When Two Lovers Woo

By Billy Orton

JOE BIDEN CAMEO.... This book was written in 2013 and finished in 2014, when no one could imagine how the 2016 campaign would emerge.

Three stories are woven together...

-- Larry van der Bix is an invisible man, unseen by women, and unimpressive to men. Even though the dork wins the lottery, and is dragged into a political campaign, the unlikely candidate takes to wearing western garb, quoting Will Rogers and twirling a lasso as the only way to woo voters. How can politics be more absurd? Maybe look at Washington.
-- Larry's best friend -- Lori L Lewis -- is an Olympiad who rejoins her beloved U.S. Army, but is stationed behind the lines in America's war on terror, and is the victim of sexual assault by a visiting Congressman. In Afghanistan, she and her commanding officer grapple with the effects of a violent sexual predator.
-- Lori's lover is a web diva who crosses the oceans to surprise Lori, sailing on "Dreamboat," a super-yacht Larry bought with lottery millions. On the journey, she is terrorized by her jealous, possessive ex-boyfriend, a stalker who stows away, bringing on a violent showdown that forces the diva to conquer her own fears to fight him off.
In the utterly absurd novel, thrown in to the mix is an Italian model who captains the Dreamboat, a crew of hard-boiled sailors, a female lawyer protecting the soldier, and a pair of skateboarders who help fight a band of scurrilous digital pirates, evil politicians, Bollywood dancers, the gravelly-voiced Governor of California and his even the smiling Joe Biden.
The book is part of a new genre of "post gender" fiction in which love and courage outrank hatred and domination. Heroism is not defined by one's shape or gender. Perhaps "post gender" fiction coins a phrase, as Dick Bomber etches a name, like Dr. Jeckel and Mr. Hyde.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Billy Orton
• Release date: Mar 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310590610

Billy Orton

Bill Orton is a writer who spent 25 years working for politicians and organized labor, but, after a stroke, became the luckiest soul in America, as now his only job title is "obscure novelist."

Book preview

Chapter One – Ocean Bound

As the whir of a helicopter blade chop-chop-chopped high above him, Larry van der Bix –arms wrapped tightly around a cable ladder and his tuxedo jacket flapping in the wind – scanned the vast Pacific for his 80-meter, custom-built, ridiculously-expensive Italian yacht. As in a James Bond film, not a single hair blew out of place in the wind. A guitar riff played as Larry looked to the right. A chop-chop-chopping sound far in the distance grew louder. Larry scowled.

* * *

Larry climbed the tall flight of aluminum stairs he had, after winning the lottery, hired workers to build onto his Grandmother’s private dock, until he stood at the top, on a platform at eye level with the wheelhouse of the Dreamboat, his newly-purchased Italian superyacht.  Larry stepped to a mounted crank, inserted a key from his ring, and began to turn the handle. An extendable aluminum plank jutted outward from the stair structure, one short piece after another locking together with a clacking noise until, finally, the plank had extended to the wheelhouse deck level, where his friend, Anekee, stood at the helm, dressed in a white cotton shirt and khaki shorts. She smiled as Larry crossed the plank, which extended just far enough to rest on the wheelhouse deck. Larry stood next to Anekee, and they gently touched one another as they spoke.

Thanks for doing this, Ane, said Larry.  You’ll remember our rendezvous, right?

Of course, after I deliver December to Dubai, said Anekee van der Velden.

She misses Lori real bad, said Larry.  You have the cashbox and credit cards?

All is stocked and the route is on file, said Anekee.  We will take on fuel in Maui, Manila, Singapore and Sri Lanka and I will disappear on the same route back, and then we can disappear together.

I spread the money all over. I think it’s enough for the seven years. I’ve got a helicopter lined up. We can reappear if we need to, I guess. Larry’s cell phone rang.  Shit, he said, reaching in his pocket. The phone read jerry brown. Larry stepped back onto the plank, pointing to the platform, as Anekee ignited the yacht’s engines.  As Larry walked the plank, he answered the Governor’s call.

Is this Larry van der Bix? said a gravelly voice, over speaker phone. Of the Long Beach van der Bixes?

Larry winced and scowled at the phone, before answering the Governor of California. Is this Edmund Gerald Brown, Jr., Pat Brown’s son?

Touché, kid, said the Governor. Hey, look, I want you to serve on a state board… overseeing the state parks.  Everybody wants this one.  Are you interested?

Two deck hands yelled up to the wheelhouse.  Casting off lines!

Larry looked to Anekee, who waved to the two deckhands wearing black tee-shirts emblazoned with san pedro bombers and yelled, Not for yet!

No! yelled Larry, standing on the platform.

No? said the Governor of California.

Wait, said Larry, into the phone, which he dropped into his pocket. Ane!

As Larry stood on the platform, the Dreamboat slowly pulled away from the dock, with the aluminum plank still extending to the wheelhouse.  Anekee looked to Larry and shrugged her shoulders, as the yacht slowly crept forward.  She waved to Larry.  On the main deck, also waving, as she lay on a lounger next to the small swimming pool built into the ship, was December Carrera, in a green bikini and floppy hat.

Three of the nine hired hands Larry and Anekee agreed would be needed as crew were busily stowing tie lines. Both Larry and Anekee had agreed on five of the crew. A gay married couple had applied for cook and steward together, because of the CraigsList post. Larry swore he had met Jackie Tang before – the deck hand who brought along the Bomber Boys – but he couldn’t remember where. Larry and Anekee split over the First Mate, Mr. Gold, and the two deck hands and the mechanic/navigator he suggested. They came with crisp, white uniforms and showed the best credentials of all applicants for the long sea journey, but Larry pushed hard to reject the entire group. As captain, Anekee hired the four over Larry’s objections.  We went shooting. They are good on the guns, she said, pausing… in case of for the pirates.

The aluminum plank snagged the flagpole that rose up from the yacht, stopping the ship’s forward movement and causing the plank to first buckle and, then, finally to snap and fall into the water. Larry yelped, as the plank landed with a splash, floated momentarily and then took on water. He watched the Italian-designed, Palmer-Johnson superyacht pull out of the slip and motor towards the main jetty, before heading west, onto the wide Pacific Ocean.

* * *

Some people are here to see you, Gina Milani told Larry, as he stepped off of the stairway and onto the dock.  They’re waiting in the studio.

I’ve got to…, said Larry, pointing to where the aluminum plank was still floating in the water and handed Gina his cell phone and a fat ring of keys.

They say it’s important.

Larry leapt into the water, fully clothed, and swam to the aluminum plank. He lifted the tip out of the water for a moment, but the metal – filling with water – continued to sink. After a short struggle, Larry released his grip, squealed No! and swam to the dock. He climbed out.

Shall I tell them…, said Gina.

"I don’t want to see anyone. They’ll just beg for money, said Larry, wiping water off his face. Can’t Lawrence or Emily or Ed deal with them? I hate talking about money."

Emily doesn’t work for you anymore; she quit. And you fired Ed and ditched him in Colorado. Remember? said Gina. And these people say it has nothing to do with money.

It’s always about money, said Larry, wringing his shirt.  "That’s all anyone cares about… money. Why can’t Lawrence talk to them?"

You know he won’t, Gina said, unlocking the gate leading from the dock into the grounds of the van der Bix estate. If you can’t keep staff, it won’t be him picking up the slack. He says that every time you have him over. He may be your school friend and personal accountant, but he is a horrid dinner guest.

Larry and Gina walked hand-in-hand towards the private elevator he had installed to connect his grandmother’s fourth-floor suite to the estate’s grounds.  Like the now-sunken plank, the elevator was one of many projects he paid to have done after winning a $280 million lottery jackpot. Inside the small elevator, Gina drew close to Larry and used her fingers to straighten his wet hair.  Larry put his hands on her hips and she used a free hand to swat his hands away.

* * *

"M-i-s-t-e-r… van der Bix, said the tallest of the four people who were waiting in the mirrored studio that had been built to lure Danish ballerina Astrid Ullagård to America, as Larry entered.  All four stared at Larry, who stood before them, dripping wet. Roger Prowl… Thank you for meeting with us."

Look, if it’s about money, there are people you can talk to, said Larry.

Gina excused herself and went into the main living quarters of the suite, pulling closed the French doors to the studio. A moment later, she re-entered with a large bath towel, which she handed to Larry, before taking a seat on the sofa alongside the ancient Victrola phonograph player that Astrid Ullagård and her husband, Carl van der Bix – Larry’s great-grandfather – used in order to play 78 rpm discs for the ballerina’s dance recitals and children’s dance lessons she had offered during World War II, when Carl was stationed in San Francisco, at the Presidio.

Larry blotted water from his hair and face, as he stood close to the Victrola and to Gina.

No, actually, this has nothing to do with money, said the tall, bearded man, who resembled a ship’s captain.  We are here to urge that you consider running for city council.

Oh, shit! exclaimed Larry, quickly dropping the towel and making his way out of the room.

* * *

Standing outside the main doors to the suite, in the foyer, next to the pink alabaster statue of a dancer, carved by Bertel Thorvaldsen, Larry huddled over his cell phone and re-dialed the last caller.

A gravelly voice answered.  Brown.

I don’t know about the parks thing, said Larry.  I’ll have to think about it.

Oh, is this the lottery guy?  Sure, kid.  Think it over.

* * *

Uh, I think you’ve got the wrong person, Larry told the bearded man and his three colleagues, one of whom was touring the studio, gazing at the news clippings and black-and-white photos hanging on the walls.

Isn’t that Herbert Hoover? she said.  At the band shell?  In Bixby Park?

Um, yeh, no, said Larry.  You really want someone else.

In the last year, said one, you’ve paid for upgrades at the Olympic Pool, a new park in Naples, hundreds of kids’ bicycles, a kitchen at the school for homeless kids, investments at the aquarium….

And don’t forget the municipal band, said the woman examining the photos.  "The band actually had an operating profit, thanks to you. The Charleston dance contest was huge!"

And that is just what you’ve done in Long Beach. Your eighteen million dollar gift to the state parks system is mind boggling. With all due respect, said the tall man, "you really are the person we’d like to work with on a council run."

I… um…, said Larry, before going silent for a moment.  Look, you should go, cuz… just… yeh, but thanks.  He motioned for the main doors.

The tall man reached into his sports coat and pulled out a business card that ready, Roger Prowl, Long Beach, CA with a phone number.  Please call me, if you are willing to talk some more.

* * *

Gina entered the studio, after having shown the visitors off the grounds of the van der Bix estate.  She carried a basket containing peaches and nectarines she had picked from the orchard and wildflowers that grew alongside the spice terraces that Larry’s grandmother had built in the 1950s.  She crossed the studio, into the main living quarters of the suite, where Larry lay asleep on a couch, in a robe, across from his Grandmother’s bed.  She was seated in bed, reading.

Oh, now you’re up and he’s asleep, said Gina, in Swedish, to Emma Mathilde van der Bix.

He will wake up soon, said Emma, responding in Danish.  Even in his sleep, he knows that his father will soon be here… just like every Saturday night.

Gina carried the basket to the kitchen, where she placed the stone fruit into a wide, low bowl, which she set onto the kitchen table.  She placed three hard peaches and a single apple into a paper sack, which she closed and set on the counter. After moving a covered casserole dish from the refrigerator into the oven and dialing 175 degrees Celsius on the ancient appliance, she sorted the flowers into three bunches, which she placed into a squat vase and two drinking glasses.  She left a glass of flowers on the counter and placed another on the kitchen table and set the vase on Emma’s bedside table. She set Larry’s folded, dried clothes on a small table alongside the couch where he lay sleeping and gathered her own sweater and handbag. She lightly kissed Larry’s cheek and waved to Emma.

* * *

Larry held tightly to the cable ladder. Gusts of wind whipped his clothes, as a guitar riff droned. Larry looked onto the wide expanse of water below him, searching. Searching.

* * * 

Larry sat up abruptly.  He reached for his cell phone.  Oh, shit! He’ll be here any moment. Larry hurriedly stood, still in a robe, and turned his back to his grandmother. He slipped on his briefs and shorts, shed the robe and put on his shirt.

Ah, your Calvin alarm has rung, said Emma, gently, in Danish.

Farvel, Farmor, replied Larry, stepping to Emma’s bedside.  He kissed her on the forehead, as a loud, pounding knock rumbled through the suite.  Oh, damn.

Help an old woman, said Emma, in Danish, waving towards the studio. Answer the door.

Larry trudged off, crossing the suite and opening one of the main double doors to the suite.  His father, Calvin van der Bix, stood in the doorway, smirking.

The dread on your mug gets me every time, said Calvin.

Yeh, well, I’m going, said Larry.

Calvin grabbed Larry by the shirtsleeve.  Sorry, sonny boy, said Calvin, but if I have to spend Saturday night with the Cow, I’m taking you as hostage.  Where’s your hot, gold-digging brunette?

She is not a gold-digger, said Larry, pulling away from his father’s grip.  Let go.

It’s a rare compliment, boy, from one who knows, said Calvin, but if I have to wait to see my own gold-digger sashay around, so do you.

* * *

Pass the cabbage, said Calvin, pointing towards a high bowl with its mound of steaming shredded cabbage, in a bright red juice.  Larry absently poked at his food.  Boy!

Larry looked up.

Bowl! said Calvin, pointing.  Cabbage!

Larry lifted the bowl and passed it across to Calvin.

Emma, at the head of the table, smiled faintly to her son and grandson.

As Calvin dumped a ladleful of red cabbage onto his plate, he watched Larry not eat.   You’ve got to do better than that, sonny.  Even fancy-pants rich people have to eat.

I guess you’d know, said Larry.

I’ve worked all my life for what I have, boy, said Calvin, carving into a slice of pork tenderloin, passing the meat through a puddle of gravy before eating it.  Unlike you, who just showed up to collect a big check.  If you’ll notice, I drive my own car.

Hvor herligt, said Emma.  Det er så sjældent at jeg spiser middag med begge mine mænd.

What did the Cow say? asked Calvin, chewing as he spoke.

She said only pigs talk with their mouth full, said Larry.  And I hired Ralphie so that I don’t put anyone in danger by me driving.

You just can’t handle the responsibility.  You never learned how to deal with life, said Calvin, lifting his beer glass and emptying the last half.  And you’re full of shit.  She said something nice.

* * *

Larry unlocked his apartment door and, as he entered, Gina climbed the seven steps that led from the downstairs bedroom and met him in the hallway.  She wrapped her arms around him and they gently kissed.

* * *

Standing together at the foot of the bed, Larry unbuttoned Gina’s top, as she stood still before him.  She held out one arm, and then the other, to allow him to easily remove her top.  He reached both arms around her and unclasped her bra, which he removed as she stood, in panties, before him.  My God, you’re so beautiful.

Thank you, darling, she said, as he stood still. She drew close. My turn, she said, as she undid his belt and unclasped his shorts, which fell to the ground.  She knelt, and Larry lifted one foot, and then the other, and pulled his shorts over his still-wet sneakers, before removing them, too.  Standing, she casually dropped his shorts onto a cushioned bench at the foot of the bed, next to her own carefully folded clothes.

They stood, in boxers and panties, and drew close to one another, letting their fingers roam over one other, as they nuzzled into each other’s shoulders.

It’s all part of something larger, she whispered to him, as he held her breast and she reached her hand under the waistband of his boxers and gripped his enormous, flaccid penis.

* * *

Gina snuggled into Larry, as the two lay on their sides, spooning.  His face was buried under a mane of her hair, as he pressed his lips to her neck.  She had reached her hand behind her and was gently, rhythmically squeezing his penis.

I’ve been thinking, said Gina.

Hmm? cooed Larry, into her ear.

Larry? she said, squeezing more tightly.

What’ve you been thinking? said Larry.

"Just… about stuff," said Gina.

What stuff?

Gina released her grip and quickly turned to face Larry.  We should get married and have kids!

Oh, no, groaned Larry.

Why not? said Gina. I think we’re ready. I can make it happen for you.

It’s not just that, said Larry.  I’m never going to have kids. I’m taking this name… this family… I’m taking this whole line down with me.  It’s done.

Gina pouted.  "Then what about me?  There’s nothing larger then.  This is all just play…. I will not be somebody’s play thing."  She scooted forward in the bed, opening a chasm between them.

Aww, said Larry.  "It’s not… it’s not you… it’s me… my family.  The whole line…  They just… they don’t… deserve it…."

What do I deserve? said Gina.  To be a toy at night and then watch you send off a boat full of bimbos and I’m supposed to be okay with that?

There were no bimbos on that boat, said Larry, backing to his side of the bed.

Anekee van der Velden… December Carrera… they make their living taking money from men who jerk off to their pictures, spat out Gina. They’re whores.

They’re my friends, said Larry, quietly.

Whores don’t fit in our world, Larry, said Gina. The closer they are to you, the further you are from me.

Chapter Two – Going North

Larry opened a CD case and took out a Dengue Fever album and slipped the disc into the music system mounted beside his leather seat in the passenger cabin of Ralphie’s factory-stretched Lincoln. As the cabin filled with the driving guitar and drums of a rock band and hypnotic wail of an Asian female lead vocalist, Larry’s phone buzzed. He lifted it from the cup holder. The screen read, LORI. He turned the music down and answered.

Larry? crackled a voice over the speaker.

Lori!

Lar… ’n… ’ou hear me…? she said, cutting out.

Lori? The called ended and was followed a moment later by a call from an unknown number. Larry answered. Hello? he said, tentatively.

Larry! came Lori’s voice, over speaker. Jeez, man, for a fancy hotel, cell reception here sucks.

Where are you?

Not allowed to say, but some frickin’ super-tall hotel, in the Gulf. Command won’t send me into theatre. They got me in some special unit for athletes. I’m a damned show pony, she said. Where are you? What’cha doing? Is December with you? She okay? Can I talk to her?

Larry looked out the window, to the vast, openness of California’s great Central Valley. Me? Oh, just out for a drive with Ralphie.

What about December?

Oh, she’s, um… she’s okay… Laying by the pool, last I saw.

Please take care of her til I get home, said Lori. She acts tough, but she needs someone gentle to watch over her.

Do they let you swim where you are? asked Larry.

That’s all they let me do, that and hand-to-hand, said Lori. But I want out of this show-boat unit. I don’t care how elite it is…. Hey, someone’s coming. Gotta go…. Love ya’, Larry.

Larry looked at his phone and watched the words Unknown Caller disappear from the screen. He dropped the phone back into the cup holder, and, sitting up, leaned over to one of the two refrigerators in the Lincoln. He sorted through the cans of Hansen’s caffeine-free soda, hand-made sandwiches and freshly sliced peaches that Gina had packed for Larry’s drive to the state Capitol, until he found the opened bag of Fritos corn chips he had bought after leaving Long Beach. He rearranged the items on the top shelf, again concealing the mini-safe that Ralphie had a welder install into the refrigerator, which he then had secured to the body of the Lincoln. Larry turned up the Cambodian pop, as he ate oily, salty corn chips and stared out the tinted windows, to farms and fields. Indian Vegetarian Feast, read a hand-painted sign on the roadside, with an arrow pointing to the adjacent freeway exit. Larry turned up the music and closed his eyes.

* * *

Larry lay at the foot of a wide, marble staircase – not unlike the four-story stairwell that led up to his Grandmother’s suite. Larry stood and began singing words he didn’t understand, to a woman he didn’t know, who was midway up the stairs and dressed in a brilliant, colorful sari-like outfit. With exuberant hand motions and a deftness of footing and dance in his step that he rarely displayed in waking hours, Larry ascended the stairs, all the while singing in an indecipherable language, until he reached the woman, who crouched motionless. She extended one hand, upwards, and waited as Larry danced up to her, and then placed his hand into hers. Upon his touch, she stood and looked adoringly to Larry, and took over singing. The two danced up the stairway as she sang, reaching a platform featuring a small pagoda adorned with flowers, and then they danced downward, where a line of women, most also in sari-like outfits, crouched along the edge of the stairs.

Music flared.

As the two danced and sang their way down the stairway, the woman with Larry would bump her hips into each crouched woman, sending one after another of the women over the edge of the stairs. Midway down, a blonde woman, dressed in a U.S. Army uniform, complete with pack and rifle, crouched and – like the singer – extended a hand upward, which Larry touched, prompting her to stand. Beside the soldier was another woman, wearing only a floppy hat and green bikini, also crouched, with her hand extended upward. When Larry touched her hand, she sprang up, and, as she did so, her enormous breasts sprang up as well.

The music flared.

Larry and the singer continued, hand-in-hand, dancing their way down the stairs, as the two women, now also hand-in-hand, danced their way behind them. The two couples stopped as the music again flared. Larry turned to the singer and drew close, as though for a kiss. The soldier and woman in the floppy hat didn’t hesitate, and slipped into a deep kiss, which they held while music blared around them. The singer threw her hips into the kissing women, and the soldier was knocked over one side of the stairs, and, after another hip bump, the singer and Larry stood alone on the stairs. They drew close, their lips an inch apart.

The music flared again, insistently.

* * * 

Larry shook his head and wiped away drool from his lips. Gina’s unique ring tone flared insistently. He looked to the cup holder and picked up the phone. Thirteen missed calls from Gina.

Larry dialed her number. Returning your call.

Why don’t you pick up the phone when I call? asked Gina. I must’ve called ten times. I thought you were just in the car, driving to Sacramento?

Uh, I’m sorry, said Larry, looking out the tinted window. I must’ve fallen asleep. We’re still on the Five, though, so we’re not in Sac, yet.

You worry me when I can’t reach you.

Yeh, um, like I say, must’ve fallen asleep, said Larry. Sorry. The phone beeped and Larry looked to the screen. It’s Lawrence. I better take his call.

You never take his calls, said Gina.

Um, uh, okay, bye. Larry hung up on one call and took another.

* * *

After five or six