Gideon (59 page)

Janice Morrison, media analyst for Merrill Lynch, speculated that “the Murdochs and Eisners of the world will be all over this sale like sharks at a ship-wreck. While Augmon’s legal problems are clearly weighing him down personally, his companies are quite sound with excellent management teams in place, and …”

From page one of the
New York Times
business section, August 4:

CHINA MAKES WORLDWIDE SATELLITE DEAL

Beijing, China:
Communications history was made today when the Chinese government concluded a multi-billion-dollar deal partnering three separate international communications companies for partial rights to China’s satellite, cable, and long-distance phone business.

In an unprecedented arrangement, Rupert Murdoch’s News Corp, Time Warner, and French Telecom will all be sharing, over the agreed-upon period of the next ten years …

* * *

The warm wave lapped gently up onto the shore, tickling the left foot of Amanda Mays and washing the course sand from between her toes. She was lying on her right side, squinting through her dark sunglasses at the unstoppable glare, and smiling.

“What are you looking at?” Carl Granville asked her.

“I’ve never seen you tan before.”

“I’ve been tan before.”

“When?”

“Believe me, I’ve been tan.”

“Give me a for-instance.”

“Once I tried to light the stove in my old apartment—you know, the one with the pilot light—and I got a little too close and … well, it wasn’t exactly tan, it was more of a burnt orange, now that I think about it.”

“I’m happy,” Amanda said. “Are you?”

“I’m happy,” he said.

They had needed to get away. The media scrutiny and the legal proceedings and the pressure that came with just walking down the street had become unbearable. Without knowing exactly where they were going to wind up, the flew down to St. Thomas and talked to various boaters and crew members and wound up in a tiny hotel—a series of lean-to shacks, really—on the south side of St. John. A hundred yards from their shack was a bar called the Soggy Dollar. It got its name from the days when a boat could get only so close and you had to swim ashore. All wet money was handed over to the management, who pinned it up on the wall while it dried and allowed those who wanted to to run up a tab. Calling it a bar was probably a misnomer; it was a stretch of white beach with a few tables and umbrellas and a black barman named Big Willie who made something delicious with rum called a Painkiller. But it served their purposes quite nicely. Carl and Amanda had done little the past two weeks but drink their rum drinks, lie on the sand, swim in the smooth water, and go back to their room and make love as often and as perfectly as they could.

“I’m extremely happy,” Carl said again. “And you’re asking because …?”

“Because we can’t stay here forever. Even Big Willie’s going to want us to pay our bar bill eventually.” Carl didn’t say anything. He sat up, brushed a bit of sand off his chest, stared out over the blue-green water. “The
Times
wants me to come work there permanently,” she told him.

“I’m not surprised,” Carl said. “It was a hell of a series you wrote.”

“And the
Journal
wants me back. Now that Augmon’s selling, they want to make me city editor.”

“I’m still not surprised,” Carl said. “Anybody can tell you’re the best. Even the people who run a newspaper.”

“I think I want the
Journal
job. But it’d mean living in Washington.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Yeah,” she told him, and she wasn’t smiling anymore.”

“Well …” He squirmed on his towel, uncomfortable. “I’ve got to get back to New York pretty soon. Finalize the book deal. Meet my new editor. That sort of thing.”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“You know what I’ve been thinking?” he murmured. “I’ve been thinking that Washington might be a pretty good place to write a book.” Now she took her sunglasses off to look at him. “For a little while.”

“You mean for a month or so?” she asked.

“Maybe a month. Or two months … or six months … or six years …”

She reached over to put her hand on his shoulder and ran her fingernail slowly down his arm, scratching a thin white line all the way down to his hand. The smile was back.

They stopped kissing only when they heard the commotion at the bar. When they looked over, they saw Big Willie with a broad grin on his face. A workman was up on a ladder, attaching a small satellite dish to the top of the thatched roof.

“At last,” Willie said. “Satellite TV. Mon, we get
everything
now.”

The workman on the roof motioned for Big Willie to turn on the small TV that was positioned in the corner of the bar. He flicked the switch, then began fiddling with the most complicated-looking remote control imaginable. In quick succession, three baseball games appeared. And several old movies. Then a 1967 episode of
Password
and a rerun of
the Wonder Years
. Then Big Willie lifted his finger off the button and lingered on one channel. It was ANN. The breaking news. An ANN anchor was announcing: “The former First Lady of the United States, Elizabeth Cartwright Adamson, was indicted today in Owens, Mississippi. She’s seen here being arrested at the home of her mother-in-law, Wilhelmina Nora Adamson, mother of the late president, Thomas Adamson. The former First Lady is being charged with four counts of obstruction of justice and three counts of conspiracy to commit murder.

“Mrs. Adamson’s lawyer, T. Gene Monahan, called the charges unfounded. Mr. Monahan protested the treatment Mrs. Adamson was receiving.” Then came a clip of Monahan, who was saying, “These wild charges are, as everyone knows, being made by irresponsible and highly dubious sources and will be shown to be without any merit whatsoever. Elizabeth Adamson is a patriot and a hero and—”

Big Willie clicked another button on the remote control. “Who wants to watch that shit?” he said, shaking his head. And then, after a few more clicks, his grin returned. “Now this be more like it.”

Carl and Amanda watched the new program for a few seconds.

Wil-maaaa! Where’s my brontosaurus burger?

The people at the bar laughed in delight.

Carl kissed her one more time, licking away a few grains of sand that had accumulated on her upper lip. Then they slipped into the water and swam, slowly at first, then faster, strong steady strokes pulling them farther and farther away from shore and the laughter and Big Willie and the satellite TV over his bar.

The End
~~O~~

Russell Andrews is a pseudonym for the team of
Peter Gethers and David Handler.
Peter Gethers has written two previous novels, The Dandy and Getting Blue, and two bestselling nonfiction books, The Cat Who Went to Paris and A Cat Abroad. In addition, he is an editor and publisher and, with David Handler, has written numerous film scripts and television shows. Mr. Gethers lives in New York City and Sag Harbor, New York. This is the first collaboration with Mr. Handler under the name "Russell Andrews."
David Handler began his career as a journalist and critic. He won widespread critical acclaim for his autobiographical first novel, Kiddo, and has an Edgar and an American Mystery Award for his series of eight novels featuring amateur sleuth Stewart Hoag - a hero who, in the words of the Detroit Free Press, combines "the panache of James Bond, the in-your-face attitude of Sean Penn, and the lethal wit of Gore Vidal." Mr. Handler has written many television and film scripts with his longtime partner, Peter Gethers. He makes his home in Old Lyme, Connecticut.