“You know what Freud said about people who chew ice,” I say.
“What did he say, Jobz?”
Slipping off my eyeglasses, I set them on the desk beside the empty drinking glasses. Leaning toward her, I begin to kiss her thighs.
“He said that chewing ice is a direct reflection of one’s sexual frustration.”
She takes hold of the back of my head, pulls me into her.
“Steal away my frustration, Jobz,” she insists. “Make me feel like a woman.”
It doesn’t take a whole lot of time for Megan Barker, Esq. and me to arrive at that special happy ending we all aspire to. And to think she told me she didn’t have time to meet me. That she was too busy. Maybe it was her way of playing, of testing my ability to bust down her door. My masculine ability.
She might chew her ice, but she’s not the only one who’s been frustrated as of late. It’s not like the dates have been lining up for me. Thus, the dumb drunk-text pictures to Kate. But lying on the leather couch together, enjoying a third scotch, the two of us as naked as the day we were born, I feel something strange happening. Can I actually be falling for Megan Barker, Esq.? Or is it a case of lust gone crazy?
I gaze at my watch. “Oh, crap, I gotta go.”
“Hot date?”
“Sort of,” I say, slipping off the couch, grabbing my pants which are tossed onto the chair. “With my boss.”
“That’s a drag.”
I slip into my pants, throw on my shirt and jacket. Sitting on the chair, I put on my socks and shoes.
“Not at all,” I say. “She’s actually one of my best friends, even if you’d never know it at times.” Me, recalling Henry barking at me to get my white ass into her office ASAP or she’s gonna tear my head off and pee down my throat, or some other such nicety.
Megan rolls onto her side, her luscious breasts exposed along with the rest of her perfect body.
“Your boss is a she?” She offers up a sly grin.
Buttoning my shirt. “You’re not jealous, are you? We only just met.”
“Hell of a first meeting,” she says. “Can’t wait to see what the second one is like.”
“You saying you’d like to meet again, Megan Barker, Esquire?”
“Well, we are working on a case together. Sort of. We can help one another out.”
“How?”
“You find out something I should know, you give me a ringy dingy. I find out something you should know, I give you a call and then you can buy me dinner and drinks. Jack’s Steak House.”
“Sounds like a fair exchange,” I say.
Going to her, I lean down, kiss her gently on the lips.
“You smell like me,” she says. “It’s kind of sexy.
“You’re sexy. Maybe instead of making it all about our professional obligations, we should throw caution to the wind and go on a real date.”
“I’d like that, Steve Jobzcynski,” she says. “You have my number.”
“Jobzcynski is the past,” I say, heading for her office door, opening it.
“And I am your future.”
“What a beautiful thought,” I say, opening the door.
Back behind the wheel of the Mustang, I open the RING app on my smartphone once more. I check the front door view. Nothing. Then I check the driveway. Nothing. Finally, the front lawn and the road. Crickets.
“All good,” I whisper to myself.
I fire up the engine, throw the heat on high, glance at my watch. Five o’clock. The sun is going down fast. I have just enough time to make a flyby at the Fox News Station, then a drink further up the road at Lanie’s, and finally dinner with the McGoverns at seven. If I sneak in through the French doors in back, they might not even realize I’ve been gone for a while.
I put the car in drive, pull away from the curb. I can’t help but smile as I drive out of the city’s business district and onto the main road that will take me back to North Albany. I just got laid. Life is full of little surprises. Wonderful surprises.
“Steve Jobz just had sex with a beautiful woman,” I say out loud as if proving I didn’t actually dream the experience. “Will wonders never cease?”
The local Fox News affiliate, Channel 13, is located in a small suburban hamlet of Albany called Menands, after Phillip Menands, the man who named it after moving to the area from Paris back in the mid-eighteen hundreds. Parking in the studio lot, I make my way to the front visitor’s entrance where a woman seated behind a half-moon-shaped counter bearing the letters WNYT greets me.
“Can I help you?” she says, not without a welcoming smile.
She’s a well put together middle-aged lady with shoulder-length salt and pepper hair, a pleasant face, and a nice smile. She’s got a pair of reading glasses hanging down on her chest from a thin gold chain.
“I was wondering if I could have a word with Natalia Brezinski,” I say.
She immediately glances at her wristwatch.
“I believe Natalia is still here,” she says. “Sometimes the crew goes out for a quick coffee before the six o’clock news airs. Let me check to see if she’s available.”
She picks up the handset that belongs to a big phone unit, presses a button.
“Brian, is Natalia still around?”
Whoever Brian is must tell her to wait a minute, because she goes quiet for a minute while gazing up at me. I use that time to offer her a wink. After all, I’m feeling pretty good about myself these days. For some inexplicable reason, she doesn’t wink back.
“Great,” the receptionist says suddenly. “Natalia, I have a man out here who would like a word with you.” Then, scrunching her brow. “I don’t know, I didn’t ask.”
She places her hand over the mouthpiece.
“Are you with the press?” she says.
“No,” I assure her.
“Would you happen to be a lawyer?”
“Nope,” I add. “But I am a man on a mission.”
She blinks rapidly. “Would it kill you to offer me some kind of descriptor?”
“I represent the Albany Police Department,” I say. I don’t bother telling her I’m a private contractor and that Natalia has no obligation to talk with me.
Receptionist slips her hand off the mouthpiece.
“He’s with the police,” she says. Then, nodding. “Okay, I’ll let him know.”
“Natalia will be right out,” she says. Pointing to a waiting area set up in the corner. “You can wait over there in the meantime.”
“Thank you,” I say. “You’ve been very helpful.”
She fake smiles. I offer another wink, but she pretends to ignore it. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.
I go to a waiting area that contains a black couch and two matching chairs. There’s a black plastic coffee table with some magazines and newspapers scattered on top of it. There’s also a giant wall-mounted HDTV that’s tuned to WNYT. Go figure. Right now, the five o’clock news broadcast is being aired. Something about a home invasion across the river in Troy.
The door that separates the studios from the reception area opens and a young woman appears. She’s tall, well built, with red hair that ends at her shoulders. In the photos I saw of her previously, she was a blonde. Lots of girls like to dye their hair, I guess. She’s dressed in black jeans, cowboy boots, and a black turtleneck sweater. She’s not wearing much in the way of makeup, as far as I can tell, but she is wearing small hoop earrings. Otherwise, what you see is what you get, and what I see is very attractive. But then, what’s my motto? I’m always in love.
She offers a grin, holds out her hand.
“I’m Natalia Brezinski,” she says, her Russian accent barely noticeable. “How can I help you?”
I tell her my name. The fact that it sounds exactly like a much more famous man than me doesn’t seem to register with her. Maybe it’s because she’s Russian. I also tell her I’m working for the APD as a sort of deputy detective.
“A deputy,” she questions. “Do you happen to ha
ve some sort of identification?”
Good question. I pull out my wallet, show her my ID for the Unemployment Fraud Agency.
Her eyes go half-mast.
“That doesn’t say, Albany Police Department,” she correctly points out.
“Yes, but on occasion, I’m called in to investigate matters, especially those pertaining to an unemployment insurance abuse, that the police cannot or will not investigate for one reason or another.”
Returning the wallet to my back pocket, I gesture with my hand to the couch.
“This good?” I ask.
She looks at her watch.
“I’m working the six o’clock news,” she says. “I can’t give you much time.”
“Not a problem,” I say. “I won’t take but a few minutes.”
We retire to the waiting area, she seats herself on the edge of the couch, me on the chair perpendicular to it.
“Terry McGovern,” I say.
She rolls her eyes around in their sockets.
“He sent you some pictures from his cell phone,” I say.
“You know the rest, I assume,” she says.
“You complained to management, which was your prerogative, and the right thing to do.” In my head, a vision of Kate, and how she might have reacted to seeing my bare chest. I try and put it out of my mind. “But now Terry’s suing you because of it. He claims innocence and mistreatment.”
She laughs. “Now, that’s funny. It’s bad enough half the women who work for this channel have to put up with his constant abuse, his touching and his groping, but then he sends you pictures of his dick.” She physically shivers. “It was all too much. If he’s suing me, it’s because he wants to make it look like he’s done nothing wrong. Like it’s my word against his. But I guarantee you that picture resides on the Verizon mainframe. All it will take is a phone call to retrieve it.”
Again, I see my bare-chested photo to Kate. I see myself deleting it. But they’re never really deleted, are they?
“Yes, there’s good touch and there’s bad touch. They teach us that in high school here in the US.”
“You know I’m from Russia originally? Is my accent still that noticeable?”
“Yup,” I say. “Or, I mean, no. Your accent is excellent. It’s just that I know you’re from Moscow originally. You came over with your dad, who is now The Flower Man.”
“Yes, The Flower Man.”
“He’s not too happy about the lawsuit Terry lodged against you.”
“You could say that,” she confirms.
“He’s made death threats against Terry. He, or one of his men, followed me to my home, delivered a severed rose head to me. The message has not gone unheeded. The same person who gave me the rose head took a couple of shots at Terry through his living room window. One of the bullets grazed his arm.”
She leans up, plants her elbows on her knees, sets her face in her hands.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, through her hands. “My papa, he has a terrible temper. He’s very old school, you might say.”
He’s very psychopathic you might say . . .
“To be honest, Natalia, we probably have enough evidence to arrest him right now.”
“He’s just being protective.” She says this like he’s some soccer dad who refuses to allow his seven-year-old to play in the park unsupervised.
“Overprotective,” I suggest. “Overprotective on steroids, even.”
“So, what is it you’re searching for, Mr. Jobz?” she begs. “I really should be getting back.”
“Terry’s McGovern’s wife, Janice,” I say. “She seems to have a lot of contact with your father. Even after he started making death threats. Maybe you have an opinion on the nature of their communication.”
She sits back, looks at me with wide-open eyes.
“You ready for this one, Mr. Jobz?”
I purse my lips together.
“Terry McGovern’s wife has been fucking my father for years.” She gets up, finger combs her hair behind her ears. “Listen,” she goes on, “if there’s nothing else, I’m going to head back into the studio before somebody screws something up.”
It takes a long beat for her words to sink in. Janice and The Flower Man, doing it. Why am I both surprised and not the least bit surprised at the same time? Exhaling a bitter breath, I stand, dig into my pocket for a business card. Hand it to her.
“Listen, Natalia,” I say, “I’m assuming Terry’s lawsuit will go nowhere. I think everyone knows he sent you those pictures. He’s lucky you didn’t try to have him arrested. That said, your dad keeps it up, he is going to be arrested, I can guarantee you that. As it is, I’ll be paying him a visit soon. But here’s the thing, if I was a little uncomfortable with the nature of the relationship between the McGoverns and your papa before, I’m really uncomfortable now knowing Janice is engaged in physical relations with him. If it turns out the man who fired those shots into the McGovern living room is, in fact, your dad, he will be arrested for attempted murder.”
“So, what do you want from me, Mr. Jobz? I’m supposed to be the victim in all this.”
“The same thing every viewer who tunes into the nightly news broadcast wants.”
“Oh, and what is that?”
“The truth,” I say. “No more fake news.”
Back in the Mustang, the dark of night has fallen on the city. I make one more check on the McGovern property and see that everything is still quiet. I glance at my watch. I’ve got forty minutes until I need to show up in Janice’s kitchen for a steak dinner. Pulling away from the curb, I head out in the direction of my favorite watering hole. Lanie’s Bar. My boss will be waiting for me, along with a cold bottle of Budweiser. The perfect palliative for a frigid winter’s day.
Henry is already sitting at the bar working on a daiquiri when I arrive. She’s set her handbag on the stool beside her to reserve it for me. I notice she’s also got her scarf draped around the chair on the opposite side of her as if expecting someone else besides myself.
I sit down, blowing warm air through pursed lips into my cupped hands.
“God it’s freaking cold in this town,” I say patting my hands against my thighs to help with the circulation.
“You should buy yourself an overcoat, Jobz,” Henry says. “Start living your life like a responsible middle-aged man. Not some old dude going through a second puberty.”
“I know, I know,” I say. “I’m always hoping for spring. Warm weather keeps me young.”
“Spring won’t come for three months,” she says. “Pneumonia’ll come tonight like the grim reaper, you let it.”
I order a Bud from the attractive young woman behind the bar. She pulls it out of the cooler, uncaps it, sets it before me.
“So, what’s the low down with Mr. TV?” Henry asks getting right to the meat of the matter. “What kind of trouble he get himself into?”
Henry is wearing a bright pink sweater over a bright yellow skirt. She’s got a chunky silver necklace draped around her thick neck, and her pretty, round face is made up with mascara and red lipstick. Her hair is also growing in nicely. How she managed to recover so quickly from last year’s hammer attack to the head is a testament not only to her natural recuperative powers, but her sheer will to live. She loves life, and because she loves life she is a great friend. But a demanding friend too.
I give her the lowdown she asks for. Starting with meeting the McGoverns this morning at their North Albany mansion, drinking much of the morning away with the 76ers. I continue with the drive to my houseboat and the black sedan on my tail, the rose head warning placed directly into my hand, and the gunshots fired from the same sedan into the McGovern’s living room, one of which grazed Terry. I then tell her how broke the McGoverns are and how it’s possible Terry is passing around bad checks, and how Mr. TV is known as a serial philanderer around his TV station. I finish up with my meeting Natalia at the Channel 13 studios and warning her that her father is on the verge of arrest. I sort of
skip the part about meeting with Terry’s lawyer, Megan Barker, and the happy endings that went down on her office couch.
By the time I’m done telling Henry everything I know, I’ve emptied my first beer. A second beer is placed before me without my asking for it. I’m so predictable. I pull out my smartphone, show her the RING app, and how I can be sitting at a bar all the way across town and still be watching the McGovern residence.
“What if Anatoly approaches the McGoverns’ house from the back?” she asks.
“Good point,” I say. “But they’d more than likely have to access the place by the road first. Plus, I don’t picture The Flower Man as a sneak around the back sort of dude. He’s more of a shoot the joint up in broad daylight, Scarface kind of guy, you ask me.”
“But you can’t be sure he was the one who fired those shots into the house this morning, or he’d be arrested by now, am I right? “Cause that’s the way law and order is supposed to work, even if this place is crooked Albany.”
“I think Miller knows it’s got to be him because let’s face it, it is him.”
She carefully sips her daiquiri, sets it gently down.
The Flower Man Page 9
