Persuasive Lips Read online

  “What are you babbling about? I’m here on a case, I just made a money drop to the Thousand Dollar Pharaoh.”

  “I know. She’s the leader of a counterfeiting ring.”

  “They didn’t tell me that!”

  “Shh! Keep your voice down. Nothing should be heard from this room but the sounds of pleasure.”

  Della blinked. She stood and removed her dress, letting it fall to the floor. As she stood naked in front of him, she said, “Very well. The things a girl has to do for her country.”

  The End

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  Hundred Dollar Bill

  By Sherry Silver

  Hundred Dollar Bill

  by Sherry Silver

  Washington, D.C.

  February 16, 1945

  Sometime before midnight, freezing rain pelted out a maddening symphony on the window. Benjamin Franklin gazed compassionately from the bloody hundred dollar bill floating near Miss Chloe Lambert’s breasts. The redhead lay soaking in a claw-footed tub at Mrs. Grogan’s boarding house on Nichols Avenue in the District of Columbia. Her skin was flushed from the steamy water, but she was sure she’d never feel warm again. With eyes dehydrated from crying, Chloe stared at her black, blue, green and yellow bruises.

  * * * * *

  Earlier that night, across town, Mrs. Anna Eleanor Roosevelt’s footsteps resonated army-like as she stormed the west wing. A black Scottish terrier rounded a corner and scrambled toward her. “No, Fala, no!” Dodging his excited leap, she caught the fluffy sash of her emerald evening gown on the edge of a marble pedestal displaying the bust of Abraham Lincoln. She twisted and caught old Abe, but the taffeta tore. Eleanor replaced the sculpture, picked up the little dog and marched to an office.

  She shoved the door open. Stepping inside, Mrs. Roosevelt vigorously petted the wiry-haired pooch while closing the door with her back. It hit the jamb with an audible resolve. “Vera, I am well aware of your…your little game, and I’ve had quite enough of you.”

  Mrs. Vera Blandings stopped typing. The long-legged brunette stood, removed her librarian’s glasses and snuffed her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. She blew a plume of smoke at the first lady before running manicured fingers along her starched beige shirtdress. A smirk twitched the corners of her scarlet lips. She crossed her arms and turned toward the wall.

  The first lady crinkled her nose and bent down. Fala leapt from the crook of her arm. He scampered over to sniff the closed door to the Oval Office.

  Eleanor rose, thrust her shoulders back and stomped to the rear of the desk, launching a rolling chair out of her way. She squeezed between her husband’s newest secretary and a portrait of George Washington.

  Vera took a step back, grinning.

  Mrs. Roosevelt demanded, “Just what will it take to make you disappear?” “A new job.”

  “Done.”

  “A role in the next Alfred Hitchcock movie.” Eleanor laughed.

  Vera glared. “I’m quite serious.” She cocked her head, retrieved her chair and tucked it under the desk. Pulling out the bottom drawer, Vera removed her reptilian pocketbook and gently shut the drawer.

  Eleanor silently seethed in the stale smoky air while composing a response. I will not allow this woman to slip me into unsavory territory. “Fine then. So be it. Pack your snakeskin. No more games in the interim or—”

  The magnetic purse clasp clicked when Vera opened it. After removing a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches, the President’s secretary sashayed out of the office.

  The first lady glanced at her diamond watch and groaned. She pulled the chair out and plopped herself down. It hissed as the cushioned seat compressed. She opened Vera’s top desk drawer and rummaged through stubby pencils, rubber bands, a loose deck of playing cards, a crumpled issue of True Romance magazine that was caught in the back, a piece of yellow police chalk and several pistachios. Eleanor briefly picked up the waxy chalk. What in the devil is she doing with this? The stuff they outline corpses with… She shrugged her shoulders and dropped it back inside with a clunk.

  Digging out a paper clip, the first lady wove the coiled wire through the soft frays of her ripped sash. It popped right off. She noticed a little chalk had transferred from her fingers to her gown. What else can happen?

  Yanking the middle drawer open, she found a stapler inside. After three squeezes and some creative tucking of the taffeta, she was good to go. When Eleanor replaced the stapler, a metallic glint in the back caught her attention. She opened the drawer all the way and pulled out a pearl-handled pistol. What the…

  Eleanor heard giggling. Her eyes darted around the office as she shut the drawer, shoved the gun under her waistband and covered it with the sash. She jumped up, wrapped her arms around her midsection and tiptoed to the open door to peek into the corridor.

  Eleanor watched Mrs. Stoneburner meandering toward the kitchen. Claude Fuji, the President’s valet, was finishing up a good bubbly laugh. “Hello Missus First Lady. You are so beautiful in jade.” She exhaled and stepped into the hall.

  He reached out to shake hands with Mrs. Roosevelt, as was his nature, but she awkwardly declined. “Thank you, Claude.”

  His face saddened at the slight. “Anything I do wrong to you?” “No, Claude, no…oh…come on to my study. Follow me.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt’s evening gown swished as they hurried to her private room.

  “Close the door, Claude.”

  He obliged.

  Eleanor gingerly peeled back the delicate folds of taffeta and yanked the gun out. “Look what I found in his secretary’s desk!”

  “Missus First Lady, please do not go waving that thing at Claude.” The valet snatched the firearm from her.

  Eleanor moved closer, hovering over him. Her stomach knotted as she whispered, “Is it loaded?”

  “Please step back,” he said with a sternness she’d never before witnessed. She complied.

  He proceeded to her small desk. An envelope flew to the floor as he shoved a stack of stationery away to clear a space. He emptied the chambers into his hand and then spread the contents on her desk. Yanking the chain on her desk lamp, Fuji picked up one nine-millimeter brass bullet and held it under the light. “Blanks.”

  “Blanks? How can you be sure?”

  “The ends of the casings are crimped down and sealed. Live ammunition is rounded and smooth. These are definitely blanks. Look.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt leaned down and examined the projectile as he twirled it slowly.

  Just what are you up to, Vera?

  Claude Fuji replaced the projectiles. “Put back where you got from. We watch her.” “You mustn't tell the President about Vera’s gun. I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.”

  “What gun? No gun.”

  * * * * *

  President Roosevelt wearily stared at the excess ink dripping back into the well. He began dotting the Is on his speech just as his secretary strolled in.

  “Here you go, sir, this is the last one. The courier is waiting.”

  He signed six pages. Vera slipped them into an envelope and sealed it as she left the Oval Office. She gave it to the tired-looking young courier. He dashed off.

  The President placed the speech in his lap then gripped the gritty wheels of his armless wooden chair. He propelled himself out to Vera’s office and deposited his soon- to-be historical prose on her desk. “Sorry I kept you so late. Just leave this for one of the girls in the typing pool in the morning.”

  “Nights like these I appreciate living with my mother-in-law. She’s wonderful with the children.”

  “Come on up and have a martini with me before you go. The missus is out at a charity hoop dee doo and cocktails for one are no fun… I’ll put two olives in yours.” He winked.

  Stretching catlike, she placed her elbows on the desk and gazed into his eyes. “All right, F.D. You know I’m a sucker for your…olives.” Vera tenderly kissed him on his stubbled cheek.

  She arc
hed her back, thrusting her chest to attention as she stood. Vera protected her typewriter with a vinyl cover and then strolled over to the mahogany rack in the corner. She grabbed her black wool hat and coat, releasing her smoky French perfumed scent while shaking it out, then returned to her desk to retrieve her pocketbook.

  They had a quiet ride on the elevator to the second floor. They heard only its low hum as they both smiled at the padded walls, mulling over the long day. The doors opened into an informal gathering area outside the family’s living quarters. The President motioned for his secretary to exit. She nodded and sauntered over to the seating area.

  He rolled his wheelchair to an ornate teacart where his valet had set up the martini fixings. Franklin concentrated with pride as he measured his secret blend of gin and vermouth into the silver shaker.

  Vera sat down on a comfortable red sofa and kicked off her pumps. Reaching over to the large radio, she flinched as static blasted when she switched it on. She turned down the volume and tuned in a station. Settling back into the soft couch, Vera caught his eye as she undid the three bottom buttons on her shirtdress, revealing her thighs.

  Beaming, the President wheeled himself the short distance. He handed her one of the two stemmed glasses entwined in the fingers of his left hand.

  Vera downed her martini.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Thirsty, darling?”

  She blushed and willed him to refill, but didn’t ask. Instead she smiled seductively and curled her long shapely legs underneath her. Vera nibbled on the olives.

  Franklin turned up the volume on the radio and tweaked the dial for a clearer signal. It was an upbeat cinema song heavy on the clarinets. Twisting a lock of nut- brown hair around her finger, Vera sang along in an exquisite alto vibrato. Franklin joined in the harmony. As the song ended, he refilled her glass. She drank it a little slower this time.

  He said, “Oh, ‘Ginger’, what fun. Wish I could’ve whirled you ‘round the dance floor.”

  “We’d make a grand team…‘Fred’… I’d have gone to Hollywood you know, if I hadn’t married…”

  “You’d have made it to the big-time too, Vera. But life—what will be—will be.” They both pondered in silence.

  The radio host announced the time was 10:30.

  The President ogled her legs as she slipped her shoes on. Swaying with feline grace, Vera walked to the teacart and deposited her lipstick-rimmed glass.

  She turned to him. “Thanks for the cheer.”

  “Vera darling, can you stay just a bit longer? I’ll get Mrs. Stoneburner to send up some tuna sandwiches…”

  “Not tonight, F.D.”

  He tried to hide a grimace as he stretched his polio-ravaged body to pick up her coat from the couch.

  She smiled warmly as she leaned down and placed her arms inside the black wool he held for her.

  “Well, then, have one of the Secret Service boys see you home. I’ve heard it’s quite slippery out. These blasted Washington ice storms. Why can’t it just either rain or snow?”

  “No thanks boss. I’ll make my way just fine.”

  He tugged on her sleeve and pulled her down to him. They shared a lingering kiss. She wiped the lipstick from his face before donning her spotless white gloves. Vera searched through her purse.

  “What are you missing, darling?” “My eyeglasses.”

  “They’re on your desk, Vera. Watched you put ‘em there before you pecked me.” “Thanks, F.D. I’ll pick ‘em up on the way out. Can I get you anything? Do you want me to push you to your quarters?”

  He squirmed and straightened his posture. “No. I’m perfectly capable—”

  She interrupted him, “Yes you are. Maybe I can find a copy of that song you like at the record shop. Would you like that?” Stupid! Why’d I have to go and say that? I’ve insulted his manhood. I hope changing the subject will cover it quick.

  “Absolutely. And bill it to me personally, now.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. I am a working girl you know. I have a hundred dollar bill or two lying around the house.”

  “Pardon me, Miss Rockefeller.”

  After a brief stop at her office, Mrs. Vera Blandings exited the White House and carefully footed her way down the icy brick driveway. Tiny snowflakes danced in the glow of gaslights. Peering around the shadowy grounds, Vera spotted the President’s valet accompanying Fala on his last outing for the night. Mr. Fuji waved to her. She called out, “Goodnight.”

  At the guard kiosk, the Secret Service agent on duty signed her out. “Goodnight, Mrs. Blandings, have a nice weekend.”

  “Thank you, officer. I intend to. Goodnight.”

  As she turned to leave, he said, “Ma’am, if you can wait five or ten minutes, I can escort you home. It’s really slippery out tonight.”

  Absolutely not! Vera twisted her head back and said, “Oh, I’ll be just fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “My relief will be here any minute. I really should see you home, ma’am.”

  “No. Thank you, you’re very kind, but I enjoy the solitude. It’s my time to reflect and daydream a little. You understand?”

  “Sure.”

  Vera headed west on Pennsylvania Avenue then circled the block as fast as she could without slipping. She hunched behind a massive oak tree outside the northeast appointment gate, where she had just exited. She was breathing so hard that she put her hat in front of her nose and mouth so the vapor wouldn’t be noticed.

  Just before eleven o’clock, Ashley Jones, the night relief, reported to the kiosk carrying his predictable sack of Tiny Tavern hamburgers.

  As the Secret Service agents snacked and chuckled, Vera’s respiration returned to normal. She put her hat back on and snuck over to a gatepost. She pulled a brass letter opener from her coat pocket and ran it down a groove in the limestone, triggering the latch. A hidden door popped open. She dashed inside, closing it behind her.

  Crunching paint snagged roughly on her gloves as she hurried down a ladder to the tunnel entrance. She found the first light switch and flipped it. Vera shivered though puddles and muck. Her suction-like footsteps echoed in the cobwebby catacombs. The incessant drip-drip-drip from cracks in the mortar pound-pound- pounded in her head. Some of it spit in her face.

  At the end of each passage, she shut the light off before entering the next chamber. Every turn and switchback in the labyrinth was familiar. After all, it was part of her job description to know how to get the President out of the White House—in a hurry.

  Vera made her way to the train platform hidden below the Bureau of Engraving and Printing where FDR secretly boarded for his trips. A scream from behind sent her scrambling up the platform and into the presidential rail car. Springing through the darkened conference room, she bounced off the paneled walls of the narrow corridor and ducked inside the first lady’s bedroom.

  In the moments of seemingly eternal silence, clutching her purse so tight that her fingertips pulsed, Vera summoned her inner strength. She finally attributed the scream to either her nervous imagination or a house cat. And if it was a human scream, well, she wasn’t in a position to go and save the day. Vera crept back through the train, remembering. At least I got to ride this thing once. That’s more than most girls can say.

  After peeking out a window into the darkened loading zone, she inhaled deeply and sprinted out the metal door of the observation car. It clanged shut behind her.

  Dashing up concrete steps, she entered the Bureau of Engraving and Printing through a stairwell door, tiptoeing to a supervisors’ catwalk. Vera ignored the four foot tall pallets of brand-new United States currency stacked near the walls. She climbed the steps to the catwalk and gripped the railing as she hastened to the printing room.

  * * * * *

  Miss Chloe Lambert stepped off the streetcar at the corner of Fourteenth and C Streets. Frigid air played tag with her breath and steam from underground. Strolling carefully on the slippery sidewalk, she watched as Sergeant Bill Blandings hoisted th
e loading dock door and stepped outside the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. He struck a match to light the cigarette dangling from his lip then ascended the ramp, locking his gaze onto hers. Heart pounding, Chloe paused to refresh her lipstick. Bill sucked the smoke deep into his lungs as he watched and waited. Finally exhaling, he blew five smoke rings. She stepped up to him and scattered the circles with her blue gloved hand.

  He said, “You are one gorgeous dame tonight.”

  Chloe gazed into his midnight blue eyes. Nobody has eyes like Bill. He has the devil in them. They are so darned…irresistible. She brushed him aside.

  He threw down his cigarette and snuffed it out with one twist of his black steel-toed police boot. Powdery snow blew off the retaining walls as they walked down the salted ramp. Chloe and Bill entered the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. He lowered the door. It thumped against the concrete floor.

  She led the way through the cavernous federal building. The scent of floor polish wafted up from the pristine terrazzo.

  He confided, “We’re pretty much alone now. The bureaucrats departed hours ago. The charwomen came and went. Just the skeletal police detail is left. Me, Schwartz and Krankowski.”

  Bill followed Chloe into the printing room. He balked. “Jeez, this place is a pigsty.” In her sweet southern drawl Chloe said, “Alcohol was the most popular guest at our office party today, resulting in a whole run of botched hundreds. They didn’t change the plates. The same image is printed on both sides of the notes.” She pointed to the sloppily bundled currency and a big ink stain on the floor. “They ought not to have bothered working at all. As the currency inspector, I have to file a report. I feel like a lousy snitch.”

  Bill eyed her fur. “Hey, where’d ya get the coat from? It’s not from that weasel

  Myron in personnel, is it?”

  “Eww! No, Bill. It’s Mrs. Grogan’s. My landlady. She let me borrow it. I told her this was a special night.”

  Bill grabbed her collar. They kissed hungrily.

  Finally taking a much-needed breath, Chloe pulled away and smiled as she unbuttoned the full-length sable. She was wearing his favorite blue dancing shoes…and nothing else.