“Including the individual right to decide ... who you want to sleep with.”
A husband and wife join hands and squeeze.
Elliot lets the pause lengthen, and his voice drops to a hush. “And ... who ... you ... don’t.”
Elliot looks each one in the eye, his manner become both confident and conversational, his head nodding slightly and a sober smile developing.
Both men and women stare with rapt attention.
“Now I know the good people of Wyoming are loyal Americans who believe in the rule of law.”
Rumbles of affirmation and a “Hell, yes!”
“And so you’ll be proud to know that our national, American law enforcement agency, the Department of Justice ...”
A collective intake of breath.
“... will review this terrible tragedy for consideration as a hate crime.”
Everyone holds that breath.
“So that those responsible can be prosecuted under the full penalty of the law ...”
The crowd releases that breath in applause and cheers.
“... and face frontier justice.”
# # #
ELLIOT AND TARA ARE BACK ON THE TARMAC at the Laramie Regional Airport, approaching the small plane, Tara trailing a few steps behind.
She calls out. “Elliot, wait up a minute.”
He stops, turns, and looks expectant.
Eyes interrogating him, Tara says, “Did you know that Wyoming is one of the few states with no hate crime laws on the book at the state level? Which means that any hate crime prosecution would need to be done by the Feds?”
Elliot smiles but makes no response.
“And the federal prosecution--did you clear that with Justice?”
“No-o.” Elliot’s face has taken on the look of the choirboy he was before Yale. “I didn’t promise they would prosecute. All I said was they would review the case.”
“And now they certainly will.”
Elliot’s brows rise once, and then he lets the guileless smile fade and starts to turn toward the plane, but Tara fixes him with her gaze. They lock eyes for several seconds. It feels like longer.
Then they both look away abruptly. Tara is blushing and Elliot has paled, and it’s hard to tell which of them is more embarrassed.
They swing back to face each other, and each retreats a step. Their stances hunch forward slightly, their arms rise a little. Almost kung fu postures, though we would say unconsciously so.
Tara’s expression has become haughty. “This doesn’t change anything, you know.”
Elliot blinks several times before shaking his head. “No, definitely not.”
# # #
IT’S NIGHTTIME in a hotel bedroom at the Hay-Adams in the capital. The White House and Washington Monument, both brilliantly illuminated, are visible through a window.
Tara Travis is in bed with Bull Wheeler, both of them sitting propped up by pillows. She has a red nightgown on; he’s bare-chested. Bull is about 50, and there’s some gray in his chest-hair, but he’s still athletic. A cowboy hat sits on his head, and he’s talking on his cell phone.
“... so you tell that sum bitch that this dog just won’t hunt, and if he doesn’t stop barking up the wrong damn tree--”
Bull gets interrupted by another call and checks his caller ID. Then he says to the original caller, “--gotta take this, you just tell him. Catch you later.”
To the new caller he says, “Darling, it sure is good to hear your voice.”
Tara is texting and doesn’t even look up.
“Now Darling, don’t be that way. You know there’s no place in the world I’d rather be than home with you.” He listens for a moment and then continues.
“And you have a good night’s sleep too, Honeybun.”
He hangs up, and Tara says, “I’m surprised she didn’t recognize that line.”
“Recognize it?”
“From when she was your aide and you brought her here and you were married to the fourth Mrs. Wheeler.”
Bull is paralyzed for a moment, as if this has never occurred to him, and then shrugs.
Tara looks at her phone again. “That Executive Office kid did good today. The Laramie Boomerang and the Tribune-Eagle are running favorable stories. Both stories mention your invitation.”
Bull’s expression turns sour. “Maybe too good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. The Director of the FBI called to say the next time I want something investigated I should damn well ask him myself.”
# # #
AT THE SAME TIME IN ANOTHER BEDROOM, this one in a posh home in Georgetown, Elliot and Regina are also in bed, both also sitting propped up by pillows. She has a black nightgown on; he’s bare-chested. Elliot doesn’t have Bull’s chest hair, but his abs are better. Both Elliot and Regina are thumbing their phones.
Looking sideways, Regina speaks. “Daddy says ‘Hi.’ ”
Elliot doesn’t raise his eyes. “Uh-humh.”
Apparently unused to being ignored and not liking the experience, Regina puts down her phone and stares at Elliot. “He says he could really use your help at the bank. He’s not getting any younger.”
Elliot still doesn’t look up. “You never know.”
Regina touches her finger to her lower lip, and her head makes tiny back and forth oscillations.
“You don’t?” she ventures.
“No. Maybe he’ll start getting younger tomorrow.”
Regina grabs a pillow and pummels Elliot. “I thought you might finally be agreeing to work at the bank!” She’s laughing, though, seemingly in spite of herself. “Elliot Vance, when will you ever grow up?”
# # #
THE NEXT MORNING our man is back in his Nationals jersey and backwards cap, back in his cubicle, feet up on the desk again, on the phone.
“Okay, it’s settled. As soon as I receive it, assuming it’s the genuine article as advertised, I’ll wire the $6000.”
Vivian stumps by the opening of the cubicle.
Elliot hangs up. “Hey, Vivian. Hot date last night?”
She leans forward slightly, and her index finger pulls down a lower eyelid. We’re not sure exactly what that means, but the feeling is unmistakably threatening.
Elliot seems to have got the same message and pulls back in his chair.
Vivian must be satisfied with that, for she switches to verbal communication. “Saw you on NCN yesterday.”
Elliot freezes, and Vivian smiles. At least it looks like a smile. “You want to be careful,” she says, “or you might actually make something of yourself.”
Our man is released from his apparent horror and laughs out loud. “No chance of that. But I do have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Director Appelthwaite, is Director Appelthwaite a ... well, you know I’ve never actually seen the Director.”
“Spit it out, lamebrain.” Her right index finger taps the back of her left wrist. Delaware and Nebraska appear from down the corridor.
“Well, you know Chris is a common name for either a man or a woman ...”
“You’ve got five seconds.”
Elliot spits it out. “Which one is Director Appelthwaite?”
Vivian closes her eyes for a moment and touches that index finger to her temple. We might not be even Italian and we still know that means ‘This one’s mental.’ Then she turns to go, and Delaware makes a show of not bumping into her, causing Nebraska to do so. Since he outweighs her by at least a hundred pounds, she lurches.
Nebraska says, “Sorry, ma’am.”
Vivian withdraws, limping a little. “If that one gets any dumber, we’ll have to cart him around in a truck.”
“Hey, guys,” Elliot says. “How was the game?
Nebraska says, “It was great. Thanks for leaving the admission cards on your desk.”
Elliot smiles. “I was going to leave them with Chris Appelthwaite, but--”
“--the Director wasn’t in,??
? Delaware finishes.
Nebraska can’t seem to contain himself. “So what about that hot blonde? Did the two of you do the deed?” He imitates the pumping motion Delaware made earlier.
Elliot rolls his eyes, his whole head accentuating the semicircular motion. “Good one. I’ve already got a girlfriend, remember? Unlike some people.”
Nebraska and Delaware both look embarrassed. Then Nebraska struggles to appear thoughtful, and Delaware takes on a wistful, longing expression.
“Besides,” Elliot says, “that blonde is a Young Republican ice queen clone. Less approachable than a born-again Statue of Liberty in a chastity belt.”
THE END
Next Time on The State of Wyoming -- Episode 2: SUNDANCE
The Hells Angels, who saw Elliot in Laramie on NCN, ask him to stop earthquakes at Devils Tower. Nebraska has a girlfriend problem, each the first of his life.
Cover art courtesy of Google Maps.
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