by C I Dennis
Montpelier has a population of 7,868, making it the smallest of all the state capitals in the United States. Approximately 7,813 of them are java-sipping, granola-crunching, PETA-supporting, Warren Zevon-listening, Pete #2-recycling, Prius-driving hippies, and the other 55 are the minority Republican members of the state legislature who are in town for several months each winter to debate everything from the mundane, like regulating tanning beds, to the cutting-edge, like coming up with a health care system that covered everyone—which actually happened in 2011. The state legislature is a surprisingly nimble and effective group, and it draws its legitimacy and its tone directly from Vermont’s town meeting tradition in which local officials can get an earful, directly from the citizens, about the potholes on Route 116 and the skunks under the library porch. Being small has its virtues.
I found a parking spot on Main Street across from the restaurant. Robert Patton rose as I entered the door, and gestured me over. “They have illegals in the kitchen here,” he said.
“I thought you were on vacation.”
“I’m always working.”
“Those are just college kids,” I said. “It’s cool to look like a migrant worker these days.”
A very white, very tall young woman brought us menus. Her sandy-colored hair was tied behind her head, and she wore a tight gray T-shirt that revealed a little silver loop through her belly button. She had what my mother called a “cute figure”, meaning that she had large breasts. Patton, in typical cop fashion, spoke directly to her tits.
“Cup of coffee and some eggs, OK sweetheart?”
“We have the Noah’s Ark,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Two eggs, two slices of bacon, and two frumple cakes,” she said. She tugged her shirt down to cover her exposed middle and frowned at Patton.
“Over light on the eggs,” Patton said, and handed her the menu with a too-late smile.
“Crêpadilla,” I said. “And a coffee.” A crêpadilla, according to the menu, was some kind of Mexican crêpe. Everything looked good, and I was thinking I’d better bulk up before I reported back to Florida for daddy-duty.
“Schultheiss is German, but he has a Moldovan passport,” he said. “He’s with the Ministry of Culture, which is bullshit. He’s some kind of spook.”
“Have you checked with the CIA?”
“Oh yeah, they know him, but they think he’s a joke. They say he’s just a wannabe. He’s an influence peddler, and he sees himself as a big cheese.”
“What’s his background?”
“Born in East Germany, back before the Wall came down. Married a Moldovan and relocated there, God-knows why, it’s a piss-poor country.”
“What are you after him for?”
“People-moving. His reputation is for getting anyone in or out of the country, unnoticed by us. We’ve never caught him doing it, but we suspect he’s behind literally dozens of cases. If you do something bad and want to go to Brazil, he’ll get you out.”
“Where does the sex tape fit into this?”
“That’s Burleigh. Have you ever wondered how he made all his money?”
“Not really,” I said.
“He can take a land deal that’s dead in the water, and suddenly, once he controls it, everything starts going right. Whether it’s a permit problem, zoning, environmental whackos, whatever. He makes a killing every time.”
“So he’s a good businessman.”
“No, he’s an extortionist. I don’t have a speck of proof. But whenever I’ve talked to one the victims, they’re scared shitless. That’s what your video is—it’s a honey trap. They can just imagine themselves up there doing an Elliot Spitzer in front of the press, crying wife at their side, explaining how they were fucking some twenty-year old.”
Two women at the table next to us turned and glowered. “Sorry, ladies,” Patton said. They tut-tutted him, and resumed their lunch. “I’ve picked apart some of his land deals, found out who the roadblock was, and then I visit them, usually at home. I don’t have to say much, and they turn white as a fucking sheet. I offer all kinds of immunity, whatever, but they don’t want to risk it. I’ve met Burleigh, and the funny thing is he strikes you as a genuinely nice guy. But he’s a tough son-of-a-bitch.”
The two ladies called a waitress over and loudly asked to be moved. That was fine with me, now we could talk. “You want to see it? I have the computer in this bag.”
“Right here in the restaurant?”
“Everybody around us has left,” I said.
“What the hell,” he said.
I booted up the computer and opened the file. The video started and Patton watched, his face not moving, until I noticed a flicker in his eyes.
“You can close it,” he said. “That’s Stanton all right. And I know the girl. We followed her when she was up here. She worked for Burleigh for a while until she fell in love with your brother. Melissa-something. A Slav, like Burleigh’s pilot.”
“What? Junie?”
“Yeah. She stayed at his place a lot, and they were tight for most of last year, then she hasn’t been seen. At least not by us.”
“Junie with a girlfriend? He’s a junkie.”
“Even junkies need some pussy now and then,” Patton said, right as the waitress returned with our coffees. She put his down and immediately knocked it over. The hot liquid raced across the table, onto his lap.
“Fuck!” he yelled, jumping to his feet.
“Oh, sorry sir,” she said, but she couldn’t help smiling.
Patton cleaned himself off with a napkin and sat back down. “This is the computer from your father’s apartment?”
“Yes,” I said.
“We checked it, and we didn’t find that.”
“It was heavily encrypted,” I said.
“How do you know that? You a computer geek?”
“No,” I said. “I have a kid who helps me. And I think that when he found it, Mr. Schultheiss got tipped off. I’m worried about the kid. He might need protection.”
“I have people who will help us,” he said. “Lots of people were pissed when this thing got shut down.”
“I’m thinking of reporting for my new job today,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “We’ve never had anyone on the inside.”
“I’ll work with you,” I said. “But I want a favor.”
“Fucking A,” he said. “OK, what is it?”
“Get Junie out.”
“Done,” he said.
“Impressive,” I said.
“The judge is my cousin,” he said. “I get him cigars from Cuba.”
“Everyone’s got a hustle,” I said, and he smiled.
*
I called Yuliana and told her I was on the way. She said Brooks was out cross-country skiing, and she’d show me around. There was a room for me down in the bunker for now, but they would eventually find me a pied-à-terre somewhere, as Brooks was in Vermont every few weeks, and I’d need my own digs.
The clouds were gathering as I drove up the Mountain Road, with no sign of snow, yet. My little Chevy had tired-looking all-season tires on it and would be useless if it got truly nasty out. I chugged up Edson Hill Road and stopped at the gate, which magically opened for me. Yuliana must have been waiting.
I parked in the dooryard, near a barn—suitably out of the way, as I wouldn’t want to clutter the picturesque setting with my ratty rental car. Yuliana met me at the door.
“Welcome back,” she said, and gave me a peck on the cheek. Her manner was cool, not passionate, which was good—I needed some breathing room. At the same time, I was blown away once again by her beauty. She wore a white wool sweater with a cowl neck and black stretch pants—the Bond Girl look. She was way too perfect.
“You have a little piece of something, right here.” I showed my teeth and pointed with a finger.
“Where?” She looked horrified.
“Over one,” I said. “That’s it.”
She re
moved her finger from her mouth. “I don’t see anything.”
“I was teasing,” I said. “You’re flawless.”
“Ohh,” she said. “I’ll make you pay for that.” We laughed, and she took my coat.
“The weather’s about to turn bad.”
“So I heard,” she said. “We may need to fly out Sunday night. I hope it’s done snowing by then.”
“Where to?”
“Washington,” she said. “You’re coming. He’ll want you to drive while he’s there. He has some meetings on Monday.”
“I don’t know my way around D.C.,” I said.
“I’ve rented a Town Car,” she said. “It will have navigation.”
“OK,” I said. “If you can fly us, I guess I can drive us around.”
“We’re staying at the Willard. Have you been there?”
“Not unless it’s a Best Western,” I said.
She laughed. “It’s nice. They have really big beds.”
“Hey, no flirting with the help,” I said. Maybe I was wrong about her interest cooling.
“The wake’s over,” she said. “You’re my prisoner now.”
I picked up my bag. “Show me to my cell,” I said. “I have some knitting to attend to.”
“Right this way,” she said, and led me downstairs.
*
Yuliana left me alone, and I unpacked and started to settle in. I was making progress on Roberto’s hat. With everything that was going on I should have been padding around the house in a black turtleneck, opening drawers and planting listening bugs, but I decided I’d just be a loyal employee for a while, and would let things come to me. Junie was getting out of jail soon, my father was already dead, and there was no great rush. I was even starting to relax about Roberto—maybe I’d panicked a little on that one. I put down my knitting and texted him, just to check in.
You in Miami?
Yah, he sent back, immediately. His phone was hard-wired to his body.
You sound bored.
Just sick.
Sorry. I freaked. Saw a txt from somebody about the vid being hacked into.
NBD.
Can they trace you?
Not a chance.
You sure?
100%, he replied.
Cocky little bastard, I sent.
LOL.
Tell your folks I calmed down, I wrote. Prob OK to go home. I hv a friend who can provide security.
Kinda like it here, he sent. Thong season on South Beach.
Haha, I replied, Don’t burn yr eyeballs out.
Haha bye.
Roberto was pushing fifteen, and it appeared that the testosterone was already flowing. I would have envied him, but fifteen is when boys are at their clumsiest, socially, and the girls basically run the show. Come to think of it, that also applies to being twenty. And thirty. And fifty. And…
*
Brooks Burleigh knocked on the door of my cell and I let him in.
“Vince,” he said. “I am so glad you’re here. Welcome.” He gave me a hearty, varsity-squad handshake.
“Thanks,” I said.
His cheeks were bright pink from being outside, which set off his bushy, silver eyebrows and thick mane. He was a very handsome man, and he radiated confidence. “It’s so nice out there.”
“Looks like snow coming,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “Hey. We have time for a quick loop before dark. Would you like to ski?”
“Cross-country?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve had trails put in. What size are your feet?”
“Thirteen,” I said.
“Same as my son. He has banana-boats, like yours. Come on upstairs and I’ll kit you out.”
“Never tried it,” I said.
“You’ll love it.” He led me to the second floor of the house where the bedrooms were. We rummaged through one of his kid’s drawers and found a set of long johns, socks, gloves and a skin-tight, orange-striped spandex outfit that made me look like I’d been run over by one of those trucks that painted the lines on a highway. Thank God nobody I knew could see me now.
We went outside and Brooks helped me into my skis. They were the backcountry style; not as skinny as true cross-country skis, and he assured me that they were a little more stable. “This way,” he said, as he cruised down a slope behind the house. I followed, but I felt like I was riding a skateboard down a roller coaster. I’d skied the usual way when I was a kid in Barre, but the narrow backcountry skis were nothing like the normal kind and they wobbled like toothpicks as I prepared to crash into the nearest tree and end up in a #8082 Geneva Rose Gold box like my father.
We were picking up speed as we coasted down the hill. I tried my best to control the wobble, and I wondered if the best way to approach this sport might be by watching it on TV. Brooks turned and yelled. “You have to jump here!”
The trail had widened, and I watched him lift up, thirty yards ahead of me, and fly through the air. Before I could do anything, I came to a slight lip, and without thinking about it my body reacted and I was airborne. Below me was a frozen stream that had cut through the built-up snow. It was a good ten feet down, but I cleared it and landed on the other side. I was so scared and thrilled at the same time that I whooped with joy, and promptly crashed in a jumble of skis, poles, and snow.
Brooks herringboned his way back up the slope to help me. “You’re doing great!”
“This is fucking nuts,” I said.
“Really,” he said. “You’re a natural.”
“Next time we’re in Florida, I’m going to take you dike-jumping.”
“What’s that?”
“I have a friend with an airboat,” I said. “I won’t spoil the surprise. But you’d better be wearing your titanium jockstrap.”
He laughed and skied off. The terrain flattened and we came to an open, snow-covered field with Mount Mansfield in the backdrop. The clouds obscured the peak, and you could see the new snow approaching across the valley. It was like a painting, except that no artist dead or alive could capture it. Not even an IMAX movie could make you see and feel what you do when your heart is pounding, your skin stings from the cold, and you are way out in the wilderness with the deer, the bears, and the gods of winter.
Brooks stopped in the middle of the snowy field and waited for me to catch up. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, getting my breath.
“I hear you’re going to be a father,” he said. “Does that affect your willingness to take this job?”
“To be honest, I don’t know.”
“I’d understand if you couldn’t do it,” he said. “Fatherhood is a calling.”
“I’m here for now,” I said. “I hope that’s OK.”
“It is,” he said. “I really like you, Vince, and I’ll take whatever you can give.”
“Thanks.”
“We’re going to D.C. on Sunday.”
“Yuliana told me,” I said. “That’s cool.”
“I could just hire a limousine,” he said. “But I like to be able to hold a phone conversation and know that whatever I say, it’s not going to be repeated.”
“You got it,” I lied.
“People can so easily misinterpret things.”
“Right.”
“I’m going to hold you to that, Vince,” he said. He looked me straight in the eye. It was the equivalent of a polygraph, and I put on my cop face.
“I understand,” I said.
He skied off, and I followed. I began to get the hang of the skis, and tried to mimic the way he set his poles and then did a long glide forward with alternating legs. It took me a while, but I got the rhythm. A few snowflakes started to fall out of the increasingly damp air. By the time we huffed and puffed our way back up the long hill to the house there was an inch of powder on the ground, and the flakes stuck to our clothes and faces, making us look like a couple of snowy owls.
“Dinner is at seven,” Brooks said, as we put away our skis a
nd stomped the snow off our feet in his hallway. “You don’t have to dress.”
“I’ll just come like this,” I said, as Yuliana rounded the corner. She stifled a laugh when she got a look at my Day-Glo outfit.
“No you won’t,” she said. “He hired a driver, not David Bowie.”
*
I lay on my bed and thought about Barbara. For some reason I was avoiding the huge bomb she’d dropped, via text, the previous morning. I hadn’t even told her about taking the job. Given what Robert Patton had told me, it might not matter, as I could be unemployed again in a couple of days. My new boss had a highly illegal game going, if, like Patton said, he’d done some arm-twisting to get his deals done. Arm-twisting, as in dangling some juicy female bait in front of influential, middle-aged johns, and then getting it on camera. I wondered how many other tapes like Dulles Stanton’s were out there, and how many guys were lying awake at night, hoping that Burleigh wouldn’t ruin them with a few keystrokes on a computer and an email to the National Enquirer.
My bedroom had a small casement window at one end that was at ground level, and the snow had already piled up high enough to cover it. We were going to get whomped; the farm was at enough elevation to collect even more snow than what would fall in the valleys. I used to get excited about a big snowfall when I was a little kid. It meant that school would be closed, and we could play outside the whole day, making snow forts, staging battles with snowballs, and then coming into the house, soaking wet, for hot chocolate with marshmallows. The older you get, the more the snow becomes a pain in the ass, but there’s still that feeling of anticipation as you watch it pile up.
Yuliana came to collect me. I’d put on a fresh shirt, but I was running out of clothes fast. She had changed again, and she wore a powder-blue knit dress that hugged her figure and would make any sensible man want to gnaw off his wedding ring and drop to his knees. We went upstairs, and she introduced me to Kermit, who was holding forth in the kitchen, and his wife Eunice, who was putting out the place settings. They lived in town, she said, and came in to cook whenever Brooks had company. I looked into the living room and saw Tomas, puffing on a smelly, black-tobacco cigarette with Jenny at his side. They sat on a plush couch, and I noticed that Jenny’s duties as an au pair included absentmindedly rubbing her hand up and down his pant leg. He smiled, and gave me a little wave. We were old pals now. I waved back.