by Alan Mulak
A few minutes later, Nicole was pulling on her panties. Naked, William was seated on the edge of the bed, observing himself flexing his perfect biceps. “When can we get away again?” he asked.
"I'm taking the girls to Florida this weekend and will be back next Tuesday. What's your schedule look like next week?"
“I’ll check. Maybe we can get this room again.” He was now flexing both biceps together.
“And maybe you’ll remember to keep going until I tell you to stop.”
Somewhat absently, he said, “Make sure you remind me.”
Nicole exhaled impatiently. “Is it that much to remember?
He shrugged.
“I guess it is.” She pulled on her dress and began to aggressively tease her hair. “Zip me up.”
William stopped flexing, stood and zipped up her dress. Then he ran his hands over her breasts. “I wish you would leave Roberto.”
"I wish he'd drop dead, and stop squeezing my tits. You'll wrinkle my dress."
William moved to her side, studied his body in the full-length mirror and started performing repeated isometrics, pumping up his pectoral muscles.
“Divorce him. What’s the big deal? Then you and I could move in together.”
Nicole was applying her lipstick. “Can’t. Not yet. He might make president at the firm. And besides,” she turned and pecked William on the cheek, “it’s more fun this way.”
Then, without a backward glance, she grabbed her coat, turned, and left the VIP suite.
12
Good Bye Manuela
By five-fifteen P.M. on Monday afternoon, Rob gathered up all the files on his desk and began shoving them into his briefcase. The only way to describe the day was dull. His projects, due to the freeze in expense accounts, were grinding to a halt. His two best lobbyists had been "temporarily" transferred to another department, and the precise direction from his boss, Claire Anderson, was to study the new corporate tax laws until the internal investigation concluded. In other words, go back to your corner office and stay out of the way. Tomorrow, he would work at home, in his new home office.
A knock at the door brought him out of his funk. Rob looked up. It was Manuela. She was swollen to the bursting point. “Mind if I come in?”
“Manuela!” Rob said, rushing around his desk and pulling up a chair for her to plop into. “I thought you’d gone home.”
“Not without saying adios,” she said, lowering herself into the seat.
Rob leaned against his desk. “Can I get you something? Water? Tea?”
She shook her head no. “I’m done. I’ll never make it to the end of the week. The doctor says my water could break any moment. This is my last day.”
Rob smiled, thinking about the office pool. He had taken this day as his choice of her last workday. That made him the winner. "Are you going to be able to get home okay? Do you need a ride?"
"No, I'm fine. My husband's coming to pick me up. I get to ride in his cab. He'll be here in about ten minutes. Since I won't fit in the front seat, I told him to disinfect the back. He bitched about it, but he'll clean it up. Thanks for the offer. I just dropped in to say goodbye."
Unexplainably, Rob felt his eyes welling up. For days, his nerves had been wound tighter than a clock spring. Lately, he found sleeping and eating uninteresting. But to Rob, Manuela represented sanity and normalcy. This nightmare he was willingly sliding into was surreal…but Manuela was not. She represented part of the life he thought he had been building…the hopes and dreams of a Walton’s family, complete with white picket fence and a dog in the yard. Now he was about to turn his back on all that…and it meant saying goodbye to dear friends. Manuela was on that list. He sighed. “Well, I’m glad you did. I’m going to miss you.”
Manuela tried to get comfortable by stretching, hands placed on her lower back. She glanced up at Rob’s face. “You’re a softy.”
“Allergies,” Rob said with a smile, blinking rapidly.
“Allergies, my ass. Before I go, I need to say a few things to you.”
Rob moved around to the other side of his desk and sat down. “Shoot.”
“First, this is the last time I’ll be sitting here, in your office. By the time I’m ready to come back to work, you’ll be history.”
Rob held his breath. Did she know his plan? Does my face show the terror I’m feeling?
“Claire will have some hand-picked, stuffed shirt stooge in this office. She will finally get her revenge.”
Rob breathed again, massaging the back of his neck. “You may be right.”
“So this is it, Boss,” Manuela said, looking into his eyes. “Now listen carefully, because I’ve been holding this in for a long time. And I may never have the nerve again, so here goes.” She paused, continuing to hold his eyes with a steady gaze. “When you have finally had enough bullshit from that spoiled brat, over-pampered, nasty snot of a wife you have, I want you to give me a call. Even you, the world’s nicest guy, have got to be getting fed up. And when that happens, well, give me a call. My sister would treat you the way you deserve. She’s a very special person…and so are you.”
Rob, mouth open, froze. After several loud ticks from the clock on the wall, he cleared his throat and smiled weakly. “I don’t know…you are …”
With difficulty, she got to her feet. Rob leaped to his feet, but she held up her hand. "Stay there. Don't hug me. I'm way too big and uncomfortable to be held." She turned and shuffled out of his office.
Rob stood behind his desk, staring at the empty hallway. He heard the elevator bell ding and then heard the door slide shut. He walked to the window and looked down at the busy street. As Manuela got into her husband's taxi cab, she looked up, and then she closed the door and was gone.
Rob watched the traffic moving this way and that for a long time. Then he walked back to his desk, sat down, and burst into tears.
13
Everything is for Sale
Houdini brushed snowflakes off his shoulders, walked into the Gibbet Hill Restaurant in Groton, and smiled at the maître d’. She smiled back. “Here for dinner, Sir?”
“I believe my associate, Mr. Dumas, made a reservation for a quiet table for two?”
Looking down at her ledger. “Yes, sir. Right this way please.”
She led Houdini to the far end of the candlelit, mostly empty restaurant. Business was sparse at four P.M. in the middle of the week.
“Will you be dining with us tonight?”
"I think not. Just drinks. Could you please bring a bottle of twelve-year-old Johnnie Walker Black Label, the Deluxe Blend, to the table, with two glasses?"
Shortly after the drinks were served, a diminutive man, dressed in a finely tailored black wool suit, strode purposefully across the room. His highly polished black shoes reflected the table candlelight, his silk tie was gray-and-black striped, and he carried a diamond-studded walking stick. His full head of hair was white, combed straight back, and his pointy face gave him the look of a rat. On his left hand, he wore a black onyx ring. He extended his right hand. The men shook hands and sat down to their drinks.
Houdini asked, “How is business in the world of funeral homes?”
Howard sipped his drink, raising his eyebrows appreciatively. “This is very nice scotch. Good choice. Ah yes, how is business you ask? Well, we have now expanded to sixteen homes and serve all of eastern Massachusetts and southern New Hampshire. Bookings are up. I believe we own roughly twenty percent of the market. But sadly, revenues are down. Cremations are nowhere near as profitable as the traditional internments, and they are becoming more popular. Alas, the business of dying is changing. But thank you for asking.” He took another sip. “So what can I do for you?”
“Ah, right to the point,” Houdini replied. “I do enjoy direct communication. It is so rare these days.” He too sipped his drink, casting a surreptitious glance around the room. “I need to make a purchase.”
“As expected,” Dumas said.
"I need
a non-embalmed, white male, left arm, middle age, no tattoos. And a foot as well.”
“Right or left?”
“No matter.”
“Clean slice or ragged?”
“Ragged.”
Dumas made a few mental notes and then nodded. "Okay. We have nothing in the house at the moment, but the weekend is coming. Business is often brisk on Mondays. I'll see what I can do."
“Same price as usual?”
“For you, yes. But I may have to raise rates next year.”
“Understandable.” Houdini drained his glass and reached for the bottle. “Shall we have another?”
14
Jupiter and Alex
Two days later, as Rob was leaving the office at five-thirty P.M., his phone rang.
The caller said, “Meet me tomorrow night at eight P.M., at the Westford Astronomy Club’s clubhouse located up the hill on Millstone Road in Westford. Follow the signs for MIT Lincoln Lab. Dress warmly.”
The following evening, as directed, Rob drove up the winding road, pulled his Volvo alongside Houdini’s Mercedes, and turned off the engine. He got out and looked around. He was in a small gravel parking lot, across the road from a field, surrounded by a wall of trees. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he spotted a red glow from the center of the field. It appeared to be moving.
Rob yelled, “Hello?”
“Be quiet and come over here.” It was Houdini’s voice.
Rob crossed the road, climbed a slight embankment, and picked his way toward the red glow. As he approached, a man, tripod, and telescope appeared. The red glow was coming from a portable lantern, resting on the ground.
“Houdini? Is that you?”
“I do wish you would keep your voice down. Come here but watch where you step. Don’t trip on one of the concrete pads.”
Rob carefully made his way to where Houdini stood, and then asked, “What is this place?”
“This is an astronomical observation field, owned and operated by the Westford Astronomy Club and the Amateur Telescope Makers of Boston. All these pads are platforms for astronomers to set up their telescopes. Here, come closer and take a look.”
Rob shuffled around to the back of the scope and peered into the eyepiece.
“Wow,” he exclaimed. “That’s Jupiter, right?”
“Yes, and look again. Do you see those four dots lined up on the right side of the planet? Those are its four largest moons: Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto.”
Rob looked again. “That’s really something. I’ve never seen that before, but wait a minute. I thought Jupiter had a dozen moons.”
“The number currently stands at twenty-seven, but new ones are being discovered all the time. With my telescope, only four are visible. The rest are too small.”
Rob stood back and looked up at the star-filled sky. “I’m impressed. And it’s not like I’m not grateful, but is this why we’re meeting here? It’s cold out here.”
Houdini sighed. “I just thought you might like to experience some of the wonders of the universe but perhaps, I was mistaken. Let’s go sit in my car. We have a great deal to discuss.”
“Want some help carrying your telescope?”
“No. After our meeting, I’ll be coming back. Mars and Saturn will be rising soon. Just leave everything as is, and be careful not to trip and fall.”
The two men returned to the front seat of Houdini’s Mercedes. The car was started, and the heat was turned on.
“Now,” Rob said, holding his hands in front of the heater. “Before we get started, what’s this about you selling my boat?”
Houdini removed his hat, gloves, and scarf. “I thought you might wonder about that. Here is what we have done. When my associates went through your house – including your wall safe – we took the registration and certificate of ownership of the Viking tuna fishing boat. We did some investigating into the records of the Oyster Harbors Yacht Club and verified your story about it sitting idle for most of the time it has been in your possession. Anticipating your need for funds to live on, I took it upon myself to have your boat towed to another boatyard where certain alterations were made, making it impossible to identify as the boat left to you by your father-in-law.”
“What?” Rob said. “How could - ?”
“Please, let me finish. I think you will be satisfied with my decision. As I was saying, the boat has been modified and subsequently sold for four point two million dollars. I took my fee from the proceeds, deposited three million into your account, and am using the balance to cover costs associated with our proceedings. Do you still think I acted imprudently?”
“No, I suppose not. But maybe you could have checked with me first.”
“Speed is of the essence. You have to trust me on these matters. I am operating with your well-being in mind.”
Rob sat quietly for a moment, and then asked, “What if at some point Nicole goes looking for the boat?”
“She’ll have a hard time finding it. First, we eliminated the computer records of the boat, such that as far as Oyster Harbors is concerned, the boat was never there.”
“But won’t someone remember?”
“No. They store and provide slips for some four hundred boats. Yours was nothing extraordinary, plus, for the past two years, it’s not even been taken out of winter storage. Further, we paid up the slip fee for the balance of the year, and in doing so, freed up a slip for the next boat on the waiting list. I checked three days ago, and they have already rented your slip out to another boat owner. Also, keep in mind, Oyster Harbors, like any tourist service, experiences significant annual turnover of yard workers and office staff. Anyone who was there five years ago is long gone. In short, no one will remember your boat. Further, if your wife doesn’t have the registration or certificate of ownership, how will she proceed? I suspect the boat she – by your account – had no use for will remain forgotten for a long time. By the time she thinks of it, the boat will be impossible to locate. Incidentally, that is why I asked you to pay up your homeowner’s insurance. Did you do so?”
“Yes,” Rob said, “for eighteen months. But I don’t follow.”
"Your homeowner's insurance has a rider, or sub-policy, on the boat. When the insurance expires, the agents may contact your wife and ask her if she wants to renew the boat rider. Eighteen months from now, the boat will be a faded memory, and without the paperwork…" Houdini held his hands palms up.
“I get it. But just the same, she’ll probably squawk.”
“To whom? She will have no proof. Even if she connects the dots, the conclusion she is likely to draw is you simply sold it and squandered the money. It happens all the time in unhappy marriages.”
“Like mine?”
“Like yours.”
The men sat quietly for another minute, then Houdini asked, “And the other tasks? Have they been attended to?”
“Yeah. I gave my pint of blood, and it's on ice. What are you going to do with it anyway?”
“You will find out soon. And the paintings?”
“Done.”
“And your office at home?”
“Done. I worked there today. I’m surprised at how productive I can be at home. And the commute of thirty feet is lovely. So how did I do?”
“Very good. Did your wife return from Florida?”
Rob snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. She called and said she’d be staying for two weeks. Some bullshit about getting the kids settled.”
Houdini sat quietly, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “Perfect. That’s perfect.”
“What’s perfect?”
“Your wife being away with the children. Our schedule will have to be accelerated.” He paused again, clearly mulling over this latest information. “Well, more on this later, but now, on to the next topic. Your name is now Alexander Delvecchio. I will be calling you Alex from this point forward. Get used to it.”
“Alex Delvecchio. I’m Italian now?”
“The real
Alex died about four weeks ago, in his apartment in Camden, New Jersey. His exact death date is uncertain because he’d been dead for several days before his body was discovered by neighbors complaining of the odor. It was either suicide or a drug overdose, perhaps both. He was a loner with no known family. He supposedly has two sisters, but they could not be located. No parents, wife, children. He was your age, forty-six, and his remains have been disposed of, and his case is closed. His life story is sketchy: attended NYU for a year, dropped out and joined the army. Served in Iraq with the Fifth Armored Division. Whatever happened there unglued him badly, because upon his return, he went down a very dark path. When not recovering in a detox center, he held various odd jobs, but never for long. A regular at the public library, but even there, he kept to himself. No police record. He refused any attempts by various veterans’ organizations to provide help, funding, or aid. The only official record they have labels Alex as ‘hostile.’ So that’s Alex.”
Rob shook his head. “That’s a sad story.”
"So now, here's your story." Houdini handed Rob – aka Alex – a manila envelope. "Take a look inside. As I said, you are Alex Delvecchio. You attended NYU, dropped out, served time in the army, but upon your return, went back to college where you finished your four-year degree in business. We have already altered the records. You graduated in the middle of your class with reasonable grades. Incidentally, if asked, always be vague with dates. You do not want to meet someone who graduated in the same year. Now, after graduating, you traveled abroad on a student visa for a few years, staying out of trouble and basically drifting. Your expired passport has been stamped accordingly."
“My passport?” Rob reached in the envelope and pulled out a worn, faded passport. He flipped through it. “Looks official.”