Synopsis: Marge is happy with her young live-in lover, Peter has begun an affair with Anne, and Anne's husband has offered Peter a partnership in the purchase of a classic schooner-yacht.
Chapter Five
Peter and Marge were asleep when Kenny came home, but the next morning, before Peter left for the office, he knocked on Kenny's door.
"Who is it?"
Peter was puzzled. Why would Kenny want to know who was knocking? "It's Pete, Kenny. I need to talk with you."
"OK, just a jiff."
While Peter waited, he thought he heard voices in the room. The door opened, and Kenny, wearing Peter's old robe, slipped into the hall, closing the door behind him. "You got company in there?" Peter asked.
Kenny's cheeks reddened, and his gaze dropped to Peter's shoes. "Yes," he mumbled.
"Boy company or girl company?"
"Girl," he said. "She didn't have no place to go, so I give her a place to crash." This was a complication Peter hadn't considered.
The boy looked calculatingly at Peter. A small lascivious smile crossed his face. "She ain't a bad piece," he said. "You ought to give her a try."
Peter shook his head. "I hardly think so." Then he told the boy that although he was already late, if the girl wanted a ride downtown and would hurry, he would be happy to accommodate her.
Kenny nodded and returned to his room. This time Peter distinctly heard conversation. Kenny poked his head out the door. "If you'll get out of the hall so she can go to the bathroom, she'll be ready in five minutes."
Peter went downstairs and poured a third cup of coffee. Marge was shuffling around the kitchen in a bathrobe and her old mules. "Kenny's got company," Peter said.
"What??"
"You heard me. He's got a girl in his room. She's getting dressed. I told him I'd give her a lift downtown."
Marge turned toward the doorway. "I don't think that's a good idea," Peter warned. "Kenny has rights, too, you know. We don't own him."
"What'd she look like?"
"I don't know. I didn't see her." Peter wisely decided not to repeat Kenny's assessment of the girl's sexual prowess. but that thought triggered another unpleasant idea. They had Kenny's medical report, but what about this girl's health?
"Look," Peter said, "I'm sure this girl was nothing more than a piece of ass to him. I think he's becoming genuinely attached to you."
"Do you really think so?" Marge could be so very vulnerable at times.
"Yes," Peter said. "That isn't something I'd kid about. But look. We're talking about a street girl, here. We don't know what this girl may be carrying. That means we're going to have to quarantine Kenny by making him use a condom for at least 10 days, and then we'll get a new blood sample."
Peter paused reflectively. Then he smiled somewhat grimly and added, "When Kenny realizes that he's going to have to wear a rubber and see a doctor every time he tries some strange stuff that he picks up on the street, that may curb his appetite. I know it sure as hell would mine!"
It was Marge's turn to smile. "Yes, but you're not 18 anymore, dear," she said sweetly.
"Hi." Kenny was standing in the doorway, his arm wrapped protectively around the shoulders of a young girl with straggly brown hair, wearing a blouse and skirt several sizes too large, and a pair of rundown sneakers. She was so pale her skin seemed translucent, and she was too thin to be pretty. Peter hoped she was older than she looked, which he judged to be about 14.
Kenny cleared his throat. "This here is Sara . . ." He looked at the girl. "I don't know your last name."
"That's OK," she said. "It's Thomas."
Marge's maternal instincts overcame her anxiety. "You two sit down there and have breakfast," she said.
The young people obediently slid into the breakfast nook. Peter couldn't wait any longer; he had a 9:30 appointment. He kissed Marge, whispering, "Take it easy. Remember. If you and Kenny have a matinee, be sure he wears a condom," before picking up his brief case and heading out the door.
As he absently worked his way through the latter part of the rush hour traffic, he wondered where this development would take them. Peter realized he should have anticipated something like this; it was only natural, after all, that young Kenny would want to associate with people his age.
Peter felt a pang of sympathy for Marge. It was too bad, he thought, that she had to know about the girl, but Marge had to protect herself. With the specter of modern-day STDs hanging over their heads, it was essential they not take unnecessary chances.
Peter quickly leafed through the neat little pile of phone messages on his desk when he reached the office. A message from Doc Porter reminded him of their luncheon engagement. There was also a message from Gordon Schaefer. Peter quickly dialed his number, and was told that Gordon was in a meeting.
Peter arrived at the restaurant on time, but a good five minutes earlier than Doc Porter. "Sorry to hold you up," the old man wheezed as he sat down, "but I've had a busy morning. I have some sad news that's also bad news." He grinned at Peter. "Jim Tolliver is no longer among us." He rolled his eyes in mock piety toward the ceiling.
Peter blinked as he tried to assimilate the implications of Tolliver's death. Nobody ever confused the Washington State legislature with a choir loft, but if rumors and the occasional exposé were credible, Tolliver had been a particularly venal monument to legislative corruption over the years.
Doc Porter interrupted his thoughts. "He wasn't all bad," Doc said. "At least the pious old hypocrite went out with a hard-on. The way I heard it, he was getting a blow job in his office last night when his ticker stopped. We're not sure who the girl was -- some say a call girl, others think she was a campaign worker -- it was hard to tell from the lipstick on his cock. She or another woman called 911. Not a bad way to go, eh?"
Peter half listened to Doc's gossip while his lawyer's mind evaluated the long range consequences of what was now a two man primary race.
Another thought occurred to him. Perhaps, now that a charitable Providence had removed the major reason for his candidacy, Marty Robbins would permit him to withdraw. "I'm sunk anyhow," Peter said, "In a three way race with Bassett and Tolliver splitting the conservative vote, I had a chance. But now?"
"Hold on, son," the old man said, holding up his hand. "I know what you're thinking; now that the yacht club is safe, you can back out and nobody will notice. If that's what's passing through your mind, forget it! It was Marty Robbins who called this morning to tell me about Tolliver. He also said for me to remind you who's been paying those yacht club dues, and that he still thinks you can take Sam Bassett. So do I. But it won't be the way Marty thinks."
Their food arrived, temporarily interrupting their conversation, leaving Peter to puzzle over Doc's last cryptic pronouncement. Later, after they had pushed their plates out of the way, Peter said, "OK, You're my manager. Now what do we do now? Advise me, oh wise one."
Doc glared at Peter. "Don't be a smart ass. Yes, I do have some advice. There's a big gay community in your district living in the apartments on Capitol Hill and the houseboats in Portage Bay. No Republican in living history has ever acknowledged they exist, except to raise their rent. You've got to give them about five good reasons to walk barefoot ten miles through a blizzard to vote for you, but you also got to be careful. You don't want to piss off too many moderate Republicans and fringe voters, because you don't want them voting against you in the general election.
"Remember. Apart from the abysmal fact that Washington has an open primary system, that's one of the big political problems here. The primaries and the general election are so close together that voters in the general election can be influenced by primary campaign rhetoric. Whatever you do, don't say something now that you'll regret in November!
"One last thing. Forget about party labels. They worked fine when guys like me hired the janitors at City Hall and made sure that widows and orphans were looked after, but times have changed.
"I think you want to be pro-choice on abortion. You'll lose the hard right wing of the party, but Sam has them locked up, anyhow. After all, he's one of their preachers.
"Let's get together next week. See if we can come up with a good solid program that will hold the center, attract independents, and play well in November. OK?"
"Sounds good to me," Peter said as they stood and shook hands.
He noticed that Doc Porter picked up the check. The old man saw Peter's expression and grinned, "Hell, boy, we got us a war chest. I got a check for $500 this morning from one of your admirers." Seeing the question in Peter's eyes, he held up a hand in his characteristic way, and said, "No, I ain't going to tell you who sent it. You'll find out when we file our financial report."
Instead of feeling elated that unknown admirers were actually putting cash into his campaign, Peter sighed. He knew, now, he was fully committed.
Another call from Gordon was waiting when Peter returned to the office. He dialed Gordon's number, spoke briefly with his secretary, and heard Gordon's voice, "Hi, Pete. I'm sorry I missed you earlier. Anne and I've been talking nonstop about that Peterson schooner. We've just got to work something out. Could you could stop by our place this evening, say 7:30 or 8?"
Peter silently groaned. He felt he needed to focus his entire attention on his campaign, even if that meant putting Gordon off to a later date, but some instinct urged him to find a way of accommodating Gordon. "Oh, God, Gordon, I don't know . . ."
"Well, suppose I stop by your place for a few minutes this evening? I don't mean a social visit; I'm talking business."
