Sovrano

by Michael Powers

  Eric entered the Golden Nugget anxiously, knowing the feeling would pass once he had a cocktail in his hand. The dance floor was crowded. The mezzanine above the dancers was filled to capacity. Eric ordered a drink at the nearest bar station and immediately struck up a conversation with several people. It was all trivia talk and giggling, requiring little effort. Eric strolled through the crowd, admiring tanned and toned torsos. He joined several groups, but felt compelled to move on every few minutes. His charm and quick wit, along with his willingness to spring for cocktails at each stop, made him instantly popular.

  When the clock struck midnight, everyone turned expectantly to the dance floor. Puzzled, Eric asked a passing waiter, “What happens now? Cinderella’s tampon turns into a pumpkin?”

  After a courtesy laugh, the waiter explained the dancers were hosed down every hour. For the first time, Eric noticed all the dancers were semi-nude, clad only in swimsuits or underwear. Water cascaded over the sweating dancers from the mezzanine above while the crowd squealed with delight. At one a.m. Eric was on the dance floor in his shorts, shouting and shivering along with hundreds of other dancers.

  Eric asked around for a poker game. Initially disappointed, he hit upon the idea of hosting a game in his luxurious hotel suite. He enticed forty people with offers of free cabfare and unlimited room service. Eric never made his late morning speech. He ignored the room phone, finally turning it off. The party lasted for three days until Eric finally threw out the last of the freeloaders. He slept for eighteen hours and when he woke, he took stock of his room. It was littered with dirty towels, empty pizza boxes, soiled sheets, and overflowing wastebaskets. He couldn’t find his wallet, checkbook, or watch. Fortunately, he still had a credit card. The bank conference had been over for two days when Eric checked out of the hotel. His hotel bill, gambling losses, and the theft of his valuables put his total tab for the week just under thirty-thousand dollars.

  As Eric flew home, he was overcome by the realization his life had become a house of cards nearing collapse. He sensed time was running out, wondering when his staff would desert him or when his boss would fire him. He also wondered how much longer he would be welcome at local bars or backroom poker tables.

  It was a routine Monday. Eric had spent the entire weekend recovering from ten solid days of drinking, gambling, and fighting, so he was fairly alert at the office. Most of the day was dedicated to preparing a speech for the bank’s mid-level managers on Tuesday. His suit jacket was fraying and worn, so he dropped it off on the way home, asking the seamstress to make minor repairs since he couldn’t afford to add to his wardrobe. He took a two-hour nap, then drove to his health club for a workout. Eric checked himself carefully before a full-length mirror after enjoying a leisurely sauna and shower. He told himself he wasn’t in terrible shape for age thirty, even though there were dark circles under his eyes and mysterious bruises covered his arms and legs. He was carrying twenty pounds more around his middle than he should, yet he felt better after some light exercise. In fact, he felt well enough to stop by his favorite gay bar on the way home for a cocktail or two. After all, it was only ten o’clock.

  At closing time, the bouncer had to help Eric remember how to use an exit, nudging him gently out the door. Eric didn’t like being asked to leave, so he drove home and mixed himself a large brandy Manhattan. Then he began calling friends around the globe. When one begged off, Eric called a fresh listener to brag, whine, and complain to.

  At five a.m. Eric began to sober up. He had heard about people who drank themselves sober and that frightened him. He searched for more liquor, but he had already polished off the only four bottles in the house. He never kept much booze at home since it seemed to disappear so quickly. Eric realized he would have to cancel the speech he was scheduled to give at nine since he’d never be sober enough in four hours to stand in front of his colleagues. A series of credible excuses began to take shape in Eric’s mind, but he rejected them all, unable to remember which ones he had used recently.

  Suddenly, Eric saw his life quite clearly. He was alone, deeply in debt, and rapidly losing the trust and affection of everyone around him. His life had become an empty series of double-talk between sips from a Manhattan glass. The most precious things he had were status symbols acquired with borrowed funds. He felt himself falling into a pit of dark despair. Life didn’t seem worth living anymore. He decided to spare himself the excruciating agony of falling the rest of the way to the bottom of the pit. Even though he had consumed an enormous amount of alcohol, he was surprised at the clarity of his thoughts.

  Seconds later, Eric found himself sliding the leather cover off a shotgun. He loaded it carefully, dropping the shell several times before successfully shoving it into the chamber. With no thought of leaving a suicide note, a will, or any last tidying up of his cluttered life, Eric knelt down and wrapped his lips around the gun barrel. He struggled to find a position which would allow him to squeeze the trigger with his index finger. Temporarily frustrated by his clumsiness, Eric chuckled at the thought that a person probably got better at this with practice.

  Images of Eric’s paternal grandfather raced through his mind. Eric had only seen pictures of him. He was the only relative who had ever taken his own life, but he had terminal cancer and knew the end was near anyway. Images of his maternal grandfather replaced the former. He saw the old man clutching his chest and wondered how it felt to die alone of heart failure. A college friend who had blown a hole in her temple at age nineteen joined the images of his grandfathers. What could have been so bad that she ended her life so young? A tidal wave of images rushed in and swirled around Eric’s mind. Tommy’s final moments hurtling to his death. Eric wondered if Tommy had made a noble sacrifice, or whether he had committed suicide. The terrible guilt Eric felt about Tommy’s death came flooding back.

  Eric remembered his mentor, General Hansen. He imagined the General’s body lying in state at the capitol building in Jefferson City, Missouri. The old man who had given Eric a chance to start his life over again sat up in his coffin. “Eric! Get a grip on yourself! You haven’t come all this way just to blow your brains out! Don’t let me down, son.” He saw his friends standing around his coffin, wiping away their tears. Then he saw his mother as she appeared the last time they were together. He heard her say she’d always love him.

  As those images filled his mind, Eric’s resolve began to drain away. The gun slid to the floor and Eric slumped over, burying his face in his hands like a tortured animal. He knew he had come close to ending his life, but his survival instinct was too strong.

  Over and over, he moaned, “Help me,” though he had no idea who or what he needed. The indestructible Eric Price was helpless. He knew other people had reached this point in their lives and recovered. There was even a man Eric worked with who had been a legendary drunk. Somehow he had quit drinking and turned his life around. Eric wondered how he had managed his comeback and decided it was worth a phone call at six in the morning. He dialed information, asking the operator to look up the phone number and dial it for him. A mere ten minutes later, Eric’s friend from the bank was racing to his home.

  The nightmare which Eric’s life had become was about to end.

  CHAPTER 5

  Fifty miles north of Los Angeles

  Mark Jensen smacked a nightstick into the palm of his left hand. “Used properly, the nightstick is a deadly weapon,” he told his class. “When the blunt end is jabbed straight into an opponent’s abdomen with the full energy of an adult male, a force up to two-thousand pounds per square inch is created. That amount of force will drive this weapon through your opponent, causing his or her immediate and permanent immobilization. Now, form two lines and practice this procedure. Your instructors will demonstrate the technique several times, then you will simulate it with your partner. Remember, simulate is the operative word.”

  The group of thirty students sprang enthusiastically to their feet, forming two lines with military precision. As
Mark monitored the group, his assistant ran to him, whispered into his ear, and they returned to the small cabin which served as Mark’s office and living quarters. Mark lifted the phone to his ear, but waited momentarily before speaking. He found it helpful to mentally shift gears before beginning a conversation with his wife. Reluctantly, he shed the role of combat instructor to assume the character of a loving, devoted husband.

  “Hello, Jackie. What’s on your mind, dear?”

  “Mark! Am I interrupting anything?”

  “I’m running a field class right now, but they’re practicing a technique for a few minutes. What’s on your mind, Jackie?”

  “The Aldridge’s are hosting a dinner party Friday night and I’ve got to RSVP today. Can I tell them to expect us?”

  “Oh, honey, I forgot all about it,” Mark lied. “I’d like to go, but I promised the class a weekend in the mountains. We’re doing some survival training. Why don’t you go without me?”

  Jackie’s pause telegraphed her disappointment. “You know how I hate going without an escort, Mark. The last three functions I attended alone. People are beginning to think our marriage is on the rocks!”

  “I’m sorry, Jackie. Really, I am. What with the good weather and all, I’ve got to get as much training done as I can. I’m not really too good at those fancy indoor affairs, anyway. You understand, don’t you, hon?”

  “Yeah, I understand,” Jackie sighed with all the enthusiasm of a child consenting to cancel Christmas. “It’s all right. Maybe next time. See you when you get back.” Without waiting for a response, Jackie hung up.

  Mark held the phone a few seconds longer, considering whether he should call her back. Since he wasn’t going to change his mind, there was no point in another conversation. He knew she would get over her disappointment soon enough. Mark believed Jackie detested the phony social functions as much as he did, but her life was so boring she’d accept an invitation to watch paint dry.

  “Close call, eh, boss?” Riley quipped.

  “Too close!” Mark snorted. “She damn near broke my heart trying to get me to one of those ever-so-fabulous Belair parties of hers. God, how I hate those creeps! Last time she conned me into going to one of those things, I wanted to pull the pin on a grenade as I ran out the front door. I have fantasies about gathering all those bastards in some stadium, then dropping a small thermonuclear device on them. Some weekend we’ll have to conduct a training exercise in Belair. I’ll issue my standing order: take no prisoners, screw the women, kill the men and kids, and round up the pets for supper!”

  Riley howled at the brutal scenario conjured up by his boss. Mark was the best in the world at what he did, and not just because of his vast experience and enormous talent. He truly loved his work. Teaching men to kill was only a shade less intoxicating for Mark than actually killing.

  Mark Jensen surfaced in California in his early thirties. He claimed several years of service as a merchant marine, work on Gulf oil rigs, and mercenary service in Africa. A lanky body, weather-beaten skin, thick mustache, and shaggy hair gave him a tough, commanding appearance. What he neglected to tell people was that much of the weather-beaten look had not been earned performing hard work, but sitting in third-world prisons. He earned his sea legs smuggling guns and drugs, not containers filled with electronic gadgets. Like most pathological liars, Mark buried a kernel of truth among his lies. He actually was a mercenary for several different governments.

  Most people found Mark’s appearance sinister, but Jackie Renard found him devilishly handsome. His toothy smile and dark face overpowered her when they met. Jackie had been visiting friends in Marina Del Rey. Curious to try a nude beach, she ventured out alone one afternoon. When she gazed up at the muscular man asking to join her, she spotted his enormous white teeth. Impulsively, she said yes, although she’d already chased away three other naked men that afternoon. Jackie immediately noticed the stark contrast between Mark and her late husband, Jules, starting with Mark’s impressive erection.

  Jules Renard died at age fifty-two. Jackie was thirty at the time, exceptionally young to be twice widowed. Husband Jules was a chubby, pale, balding businessman with a lust for rich food and creature comforts. He demanded little from Jackie sexually after their brief honeymoon, thrilled to have an attractive escort to the endless social functions he attended. Jules was a splendid husband; always considerate and eager to please. He was also very rich, earning a fortune in real estate long before his fatal coronary. The detached look on Jackie’s face during Jules’ memorial service was not suppressed sorrow, but rather a mixture of relief and boredom.

  Jackie invited Mark to her hotel room for a drink several hours after they met. They made passionate love until they were both too exhausted to move. Their appetite for each other was insatiable. Their sexual encounters were wild and frequent. Three months after they met, they flew to Reno and were married by a justice of the peace.

  Early in their relationship, they agreed to close the book on the past since each had something to hide. Their live-for-the-moment agreement forbid questions about anything that happened prior to their marriage. They also agreed to give each other a great deal of freedom. Neither was accountable to the other for anything that happened when they were apart. This was possible since neither depended on the other financially. Jackie had her dead husband’s fortune and Mark had his own business. Outside the bedroom, they expected little from each other. It was a sensible, modern arrangement, based almost entirely on their physical needs.

  Unlike most stepfathers, Mark was delighted Jackie already had three children. He had never been with a woman long enough for one to actually conceive and deliver a child, though he suspected he was a father several times over. Mark enjoyed playing daddy when he was home, as long as it didn’t require any continuing involvement. For their part, the kids warmed quickly to Mark, especially the youngest, Keenan.

  CHAPTER 6

  Eric was surprised when two men arrived at his home. Tim Severson stopped to pick up the bank’s employee counselor, John Heinz. Eric was not sure what was happening, yet he put his life in their hands. It was the first time Eric could recall blindly trusting his life to strangers. Alone, he had nearly killed himself. He figured they couldn’t do much worse to him than he almost did to himself.

  Tim and John were alarmed by the condition of Eric’s home. They saw empty liquor bottles everywhere, overflowing ashtrays, and cigarette burns. Then they spotted the shotgun. Tim moved between Eric and the shotgun. “Why don’t we pack a few things in an overnight bag? Where’s your bedroom, Eric?” Tim asked, keeping his tone casual.

  Eager to cooperate, Eric led Tim upstairs to his bedroom while John Heinz was busy on the first floor. As soon as Eric was out of sight, John grabbed the shotgun, unloaded it, and then hid it in a closet. He hustled around the living room and kitchen, taking pictures with his cell phone. He captured all the evidence of alcohol abuse: doors off hinges, broken booze bottles, dustballs blowing freely across the bare wood floors.

  When Tim came downstairs carrying a suitcase, John asked, “Where’s Eric?”

  “Relax,” Tim assured his partner as he adjusted his thick, horn-rimmed glasses. “He wanted to pee before we leave. How’re things down here?”

  John appeared near tears. Running both hands through his thin gray hair, he shook his head sadly. “It’s such a typical alcoholic’s home. I got enough shots to convince anyone something is wrong here. If Eric decides he made a mistake when he sobers up, it’ll be damn hard to argue with this evidence!”

  Even though Eric had called him, Tim had learned in AA never to answer a call for help alone. John was much more experienced than Tim, so Tim gladly looked to him for advice. “Whatdya think we oughta do with him, John? Let him sleep it off at detox?”

  “No!” John scoffed. Feeling all of his fifty-five years and more, he sat at Eric’s desk, smoothing what was left of his hair. “There’s six months of unpaid bills on this desk. Utility shutoff notices. Appea
rs he was considering suicide. The house looks like a pigpen. This poor kid’s in serious trouble. He needs a thirty-day, in-patient treatment program. I’m afraid seventy-two hours at a detoxification center will sober him up just enough so he can go out drinking again. Maybe kill himself or someone else next time.”

  John and Tim shuffled around the living room while they waited. Tim rubbed his eyes repeatedly, trying to get them to focus better. He was tired and it was going to be a long day, but he didn’t resent Eric for cutting his sleep short. Nine years earlier, several of Tim’s co-workers found him face down on his desk after a ten-martini lunch. One of them was the bank’s president. Instead of firing Tim, they took him to a treatment center. Several months later, Tim thanked them all and asked how he could repay them. The bank president replied, “Sober up another drunk.” It had been nine years, but Tim’s chance had finally come.

  “Tim, how well do you know Eric?”

  “Not very well. I don’t think anyone does. His drinking is probably part of the reason. I’ve been impressed by the way he’s upgraded the bank’s finance department. He’s got a real flair for public speaking. His staff worships him and his economic forecasts have been right on the money three years in a row, which is more than most economists can claim. But I always got a feeling Eric was in too much of a hurry.”

  “Sounds typical,” John sighed. “He’s in so much of a hurry, he won't live to see thirty-five if he doesn’t sober up.”

  They walked Eric to John’s van, holding him firmly between them in case he decided to bolt. Tim gave John directions to the treatment center, then turned to see how Eric was doing. Watching Eric struggle to light the last of his cigarettes took Tim back an entire decade as if it had been yesterday. Tim genuinely liked what he knew of Eric. He was flattered Eric had reached out, though he wasn’t sure why Eric chose him.