Whatever Became of Sin

One

OneMercedes McCormick rests her bouffant-styled red head on the propped up pillow and pulls the flowery-patterned sheet up under her arms. “But why can't we travel together, Lyndie? At least on the same plane, even if it's in separate sections. Nobody knows us in San Francisco, or New Orleans for that matter.”

Senator Lynden Chiles, still slightly pie-eyed from a night of bottomless bourbon shooters, sits on the edge of the bed and shakes his head an emphatic no. “We can't chance it, Mercie. Besides, I need you to do somethin' for me, so we can't even be in the airport at the same time.”

“What is it this time?” she sighs.

He turns to her. “I need you to go to the gate and wait for the boarding call. The plane will be full and passengers will be asked to give up their seats. You give up yours.”

“Give up my seat? Why in hell would I do that?”

“Just listen. There will be a man there who will give you some money for doin' it. Then you high tail it out of the terminal as fast as you can and forget all about it.”

“What the hell's goin' on, Lyndie? And why the hell would some guy give me money? Is this the brush off, Lyndie? If so, it's pretty damn elaborate! Why not just say we're over.”

“No, no, Darlin'. It's nothin' like that,” Lynden tries to assure her, leaning in and giving her a nervous kiss. Then he grips her shoulders firmly. “I just need you to do this for me. It's vital that you do this!”

Mercedes sits up straight, seriously concerned. The more distraught Lynden becomes, the thicker his southern drawl comes out. She involuntarily mimics his speech patterns as well, an outcome of so many years of being together, of clandestine meetings and secrets shared about his political and personal life. What is it about these politicians? Mercedes ruminates. Always a scheme, always lying like a rug. No compunction about anything shady. Certainly no compunction about spinning the truth like a corkscrew.

But this time she senses something different, dangerous, and she carefully chooses her words and her tone. She touches Lynden's slightly bloated but still handsome face sweetly and coos to him in a manner that always gets him to level with her. “You in some kind of trouble, Sugar? You can tell me.”

Lynden rubs his forehead as if to rub the problem out of his mind. It doesn't work. This could be his waterloo if he can't get Mercedes to play ball, and if he dared tell her the truth he might as well put a gun to his head.

“Bigger than you can imagine, Mercie. Bigger than even I ever imagined. I need you to do this. I can't trust anyone else to do it. Please!”

Mercedes' radar of self protection triggers alarm bells as loud as Big Ben. “What's this really all about? Is someone tryin' to hurt you? I have a right to know. I could get hurt, too.”

“The less you know the better, and you won't get hurt. All I can say is it's about that land deal I told you about,” he tells her, dancing around the issue.

“The one the Senate is holdin' a hearin' on in a couple of days? That swamp land someone's tryin' to develop houses on?”

“Yes, but that's not all. I can't say any more, Mercie. Just do this for me? Please.”

He grits his teeth so hard Mercedes can hear them crack. She sighs deeply, apprehensive yet resigned to helping out the man to whom she owes a great deal of her livelihood. “Okay. I'll do it. But when it's over you'd damn well better tell me what's goin' on. Promise?”

“I promise. When it's all over.”