Fork in the Road

FORK IN THE ROAD By Scott Turner Chapter 5

"If you come to a fork in the road, take it." -Yogi Berra

Disclaimer: This work is a sequel to my first effort at writing gay erotic fiction. As such, it may help if you've read "Strange Bedfellows," (available in its entirety on Nifty, with a cleaned up and re-edited version now partially posted at the Rainbow Community Writers' Project). The story is fiction, but it occasional depicts scenes of sexual activity between consenting adults. If it's illegal for you to view such material, then please move on. The work is the sole property of the author, and my not be reposted, reproduced or published elsewhere without my expressed consent. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy it.

CHAPTER 5

The fundraiser had been a good time, and a huge success by Will Maxson's accounting. Of course, as a state employee, he couldn't officially account for, let alone touch, funds that were raised for partisan purposes. Those were donations to the party, not the Senate Election Committee, and he was paid by the good people of the State of Wisconsin. There was a wall there that needed to be officially regarded. It was a fine line, but a line nonetheless. Still, the party's guys and gals were gushing over the financial results of the night's efforts as he looked over their shoulders and smiled. Most of it would go to Ted Hackett's final re-election campaign as Governor. Most of the rest would be quietly donated to Maureen's race for Attorney General. Frick would dole out the rest to incumbents or up-and-comers whom he wanted to owe him something.

Shit, he looks good,' Scott thought as he surveyed Randy Oakes swaying between his father and a lobbyist for the counties association. Even when he's drunk he's hot, and I'm horny as hell. Marty had visited just a week earlier, but he was a young virile guy with a lot of imagination. `Son of a mother fucking bitch,' he thought to himself as he pressed his chubbing cock down through the pocket of his pants.

But his folks were there. Big Scott' was prepping for his run at Maureen's seat and he had to make an appearance to press the flesh and schmooze for the night. Suzanne didn't like it, but had dutifully accompanied her husband. She was already learning how to hide her disdain for the role of the political spouse. They're gonna have to work that out,' Scott thought.

Both of Scott's heads turned back to Randy. The lower one twitched against his thigh. Forget it,' he said to himself and he went to his mom's side while his dad worked the crowd. Maybe mixing it up with Mom for a while will make me drop this hard on,' he hoped. Plus, he saw the distress she was in and felt the need to bail her out.

Suzanne was delighted to have his company as Scotty whispered into her ear about the mucky-mucks the old man was sucking up to. He'd been at the Capitol for just over three months, but had learned quickly who mattered and who didn't. And it was clear that the big guy knew which flesh to press. Scotty was impressed. Suzanne was bored, but was happy to see her son enjoying himself, and had long since resigned herself to her husband's run for state office.

Then her son gently grabbed her elbow and tugged her onto the dance floor. They swayed together to an old Duke Ellington tune. "It's gonna be okay, you know," he whispered into his mother's ear. "He's going to win this seat, he's gonna be great in the job and he's going to do good things." She looked up into son's eyes, questioning him without saying a word. Scott smiled and nodded. "Can you think of anybody else who could, or should, replace Maureen? I mean, I know political crap has never mattered much to you. But it really does matter, Mom. It matters a lot." Suzanne nodded, albeit reluctantly. "He's a good man, he's a noble and principled man." Scott giggled a bit and said, "The same reasons that got you to marry him are the reasons the folks back home should elect him." Suzanne nodded again and put her head on her son's shoulder.

They left the dance floor, and Scott persuaded his mom to order him a drink. He sipped a bourbon and coke, and then continued, "So many people take the easy way out and just bash the politicians in order to let themselves off the hook. It's like the nation's or the world's problems aren't their own damned fault. Dad's not like that." He smirked. "Face it, mom. He doesn't need that job." He took another sip. "Plus, he never let me get away with any shit. And he'll spend his time in office ranting at the folks back home the same way he did with me all those years, and still does. It'll do em good. Most of the folks around us don't want to own the crap. They want to pretend that it's all somebody else's fault. He won't let em get away with that, and that's what they need."

He did his best `Big Scott' impersonation, "So, you don't like things the way they are? So what are YOU gonna do about it? You don't like it? Well, you OWN it, so YOU FIX IT!"

His dad overheard him from a distance of about fifteen feet, glanced over and laughed. Suzanne wanted to find a hole to crawl into, but she laughed herself. She'd always found Scotty to be a funny boy, and now was happy to find that he was still a funny young man.

Suzanne glanced up over her son's shoulder and Scott felt a hand on his back. He turned his head, then shot it back. "Oh, Mom! This is Randy Oakes. He's my old TA in last year's Poli-Sci class, and Maureen's new Chief of Staff."

She took his hand in hers. "We've met, Randy, but when you were a real youngster. Still in high school, I think. But we've known your dad for years. And you were at our table at the scholarship dinner last spring."

Randy straightened up and Scott muffled a chuckle at the guy's effort to appear stone cold sober. It was a valiant effort and mostly successful. "Yes, Mrs. Turner. I met you and Mr. Turner at a Jefferson-Jackson Day dinner for the party when I was a kid. But we didn't have much chance to chat during the scholarship luncheon. I just wanted to say hello," he put a firm grip on Scott's shoulder, "and to tell you how much I've enjoyed working with your son, both in his class and now over at the Capitol."

"Mom, Randy was the one who nudged Professor Cushing to nominate me for the LaFollette Scholarship."

Suzanne's face lit up. "Well, Randy, you've not just grown up to a good looking young man but one of great taste and judgment."

Randy's right hand slid off of Scott's left shoulder and down his back, settling just above his ass. "Well, thank you for the complement, but it's impossible to not recognize real talent when you see it. I was just the messenger to Dr. Cushing. Scott did all the work to earn what he's got." His fingers gently rubbed the small of Scott's back. "Anyway, I just wanted to say hello again." He glanced at Scott's empty glass. "Can I buy you one?"

Scott grinned sheepishly, and looked at his mom.

"You're not driving are you?" Suzanne warned.

"No, Mother." He put a sarcastic emphasis on the word mother. "I came here on foot. You know I'm only, like, four blocks away from here now."

"Then go have another one with Randy while I go and find your father." She tapped Randy's forearm. "Good to see you again Randy." And she was off.

Randy nodded toward the bar. "C'mon, I'll buy you another one."

Scott was a bit apprehensive, but was also exceedingly horny, and he kind of liked the guy. `What the hell?' he thought, but knew that Randy's motives were probably somewhat nefarious.

Randy handed Scott his drink. "It's good to be working together again, don't you think?"

Scott smiled. "I've always enjoyed working with you. Maureen's treating you well, I presume?"

Just then her arms came around both of their shoulders. "The two smartest men in my life, no doubt conspiring to take over something, somewhere." Both men blushed and shrugged.

Scott grinned. "Yeah, Maureen, we're plotting to take over the lower house and make everybody's life a little easier."

She patted his back. "You figure out how to pull that off and I'll give you the keys and title to my car."

"The BMW?"

She winked at him. "The `Beamer."

Randy feigned a frown and cleared his throat. "As your chief of staff, senator, I have to advise you that I believe that's illegal."

She patted his back. "Bullshit, Randy. I know my way around the finance laws, and I could get it done if I really meant it." She heard her name called from several feet away. "Sorry, men, but duty calls. You boys have a good night."

As she walked away, Randy smiled. "She's the best. Smartest woman I know, and it's good to be in her office. Gives me and the old man a bird's eye view of what's going on there to gear up for his campaign. I have a good feel for that. Once Dad actually declares for that seat and gets her endorsement, I think it'll probably be a lock."

Scott's eyebrows raised. "You two have talked to her about that? I mean, her endorsement?"

"No, not yet. Don't want to be too presumptuous, and it's still early." He waved his hand around the room. "But Dad got her into all of this to start with, and he's been a solid backer all these years. She'll be with us when the time comes."

Scott was frustrated on every level. On the one hand he wanted to take this guy back to the apartment and ravish him. On another, he knew that Randy was delusional about Maureen's support for his father, but he couldn't tell him so. Randy had no idea that `Big Scott' was going to run for the seat. And finally he had to work with Randy at the Capitol. The combined effect of this conversation quickly deflated the plumping organ behind the pleats of his slacks.

Still, the two of them had flirted heavily during Scott's freshman year, and he and Marty had enjoyed one hell of a night in Randy's apartment when his marriage was going to hell the previous spring. The guy knew how to suck cock and was one hell of a hungry bottom. Scott thought about that night again. There was Randy, legs in the air and Scott hammering his hole. Marty, sitting on Randy's face while Scott leaned in and sucked swallowed Marty's rock hard tool. The pressure beneath the pleats of his pants began to return.

Randy leaned toward him, speaking in a whisper. "So, now that I'm not teaching you anymore, and am single, what's to stop us from going back to my place and having hot, sweaty, unbridled sex."

Scott bit his lip. He was so damned horny and Randy looked so damned good. And Randy was willing; more than willing, he was practically begging. He knew that this guy would do just about whatever he wanted. Scott cleared his throat. "Uhm, the working relationship complicates things, Randy, don't you think?"

"But we're working on the same side, and we're not in the same office. It's not like there's a real conflict of interest here." He grinned and subtly brushed his hand across his own package. "And I'm guessing neither one of us has gotten any in quite a while."

He was mostly right on that point. Since Marty's last visit Scott had only had his hands to satisfy him. Plus, he had a pretty good buzz going from the drinks. And Randy just looked so fucking hot. `I might regret this later, but what the fuck,' he said to himself. "Okay, Randy."

Randy blinked. "You serious?"

"Let's go back to your place and I'll show you how serious I am."

Less than fifteen minutes after bidding goodnight to his parents, Maureen and to the governor, Scott had Randy pinned against the hallway wall of the apartment with his tongue in Randy's mouth. He pulled his face away and gasped. "You know there's something wrong with this."

Randy leered and smirked. "I know. Ain't it great? And I didn't exactly get you over here at gunpoint, so quit your bitching and kiss me again. You're a great kisser." Then with one hand he pulled Scott's face into his own, and with the other he grabbed his ass.

Scott was already rock hard and he ground his groin into Randy's swelling package as their tongues waged a fierce, wet duel. He pulled away again, his chin shimmering with Randy's moisture and grabbed the lapel of his partner's sport coat. "Come on, dammit!" and he practically dragged Randy through the living room and kitchen into to bedroom.

Both sport coats were flung over the back of the chair at Randy's desk. In an instant, Randy was gnawing on Scott's right nipple through his shirt and mauling his crotch with his palm. Scott laughed. "Jesus, man. Take it easy on the jewels!" He looked down at the stud on his knees while he loosened his own tie. The tie fell onto the floor and Scott continued looking down. He grabbed the hair on the back of Randy's head and forced his face into his crotch. "But suck my cock, dammit!"

Randy nuzzled and gnawed at the package in front if him, and then shook his head free from Scott's grasp, but only because he'd started working on the belt and the clasp on Scott's slacks. "Let me at it then and I'll suck the fucking life out of you."

Scott chuckled. "Well, don't go that far." Randy's mouth assaulted his tool. Scott gasped, "oh my fucking god!" Randy was on his knees and had worked his own slacks down to the floor without breaking the rhythm on Scott's thrusting pole. Scott had a firm hand on each side of his head and was fucking his face, and he loved it. The head of Scott's tool hit Randy's throat, and Randy squeezed Scott's ass cheeks even tighter with each thrust.

Randy pulled back, gasped and looked up. "No, sir. I won't go quite that far."

Scott gripped his glistening tool and smacked Randy's cheek with it. Randy sighed and offered up the other cheek for another whack. He leered down. "Sir. Hmmm, I think I like your attitude."

Randy kissed the slimy cock in front of him. "I want your cock, sir." He ran his tongue up the shaft and looked up. "Will you please give it to me, sir?"

For Scott this was brand new territory but he was into it. "Take off your fucking pants and get on the bed. I'm gonna make your ass my own."

Randy started to stand. "Make me your bitch, sir."

Scott pushed him back down. "Take off your fucking pants, and then get down there and untie my shoes and take them off, you fucker."

There was some delight in the whimper Randy offered up as he laid on his back and shimmied out of his pants. His tight gray boxer briefs already displayed an impressive wet spot at the top of the impressive column beneath the fabric. Randy rolled to his side on the floor and untied Scott's shoes. He slid off the black oxfords one at a time and asked permission to remove the socks. He received it with a grin.

Scott had never been here before, but he was half in the bag and he was enjoying it. After Randy had peeled off the right sock, he put the flat of his foot on the stud's chest and pushed him back down to the floor. He curled his toes to try and squeeze Randy's left nipple, and the reaction he got told him he was successful. He slid the foot a few feet and Randy eagerly sucked the big toe into his mouth. He licked the bottom of the foot and Scott squirmed. "Thank you, sir," Randy whispered.

Scott was stunned, stunned by Randy's willing submission and by his own willingness to indulge it. He'd never wanted to treat another person this way, but Randy clearly wanted it. He sneered. "You want to be my bitch, don't you boy?"

Randy nodded and lowered his eyes. "Like you don't know, sir. I want to be your fucking bitch tonight, sir."

Before they awoke, both had come three times. Scott had shot his load into a condom deep inside of Randy, on Randy's ass and his back and all over his face. Randy had begged and pleaded and submitted, and Scott had delivered in fine fashion.

Scott rolled over and opened his eyes, alone in the bed and could smell coffee. Randy walked in with two mugs, his dangling member leading the way and a grin on his face. He extended an arm. "Your coffee, sir."

Scott grinned and rolled his eyes. "Okay, enough of the `sir' shit." Randy put his own mug on the night stand and slid back between the sheets, and then picked up the mug.

Randy chuckled. "Okay." There was a pause while both sipped. "So how are ya'?"

Scott stared ahead and mulled it over. "Not sure." Then he grinned. "Well, I'm exhausted, and guess I really needed that. But I'm not sure it was the best idea in the world."

Randy patted his knee. "No worries, Scott. No strings, no baggage, no expectations. I think we both needed that." He cleared his throat. "I only indulge that submissive side every now and then, and if it matters, you delivered in great form."

Scott pursed his lips and chuckled through his nose. "Well, thanks. I was a little worried when you almost took us off the bed." At one point during their second go round, Randy was on all fours, his hands grasping the side edge of the mattress with Scott pounding him from behind. Randy lifted a hand to reach behind and grab Scott's ass in encouragement, and he lost his leverage on the mattress. In an instant, Randy's head and both of his hands were on the floor and Scott was dragged along behind him. They both laughed, and Scott finished the task by pummeling the guy below him in that position.

Randy laughed again. "Yeah, that was quite the trip. A new one on me," he patted Scott's thigh again. "But you didn't miss a beat, champ."

Scott looked over and squinted. "I'm surprised you don't have rug burns on your forehead."

They showered separately. This had not been some romantic rendezvous calling for any intimate closure. It was just a hot fuck, and they both knew it. Still, they bade each other well with a hug in the hallway before Scott opened the front door and made his exit. Randy offered him a ride back to his apartment, but Scott noted the nice weather and said he'd prefer to walk back.

That was hot, and I needed it,' he thought to himself as he hit the sidewalk but probably a mistake. We'll see.'

Two evenings later, Scott was sitting in the apartment reading when the phone rang. Craig shouted from the other room. "For you, Scott. I think it's your little buddy Radar. Good news I suppose." Scott picked up the extension in his room and could hear Craig tromping into the kitchen. Then he heard Brett's footsteps mosey out of his bedroom. It was a rare evening when Brett was not at Angie's place.

"Hello."

"Well, chief, you've been drafted into another year of servitude. Only sixty-seven percent of the vote this time, but biggest margin of any of the newly elected or re-elected members." The clerk giggled. "Congratulations."

"Thanks, Radar. Tell me you're coming back, too."

"It'd be a pleasure to work with you for another year. You know that."

"Great. G'night. I'll stop by tomorrow morning, and we'll get back to work."

"I'll be here and have the stuff all ready."

"I know you will. Thanks, Walter. Now go home, or wherever you go when you're not holed up in that friggin' office taking care of me." He put down the phone and closed his book. He heard a cork pop in the kitchen, and put on a pair of sweatpants before padding his way out to join his roommates.

Craig was pouring a third glass of bubbly as he and Brett both started humming the melody of "Hail to the Chief."

They clinked glasses and sipped. "Thanks guys." He sipped again. "This is great. I just wish Marty was here."

Scott was unopposed in his bid for the presidency of the Wisconsin Student Association Student Senate for a second term. He promptly recommended Walter Jameison for reappointment as clerk, and followed up with another recommendation for a bump of the clerk's stipend. Both passed without opposition.

Four days later, he was in the office pounding out a quick email to Marty when the phone rang. He looked at the caller ID screen and grabbed the receiver. "Yeah, Radar, what's up?"

"Hey, Scott. Elliot Lyman is here and is wondering if you have a few minutes to meet with him."

Lyman was one of the newly elected members of the Student Senate.

Scott pulled open the file drawer of his desk and looked at the clock. "Uhm, yeah. Didn't get a chance to press the flesh with him during the swearing in last night." He fumbled through the tabs and found Lyman's file folder. "Ask him to give me about five minutes, will you? I'm right in the middle of something here, but will wrap it up, and casually mention that I have to be in class in about a half hour, will ya'?"

"Gotcha, chief."

"Thanks. Send him up in five."

He returned to the keyboard, and typed quickly. "Well, bud, back to business. Newly elected member wants to pay a call, so it's get acquainted time. Love to Jill and Ashley, and don't forget to call when the stork visits. Be good, or don't get caught bein' bad."

He hit send and then opened the manila folder. Everybody had to submit a brief bio along with their nomination papers when they ran for the WSA Student Senate, and Scott kept a copy of all of it in his desk for reference. Elliot was a junior who'd just made his first bid for the university's student government, and had won handily. He was a philosophy major who'd graduated from Oconomowoc High School, about an hour east of Madison. He'd made the Dean's List every semester of his first two years, and the GPA listed in the biography boasted a 3.8. The printing on the nomination papers was impeccable, Scott noted. There was a tap on the door frame.

"Scott?"

He stood and came around from behind the desk, extending a hand. He smiled. "Elliot, please come on in. Sorry to keep you waiting."

Elliot Lyman was a small young man, maybe five foot six, with a very slender, nearly frail build. He had straight jet-black hair that fell down on his forehead and just touched the top of his ears. The eyes were a rich brown and were piercing in their gaze. If he needed to shave very often one would never know it from his smooth face. The features were sharp. Sharp nose, sharp chin, thin lips. He accepted Scott's hand with a weak grasp and smiled. "No problem. I know you're a busy guy and probably should have called ahead."

Scott gestured to the chair in front of his desk and returned to his own. "Not a problem. Trying to call me here is tough anyway, as I don't keep very regular hours here. Depends on what's going on with my classes. But I hope Walter told you I'm not long for the office today. Class in about a half hour."

Lyman nodded as he set his backpack on the floor and sat down. "Yeah he did. Not a problem, because I do too. I just wanted to drop in and introduce myself since we're going to be working together."

Scott interrupted, "And I apologize for not making the time to meet you last night when we were sworn in."

Elliot gave a subtle wave of his hand. "No worries. Congratulations, by the way on the unanimous re-election as president."

Scott grinned and nodded. "And I thank you for your vote." There was an awkward pause. "So is this just a get acquainted visit, or is there something specific I can do for you."

Elliot mulled it over briefly. "Well...yes and yes. I mean, it is sort of a `courtesy get to know you' visit, but I do want to make a request. I just didn't want to make it in a stale e-mail. I wanted to make it personally."

Scott's eyebrows rose. "Committee assignment?" Right after he was re-elected president Scott had thanked the members of the Student Senate, and had asked them to e-mail their committee assignment preferences within two weeks.

"Yeah, I'm real serious about my request and it seemed to me that a personal, face to face appeal might mean more than some faceless e-mail."

Scott pursed his lips and nodded. "Makes sense. So what's your goal, Elliot?"

"Finance. I'd like to chair the budget committee. Next to your post, that's probably the best position from which to make a difference around here. I mean, I ran for this with the encouragement of a lot of classmates and friends, and want to really help shape the priorities of the WSA and student life."

Scott smiled. "Well, the power of the purse is an awful lot of power, I admit. We control a lot of student fees that are doled out to dozens of campus organizations, and it really can make a difference in the college lives of our friends and fellow students and even the community around us. The budgeting is probably the single biggest expression of our priorities."

Elliot's eyes widened and he nodded enthusiastically. "I know. And I wanted to let you know that I'd like to work with you in shaping those priorities from the chair of the WSA's finance committee. You were pretty clear, and eloquent last night, about wanting to continue to maintain and improve the quality of student life, and I want to help you do that." He paused. "I just wanted to let you know that right away and in person." Scott glanced at the clock again, a gesture that wasn't lost on Elliot. "I know you need to get going, and so do I. I just want to let you know that I admired your work on our behalf last year, both in this office and among the Regents. I've followed the news coming out of the WSA pretty closely since I started school here, and the work you've done has been very impressive."

Scott smiled and looked down somewhat shyly. "Well thank you, Elliot."

"And I want to jump on board and work with you in the coming year in the most meaningful possible way."

Elliot stood and then leaned down to pick up his backpack. "Well, thanks for your time, Scott. I hope you'll be able to honor my request. I don't know if you've already begun settling those committee assignments, or if you already have somebody else in mind, but I hope you'll give this bid of mine serious consideration." He extended his small, bony hand across the desk.

Scott noted again the weakness of his grip. "I haven't even gotten back requests from all the members yet, and probably won't finalize things until a day or two before our next meeting. But I appreciate your interest and your obvious conviction. I can't make any promises right now, but I do look forward to working with you."

Lyman smiled somewhat meekly. "And me with you. Thanks for your time. I'll let you go." He turned and quietly walked out the door.

Icabod Crane,' Scott thought. That's who he reminds me of, a young, perhaps smaller version of how I've always pictured Icabod Crane. All he needs is a horse and a three-cornered hat.'

Scott shut down his computer and locked the office door. On his way out, he paused by the front desk. Walter was nowhere to be seen. "Radar? You still here?"

The clerk appeared from around the corner with a mouthful of submarine sandwich. "Yep. Sorry, was just grabbing lunch."

"You're entitled. Hey, do we keep copies of all the campaign materials folks use when they run for office?"

Walter swallowed. "Oh yeah." Then he grinned and motioned with his thumb and index finger. "Hell, my file on your two campaigns is about this thick," indicating a couple of inches.

Scott grinned. "You can thank Craig and Marty for that. They really pumped out the B.S., especially last year. Anyway, will you pull out Lyman's stuff and put it in my mailbox? I want to get another look on the stuff he ran on, see where he's coming from."

Walter wiped his lips with a napkin. "It'll be there when you come in next."

Scott looked at the clock. "That'll be tomorrow morning, but right now I have to run. See ya' then."

"See ya' later, chief."

The next day he hummed and smiled as he slid into his own parking space. Securing a reserved parking spot on campus for the WSA President had been a coup. It was a new perk that Walter had arranged and given to Scott as a gift upon his re-election. It was right outside the building that housed the WSA offices, and it really pissed off the support staff of the University's Buildings and Grounds and Financial Aid staff, both of whom occupied the building right next door and who had to park in the ramp three blocks away. It was sweet.

Scott grabbed the backpack from the passenger's seat and his travel mug, locked the car door and made his way inside. True to his word as always, Walter had left the Lyman campaign file in his mailbox. Scott juggled the backpack and the mug and retrieved the folder, then ambled up the stairs and settled in at his desk. He booted up his computer and opened the file folder. The contents were thin, but this had been Elliot's first run for the WSA. Another copy of his bio, the finance report, two fliers that would have been handed out or left on doorknobs and two posters that would have been stapled to kiosks around campus.

The finance report listed twenty-five or so donors and none of the names rang a bell with Scott. He read through the campaign literature. "Very vanilla," he muttered to himself, and then thought, pretty good politician, I guess. Spends a handful of words that say next to nothing.' The promotional stuff touted his Wisconsin roots, his strong GPA, his loyalty to the UW and his strong desire to promote and protect the interests of the average student.' "Hmmm," he muttered out loud. "Little bit of a populist in there. The average student.' Wonder what the hell he means by that."

The computer was warmed up now, so Scott opened the spreadsheet of the latest election results Radar had compiled. It showed that Lyman had kicked ass over his opponent, unseating an incumbent from the fraternity crowd whom Scott had considered to be lazy and fairly worthless anyway.

`Probably a pretty good bet, our Mr. Lyman. Kind of an odd duck, in a way, but somebody I think I can work with. Besides, don't have anybody else to go with on this one. And he did go out of his way to make a personal appeal, after all. That counts for something, too.' He opened a fresh word document and began building his list of committee assignments. "Finance, Chair: Elliot Lyman."

Scott rolled over in bed, partially roused from a deep sleep. What the fuck was that? When the fog cleared, it dawned on him. That was the damned cell phone.' That's what that was. The cell phone. But it had stopped ringing. He looked at the clock. 3:16 a.m. He checked the screen. "One missed call." He punched view,' and saw Marty's initials. He smiled and stretched, then rolled out of bed and lumbered into the kitchen for a glass of water. He returned and switched on the bedside lamp and then took a long drink, coughed and cleared his throat. Then he hit `reply.'

"Yo!"

"How's my godson?"

Marty giggled. "Fit as a fiddle and ready to take advantage of you at every turn. Nine pounds, one ounce. Ten fingers, ten toes, strong heart and lungs, full head of hair and hung like a mule. Got done screaming his brains out a half hour ago and now feeding like a little pig."

"A keeper."

"Gonna look like his mom, except for the hung like a mule part."

"Thank God for that. Takes after his godfather."

"Ha! Yeah, right."

"Send me some pictures."

"I will. Gimme a couple days. His skin is still pretty blotchy and his head still looks kinda goofy. Plus, Jill is still all sweaty and crap. I'm gonna let their bodies settle into the normal mode and then take a bunch of pics for everybody to see. Actually, Scotty, newborns are beautiful on one level, just `cuz they're yours, but they're not exactly cute. The nurse says it takes a day or so before they become really cute. But this lad is going to be a hottie. He'll be a lady killer."

Scott adjusted the pillows and sat upright. He chuckled. "And how's Jill doing?"

"She's unbelievable, Scott. Thirteen hours of labor. I could never do what she just did, and wouldn't want to if I could I don't think. But even as a spectator, more or less, it was the single most emotional experience of my life." His voice cracked and he sniffed. "I don't think it's possible to completely describe the physical and emotional worlds that she's been in the last day, or what I've gone through even as the lowly dad. The nurse said it was a tough delivery, but not the hardest she's ever seen. I only started crying four or five times, but she never grabbed my privates and told me what a fucker I was for doing this to her."

Scott laughed. "Is Ashley there?"

"No. She's at Jill's folks' place. She knows what's going on, but we knew it was gonna go long and late, so we made her camp out at the grandfolks'. I'm gonna take a nap in the lounge here, and then go home, shower and then go and get her."

"You sound tired. Go take your nap and call me again when you can. I'll plan a visit as soon as it works for you guys." He paused. "Give Jill and Ashley and little Scott a kiss and a hug for me, and keep some for yourself."

Marty paused. "Love you, too, professor."

"Go take your nap, and take good care of my godson."

"Go back to sleep."

"Love you."

"And we all love you, too."

Scott hung up the phone. He laid on his back for fifteen minutes and stared at the ceiling with a grin on his face. Finally, he muttered "fuck it," and then put his feet on the floor, slowly slid into his robe and went to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.

Will Maxson sighed when he looked at the three piles of mail. There was a large manila envelope in the third pile, and he recognized the return address. Iowa. "Shit," he muttered as he grabbed for the letter opener. He slit the seal, and got up and closed the door. `Wonder what we're gonna get today, and when Frick is gonna call,' he mused as he returned to his desk. "Aw fuck." He picked up the receiver and dialed Clara.

"Yes, Mr. Maxson."

"Clara," he cleared his throat. "Please bring me a bank bag and a deposit slip and a disclosure form. I'm going to take care of this week's contributions to the campaign committee myself."

There was a long, very pregnant pause. "I can do that sir. I'll be right in."

"Thank you." Will squared the checks into a tidy pile, totaling over two hundred thousand, and set them in the center drawer and then slid the envelope into the shredder. Then he began working on the mail addressed to him personally with the opener. There was a knock on the door. "Come on in Clara." He was sweating profusely and she was frowning. She put the financial forms and deposit bag on his desk, turned and left.

Scott was humming when he sauntered in. "Hey, Clara. What's shakin' today?"

She was hammering hard on the keyboard and Scott couldn't imagine brows being knit any tighter. She didn't look up. "I have no earthly idea what's `shakin' as you say. No idea at all anymore."

Scott stepped back from the desk and thought `Whoa!' He cleared his throat. "Is the chief in?

She typed harder and faster. "He's in, but he's busy at the moment. I'll have him call you if you need."

He stepped back another two steps. "Uhm, yeah, Clara. That'd be great. You need anything? Want me to run to the bank on the way out today?"

She huffed. "Nope. Mr. Maxson is handling the deposit himself again, including putting the paperwork together. He's working on it now and will be handling the whole thing on his own." She paused and looked up. "Don't ask."

"Uhm, okay. But will you ask Mr. Maxson to give me a call when he has a minute. I need to ask him something." Scott turned and left and took a deep breath. `What the Hell?' he thought as he moseyed to his cube. He had simply wanted to ask Will for a little extra time off to go to the baptism in Rockford in a few weeks. It was no big deal, and he'd been there long enough now to earn the time off.

He made his way back to his cube, took off his coat and looked left. There was Grant's red mop top peeking over the top of his cube. "What's up Corny?"

A thin, bony hand slowly rose with the middle finger extended. Scott chuckled. Cornell stood. "Lunch today?"

"Ella's at 12:30. I got a two o'clock, a four and a study group tonight."

"Poor boy."

Scott chomped into a greasy, cheesy Reuben sandwich and chewed. His friend looked stressed. He swallowed and gulped on the Coke. "What has you looking like death today?"

Grant shook his head. "Frick." Grant munched on a fry. "He stopped by with a long list of questions about the environmental shit I sent to Will. Said it wasn't specific enough. Wanted chapter and verse of which laws and which administrative reg's would have to be altered, and how they'd need to be changed in order to accomplish...A, B and C." He sipped his iced tea. "Like a dummy, I grabbed a copy of the caucus report from the start of the session, and I'm like Sorry Senator, but I didn't see any of this on the adopted caucus agenda for the session. I guess I misunderstood what was expected. I was going to ask around if this stuff looked like where we were supposed to be headed. Well he just cuts me off like Jack the Ripper! He's getting all red in the face and shit, and practically spitting in my face. You'll do no such thing! This is a project you're working on for me! You'll not bring this to Maxson! You'll not bring this to McCarthy! You'll bring this right back to me, or your ass will be out on the street! Do you understand?"

Scott put down his sandwich and just stared.

Grant put up his hands and shrugged. "But it gets better! A half hour later, Will drops by all sweaty and baggy and looking like hell and just says, Give Senator Frick what he wants, will you?' And that's all he says. So I just nod and say, sure thing.'"

They walked out of Ella's Deli together again. "Just do what the chief says, Grant." Scott patted him on the shoulder. "We don't know what the hell is going on. Sometimes just following orders' is an acceptable defense if something is going wrong. Frick told you what to do. Will told you what to do. For now, just do it. But keep good notes. Start jotting down the visits from Frick or Will in your day planner, and save all your notes on a disk in addition to your hard drive. If you feel the need, bring your own laptop to work and start keeping a second record on a computer, then do that too. Remember, everything you generate on the computer in your cube is state property and subject to public inspection. But if you do that, be discreet about it. Make sure you frame everything in an I was directed to...' kind of voice."

Grant nodded. "Thanks, Scott."

"Keep me posted." They parted ways to head to their separate classes.

************** Scott's poli-sci class on political parties had just ended. His professor, Dr. Shelby Stellpflug was shuffling papers. She looked over her glasses. "Mr. Turner. You're either dawdling or you have something on your mind. I'm guessing it's the latter."

Scott zipped his backpack. "Well, uhm, Dr. Stellpflug, I do have a question."

Shelby Stellpflug had been an assistant secretary of Health and Human Services in the previous administration, and a long-time member of the Republican National Committee. She was, as far as Scott could tell, one of the few true conservatives on the faculty's campus, but was well regarded, fair and had a wealth of experience in partisan politics.

"Why didn't you ask it during class?"

"Well, it didn't really pertain to today's lecture or discussion."

"I see. Good for you. I hate distracting questions that get us off on tangents."

Scott grinned. "But I think it's something you could clarify for me, given your experiences."

"Okay." She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and looked directly at him. "I'll do what I can."

"Well, professor, it's a campaign finance issue. We haven't discussed state regulations much, but," he thought for a moment, "and please don't misunderstand me here...but, uhm, how can people or organizations work to get around the limits that are in place?"

She cleared her throat. "Mr. Turner. I'll assume you're not asking this for any nefarious reasons. But I do know you're working part-time for the party caucus. I also know that just about everybody who has been there for any length of time knows these things." She paused again and chewed on her pen for a second. "And, I'll tell you...I still have connections on both sides of the aisle here in Madison. And if it ever looked to me like something stinky was coming out of that caucus, I'd be the first one to pick up the phone and let the prosecutor's office know that you were asking these questions."

Scott met her gaze. "No problems there, Dr. Stellpflug. I wouldn't expect anything else from you."

She sized him up for another few moments, and then finally she grinned. "Well, the most common thing for somebody or a group with a cause or an axe to grind is to set up a bunch of `straw man' donors. Then you bundle the donations."

"Huh?"

Shelby leaned back on the table. "In blunt terms somebody either has, or raises, a ton of money, more than could be legally donated by any one person or organization. Then you find enough people willing to `launder' it for you. You give them a check for the limited amount, and they write a check to the candidate or the committee for the same amount. So it's not coming from you. It's coming from all these different people, but it's coming in all at once. Then, you make sure the candidate or committee chair knows where it's coming from and why."

"Is it legal to take money from donors from another state?"

She grinned wryly. "Happens all the time. There are ideologues all over the country with their own agendas, and they know that a lot of those battles are fought in state legislators. School choice is a good example. I have friends on the right who are big on home schooling and school choice who would love to knock the legs out from under the state teacher's union. They're in Michigan, New York, Florida and they routinely contribute to like-minded candidates here in Wisconsin." She smiled again. "Remember, Scott. Most of the political `movin' and groovin' in this country doesn't really happen in Washington. It just looks that way. But you know that state government touches your life more than Congress does. The University, public schools, roads, speed limits, the sales tax, marriage, divorce and on and on and on. All those issues are debated and settled where you work." She chuckled. "Hells bells. Unless you mail a letter, enlist in the military, smuggle drugs or are an illegal alien, when do you ever come in contact with Uncle Sam? And in that last category, you almost never do."

She continued. "And then there are the notorious so-called independent expenditures.' Let's say that I'm a zealot against abortion who heads a political action committee devoted to the crusade, and have been good at raising money. I'll scour the landscape looking for candidates who are like-minded and pay for advertising on my own in support of their candidacy. Unfortunately, it's often attack ads against their opponents and rarely is it truly independent. Usually the candidates and their committees are quietly communicating with the PACs who are doing this behind the scenes. But the candidate being supported can say with a straight face, I'm not doing it. They are. I can't prevent it.' And it's not a donation to their campaign, so the finance regulations don't apply. It's free speech."

Scott mulled it over quietly. Dr. Stellpflug raised her eyebrows and looked over her glasses. "I'm tempted to press you on why you're asking all these questions, Mr. Turner, but I'll resist. I'm confident that if you sense something awry, you'll do the right thing."

Scott forced a smile and picked up his backpack. "No problem, professor. Just had a discussion during lunch about this stuff with a friend of mine, and wanted to go into our next go-round well armed."

She bit her pen again and then put it down. "I see."

He headed for the door. "Well, thanks for you time, and for letting me pick your brain."

Stellpflug smiled. "Any time, Scott. Any time at all."

He waved and headed down the hallway. He thought to himself, `I gotta call Maureen.'

Author's Note: Your comments, criticisms or questions are always welcomed. I appreciate the e-mails at scotty.13411@hotmail.com