Nightcap. Kathleen O'Reilly
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shoved it at him.
Pension?
He took it. Nodded. “Okay, so what about the pension stuff? What if the transit authority pulled a Detroit, and put some money into a kitty, letting the unions fund it after that?”
Establishing a trust? Oh, creativity. Cunning. And it would save billions in the long run. Cleo liked that. She really, really liked that.
She scribbled a number on the paper and Sean jacked his thumb higher.
Cleo motioned her thumb down.
Sean scribbled a counter number on the paper, and Cleo pulled out her calculator and started running numbers. This could work. She looked at him with surprise. He noticed and flashed a cocky grin as if she should have never doubted him.
“I know, I know, the transit guys are whackjobs, too, but you think they’d bite? They should bite on that. I want to ride the subway again, Mike. It ticks me off. This is my city. Besides that, we’re a few weeks away from Thanksgiving. You got all those kids wanting to see the parade, the giant balloons, Santa Claus. Come on, Mike, those guys can’t disappoint the kids. Santa Claus uses the subway, too, and the kids know it.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a dreamer. Anyway, just wanted to put a bug in your ear. You know me, always ready to whine about something. Listen. We’ll have to go out to dinner. You and Peggy and the rug rats…
“Nobody special here. Same old, same old, whoever’s on speed dial is good enough for me.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t think hell’s freezing anytime soon…. Uh-oh, boss is yelling. Bad news. Gotta go. Thanks, Mike.”
Sean hung up the phone and looked at Cleo, not missing a beat. “Can you do it?”
“I can’t do it,” she said, only to be contrary, because she was back to being aroused, and it ticked her off that union negotiations could affect her like that. The transit authority could fund the trust, and possibly stave off a fare hike until 2012. The mayor would be a hero.
“I bet you can do it. The city would be stupid not to put it out there. They’ll save millions in the long run.” He collapsed on her couch, again like he owned the place.
“Who’s Mike?” she asked.
“Mike Flaherty. Legal representation for the national transit union in their civil rights cases. We went to Penn State together. And the transit authority was once a client of the firm. Not my area, but I know Mike. He’s a good guy. Peg’s really great.” He talked like he knew everybody in New York, and she began to wonder if he did.
“Who are you?”
“Sean O’Sullivan.”
“I remember your name. Who are you?”
“Lawyer. McFadden Burnett.”
“What do you practice?” she asked, hoping he was contract negotiations. Boring, by the book, pansy-ass contract negotiations.
“Medical malpractice defense.”
Medical malpractice defense? In the jungle of law, med-mal defense lawyers were the carnivores. The ones with sharp teeth and a bloodthirsty mind. Oh, it would be a sick, misanthropic woman to have that depraved factoid twist her panties in a knot. A very tight, pressurized knot. Very, very sick.
Unfortunately, all she could think about was Sean leaning over the conference room table, taking a deposition, hammering away at the witness, over and over, pounding, pounding until they were weeping for him to stop…
Very, very sick.
“You sure he can follow through?” she asked, calling upon every inch of her humanity, and methodically untwisting her panties.
Sean shrugged. “He doesn’t have any reason to lie to me. Try it and see. It’s a starting point for negotiations, since whatever you’re doing isn’t working. And don’t go over five-and-a-half percent on the wage increase. Mike was saying seven, but he always shoots high by a couple of points. I played poker with him a few times. Not pretty, especially after he’s had too much to drink.”
“I’m going to owe you for this, aren’t I?” she asked. She didn’t have debts, not even a mortgage. She hated owing favors, she hated payback, but she had a feeling that Sean O’Sullivan was hard-core about payback, demanding his pound of flesh, pounding away until she was weeping….
Oh, gawd. This was only, only from lack of sleep. And possibly lack of sex, because the hallway quickie at last year’s Christmas party with George from media relations did not even count in the big scheme of things. And it certainly was right up in there in Cleo’s “mistakes that I won’t make again” file.
Sean O’Sullivan smiled at her, with a slow show of teeth, and a look in his eyes that said, “I don’t do quickies.” Cleo shivered. “You’ll owe me, but only if you think you can get ten thousand unionized transit workers in line in the next twenty-four hours.”
She could feel the hot flash in her blood. Medical malpractice, she reminded herself, trying to stop the bubbling in her veins. It didn’t help. “I can have them crying for mercy in two.”
“Dinner tonight. And you’re going to listen to me about Prime.”
“Negotiations,” she shot back.
“A drink, then,” he countered. “After the talks.”
She looked at him, studied that squared, stubborn jaw, considered the shadowed, take-no-prisoners gaze and scrutinized the nose that had probably been broken twice. She understood why.
“All right,” she replied, against her own better judgment. She would be needed at home, and probably had only about an extra thirty minutes to herself, but that was more than enough time. In her world of transit workers, wastewater, taxation and permits, it wasn’t often that a Sean O’Sullivan walked in. Nope, he was her orgasm, and she was going for it before he walked out again. “It might be late before the talks wind up,” she warned.
“The later the better,” he replied, tossing his card on the desk, causing the mayor’s bobblehead to shake with disapproval.
In the upper cavity of her chest, there was a strange thudding, a chamber long forgotten. Sean O’Sullivan was a player, she reminded herself. A walking orgasm and nothing more. Thirty minutes and out. And hopefully, the thirty minutes would be well worth it.
Cleo took the card in her fingers, knowing it was better to get things over with, repay the favors and get back to the chaos of her own life.
BOBBY MCNAMARA, THE MAYOR OF New York City, was in his first term, a lifelong liberal, yet he had the magical ability to attract the money-backed vote of the Wall Street Republicans. The crime rate was down, unemployment was down, tax revenues were flowing like New York’s finest Finger Lakes wine, and the housing bust had yet to quash the Manhattan real estate market. In the five boroughs of New York, times were definitely good. The McNamara administration had been a tremendous success, in no small part due to Cleo’s long hours and hard work.
The mayor was a good-looking man, distinguished, in that fifty-year-old, news anchor way, with a gravelly voice that matched his appearance. Bobby had the usual politician’s eye for the ladies, but he never stepped out of bounds, which is why he and Cleo worked together so well. There was lots of gossip over the years, but Cleo kept her nose down, Bobby kept his nose clean, and without any smoke to fuel the fire, the gossip always died away.
However, whenever Bobby was nervous, the fingers on his left hand played in the air, never staying still. Right now, Bobby seemed to be typing out War and Peace.
“We’re getting killed, Cleo,” he said, taking a moment to reread the latest headline about the strike, “STALLED,” and then grimaced painfully. “Tell me you can work a miracle.”
“I can work a miracle,” Cleo assured.
“Really?” he asked.