DIVINE
Novels by Steven Grosso featuring Benny Steel
The Highway
Divine
DIVINE
Steven Grosso
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
DIVINE Copyright © 2014 by STEVEN GROSSO
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
ISBN-13: 978-1500541781
ISBN-10: 1500541788
To the readers who enjoyed The Highway and continue to keep Benny Steel alive.
It’s a man’s own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways.
—Buddha
What’s begun in anger, ends in shame.
—Ben Franklin
The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched—they must be felt with the heart.
—Helen Keller
DIVINE
Novels by Steven Grosso featuring Benny Steel
PART ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
PART TWO
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
PART THREE
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Author
DIVINE
PART ONE
THE LEAP
1
T
he only thing more boring than sifting through medical records was sitting at a desk hour after hour without moving, and Desiree Jones was doing both simultaneously. What a day it was—the stress, the non-stop emails, the adversarial personality she was forced to adopt and maintain while speaking with opposing council. Phones had sounded off almost by the minute throughout the afternoon. Two paralegals on her team had called out sick that morning, leaving her with triple the administrative work for just herself to complete before the courts closed its doors for the night. And she had listened to frustrated clients screaming in her eardrum with questions and complaints about the way their cases were being handled. The center of each ear still burned from the warm vibrations on the end of her phone. Her head throbbed like she’d accidentally bumped it against a wall. So getting an e-mail from her boss, one of two partners at Fratt & Johnson, broke the monotony of the late afternoon.
She glanced at the computer monitor and read the time: 3:11. Less than two hours until she could split for the evening and go home and watch The Wolf of Wall Street DVD she hadn’t gotten the chance to see since she’d purchased the movie. Usually, she’d put in a solid ten hours, nine to seven, but she wasn’t in the mood, not on this hectic day.
She rubbed her eyes and spun around in her seat. She stared out two double-paned windows that led to a view of Center City Philadelphia. The mix of old and worn tan-gray buildings and brand new shiny silver exteriors—box-shaped windows running along their facades—each colored yellow from fluorescent office lighting—caught her attention. A few were brick and stone and were chipped and dingy and looked boring and dull on a cold winter’s day.
She hated the winter, especially December, with the exception of Christmas and an occasional snowstorm. Everything about this season was depressing—the quiet streets, the sun that vanished just past four in the afternoon, wind gusts and chills that sent a human body into convulsions. But she anticipated the flurries The Weather Channel had called for that morning. While she had watched the news on her sofa just after waking up, as she sipped light brown coffee that shot clouds of steam up to her face, the weatherman had said the snow would start just after five, just in time to screw with rush hour traffic. She commuted to work by walking, so that didn’t apply to her. With the day she was having, she hoped it would snow three feet and shut down the city for week.
A breeze blew through the office, and she shivered, bouncing her shoulders for warmth. She yawned for a full minute and pressed her head back against the cold leather computer chair. This was her job, her life, what she’d worked a combined seven years through undergrad and law school for, but something wasn’t right. Ten years removed from her education, she wanted more, was tired of putting sixty hours a week in as an associate. She loved her job, loved helping people, no question about that, but felt stagnant and stuck in a rut. Something had to give or a life change would follow.
Her yawn ended and she sat teary-eyed. She slapped a hand across her stomach and swirled back around to face the monitor. “All right,” she whispered to herself, “let’s go see what he wants.” She reached over her shiny wooden desk, the best that money could buy, and always thought it was a good thing it was part of the office space and not from her own pocket, and grazed a picture frame that held an image of her boyfriend. She smirked at the photo, as if finding a bright spot in the day, and logged off her username for security purposes. For all she knew, one of the one hundred-plus attorneys would sneak in and snoop around, highly unlikely, maybe she was being a little paranoid, but she never took any chances. Most lawyers were a different breed, she’d tell people, can’t trust them, as unpredictable as the weather.
She stood, hooked her hair behind each ear, and tugged at her blouse and skirt. She stepped out the door and closed it with a hand. Leftover pasta, just out of the microwave, filled the hallway, and the garlic and burned tomatoes clogged her nostrils.
Desiree Jones was as Type A as a person could be, an ultimate achiever. Nothing in her life was done lackadaisical. Throughout her schooling, she’d received straight A’s. She worked sixty hours a week with no problem, and hit the gym at least five days a week. She was thirty-five but could easily pass for twenty-eight. Her light brown skin was smooth and tight, and the makeup she wore daily was as meticulously applied as an actor’s before a scene. Her smile, the way she flashed her straight, perfect white teeth, was infectious, could light up a room or turn a man’s head at even a smirk. Her waist was tiny, but her breasts and buttocks protruded to a curvy perfection in all the skirts, blouses and business suits she wore to the office. She was the envy of every woman, the desire of every man. Her slender 5’8” frame moved with grace and confidence, and others knew it. Everyone viewed her as kind and warm-hearted, always asking about their lives, how they were doing, about their families, their goals and passions—and she asked with a smile and sweet, caring voice. The questions were genuine, not phony just for small-talk. Her African-American spirit was contagious to others. Energy vibrated off her wherever she went. Conversely, however, she was also tough, intense and fearless. Desiree Jones didn’t back down from anyone, not a co-worker, opposing lawyer, bill collector, judge, anybody. Brains and beauty were God’s gifts to her, but she used them wisely, knew
when and where they were an asset.
She stopped in front of John Fratt’s office and tapped her knuckles against the wooden door.
“It’s open!” Fratt yelled, his voice high and bold, like a man who felt like the king of his own world.
She opened the door halfway, smiled, and poked her head in. “You wanted to see me?”
He leaned back in his chair and waved a hand. “Yep, come on in, have a seat.”
She strolled inside, her citrus hair product flying off her, her high heels pressing into the beige carpeting. She lowered her body into a visitor’s chair angled in front of him and thought that his desk was somehow nicer than hers, something she didn’t think was possible. She crossed her legs and twirled her baby blue heel on her right foot, the creases in her toes peeking from the shoe’s material. Her skirt matched the color of the heels, and a white blouse covered her upper body, stopping just above her bustline, revealing some cleavage, which she knew was a woman’s best negotiation tactic. Most men’s egos were as high as the Leaning Tower of Pisa, she’d tell her friends, and even showing a hint of your sexuality could get them to do whatever you wanted, even if sex was out of the question, men still thought they could get it or liked playing the flirting game. Worked to her advantage. Not the most moral of things, but she wasn’t killing anyone.
John Fratt pushed off the desktop and slid backwards in his seat. He popped straight up and ran his fingers over his shiny bald head. He turned around and stared out his window, both hands in his pockets, rolling his shoulders. Fratt was young to be a partner, just forty, but he had a secret weapon on his side—hard work. As an associate, he was known to sleep at the office most nights, often working well over sixty, sometimes eighty, hours per week. He was tall, about six feet, and ripped to shreds, would definitely be under investigation for steroid use if he were to play for a Major League Baseball team. Obsessed with the gym, he went three times a day, before work, lunchtime, and after work.
His sleeves were folded up to the elbow, and his pants stopped just next to the laces of his shiny black shoes. His beady eyes were hard and fearless, and there was something intimating about the way he wore his thin jet-black goatee. He could bullshit anyone, was a lady’s man even though he was married with kids, but was a damn good attorney. Lawyers hated him, judges hated him, simply because he was so good, so sharp, so intense. He spun his shoulders around in one motion, hands still in his pockets. “Your day going all right, Des?”
She flipped up her eyes. “Had better, busy. Guess that’s not a bad thing, though?”
“Got that right. Rather be busy than home on my ass eating cereal, watching The Price is Right, and trying to get a job.”
Desiree laughed and glanced left at two diplomas on the white walls, one from Temple for an undergrad degree and one from the University of Pennsylvania for law school. “Smells good in here,” she said and curled her fingers toward her thumb, made a claw, and contorted her face. “Like mint or something.”
“Had those automatic air-fresheners installed the other day. But I think they’re too strong and messing with my sinuses.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and curled his palms over the top of the computer chair. He oscillated it, narrowed his hard eyes into Desiree’s, and chewed his gum slowly. “Anyway, why do think you’re here?”
She shrugged. “No clue.”
He smirked. “No clue?”
She widened her eyes and slowly shook her head, smiled but lightly, a natural expression of not knowing, but the way she unintentionally did it could melt a man in seconds.
Fratt dug a fist into his waist, still held the chair with the other hand, and crossed one foot over the other. Clouds covered the remaining afternoon sun and the room darkened and black shadows swayed across the floor like pools of water. The shade bathed his wooden desk and it faded a darker shade of brown. “What if I told you we’re expanding and might have a position opening up?”
“I’m listening.”
“You interested in partner, get your name on the plaque outside the building?”
“You serious, or is this one of your jokes you think are funny? Is this a Michael Scott from The Office prank?”
He laughed and his tongue sprung up and out like a sly villain in an 80’s movie. All he needed was a glass of Scotch and he’d be Gordon Gekko. But he tightened his face within seconds, and his jaw muscles bounced in rhythm like tiny balls under his skin. “I’m dead serious. Todd Johnson and I talked this morning. We’ve got too many clients, and you know Todd’s getting older and works mostly from Florida. We need another partner, a new team.”
She smiled so wide her cheeks hurt, and she didn’t even realize the pain was from the smile until after about a minute. The dread she’d felt before stepping into that office vanished. “Of course, I’m interested. You know I am.”
Fratt held out his hands in front of himself as if he were conducting an orchestra. “Congratulations.”
She blinked, and as her thoughts raced, the room spun. The lining of her stomach just above her belly button tickled and tingled. Joy, she guessed. And she knew she was capable for this the task, had been waiting and working hard a long time.
“Oh, but one thing,” Fratt said and scratched under his eye with a finger, the eye wide and his chin stretched long.
She stared at him, still smiling.
He made prayer-hands and pointed his fingertips toward her. “Don’t tell anyone yet, please. We don’t need that. We’re going to bring you into a meeting tomorrow, discuss details, then announce it next week. Todd will listen in from Florida. Then we’ll make it a conference call for the entire office with Todd on the line.”
She twisted her fingers against her lips, zipped her mouth shut, and threw away the key, her eyes sparkling from the sun peeking back through the clouds and office windows. Life was so unpredictable, she thought, and walked out in a daze.
2
T
he bitter air swept by Desiree’s face and stung her cheeks and nose, each reddening more and more by the second. Her ears burned and itched, stiff from the cold, each lobe frozen like an icicle, as if she could bend and snap off a piece. She cut past Eighteen and Walnut, in the heart of Rittenhouse Square, and thought about the area. She enjoyed working in one of the most prestigious, wealthiest and popular sections of downtown Philadelphia. She stepped into Rittenhouse Square Park and remembered reading that it was built in the 1600s and was one of the five original open-space parks that were planned by William Penn in the late 17th century. She heard that that park was used in fiction and cinema and figured its environmental aesthetics made for a perfect scene. The park itself was a work of art, in the middle of Center City, stretching a block long, surrounded by skyscrapers and buildings, with sculpted trees that hovered over cement walkways and grass that popped and wobbled on a warm summer day. Wooden benches lined the edges of walkways inside. Barnes & Noble, a staple of the area, stood across the street with its green and white sign extending half the block. Rittenhouse was trendy and hip. On weekdays in and around the square, workers in suits and hard hats and bicyclers scurried around tourists who stayed at the luxurious hotels in or near the square or residents who lived in the condos nearby. On weekend mornings, twenty- and thirty-somethings strolled around with yoga mats, coffee cups from esoteric cafes, shopping bags from top designer stores, art supplies, dogs that cost more than most people’s rent, whole food items that a common man wouldn’t know existed or wouldn’t touch, or they jogged in tight clothing and headphones in their ears and mile-trackers attached to their biceps. If someone ate McDonald’s or a bag of Skittles in that park, they’d get an arched eyebrow from a casual stroller who wouldn’t touch the saturated fat or simple sugar or could afford organic meat. On most summer nights, couples, business associates, families and tourists relaxed on chairs for outdoor dining, crossing their legs, twirling wine glasses, smoking cigars, dressing as if they’d stripped a manikin in a Versace store and wore the clothes to dinner, and af
terwards they’d slip credit cards into black leather books without thinking twice about the price.
A rush of workers in ties and slacks and polo shirts poured out of office buildings and raced for the train stations, buses and parking garages. Desiree froze in place and let the scores of people pass her, the masses bumping elbows, huffing and puffing, half-running, half-walking, but she didn’t care. Nothing could make her angry after the news she’d just received. Dark gray clouds swirled and meshed into the black sky and activated street lamps above, which flickered and shined wide blasts of light between the cracks in the ground. Her heels clicked the cold silver pavements but couldn’t be heard over honking horns, casual chatter from the packed streets, people talking and laughing into their cell phones, and construction workers drilling and hammering at a building being built just off Walnut.
She quickly regretted walking through the park because in the open space nothing blocked the wind that howled and whipped at her face. Salty tears stung her eyeballs. She blinked several times and sniffled. The air ripped through her peacoat and scarf, the frigid stream like ice against her skin. She shivered and her teeth chattered. The pants she’d replaced her skirt with did a poor job of protecting her from the elements. Her legs shook—a fingernail could rip through layers of frozen pinkish skin with a single scratch. But for some reason, on this night, the cold filling her nostrils and lungs made her feel alive, human, brand new.
She gazed back at the Barnes & Noble, at a new book advertisement from Michael Connelly in the storefront window, and continued walking. The park in the winter was dull and unexciting—the dingy grass unhealthy, fighting for life, and she figured most people were doing the same in weather like this. The trees hovering over her were bare, just brown branches poking from bended trunks, although the leafless trees had their own beauty.
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