Lisa smiles at me and says, “You want to fool around?”
The phone rings at that moment. “I'll get it,” I say, and turn to pick up the phone on the end table.
“Hello?”
“Scott?” a deep male voice says.
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“Jack Logan. I'm sorry to call you at home, but I have a couple of questions about the settlement agreement, and I know you need it signed by the time you go back to court on my case in a couple of days.”
“Sure, Jack,” I say, “fire away.” Jack is a client whose case has recently settled, and we are working out the details of the agreement. Jack did not try to reach me at the office during business hours, and I am not an emergency room doctor, and people don't need to call me at all hours. A mental note to me: stop giving out my home number and my cell phone number to clients. Focusing on Jack's question about the confidentiality provision in the agreement is difficult; it's well after ten, and I really want to go upstairs to give Joey and Katy a good-night kiss. Fortunately, the question is one I hear on a regular basis, so I can respond on autopilot. Jack thanks me profusely and hangs up.
“Where were we?” I say.
She gives me her best seductress smile. “You were going to kiss the kids and then meet me in the bedroom. I'll be the one who's waiting naked.”
I check my watch and say, “Two minutes. Don't start without me.” As I walk up the stairs, I glance back at Lisa to see her holding up the costume under construction and smiling broadly.
I lie on my back with my arm around Lisa, and she presses against me; one of our favorite after-lovemaking positions. I love the feel of her body against mine, and there is a wonderful feeling of closeness as I hold her in my arms.
After a time, she asks, “When did you first fall in love with me?”
I reflect for a moment, and then say, “When we went swimming, and you flashed me.”
“That's when you first fell in love with my boobs,” she says. “When did you first fall in love with me?”
“You're right,” I say. “When I first fell in love with you, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess that would be the first blow job.”
She hits me in the ribs and says, “You really are an asshole, you know that?”
“Yeah, I know.” I squeeze her. “I really do remember when I first knew I loved you.”
“Yeah?” she asks. “Tell me.”
“We had been going out for about four or five months when we took that weekend camping trip to the beach with Brian and Liz. It was somewhere around Ventura,” I offer.
“I remember,” she says.
“It was Saturday night. I went into the woods to pee, and when I came back I saw your profile as you were looking into the fire talking to Liz and Brian. You were smiling; actually you were glowing, and I realized it wasn't just the fire. Those beautiful, loving eyes and that warm laugh of yours felt like they had been a part of me for as long as I could remember. It suddenly hit me hard; I could spend the rest of my life with this woman.”
“Truly?” she gushes.
“Yeah, truly,” I reply.
“That's wonderful. I never knew that.” She props herself up on her elbow, and the blanket falls down. “You really can be a romantic,” she says.
I look in her eyes and nod, and then lower my gaze. “Yep. But you still have great boobs.”
Chapter 6
April 21, 2016
Victoria Constantine arched her back and moaned. She opened her legs wider and grabbed the back of his head as his tongue moved firmly against her. As she began to cry out, he repositioned himself, and then he was inside her. They thrust with all of their might, and finally cried out as they come together. He stayed on top of her for a time and held her tightly. She drifted off with him still inside her. When he rolled off, she curled up under his arms, and felt as she thought a cat would at moments of maximum purr. “That was wonderful,” she whispered.
“Oh, my God,” Michael Constantine said, “I'll get hard again just thinking about it.”
“Works for me,” she said softly. There would be one hell of a wet spot tonight, but it was more than worth it.
She began to recover normal breathing, and turned the conversation to something that she wanted to talk about but had been dreading. She ran a hand through her hair and sat up in bed. She was almost fifty-three, but had few wrinkles and somehow managed to look five years younger. She took a breath and began. “Michael,” she said softly, “Jerry gets out tomorrow.” There was silence, but she could feel him tense up. “He needs a place to be for a time while he finds a job and gets back on his feet, and I want to let him stay in the guest house.”
The response is immediate. “What?”
“He's my little brother,” she said.
Michael considered her, and his blue eyes flashed as he spoke. “Vickie, your brother stole from us last time he stayed here, remember? And that was just the beginning.”
“I remember, but he had a disease. He was addicted to drugs.”
“No,” Michael said, “he was addicted to everything. You don't need ten thousand dollars to get a drug fix. The son of a bitch went to Vegas and lost the ten thousand he stole from us and another five, remember? We had to make that debt good too, just so your little brother would be allowed to keep walking upright.”
“Vegas hotels are corporations now,” she said. “They don't bury people in the desert anymore.”
“Not the ones he found. He didn't gamble at Caesar's. Somehow, he found Lefty's House of We'll Cut Your Throat. He lost all that money, got drunk, and fucked Lefty's girlfriend. You remember the guys who were looking for him? Cauliflower ears and misshapen noses—they looked like thugs from an old Cagney flick. As I recall, you were the one who talked me into paying the whole fifteen thousand to save his sorry ass.”
“I know,” Vickie said, “but he did three years. He got treatment while he was in prison. He wants to stay clean and pay you back. If we help him get on his feet, he can start making restitution that much sooner.”
“Yeah, he's in great shape until the next temptation passes him on a street corner. Then he'll buy it, sell it, fuck it, or smoke it.”
“Dammit, he's my brother, Michael,” she said, annoyance finding its way into her voice. She waited through a prolonged silence.
“All right,” he said, grudgingly, “he can stay in the guest house for one month, and we tell him that from the start. One month to put himself together if he stays out of trouble. No drugs, and he keeps his dick away from the staff around here.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling relieved. “Speaking of dicks, how's yours doing? She grabs him under the sheets, and he is instantly aroused. “Looks like we're ready to stand up and move back into action.” She stroked him playfully. “All right,” she said, “I told you about what was troubling me, now you tell me about what eats at you these days. How's the lawsuit with Kevin?”
Instantly, his erection started to lose traction. “Not a good time to bring up that topic?” she asked.
“No.”
“You're worried about it.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“We spent a lot of years together, and it's a mess.”
“So settle it, and put it behind you.”
“The lawyers say we can squeeze him hard and get him to go away for almost nothing. Besides, he betrayed me, and I don't want to give him shit,” he said in an angry tone.
“Betrayed you how?” she asked.
“I don't want to talk about this,” he said sternly.
“I can tell,” she replied, holding his now flaccid penis.
“That's right,” he said, “talking about traitors won't get you laid.”
She moved under the covers and took him in her mouth. His recovery was immediate.
April 22, 2016
Jerry Anders walked across the familiar prison yard, surrounded by high brick walls topped with razor wire and
lookout towers spaced at forty-feet intervals. A short and stocky correctional officer walked beside him. Gray hair pushed out from under his cap, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
As they reached one of the six buildings that formed a rectangle around the yard, the officer paused at a big steel door and waited. There was a metallic clicking followed by a heavy scraping sound as the door inched slowly open. The officer stepped through the door and Jerry followed. Another steel door just like the first stood closed twenty feet in front of them, and they had to wait for the first door to lumber closed before the second would open; one of many holding pens at Renmont State Prison. There was a solid metal on metal sound as the first door closed. Moments later, the sounds began anew, and the second door began to open. The officer gave Jerry a nod, and they walked through the massive door and down a long, narrow hallway, both sides of which are fenced to a height of twenty feet, with razor wire along the top of each.
Less than fifty steps from his release, Jerry was seized by a sudden rush of fear. It was all up to him now, and he was smart enough to know how little faith he should have in himself. He did three stints in rehab that didn't take and then twenty-three months here when he tried to sell some cocaine to the wrong guy. Then came the grand larceny conviction when he stole from his sister and her husband, Michael Constantine, among others, to support his habit. He was a two-time loser, and if he fucked up this time, he would come back for good; or until he was too old to care if he ever came out again.
“I'm going to make it, Willie,” Jerry said.
The officer gave him a nod. “Good,” he said, without conviction. Jerry understood; being jaded comes with the job. Everyone said they wouldn't be back, but most returned.
“Really, Willie, I'm going to do it.”
Willie forced a smile. “I really hope you do.”
Another uniformed guard stood in the doorway and checked something on a clipboard. “Anders, right?” Jerry nodded. “I need a signature from you, Anders, and then you're on your way.”
Jerry signed a form that the guard presented without any attempt to read it. The guard gave him a small package of belongings and some cash. Without speaking further, Jerry turned and walked toward the door at the end of the hallway, which began to swing open as he approached. He walked out into a sunny day, looked around the crowded parking lot, and saw nothing familiar. It had occurred to him that Vickie might be waiting, but there was no sign of her. How could he blame her, after everything he had done to her and Michael? Their forgiveness would have to be earned, and it would take time. He told himself that this time he would make it work, and one day he would pay them back and earn their trust.
He gave one last look to the expanse of ominous wall and razor wire behind him, and then began walking across the hot pavement toward the prison access road. He decided to walk, getting a fresh look at birds, trees, and all things not captive, for as long as he could before calling a cab; freedom had been a long time coming. As he walked down the narrow access road toward the highway, he looked up at the sky and held his arms high. It was a gorgeous day, and the first of many to come. There was the sound of an engine approaching where the road crested slightly higher ahead. A Mercedes glided over the slight hill toward him, and he saw Vickie's smiling face as she waved vigorously. This was a good day—a really good day.
Chapter 7
April 26, 2016
I am caught up in the deposition of my client in an age discrimination case. There are two defense attorneys, one representing Starlight Conveyers, the Fortune 500 company where my client had been employed as a middle manager, and the other representing the manager accused of firing her based upon her age. I tell both attorneys that I have to be done at five o'clock because I had a commitment that I couldn't miss. They grumble, as lawyers do whenever the opportunity arises, but ultimately acquiesce after being assured we would reschedule to allow them to complete the deposition. At five fifteen, they are still going strong, so I tell them time is up, and we need to reschedule. One of the defense attorneys states that he has no further questions; the other has just a few more. As attorneys are notorious for having just a few more questions that wind up taking hours or days, I know better, but I let him go a little further. He says, “One more question” about five times, and finishes at five thirty-five.
I say good-bye and run out the door as soon as we are off the record, charging toward my car and cursing under my breath. Dammit, this is Katy's big night. This time of day I will need forty-five minutes to cover the distance, and the program begins in fifteen minutes; I am now in the process of letting my little girl down. Traffic crawls at a snail's pace, but the level of my frustration moves much faster.
At six thirty-five I arrive at the school to find the visitor lot and the surrounding street parking full. I park three blocks away and hustle into the auditorium in time to catch fifteen minutes of the play. Most of the seats are taken and everyone is quiet and absorbed. On stage, a pumpkin speaks to a head of lettuce about the warmth of the sun, gesturing to the painted sky overhead. As I move toward the front of the auditorium, I see Lisa wave and make my way down the row to the seat beside her, excusing myself as I step over feet, hoping that there might be some way Katy doesn't see me arriving so late.
After a few minutes, I see Katy run across the stage in her red, round costume. She does a graceful pirouette, and then twirls with what appears to be a turnip, as a banana slides across the stage on his knees. Flashes go off all around as proud parents of all this produce try to preserve the moment.
“Isn't she adorable,” Lisa asks, leaning in my direction.
“That she is,” I say. “Nice work with the costume.” She squeezes my hand and looks on as the fruits and vegetables formed what looked like a conga train common to wedding receptions and snake across the stage. Peas and onions float around grapes and melons, while apples and broccoli bob and weave, and then reach for the sky and sway in unison. They break off into semicircles and dance around a farmer for the grand finale.
Parents are suckers for this stuff, and the kids scurry off stage to more applause than a Beatles reunion would bring. As the lights go on and the crowd stares at the stage, Lisa says, “The kids are going to come out and see us in costume.”
“Great,” I say. When nothing happens after a few moments, the parents begin to whistle, yell, and stomp their feet, rock concert style, one of the talents of our generation.
The fruits and vegetables begin pouring onto the stage with the farmer, and they all hold hands and take bows as parents and grandparents go crazy, bringing thunderous applause and loud whistles. The howls continue as the kids move down the steps and into the audience. As I search for Katy, she appears next to me.
“Daddy,” she says, “you made it!” Her eyes are wide and fully animated by the excitement.
I am saddened by her shock that I had made it, but then I reminded myself that I almost hadn't. “You were great, sweetie,” I say, bending to give her a hug but held at bay by the costume.
“You know what we are?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say proudly, “you're a tomato.”
“Not what I am,” she says, “what we all are together?”
I thought for a moment. “You're a salad,” I say.
She put her hands on her tomato hips, the costume making her usual indignant stance impossible. “We're not a salad; we are the harvest,” she delivers with some disappointment in her voice. I almost joke that the harvest would be salad next week but thought better of it. “I have to go get my stuff,” she says.
“All right,” Lisa says, “we'll wait for you right here, and then we'll go get ice cream.”
An hour later, Lisa and I sit around a long table with Katy, still in her tomato suit, and three of Katy's friends; two turnips and a pumpkin. The vegetables chatter tirelessly as they spoon hot fudge sundaes into the holes in their costumes that hide their mouths. I grin at Lisa as we watch this great scene, and I feel like I am a million miles from
work.
“Where's Joey?” I whisper to Lisa. “I thought he was coming along.”
“He was,” she says, “until he got a better offer. Marty Pierce wanted him to come over and play some new video game involving nuclear weapons and wagon trains. Then he made some crack about Katy and her fruity friends, so she told him she didn't want him to come anyway because he was a major idiot. After five minutes of that argument, I was happy to have them go to different places.”
“Yep,” I say, “sibling exchanges get a little grueling sometimes.”
She nods. “At least you got past it when you and your brother grew up,” she says. “Maybe the same will happen with Joey and Katy.”
“Don and I got past it because he moved to Indianapolis. If you only talk three times a year, it's easier not to get pissed at one another. But we still each think the other is an asshole.”
“And with good reason,” she says and grins, proud of the jab.
“Oh, I see,” I say, giving her a poke in the ribs. Suddenly, all the vegetables are silently staring at us, assessing. “Sorry to interrupt the party,” I say.
Katy looks at her friends. “My Dad's not really sorry. He's being amusing,” she says, solemnly.
Ouch. The fruits and vegetables all seemed to understand this and return to consuming ice cream and having conversations that had been interrupted. There was a sudden gagging sound, and I turned to see the pumpkin throwing up her ice cream and hot fudge on the table.
Chapter 8
The next morning, Kevin Walters and I sit side by side at the table in our conference room, several documents covering the tabletop between us, with one in particular that we are focused on—Kevin's last-minute find at the Consolidated warehouse.
“So,” Kevin says thoughtfully, “we have this $50,000 invoice for work performed by J. Andrews Company on the date of the accident. It says unit 319, which internally means Wheeling, so they cleaned that up before they produced it. But they missed a more technical issue—the invoice is for repair and removal of oak substructures, and the oak substructures are in Ruston, not in Wheeling.”
[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught Page 6