“Speaking of which”—Stoat, giving a worried backward glance over his shoulder—”I almost forgot, Bob. What about that damn rat?”
“Oh, you keep it,” said Clapley amiably. “It’s yours.”
Contrary to popular assumption, Lisa June Peterson was not sleeping with her boss. To be sure, she had been hired by Dick Artemus with that in mind. The three names, the long straw-blond hair, the impeccable Tri Delt credentials from Florida State—she was everything the new governor desired in a junior staff assistant. But his lubricious plans for Lisa June had been derailed by her unexpected and dazzling competency, which made her too valuable to be a mistress. Dick Artemus was not a brilliant man but he appreciated talent, especially talent that made him look good. Lisa June was meticulous, quick-thinking and intuitive, and she advanced quickly to the important position of executive assistant—gatekeeper to the governor’s office. Nobody got a personal audience with Dick Artemus unless Lisa June Peterson checked off on it. No phone call reached the governor’s desk without ringing first at Lisa June’s. And, consequently, it was largely because of her that Dick Artemus’s office appeared to run smoothly.
He would have been disappointed to know that Lisa June Peterson’s fierce and protective efficiency had nothing to do with loyalty. She was assiduous and responsible by nature. It was not the rare honor of working for a governor that had drawn her to the job but rather a keen and calculating curiosity. Lisa June wanted to learn how government really worked, wanted to know who held the true power, and how they’d gotten it. She was looking down the road—long after Dick Artemus had returned to his Toyota tent jamborees in Jacksonville—to a day when she herself could be a serious player, putting to good use all the tricks she’d learned, all the contacts she’d made while baby-sitting Governor Dick…
“Where do you see yourself, hon?” he’d ask her now and then.
And she would answer: “Someday I’d like to be a lobbyist.”
Dick Artemus would crinkle his face as if he’d just stepped in dog shit, as if lobbying was the most loathsome job in the universe. Lisa June Peterson was always tempted to say something sarcastic about the lustrous ethical standards of your average car salesman…
But she held her tongue, and took the calls. For someone who professed to despise lobbyists, the new governor counted plenty of them as friends. And they were (Lisa June was the first to admit) a mostly purulent lot. Neggy Keele, the NRA’s seedy point man in Tallahassee, sprung instantly to mind. So did Carl Bandsaw, the pinstriped hustler who represented sugarcane growers and phosphate miners. And then there was sweaty-faced Palmer Stoat, the boss hog of them all. No cause was too abhorrent for Stoat—he’d work for anybody and anything, if the price was right. In addition to the requisite lack of a conscience, Stoat had been blessed with a monumental ego; he was openly proud of what he did. He considered it prestigious, the fixing of deals.
Other lobbyists didn’t try to sleep with Lisa June Peterson because they assumed she was sleeping with the governor. Dick Artemus did nothing to discourage the rumor, nor did Lisa June herself. It made life easier, not having to fend off so many drooling scumbags. Palmer Stoat was the only one who didn’t seem to care. In fact, he often hinted to Lisa June that he and the governor had “shared” other women, as if inviting her to join some exclusive club. She declined firmly but without reproach. In two years Dick Artemus himself had made only one drunken pass at Lisa June Peterson, late one evening when she was alone at her desk. He had come at her from behind, reaching around and cupping both hands on her breasts. Lisa June hadn’t protested or squirmed or yelled—she had simply put down the telephone and said: “You’ve got sixty seconds, Governor.”
“To do what?” Dick Artemus had asked, his breath sour and boozy.
“Touch ’em,” Lisa June had said, “and you’d better make the most of it, because this is all you’ll ever get from me. No blow jobs, no hand jobs, no intercourse, nothing. This is it, Governor, your one minute of glory. Fondle away.”