Free Paramour by Gerald Petievich Page B

Rolex, inserted his flesh-colored Secret Service hearing-aid-style radio receiver into his ear, plugged it into the HL-20 radio attached to his belt under his sport coat, adjusted the volume, and trudged up the steps. He was early, but arriving early was the custom in Secret Service work. Whether it was getting to the location of a presidential visit or going on surveillance, arriving late was considered an inexcusable mistake, one of the few infractions that could cause an agent to be transferred from the White House Detail. "The President of the United States," as the legendary Special Agent Clint Hill of the Kennedy Detail used to say, "doesn't like to wait."
    Powers entered the restaurant. Inside were about twenty-five wooden tables, with checkered tablecloths and cane-backed chairs, and a butcher-block counter he guessed would seat ten or twelve. Less than half the tables and only three of the counter seats were occupied. The college-age waiters and waitresses wore white aprons and black pants. A chalkboard on the wall noted the daily specials: Algerian couscous and fruits de mer . Powers imagined the pseudo-cosmopolitan atmosphere would be popular with yuppies who'd once backpacked around Europe for a summer.
    Powers chose his own table to get a good view of the door and sat down without waiting to be seated. A few minutes later a young waiter with a short greasy ponytail and fair features came over to the table. Telling himself that eating in a restaurant on a surveillance was the best way to appear inconspicuous, Powers ordered couscous. Then, recalling that Sullivan wasn't requiring him to furnish receipts for his expenditures, he also ordered the fruits de mer and a small bottle of wine.
    With his earpiece receiver discreetly monitoring routine radio transmissions on the White House frequency, Powers finished his seashell of fruits de mer and set the plate on top of the empty couscous bowl. He still wasn't full. Because of nervous tension, he had an urge to smoke a cigarette, but he had quit three years earlier after reading an article in Readers Digest citing the fact that virtually all men suffering impotency were heavy smokers. He was determined to never smoke again.
    He glanced at his wristwatch for what must have been the tenth time. It was 6:51 P.M., was she going to be late?
    A few moments later, the waiter finished a long conversation he'd been having with a waitress about backgammon and finally took the dirty dishes from his table.
    Just then a woman came in the door.
    She was in her thirties, willowy, and had long chestnut hair parted on the side. Her cheekbones were high, and she had full, sensuous lips, satiny red with a recent application of lipstick. Her eyes were brown, deep-set, and implied sophistication and perhaps even a certain world-weariness. She wore a maroon crocheted cardigan with wide sleeves, a black knit top, and tight-fitting black pants. Slung over her right shoulder was a large geometric-print leather bag.
    Though Powers still thought it unfathomable that the President had risked his place in history by allowing himself to be compromised, now he understood: the strikingly attractive Marilyn Kasindorf was a woman no man could ignore. In a Secret Service hangout like Blackie's, agents would fight over her.
    Marilyn set her bag on a chair at the counter and casually looked about. Powers pretended to review his bill to avoid eye contact with her.
    She sat down and crossed her legs. There was a gold anklet above her right foot. Was it a band of tiny hearts? She ordered coffee from the counter waiter, and he served her immediately.
    Powers checked his wristwatch again. It was 7 P.M.: time for Morgan to make the call.
    The phone rang. The waiter picked up the receiver. "I'll check, sir," he said after a moment, then scanned the customers. "Is there someone named Marilyn here?"
    Poised, Marilyn came to her feet and moved to the end of the counter. The waiter stretched the expandable cord to