We sit down and dig into some of the best tasting steaks I’ve ever eaten in my life. Even Terry eats for a change. For the briefest of moments, it’s like we’re one big, happy, normal family.
As soon as dinner is done, I excuse myself, explaining to the McGoverns that I not only need to make a check on the property, I need to check on some information regarding The Flower Man on my computer, both of which are the truth. Heading back out into the cold via the back doors, I go around to the front of the house, take a good look at the front lawn, the front door, the driveway, and the dark neighborhood street. Other than the big houses and their shining interior and exterior lights, the place seems deserted, if not dead. But then, I guess a quiet neighborhood is a good thing. Turning, I go to the Mustang, retrieve the envelope, carry it with me back to the cottage.
Opening the door, I set the envelope, my phone, and my semi-automatic onto the nightstand. There’s a fully stocked bar in the kitchen, so I pour myself a generous shot of Jameson, neat. I carry it, along with my laptop, back to the bed. I take a load off, my back pressed against the headboard. First things first, I open the envelope, pull out the documents Kate graciously provided for me earlier.
She’s right. Anatoly Brezinski is behind on just about every kind of insurance payment he’s required to make by law on behalf of his employees—both state and federal law. These violations alone should be enough to shut him down. At the very least, he requires a damn good audit and some hefty fines. Right now, he’s reporting forty individuals on the payroll, most of whom have Russian names. I can only wonder how many of them have their green cards. How many of them are legal residents with proper work permits.
I set The Flower Man’s paperwork aside and glance at the stuff Kate pulled on the McGoverns. His house is valued at $1.5 million plus change. But he hasn’t paid the monthly mortgage in over a year and now the bank is threatening foreclosure and the IRS has filed a lien against it. He’s late on college tuition payments for both boys. His numerous creditors read like a list of American capitalists Who’s Who. Visa, Master Card, Amex, Nordstrom’s, Macy’s, and of course, the leases on several apartments that haven’t been paid in ages. Plus, numerous hospitals have him in their collection agency files. The affairs come to mind. Is Terry, in fact, paying for families that he might have outside his present residence? Women he had children with who refused abortion proceedings?
Some people have skeletons in their closets. Could be Mr. TV had a brood of bastard children in his.
I sip my whiskey and think about it. If I were known as a local celebrity, and I had an almost moral, not to mention professional, obligation to appear every bit the success that Johnny and Jane Q. Public demanded of me, but in reality I was flat broke, how would I handle it? Journalism, even at the top levels, earned you only so much money. There was a glass ceiling in the profession. Maybe you could write a book or two that would put you on the New York Times bestseller list. But that was no guarantee. In fact, it was a long shot. Like winning the lottery. My buddy Dick Moonlight wrote a couple of detective novels based on his personal exploits, and far as I know, he still lives pretty much in the red, just like every PI I know. Every PI without a day job like I’ve got, I should clarify.
So, what does Terry do to maintain his lifestyle in the midst of his own red? Is Janice rich? I would imagine that if she were, Terry’s bills, at least the ones he was open to her about, would be paid up by now, including the house. So, how can they afford all that booze, and the thick steaks shipped from Argentina, all those beautiful bouquets of orchids all over the house? How are they able to survive in North Albany at all?
I drink more whiskey, and the answer comes to me in the form of a single word.
Drugs.
Okay, I’m the first one to admit the McGoverns, as much as they seem to like their booze, don’t seem the type to be peddling illicit drugs around the mean streets of Albany. How the hell would they even begin to manage it? They would need a supplier at the very least, and they would need a clientele. You just don’t head down to an inner-city street corner and start peddling crack. You need connections. It all takes time, upfront cash, and secrecy.
I shuffle the papers and come to the printouts of my texts. I drink some more whiskey and stare at my bare chest. Not too bad for a dude my age. For a guy who doesn’t maintain a gym membership. Maybe Kate really did like the pictures. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t ratted me out to Henry. Or maybe it’s the whiskey talking. The whiskey, the scotch, the wine, the beer, the morning 76ers. If this job with the McGoverns doesn’t kill me, it just might turn me into a lush.
Still, I can only wonder what Kate is doing right now. Glancing at my watch, I can see that it’s going on bedtime. Maybe she’s lying in bed with the light on. Maybe in her underwear. She’ll be wearing black silk panties. Lacey ones. Maybe she’ll have a matching pushup bra on. Or hell, maybe nothing at all, her breasts firm and creamy, her nipples tight and defying gravity. Maybe her fingers will be touching her own skin, touching more than her own skin. Maybe they will be tickling some of her erogenous zones. Maybe she has a toy or two to help her out in that department. Something that vibrates, maybe. The possibilities are endless.
I feel myself getting excited.
Doesn’t matter that I got lucky this afternoon with Megan Barker. That was hours and many drinks ago. This is now, and right now, I want Kate. I take hold of my phone, thumb the messages app. I see her name in the contacts list. I select it and stare at the empty message box. It will be okay to send her a text. So long as I don’t send any pics. That would be okay, right? Kate is an adult, even if she is young. Texting is legal in terms of agency policy.
Agency policy or no agency policy, I decide to take the plunge.
How are you? I text.
I wait with baited breath, mouth dry, heart beating in my rib cage, sternum tight, adrenalin cooking my brain, my sex at full mast.
Then comes a response.
Hi there Jobz! Are you in bed already?
Blood speeds through my veins. My brain is electrically charged, neurons sparking like live wires. She’s asking me if I’m bed. What am I to make of that? Does Kate want to, dare I say it, sext with me? I unbuckle my belt, pull myself out.
I type, Sure am. Thinking of you.
I begin to stroke, and stroke, waiting for the little beep that will indicate a return text. When it comes, I hungrily glare at the digital screen.
Better not send any more pics, her text reads. She adds one of those emojis of the little round yellow face that’s winking.
I’m not sure how to interpret this text. But the little winking guy is a clue. Maybe she’s being ironic. Or contrary. Maybe she’s teasing me. Maybe she wants me to send her more pictures. Maybe she wants me to go for broke. Maybe she wants to see a picture of the real me. The real excited me.
A dick pic!
I take hold of my drinking glass, down the whiskey. The liquor seeps into my body, gives me the courage I need for what I’m about to do. It’s like an alien force enters my body. It takes over, asserts complete control over my thought process, and over my actions. I can’t believe what I’m about to do, but I’m doing it. Pressing the camera app, I focus it on to my fully masted manhood.
That’s when I make out another beep. I go back to text messages.
Actually, I’m out on a date right now, Kate writes. Talk tomorrow. Good night, Jobz.
This time she adds a smiling yellow round face emoji. Sext date over. My mood is shot down in a fiery blaze like a helium-filled led zeppelin. I glance at my mid-section. My pole is still taking on altitude, however. And I can still use my imagination. If I close my eyes, I can still see Kate in her panties and nothing else, lying on her bed. I stroke, slowly at first, but then speed up, my breathing becomes heavy and labored, my body gets warm, the bed springs squeak, the wood bedframe taps against the wall. I speed the strokes up, and I feel the pressure building.
“Kate,” I whisper. “I wish you were he
re right now.”
And then the front door opens wide.
Reaction time is a major factor in these situations.
Sitting up straight, I grab hold of a pillow, throw it over my mid-section. It’s Janice. Her eyes go shockingly wide. She makes an immediate about-face.
“Oh my God, Steve,” she says. “I totally forgot about you staying here tonight.”
My formerly excited body is now awash in an embarrassment so profound even my dead grandparents can feel it.
“Janice, hey,” I say. “It’s ummm, not what you think,” I add in a nervous chuckle just to add some levity to whatever excuse I’m about to make up on the spot. “I was just getting dressed.” Throwing the covers back over me. “It’s okay, you can turn back around.”
Slowly, she shows herself to me, her eyes still wide, her mouth forming a sort of grin. It’s one of those situations where we’re both fully aware of what was going on when she walked in unannounced, but no one dares say a word about it.
“You certainly hit the hay early,” she says. “Shouldn’t you be up all night, prowling the property for any signs of danger?”
“I was just getting into my night clothes,” I lie. “You know, black jeans, sneakers and black sweatshirt. To blend in with the night.”
“That so,” she says, taking a step forward, setting herself on the edge of the mattress. “I could have sworn you were doing something else.”
There it is. Full disclosure. Of course, I naturally will maintain full denial. Plausible deniability anyway. Hey, maybe I was just scratching an itch that just wouldn’t quit.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“You mean why did I enter without knocking?” she asks. “I come in here at night sometimes . . . to relax, have a nightcap. Thus, the fully stocked bar. Or sometimes, I take the drink with me into my arboretum.” She sets her hand on a piece of my naked thigh that is not covered by the blanket. She runs her fingers along the skin before slowly standing. “I’m going to pour a drink now. Would you like one?”
“I’ve got one, thanks.”
She glances at my empty glass. Her shiner isn’t nearly as bad as it looked at dinner, as though she’s been treating it with an ice pack. The swelling has gone down, and I’m guessing she can see out of it normally. Of course, the skin that surrounds it is still black and blue and purple.
“Your glass appears painfully empty,” she observes. “How about a refill?”
“Jameson,” I say. “Neat.”
I must admit, her touch didn’t feel bad. Or maybe I’m just super horny. I watch her go around the bed and enter the small kitchenette area. She pours me a whiskey, then retrieves a second glass and pours herself one of the same. Both drinks in hand, she turns to me.
“Would you like to see my arboretum, Steve?”
“I told you I would.”
“Great,” she says. “Put some clothes on, and we’ll have our drinks there.”
I look at her, and she looks at me.
“Oh,” she says. “I’ll turn back around.”
She turns. I reach under the covers, pulls my pants back up, buckle my belt, slip out of bed, put my shoes back on.
“You can turn back around again,” I say, standing.
“What, no black blend-in-with-the-night clothing?”
“I’ll put that stuff on later,” I fib.
“Good,” she says, coming back around the bed. “Maybe I can help you get dressed.”
She hands me my drink and runs her now free hand up and down my butt cheeks.
“Oh, pardon me,” she says. “Space is cramped in here. I never know what my hand is going to touch next.”
“Such problems,” I say.
She goes to the door, opens it.
“Shall we?” she asks.
“We shall,” I say, following her out the door and into the darkness.
We head to the back of the house to a glass structure that’s attached to the north side of the building. There’s a separate exterior entrance, and we pass through it together. True to its name, the temperature and humidity inside the hothouse is a stark contrast to the weather outside. Long rows of plants, mostly flowers, fill the space. To our right is a wood table that holds all manners of tools for taking care of plants. Shears, gardening trowels, scoops, water bottles with spray nozzles, little metal and wood poles with spiked ends, twine, pruners, sieves, and some stack bags of soil and fertilizer.
Parallel rows of bright, ceiling-mounted radiant tube lighting are throwing off a heat that is already producing beaded sweat on my brow. If I close my eyes, I’d swear I’m standing in the middle of a tropical forest. The smell is deeply organic. Sweet, almost. Like I have my face stuffed inside a giant rose, minus the thorns.
“Come, let me show you around,” Janice insists, sipping her drink as she walks. We head down the farthest aisle on our right. “Of course, you know what these are.”
Pots and pots of roses fill the counter. All of them look healthy and well-watered. Some of them are bright red, like the rose Anatoly severed for me this morning. Others are pink, some white, while a few pots are filled with yellow roses. The counter comes to an end, giving way to a narrow corridor that runs perpendicular to it. But beyond that, another counter of equal length begins.
“These are my Chinese Hibiscus and beyond those, my orchids,” Janice goes on.
The plants are tall and colorful, the orchids white and brilliant in the artificial light. We come around the other side of the counter and come across a long row of orchids, like the kind she keeps in vases all over the house. Beyond those are some of the little red flowers she always combines with the orchids to give them some color. Or so I can only assume.
“What are these little red flowers?” I ask, wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. I steal a sip of my drink.
“Oh, those are a nothing really,” she says wistfully, along with a wave of her hand. “Something I found in the wild that, given some tender loving care, grows beautifully with such amazing color. Wouldn’t you agree, Steve?”
“Whatever you say, Janice.”
She turns to me, gazes into my eyes.
“Yes,” she says. “Whatever I say. I like it when you say, whatever you say.”
That’s when she leans into me, plants her mouth against mine, and kisses me with all the heat and intensity of this hothouse. At first, I don’t resist. She not only smells good and looks good, but she tastes good. But then, realizing what it is I’m doing, and whom I’m doing it with, I pull back.
“What’s the matter?” she says, her eyes wide, her mouth now having formed a pleasant smile. “Are you afraid of me? I can only assume that when I mistakenly caught you in the act on your cottage bed, that you were thinking of me. Rather you and me together.”
“I’m supposed to be protecting you,” I say, “not sleeping with you.” I gulp down what remains of the whiskey in my glass. My mind flashes to Anatoly, The Flower Man. Has she been fucking him since he started in on his death threats? I could ask her, but it might piss her off, and right now, it’s not worth having to deal with an angry Janice.
She says, “But you were thinking of me when you had your big cock in your hand.”
The young woman I was thinking about was a far cry from Janice. But then, like I said, she’s not an unattractive woman by any means. And what good would it do to burst her bubble?
“Yes, Janice,” I say. “Consider me snagged.”
She giggles, sips her drink.
“I just knew it, Steve. I see the way you look at me.” Gently touching my face with her fingers. “Don’t worry. It will be our little secret.”
She removes her hands and walks on a few more feet until she comes to some pots of flowers that look unusual to me. A box of Latex gloves like the kind you find in a doctor’s office has been placed on a shelf under the counter. Handing me her drink, she slips on a pair of gloves, and over those a pair of well-worn gardening gloves.
The plants she’s referring to look like tiny bananas with pretty yellow flowers, the very tops of which are pink-red. The plants are full and healthy looking. Everything about them, including the name, seems benign, if not cute.
“Why the gloves?” I ask.
“As gorgeous as this plant is, it is actually very toxic.”
“Toxic,” I say like a question.
“Yes,” she says, “poisonous to the touch. Deadly if ingested orally.”
Instinctually, I take a small step back.
“You’re creeping me out, Janice,” I say.
She giggles. “Oh, don’t be such a wuss, Steve. The English Bloom is actually a favorite among horticulturalists the world over. They are a challenge to tame, so to speak. And because of their, let’s say, dangerous nature, they are far more interesting to grow and maintain than your average daisy for instance.”
I focus on the yellow and red flower, on the little banana-like seed, the thick green stems.
“Where do they come from?”
“Europe, specifically the northern UK like the name suggests. They say more than one prince and princess have been poisoned with this plant over the many centuries. It’s because of this plant that many Kings and Queens forced commoners to taste their food and drink prior to imbibing themselves.”
The Flower Man Page 11
