“You’re a fuckin’ asshole, you know that,” he says, throwing the cruiser into drive, pulling away from the curb. “But it’s time to get serious. McGovern was pretty unnerved when he called, and I need you to calm him down.”
“He’s not gonna like the fact that we’re refusing his UI request.”
“It’s merely a symbolic move. McGovern is a multi-millionaire. I’m guessing at this point in Mr. TV’s life, he doesn’t even need to work.”
The old detective pulls out of the State campus and enters the Pine Hills district of Albany. A flat area of the city suburbs saturated with single and two-story bungalows many of which house workers who commute daily to their State jobs both in the center of the city and on the same State campus where I work. Lemmings all of us.
“He likes the lights, the glamor, the action,” I intuit.
“Yeah, well, he also likes the pussy. Or so I’m told.”
I turn to him, eyeball his tight-lippded face, his flat-topped head of white hair, his Clint Eastwood seriousness.
“So, this lawsuit lodged against him has merit?”
He nods, cocks his head over his shoulder.
“I were a betting man,” he says. “I’d mortgage the house he sent her pics of his dick.”
I recall my pic to Kate, and I say a silent prayer to my maker that I only sent a visual of my bare-naked chest.
I say, “And why are we bothering with protecting him?”
“Listen, Jobz,” he says, “something I failed to mention while up in Henry’s office. The death threats. They didn’t start coming to McGovern until he engaged in a lawsuit against Natalia Brezinski, the woman he harassed. A fifty-million-dollar lawsuit.”
“Oh, yeah. You did fail to mention that prior,” I say. “How come that hasn’t hit the news?”
“It has, three days ago.” He shoots me a quick look. “Apparently, other things have been keeping you occupied.”
Kate comes once more to mind. Her arrival at our office. The meet and greet at Lanie’s. My total obsession with her since I first laid eyes on her. My drunk texting her last night. Yeah, I guess you could say I’ve been a little preoccupied as of late, enough for me to miss out on crucial current events anyway.
“I’ve been busy,” I say. “So, what is it precisely you’d like me to do for Mr. TV? Hold his hand?”
“More or less,” Miller says. “Keep your eyes and ears open. Make sure no one is casing the joint. He’s always getting people cruising past his house. Locals mostly who watch his broadcasts and can’t help but wonder what his home life is like.”
“Will the lady of the house be in? Kids?”
“Janice?” He gives me another one of those quick over the shoulder glances. “Be careful of her, Jobz. She’s a little unhinged, you might say. And as for the two boys, they’re both off at college.”
He turns onto the small crosstown highway that will take us into North Albany where all the rich people live.
“And the reason for Janice’s unhinging?”
“McGovern,” he says. “You and I know him as the rock of Gibraltar. The man we counted on every night to deliver us our news. He was the most trusted man in Albany next to our own fathers. But there is another side to him that Johnny and Jane Q. Public are not aware of.”
“Like you already said, he enjoys his pussy.”
Miller clears his throat, does that cocking of the head thing again. “That’s one way to put it.”
“He’s gotten in trouble for it before?”
“Excellent, Jobz. The deductive cop in you is really coming back out.”
“And the TV stations have been able to keep him protected in the past. Take care of the lawsuits that no doubt arose.”
He nods. “You’re on a roll. In fact, taking care of his various affairs was written into his contract if you can believe that shit.”
“Holy crap,” I say. “Henry finds out I even breathe in the wrong direction of a fellow female coworker, she’ll can my ass.” Again, I’m thinking of Kate and my stupidity. “How many women has he gotten pregnant along the way? How many abortions?”
“Tough to know. But I’m guessing more than one.”
“So then, the cop in me deduces that McGovern, while pretending to be the local Rock of Gibraltar and our favorite Mr. TV is, in fact, no saint.”
The highway ends, giving way to a narrow road sandwiched by tall trees and the most beautiful mansions you ever did see. Tudor homes crafted of wood and two and three-story colonials made of red brick. All of them built before World War II. Now they are owned by Albany’s elite, the one or two percent who make the majority of the money in the city. Divorce lawyers, surgeons, developers. More recently, some of these homes have been purchased by Chinese or Indian immigrants. Engineers for the new nanotech startups initiated by the University at Albany and the military research facilities up north too.
“But this time, his past has caught up with him,” I say.
“McGovern isn’t getting any younger. And the days of keeping sexual harassment quiet in the workplace are long gone. They went out with the invention of smartphones and social media.”
“Big brother.”
“Big brother on steroids. We’re not only being watched, we’re being monitored. And not just by the Feds, Jobz. Google is watching us. Amazon. You name it. They know what you text, what you email, the content of your emails. They know what you eat, wear, wipe your ass with. They know everything.”
In my head, I see myself drunk-texting Kate. My stomach sinks because I know the picture of my naked torso didn’t just go to her, it went to multiple router systems and computer storage basins. It went to the almighty fucking cloud, for God sakes. I can delete the picture from my phone, but that doesn’t mean it’s truly deleted. It can be reproduced at any time for any reason. Especially a legal reason.
“I’m fucked,” I whisper to myself.
“What?” Miller asks.
Snapping out of my trance. “Oh, that sucks,” I say. “About being watched all the time, I mean. By Google, and Amazon. We’re traversing dangerous territory.”
“Yeah well, tell that to McGovern. These days it’s impossible to keep a secret, Jobz.”
We pull into a neighborhood located behind a small private college that abuts a country club golf course. Unlike the mansions that line the road into North Albany, the houses here are new, having been constructed over the course of the past twenty years. But they are no less impressive. Each home is built on a lot the size of an acre or more. They’re some of the nicest properties in the district. You’re not going to get away without paying in the low seven figures for one of these mansions, at the very least.
We drive until we come to one such wood clapboard house that’s painted yellow. It’s a two-story raised ranch that sports a circular drive with a white flagpole embedded in the center of the circle. An American flag flaps in the wind from the very top of the pole. Makes me feel patriotic, to say the least.
Miller turns into the drive, pulls up to the top of the circle, not far from a set of wooden steps that access the wrap-around porch. He puts the cruiser in park, leaves the engine running.
“You’re not coming in?” I ask.
“Better you go in on your own. They know you’re coming.”
“I could be anybody, Miller.”
“They know who you are. I showed them a picture. Just show them your driver’s license. You’re safe. I go in there, I’ll get besieged with a hundred questions about the death threat issue, and I don’t have the time right now. I gotta get back.”
I put my hand on the door opener. “What about my car?”
“It will be delivered later on.” Then, holding out his hand. “Keys please.”
Reaching into my pocket, I hand them over. I’m not crazy about someone else driving my Mustang, but what the hell choice do I have?
“Is this like a sleepover?” I question.
“Yup.”
“I didn’t bring a toothbru
sh. Do I get to at least go back to my place to grab a few things?”
“Yup.”
“But only after my car arrives?”
“Yup.”
“Can you stop saying yup, Miller?”
“Nope.”
I open the door, but before I get out, I once more lock eyes on the old detective.
“You know, I never really did agree to this job. Formally anyway.”
He smiles. “Let’s just chalk it up to your duty to serve and protect.”
“I’m not a cop anymore.”
“Once a cop, always a—”
“—Oh, for fuck sake, Miller, you’re not gonna go there.”
“I already did.”
Grabbing my computer bag, I slip out of the car into the cold of the late morning.
“Don’t forget about my car,” I say, leaning in through the open door. “And if somebody so much as farts in it, I’ll be sending you a hefty bill. It’s a sixty-six Mustang convertible. A classic.”
“Just go to work and leave the rest to the reliable APD. ‘Sides, it’s not like you got the top down in February.”
I close the car door and look on the bright side. At least I don’t have to spend the rest of the day inside a four-by-four cubicle listening to Dereck talk dirty to his new boyfriend.
Climbing the steps of the front porch, I immediately get the feeling that I’ve been transported to another time and another place. It’s mid-winter, but it’s almost like I’m standing on the porch of a hotel in old Cape Cod. Maybe the famous wood clapboard Chatham Bars Inn back at the turn of the twentieth century. I half expect to see waiters clad in black trousers and white dinner jackets serving cocktails to a crowd of women dressed in long gowns with big hair pinned up in the back and big bearded men wearing bowler hats and black wool suits.
I make my way to the wood front door. There’s a pane of glass embedded into its center, and I try to get a look through it, but the glass is opaque, and I can’t see a damn thing. That’s when my eyes shift to the floor. I’m stepping on a welcome mat that isn’t a welcome mat at all. In fact, the words printed on the brown mat don’t read “Welcome” but, instead, “Go Away.” I guess it’s an attempt at some tongue-in-cheek humor. But like all jokes, there is likely to be an element of reality there. My guess is a TV guy like McGovern gets a lot of unannounced visitors. Maybe even some who have the nerve to approach the front door, ring the doorbell, and fully expect to be invited in. Or hell, maybe they just put the Go Away matt out especially for me.
I ring the doorbell. Wait.
Footsteps.
The door opens. A tall, thin, distinguished looking man opens the door with a smile that would make Tom Brokaw melt.
“Mr. Jobz, I presume?” Mr. TV himself says.
“Well, my name’s not Livingston,” I say. It’s my attempt at being witty.
He laughs. But when he does so, it’s not like he’s really laughing. More like one of those fake laugh track boxes you sometimes hear at carnivals and amusement parks. My guess is Terry McGovern really knows how to fabricate his emotions to suit the situation.
“Well please, please, come on in,” he says.
The place is ginormous. The colossal vestibule alone would easily accommodate my entire houseboat. A wide staircase wraps itself around the far wall to one side of the room giving access to the second floor. The paneling is pine, the floor made of rough wood planks, and overhead is a chandelier made not of brushed aluminum or stainless steel but wrought iron with lightbulbs shaped like candle flames. The artwork on the walls consists mostly of scenes from the American Old West. And there are a couple of black Remington statues set up on wood tables. One of them depicts a cowboy trying to remain saddled to a bucking bronco. Another shows an American Indian—or what’s the PC term for it now, Native American—with a robe wrapped around him and a feather in his hair. He seems to be looking forlornly into a not-so-bright future.
But this is not what captures my attention the most. Set in the center of the floor is a giant black bear rug.
“You a hunter, Mr. McGovern?” I ask.
He shakes his head vehemently.
“Oh, Lord no,” he says. “Never had the time. I picked this old bear up at a flea market down in the town of Hudson some years back. It’s probably a hundred years old.” Leaning into me. “My wife Janice hates it, as you can imagine. But then, you know how wives can be after you spend a number of years with them.”
“Divorced,” I say. “Happily.”
He slaps me on the back, his bright face grows even brighter.
“Good for you, lad. Why pay a fortune for the main entre when you can sample all the delicacies for just about nothing?”
For a beat or two, I just look at him. During those beats, I’m transported back to a time when I’d come home on the late bus from high school, flick on the television and see McGovern’s then far younger face. My dad wasn’t around too often because of his business, and my mom didn’t care all that much about the news, so seeing the news anchor’s face every night at six o’clock without fail was a comforting feeling. He’d become a father figure for me and for many viewers, I guess. He had the look of concern in his eye, that authority of voice, that stiff spine and perfect hair. His hair is still perfect, even if it is dyed black these days.
But now, here stood my childhood surrogate dad fully admitting he’d rather fuck anything with a skirt than hang out with his wife.
Footsteps from above.
When I look up, I see a woman has emerged from one of the upstairs bedrooms. She’s tall. Taller than me anyway, which isn’t a monumental achievement by any means. Maybe even as tall as McGovern.
“Why, Terry, you didn’t tell me we had company.” Her voice contains just a hint of a Southern accent. Virginia if I had to guess. Quite possibly a UVA grad. “Have you offered him a drink?”
McGovern looks at his watch.
“It’s eleven in the morning, Janice,” he states, the optimism that greeted me at the front door now entirely vanished from his voice like some mythical television camera is now turned off.
“Why I’m sure it’s five o’clock somewhere, darling.” She starts down the stairs like she’s Scarlet O’Hara descending the grand staircase at Tara.
Unlike her husband who’s casually dressed in a clean pair of Levi jeans, black loafers, and a white Hanes t-shirt, she’s dressed professionally in a snug fitting black skirt, a cream-colored turtleneck and tall brown leather boots. When she finally makes it down onto the floor, she approaches me, hand outstretched.
I take the hand in mine, focus in on her wide blue eyes. They’re inviting and the way she parts her chestnut brown hair neatly over her left eye makes her not unattractive. In fact, on a scale of one to ten, I’d give her an eight. Maybe even a nine. Why McGovern feels he’s got to send pictures of his over-the-hill Johnson to some young coworker is beyond me. Or maybe Janice doesn’t like to give it up all that much.
“I’m Janice,” she says. “I guess you could say I’m the anchor’s wife.”
I notice something then. She smells wonderful, like she bathed in a rose petal perfume. But there’s something else tingling my sense of smell. Booze. Take it from a professional drinker, she’s definitely indulged in a couple of nips this morning. Maybe it’s the pressure they’re under. Or maybe having a couple early-in-the-day-drinks is perfectly normal for her.
She takes her hand back slowly.
“Now, Terry, dear,” she says, “why don’t you make our guest feel more comfortable by bringing him something to drink. And not in this barn of a room. Come with me, Mister . . . What did you say your name was again?”
“Jobz,” I say. “Steve Jobz.”
Of course, I know what’s coming next.
“You don’t say,” she says. “Just like the other—”
“—Except mine is spelled with a Z on the end. It’s short for Jobzcynski. And of course, I don’t have his money, or fame, or smarts.”
I sm
ile, but I really don’t feel like smiling.
“Jobzcynski,” McGovern says. “That Polish?”
I nod.
Janice smiles condescendingly. “We don’t know many Polish people, now do we, dear?”
The anchor’s face turns a noticeable shade of red. I’m beginning to see why he might drift now and again. Janice, as attractive and put together as she is, doesn’t seem, on the surface anyway, to possess a whole lot upstairs. Oh well, at least she’s nice to look at.
“Now, Mr. Jobz, come with me,” she insists.
She leads me across the vestibule floor and into a room that is as different from the Old West-themed vestibule as white is from black. The living room is spacious, with wide windows and a set of French doors that lead onto the back deck. In the center of the exterior wall is a fireplace that, at present, has a fire burning slowly in it. To my left is a couch with a long cocktail table set in front of it. To my right is a big black grand piano that sports an eclectic collection of framed photos of the family and extended family.
A full-color family portrait occupies the space directly above the fireplace. Terry and Janice are seated while the two good-looking high school aged boys stand behind them. A very handsome family. Blessed, like my mother would say. All are smiling for the camera, like they are of the privileged class, peering out onto the petty bourgeois of which I happen to be a member. But then, Terry has worked hard for his money. At least, by the looks of things, he likes his money anyway. No wonder he applied for unemployment insurance while his TV station oversees the investigation into his alleged wrongdoing.
The Flower Man Page 3
