by Larry Hill
The etching didn’t stop at Jewish places. The Symphony, the Opera, and the Conservatory of Music (but not the Ballet) received Klein contributions. The art museums, the parks, the library, and the University of San Francisco, a Catholic school, benefitted. Boys’ Club, Girls’ Club, United Way, March of Dimes – look on their lists of significant supporters and you will not fail to find Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Klein.
Weeks before his accidents, Fred and Jennifer had been in intense discussions with the Institute of Aging in San Francisco. Fred was getting older; so were his few friends. He watched some of them become progressively less able to take care of themselves and unable to find affordable help. He knew that he’d never find anything unaffordable and wanted to create something to help less fortunate old people. Fred and Jen had asked that the Institute draw up an agreement that would involve five million of their dollars go toward a new housing project and skilled nursing facility. It was to be called the Jennifer and Frederick Klein Center. There’d be nothing in the title to mention age or aging. That agreement was on the desk of the Institute’s CEO for her confirmation when Fred hit Teresa. Neither Klein had seen the document.
Big donations buy you, if you are in the market, seats on non-profit boards. Fred was usually in the market; he had little else to do in the years after he got to be very rich. He served on the SF Symphony Board, the SF Ballet Board, and the Boards of the Cancer Society, the Hospice of San Francisco, and the American Heart Association, San Francisco branch. He preferred to chair boards. A man of short attention span and relatively few words, he had a hard time tolerating meetings of more than 90 minutes. As chairman, he could wield a mean gavel and set the time limit.
Dementia diminishes one’s boardsman skills. Fred was notified of meetings. Jennifer, with few exceptions, decided against his going to them. He put up no struggle, as he had when she showed reluctance at his desire to play poker. He was not willing to resign from any board. He, with the concurrence of his wife, was convinced that he’d regain his wits.
Jennifer had reactivated her status as a sexually active woman - not at home, as Fred’s gradual improvement did not include libidinous awakening, but her visit to the disarray of Ernesto’s place in the Excelsior had rekindled her longings for carnal love. She called her lover to arrange another Tuesday tryst.
“Not this week, mi novia. I’m going to school three days a week, Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday. And, I’m still working.”
“School? What are you studying?”
“They are giving me a crash course in cattle raising and slaughtering. And, I’m getting some classes on politics in South America.”
“Slaughtering? Are you actually killing steers? Gross!”
“No. I’m not killing them. I went to a slaughter house and watched, one time. Not pretty, but you want to eat a steak, somebody has to kill a cow.”
“I guess. Can you tell me where you are going?”
“Sorry, I can’t. They made me sign something that I’d keep everything a secret. I’m not sure that I was even allowed to say that it was about cattle.”
“How about I come by on Wednesday? I’ve learned that abstinence doesn’t work for me. I gotta get laid.”
“Sorry Jen. I’ve got no time for that. They made me promise that I’d spend all my time outside of school and work reading about beef.” Jennifer read into that a lot more than the words of the sentences, but her reading did not offer answers. No way that whoever had offered him the new job was going to organize surveillance of Ernesto’s hovel. No way that he had fallen for some new woman in the brief time since their recent momentously satisfactory roll in the sack. She tried to put the rejection together with the fact that he had reported in to somebody named Spencer; she couldn’t. Whining wasn’t going to help. Tears had never seemed to work with him. Nor pleading. She’d try again later.
Spencer, Bowman and Clark had suffered with the rest of Northern California’s venture capitalists after the collapse of the dotcoms. Bowman and Clark were thankful for Spencer’s expertise in agriculture. They didn’t, for a second, understand why he thought that he could hit it big with Uruguayan Kobe beef, but they knew that their bread had been buttered in recent years by his successes in Ivorian cocoa, Moroccan fava beans, tilapia from the Russian steppes, and kudu meat from Botswana. The latter had dominated the exotic jerky market for years. Without Spencer’s edible winners, the firm would surely have to move from the iconic Pyramid and likely cut back on company hybrids, I-Phones, and reclining seats in business class. Both partners were surprised by how quickly Mark had rebounded from the death of his wife. They had barely known Teresa, as there was no real socializing within the practice. But what they did know impressed them. She was a dream girl with a conquering smile and a hug for the ages. Mark had missed only five days at the office. At first there was a hint of gloom when he returned but he quickly morphed back into his same old back slapping, quick stepping, lunch skipping, partner berating, secretary firing, journal reading, two-finger typing, filthy-tongued self. “Let’s get ass-kicking moving!”
One did not wait if he had an appointment with Mr. Spencer. Mr. Contreras had arrived at 9:40 for his 10 AM sit-down. He was seated in the office with the view by 9:45. He had not yet assumed the casual attire of his new employer, showing up in a camel hair jacket, blue striped button down and upscale khakis, too similar in hue to the jacket. Spencer could see by the lack of contrast in dress that his new hire had no significant other, be it Jennifer Klein, another woman or another man, in the house when he left for the financial district.
“Como van las clases, Ernesto?” He spoke a handful of words of Spanish, thanks to two years of the only language other than English taught at Hastings High. His accent was Nebraskan.
“Muy bien, gracias. I am learning very much about cattle and about Uruguay. And about Kobe beef.”
“Tell me what you’ve learned about Kobe beef.”
“I learned that we can’t call it Kobe beef because the Japanese have trademarked the name. We can call it Kobe-style beef. The Japanese name is Kobe bifu – pretty easy language, no? Did you know that the basketball player Kobe Bryant is named after Kobe beef? I guess his parents had some when she was pregnant. The cattle don’t get much exercise because they are raised on very small ranches. Some of them get massages in place of exercise. They all have beer in their diet – they say that increases their appetites and puts more fat, marbling, in the meat.”
“Good work, Ernesto.” He was not overwhelmed by the oral report; he wasn’t seeking to be. “You ready to take a trip to Montevideo?”
“Sure, when?”
“Two weeks tomorrow. Let your bosses know that you’ll be gone for a week.”
Mark still did not have a great notion as to why he was going through the charade. So far, there was no way that his wife’s killer was going to be affected by the shenanigans. The connection was tenuous at best – he employs, trains and sends south Klein’s wife’s illicit lover. And Klein’s so out-to-lunch that, even if he learned about it, he wouldn’t comprehend. Is that revenge? Do I need revenge? Jesus, I don’t know. But there’s money to be made in Kobe-style beef, raised in Uruguay and shipped to Chicago and the coasts. Why not confuse the matter and see what happens?
JASON MOVES NORTH
Emily Klein, wife of Jason and mother of two, kicked her husband out of the family home.
Jason had few friends, at least none that he figured would take him in. He had no interest whatever in living in a hotel or motel, even briefly. As much of his work at the time involved cases in the top half of the state, he decided to phone and ask his stepmother if he could spend a couple of weeks in the Pacific Heights house. There were plenty of unused bedrooms and full or half baths. Reluctantly, in view of the not infrequent enmity between her husband and her son-in-law, she accepted.
Hours after the call, Jason parked his rented convertible across the street and dragged two large suitcases, a back pack, a tennis racket, and his lizard
skin briefcase filled with files, letters, and briefs up to the front door. Jennifer greeted him with a half-hearted hug before he rang or knocked. “Take the upstairs room on the left.” That room featured an en suite bathroom with shower and tub. He was surprised at her generosity.
Showered and shaved for the first time since being tossed the previous afternoon, he came down to the family room dressed in gym pants and a baby-blue UCLA sweatshirt. His father, a Diet Coke in his hand, was watching something on the flat-screen that involved a panel of women. Jennifer sat with Fred on the leather couch, a nearly completed crossword puzzle on her lap. She placed the paper on the coffee table and asked her husband to toggle off the TV. The relationship between Jason and his stepmother had been testy since the day that Fred introduced her to his boys as his second bride-to-be. The nastiness had not long before been heightened by the discovery of her hand-holding with Ernesto at the Redwood Room. The Fred/Jason interactions were anything but smooth, but much of that, in the view of both the son and the father, was due to the mutual dislike between Fred and Emily.
“How are you, Jason?” asked Jennifer, softly and simply.
“Not so good.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Yes, please.” A moment of silence followed. His brown eyes glistened but no tears flowed.
“What happened?” Fred nodded his head as Jen asked the question.
“Long story. Where to start? You probably know that Emily and I hadn’t been doing very well lately – maybe ever since the second kid was born.”
“No, we didn’t know that. What do you mean, not doing well?”
“Everything. We’d fight all the time, about everything. Money. Sex. The kids. How much I was gone. Until the last few months, the kids never saw us battling, but that changed. Both of them made it real clear that they weren’t happy with how their parents treated each other and treated them. I guess I was really short with both of them.
“We had a real blow up when Emily decided that our summer vacation was going to be on the Jersey Shore with her parents. I told her how much I didn’t want to do that and that I wanted to go on a camping trip in the Sierras, that we had done Thanksgiving with her folks last year, and that they had come out to LA and stayed with us for a week in February. She said that I had told her that I was OK with a trip to New Jersey. I had no recollection whatever of that discussion. I don’t think it happened. I really don’t like being with the Parks, especially if it’s in their house or they are paying the bill like they would on the Shore. It feels like a mausoleum. We all have to speak in hushed tones and the kids can’t touch a thing without Mrs. Park warning them not to drop any of their valuable shit. There’s no laughing – no joy at all – when they are around.”
“I don’t like them either,” Fred said, his first words since Jason descended the staircase.
“Right, Dad. I knew that. So, a brouhaha ensued with Emily screaming and me yelling back and the kids hearing it. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”
“And what was the result?” asked Jennifer.
“The three of them are going to go for two weeks and I said I’d come for the second. That, of course, was before I left the house. All bets are off now – they’ll probably take the trip and I’ll hang out in the house and look after the dogs.”
“So, is that the cause of the separation? It doesn’t sound like such a big deal. It was just a fight. How’d that make you leave the house?”
“No, it wasn’t. That fight happened about three weeks ago and we quieted down, mainly for the kids. But I was really pissed off. We hadn’t made love in a very long time. I think she resented it as much as I did, but neither of us had any desire to be nice to the other. So, two weeks after the big fight, I called an escort service that a recently divorced client told me about. I told Emily that I was coming up to San Francisco on that big case. Instead, I spent a night with two hookers at the Holiday Inn off Sunset Boulevard. Big bucks. Can’t say that I enjoyed it. All I could think of during the sex was how much better it was than being with Emily. I came home the next afternoon as if nothing had happened. She even kissed me as I came through the front door – probably because the kids were watching.”
“So, what happened?”
“Yeah, what happened?” asked Fred as he fiddled with the remote.
“You can’t believe what an idiot I was. I had cashed a check before I went to the hotel. I had been told what the women would cost, so I took out a bit more. When it was all over and I handed them the arranged fee, they asked for a tip. One of them said that half of the money goes to the escort service and that everybody gave them a tip – usually 20%. Twenty percent of a lot of money is a lot of money. In fact, it was just about as much as I had left over, so I gave it to them. I was afraid that they’d make a scene.
“So, no big deal? Wrong. I had no money to pay for the room. All I had was my American Express card, so I used it, knowing full well that Emily keeps tab on our credit cards. She’s scared shitless that somebody is going to get our number and buy a fishing pole or shoes with it. The best I could hope for is that she would see Holiday Inn on the list of charges and not check what city it was in. Wrong. The next day, she went on the internet site and there it was – Holiday Inn, Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles, California. She assumed that her fears of a stolen credit card number were real and that somebody had stayed a night and charged it to us. She didn’t say anything to me – just called AmEx and they told her that they have my signature on the charge. Well, you can imagine that shit hit fan when I got home from the office that afternoon. She had had AmEx fax her a copy of the billing slip and no sooner do I walk through the door and she sticks the piece of paper under my nose. ‘What’s this?’ I took it from her and saw exactly what it was. “I thought you were in San Francisco!”
“It was obvious to me where this was going. No way could I explain it away. So, I suggested we go out back, get ourselves some wine and talk out of the hearing range of the kids. Surprisingly, she simmered down a bit and we went to the patio. So, I told her that I had paid for sex. I didn’t mention that there were two women involved. I said something about how badly our sex life had been lately and how I had needs. She didn’t show a great deal of sympathy. Usually, she’s got a pretty foul mouth – everybody in entertainment law drops F bombs more than they say litigate or settlement or your honor – but none of her favorites came out. She, for just a second, looked like she’d cry. You know, I’ve never seen her cry, even when our daughter was going in for a spinal tap when they thought she had meningitis. But she was really pissed. She wondered whether I did that before. Actually, I hadn’t – not once in all of our years together did I have sex with anybody other than her – can’t say that I didn’t want to from time to time. I don’t know if she believed me when I said that. I tried to convince her that whoring was a lot better than having an affair with somebody at the office, or, worse, somebody that we both know. I think she always thought that I probably had somebody at the tennis club. There are tons of sexy young players there, who, by reputation, wouldn’t look down on hooking up with a rich lawyer, especially one who they could talk to about movie stars. Nothing for me though. Fifteen love, thirty love, but no carnal love.”
By this time, Fred had developed an interest in the story that his son was telling. As with his TV dramas, he could follow and remember, at least for a while, a story relayed by someone he knew. Jennifer had seen his memory skills improve gradually and significantly over the months since his injury. When asked, he could tell the story back pretty well. What he didn’t do very often is question the story teller for more information. Or if he did, the questions would be two or three words and sought specific, usually insignificant information. To his son, he asked, “Were they blonds?”
“One was blond and the other redhead, Dad.”
“Go ahead, Jason,” said Jennifer.
“You won’t believe it, but she asked me how much I paid the women. Emily is always worried that
we spend too much. She could tell you the price of every item in her shopping cart before she checks out. I’ve never seen her look at any rack in a clothing store that doesn’t say SALE on it. She makes sure I don’t leave too big a tip when we eat out.”
“Did you tell her?”
“Hell no, I didn’t tell her. No reason to give her something like that to focus on as this plays out. Let me put it this way to you – sex isn’t cheap, especially when you hire a pair. She didn’t push the issue, thank God. I don’t think she really wanted to know for fear that I had significantly diminished our net worth.”
“How much did you pay, son?”
“Sorry Dad, I’m not saying.”
“Oh, OK.”
Jason continued, “So we talked and talked. Sometimes, she would yell – getting all excited – other times she would act hurt and sad. Never cried. I didn’t say very much. She’d ask questions about the night and challenge me about other times. I tried to be as rational as possible – never raised my voice. I told her that there were no other times. She accused me of looking at some of her friends like I wanted to fuck them and I said something like “all men look.” I didn’t tell her that I didn’t think much of her friends and that the last thing I’d want to do is fuck one of them.
“The way it was going, I thought she’d come around and recognize that it was a one-time thing and that we could deal with it. But out of nowhere, she said that I had to leave. She gave me the usual line about needing time to think things through, and that she needed space, and that as hard as it would be on the kids, we’d be better off apart for a while. I said that that would be crazy, that there’d be no reason for me not to stay – we could sleep in different rooms – heaven knows we have enough rooms. But she didn’t buy into it. One of us had to leave and it wasn’t going to be her. So, I packed the suitcases and called you. We both talked to the kids. Neither seemed very upset.”