The Trust

by Norb Vonnegut

  There was also that hard-ass FBI agent. Torres had done a grade-A job busting his chops. Biscuit could feel his face redden, his attitude sour. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “That woman could start an argument in an empty house.”

  The moment passed. Biscuit hopped from his truck with unreasonable agility for a big, pudgy man. He surveyed HIP’s parking lot. There was not an eighteen-wheeler to be seen, although sedans and SUVs were scattered everywhere. He wondered whether he’d recognize anybody inside the store.

  Biscuit had inspected HIP every day since it opened. A couple of nights, too. Much to his disappointment, the bouncers checked the IDs of all entering the bar at the rear of the store. There would be no easy victories. The twenty-thousand-square-foot complex was already operating with the precision of a well-oiled machine.

  These guys don’t make mistakes.

  No matter how many times he visited HIP, Biscuit found the experience entertaining. He’d never confide his fascination to clients, though. If Mrs. Jason Locklear ever heard, she’d crucify him on behalf of the neighborhood association. He had expected a seedy interior—no matter how new the store. He once assumed that soundtracks from sex videos, an orgy of hot pillows and clutching thighs, would pulsate over storewide speakers rigged for wall-to-wall moaning.

  Not even close. HIP played provocative songs with upbeat lyrics, like the Lady Gaga number about riding a disco stick. There were no fake orgasms pounding through the store. And the interior almost looked Tuscan. The floors were fashioned from faux marble tiles with a soft, rubbery texture. Easy on the feet. There were two rows of Corinthian columns, fourteen fiberglass pillars in all. They split the store in half and created a corridor leading to the bar. Overhead, its neon sign read THE CATHOUSE CLUB. Biscuit felt like he was walking through a Roman bath.

  Except for the merchandise.

  To the left, he saw lingerie of every shape and color. Babydolls, garters, and bras—there was a little something for everyone. There was even a section called the “Naughty Brides Collection.” The selection was massive, lace and fantasy everywhere.

  To the right were a series of smaller departments. A big sign read GOOD VIBES and promoted the latest and greatest toys underneath. Then there were the videos. The selection seemed small for a twenty-thousand-square-foot superstore. But there was one section dedicated exclusively to Ron Jeremy, the aging porn star of epic disproportions. Beyond the videos, shelves of nutraceuticals promised men they could “grow bigger” or “last longer.” And finally there were novelties and gag products. Cooking paraphernalia promoted breast-shaped cakes or penis meat loaves for those occasions that required something extra.

  To Biscuit’s way of thinking, the people in the store were the biggest surprise of all. The customers were women. They outnumbered men at least nine to one. Biscuit had expected skeevy middle-aged guys with bad skin and bourbon fumes wafting out their nose pores. Members of staff were also women, every single one. They wore black pants and black shirts, with HIP on the front and STAFF on the back. In age, they ranged from their early twenties to their mid-thirties.

  One of them, a tall woman with silky shoulder-length hair, stared at Biscuit. She eyed him head to toe, her expression half perplexed and half smile. She was standing behind a table display of vibrators, designed for all occasions and the places where only doctors belong.

  “Come over here,” she commanded in a throaty, sexy-woman voice. “I’ve seen you before.”

  Biscuit looked over his shoulder, wondering if she was speaking to someone else.

  “I mean you,” she said to him, her shoulders thrown back, her carriage erect and proud. “We need to talk.”

  * * *

  Biscuit could hear his bravado disappear. It sounded like air hissing from a flat tire. He had been to Kuwait and back, witnessed horrors no man should see. But for all the hard-bitten experience, or the way he lorded his 260 pounds over legal adversaries, women got the best of him. It had been that way ever since he was a kid.

  Usually, trouble erupted over the bathroom. Position of the toilet seat. Length of stay. That’s how it was with five sisters. No matter who started the ruckus, sibling squabbles always ended with his mother hollering, “Leave your sisters alone.”

  Day in, day out, “Leave your sisters alone” became his mother’s mantra. No surprise, given he was the only boy.

  Once, Biscuit made the mistake of smarting her back. “You want to run that pony by me one more time?” He’d first heard the expression at a barbershop. All the men chuckled when some guy used it as the punch line to his story. To a young, impressionable boy, the remark sounded like a joke about horses.

  Biscuit’s mother was not amused. She heard the words from her son and whacked his elbow with the closest thing available. Her wooden spoon broke on contact, evoking a right smart “Yeow.” The mashed potatoes went lumpy that night, the half-mushed consistency of porridge. And Biscuit got the message to back off. He had been backing off from women ever since.

  His wife Faith Ann was the one exception. They were equals raising their three sons.

  * * *

  “I don’t bite.”

  The HIP clerk placed her hand on her hip. She studied Biscuit, her eyes dancing a cha-cha smirk, her smile perfect except for the faintest twist in one of her two front teeth.

  The big man spotted her name badge and leaned down for a better look: AMY. STORE MANAGER. WE AIM TO PLEASE.

  Remembering his own mission, Biscuit said, “You’re the person I need to see.”

  Amy glanced at the wedding ring on Biscuit’s index finger. She was a true salesperson, all warmth and allure. She asked, “Something for the Mrs.?”

  “Er.”

  “Come here.” Amy enjoyed home-court advantage. She was in command, confident and seductive. She drew him in, tugging his tie playfully. “I know just what she needs.”

  Biscuit turned crimson. He checked around the store to see if anyone was watching.

  Amy grabbed a translucent green vibrator from the stack on her table. It looked like a happy cactus. With a deft flick of the thumb, she hit the On button. A low droning sound erupted, and a few shoppers turned their heads in Biscuit’s direction. The sound reminded him of the spaceship engines from the 1950s Flash Gordon reruns he had watched as a kid.

  “Lean down.” She issued the order with the command persona of a drill sergeant.

  In that instant, Biscuit discovered how a deer feels in the headlights. He lowered his head as instructed.

  Amy touched the happy cactus to Biscuit’s nose. “That’s how it feels on a woman’s clitoris. Trust me, your wife will love it.” She spoke in a loud, husky voice, two clicks too loud.

  Several nearby women tittered. College age. One wore shorts, made from sweatpants cotton, with UNC plastered across her bottom.

  Biscuit wanted to hide. He wanted to get away from this woman, so confident, so much in control. He wanted to leave HIP, to vacate the vibes and videos. But he had work to do.

  “I’ll take it,” Biscuit yammered. For the love of humanity, he wished she would lower her voice.

  “Your wife will be thrilled.” Amy handed him an unopened package. “There’s no shame in making a woman happy.”

  “We need to speak about something else.” Biscuit could feel the heat rising from his red face.

  “Some lingerie?” she offered, still sounding like her mouth was connected to a megaphone. “We have the most adorable teddies in stock.”

  “Nothing like that.” Biscuit folded his arms, trying to regain control, trying to hide the vibrator.

  The manager cocked one eyebrow.

  “Sorry to hear about Father Rossi.” Biscuit did his best to look haunted, as though the two had lost a good friend.

  “Who?”

  She doesn’t know him.

  Biscuit recalibrated. “I’d like to meet the owners of HIP.”

  “Do you have a business card?”

  “Er, yeah. What for?”
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  “They’ll call you.”

  “I’d rather call them,” he told Amy. “It’s time-sensitive.”

  “I can’t give out numbers.” She folded her arms across her chest.

  “Whatever happened to customer service?”

  “Do you have a complaint?” Amy flicked on the happy cactus, drawing attention from other shoppers.

  “Now I do.” He wished she’d turn that damn thing off. “Why can’t you connect me with your head office?”

  “Company policy.”

  It was time to scram. Biscuit headed to the cash register, where the clerk insisted that she test his vibrator for out-of-box failure. “It’ll take two seconds.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Biscuit protested, aware of the line of women behind him.

  “We don’t accept returns.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Suit yourself. Cash or credit?”

  “Cash.”

  Faith Ann will raise hell if she sees HIP on our Visa.

  “You just saved yourself some money,” the clerk said. “We discount all cash payments ten percent.”

  * * *

  “Are you making any progress?” Mrs. Jason Locklear was calling for an update, the third time that week. She was barking and snarling into the phone, demanding answers and teething the receiver. “We need to know.”

  “Working it.”

  Biscuit had just returned. His office was located on the second story of a nothing-special brick building in a strip mall. Ten minutes north was the tiki bar he owned with his brother-in-law. Ten minutes south was his favorite Denny’s, where another brother-in-law was the general manager. His other three brothers-in-law lived farther away. Biscuit sometimes told friends his childhood was like living on the set of The View. Five sisters—and every one of them outspoken.

  “‘Working it,’” echoed Locklear, not at all pleased. “That’s what you have to say?”

  “The county inspectors are no help,” reported Biscuit. “HIP complies with zoning.”

  Locklear said nothing for a while, her silence reverberating with frustration. “I called you to get results. I made representations to the residents of Liberty Point. My neighbors trust me, Biscuit. And I have a responsibility to them. We’re paying you good money, and now I’m wondering whether we need to rethink our decision.”

  “Mrs. Locklear,” he said. “You called Saturday afternoon, and I told you this case would be tough. I’ve spent all week looking for the low-hanging fruit. Well, guess what?”

  “What?”

  “There isn’t any.”

  “You’re the lawyer. Figure something out.”

  “I need time to do my job.”

  “While our homes lose value,” she growled. “While every trucker heathen makes pit stops just around the bend from here. Time is one thing we don’t have.”

  “I didn’t see any trucks this morning.”

  “You weren’t shopping at HIP, were you?”

  Biscuit looked at the orange shopping bag on his desk. It read HIGHLY INTIMATE PLEASURES in big, bold black letters. He buried the bag in a desk drawer and replied, “Just research. Like I said on Sunday, I’m all over it.”

  “Call me Monday,” she ordered. “We need weekly updates.”

  “You got it.” Now was no time to remind Mrs. Jason Locklear that phone calls increased legal fees. The two hung up.

  In that moment Biscuit wanted to be the client. To be the guy saying what he wanted, when he needed it, and why the world should drop everything and deliver. Tensions were running high at Liberty Point Plantations. Locklear had grown so unreasonable. And the press would be no help this time. For one, Torres had warned him not to use them. For another, it would be difficult to harness public opinion when a priest had been killed.

  Stop making excuses, he reminded himself.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LEGARE STREET

  Catching up grows old when the venues are a wake and a funeral. Palmer’s final request, that I join his board, was both humbling and flattering. His last wishes filled me with a deep sense of responsibility. They saddened me too, the unmistakable signal that one of my most important friendships had come to an abrupt, unforeseen end. I was talked out after two days in Charleston, drained from the confusing mix of old friends and conflicting emotions. That said, my plate was still full of unresolved issues—things not done and words not spoken.

  What am I doing in Claire Kincaid’s garden?

  Let me bring you up to speed.

  After meeting with Huitt Young, I phoned my boss first thing. Her assistant said, “Katy’s in back-to-back meetings. Mind if she calls you at seven tonight?”

  “It’s a date.”

  I assumed SKC would rubber-stamp my election to the Palmetto Foundation’s board. But Anders never called, thereby delaying the answer till the next day. Odd. Managers are good about responding to their top salespeople. I made a mental note to send my boss back to obedience school for remedial training.

  In some ways, I was glad Anders never called. She would have interrupted my dinner with Claire. We went light on the food at Carolina’s, split a Bibb salad and an order of steamed mussels. But we didn’t hold back on lubricants. After a couple of martinis, we downed at least one bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. Maybe it was two.

  During dinner, I steered clear of the topic foremost on my mind. Call it professional interest. Or prurient curiosity. I really wanted to know how Palmer had divided the remainder of the estate between JoJo and Claire. I don’t care how long somebody’s been in my biz. Inheritances are always fascinating, especially when the family situation is complicated. We had a doozy here in downtown Charleston, and Huitt never breathed a word to me.

  He’s a good lawyer.

  I walked Claire home to Legare Street after dinner. Didn’t expect to stay. But we were huddling on a Charleston bench—green-black, aged, pitted from countless asses—in the secluded garden behind her house. The night air had finally turned cool. And we changed from white to red, working our way through a heavy Australian cabernet to stay warm.

  Claire’s features were soft and fragile under shadows from the quarter moon. During high school, I would have given anything to share an intimate moment with my Daisy Buchanan. By “intimate,” I mean private, not sexual. Although, who am I kidding? Sexual would have been just fine in those days. More than fine. Claire was the stuff of boyhood lust.

  You get the point.

  * * *

  The thing is, Annie and I are a team. She’s the one who reached me after the death of my wife and daughter. She’s the one who defended me when I ran into a problem with SKC several years ago and became embroiled in the fallout from a Ponzi scheme. She stuck her neck out.

  When the dust settled, Annie reminded me that spontaneity and flirtatiousness can be fun. It’s okay to lighten up. I think that deep down, it’s the stupid stuff I like about her. The way she dresses in an explosion of colors, layers of stripes and prints and renegade textures that somehow work together. I don’t think anyone, except for Evelyn, has ever intrigued me the way she does.

  Like last week.

  Before I heard from Palmer, Annie called me after one of her classes at Columbia. “I have good news and bad news.”

  “Go with the bad.” I knew this game.

  “You’re taking me to a chick flick in the Village tonight.”

  “Yikes. That is bad.”

  “But you get to hold my hand all through the movie. And I’m an absolute marshmallow after a good cry.”

  How could I resist?

  * * *

  Claire and I were sitting there, drinking too much wine, savoring the sweet Southern scents of tea olive and camellia. With regard to the wine—cabernet sauvignon is a totally agreeable way for a man and a woman to spend an evening, the cool side of mild, under the stars.

  There was something different about Claire. She had pushed the bangs out of her face. And it struck me that she had opened a window into
her thoughts. I was in her garden for a reason. Maybe to discuss something unsaid over the past two days.

  Every so often, a passing car interrupted the rhythmic sounds from her fountain. A marble bull’s head, mounted to the garden’s stucco wall, spit water into an ornamental pool brimming with mottled orange-white carp breaking the surface. I waited for Claire to take the lead on issues of substance.

  “I’m so proud of my dad.”

  “Because of his gift to the Palmetto Foundation?”

  “Nobody needs the wealth we have.” Claire was skirting round an age-old question. It’s the one that nobody asks on Wall Street: how much is enough? But I wasn’t much interested in the debate.

  “Did your dad ever mention the gift?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Really?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “It’s so much to give away.” I sipped some cabernet.

  “Daddy said there’d always be plenty to screw up my life.”

  “What about JoJo—you think she knew?”

  “Are you kidding?” Claire scoffed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s a gold digger.”

  “Your dad loved her.”

  “You really don’t know,” said Claire, pausing for a moment, her words fading into the fountain’s refrain, “what happened today.”

  “Know what?”

  “Daddy lit the fuse on JoJo’s tampon.”

  Yuck. Claire had spoken the words with molasses in her syrupy Southern accent. But so much for ambassadorial grace. I was floored. I had no idea what to say. So I said nothing, which seems like a pretty good strategy when you hear something that throws the value of speech into question.

  “Serves her right.” Claire’s voice rose like a sudden summer squall. “I don’t like her. I’ve never liked her. And it’s a good thing Daddy made you the deciding vote. Because we’d never agree on anything.”

  Danger, Will Robinson.

  “Claire, I like JoJo.”

  “She makes me sick.”

  “Why?”

  “She blew in here from San Diego. The next thing I know, she’s doing splits in my mother’s bed and treating me like a kid.”