wine. He told her first he would fill her up with something more intoxicating. He pulled off her bikini bottom and went to work.
Gun pointed in their direction, Nuri squeezed out from behind the door and backed into the hallway.
The dog was snoring beneath the table where he’d left him. It jerked upward as he poured the wine over its muzzle, but then slipped back down to sleep.
He paused when he reached the French door to leave.
Wouldn’t he be doing everyone a favor going back and plugging the son of a bitch and his whore?
Maybe not the woman, but definitely the mafioso. Who the hell would care?
Only Reid, really. Maybe not even him. The Italians certainly wouldn’t raise a fuss.
The dog stirred.
13
Zen and Breanna Stockard were one of Washington’s power couples, and while few people would literally trade places with them — Zen, after all, had spent two decades in a wheelchair — they were still envied by many, not least of all because they seemed to have an excellent, even perfect marriage. They supported each other’s careers and worked together to take care of their daughter Teri. While they were only sporadically seen on the political cocktail-dinner circuit, they did get around — Zen had box seats for the Nationals, and Breanna’s position on the board of directors of the Washington Modern Dance Company meant they often attended shows there.
Not a few of which Zen was reputed to sleep through, though no videos of him snoring had yet been posted on the Internet.
But even so-called power couples still took out the garbage: a task Zen assigned himself tonight while Breanna was working on homework with their daughter. Teri’s English Language Arts class was studying Shakespeare, specifically
Teri had won the role of Portia. Two other girls were sharing the part, and to really shine, she needed a judge’s costume to die for. Breanna had many talents, but sewing wasn’t one of them. Still, she was giving it a good try, and not cursing too much, at least not loud enough for her daughter to hear.
Zen wheeled himself outside with the garbage. He loved his daughter dearly, but there were plenty of times when he wished he had a son as well. He could have made a cool sword for Basanio.
Zen wrestled with the plastic top of the can. It never seemed to want to unlatch when he needed it to. That would be an asset, undoubtedly, in a rural area where there were raccoons or even bears prowling for midnight snacks, but in the wilds of the Washington suburbs, it was more than a little annoying. When he finally got it open, he felt as if it was yet another triumph on the day — nearly on par with the passage of his legislation.
Breanna was waiting in the kitchen when he returned.
“How now, fair queen?” Zen asked. “How goeth the princess?”
“The princess is off to bed, awaiting your kiss.”
“Her costume is done?”
“Such as it is.”
“You know we could—”
“Zen, we are
“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” said Zen. He was fudging: he’d been thinking of Anthony, his tailor.
“You spoil her,” added Breanna.
“That’s my job,” said Zen, rolling down the hall to Teri’s bedroom.
Most senators had two homes, one near Washington, D.C., and one back in their home state. Since he represented Virginia, Zen was lucky enough to need only one — though he saw the value in a ready excuse to leave town.
“Hey, Portia, you done for the night?” he asked his daughter as he rolled into her room.
“Uh-huh,” she murmured. “It’s a good uniform.”
“I think they call them judges’ robes.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever,” he mimicked, bending over and kissing her. “Say your prayers?”
“Uh-huh.”
“See you in the morning, all right?”
Her head popped up as he started to roll himself backward.
“Are you taking me to school?”
“Don’t I always?”
“Sometimes Mom does.”
“Sometimes Mom does. Not tomorrow.”
“Can we do my lines in the car?”
“You haven’t memorized them already?”
“I need practice.”
“We’ll practice. Sleep now.”
Breanna took the bottle of champagne out from the bottom of the refrigerator and got two glasses down from the cupboard. It had been a while since they used them, and they were covered with dust.
She ran them under the water in the sink to clean them. They’d gotten them for their wedding, but now she wasn’t sure who’d given them.
“Champagne?” said Zen, startling her.
The glass slipped from her hand and fell on the floor, shattering.
“Damn,” muttered Breanna.
“You OK?” Zen asked.
“Oh, I’m fine.”
She picked up the stem and the largest fragment, dropping them into the garbage bin.
“What are we celebrating?”
“Your law,” she said, going for the broom. “Today’s vote.”
“It’s not a law yet. Still a bill.”
“It will be a law. It should be a law.”
“Tell that to the President.”
“I will.”
“I think she’ll sign it. Hell, I’m going to Kiev for her.”
“Kiev?”
“Well, not really for her. Did I tell you — Al Osten had a heart attack.”
“Senator Osten?”
“Yeah, he’s OK. They got him to the hospital in time, thank God.” Zen swung around to the cabinet and got out another glass. “He was supposed to go to the NATO meeting next week in Ukraine. I’m going to pinch hit for him. I called him at the hospital to see how he was doing — you know that’s all he wanted to talk about? He wanted to go himself.”
Breanna felt something stick in her throat. She swept up the fragments of broken glass and dumped them into the garbage. By the time she put the broom and dustpan away, Zen had poured them both some champagne.
“You’ve got a juice glass,” she told him as he handed her the flute.
“Can’t reach the fancy stuff. Tastes the same. Here’s to us.”
“To your bill.”
They clicked glasses, then each took a small sip.
