Trying to take my mind off the photos, I think about my mom. But Dad swallows Mom and then a wave of hate pours over me and swallows our house in Modesto until all I see is my dad’s pale, dead face floating toward me, his bloated hands clutching a bottle.
I spot a strip mall, a check-advance place, a WESTERN UNION sign hanging in its window. I pull in and park, get out and stretch.
I count the money in the envelope that Paul handed me. Eleven grand in 100s. Ten-thousand makes sense, it’s even, but what’s with the extra thousand bucks? When I was working at Edward & Bliss, I used to wire Dad a 1,000 bucks every month. I can’t shake his dead face and I feel guilty for wishing it. I try to imagine his face when I call the bar and tell him two grand is waiting for him at Western Union. Maybe I’ll just have Hank tell him.
COUNTING 20 $100 BILLS, I push them beneath the glass. The wide-eyed money clerk asks for the second time if it’s Carl with a K or a C. I tell him C as in cantankerous, but when he asks what cantankerous means, I just shrug.
As he finishes the money transfer in his terminal, he sips from a monster 72-ounce, plastic-keg coffee mug. I say,
That’s an awfully big coffee mug.
Yeah, he says, doc told me I could only have one cup a day.
Well, anything worth doing is worth overdoing, that’s what I always say.
He laughs. Ain’t that the truth? he says. You wanna add any message to the transfer?
Yeah, just—Merry Christmas to you, Dad.
THE REST OF THE DRIVE, all I think about is Tara. When I get to the yacht club, I stop by the bar and order a whiskey and Coke. I’m the only customer. The bartender says his name is Charlie—good name for a bartender. He stands in front of me dusting bottles with a white bar towel.
The envelope of photos sits on the stool next to me. The freezer bag with the BlackBerry sits on top of the photos. The 9,000 bucks I have left is tucked away in my pocket.
I drain my drink. Charlie flips the towel over his shoulder and pours me another whiskey and Coke. He says,
You look a little forlorn, fella.
Yeah. Just bored I guess.
It’s Saturday night, he says. A handsome young fella who looks like you do oughta be out on the town hunting ladies.
Not really interested.
Got a girlfriend?
No. Not really.
Fella, with your looks, you oughta be chasing the girls away.
Maybe that’s the problem—I chase them away.
You the new guy?
New guy?
Staying on the Valombrosa?
Yeah, that’s me.
Charlie pulls down a bottle and dusts it while he looks me over. Flipping the towel over his shoulder again, he reaches in his back pocket and flicks a card on the bar in front of me. He taps the card with his index finger and says,
You get lonely you just call that number there and tell them you’re a friend of Charlie’s.
CHARLIE MUST HAVE many friends at the yacht club because when I called, the service knew right where to send the girl. Forty-five minutes later and she’s tapping on the yacht door.
I open the door. She has black hair, big dark eyes and high cheekbones. She’s wearing heels and a skimpy emerald-green dress. A brown fur wraps around her neck falling open at her chest. She twists sideways so I can get a look. She’s curvy—nice breasts, juicy ass. But she’s not Tara. She’s not Stephanie either.
She looks me over. Aren’t you a nice surprise call for a change, she says. My name is Kari.
I take her offered hand but don’t invite her in. I had just enough whiskey and Coke to call but not enough to go through with it.
Listen, I say, I’m sorry but I shouldn’t have called.
She looks disappointed. She says,
You’ll have to pay my cancellation fee.
I hand her $400, the price her service said she costs an hour. She counts the money and stuffs it in her clutch.
She caresses my arm. You paid enough for an hour, she says. Sure you don’t want a little company? You won’t regret it. I promise.
Not tonight. Sorry.
IT’S SUNDAY NIGHT, I just masturbated in the shower and I couldn’t finish.
I didn’t leave the yacht today. I watched some TV, ordered Chinese again. This time I asked for a fork but I still didn’t eat much.
The BlackBerry that Paul gave me worked well enough to call the escort service, but I can’t bring myself to dial Stephanie. Actually, I’ve dialed her 10 times. I just can’t bring myself to hit Send.
I called the bar and asked Hank to tell Dad about the money waiting at Western Union. I made Hank promise to remind Dad to bring Mom poinsettias on Christmas. Mom loved poinsettias.
I shut the envelope of photos away in a galley drawer. I try forgetting about them but I can’t. I’m surprised they haven’t sunk the yacht they’re so heavy. Maybe this is how the wealthy do things. Even at my top at Edward & Bliss, I was nothing but a junior account rep compared to this kind of money—Paul’s kind of money, CalTEARS’ kind of money.
Tomorrow starts the last week before Christmas so I know I’ll be going to see Benny Wilson soon. I wonder if I can go through with it. If I can, I wonder if it will work. If it works, I wonder what Paul meant when he said I’d be set up for life. I’ve been thinking about all kinds of things and I can’t stop thinking—
Thinking about Stephanie.
Thinking about treatment.
Thinking about Benny Wilson.
Thinking about blackmail.
Thinking about Paul.
Thinking about Tara.
I don’t want to drink today. And not because I can’t, but just to prove to myself that I can stop whenever I want to. So I’m trying everything else to loosen up. So far nothing has worked. Not even masturbating in the shower.
20 Eureka!
I can’t bear carrying the loose envelope of photos—feels like everyone is looking at me. Before work, I dodge into a men’s store around the corner from the office. Eyeing a wall of briefcases, I spot one with a double lock.
The salesperson rolls his eyes at me when I ask if it’s a good briefcase. He says it’s Chiarugi. He says it’s made with Italian Tuscan leather. He says that they prefer the term attaché. I tell him for 600 bucks I’ll call it a lunchpail if I want. He gets even more pissed when I pay with cash because he has to run next door for change.
The Valombrosa security guard nods to me now on my way to the elevators but he still doesn’t answer my good morning.
I wedge my new briefcase in the closing elevator doors and they slide back open. A shifty-eyed little man with round glasses stands in the back of the elevator, rising and falling doing nervous calf-raising exercises. Before I swipe my key-card, I notice the button for the 31st floor is lit. I’m curious so I pull back my hand.
After rising several floors, the little man says,
What floor are you?
Hi, I’m Trevor.
What floor, sir?
Excuse me?
Your floor.
I can’t recall.
He reaches for the panel but he’s too late—the elevator stops at floor 31 and the doors slide open. He steps off and turns to face me, blocking the entrance.
The doors close. I swipe my key-card and press 30. Britney is just hanging up her phone as I get off on the executive floor. I say,
Hey, who’s the gnome with the bad hair, who works on 31?
That gnome’s Mr. Chapel, our Chief Financial Officer. You’re not allowed up there!
Then she hands me a thick, bound report. Here’s the risk report for Mr. Wilson over at CalTEARS. Paul said you were expecting it. I phoned Mr. Wilson’s office. He’ll see you at four.
Four today?
Yes, four today.
I open my briefcase and add the risk report to the envelope of photos. Britney says,
Oh, some girl named Stephanie called here for you too.
AS I CROSS OVER the Tower Bridge into downtown, I
see the CalTEARS headquarters rising in angles from the edge of the Sacramento River. I look at the elevator-door scuffmark already on my new Chiarugi attaché. That salesguy would really be pissed now.
The CalTEARS lobby is as sterile as the glass exterior and so is the receptionist. She tells me to wait. I sit on a contemporary sofa beneath a leaning wall of green, fretted glass that hangs over my head making me nervous. I put the briefcase on my lap. The clock above the receptionist desk reads five minutes after 4:00 P.M. so that’s what I set the combination locks to—405.
An eager young man wearing a too-tight brown suit approaches me with a fast, feminine walk. He calls my name. I stand. I’ve seen him before—his pictures are locked in my briefcase. I feel powerful having them there. I shake his hand. He tells me his name is Doug and that he’s Mr. Wilson’s executive assistant and then he leads me into the building’s less-showy interior, prattling on like a tour guide.
You might notice it looks a little sparse around here, he says. We’re still moving in. We’re quite proud of this building. It was built with 10 percent recycled material and cost $360 million.
Nice to know you’re green, I say.
Yes, Mr. Wilson oversaw every penny. Came in on time and under budget. In fact, the very floors we’re walking on are recycled rocks, marble, and glass. Did you know CalTEARS is the largest retirement fund in California? Seventh-largest public pension fund in the world?
Yeah, I know—with a $160 billion in managed assets.
Yes, well we provide benefits to nearly a million educators and their families. Here we are then.
Doug stops in front of oak double doors. Inlaid on the floor at my feet is the California Seal—Athena the Goddess of Wisdom and War stands in front of a river full of boats. As Doug opens the doors, he says,
Eureka is our State motto and means ‘‘I have found it.’’
The office is large, its walls lined with bookcases leading to floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Sacramento River. In the middle of the office, in front of a cherry-wood desk, Benny Wilson sits talking to an attractive older woman. The woman turns her head like an eagle.
Benny rises. Trevor, it’s nice to see you again, he says. This is Mrs. Hamner, our very distinguished State Assemblywoman.
Mrs. Hamner holds out her white hand like a queen. I take it in mine. It feels cold and waxy. I make a slight bow. Pleasure, Madame.
Trevor’s with Valombrosa Capital, Benny says. They’ve made some aggressive proposals to help us with our investment directives from the board.
Mrs. Hamner perks up. Oh! she says. Mr. Valombrosa is one of my biggest contributors. It’s a special pleasure to meet you, Trevor. You look very sharp and very young. Well then. I hate to talk money unless it’s campaign time, so I’ll be leaving you boys to hash it out.
Setting her teacup down, she stands with iron posture, nods and then heads for the door. Benny follows her.
I hope you and Henry have a merry Christmas, he says.
Mrs. Hamner laughs. Oh, we’re having the Speaker for dinner, she says, and I’m praying he chokes on a turkey bone and dies. Then it’ll be a merry Christmas all right.
Benny holds the door for Mrs. Hamner. He keeps it open and waves Doug out behind her. Doug doesn’t move. Benny says,
You too, Doug.
But I thought—
That’ll be all for now, Doug.
Yes sir, Doug says and then exits.
Benny closes the door and turns to me. He says,
Have a seat, Trevor. Can I get you something to drink?
No thanks.
You sure?
I’m sure.
Did you have a long drive?
Not bad now that the fog’s burned off.
Nasty stuff—that tule fog.
Benny walks to the sideboard. He opens a small, hidden freezer. Plucks ice cubes from a bucket. Drops them in a glass. Pours himself a Scotch. He carries it over and sinks into the chair next to me. I watch the light hit his whiskey and ice as he swirls the glass in his hand. He raises his glass, takes a sip, and lowers it again.
Benny sighs. This is quite a view isn’t it, Trevor?
I nod, looking through the windows at the Sacramento River. Most of the year, the river’s dirty water crawls through town, but the recent rain has it flowing fast and a tired boat struggles toward us making slow progress against the current. I notice there are no blinds on the windows. I say,
Can people look in from boats?
Who would want to look in?
I don’t know, I say. Just wondered, that’s all.
Strange thing to wonder, Benny says, but don’t worry yourself—they’re mirrors on the outside. We had to use special black mirrors that wouldn’t reflect sun. Expensive but quite a nice touch overall.
I watch the boat dredging up river. I know I’ll have to open my briefcase. My hands grip the chair. My armpits sweat.
Benny sips his Scotch, looks over. He says,
Paul’s wanted this account for a very long time. I know what it means to Valombrosa to have our money. Even a little of our money is a lot of money.
Then Benny empties his Scotch glass. He crunches an ice cube between his teeth. He says,
And I’m sure it means big commissions for you.
I force a little laugh and smile.
Benny stands. Are you sure you won’t have just one drink?
All right, I say, just one though.
With water or on the rocks?
You got any Coke?
Dear God no!
I’ll take it straight then.
Benny shakes his head and walks to the sideboard. I watch him pull down the bottle of Scotch and another glass. I turn back to the window. The boat is much closer now. It’s an old boat, its flat back stacked high with dock boards sinking the hull into the water, its engines struggling against the weight, its nose pointing into the air.
Benny reaches a Scotch over my shoulder. I grab the heavy crystal glass and hold it up to the light. The amber liquid is as thick and dark as maple syrup. I take a sip—it bites my tongue and then warms my throat and I feel Benny’s hands rubbing my shoulders, kneading my knotted muscles, and it feels good but by the time the Scotch hits my gut, I realize what’s happening.
I jump up. Set my glass on the table. Step away from Benny. His hands hang in the empty space above my chair. I grab my briefcase. Fumble with the combination. I say,
I have those risk reports here.
All business, huh?
All business.
You work for Paul, he says.
That’s right, I do.
And why do you think Paul sent you?
Because you asked him to send me.
Well, why do you think he brought you to our little lunch?
Because I’m good with numbers.
Because you’re good-looking. Wake up, kid!
I spin the locks, but can’t remember the combination. I say,
Valombrosa can make a lot of money for CalTEARS.
I don’t trust Valombrosa one bit, he says. And if Paul weren’t pressuring me from every angle, including my own board, I wouldn’t even consider it!
At 405—the locks snap open. I swing the case up to rest flat on my forearm and opening it, I reach inside and pull out the risk report. I hand the report to Benny. I say,
I think this report will help put your mind at ease.
Benny throws the report in the wastebasket. He says,
I’ve been at this a long damn time, kid—I don’t trust reports. And I don’t trust Valombrosa Capital, and I don’t trust Paul. Now, unless you’re going to give me a reason to trust you—leave!
I reach in and grip the envelope of photos. My gut twists up and drops like a roller coaster ride.
~~~
I remember feeling this way, 20 years ago when I was nine. I found a purse in the grocery-store parking lot and snuck it in our car. We were halfway home when Mom saw me with it. She looked through the purse for ID and fou
nd $1,500. She turned us around to return the purse. I knew we needed the money so I asked her why. She said you always know the right thing to do in your gut—it feels funny to do anything else—if you don’t listen—you only hurt yourself.
~~~
I let go of the photos. I close the briefcase with shaking hands. I walk to the door, look back, and see Benny already behind his desk, fussing with paperwork as if I’m already gone.
I step out and close the door behind me. I lean my head against the door and look down at the seal in the floor—Eureka! Is there a Latin word for—‘‘I have lost it?’’
~~~
I remember Paul handing me the photos, I remember what he said too. He said don’t fuck up, kid—he said Benny deserves what he gets—he said Benny’s the cheat—he said we’re only encouraging him—he said we’re just hedging—he said I get this account and I’ll be set for life—he said I’d have my own mansion with my own showstopper in the stable, and I know he meant I’d have my own Tara.
~~~
I walk back in the office. Benny smiles. I toss the envelope of photos on his desk. His look changes to concern. I say,
Tell me what you think of these.
Benny opens the envelope and slides the photos out. As he looks through them, a vein at his temple swells, snaking from his eye to his hairline where a bead of sweat gathers and drips down his cheek. His breathing becomes shallow. His face reddens. He says,
Where did you get these?
Does it matter?
I have a wife and two children.
You’d never know it by looking at those photos.
You should be ashamed of yourself!
I should be ashamed? Your on-staff fuck-buddy waits outside. Your wife waits at home. And you get me in here and you want to fuck me? What does Valombrosa want? Valombrosa just wants your business. Valombrosa wants to earn a better return for your precious teachers and their retirement.
Benny fiddles with his tie, loosening it. He says,
Listen, Trevor, I’m not very proud of myself for—well, for what you see here—but this is private business. It’s got nothing to do with CalTEARS. With the duties of my office. You don’t want to do this. Paul doesn’t want to do this. You can’t barge in here with this trying to take advantage of me.
South of Bixby Bridge Page 11
