I give the door three more soft knocks…and slowly it opens.
Her hair is down and she has this thin grey robe of hers on with shiny hot pink painted toes peeking out at the bottom. Her stomach is round and firm. Doesn’t look like I woke her up out of her sleep. I would say that she looks beautiful, but I’m sure that description means nothing when it’s coming out of my mouth. I’m biased. She has my baby inside of her, she could’ve come to the door in rags and she’d still be beautiful. She glances down towards the coffee cups in the carrying case and then looks back up to me. We don’t have to say a word. We’ve taken ‘the look’ to another level. Red and I have mastered the art of the unspoken language. Slowly, she backs away, allowing me entrance.
And I’m in.
She leads me towards the kitchen without a word. Our living room is spotless since the boys are at her parents for the weekend. I walk past our grey suede couches, clusters of pink roses in short, round glass vases on end tables; a small fire in the fireplace; a Thomas Kinkade painting called Flags Over the Capitol hung on the wall; another of his, Pirates of the Caribbean, a Christmas gift from my Jasmine, hanging nearby; a few vanilla candles burning around on the top of the bookshelf. God, I love it here. To hell with the Four Seasons. When it was just me, all I had was a brown leather chair and a TV. When Laura and I lived here (relax, yes, Laura lived here with me), she decorated the room in red and green, Alpha Chi Omega’s sorority colors. Fuck my fraternity, I’m sure she couldn’t even tell you what it is. I was nervous when Red moved in; I feared my entire house would be decked out with portraits of Gloria Steinem, Dorothy Pitman Hughes, Eleanor Roosevelt and every other feminist, dead or alive. But instead she looked around, saw my leather chair and TV and then ordered Nicky and I out for the day. She hired a decorator. This is a 4.5 million dollar condo, she said to me that Saturday morning as she was packing Nicky a snack. I’m not playing these games with you. She created the oasis that I now call home. Hell no, I’m not leaving here.
She and I walk into the kitchen.
I take a seat at the kitchen island while she heads to open up a window to let fresh air in. That’s my queue. Turn on the stove. I turn around and put the oven on three-fifty to keep the kitchen warm. She walks to the kitchen island and takes a seat opposite me. Where’s my coffee? I place her coffee in front of her while grabbing hold of mine. She takes the top of her cup off. My spoon. I turn around and reach in a drawer and pull out a spoon. I hand it to her and watch her stir her coffee before taking her spoon out of the cup. I’m finished. I reach out my hand. Without looking, she passes the spoon back to me. I get up and put it in the sink. When I get back to the island she’s opening a drawer. Now down to business. I take a seat and then take a sip of my coffee. I hear a few keys clanking. After she closes the drawer, she puts my keys on the counter next her. If you want them, take them. I reach over and slide them over to me before putting them in my pocket. Of course I want them.
We sit there and enjoy the sounds of our Saturday morning. Just her, me, coffee, Boston and my damn house keys (thank God). And…an envelope? Off to the side of the island is an envelope:
Dear Dan,
Love Marl (and Jon)
A white flag? A truce letter? Please. Don’t take my current serenity for peace. For the sake of keeping my wife, I’ve decided to leave Jon alone for the moment. I’m a patient man…very patient…I always have been. My history validates my claim. I can see a girl whom I know I’ll marry one day and then let her walk out of my life for twelve years, if that’s what she needs to do. I’ll tell her to take her time, I’ll be waiting for her on The Hill. I’ll watch her marry another man. I’ll watch her have his baby. I’ll watch her move across the country with them. I’ll watch her sit next to me on church steps in a far off country. And I’ll watch her get up and walk away. And when she’s ready, truly ready, as she’s sitting at a bar, a glass of Scotch in her hand, I’ll sit next to her and finally introduce myself. My history is not only a testament to my patience, it’s a testament to my commitment. When I say something, I mean it. When I want something, I get it. So let there be no mistake: yes, for the present moment I’m holding my peace. But, Dear Jon, I’ll tell you just like I told your bride on your wedding night: This is not over.
Part II
MALCOLM
“What are you up to, Marlon? What are you up to?” Nat says to himself as he taps the steering wheel, in time to the music in his truck. I’m sitting in the passenger seat, eating an eggroll and Chinese noodles. It’s 7:30 at night and we’re on a stakeout outside of the Starbucks on Tremont Street, watching Marlon and Senator Demetrius Westlake dressed in work attire, in the window, talking. No coffee in sight.
“They came for business,” I say as I open up a sweet and sour package.
“Oh yeah.” Nat continues to tap the steering wheel.
Funny thing is, Nat and I weren’t following Marlon. We were following Demetrius who led us to Marlon. Nat still has his flight connects, the same ones that put Red on the No Fly List five years ago. He tracks the movement of people we happen to be interested in. Usually these people are trying to fuck with one of our clients, so we get proactive.
We monitor their every move.
Boston is our town, we want to know what’s going on at all times. We place flight notifications on spouses suspected of cheating, mistresses who were given a settlement to leave town and never come back, trust fund brats who decide to go missing to prove a point to daddy, and anyone else who could possibly be up to something that fucks with our clients or one of our own. Demetrius Westlake falls into the latter category. Jacob had Nat put a track on him years ago during the Jacob and Winnie Divorce. Back then, whenever Demetrius’ ID was entered into an airline’s database and his destination was Boston, Nat immediately received the notification. He would then tell Jacob. That gave Jake enough time to, say, have the airline hold Demetrius up in his connecting city so that he missed his flight to Boston; or perhaps have TSA postpone the entire flight filled with weary travelers as they re-checked Mr. Westlake’s bags; or have Demetrius’ hotel reservation accidentally canceled; or have the hotel managers deny him a room on the basis that it was full. Sorry, Senator, we overbooked. But The Boston Motel is over in Roxbury, I’m sure they have room for you. You know, little things like that. Harassing him, whenever he came into town to see Winnie, became a part-time gig for Jacob.
After Jake and Winnie were remarried, Nat paid no attention to Demetrius’ flight notifications. After all, he hadn’t scheduled a flight to Boston since. So imagine Nat’s surprise when his android buzzed this morning saying that Demetrius had boarded a flight to Boston. He immediately called me.
We didn’t tell Jacob.
Jake gets too emotional about Demetrius. Plus, it could be nothing. But just to make sure, by the time Demetrius landed in Boston, Nat and I were waiting in baggage claim for him, seated side by side, behind a group of Asian tourists.
“After this, I’m stopping to get an eggroll and noodles,” I told Nat.
“There he is,” Nat said as Demetrius strolled out of the security checkpoint, his cell pressed to his ear, a smile on his face. Who was he talking to? “Wife?”
“Nah, he’s not married,” I tell him. “He’s in a life partnership with a feminist. Samantha Rosen.”
“Friend of Danielle?”
“No, just an associate on the feminist circuit.”
“Ah.”
“Those are some bad ass shoes he has on, though.”
“Prada.”
“Damn, I hate Prada.”
“Obviously you don’t, you like the shoes.”
“Prada is for pretty boys, Nat. Like you.”
“So you don’t have a pair of Prada shoes?”
“Hell nah.”
“You lie.”
“Whatever.”
“So what shoes do you wear besides Tom Ford?”
“How do you know I wear Tom Ford?”
“Because everyb
ody wears Tom Ford.”
“Well if you must know, Red bought me a pair of black leather Burberrys the other day that made me weak in the knees and I’m not even a Burberry type of guy. Got tired of all that brown - checkered pattern when we lived in London. Why the hell do people wear logos?”
“No idea.”
“That shit was annoying. But I’m telling you, the leather on these shoes is so supple it melts in your hand. And you wanna know the good part about them?”
“No.”
“There’s no checkered pattern in sight. Between you and me, these shoes and I were made for each other.”
“Really…do they melt in your hand, Mac?”
“I’m just saying… Alright, Senator Westlake’s got his bag. Let’s roll.”
Nat and I followed at a safe distance behind him. We watched as Senator Westlake was escorted into his town car.
“Get the plate numbers and the name of the limo company off the driver’s badge,” I told Nat.
“Already ahead of you.”
By the time we got to my truck, Nat had entered the backend server to Limo Limited. He entered the license plate of the town car Demetrius was traveling in and up popped the destination. Four Seasons, downtown Boston.
“Going to the Four Seasons,” Nat said.
“Get the room number,” I told him.
“Let me do what I do, alright Mac?”
“I’m just saying…”
“Yeah, and what I’m saying is that I’ve been doing this shit for a while now.”
“Relax, honey. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Shut the hell up.” Nat entered the Four Season’s back server and looked up Demetrius’ reservation. Suite 781. He was scheduled to stay over the weekend.
“For what?” I asked.
“Political function?”
“Not in Boston.” There’s no way in hell there would be a political function going on in the city without Blair and Associates knowing about it.
“Winnie?” Nat said. I thought about that.
It’s been a few weeks since the fight and of course, Winnie and Jacob mended their marriage after she changed the locks on him. Seems like she bought the story that Jasmine was looking for me at her and Jake’s condo. When I asked Jacob what in the hell got into Jasmine, he said he didn’t know; before that day, he hadn’t seen her since Nicky’s Christmas play.
I’m not entirely sure why Jasmine went to Jacob’s condo; but I’m also not entirely sure I believe her excuse that she was looking for me. Even when I asked her and she said she was. But of course, I can’t disprove it. But since that night, things have been fine. Jacob hasn’t mentioned problems with Winnie, Red hasn’t mentioned problems with Jacob and Winnie, Jasmine hasn’t mentioned Jacob. I still see Jasmine at the condo when she visits Red. She seems fine. She still secretly requests a once-a-week truck ride with the windows down, heat blasting and music turned up. She says she needs it to clear her mind. When she meets me outside my condo building, we have small talk about her new cookbook that Red’s planning on publishing and then we ride. Everyone’s happy.
So why the hell is Demetrius Westlake here?
After following Demetrius from the airport, Nat and I arrived at his hotel and then went the bar. We had sandwiches, sparkling water and friendly chitchat as we waited for Demetrius to reemerge:
“I told them I wanted my pickle on the side,” Nat said as he placed his pickle on a napkin.
“What are you talking about?” I took a bite out of my Reuben. “It was on the side. On your plate, on the side of your sandwich.”
“No. ‘On the side’ means on another plate.”
“Nat, who the hell asks for their pickle to be carried out on a separate plate?”
“Someone who asked for their pickle to be put on the side. According to the menu, the pickle didn’t come on the sandwich. So legally, it was already considered ‘on the side.’”
“Are you serious?”
“So if I further specified that I wanted my pickle on the side, though I already knew it didn’t come on my sandwich, that meant not only do I not want it on the side of my sandwich, I don’t want it on my sandwich’s plate.”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
“Now the juice has touched my bread.”
An hour later, Demetrius walked into the lobby and out of the front doors. Nat and I watched and waited for him to enter his limo and then leave. Nat then said he’d be back. Five minutes later, as I was finishing up my Reuben sandwich, Nat came back with a room key.
“Ready?” he said.
“Sure.”
We headed through the lobby, up the elevators and towards Demetrius’ room. Nat used his key and we stood by the door and looked around. Only thing of interest was a photo propped against a lamp:
“Demetrius, Samantha and their kids,” I said as I pointed to the family photo taken on a beach.
“Beautiful family.”
Nat took two pair of surgical gloves out of an inside coat pocket. We both put a pair on and went to work. We scanned suitcases, a toiletry bag, a carry-on bag, a garment bag, a briefcase and a laptop bag.
“Obsessed with his family,” Nat said as he looked through the briefcase. “Carries a photo album of pictures…only Samantha and the kids.”
“He’s an army brat and former JAG.”
“Oh, that’s right.” That explains it all. Military men, especially people like Demetrius who were born into a military family, obsess over their families. They know families who were destroyed because of war. One day a family would be on base, a week later, they’d have to move. Dad died in war. If you’re a military man, your greatest possession becomes your family. Your family’s greatest enemy is war.
You don’t want war.
“I’ve got nothing,” Nat said.
“Yeah, me neither.”
So we had no choice but to look Demetrius up and follow him. Where was he going? Who was he in Boston to meet? And why? Nat went back to Limo Limited’s back server and checked to see where the limo was.
“California Pizza Kitchen in Harbortown,” Nat said, barely glancing at the screen.
“That reminds me, I’ve gotta pick up some avocado egg rolls up for Red after I leave the office. Cravings.” I said to him as I headed back to our office.
“I’ll keep checking up on him throughout the day. If I find anything interesting, I’ll let you know.”
And he did.
Nat eventually located the limo at the Starbucks on Tremont Street. Why pass by a dozen Starbucks in Harbortown, just to go to the one on Tremont Street, in the Theater District? Who was he meeting there? Nat and I went to find out—and bingo. Who happened to be parking his Benz down the street as Nat and I were making our way down the street? Marlon.
“Follow him,” I told Nat as I bit into my eggroll.
“No shit, Mac.”
We watched Marlon get out his car and walk into Starbucks. Nat went to go find a parking space. Five minutes later, Demetrius and Marlon were in a window, sitting at a table talking.
Right now, Demetrius is sitting back in his chair, his eyes squinting as he concentrates on what Marlon’s saying. Marlon’s hands are moving as he speaks . His facial expressions reveal he’s bothered by something. Jacob? But Jake and Jasmine are over. Right?
“How do these two know each other?” I ask Nat.
“No idea. I’ve never picked up a Marlon and Demetrius connection before.”
“But they’re both from Philly.” I take another bite of my eggroll.
“Yeah, but I never picked up a connection.”
“But their families are a part of Philly’s elite so they had to know each other.”
“It sounds like you’re implying that I didn’t cross my T’s and dot my I’s.”
“I’m just saying, how did you miss the connection? It’s a question, not an accusation. Why are you so sensitive today?”
“Shut the hell up. And Winnie’s family is a p
art of Boston’s inner circle and we never met her before she met Jacob. Am I right?”
“True.”
“Alright, then.”
“Do you need a back rub later on tonight?”
“Fuck you.”
That’s the thing with East Coast families who belong to old families, we all seem to be one family removed from each other: Winnie knew Demetrius, Demetrius knew Marlon, Marlon knew Jasmine, Jasmine knew Red, Red knew me and I knew Jacob, Winnie’s future husband. All of us are just one degree apart.
Nat and I sit in silence as we continue to watch Marlon talk and Demetrius listen.
“Alright, we’ll stay here ten more minutes,” I say. “This may last all night and I’ve gotta get those avocado eggrolls home. I told Red I was having a late night at the office but I can’t stay out all night.”
“Whipped, are you?”
“Listen, Red and I have a completely equal partnership and she’s more than alright with me working late at the office once a week…as long as when I come home, I follow instructions from then on.”
“Pathetic.”
“Plus, I told Nicky I’d sneak him a few donut holes when I got home tonight.” I gesture towards the backseat of the truck where I put the bag of donut holes.
“Yeah, Dena should be calling me soon.” Nat starts up his truck to give us some heat. “I’ll keep an eye on Westlake. But I gotta tell you, I think this is about Jasmine. Marlon’s looking too emotional for that conversation to be about real estate.”
“Agreed.” But what about Jasmine?
DEMETRIUS
“We shouldn’t be sitting in the window,” I say as I look around for another table. But of course, the Starbucks on Tremont Street is filled to capacity, especially since it’s snowing today in Boston. There must be dozens of kids in here with their parents drinking hot chocolate.
War. Page 8
