Jake's 8 (19 page)

“So.”

“So, Mr. Carmichael said this isn’t the type of work we do.”

“You’ve been doing it, though. What did you find out?”

“I found out you don’t need to worry. Just relax and enjoy your life.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. And another thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Quit asking questions. You’ll be much happier. Just enjoy it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Goodbye,” I said and hung up.

I moped around my condo all weekend then moped around the office on Monday. At three in the p.m. Mrs. Swanson called.

“I got all these papers in the mail,” she said. “I’m not sure what they mean.”

“I was copied on the same ones. They mean your husband’s name is off all your accounts.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“And when I pass, you’ll take my name off all these accounts.”

“And I’ll put your children’s name on them.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Okay. Well goodbye, Mr. Gibb.”

“You have someone to come around and check on you, Mrs. Swanson?”

“Yes, my middle daughter still lives in town.”

“Good. We’ll see you in six months for our semi-annual review.”

“Yes. In six months. I’ll see you, then. Goodbye, Mr. Gibb.”

The closing bell rung on Wall Street and I said goodbye to Mrs. Johnson.

I walked around trying to figure out what I wanted for dinner. I wasn’t in the mood to go back out once I was at my place. After a half hour I said, screw it. If I get hungry I’ll order something in. I walked up Main and walked through my lobby door. I ignored the mailbox. There’d be nothing in there that interested me. I slumped up the stairs and unlocked my door. I could smell her.

“Kendra?”

I heard nothing. Sense memory, I thought. I laid down my keys and roll of cash and kicked off my wingtips. I stood in front of the open fridge and nothing looked good in there either. I made for the bathroom.

There she was. She was curled up on the bed asleep. I stood there for a moment looking at her. She seemed to be sleeping tense. Her brow was furrowed and her muscles looked rigid. She was hanging near the edge of the bed as if she could slip off any minute. I went into the bathroom and did what I needed to do and noticed what I hadn’t noticed before. Two long white wrappers. Empty. In the trash bin.

Back in my room, I kicked off my pants, unknotted my tie and unbuttoned my shirt. I tossed them all in a heap on the floor.

I crawled up behind Kendra and wrapped my arms around her as gently as possible trying not to wake her. I failed.

“I missed you,” she said in a sleepy voice without turning to me.

“I missed you, too. How was your trip?”

“Don’t ask me about it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Don’t ever ask me about it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Will you hold me until I get back to sleep?”

“I’ll hold you until you wake up.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

Marines stood guard next to a single tank blocking the south gate. Their rifles were at the ready. I slowed down as I neared and saw a fat man in khakis and an untucked Oxford shirt yell something to them and they lowered their weapons. I idled up slower and the man in civilian clothes huffed out to meet me.

“Paul, I was hoping you’d make it,” he said.

“I made it,” I said.

We walked past the tank and the Marines and through the airport gate.

“The rebels have given us until zero six hundred to be gone,” he said. “We’re just waiting on stragglers like you.”

He stopped and turned to me.

“I thought you’d bring Guillermo’s daughter.”

“I did. She didn’t make it.”

“Neither did Guillermo. Three days ago. Outside the ministry building. His daughter?”

“Ten minutes ago. By the east gate.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, damn.”

“You okay?”

“I don’t know yet. This whole thing was pear-shaped from the moment we got here.”

“It was pear-shaped long before we got here, my friend.”

He led me to a civilian airplane. The steps were lowered and the pilot was already in his seat. We climbed up and claimed seats. The fat man reached into a file, pulled out an envelope and slapped it into my chest. I took it.

“Your new documentation, per our agreement. You came through for us. We came through for you.”

In a prior life, I was involved in politics—small time politics. You think Washington is cut throat? You think corporations, politicians and lobbyists get mad and contemplate revenge—even murder—when a multi-billion dollar project is defunded? That ain’t nothin’. It’s nothing compared to the rage a small town city councilman feels when he tells a guy he played high-school football with that he can’t put up a ten foot privacy fence in his backyard because of zoning. Or telling a woman she can’t paint her house the color she wants because it’s in an historic district.

Local politics is brutal politics.

Which is why it’s best that if you’re going to swim in those campaign waters, you swim with a cocktail.

The Pimm’s Cup is a great summertime cocktail. It’s refreshing and low in alcohol—so you can have plenty of them. They’re also easy to make.

Buy a bottle of Pimm’s No. 1. It’s a gin-based, herb-infused liqueur. Most places will have it.

Pour a few ounces of it into a tall glass full of ice. Why don’t I tell you how many ounces? Because it’s a relaxed drink and you should make it in a relaxed manner. Try a few different measures and see what you like. Over whatever number of ounces you decided on, pour either ginger ale or lemon-lime soda.

Next, fancy it up with a slice of green apple and a long spear of cucumber. Don’t think I’m joshing you on this. This vegetation does enhance the drink. Some mint or other herb is nice too, if you have it.

I’m told the Pimm’s Cup is the unofficial drink of the Wimbledon Tennis tournament. That’s one reason I kick off this story on a tennis court. Another reason is that those little white outfits women wear are hot.

So enjoy your Pimm’s Cup and
The Senator’s Wife
.

– Howard McEwen

Holly Hessenbaum crashed a bomb across the net. It landed just in bounds. Her adversary, a gamely brunette about ten years younger, scrambled for it but only managed to stumble into a flowerbed. Holly Hessenbaum turned and, without a word or look at her sprawled opponent, put her racket in her bag. She dabbed her face with a towel, looked my way and nodded.

I showed her my smile and volley backed my own nod.

No matter where a woman falls on that ubiquitous ten point scale, she can spot herself two extra digits in the right direction by walking onto a tennis court in one of those nice, little tennis outfits. The Mrs. ex-Governor, ex-Senator Myron Hessenbaum was a ten already, so the short, white skirt and tight, white top she was flitting around in at middle court launched her off the chart.

Holly Hessenbaum was thirty-eight. She looked twenty-eight. She was athletically thin in that way that can only be bestowed by God himself and two hours a day on the tennis courts. However, there were no angles. She was all curves. Her forehand was encumbered by a sizeable bosom, but she managed her swing alright. Her naturally blonde hair was long and today she’d drawn it back into a ponytail. The legs? Well, the legs were killer-diller.

She strutted up the concrete sidewalk and came to the large portico I was perched under where the country club had set up tables for
al fresco
luncheons. I rose to meet her. She placed her bag on the ground, pulled out a chair and set herself down. Her opponent was still on the court sipping a sports hydration beverage between gulps of breath. Holly Hessenbaum wasn’t even winded.

The waiter, a man in his upper fifties who had been making an obvious point of ignoring me the last twenty minutes, approached us before she had a chance to lean back in her chair.

“A Dark ‘N Stormy, Bobby. You, Mr. Gibb?”

“Do they use the right rum?”

“Gosling’s Black Seal.”

“And the right ginger beer?”

“Gosling’s there too, with a splash of lime.”

Satisfied, I looked up to Bobby who was waiting patiently. He was too old to be called Bobby by someone not an old friend. I knew it and he knew it. Mrs. Hessenbaum may have known it but couldn’t have cared less.

“A Dark ‘N Stormy for me too, but hold the citrus.”

Bobby left to fetch the drinks.

“You know your cocktails, Mr. Gibb.”

“I know my highballs, Mrs. Hessenbaum.”

“Let’s not quibble over semantics, Mr. Gibb. I need your help.”

“Of course. You and your husband are very important clients to our firm, Mrs. Hessenbaum.”

“
I’m
a very important client to your firm, Mr. Gibb. Remember that all of my husband’s and my money is really all
my
money.”

I gave a noncommittal nod.

“What can we do for you?”

“I want a divorce.”

I didn’t show surprise, but the news shocked me down to my tippy toes. This meeting was supposed to be an informal check-in. This was supposed to be a ‘buy the client a lunch and a drink and show her how her portfolio is doing and after an hour of chit-chat drive back to the office and get on with your day’ type of meeting. ‘Divorce’ is a portfolio and wealth destroying word. Once uttered—and uttered by the largest client of ‘The Offices of Prescott Carmichael’—I was in over my head. Mr. Carmichael should be brought in as soon as possible.

“Does your husband want a divorce?”

“He does not.”

“Well, it’s still easy enough to do,” I said. “It happens all the time.”

“There’s more.”

“More?”

“Yes, more.”

“What’s the more?”

“You familiar with the trust my family set up for me?”

“I am as far as allowed investments. If I remember right, the investment powers section puts restrictions against gambling and tobacco holdings. No Harrah’s. No Phillip Morris.”

“Yes, my grandfather was a Baptist.”

“And no defense stocks.”

“Yes, he married a Quaker. However, I don’t mean the investments. I mean the other restrictions.”

Bobby delivered our drinks. He waited for Mrs. Hessenbaum’s approval. I watched Holly Hessenbaum wrap her plump bottom lip around the red and white striped straw. A few beads of dewy sweat showed on her upper lip. I took another long sip bypassing my straw. It had been a while since I’d had a Dark ‘N Stormy. It was cool and cooling with a nice kick of summer spice.

“Very good, Bobby.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” Bobby walked away.

“Give Bobby a big tip, Mr. Gibb. He’s got a daughter who keeps popping out illegitimate kids. It’s not easy to cover on a waiter’s pay.”

I figured I was paying, but I don’t like to be told I was and how much I should tip. I brought matters back to hand.

“What do you mean ‘other restrictions’?” I asked.

“It’s one my father added when he got sick and knew he was going to die. I was just out of college and was living a lifestyle he thought inappropriate for his daughter. The terms he put in the trust allowed me more access to the money once I married, but any money disbursed has to be signed off jointly by my husband and me. Daddy was old school. The trust also says that if I marry and I later file for divorce that I’m cut off from the trust assets. I’ll only be provided a small income and the assets will be donated to some hospitals. Daddy thought it a good incentive to get me to make a good marriage.”

“How small an income?”

“Whatever the median income is for a woman my age at the time of divorce plus a three percent cost of living adjustment.”

“That would be a big cut for you.”

“Very big.”

“So you need your husband to file for this divorce.”

“Yes. If he files, the assets stay with me. But he refuses.”

“It seems you are in a box of your father’s design.”

“Not at all Mr. Gibb. This is where you and Mr. Carmichael come in. I want you to help me.”

I perked up my ears.

“You and Mr. Carmichael are going to approach my husband and make him an offer.”

“How much?”

“No. That money is my grandfather’s. He worked for it. He gave his life for it. He wouldn’t approve of the way I enjoy it, but he’d want me to enjoy it and not some politician.”

“If not money, then what?”

“His career.”

“You’ll have to elaborate.”

“You and Mr. Carmichael are going to meet with my husband. You are going to tell him that he should file for divorce or his wife will destroy his career.”

“I take it you have something on your husband?”

“No. He’s so clean you could eat off of him.”

“I’m stumped.”

“I have something on me.”

“You’re being coy, Mrs. Hessenbaum.”

“I guess it’s better if I show you, Mr. Gibb. Followed me. Bring your drink.”

I picked up my drink and laid down forty bucks for Bobby. I followed Mrs. Hessenbaum’s ponytail off the portico and into the country club. I followed the hem of her skirt as it playfully flipped up with each step out a side entrance. I followed the swing of her hips down a wooded lane to where three bungalows sat hidden by a small stand of trees. I followed her legs through the front door of the last little house.

It was a small, one-room place with a bed off to one side and a sitting area with a TV off to another side. There was a kitchenette in the rear and what looked to be a bathroom behind it.

“Have a seat, Mr. Gibb.”

I passed up the large overstuffed couch for two and took a seat in the most uncomfortable looking chair in the room. I took another long drag off my highball. She saw me pass up the couch and tossed me a crooked grin while wrapping those lips around her straw to take another hit off of her Dark ‘N Stormy. She flipped back a seascape hanging on the wall and unlocked a small wall safe. She pulled out a flash drive.

I’ll admit that old cat killer jumped into my lap.

She left the wall safe open as she walked back. She inserted the flash drive into the TV.

“I had some security cameras installed in this bungalow about six months ago, Mr. Gibb.”

I kept quiet. Instead of speaking, I took a drink. You rarely get in trouble keeping your mouth shut.

“They’re
inside
the bungalow, Mr. Gibb.”

My eyes jumped involuntarily around the room.

“They’re off now, Mr. Gibb.”

I didn’t believe her, but I took another self-conscious drink. She picked up the remote and changed the TV’s input over to ‘USB.’

“Have another good long sip, Mr. Gibb. You’ll need it.”

The screen was quartered. In each quarter, the view of a different camera showed the same scene. It was the room I was sitting in at that moment. Mrs. ex-Governor, ex-Senator Hessenbaum was with a man not her husband. Both were jay-bird naked and doing what jay-bird naked adults do when jay-bird naked in a country club’s private bungalow. Holly Hessenbaum was doing it vigorously. Her partner was straining to keep to the pace she was setting.

“You recognize him, Mr. Gibb?”

I directed my attention from Holly Hessenbaum’s frenetic form to the face of the fellow underneath her. The man had Ken-doll good looks complete with cleft chin and golden tresses.

“He looks familiar.”

“He’s a political reporter for one of the national networks.”

She hit a button and the images sped up. The high speed made the coitus comical. She stopped the video when the lighting changed. The political reporter was gone now. Another man was in his place.

“And him?”

I looked at the naked man on the screen lying on his side taking it slow with Mrs. ex-Governor, ex-Senator Myron Hessenbaum.

“Yes, I know him. The CEO of...”

“Yes, he is that and a big campaign fund bundler for my husband.”

She fast-forwarded again and stopped the video.

I gave a long whistle when I saw the face of the man in the throes of Holly Hessenbaum’s passion.

“Yep. Him too. And he likes it like that all the time by the way. Exciting at first, boring after a couple of hours. Okay, that’s enough. There’s more, but I’ll stop here. I feel like I’m showing off.”

She turned off the TV and sat on the edge of the bed.

I gathered myself together.

“Why do you want a divorce? You don’t seem restricted by your marital vows.”

“No. I’m not. I sleep with who I want when I want. I have since I was nineteen.”

“So why a divorce?”

“Because Cincinnati is boring.”

“What?”

“I grew up here and when I went to college, I choose Barnard in Manhattan. I stayed in Manhattan. I had fun. I really had a lot of fun. But then I got bored. I met Myron at a fundraiser an old friend was having for him and thought it’d be fun to live in D.C. as a senator’s wife. Washington is full of dull people, but it was exciting being close to power. When I got bored, I caught a train north and in two hours was in Manhattan. If the winters got too cold, I caught the Silver Star down to South Beach. But then Myron lost that election and it was back to Cincinnati for us. It’s miserable here. No culture. No theatre. No night-life. It’s a black hole of boredom.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Haven’t I heard your husband is running for the senate again.”

“The election is in two years. Do you know how miserable the campaign trail is, Mr. Gibb? It’s brutal torture. It’s a year of listening to idiots, talking to idiots, eating with idiots in their idiot little towns all over Ohio. I want out now. I want to move back to New York, but Myron won’t have it. He won’t sign off on the checks from the trust funds. He pays for the country club, gives me a clothing allowance and the cars, but that’s it. Nothing else. He said my living in Manhattan will damage his reelection. It won’t look right and he says I’ll get into trouble.”

“It looks like he’s right,” I said nodding to the now blank TV.

“He is. I like trouble.”

“So what’s the plan?” I ask.

“The plan, Mr. Gibb, is for you and Mr. Carmichael to tell my husband that unless he files for divorce, these videos get released to the press. It’ll destroy his career. Once the videos are out he’ll have to file just to save face. Why not file now and avoid the embarrassment?”

“You want me to blackmail Senator Hessenbaum for you?”

“It is not blackmail. It’s a negotiation.”

“You want me to negotiate a former governor, a former senator into filing divorce papers against his wife that will not only send him to the poor house but cause problems for his reelection campaign. And as motivation, you want me to tell him that his wife has pornographic films of herself with several prominent men that she’ll release if he doesn’t file for divorce.”