“Meh, it’s kind of like the Inuit with words for snow: I have a lot of names for the boss.”
She shakes her head.
“I won’t ask.”
We settle back on the sofa together, and I wait for further instructions. I can’t completely relax because I can make an educated guess that the boss will want me to drive Maria’s grandpa back to the Bronx.
Sure enough, an hour later, the Bat signal goes up.
“Gotta go, baby.”
“I’ll warm the bed for you,” she says with a smile.
God, she’s the perfect woman.
Both the boss and Mr. Alvarez are smiling, sorta, and shaking hands. They look as though they’ve come to an agreement. And with my newfound understanding of womenfolk, I’m gonna say that Maria will be pissed that they’ve agreed it without her. But I just work here.
I bring the car around front, and the boss helps Mr. Alvarez into the back seat—the Rover is pretty high up.
We haven’t even left the block before the old man starts with his questions.
“So, how long you worked for Devon?”
“A little over a year.”
“Do you like working for him?”
Now there’s a question I’m not going to answer with full disclosure.
“It’s interesting.”
“You didn’t answer the question, young man.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t answer questions about my employer. Ever.”
He seems to think about that, but he doesn’t give up.
“My granddaughter tells me that you have a child, Mr. Trainer, a daughter. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you know. You know what a great gift it is, and a great responsibility, too.”
I stay silent, because I have a very good idea where this conversation is heading.
“If your daughter were Maria’s age, would you allow her to marry Devon?”
Not even if the planet was doomed and the boss had the last shuttle to Mars.
“Mr. Alvarez, I like Maria, but I still can’t talk about my employer.”
He’s silent for several minutes.
“A man who inspires such loyalty must have a good heart.”
Or a great lawyer who spits out NDAs like confetti at a Greek wedding. But I let the old guy think that.
Whatever helps him sleep at night.
Rachel
I WAS SO worried about Mr. Anderson. He looked terrible, so sad all the time. And he hasn’t been sleeping. Three times, I’ve started to call Ms. Alvarez but I don’t know what I’d say to her. Justin is right: it’s really not my business—except that it is.
I’ve worked for this man for over a year and I really do care about him. Justin does, too, of course, except he won’t admit it. He pretends that he stays for the pay or for me, but he’s fond of Mr. Anderson, too.
We’re only his employees, but he treats us with respect and consideration. He trusts us with his secrets and he’s never lied to us: he’s always been completely frank about his unhappy predilections.
I was so pleased when he met Maria—we both were, and Justin absolutely adores her. She’s so sweet and cheerful. She’s like sunshine wrapped up in a person. If I’d ever had children, she’s the kind of girl I’d want for a daughter. And it was obvious to anyone who saw them together that she was head over heels in love with Mr. Anderson, and he with her. I can’t tell you what a joy it was to see him so happy.
It was a shock when we found out about Maria’s battle with leukemia—it made me respect her even more. She’s strong and smart and loving—she’s perfect for Mr. Anderson. And I’d say that having her grandfather visit tonight, he must think the same and is trying to find a way to bring them back together. I hope I’m right, I really do.
I suspect Justin knows more than he tells me, whether or not that’s to protect me or Mr. Anderson, I’m not sure. He said once something about the way Mr. Anderson’s nightmares reminded him of being in Iraq. He clammed up after that, but I guessed it has to do with what he’s seen over there and losing his friend.
I think we all agree that the best therapy for Mr. Anderson has definitely been Maria. She brought joy into his life when he never seemed to think he deserved any.
I’m still not comfortable being back at Wolf Point. I hate being in the mansion by myself. I haven’t told Justin, but when John Evans is busy, I’ve started asking Frank the doorman from the building next door to see me inside—just to make sure there’s nobody lurking. Frank is taking his escort duties very seriously, probably a little too seriously, if I’m honest. But I can put up with his clumsy flirtation a lot more than seeing a man with a gun pointed at me again.
I keep remembering Aston Van Sant staring at me with those empty eyes.
I really should focus on my work—that’s Justin’s recipe for getting through the rough times.
I wonder if Mr. Anderson will want to go over the menus for the next few days as a distraction. Probably not. I’ll just choose some of his favorites.
But he’s got a temper, as well. That I can attest to, having heard him on the telephone a time or two, although he’s never shouted at me. And I hope he never does. If nothing else, Justin would make him regret it.
The thought makes me smile.
When my husband died, I didn’t think I’d ever find love again. I certainly didn’t think I’d find it with a younger man. I am a very lucky woman. I know the last few months have been hard for Justin: he feels so guilty that Mr. Van Sant got into the house.
It’s been difficult, but I need to let him know that I don’t blame him—that I still love him.
My time away looking after Allison and the girls clarified something for me: I don’t want to lose Justin. I still think he’d be better off with a younger woman, but while he’s interested in me, for as long as he’s interested in me, I’m going to enjoy every moment of our time together.
And I’ve got something in mind.
The phone rings, shaking me out of my increasingly erotic reverie.
“Justin, is everything okay?”
“Everything is good. The old guy looked mostly happy when I drove him home. I’m on my way back now.”
“Oh, that sounds positive! Do you think he’s trying to help, with Mr. Anderson and Maria?”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s the plan. Guess we’ll find out…”
“But?”
“The boss said that he wants me to drive him to supper tomorrow evening.”
“Oh, so he won’t want me to cook.”
“Nope. But that’s not the good bit.”
“Justin, you really do like to draw things out!”
I hear his deep laugh over the phone and I adore it. Who knew such a grim-faced stoical man would love to laugh as much as Justin does.
“You’re the only woman who draws things out of me, baby.”
He also loves to talk dirty.
“Maria’s granddad persuaded him to surprise her, then take her out for dinner.”
“Oh my goodness! I love Maria’s grandfather! It’s just what they both need.”
“Yep, it’s a start. And I’d like to start something with you!”
I laugh lightly.
“Yes, well, I’ve been thinking about that. But you’re free for the rest of the night?”
“I wasn’t thinking of charging you, baby!”
“Very funny, Justin. Just hurry home.”
And I have the biggest smile on my face.
Trainer
IT’S TUESDAY EVENING and I’m thinking dinner a deux with Ms. Smith, when the boss throws a wrench into the finely-tuned engine that is my life, and summons me into his lair a.ka. his office at DMA Tower.
“I need you to drive me tonight, Trainer.”
Has he decided to take Mr. Alvarez’s advice at last?
“Yes, sir. Where to?”
There’s a pause as he glances up from his laptop.
“Comedy Cellar, Ma
cdougal Street, eight o’clock.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Trainer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dress casual.”
“Sir.”
I keep spare clothes at the office, but it’s mostly shirts and gym clothes. Pure luck that I have jeans and a pair of cowboy boots with me.
I don’t like dressing down around the boss—it blurs the lines.
Well, well, well—looks like the boss got tired of giving Ms. Alvarez ‘space’.
At twenty-hundred hours, I’m waiting at the front of DMA Tower. The boss strolls out wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, which is pretty much what I’m wearing. Shit, we look like we’re on a date. Awkward.
At least I’m wearing a coat that covers the Smith & Wesson.
The club looks exactly the same as last time: dark, dingy, with gaudy lights. The boss leads us to a table at the side but near the front. I position myself so I can see the whole room, especially who’s coming and going; but the boss has his eyes fixed on the stage.
Finally, after an hour of listening to a bunch of wanna-be comics, some good, some bad, some ugly, Ms. Alvarez tiptoes onto the stage and blinks out at the people giving her a polite applause.
“Hi! Thanks for coming!”
She’s about to continue when the boss stands up and calls out to her.
“Do you know any good jokes about billionaires?”
Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open. People turn to stare, uncertain whether or not this is part of her act.
Then she pops her hip and smirks at him.
“Dude, you from Scarsdale?”
That gets a laugh, and a ghost of a smile passes the boss’s lips.
“Yeah, I know one,” and she takes a deep breath. “A woman from the Bronx was driving down Bruckner in a bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle, when she pulls up next to a billionaire in a Range Rover at a stop sign. Their windows are open and she yells at the billionaire, ‘Hey, you in the suit, you got a telephone in there?’ The billionaire nods politely, ‘cause that’s what those dudes do, right? ‘Yes, of course,’ he says, looking down at this hot chica in her pimp mobile. ‘I got one too, see?’ says the chick from the Bronx. ‘Hey, I gotta axe you … you got a fax machine?’ The dude looks puzzled. ‘Why, actually, yes, I do.’ The chica laughs and yells, ‘I do too! See? It’s right here!’ The light is just about to turn green and the girl says, ‘So, do you got a double bed in back there?’ The billionaire looks surprised but eager, maybe ‘cause she’s a hot mamacita, you know what I’m saying? ‘No!’ he says. ‘Do you?’ The chica smiles at him. ‘Yep, got my double bed right in back here,’ then screeches past him when the light turns green. Well, the billionaire is pretty competitive ‘cause he didn’t get to be a billionaire without wanting to one-up everyone, and he’s definitely not going to be one-upped by a chick from the Bronx, so he goes to a customizing shop and orders them to put a double bed in back of his Rover. About two weeks later, the job is finally done. Real nice mattress, matching linens, throw pillows, fluffy handcuffs…”
The audience laughs and the boss can’t help shaking his head in amusement.
“So, the billionaire drives all over from Riverdale to Parkchester looking for the hot chick. Finally, he finds her car parked alongside the road, so the billionaire pulls his Rover up next to it. The windows on the Beetle are all fogged up … oh yeah! You feel me? The billionaire doesn’t know whether to be excited or pissed and he’s kinda hoping that the hot chick will invite him to join in…”
I glance over at the boss, but his eyes are fixed on Maria.
“So the dude taps on the foggy window of the Volkswagen, and the chica opens it a crack and peeks out. The billionaire says, ‘Hey, remember me?’ The Bronx chick is annoyed. ‘Yeah, yeah, I remember you. Wass up?’ The dude winks at her ‘cause he thinks she’s gonna be impressed. ‘Check this out, I got a double bed installed in my Rover.’ The Bronx girl yells, ‘YOU GOT ME OUT OF THE SHOWER TO TELL ME THAT!’”
I clap along with the rest of the audience and the boss raises his glass of beer to her. Ms. Alvarez is glowing and happy, and damn if that doesn’t make me feel all warm inside.
I head to the bar to give them some privacy.
The boss done good.
Thank fuck.
Chapter 17
The Invisible Man
I WAKE UP with a smile on my face. Hell, my whole body is smiling from the inside out. And in recognition of my good mood, I poke Rachel in the back with an erection that makes the Empire State Building look like a toothpick.
“Justin,” she says with her eyes still closed, “I’d have been quite happy with ‘Good morning’ as a wake-up call. Breakfast in bed is also traditional.”
I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her into my chest.
“No coffee?” she asks breathlessly. “No breakfast in bed? Justin!”
Oh no, baby, I’m going to make a meal of you.
Although I say it myself, it’s a very good start to the day … and I didn’t have to wait till my birthday for a blowjob.
When I get back from the morning run, my woman is singing to herself as she makes breakfast. Damn, I’m a lucky man.
And even though the boss has more money than the Federal Reserve and more snappy suits than an alligator in Savile Row, I’m not sure I’d call him ‘lucky’. But, if he plays his cards right, and manages not to fuck up again, he might just get lucky tonight.
The poor sucker has to get through a ten-hour work day first—and so do I.
The drive to DMA Tower is uneventful, and despite the increased vigilance, there’s still no sign of the blackmailer making a move. But in case Anderson is being watched, I’ve changed the route of our morning run every day, avoiding all the usual places; and Ryan is guarding the boss’s calendar and appointments more closely than Monica Lewinsky guards her dry-cleaning.
Other than that, it’s business as usual and he’s working on a deal to buy a shipyard in Taiwan that’s going to put the ‘sick’ in Min Keh-sik, and make the Boston Tea Party look like a Sunday school outing.
And here’s the thing: I’ve seen the boss blow off multi-million dollar deals because some instinct told him to walk; I’ve seen him lose more on stock market fluctuations than most people make in ten lifetimes, but I’ve never seen him this jittery.
It’s 19:30 hours and we’re on our way to collect Maria from her home. Even though half the people in DMA Tower know they’re dating or maybe-dating or sorta-dating, she insisted that they don’t meet at work.
As I drive through the increasingly heavy traffic, I can see him in the rear view mirror.
Saying that the present atmosphere is tense is like saying the Titanic had a small leak.
I thought last night had sorted out a few of their issues, but when I pull up outside her building and suddenly we’re at DEFCON 1—nuclear war is imminent. The sleazoid neighbor in dayglow orange sweatpants is escorting Maria to the car. The boss swears so badly my ears nearly melt.
Yeah, a nice intimate chat with the woman he loves—coming right up.
I step out of the car to open the door for Ms. Alvarez, and the hip hop dude’s cold eyes lock onto mine. He’s trying to work out if he’s seen me before, and then he realizes I’m here for Ms. Alvarez. He checks out the Rover then grimaces like he’s just chowed down on cardboard.
Suck it up, dickless.
I wait for Ms. Alvarez to acknowledge me, but her eyes are wide as she stares into the car. I wonder what the fuck she’s seen and half turn, my hand moving towards my gun. The boss is glaring at her—fucking glaring at her.
Can’t he see that the poor kid is crazy about him or does he need Spock to do a Vulcan mind-meld?
I want to slam my head into the steering wheel and inhale the airbag when he snarls, “Who is that?”
For fuck’s sake! He even managed to screw up ‘hello’!
Nope, I want to slam his head into the steering wheel until he sees stars, then
kick his damn ass all the way to Boise and back.
But Maria’s response makes me smile, in a completely face-non-moving sort of way.
She laughs. At him.
Does he take the hint? Does he sweep her into his arms? That would be too poetic for Mr. I’m-a-moron-with-a-broomstick-up-my-Ivy-League-educated-ass.
I stare at the sky, wishing that he’d take his foot out of his mouth before he swallows it.
“Who was that?”
Nope. A two-foot case of indigestion.
I start the engine and try to ignore the replay of the Bay of Pigs in the backseat.
If he keeps pissing on his own parade, he’ll need a damn canoe to paddle out of here.
“That was my neighbor. He was just being friendly so you can stop glaring at me now.”
Anderson, get a clue: you’re in the last chance saloon and your horse just died of loneliness in the one-horse town that you call a life.
“I’m sorry, Maria. Forgive me.”
Begging is good. Women love it when you beg.
“How have you been?”
“Since I saw you at work today?”
“Since you decided you needed some space.”
She looks at her hands then manages to speak. Her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her.
“It’s been … hard.”
“I know,” he says softly. “I miss you.”
I feel like fucking cheering and throwing tickertape. I’m so damn happy that he’s managed to express an emotion that is real for once.
Then he holds her hand.
Hallelujah!
She hesitates. Jesus—I’m holding my fucking breath and I’m the damn driver. If we crash now, Rachel would have my ass. Well, she’s had it several times already, but that’s a bedtime story that’s definitely NC-17.
“Maria, we need to talk.”
No! I’m screaming in my head! KISS HER! KISS HIM! In a totally heterosexual way, of course.
Christ, if he doesn’t kiss her soon, I’m going to give him Rachel’s copy of Ninety Days of Genevieve and tell him to read the chapter entitled ‘The Stallion’.
“Later,” she whispers. “We’ll talk later.”
Jane Harvey-Berrick Saving The Billionaire Page 13