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“I like them really voluptuous,” he said, giving her the same campaign trail smile he had probably practiced in front of a mirror for months on end. “And you damn sure fill that bill.”
Clarisse could not speak without fear of the senator overhearing through the mic. But she and Angie had devised another method to communicate.
Clarisse tapped her mic twice, telling Angie to deliver the line they had practiced.
Angie said breathlessly, “I will be your best friend tonight.”
“Oh, I can see that, babe.”
One tap.
“But this will be our little secret, okay?” said Angie.
“What do you mean?”
Three taps.
“I’m married.”
He smiled. “Perfect. He’s a lucky guy.”
“And tonight, I’m a lucky girl.”
That was it for the chitchat. The rest was a mud wrestle on the bed that was energetic if not epic. Clarisse had seen better and worse.
The gasps, the moans, the squeaks of the embattled box springs. The nervous chuckle of the lone security guy outside.
You won’t be laughing tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll be unemployed.
Clarisse now put things on autopilot. Angie knew how to string the guy along. She somehow could tell right when the cork was going to pop and she pulled it back, let the guy calm, allowing a bit more time to film, because the more footage they had, the more the men tended to pay.
Clarisse pulled another notebook out of her bag and began jotting thoughts down on another project, the sounds of sex next door becoming white noise to her.
Later, when the couple was done, the senator washed up and was gone, leaving an exhausted (he thought) and sleeping (he hoped) and absolutely sexually fulfilled (he was sure) Angie on the bed, naked, along with a stack of cash on the nightstand.
Oh, this night is going to cost you so much more than that, thought Clarisse.
Ten seconds after the door closed Clarisse checked her security peephole and tapped the all-clear signal on the mic. She watched on the screen as Angie rose, washed up, got dressed, and then methodically wiped down everything in the room she might have touched. Prints she could do something about, DNA not so much, but DNA was probably not going to come into play, particularly after the maids cleaned the room. And Angie was on no database anywhere, so DNA could go screw itself.
Clarisse had worn gloves, because her printswereon file.
Angie then knocked on the connecting door and was let in to 410.
Clarisse had already put all the equipment away, and now she took the ear mic back from Angie.
Angie worked away on some fasteners and a scalp adhesive patch, and finally pulled her long hair free, revealing a bald head. She put the fake tresses in her purse.
She said in a resigned tone, “How come the richest, cheating assholes are the shortest and the fattest with the smallest dicks?”
“Somehow, in the universe, it all makes perfect sense.”
“I’d much prefer tall, rich, handsome, with a six-pack.”
“Try the NBA, Angie. They’ve got plenty of free cash flow.”
“Oh, I’ve worked that garden, baby.”
“I thought so.”
