Banksters 46: Good & Clean

“We’re still on for tonight?” Julee asked, standing up straight.

“Yep.”

“So I shouldn’t try to unsex my hair, then?”

“Looks beautiful the way it is.”

“And my rumpled clothes?”

“Admittedly less beautiful, but it’s the look we’re going for.”

“Good,” she kissed me, hard, passionate, and voracious, like she was trying to suck my lips off. “And that’ll give you that ‘just been kissed’ puffiness. If she doesn’t get the hint this time, then nothing short of us banging on her desk in front of her is going to get her attention.”

“Could be hot.”

“You only say that because you’d like her to join in”

“That would definitely be hot.”  

“Men,” she sighed. “If only I liked eating boxed lunch.”

Julee walked out first, being sure to hike her skirt back down off her ass in as incriminating a fashion as possible as she passed Petra.

“Another meeting with Julee?” Petra moaned.

“She’s part of our department, now. I asked Richard to transfer her someplace I could use her. Oh,” I feigned surprise, then zipped my pants back up. “Wish somebody would have told me I was unzipped earlier,” I said. Too much? Maybe. But oversubtlety can be a problem, too.

“Are you free tonight?” Petra asked, annoyed. “Because it’s almost been a week; I’m starting to feel like this ring was the consolation prize for not getting you.”

“Late meeting with Julee.”

“Another dinner meeting?” she was forelorn.

“Yeah. At Breen’s. Terrible food. But it’s close to home, and with a belly full of that crap, there’s no way we sleep- keeps us up all night. It’s better than coffee.”

“I’ll pencil it in,” Petra said, not even looking up at me.

We ate at Breen's at nine, and I made a point of being awfully handsy at the restaurant, and putting away a little too much champagne. I walked Julee back to my place, and we took a shower. I figured that was the only place where we weren't likely to be heard.

“So you honestly think she’s got us under surveillance?” Julee asked.

“Yep.”

“Isn’t that not really legal?”

“Yep.”

“Not to mention a gross misuse of government resources and- holy shit, you’re finally kicking that skinny white bitch to the curb, aren’t you?”

I felt a little bad, maybe just about referring to Petra as ‘that skinny white bitch.’ “Yep.”

“You think we can get a copy of their surveillance? I’ve always wanted to have my own sex tape.”

“I doubt we'll see her again.”

“And that makes you sad face?”

“This is necessary, but I don't enjoy it.”

“Well, it's necessary, but I plan to enjoy it. Is there anything you've always wanted to do? Maybe something you mentioned to her but that she was never comfortable doing with you? Because I figure that'd twist the knife a little deeper- because it's necessary, obviously; not because I'm a sadist.”

“Actually I find your sadism adorable; this is petty jealousy, which is less sexy.”

She pressed her soapy self against me. “For a guy asking for some FBI defrauding espionage, you sure ask like a jerk.”

I grabbed her hair and pulled it, and pushed her against the shower wall. “It's ugly, and it's beneath you.” I kissed her. “And you're better than that- and I'm not just saying that because you look exceptionally good soapy.”

“It's at least a little the soapiness,” she said, smiling, trying to hide how pissed she was I was challenging her.

“But you know I need you. None of this would have been possible without you- my erection included.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the ones I'm showering with.” I turned, leaning past her to turn off the water. “Showtime.”

“I'm going to rinse a little longer, and warm myself up,” she said.

“Then, as your new supervisor, I should stay, and supervise.”

“Super-creepy,” she said.

“Says the woman now masturbating.”  

“I know you’re a compulsive mood-killer, but on the off chance there is an FBI surveillance team waiting to watch us bang, wouldn’t it be a let-down if we came out of here and decided to just go our separate ways because you were being an ass?”

“Maybe I should shut my mouth, or at least find something more productive to do with it.” I started to kneel, but she stopped me, and turned off the water.

“Uh-uh,” she said, “not until the audience is seated.” She reached outside the shower for a towel, and stepped onto the bath mat.  

“There’s my dirty girl,” I said, as I got my own towel.  

“You just watched me lather up; I’m as clean as a woman gets.”

“Well then let’s go defile you in front of a live studio audience.”

“There’s my dirty boy,” she said, and grabbed me by the hair and yanked me towards the bedroom.

Julee was even more filthy than usual. One particular roleplay, which Julee playfully named “Fuck my ass like you did that stupid fiancé of yours” seemed in especially bad taste, but if we had rattled Petra enough to put her job with the bureau on the line, I was sure it would do the trick.

Petra didn't show the next morning. Around noon I got a form letter resignation in my email. About an hour later, a courier delivered her engagement ring.

I worked late that night. Around ten, I got a call to come into Richard’s office. He was more than a little drunk.

“You screwed me,” he said.

“This is why I usually don’t drink at office parties.”

“And now you’re making jokes about it?” He tossed the day’s paper onto his desk in front of me. The front page story said that George and Richard Morgan were being investigated for election commission violations and embezzlement, on top of the fraud investigation reported late last week. There were even RICO implications. “That lawyer was supposed to give the company a cleaner image- not clean us out.”

“I don’t think this was all her doing, but that’s exactly what’s happening. Our company is being dragged under a microscope. No one will be able to question anything we do once all this is finished.”

He waited, expecting there to be cover there for him, somewhere. He waited for me to tell him he was worried over nothing, and that he'd be safe. And then it hit him: he was part of my plan, but not a beneficiary of it. “Holy crotch-throating Christ- you did fuck me. This was your plan? Well I've got something to tell you, fuckwad, it's not going to work. This board sucks my dick better than any woman I've ever seen. You could tongue each one of their assholes dry, and you'd still never get them to put you in charge. Mark my fucking words, you're going to be out of the door by tomorrow. So why the fuck are you smiling?”

I pushed him.

He stumbled backward, uncomprehending. Then he hit the floor to ceiling window, and expected to stop against it.

Custodial had a key for his windows, so they could be scrubbed nightly after he left. They had a guide, to keep them from swinging out- unless you disabled it, like I had. The window swung open on its hinge, and he fell into the cold night air.

The lucky bastard managed to catch the edge of the floor as he fell. But there wasn't anything to grab hold of, so he kept sliding, trying to dig his fingernails into the carpet, but finding no purchase, and sliding, slower, now, agonizingly slowly. “Help me,” he cried. Then it dawned on him, that he was going to die. “This is stupid. It's business. It's not worth letting someone... Jesus. You killed Cliff, didn't you? I thought it was silly, but in your eyes I can see it now...”

“The Dilly Bar killed Cliff.”

“Are you insane?”

“He was fat, moron. Which packs with it a whole host of higher risks, diabetes, heart disease, and cancer, to name a few. He basically died of being fat.”

“Then Clarence...”  

“He tried to frame me for a murder no one but Hostess was guilty of. Which almost worked. I liked his plan so much I stole it. But unlike Clarence, I didn't half-ass things.”

“And everything else that's happened?”

“I can't take credit for everything. Just most things. But some of it was York. Other times it was you, and your greed that set the wheel in motion. All I did was make sure it always came up black.”

“I won't tell anyone, just, please, help me.” By this point he was barely resting his chin on the floor.  

“Just try to hang on,” I told him, sitting down at his computer, “while I type up your suicide note. You strike me as the kind of person who’d write something saccharine and sappy.” I got the first sentence and a half out, having to backspace as often as hitting the space. “Hard to type in gloves,” I said. Then I was done. “’I’m sorry for my failings, professional and personal. I didn’t leave you for lack of love. I loved you enough to leave.’ Suitably trite, don’t you think?” I hit print. “I don’t supposed you’d sign it for me, save me the effort of the forgery?”

“Please,” he whimpered, just eyes peaking over the edge of the windowsill.

“I didn't want to murder you,” I told him as I walked over to him, and I meant it, too. “Shallow self-interest should have dictated to preserve your share price- your own fortune- that you'd step down once the scandal hit. Scandals, now. But you care about this company, or at least about the power it affords you. So you wouldn't just go. You'd have stayed, and undone all of my hard work. Just for your ego. It's depressing, actually, once you get right down to it. But look at me, chewing scenery like a Bond villain. I should kick you out that window now.”

It didn't take much of a kick, actually, more just stepping on his head. He tried to grab my leg, either to pull himself up or to pull me down with him, but he hadn't really thought it through, so when I stumbled forward, just a little, he fell.