Governored

He was dressing and I was drying off with a towel when we both heard the heavy knock at the door to the governor's room. The "do not disturb" signs were out, so it shouldn't be maid service.

Steve turned to me, put a finger to his lips, and motioned for me to get out of view of the connecting doors. I gathered up parts of my suit and my socks and shoes and moved over to the door to the corridor and hurriedly dressed as Steve turned and went to the other door.

I didn't hear it all, but I did hear the part about "IRS agents" and "Checking irregularities" and "The governor down at our office" and "We understand you keep his accounts, Mr. Horton" and "Please finish getting dressed and come with us."

I didn't want to hear any more, though, and knew I was just the spanner in the works that neither Steve nor the governor needed around here at the moment. I quietly opened the door to the corridor; checked to see if the coast was clear, which it was; and closed the door again as silently as I could before moving as quickly and quietly as I could away from the door to the governor's room and toward the bank of the Mayflower elevators.

I wasn't worried about myself; I always came prepared for the eventuality of needing a quick getaway and had plenty of resources to get back to L.A. And I certainly didn't give too figs for whatever trouble the governor had landed in. I was worried a bit about Steve, though. Steve had been very nice.

And I worried about the ire of Leon, my pimp. I sure hoped the services to the governor had been prepaid—and in untraceable money.