Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [20]
“My money,” Simmons said. “That I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, as they like to say. I didn’t choose that, Phil, and I’m not about to go to confession to ask for forgiveness.”
“Cut it out, Lyle. You know I don’t feel that way.”
“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. But I want you to know, Phil, that I really admire you. I admire what you’ve achieved despite some pretty high hurdles.”
“Thanks,” Rotondi said. “I admire you, too.” He laughed. “You say you want to be president of the United States some day, and I wouldn’t bet against that happening.”
“When I am, buddy, you’ll be my attorney general.”
“The hell I will. Politics turns me off, always have.”
“We’ll see,” Simmons said, tossing bills on the table. “Let’s go. I’ve got a date, a freshman, looks hot as hell.”
As Rotondi was getting out of the Thunderbird in front of the Kappa Phi fraternity house, Simmons asked, “What did you say her name was?”
“Who?”
“The chick you were with last night. Jeannette something?”
“Jeannette Boynton.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Have a good night, buddy. Hit the books for me.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Hi, Phil,” Polly Simmons chirped as she crossed the lobby in Rotondi’s direction. “No, don’t get up,” she said, seeing him struggle to extricate himself from the chair’s soft cushions. He stood and they embraced.
“I’m sorry about your mom,” he said.
“Thanks. I’m still in shock.”
“Good flight?” he asked.
“Of course not. There aren’t any good flights anymore unless you’re a fat cat who flies first class. Pretzels and soft drinks. Ugh!”
Rotondi laughed. McTeague joined them carrying a small overnight bag.
“That’s it?” Rotondi asked.
“She flies light,” Walter McTeague said.
“Only way to fly,” Rotondi said.
Polly looked around the lobby. “Fancy digs,” she said.
Rotondi didn’t bother replying. He knew that much of any conversation with her would involve swipes at the privileged class. He basically agreed with her on that issue, only he wasn’t nearly as vocal or committed.
McTeague excused himself. Rotondi said to her, “Come on, let’s get you checked in.”
As she provided the desk clerk with the necessary information, Rotondi used the moment to take in the daughter of his friend, the senator from Illinois. He knew she was a dedicated vegetarian and exerciser; nothing other than “Certified Organic” passed her lips. Her figure reflected her healthy lifestyle. Her jeans were skintight, her blouse a little too small, which caused her breasts to strain against the silky blue fabric. She wasn’t wearing a bra. One day, she might have to struggle with weight gain, but for now she was female perfection. Rotondi had always found the game of deciding which parent a child looks like, especially infants, to be, well, infantile. But he silently played the game anyway. Polly Simmons didn’t look very much like either of her parents. She had her father’s height, and there was something about her eyes that testified to being his daughter. Her nose and cheekbones were like Jeannette’s, although not quite as refined. It was her hair that said she might have been adopted, which wasn’t true. While Jeannette’s brunette hair had had a hint of copper in it, Polly’s was the color of cinnamon, and curly. Where did that come from?
They rode the elevator to her floor and entered the suite.
“Wow!” she said, doing a pirouette. “What does this go for a night?”
“Not your concern,” Rotondi said as he opened the drapes and turned down the thermostat to make the room cooler.
“On Daddy’s tab,” she said absently. “Or some lobbyist’s.”
“He’s trying to clean up some pressing business in the Senate, Polly, so he’ll be free to—”
“Free to spend time with me in my moment of grief?”
“Yes.”
She sat heavily on the couch and stared at Rotondi, who leaned on his cane in the middle of the room. Her mouth opened and she started to say something, but instead of words there was a torrent of tears. Rotondi put his arm around her.
“She’s dead?”