The Marital Corporation Ch 05

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."

Peter was cornered. "Well, sure. That would be fine," he said. As soon as they hung up, Peter called Marge.

"It looks like the genie's not only out of the bottle, but is looking for red meat. Gordon wants to come over tonight and get some sort of commitment from us about the Peterson schooner. By the way, how are things going on the domestic front?"

Marge sighed. "The girl is gone," she said. "I gave Kenny $100 to give her. She promised to pay it back, of course, but I don't think we'll see her again."

"Well, make damn sure Kenny wears a rubber until we're sure she didn't leave any souvenirs behind." Peter spoke louder than he intended, and Miss Perkins, his elderly secretary, looked up with interest. Peter swung his chair around so he was facing the window. "Miss Perkins overheard that last remark, and now she's all hot and bothered!" he whispered.

Marge's laughter squelched his embarrassment. "My God, Pete, you are a dog! That woman's old enough to be your grandmother. It's a wonder she doesn't wash your mouth out with soap!"

"Have your fun . . ." Peter said.

"I will," Marge said, picking up an unintended double meaning. "You can bet on that."

"OK, but don't forget what I said."

"I won't, dear. Love you. Bye."

Peter spent the rest of the afternoon working on a brief, but he found it difficult to concentrate because he found himself speculating endlessly about Gordon's proposal, while he wondered what sort of meaningful campaign pledge he could offer to the gay community.

The latter effort, at least, had some connection with his job, so it was with a relatively clear conscience that he called the editor of "Seattle Alternatives," a local gay weekly newspaper, and asked for an appointment. Peter identified himself and explained that he was seeking information about gay issues. The editor seemed cold and suspicious at first, but Peter apparently managed to allay some of those feelings, and the editor grudgingly offered him an hour on Wednesday morning.

Marge and Kenny were contentedly sitting on the couch as he let himself into the house that evening. "Hi," Marge said, languidly waving a hand. "Supper's almost ready."

"Don't forget that we have company coming in an hour or so," Peter reminded her.

"I haven't forgotten." Then, turning to Kenny, she said, "When Mr. Schaefer comes, say `hello' and then skedaddle. This isn't a social visit. OK?"

Kenny nodded. "I get it," he said.

They ate a hurried supper. Gordon was as good as his word. He arrived exactly at 8:00 o'clock. He and Kenny shook hands, then Kenny excused himself, and Peter led Gordon into his study. Marge followed and sat quietly in the corner, listening impatiently while Gordon and Peter chatted idly about the weather, the stock market, and the problems recently encountered by the Seattle Mariners baseball team.

Finally, Gordon mentioned the Peterson schooner.

"Look," he said, "like I told you on the phone, Anne and I want to think about buying that boat, but it would be senseless for us to barge in and make an offer without any idea what we were letting ourselves in for. We need expert help."

"Yes, Gordon," Peter said, "you do. The first thing you want to do is hire a marine surveyor. A good one will more than give you your money's worth."

"God damn it, Pete, stop playing games!" Gordon said irritably. "You know I need more than that. I'm not talking just about buying the boat; I'm talking about caring for her and learning to sail. You're the only guy I know who can help me."

Marge quietly said, "Don't forget the furnace."

Gordon was startled. "What's that about a furnace?"

"It's Marge's way of saying `we're flattered, but we don't see how our interests necessarily coincide with yours on this deal,'" Peter said. The coldness of his tone was an unintended reaction to Gordon's outburst.

Gordon spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "OK, let me lay it out for you. I only hope you take this the right way. I'm a business man; that's the only way I know how to operate. I learned long ago that it was important to know as much as possible about the people I deal with. After our chat the Sunday, I did a Dunn and Bradstreet and a TRW credit check on you."

Peter blinked in surprise, and experienced another flush of resentment, but before he could say anything, Gordon hurried on, saying, "I found that you're a solid citizen, good reputation in the community, and a good credit risk, with a net worth of around $750,000, nearly all of it in this house. Unfortunately, however, you left the Attorney General's office late in your career. The Robbins firm took you in as a junior partner because of your environmental law expertise, but," here he made an apologetic gesture, "pride is a terrible thing.

"You have a serious cash flow problem. Your income simply does not equal your outgo. The taxes on this house and your boating expenses are eating you alive. In other words, if you're going to avoid a personal bankruptcy, something has to give."

Although it angered Peter that Gordon would have had the temerity to invade his privacy and investigate him to that extent, he was obliged, at the same time, to acknowledge that Gordon's assess ment was accurate, and was secretly glad that the issue was out in the open. Glumly, he nodded.

"Here's my offer," Gordon continued, "you act as my agent in buying that schooner, then as her permanent captain, overseeing her maintenance, and teaching me what I need to know to sail her, and I'll give you a limited partnership interest of one quarter of her market value. Of course, should you ever decide to sell your interest, I would have the right of first refusal. You won't have the time or, I hope, the inclination to play with Love Boat any longer, so you can dispose of her. That ought to go a long way in solving your financial problems. What do you say?"

Inwardly, Peter was very surprised, but as a skilled negotiator, he willed himself to remain outwardly noncommittal. Gordon's offer was far more generous than he had expected. Peter casually nodded. "That sounds fair," he said.

Marge was not so disciplined. She impulsively threw her arms around Gordon's neck, and gave him a warm, lingering kiss -- the sort she usually reserved for Peter and her other lovers. Remembering what Anne had said about Gordon's impotence, Peter was surprised as he watched Gordon's arms slowly raise as if by their own volition, and pull her body tightly against his. Their mouths worked hungrily together.

What had begun as a gesture of gratitude on Marge's part was becoming a preliminary to something far more meaningful. Her right hand stroked the side of Gordon's face, while one of his hands caressed her bottom.

Slowly, they drew apart. Marge clung to his hand, and looked at Peter. "I think Gordon and I have something to celebrate. We'll be back in a while," she said as she led Gordon out of the room and up the stairs.

Gordon glanced helplessly back over his shoulder at Peter, who smiled and nodded reassuringly, hoping that Marge was the medicine he needed. Then he settled down with the latest issue of "The American Lawyer."

An errant thought suddenly occurred to him. His arrangement with Gordon was premised solely on a belief that the Peterson schooner was still available!

Unfortunately, the magazine containing the ad was three months old. Peter knew, with a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, that Gordon was not the only person in America who would lust after that beautiful boat and who could well afford her.

He hastily opened the magazine and re-read the ad. The area code in the telephone number was 415. He consulted the phone book, and discovered that area code 415 was on the western side of San Francisco Bay. He glanced at his watch. It was 9:15.

His heart was pounding and his palms were slick with sweat as he dialed the number. Four, five rings. He was about to hang up when a man answered, "Hello?"

"I'm calling about the schooner that was advertised in the May issue of Sail Magazine," Peter said breathlessly. "Is she still available?" He held his breath, waiting for the answer.

"Might be," came the cautious response. "Who's this?"

"You don't know me," Peter said. "My name is Pete Baylis. I'm calling from Seattle."

"Why're you calling this hour of the night?"

"I'm a fan of Murray Peterson's," Peter said. "I just saw your ad. I'm sorry if I woke you up. Could I fly down to take a look at her?"

"Suit yourself."

"Where can I find her? The ad didn't say."

"We're in a marina on the north edge of Sausalito called `Ernie's Boat Yard'. Just ask for Dancing Lady. My name is Jensen."

"Thank you, Mr. Jensen." I'll come down later this week, if that's OK. Again, I'm sorry if I woke you."

"Don't matter. I ain't going no place. By the way, in case you got any funny ideas, I might as well save you a trip by telling you right now, the price is firm."

"I understand," Peter said. "I'll see you in a few days. Thanks, and good night."

Peter hung up and looked at the ad again. The owner had said the asking price of $125,000 was firm, meaning it was nonnegotiable. On the other hand, the picture in the ad showed a well found little ship with what looked like a complete suit of new sails. If Ernie's Boat Yard was what he imagined it might be -- a low rent backwater filled with decomposing hulks -- Peter expected that Dancing Lady might look a little different than she appeared in her picture. Peter had told Gordon he thought the boat could be bought for $110,000 to $115,000. He sighed. Time would tell.

It was another hour before Gordon and Marge reappeared. They were holding hands as they came down the stairs, a gesture suggesting that things had gone well. Gordon said enthusiastically, "This has really been my lucky night. First I get you to come in with us on the boat, then Marge and I had a chance to get together like you and Anne did. I really feel good."