It was a stark and balmy night. I had three slugs in me, two bourbon, one lead. I was cleaning my rosco, and thinking about buying a gun, when trouble came through the door. Blonde, as usual.
Jeez, that Noonan broad again. The Anti-Viagra.
“Eluc…” she began
“Can it, sister. Only Stoidy calls me that, and she makes you look like Alpo. Used Alpo.”
“Elucination…”
“Thats Milo, the Armenian Terrorist. Watch it.”
“What *do I call you”
“Don’t. Just get to the case. I get a thousand bucks a day, plus expenses.”
“Its for the White House…”
“Make that two thousand.”
It was a shocking case. Vandalism, bufoonery, a heinous disregard for the dignity of the office. I didn’t bat an eye. I’d seen it all before. There was the Tri-Delta case…
“So whats the problem? Put the keys back on, or buy different keyboards. Ain’t you heard of Plug and Play? Heres the number for Microsoft Tech Support. Hope you like soft jazz.”
She was scribbling my responses.
“But there’s porno pictures loaded in the laser printer tray. It’ll print a bunch of normal pages, then one will come out with…a picture”
“Picture? Spill it, toots. Picture of who?”
She wrestled with herself. I could tell she’d done that before and lost, two falls out of three.
“Linda Tripp. Naked. Well, wearing a wire”
Suddenly I needed another shot. Chose bourbon. Linda Tripp! These guys played hardball.
“Run off thank you letters to the Christian Coalition till the paper runs out. Call that number I gave you, they’ll tell you how to put in more paper. Someday. What else”
“Well, now the screens are all dotted with white-out. And George is saying that its all just hi-jinks and fun.”
“George? The one who buried Paul?”
“No, Stephanapolous, the one who looks like Paul. Buried Vince Foster.”
“Well, thats all Greek to me. Forget it. What else.”
“And this graffitti in the mens room” She passed me a note “For a good time call Monica, 555-…” I shoved it in my desk drawer. Could use a good assistant to relieve my…stress.
“Forget that too. If thats it, you can pay me and get out. Go out through the loading dock, will you, I got a reputation in this town.”
She pulled out a packet from her purse, dropped it on the desk. Wasn’t what I expected, looking for simoleans, greenbacks, dead presidents. This was a packet of stiff cards, wrapped and labeled “Palm Beach County”.
“Ooopsie!” she said, and hurriedly shoved it back into her purse, replacing it with the real stuff.
“Anything else you want?” she said, giving me the eye. She had two, only gave me one. Republicans.
“Tell Mr. Big to double PBS funding. Broadcast Garrison Keillor worldwide, then I’ll keep my trap shut.”
She disappeared in the usual way, in a huff. Or maybe it was a limo. I was left slamming down bourbon, trying to get that picture out of my mind. Linda Tripp! Damn.
