Somewhere along the way, twenty years of work had been sucked down the proverbial drain like so much dirty water. The nest egg was gone, along with the money for the ranch he was going to build back in Texas. He had nothing left that would prove, even to himself, that at one time he'd run a decent, profitable, aboveboard business.
Tonight, that fleeting moment in time seemed like a lifetime ago.
At the comer of his desk, a tumbler of whiskey sat in its usual place, a ring of moisture permanently etched into the leather surface of the writing pad. He reached for the tumbler and drank deeply, trying to quench the hunger that never seemed to leave him these days.
He was merely an opportunist, he told himself as the liquor streamed down his throat. A businessman making the best of a bad situation. But the rationalization did little to quiet his conscience. And he was much too cynical to be bothered by that now.
He no longer believed in right and wrong, hadn't for years. Black and white no longer existed. He lived in a gray world where wrong could be stretched into right and iniquity transformed into something he could live with.
Finishing the whiskey, he poured another and brooded. He drank too much, he knew. And he spent too much time at the roulette tables in Atlantic City. But, Christ, that was life. A man who lived with his vices died with them. A man who denied himself life's little pleasures died unhappy.
Clint Holsapple just didn't want to die broke.
The climate had changed in D.C. since the days he and Talbot had run in the same circles. Clint had taken on jobs he would never admit to, wallowing in the muck with the rest of the men and women who'd sold their souls for the likes of money or power. He'd been introduced to people he wouldn't let pass through his front door. He'd been paid by nameless, faceless people for jobs he couldn't admit even to himself. He loved it and hated it with a passion that was insane, like a junkie waiting for that one big rush that never seemed to come.
Now, after all the personal sacrifices and professional compromises, he was broke. At sixty-one years of age the thought left a bitter taste at the back of his throat. His moneymaking days were over. Damn if he hadn't waited too long for the break that just wasn't going to come his way.
In today's world, it seemed like a man with a conscience was a man who held himself back. The men who lived and worked by the devil' s rules prospered while the honest few paid the price. Ethics and money didn't seem to mix in this crazy town anymore. Why shouldn't he have a little piece of the pie for a change?
Talbot had come to him out of desperation, a fool in over his head, drowning in his own lust for a woman. In this case, a woman who knew too much about the wrong man. A man willing to pay megabucks for the right information, as long as it came from a discreet source.
A discreet source like Clint Holsapple.
Talbot had practically thrown this in his lap. How could Clint refuse an opportunity he'd been waiting for his entire life? As far as he was concerned, a man who didn't make his own luck was a man who didn't deserve it.
Grimacing at the irony, he drained his glass in a single, bitter gulp and reached for the telephone.
Chapter 21
"To great expectations.” Garrison Tate drank deeply from the crystal flute, blatantly admiring the striking redhead standing next to him.
''To favors granted," she said and drank, leaving a red lipstick stain on the rim.
"You're quite the negotiator, Mrs. DiRocco." Never taking his eyes from hers, he removed an eel-skin wallet from the inside pocket of his tuxedo and withdrew a never-folded one-hundred-dollar bill.
"One of my many talents." She accepted the bill, then expertly rolled it into a tight, seamless tube. "At least that's what my husband tells me." She handed the bill back to him.
Cradling the tube between his fingers, Tate watched as she slipped the thin straps of her dress from her shoulders. His heart strummed in anticipation. He wondered if it was from the sight of her ripe body or the drug he was about to consume.
As the rosy peaks of her nipples came into view, he bent slightly, put the bill to his nose, and snorted the line of fine white powder laid in neat rows on a beveled glass mirror.
An instant later, the drug sent a brilliant burst of euphoria raging through his body. It sparked in his brain and traveled through his bloodstream like a lighted fuse, exploding in his groin with a sexual power that was stunning in its intensity.
"Your turn." He passed the bill to the eager young woman. Brenda DiRocco was naked except for the thong-back panties that left little to the imagination. She was tall and large-boned with a wonderfully rounded body that was lush in all the right places. Her breasts were ample and hung like grapefruit before him as she leaned forward to suck in her share of the drug.
Tate reached out, sliding his finger into the front of her panties and pulling the tiny cover aside. "I've always wondered if the drapes matched the carpet." Starting with his jacket, he began to undress.