On confirming her suspicion, Kristanabel erupted with a fiery oath that had never before been heard on this Earth.
She then switched to more conventional curses toward the saxophone player. She was with child, his bastard baby.
Living with a litter had never been part of her life plan — such as she had one — so it had to be eliminated. The sooner the better.
The startlingly luscious blonde, now 23, drove the Mercury to the city, flipped the keys to a passing wino, and checked into the Marbol Hotel where, years back, Myron Blade had embraced her, stripped her, kissed her, licked her and lost his mind, then his life.
Her memories of the Marbol were upbeat . . .
. . . roast beef, dark ale and a bit of exercise.
* * * *
She needed an abortionist. But since President Gringrich had taken office seven years back, abortion had been outlawed, just one of the major changes brought by his radical administration.
The philosophy of Alvin Tofler was required study in all universities receiving federal money. Most blacks had been returned to Africa.
Among the exceptions were Vice President Herman Cain, Juan Williams and Thomas Sowell, all of whom had been named Honorary Whites by the Republican majority in Congress and Senate.
The proclamations included a $25,000 gift certificate to each recipient, redeemable at Michael Jackson’s Beverly Hills dermatologist on Rodeo Drive.
Cubans had been returned to Cuba, but Mexicans were exempted from President Gingrich’s American Ethnic Renewal. A rogue newspaper revealed the reason for this to be five sultry Mexican concubines he kept in separate apartments around Washington, D.C.
The public forgave their president because Callista turned out to be a mannequin. I wondered why her face never moved, Vice President Cain once said to a young blonde reporter. Are you busy later tonight, honey? he added.
Catholicism was proclaimed the National Religion after President Gingrich declared it a very forgiving system. Just confess and you’re off the hook, he once was heard to say while chuckling.
* * * *
Kristanabel turned to the Marbol Hotel’s bellman.
I need an abortionist, Max, a cheap one.
And that was how she found herself in the Marbol’s basement three nights later, on her back, mostly naked, lying on a collapsible cot and an Army-drab surplus blanket, so full of dark ale to dull her senses that she scarcely felt a thing.
The abortionist, a black-haired woman about 45 with a tattoo of the Empire State Building on her left bicep, knew her trade, and the work went smooth and quick. A hour later, Kristanabel left the basement, dressed and clean.
And the abortionist lay on the cement floor, her mouth and eyes open in surprise. A scalpel had been taken from her hand and placed in another part of her body.
A small bloody glob on the floor, not from the abortionist, mind you, had put an idea into Kristanabel’s head.
I want a rare roast beef sandwich, she told herself.
And Max quickly brought it to her room.
* * * *
(One of a series titled The Marbol Hotel.)