your new job. But next time one of the people you're looking into shares a last name with me, I damn well better know before you try to whore information out of them.”

 

“That's fair.” I went back to my office. The US Attorney was sitting behind my desk.

 

“I blame you,” her mouth shriveled unattractively, so it almost looked like an anus with teeth.

 

“Excuse me?” I asked, walking around to the guest chair on the other side of my desk. She slide across a newspaper, opened up to the politics section. She pointed at a bold headline that read: US Attorney Fails Confirmation in the Senate.

 

“That was me. After agreeing to your dumb enough an inbred dalmatian wouldn't have gone in for it idea.”

 

“So you've come here to glare soulfully at me?”

 

“I'm here to cash in the favor you owe me.”

 

“You're not going to wait until you've found an office you want?”

 

“I don't have the kind of money it takes to start a campaign. And about the only competitive race in the state is that retiring senator’s seat. And my main political credit is failing to be confirmed as a US Attorney, which is like getting shot down by the town bicycle.”   

 

“So you want a job?”

 

“Your company has a questionable record; having an ex-Attorney on staff would cut down on suspicion. I'm not particularly picky; I just need something to tide me over until I find the next thing.” 

 

“Can you keep something to yourself?”

 

“I actually have high level clearance as part of my job.”

 

“I guess that's a kind of yes. Our general counsel is on his way out. I could put in a good word”

 

“I was hoping for something with a lower profile. No offense, but that's kind of a step backwards in my career, from US Attorney to corporate sell-out.”

 

“US Attorney's salaries are public. Corporate general counsels, not so much. He makes three times what you do. And that's because, ironically, he's a shit negotiator.” 

 

“How long before he's gone?”

 

“A month, max, though I'd suspect considerably sooner than that.”

 

She stood up, took my hand, and shook it. “Keep me posted.”