Lindsey checked the scrap of paper in her hand, confirming her destination was, indeed, on this floor, in this wing, through this hallway of the hotel. Abruptly, a door to her right (655) burst open, and a child of ten or twelve flew out of the room, accompanied by loud cartoon music, carrying a plastic ice bucket, chased by another child of perhaps 8 or 9 hot on his heels. The second child was yelling "Wait for me, Rufus, Wait for me!" as they both tore down the hallway.

Lindsey glanced into the messy hotel room where the overloud cartoon still played on the television, and saw a tired looking man in his early 30s staring back at her. She shifted her gaze to the other individual in the room, an equally-tired looking woman holding a handful of wet hotel towels. She seemed to have bounced back from having the children quite nicely. The woman gave Lindsey a quick once over, taking in the hig- heeled shoes, seamed stockings, teeny mini and sheer black top, and then looked at her husband, who was still busy looking at Lindsey. The woman reached out her hand and shut the hotel room door with authority.

Lindsey walked on, unperturbed. She was used to slackjawed stares from men peeping out of hotel room doors and across marble floored hotel lobbies. She was used to scowling looks from tired women. She was most definitely used to long hotel corridors.

Still, she wondered what it would be like to be at a hotel for fun, for a vacation. To look forward to sitting by the pool, or ordering room service with the TV on and the covers pulled up all around you like a warm cocoon.

She came to a stop at a door near the end of the hallway. Looking at the plaque, she consulted the scrap of paper again and confirmed the match. She patted her hair, adjusted her stance on the heels, and with a breath that she wasn't even aware turned into a long sigh, knocked discreetly on the door.

"My God, Franklin! That's quite a horse's cock you've got there!" Thomas Jefferson said to his friend, who was lolling naked on a rough hewn wooden bench in the steam room. Franklin swore by the "medicinal benefits" of taking a hot steam, and had modeled the design of this one on others he had seen during one of his many trips to Paris. Jefferson was dubious, but finally Franklin had worn him down to try it. Actually, what had worn him down was the promise of some salacious gossip. Franklin always had the best gossip.

"All the better to bugger your wife with," Franklin said, peering down over his bifocals and squinting past his greatly distended abdomen, where, as Jefferson had remarked, a thick fat penis with an enormous purplish mushroom head rested on one leg. "She never seems to mind you spending so much time in France when I come over." He leered.

"And here the whole time I thought you were taking her kite flying," Jefferson said distantly. He was thinking about his own member, and the especially delicious honey pot he had been dipping it in just this morning, while his wife had been busy with something or another somewhere else on the great grounds of Monticello.

"Oh dear," Franklin said in mock worry, "Tommy's not paying attention again-he must be thinking of Presidential things again." He was about to say more, but just then a slave came in, bearing a large jug of water, which he slowly dumped over the hissing rocks. "Tell me, Thomas, what do you think of Hamilton's plan for all this paper currency?"

Jefferson snapped out of his musings and stared at Franklin's perpetually smirking face. With his unkempt long hair, old flabby body and rotten teeth, Franklin should have been hiding under a bridge somewhere, scaring children and demanding tolls from weary travelers, not traveling to and fro representing this perfect democracy on the ultra-sophisticated shores of the Seine. Still, though, the clear blue eyes behind the lenses were enormously bright, and between that and the horse cock, Franklin sure bagged a lot of quim. Jefferson looked down at his own body, the athletic musculature still there even at his age, and wondered-not for the first time, about the fairness of the universe.

"Has Hamilton ever had a bad idea?" Jefferson answered. "If it wasn't for him, I don't know what we'd do. This federal reserve scheme is perfect for a centralized control of the economic system."

Franklin nodded sagely, "Yes, and it sounds so important-federal reserve-the fucking rubes will sign on up and down the coast. Good thing Hammy's such a little hothead, or he'd be President and history would recall you as simply a tall Virginian."

Jefferson thought about that for a moment. Franklin was right. Franklin was always right. Hamilton was always trying to tread that upward path; he never made any concealment of his ambitions. And, Jefferson had to hand it to him-unlanded, nongentrified bastard or not, Hamilton had perhaps the keenest mind around, except for Franklin's of course. But Franklin would rather bathe in milk and wine and diddle servant girls than be President, and besides, Franklin had more bastard children on both sides of the great ocean than could ever be approved of by a god-fearing public. He was no trouble. But Hamilton, yes, Hamilton bore watching.

He looked up. Franklin was looking at him expectantly. Jefferson snorted mirthlessly. Of course, that's why Franklin had insisted on this surreptitious Friday meeting. Much like playing chess, Franklin had already calculated three moves ahead. Franklin already had a plan, and was waiting for Jefferson to coax it out of him. This was going to be like that whole "Declaration of Independence" thing that Franklin had written in four hours after drinking an alarming amount of red wine and vomiting onto the hearth, causing the whole room to be filled with an evil stench they couldn't banish no matter what they tried. That time he had been forced to agree to the whole France diplomat thing and to agree to create a false business to subsidize publishing reprints of "Poor Richard's Almanack" for the next 250 years, but it had been worth it. Even Abigail Adams had wanted to throw down with him after he read it aloud for their group, and she was the coldest fish he'd ever seen.

Jefferson patted the sweat off his brown with a linen handkerchief, leaned back against the wood rest and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He let out a deep breath that he wasn't even aware had turned into a sigh and said, "Alright, Franklin, what do you want?"

Lindsey waited while the footsteps on the other side of the door made their way closer. It was always the same. They sprinted the first few steps, and then stopped to gracefully walk the last couple, as though she possessed x-ray vision and could see through the door. She could hear a rustling on the other side that she knew was him bending to look out through the peephole. She leaned back and drew a reasonable facsimile of a smile across her red lips. She heard the chain slide back, and the bolt slide and the door was opened for her.

On the other side stood another 30-something man, alternating between smiling widely at her perfect face and sneaking-or so he thought-appreciative glances at the curves of her bosom underneath the sheet black top." They stared back and forth at each other for a moment, and in that space of time, Lindsey knew he was a first-timer, probably first time in the big city for a convention and first time away from his wife, whom he had probably met back in the third grade and married while the ink on her high school diploma was still wet.

She smiled wider. "Aren't you going to invite me in?" she said, in a sweet voice one octave higher than her normal speaking voice. First-timers always liked the little girl lilt. Lifetime hobbyists preferred the cigarette growl, and foreigners didn't really care one way or the other.

"Oh," he said, embarrassed, snapping out of his momentary daze. "I'm very sorry, do come in….Shelia" he said, sweeping arm to indicate the room.

As she walked past him, she wondered whether to correct him or not. The advertisement he had responded to had clearly listed her name as "April"-she had written it herself, one of the only useful bonuses of a liberal arts degree. But, it was no big deal, really. As long as he was paying, she could be "Shelia."

As Lindsey breezed through the room, she noticed a puff of warm air from the bathroom and the smell of antiseptic mouthwash. Good, he was clean. She looked at the desk where a small overhead lamp illuminated a bottle of Evian water with a stack of bills folded neatly under it. He could follow directions. Even better.

She set her purse down and turned to him, where he had finished closing and bolting the door. He wasn't so bad looking, she supposed. No model material, but certainly better than some of the one to come down the road. She thought of the HVAC convention last August and suppressed a shudder.

He stood still, smiling at her like a shy schoolboy. Lindsey's face was pretty, but behind it the mind was as merciless as the scales of fate. This one had 45 minutes tops written all over it, and even if she threw in a few upsells, she could be back home in time to be in her PJs for the "Daily Show" no problem.

Not, however, if she didn't get things moving. She smiled even wider and stepped closer to him. "So, honey, what can I do for you?"

Jefferson and Franklin were rolling on the floor of the steam room, laughing hysterically like a couple of gin-addled drunks. From time to time, more slaves came in bearing pitchers of water for the stones, or, more importantly, pitchers of Franklin's excellent wine. Jefferson hadn't been this trashed since the victory party he threw for Washington, and that was mainly just getting drunk with Martha so he could lead her to the stables while Adams went on and on about imperialism in the big dining room. Everyone knew the Washington marriage was just sham anyway, especially the numerous young boys who served as the great general's "aides." But, once again, Jefferson had to admit Franklin had been right. Bun boy or not, Washington made such a charismatic leader, the people would rally around him, even though he was as dumb as a post. "Thank God they don't have talking portraits yet," Franklin had said, "or we'd be screwed royally."

Thinking of Washington made Jefferson laugh harder. "Franklin, Franklin," he said between gasps, "tell me again about the cherry tree story, that's too funny."

Franklin crinkled his eyes and laughed along with him. "I told you, we need the people to think their leaders are the same as them, only better. We cook up a bunch of ridiculous exploits and dispatch our pool of drunks and degenerates to spread the stories from town to town as if they had seen them themselves. In time, no one will remember who told the story or what the details were, just the point." Franklin paused and took a huge gulp from the wine jug. "It sure worked for the Bible."

The both tittered again. "Come on, Franklin; tell me again the term you've come up with for this."

Franklin steadied himself and composed a serious face. Looking with utmost sincerity at Jefferson, he solemnly intoned, "I call it…rube relations."

They both dissolved into cackling.

"You're such an evil genius, Franklin, I bet you fifty dollars you can't get them to believe Georgie can throw a coin across the Potomac." Jefferson sputtered out.

"Hell, Tommy, I'll bet you a hundred I can convince them he has wooden teeth."

This time neither could speak for close to one full minute. Their revelry was broken by a knock on the door. A slave entered, and said "Sirs, Mr. Hamilton is here at your request."

Jefferson sobered quickly, but Franklin acted as if the servant had simply informed him of the weather. After pondering a moment, he said, "Let him wait 30 minutes, Linus, and then bid him to disrobe and join us in here."

When the man had gone, Jefferson stage whispered, "30 minutes! Are you insane? Hamilton has his days planned out to the second. And you know what a hothead he is? Do you have any idea how angry that's going to make him?"

Franklin smiled in a kindly, grandfatherly way that had resulted in more than one unplanned Parisian pregnancy. "Precisely."

He poured himself another bit of wine. "Please, Tommy, one indulgence….when he gets here, let me do all the talking."

Lindsey poured herself another bit of wine. She and Kevin were laughing hysterically like a couple of shot pounding college kids. The empty glass of three bottles of wine now lined the desk next to the Evian bottle still covering the folded cash. Thought of the "Daily Show" were long forgotten. Kevin was even better than a shy first-timer; he was a LONELY and RICH shy first-timer.

When they wanted her to undress slowly and clamber all over them, it was fine. When they wanted her to do things their wives and girlfriends wouldn't-or would-do, that was fine. When they just wanted to fuck someone who was hot and not from their town, that was fine too. But when they wanted to talk-when they really wanted some company-that was the best ever.

Kevin was laughing in a non-romantic snorting sort of way, in between spilling his wine and relating some anecdote about the software company he designed for and some guy named "Karl," but Lindsey was thinking more about the wine. They were on their fourth bottle; all ordered one at a time from room service, which was well over $600 already. Plus, all that wine tasting meant the meter was running, and Kevin didn't seem to mind. And, if Kevin didn't seem to mind, she sure didn't seem to mind. She could always TiVo Jon Stewart and watch later. Tonight was starting to go from a Sony flat panel evening to a 50 inch plasma wall unit kind of night. Right on.

Lindsey set down her wine glass and stood up, noticing how his worshipful eyes followed her every move. Impulsively, she reached up and pulled the black top over her head on one fluid motion. She thought poor Kevin's eyes were going to bug out, alternating between the coal-black of her bra and the pale promise of her fair skin.

He stopped laughing and stood up too, also setting his wine down. Lindsey knew this look on his face, too. This was the "lust-past-the-point-of-reason-past-the-point-of-no-return" look. She smiled and backed up a few steps to the bed and sat back down on it, elegantly arching her back for him. Without taking his eyes off her, he began tugging at the belt on his pants. "Come here, baby, and let me help you with that," she said, any octaves in her voice long since sacrificed to the wine.

He shook his head and continued struggling with the belt. "No, just roll over and lie on your stomach," he said, his voice even huskier than her best cigarette rasp, and the belt finally began to slip noisily through the loops on his pants. "And close your eyes."

Franklin and Jefferson had composed themselves and were sitting quite calmly when Alexander Hamilton burst into the steam room. "What the hell is the meaning of keeping me waiting half the day, Benjamin?" he bellowed, before taking into account Jefferson's woozy presence.

"Careful, Alexander, my good friend," Franklin cautioned. "I have toyed with the idea of hiring a boy to follow you around everywhere you go and record each utterance you make, since everything that comes out of your mouth is a brilliant idea for the ages, and we wouldn't want to commit to history any such foulness from a future President."

"Never mind about that," Hamilton said, glancing around more fully at Jefferson and Franklin, "What shall we tell the people about you two titans of this fledgling country sitting around naked and besotted at this hour? That is a, a, "casual type of Friday" for you?"

"Hey, that's pretty good," Jefferson muttered from the corner, where he was listing badly to the left.

"Now, Thomas," Franklin mock-scolded, "you know we agreed that I'd ask Alexander about this delicate situation, and not you. We don't want your good name besmirched with such trifling gossip."

"Sorry," Jefferson mumbled, and tipped over even further to the left.

Hamilton was on it like a cat. "Gossip? Delicate Situation? What Delicate Situation?"

Franklin made a show of frowning hugely and shaking his head. "Alexander, I do believe I told that servant to have you disrobe and take a steam with us, and yet you appear to be fully dressed. Am I to have him whipped for bollixing up even the most simple request?" He reached an unsteady hand for the small bell he used to summon servants to bring more wine, more food and more young nubile maidens, depending on how many rings he tinkled off. "I call this my "Liberty Bell" he once confided to James Madison while they were both whoring with two Hessian girls left over from the great war.

"Franklin," Hamilton cried in exasperation, "You know as well as I that there is no way I can disrobe and engage in immoral behavior of absolutely no repute in the middle of the day, I've got a thousand and one things to attend to, so if you have some information you'd like to share with me, I strongly urge you to provide it forthwith." He made a move to turn on his boot, but Franklin stopped him with a simple clearing of his throat.

"Alexander, Alexander, why so angry all the time my friend? Your day will come. Trust me. I will tell you of the embarrassing question I have for you, but first, tell me of your plans for a country wide currency dictated by one bank and not by each state."

Hamilton's eyes brightened at the mention of his idea. "Of course! Having each territory print it own money is ridiculous, there is no central control on…"

Jefferson squinted his eyes, but Hamilton's words blurred away. It didn't matter. Once he got going on one of his "great" ideas, he could talk the bridle of Paul Revere's horse. Idly, he looked around to see if Franklin had stashed any of that wine in here. They'd been in this hot room a long time, and it was only natural a man would get thirsty. Franklin had said two things about this conversation with Hamilton, and this part was the first. He had predicted Hamilton's anger, which he said they would first diffuse by learning about his genius currency plan, and then refocus after they got the information. Jefferson had no idea why Franklin loved these complex machinations so, and he supposed Franklin didn't either. Like a bored cat, Franklin toyed with things just for the sake of the toying. A servant appeared at Jefferson's side while he was rooting around for the booze.

"Would Master Jefferson like me to bring him a book while he is waiting for Misters Franklin and Hamilton to finish their business?" he asked.

Jefferson goggled at him. "Book? Book? Fuck no! Bring me some wine! I cannot live without wine!" he said, and collapsed face down onto the bench.

The thud momentarily stopped Hamilton's recitation, pleasing Franklin to no end. That big lummox Jefferson was good for something after all.

"So," Franklin said, pressing the advantage to sneak into the conversation. "Did you put all this information in the "Binder?"

Hamilton looked around suspiciously. "What the fuck!" he said. "You know we're never to speak of the "Binder" anywhere but in the Capitol, Franklin. I should shoot you for treason myself."

"Easy, easy, Alexander." Franklin said soothingly. The "Binder" was another of Hamilton's genius ideas. He had thought that they could write down all their grand ideas in one place, and then leave that for future leadership to find and implement as necessary. Of course, it's very existence would be kept secret from everyone, even those in the highest levels of power.

Franklin remembered Hamilton telling him gleefully about each new idea he put in the Binder. "Franklin," he said, breathless one summer afternoon, "in the future a day will come, where men can simply walk up to some great machine-probably steam driven-and be able to retrieve some of their capital as if they were at their own banker."

"That's fascinating!" Franklin agreed, and though him quite mad.

For his part, Franklin's interest in the "Binder" was more pragmatic. He realized, correctly, that if this fledgling country made it through the first few tough years, there was a shitload of naming opportunities to be had down the road. If they could leave instructions for future generations on what to call certain things and who's name to affix to other ones, then the thinking man would be very well remembered.

Presently, Franklin was obsessing over this "one currency" idea. Wow, if this one took off, a man could have his portrait on any denomination he wanted, like a king. Every time one of the rubes pulled some notes out of his pocket, there would be a picture of one of their beloved forefathers. It was genius, and Franklin was determined to make sure future generations would approach a shopkeeper asking a price on a certain sundry, and the keeper would say, "Oh, that's only two Franklins." He got chill bumps just envisioning it.

"Of course I put it in the Binder," Hamilton hissed. "Now what was that question?"

Franklin smiled even more widely. "Two things, Alexander, my good friend. One involves a notation your other good friend," He indicated the snoring Jefferson with a yellowed thumbnail. "And I would like you to add to the "Binder." The other, alas, involves a heartfelt question I must pose to you. Not that I want to, I might add." Franklin added sorrowfully.

"What fucking question?" Hamilton howled.

Franklin could barely suppress a smile and keep the saddened expression on his face. "Well, given the sight I saw earlier this week when you were out of town, and that I and Jefferson," he again indicated the sleeping corroborating witness, "had the utter misfortune to view, and with your wife being so young and pretty and all, and the Vice President so dashing and accomplished and so obviously enjoying her attentions, I have to ask, Alexander. Is there trouble in the home??

Lindsey's skull was lightly striking the headboard with each thrust of Kevin's penis into her. While certainly not pleasurable, it was not that annoying either, sort of like an endlessly repeated one note symphony for her and her alone.

From behind her, Kevin had wrapped his fingers in her long hair and was thrusting wildly. Every once in awhile, Lindsey could make out some words like "whore" or "fuck" or "fucking whore" or "whore fucking whore" but other than that, it was mostly guttural grunts and mutterings.

He has wanted to use the belt, to use it on her, and at first she had balked. He kept naming figures that were higher and higher until they moved into a wholly ridiculous realm, and finally she had relented to take a pre-arranged number of stroked, only on her ass and only at low strength. He had kept his word, and that had driven him to such a state of arousal that he pleaded with her to return to the bed to allow him to finish the job.

In her eyes, he could see the question of why he would pay such an exorbitant sum for a few whacks of a cheap leather belt on pale, unblemished skin. As he pushed her to the mattress once more, he shrugged and said, "You look like Shelia."

Jefferson half stumbled/half fell out of his carriage. Fortunately, his servants were on hand to catch his gangly frame and guide him safely into the study at Monticello.

As Franklin and Hamilton were pouring him into the back of the carriage, Hamilton remarked to Franklin, "You know, he is too besotted to drive, one of your servants should be designated to chauffeur him home safely. There ought to be a law about that."

Franklin just nodded sagely. "Personal Recorder" he said softly, under his breath.

Jefferson had to laugh out loud, not caring if the servants thought him mad. Franklin who was always conspiring, Franklin who was always plotting, Franklin who always thought he was sooooo smart. This time, though, Jefferson knew he had gotten the better of him.

"AARON COCKSUCKING BURR!" Hamilton had bellowed, and Jefferson had painfully squinted his eyes open. As Franklin had also correctly predicted, Hamilton, aside from being a true genius and the world's most short-tempered man was also the proudest. He knew the rest of them were all to the manor born and he a bastard, and it ate at him every second of every day. Franklin even laughed that Hamilton had unwitting coined the definition of his own behavior-"chronic overcompensating overachiever" but that that shouldn't let it stop them from utilizing this flaw to their advantage.

With just a few casual observations and innuendos, Franklin had driven Hamilton into a froth of righteous rage, and there was no better target than that coxswain Burr, who Hamilton had always said had been born with a "golden spoon" in his mouth. In exchange for passing along the sad information of young Missus Hamilton's apparent indiscretion with the Vice President, Franklin had extracted the promise from Hamilton to make some amendments to the Binder concerning the currency.

Jefferson was amazed at the ease in which their plan fell to place. His only misgiving had been to worry if the row between Hamilton and Burr would be too vicious to repair, and some real harm might come of it, to which Franklin replied: "Come on, Tommy, Hamilton is a hothead and Burr is a blowhard, nothing will come of this except a small dust up that will clear the way for your future plans. I mean, this isn't the Dark Ages-Burr is the Vice President, it's not like he's going to shoot anyone."

And so it had all worked to perfection. And the best part of all was how he outfoxed Franklin.

When it came time for Burr to write what currencies they wanted the future leadership to assign to each of them, Jefferson neatly stepped in with his choice before Franklin had a chance to speak. In a shocking move, Franklin had requested to have his likeness preserved on a bill worth one hundred dollars.

As if that wasn't the stupidest request ever! Did Franklin really think people would ever carry one hundred dollars around in their pockets? Maybe if they were going to buy a farm! Why, Jefferson thought and drunken sleep rushed up to claim him, he'd bet most people would probably never see a one hundred dollar bill in their lifetimes.

What a fool that Franklin was.

On the other hand, he had chosen wisely. As business and commerce swept the rugged land and Hamilton's capitalist ideas took root in the country they had formed, then not a day would go by in the busy future that Americans would not be using the most useful piece of currency they could ever own-the one with the humble portrait of their hero Thomas Jefferson on it:

The two dollar bill.

As his consciousness faded, Jefferson smiled to himself. This was the greatest country in the world.

Lindsey finished toweling herself off in the bathroom. The welts on her ass were small, hardly noticeable. In a very short time, they would fade, like this whole episode.

She pulled her purse over her shoulder and exited the bathroom. Angry, righteous Kevin was gone, replace by contrite, flaccid Kevin. His interest in her body spent, he looked shyly at the ground.

She deftly stepped around him, and reached under the Evian bottle, where now there were so many little bills that the bottle canted to one side like a drunk. She grabbed them in her hand and breezed toward the door as fast as her heels would allow. "Thanks," she called over her shoulder, "I had a great time," she said as she disappeared into the hallway.

"You look like Sh-" Kevin offered, but the rest was cut off by the door.

Lindsey marched down the hall, not noticing how the numbers crept up on one side while they fell backward on the other. Not thinking about unhappy couples or lonely people behind those doors, or vacations never taken or spent badly. Her attention was on the fat handful of bills she riffled open like a winning poker hand. Many, many pictures of Ben Franklin looked at her, almost seeming to smirk in the mellow hotel light.

"This is the greatest country in the world," she thought, and laughed.