The Fourth K

Though he looked like an alcoholic bank embezzler cartoon character, short and round, with a cherry-red nose and head dripping with white hair like a Christmas tree in a snowstorm, he was considered the most honorable man in Congress, politically.

When he promised a chunk of pork from the bottomless barrel of the budget, that pork was delivered. When a fellow congressman wanted a bill blocked, and Jintz owed him a political debt, that bill was blocked. When a congressman who wanted a personal bill came through with his quid pro quo, it was a done deal. True, he often leaked secret matters to the press, but that was why so many articles on his impeccable handshake were printed.

And now this afternoon Jintz had to do the scut work of making sure the

House would vote for the impeachment of President Ke

And it all had to be done in less than twenty-four hours.

Sal Troyca walked through his congressman's suite of offices, his brain marshaling all the phone calls he had to make, all the documents he had to prepare. He knew he was involved in a great moment of history, and he also knew that his career could be washed away if there was some terrible reversal. He was amazed that men like Jintz and Lambertino, whom he held in a kind of contempt, could be so courageous as to put themselves in the front line of battle. This was a very dangerous step they were taking. Under a very shady interpretation of the Constitution they were prepared to make the Congress a body that could impeach the President of the United States.

He moved through the spooky green light of a dozen computers being worked by office staff. Thank God for computers, how the hell did things ever get done before? Passing one computer operator, he touched her shoulder in a comradely gesture that could not be taken for sexual harassment and said, "Don't make any dates-we'll be here until morning."

The New York Times Magazine had recently published an article on the sexual mores of Capitol Hill, where both the Senate and the House and their staffs were housed. The article noted that of the elected 100 senators and 435 congressmen and their huge staffs, the population was in the many thousands, of which more than half were females.

The article had suggested that there was a great deal of sexual activity among these citizens. The article had said that because of long hours and the tension of working under political deadlines the staff had little social life and perforce had to seek a little recreation on the job. It was noted that congressional offices and senatorial suites were furnished with couches. The article explained that in government bureaus there were special medical clinics and doctors whose duties were the discreet treatment of venereal infection. The records were, of course, confidential, but the writer claimed he had been given a peek and the percentage of affection was higher than the national average. The writer attributed this not so much to promiscuity as to the incestuous social environment. The writer then wondered if all this fornication was affecting the quality of lawmaking on Capitol Hill, which he referred to as the Rabbit Warren.

Sal Troyca had taken the article personally. He averaged a sixteen-hour working day six days a week and was on call Sundays. Was he not entitled to a normal sex life like any other citizen? Damn it, he didn't have time to go to parties, to romance women, to commit himself to a relationship. It all had to happen here, in the countless suites and corridors, in the smoky green light of computers and military ringing of telephones. You had to fit it into a few minutes of banter, a meaningful smile, the involved strategies of work. That fucking Times writer went to all the publishers' parties, took out people for long lunches, chatted leisurely with journalist colleagues, could go to hookers without a newspaper reporting the seamy details.

Troyca went into his private office, then into the bathroom, and gave a sigh of relief as he sat on the toilet, pen in hand. He scribbled notes on all the things he had to do. He washed his hands, juggling pad and pen, with the congressional logo etched in gold computer lines, and, feeling much better (the tension of impeaching a President had knotted his stomach), went to the small mobile liquor cart and took ice from the tiny refrigerator to fix himself a gin and tonic. He thought about Elizabeth Stone. He was sure there was nothing between her and her senator boss. And she was smart, smarter than him, she had kept her mouth shut.

The door of his office opened and the girl he had patted on the shoulder came in. She had an armful of computer printout sheets and Sal sat at his desk to go over them. She stood beside him. He could feel the heat of her body, a heat generated by the long hours she had put in on the computer that day.

Troyca had interviewed this girl when she had applied for the job. He often said that if only the girls who worked in the office kept looking as good as on their interview day, he could put them all in Playboy. And if they remained as demure and sweet, he would marry them. The girl's name was Janet Wyngale, and she was really beautiful. The first day he saw her, a line from Dante had flashed through Troyca's mind, "Here is the goddess that will subjugate me." Of course he would not allow such a misfortune to happen. But she was that beautiful that first day. She was never as beautiful again. Her hair was still blond, but not gold; her eyes were still that amazing blue, but she wore glasses and was a little ugly without the first perfect makeup. Nor were her lips as cherry-red.

Her body was not as voluptuous as on the first day, which was natural since she was a hard worker and dressed comfortably now to increase her efficiency. He had, all in a] I, made a good decision; she was not yet squintyeyed.

Janet Wyngale, what a great name. She was leaning over his shoulder to point out things on the computer sheets. He was conscious she had switched her feet so that she was standing more beside him than behind him. Her golden hair brushed his cheek, silky, warm and smelling of crushed flowers.

"Your perfume is great," Sal Troyca said, and he was almost shivering when the heat of her body gusted over him. She didn't move or say anything. But her hair was like a Geiger counter over his cheek picking up the radiating lust in his body. It was a friendly lust, two buddies in a jam together. They would be going over computer sheets all through the night, answering a witch's brew of telephone calls, calling emergency meetings. They would fight side by side.

Holding the computer sheets in his left hand, Troyca let his right hand touch the back of her thigh under her skirt. She didn't move. They were both staring intently at the computer sheets. He let his hand stay perfectly still, let it burn on satiny skin that electrified his scrotum.

He was not conscious that the computer sheets had fallen to the desk. Her flowered hair drowned his face and he swiveled and both his hands were under her skirt, both his hands like little feet ru