The Piranhas (13 page)

Neal stood up in front of him. “What the hell are you doing over here?” he asked angrily.

“I’m sorry,” Jed answered. He could not see Neal’s face in the dark. “I didn’t know that anyone was here.”

Daniel stood up next to Neal. “Get your fucking ass out of here,” he said, “or I’ll break your goddamn neck.”

Then Jed recognized the two men—Daniel Peachtree and his boyfriend, Neal. He tried to make light of the incident. “Sorry, fellows,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll go back to the party and we’ll all forget about it.”

“You’re going to forget nothing,” Daniel said harshly. “I’m going to beat the shit out of you. I’m gonna make sure you keep your mouth shut.”

Jed felt his temper rising. “Before you do anything you two better zip up your pants before your little pricks shrivel up and break off from the cold night air.”

Neal moved toward him. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” Jed said quietly.

Neal’s voice was flat as he zipped his fly. “We’re both black belts.”

“Congratulations,” Jed said. “But I have something better. Two hundred million dollars in Jarvis’s deal.”

Both men stared at him in surprise. He stared back coldly for a moment before he spoke. “Just in case you two guys don’t know it, we’re all kind of partners,” he said as he turned and walked back up the path to the tent.

He lifted the tent flap and reentered the party. It wasn’t until then he regretted what he had done. “Damn,” he said to himself. Probably Uncle Rocco would be upset because he had opened his mouth.

*   *   *

BRADLEY WAS ON
the private telephone in his own library. Quickly he punched in the telephone number on the computerized speed dialer on the desk. A moment later Chuck’s voice answered.

“I want you out here right away,” Bradley said.

“I’ll get the first plane in the morning,” Chuck said.

“I mean right away. That means tonight.”

“How can I get there?” Chuck asked. “You have the Lear in California with you.”

“An ordinary jet would never make it fast enough for me,” Bradley said. “You call my cousin, Brigadier General Shepherd, at the air base outside of town and tell him that I want him to lend us one of the new F-Zero-60s, four-passenger fighters, to bring you and Judge Gitlin over to me tout suite.”

“The judge is around seventy years old,” Chuck said. “He’s probably in bed.”

“Wake him up then,” Bradley said. “Besides his being my kin, you tell him that he needs to get out here now if he wants to see the twenty-five million he loaned me. Otherwise, he may never see a penny of it. That’ll wake him up.”

“And what do I tell the general?” Chuck asked.

“He’s got a half million shares of my oil stock, and that’ll go down into the shithouse too, if he doesn’t help us out. If you put everything together, the F-Zero-60 will bring you all here in a little less than four hours. That baby can go better than Mach Two.”

“I’ll try,” Chuck said.

“You’ll be here,” Bradley said and put down the phone. He glanced at the desk clock. It was nine-thirty. If all goes well they should make it here by two in the morning, he thought.

He left his library and ran into Daniel Peachtree and Neal Shifrin walking across the landing to the bathroom. He stared at them. Their tuxedos were rumpled. “What the hell happened to you guys?” he asked.

Peachtree looked back at him. “We were walking in the garden,” he said. “And we tripped over a low cypress hedge we didn’t see in the dark.”

“What were you doing out there?” he asked.

“I was on my way to the performers’ setup,” Daniel said. “I wanted to talk to Rainbeau. We have a problem with his new album.”

“Did you find him?” Bradley asked.

“No,” Daniel said angrily. “We were too busy trying to brush the grass off our clothes.”

“I saw you at the table with Jarvis and his lawyer. What were you talking about?” Bradley asked quietly.

Daniel was so surprised at Bradley’s having noticed them in the crowd that he blurted out the truth. “Jarvis is thinking of making me CEO over everything.”

“He can’t do that,” Bradley said calmly. “I still have something to say about it.”

Peachtree stared at him, then he backed off. “Maybe I didn’t understand.”

“Maybe,” Bradley said succinctly. “Meanwhile you two better get yourselves straightened up.”

Bradley watched them walk to the bathroom, then started down the staircase.

*   *   *

SENATOR PATRICK BEAUFORT
of Louisiana was a little high. He reached for his fourth bourbon-and-water. “This is a hell of a party.”

Roxane Darrieux, a beautiful Creole girl, who was his executive assistant as well as his mistress, placed a calming hand on his wrist. “Slow down, Senator. It’s a strong drink.”

He looked at her. She shook her head. He put his drink back on the table. He had learned a long time ago in their relationship that she had good instincts. He smiled at her. “Do you have panties on?” he whispered.

“You know I never wear anything under my dress.”

“I want to dip my fingers in your pussy,” he said.

“Later,” she said, looking past him. “Bradley Shepherd’s coming to talk to you.”

Senator Beaufort turned and rose as Bradley greeted him. “My host,” he said warmly. “I have to say that you throw a hell of a party.” He gestured toward Roxane. “You know Ms. Darrieux?”

Bradley took Roxane’s hand. “Nice to see you again, Roxane. I’m glad you could make it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Bradley,” she answered in a soft voice. “Please join us for a drink.”

“For just a quickie,” Bradley said and dropped into the chair next to the senator while Roxane quickly poured him a drink. “What’s the word from Washington, Senator?”

“Reagan’s second term is just starting to set in, but it will take a little while for them to get their bearings,” the senator replied.

“What’s the attitude on oil? Are the domestic producers going to get any relief?”

“Talk, but no action as yet,” the senator said. “Like I said, it will take time. But I’m staying on top of it, and the minute we have a chance to move we’ll be on it. Don’t forget my state is hurting, too.”

“I know, Patrick,” Bradley said. “And we all appreciate your concern and are ready to back you on anything you want to do.” He paused for a moment. “Right up to the White House.”

The senator nodded seriously. “Thanks, Bradley. But it’s too early to think about that.”

“Just remember, Senator, the independent oil producers are right behind you.” Bradley sipped his drink. “Have you heard anything about Reed Jarvis applying for special consideration to become an American citizen?”

“The Canadian?”

Bradley nodded.

“Why are you interested in him?” The senator looked at him curiously.

“He’s making an offer for Millennium Films and also the seven TV and radio stations that we own. I remember that Ted Kennedy sponsored a bill to get Murdoch a quick citizenship.”

“Are you for or against him?” asked the senator.

Bradley shook his head. “I don’t know yet. I have to get more information on his offer.”

The senator smiled and held his hand toward Bradley. “Just let me know what you decide. I’ll go with you.”

Bradley rose to his feet. “Thank you again, Patrick.” He bowed to Roxane. “Good to see you again.”

Roxane watched him walk away. “I’ve heard some rumors that Bradley has big money troubles.”

Patrick laughed. “So what else is new? Bradley is an old-time wildcatter. He’s used to money troubles, but he’s always been able to overcome them and come up smelling like roses.”

“I don’t understand,” Roxane said. “If it’s true that he is in money trouble, why does he throw a party like this? It has to cost at least two hundred fifty thousand.”

“He’s wildcatting,” Patrick answered. He gestured toward the party crowd. “Look around you. There is enough money here on his guest list to pay off the national debt. Somewhere in this pie he might come up with a plum.”

Roxane looked around at the crowd, then back to him. She smiled teasingly. “Would you like some pussy pie? But just remember, you’ll have to lick your fingers, it’s very, very juicy.”

*   *   *

IT WAS DRIZZLING
lightly as the limousine entered the Tinker Air Force Base in Midwest City, fifteen minutes from Oklahoma City. An Air Force MP Jeep pulled in front of them and gestured for them to follow. They crossed almost to the far end of the airstrip at the edge of the field.

Before them they could see the plane. “F-Zero-60” was painted on the tail. Around the plane were a number of uniformed ground crewmen, and just as the limousine pulled to a stop, Brigadier General Shepherd, uniformed in a white flight jumpsuit, opened the door. He stuck his head in the back door of the car. “Judge Gitlin, Chuck,” he said quietly, shaking their hands. “We’re ready to go.”

“Thank you, sir,” Chuck said.

The judge looked at the airplane. “It doesn’t look very big,” he said in a nervous voice.

“It’s big enough,” the general answered reassuringly. “Enough room inside for the four of us.”

“You’re piloting us?” the judge asked.

“I’m sitting copilot,” the general said. “I’ve got the best pilot on the base with us for this one. Lieutenant Colonel Sharkey. He’s already logged two hundred hours on these planes.”

“Which one is he?” the judge asked.

The general gestured toward a man also in a flight jumpsuit. He was not very tall, maybe five eight, and very slight.

“He seems like a kid,” the judge said. “If he’s twenty, that’s a lot.”

“Twenty-one,” the general replied. “That’s about the age of kids we want for this plane. Their reflexes have to be fast enough to match the plane. After twenty-four, we move them over to other jobs.”

“Then why are you copiloting?” the judge asked dryly. “I was at your baptism—you’re fifty if you’re anything.”

“I figure that I’m going to wind up fired for doing this job as soon as the Pentagon learns about it, so I might as well have some fun with it.”

“You ever fly one of these bastards?” asked the judge.

“Five times, Judge,” the general said. “Don’t worry, I know how to handle it if I have to.”

“I’m seventy-three years old,” the judge said. “Are you sure this is a good idea for me?”

The general laughed. “Better late than never, Judge. Let’s go.”

The pilot was already in his seat, and he turned around to shake their hands. “Judge Gitlin, Mr. Smith.”

They both greeted Lieutenant Colonel Sharkey. A ground crewman climbed inside the plane and strapped the two passengers into their seats. He removed the judge’s white felt hat and fitted him with a flight helmet, then did the same for Chuck. The general slipped into his seat. “Don’t worry about the helmets,” he said. “Sometimes it gets a little rocky taking off and landing, and I don’t want you to bump your heads.”

“It’s not my head I’m worried about,” the judge said sardonically. The swing-out doors closed. “How long will this flight take?” he asked.

“Between an hour fifteen to an hour thirty,” the pilot said. “Depends on the weather conditions at the landing point.”

“How many miles?” the judge asked.

“Eleven hundred and seventy miles.”

“Jesus,” the judge said. “That’s almost a thousand miles an hour.”

“About,” the pilot said. He began turning on switches. A humming noise filled the cabin. Slowly the plane began to roll along to the head of the landing strip, then he turned into it; ahead was a soft blue-lit path of landing lights outlining the strip. The plane stopped and waited like a bird ready to fly.

A hollow voice echoed from the overhead speakers. “F-Zero-60. Hold position for five minutes. Two commercial flights are on your flight path.”

“Roger, tower, I read you,” the pilot answered.

“How do you control where you’re going?” the judge asked, his voice echoing in his helmet earphones.

“I don’t have to do anything beyond entering the flight data,” the pilot said. “I just take it up and put it down. The minute I reach my altitude for the flight, automatically the plane takes over. When we’re about one hundred miles over the Pacific below Los Angeles, then it comes back to me and I start taking it down.”

“Jesus Christ!” the judge said. “I guess the only thing we have left to figure out is how to stick a rocket up our asses and point us in the right direction.”

The hollow tower voice spoke to them. “Clear for takeoff, F-Zero-60. Good flight.”

As the plane took off, a loud pop echoed behind them as the airplane sped down the runway, and it seemed like only a second before it was climbing straight up into the night sky.

3

THE GIANT GAME
room was situated about a half-floor below the ballroom. Beyond that was the large rolling glass door that enclosed a complete gym loaded with the latest Nautilus equipment as well as mirrored walls in which aerobic dancers and exercisers could watch themselves in the height or depth of their glories. Outside the windows was a large path that led the way to the swimming pool. As big as the game room was, it was packed with the performers whom the Shepherds had hired for their party. The room was filled with the odor of grass being smoked down to the fingertips. More than half the performers were not only stoned, but drinking champagne as if it were tap water, and snorting coke, their noses burning with the ice-blue Peruvian being passed around.

Rainbeau sat in a corner of the room, which his two giant black bodyguards had taken as his private territory. Next to Rainbeau was a beautiful black girl whose long, wild, frizzed blond wig almost covered her face. She accompanied Rainbeau on the electric mandolin. Her sister, almost a carbon copy of her, played the bass guitar.

Beside them was Jaxon, the drummer, his pale white face frozen in ecstasy with the rush of cocaine, and Blue Boy, the piano player, who looked like a black version of the Gainsborough painting. The group kept to themselves, neither talking to nor looking at anyone else in the room. With three videos on the top ten, they didn’t have to bother. Besides, Rainbeau was angry that he was hired for the party and not invited to it as a guest. He was also angry that he had had no choice in the matter. The deal he had made with Daniel Peachtree gave him the right to do the song he wanted, and they’d paid for the full cost of the video—and that came to a lot of money, almost as much as making a motion picture.