Fishermen's Court

by Andrew Wolfendon

  The waiter fetches her some water, then leaves us alone.

  And so, here we are, Jeannie and I, together for dinner on a fine yacht at anchor in the Gulf of Maine. If we didn’t know we’d both been kidnapped and dragged here against our will, this might be the start of a lovely evening. Alas, we do know.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her in a throat-whisper.

  “No permanent damage.”

  “Nice work back there.”

  “You too. What you were trying to hide? I couldn’t quite see.”

  I shake my head, don’t want to say the words aloud.

  “You know whose boat this is, right?” she says. A confirmation, not a question.

  I nod. “Beth’s dad’s.”

  “So do you have any idea what in the Jumping Jiminy Fuck is going on here?”

  “I wish I didn’t, but... Jeannie, I think Beth’s dad had some people killed, and I think he’s the one who tried to have me killed too.”

  She filters this information for a moment. She must have a jillion questions, but she asks only one. “Do you think... don’t lie to protect my feelings... they’re going to kill us? Tonight?”

  “Taking all the facts into consideration, honestly, I don’t see what other path they have.”

  “Shit. No! Bree! What am I going to do about Bree? How is she going to—”

  “Shh. That may be their path, but it doesn’t have to be ours.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I have no intention of letting them go through with it.”

  “What can you do about it?”

  I don’t much care for the way she says that.

  “I don’t know yet,” I reply, wrapping my hand around the piece of obsidian in my pocket, “but I do know one thing: I’m done with accepting whatever cards I’m dealt. I’m playing this thing out all the way. To win. So be ready for anything.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid and heroic. Not on my behalf. I don’t want to live in a world that has no Finn Carroll—”

  “Shh. Listen, Jeannie, I don’t know how much time we have alone here. It might be just a minute, so I need to say something to you.” I grasp her hand. “I love you. Remember that, no matter what happens. I love you so much it literally hurts.”

  She squeezes my hand, hard, but her eyes have retreated to a shadowy place within.

  “I wish I hadn’t let you go the first time,” I continue. “I wish I had made you the center of my universe the second time around. I wish I had told you I never wanted you to touch another man as long as I was alive. I wish I had just said ‘I love you’ every single waking minute, instead of moping around like a wounded jackass.”

  She’s fighting tears and losing the battle. “Why couldn’t you have said this to me years ago, when it would have mattered?”

  “Because I was damaged goods, Jeannie. Am damaged goods. I spent the first half of my life believing I had no worth and the second half believing I had negative worth. Well, fuck that. I’m ready to be whole. I am so, so ready. And that means owning the fact that I love you. I always have.”

  “Oh God, Finn, our timing; our pathetic, miserable timing...”

  “When we get out of this thing, Jeannie—and I’m saying when, not if—I want to meet your daughter. And if meeting me doesn’t make her puke, I want to start spending some time with the two of you. And if that goes well, I want—”

  “Stop! Finn! Please. You need to stop. I’ve told you over and over, that can’t happen. I have made choices that cannot be undone. I didn’t want to tell you. I wanted to spare your feelings and—yes, okay—to enjoy the brief fantasy that you and I could be together again... But that’s all it was. A fantasy. There’s something you need to know, and it—”

  “Jean! Finnian!” booms a growling baritone from a few yards away. Simon Fischer enters the cocktail room with his arms out in welcome, as if he’s greeting two long-lost friends. Barrel-chested and bald as Mr. Clean, he has an Albert Finney/Jonathan Banks kind of vibe and exudes the absolute confidence of a man accustomed to having his way in all things. “Please. Join me. Let’s have some wine and a bite d’eat.”

  Chapter 41

  “Mr. Fischer, not to be a shitty guest or anything,” I say, glued to my seat, “but I think you have a bit of explaining to do.”

  “Pleasure before business. Come. Everyone needs food.” Fischer tends to speak in short, bark-like bursts. Punctuated by brief silences. Which somehow gives his words. Added weight. Whether they deserve. It. Or not.

  “Seriously, Mr. Fischer, what the fuck?”

  “Call me Simon.” He actually looks mildly peeved that I’m not jumping at his offer of hospitality. What planet does this guy live on? Actually, I know the answer to that: Rich-Guy Earth, a parallel dimension to mine with an entirely different set of rules.

  “Look. If there was any unpleasantness,” he says. “In the way you were brought here. I’m sorry. I told my crew to go easy on that stuff.”

  Oh, well, okay. Guess all is forgiven, then. Kumbaya.

  “Come, come.” He beckons with both hands. “A little wine, a little yip-yap. There’s no reason we can’t be civilized here.”

  “With all due respect”—I almost say “sir,” but I won’t give him that—“being spied on, mugged, blindfolded, and kidnapped could be construed as reasons.”

  “Don’t test a man’s generosity, Finnian. Come. Eat.”

  When I don’t move, his shoulders slump in dismay, and he casts an eye toward Chokehold, whom I hadn’t noticed in the background. I grasp the meaning Fischer intends: this can get ugly if need be, but must it? Point taken. I don’t feel a crying need to be manhandled by Chokehold again. I rise from my seat. Jeannie follows my cue.

  The long formal dining table is set for five, with all the place settings grouped at one end. Simon Fischer moves to the head of the table and gestures for Jeannie and me to take the two seats to his right. The waiter appears out of thin air and pulls Jeannie’s seat out for her.

  “Bring us a bottle of the Margaux, Hoon. The ‘10 should be fine.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  We’re all seated. Fischer rubs his hands together.

  “So... Finnian... I think the last time I saw you was on Dylan’s seventh. Beth and Miles had that big do. Whatcha been up to since you left Musqasset?”

  He’s really going to do this? The cozy chit-chat thing?

  “Living in a dump, getting drunk, and trying to commit suicide,” I reply. He barks a laugh. Doesn’t know if I’m kidding or not. “You, Simon?”

  “Little this, little that. Trying to keep the books in the black. And the ass in the pink. Jean, you’re looking stunning. I see what all the blather’s about. How’s life treating you?”

  “Can you please tell us what’s going on here, Mr. Fischer?” she says.

  “Relax. You’re among friends. No more hostilities.” Hoon arrives with the bottle. “Let go of the past. Don’t sweat the future. Embrace the present. Isn’t that what Eckhart Tolle says? I love that guy. Let’s just enjoy some nice wine in a lovely setting.”

  “I don’t drink,” Jeannie says.

  “Shame. Oh well, the more for us, Finnian, right? Hoon, get the lady a sparkling water, would you?” Hoon scampers off. “Nervous fella. Must be genetic. So, Finnian... Been enjoying your stay on Musqasset?”

  “It’s been a pip.”

  “That so?”

  “Ayuh.”

  Before the crackling wit of our dialog can put Aaron Sorkin any further to shame, an even more uncomfortable development occurs. The o
ther two guests arrive. Miles and Beth. They must have just boarded the craft; Miles still has his jacket folded over his arm.

  Upon seeing us, the Sutcliffes feign pleasant surprise, a titanically inappropriate response, given the circumstances. Jeannie and I stand to greet them, playing our parts in the absurdist guerilla drama unfolding before our eyes.

  “Sit, sit,” says Simon Fischer after kissing Beth on the cheek. “Your mother won’t be joining us this evening. Migraine. She sends her regrets.”

  Hoon appears with San Pellegrino for Jeannie and fills the other glasses with thousand-dollar-a-bottle Bordeaux.

  I notice that Troop and company have moved silently into the periphery of the room. “No, they don’t sit at the table,” Fischer explains to me, though I didn’t ask. Read: there’s only one alpha hound in this room, sonny boy.

  Once everyone is seated, Fischer cracks his knuckles, stretches his lips in a parody of a smile, and says, “So...” He drums his fingers on the tabletop a few times, clucks his tongue, chuckles to himself at some inner amusement, then takes out his cell phone. He starts reading something on it. He swipes to another screen, chuckles again, makes a little “hmm” sound, swipes some more. This behavior goes on for a solid minute as the rest of us sit there in silence. I look across at Miles and Beth. Neither of them wants to make eye contact with Jeannie or me.

  Simon Fischer puts his phone away, looks at the four of us, each in turn for three full seconds, then says, “I had the weirdest damn dream last night.” He leaves the statement dangling in the air.

  Neither Jeannie nor I is in the mood to take the bait. Miles is looking as if he just wants to shrink into his Sperry Top-Siders, tap-dance out of the room, and fling himself into the ocean. Beth is steaming, her arms folded; I guess she knows this routine.

  And so the silence goes on. And on.

  At last Beth hisses, through clenched teeth, “What was the dream about, Daddy?”

  “I forget,” he replies. He looks at us all again for a beat or two, then starts laughing uproariously. He fixes his gaze on Miles until Miles has no choice but to join in. As soon as Miles’ laughter gathers momentum, Fischer stops abruptly, leaving Miles laughing alone.

  Miles haltingly silences himself.

  Fischer continues to stare at him with darkly hooded eyes and says, “What’s the matter, son? Feeling uncomfortable?”

  “No, sir, not real—”

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “Yes, sir, I’m feeling uncomfortable.”

  “Good. I want you to feel uncomfortable. Do you know why? Because you have put me in an uncomfortable position.” Long pause. “The last time I sat down with you... I asked you a very simple question. And demanded a truthful answer. I asked if you had any buried bodies. That I needed to know about. I thought I was being... what’s the word? Metaphysical? Metaphorical. Ha.”

  He takes a slow sip of wine, relishes the taste. It is good damn wine, but I can only allow myself a few sips; I need to stay clearheaded.

  “I explained to you,” Fischer goes on, “that I was in the process of joining a... fellowship of sorts. With some extremely influential people. International people. With a keen interest in U.S. politics. The kind of people you absolutely do not fuck with. I told you I had taken a huge risk on your behalf. Recommended you as a potential candidate. For their backing and support. Do you think I did that because you’re my son-in-law?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you think I did that because I like you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you think I did that because you’re handsome and make the ladies warm in their woolies?

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re damn right I didn’t! I did it because it was good business. I’m handing you the keys to the fucking universe here. And I expect the world in return.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anyway… these potential... ‘partners’ of mine. They liked what they saw in you. For whatever reason. Liked your ‘fight for the cause’ image. Liked the way you come across for the mikes and cameras. Your ja-na-say-kwah.” He takes another slow sip of wine. “The one thing I told you… was that if they were going to consider ‘backing’ you… they wanted no baggage. None. Not even a shaving kit. So you can imagine how... disturbed I was. When I learned you had lied to me. Not on just one major count. But two.”

  Miles’ eyes bulge out of his head as he stares at the table.

  “Lies of omission, the filthiest kind.”

  Fischer makes a fist with one hand and rubs it with the other, as if polishing it.

  “What upsets me, Miles... is not that you lied. Be clear on that. In the career path you have chosen, you will lie on a daily basis. An hourly basis. Lying will be your rice and beans. And you’d better do it well. No, what upsets me is not that you lied. But that you lied to me. I am THE MAN YOU DO NOT LIE TO. Do you understand?”

  He glares at Miles with the wattage of an inquisitor’s lamp. Miles stares equally intensely at the table.

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t do my own follow-up? Did you really think I would take you at your word? I can find out anything I want about you. …Like that.” He snaps his fingers. “I can find out what you ate for breakfast on March fifth, 2008. I can find out which tree you pissed on at a graduation party in 1999. When I asked you if you had any secrets, I wasn’t looking for information. I was looking for fealty. And you let me down.”

  Miles and Beth look as if they’d rather be facing an ISIS firing squad than sitting at this table. It has become increasingly clear to me that the reason Jeannie and I are here is to bear witness to Miles’ humiliation. And once we’ve served our purpose, we’re going to be disposable.

  “Let’s look at your lies of omission. One by one. Shall we?”

  “Sir, can we please do this in private?” pleads Miles.

  “No! We cannot. Let’s start with Lie Number Two.” Simon Fischer turns to the rest of us and, in an almost playful voice, says, “Quick quiz. Who can tell me what filia nothus means?” I think Miles, the lawyer, probably knows, because he winces in dread. “No one? Oh well. Don’t be embarrassed; I had to look it up myself. It’s an antiquated term.

  “Hint. It has to do with a situation that exists amongst your little foursome. Two of you know about it. Two of you don’t. But you all deserve to be on the same page. Miles, you’re among the cognoscenti. Why don’t you start?”

  Miles doesn’t speak, just continues to stare laser beams at the table.

  “Courage. That’s what you lack, son. That’s what frightens me most about you. Come on, tell them what you’ve done. Say the words.”

  Miles says nothing.

  “Come on, Miles. Okay, let me get you started. Repeat after me: I...” He pauses. “Fucked...” Another pause. “My... best... friend’s...”

  “Filia nothus!” shouts Jeannie, slamming her fist on the table, jangling the tableware and causing all our heads to turn. “Means bastard daughter.” With everyone’s attention settled on her, she says, “Miles is my daughter’s father.”

  I feel a knife blade slip into my soul and twist.

  “I’m sorry, Finn,” Jean says. “This is what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  Silence descends. Seconds pass like big, heavy objects.

  Jeannie picks up a butter knife, twirls it slowly in her fingers. She stares at her eyes in the blade’s reflection. “After you left, I wanted to punish you in some way,” she says softly, to me alone, “and I... That’s no excuse. I’m sorry—so, so sorry. That’s all I can say.”

  Something vital slithers out of me. I long for my parents’ ragged sofa, a bowl of col
d cereal, and an evening of watching Animal Planet alone. Bring back the dead life.

  “B-Beth,” stammers Miles, “I was going to tell you. I—”

  “Enough!” thunders Fischer. “When you lie to my daughter, you lie to me.” He turns to Beth and says, “While you were paying hush money... to hide one of your husband’s indiscretions... He was busy creating a second one. That’s who you married. That’s who you’ve given me to work with. Which brings us to Lie Number One...”

  His attention suddenly swings toward the kitchen. “Hold on,” he says. “Dinner is served.” Hoon wheels in a table containing five covered plates and a basket of steaming focaccia bread. “I took the liberty of ordering for all of you,” says Fischer. “The stripers are running right now. There really was no other choice.”

  Hoon serves and uncovers the plates. In a high, delicate voice, he says, “Pan roasted sea bass with a light drizzle of fennel aioli.”

  “Whatever the hell aioli is,” blares Fischer. “Ha! I don’t like to over-season fish. When it’s fresh, let it speak for itself. Am I right?”

  “The sides are a roasted okra with bacon and tomatoes,” continues Hoon, his light voice trembling slightly, “and a popover shell with fig and chestnut stuffing.”

  “Me, I prefer mashed potatoes,” says Fischer. “But whatever. Dig in.”

  He’s going to have us eat dinner under the weight of the steel girder he just dropped on us. And he’s going to enjoy watching us squirm. Human discomfort is a recreational sport for this guy, I realize. What a piece of work.

  I’m glad to have the plate of food to concentrate on, though. I can’t look at Miles; I despise the man. Can’t look at Jeannie. Beth’s not really an option either, never has been. Judging from the torpid pace of the silverware clinks around me, no one seems to have an appetite but Simon Fischer.

  “I’ve always been aware of your payments to Clarence Woodcock, Elizabeth,” says Fischer, picking up his former conversational thread. “I have access to your trust account. Did you imagine I didn’t? I’m the one who set it up. I’m the one who funded it. I’m still an account-holder.” He chews his food for a moment. “I knew Woodcock was a private eye. I figured you had him on your payroll to keep tabs on Mr. Wandering Dick over here. Your business. And probably a wise idea. Considering.