by Warren Adler
“I think he’s learned his lesson,” Shirley said one evening.
In the morning when he awoke, she was gone. In the living room Harry’s cage was empty. Obviously, she was taking Harry to the park. All would soon be well again, he thought.
Shirley approached the park with some trepidation. Harry was not straining on his leash. He was being patient and obedient, stopping along the way to sniff at a hydrant and patches of grass that surrounded some of the trees along the way. With growing optimism, she approached the park and soon found herself in the area where the dogs were unleashed.
She unfastened the hook that tethered Harry to his leash. For a long moment, he stood frozen, watching the other dogs.
“He’s learned his lesson,” she thought. A great burden seemed lifted from her heart. She bent down and whispered in his ear. “You see, my darling,” she whispered. “Everything will be as it was.”
At that moment, Harry stiffened, sniffed, then, like a bolt of lightning, ran toward Milly.
“Harry,” Shirley screamed. “Don’t you dare!”
She ran after him, opening her purse as she ran, catching up to the two dogs. Suddenly, she was brandishing a pistol.
“Lousy whore,” she said, addressing the brown lab, who looked up at her with an uncomprehending gaze. She pointed the pistol directly between the dog’s eyes and fired.
Then she looked down at Harry.
“You see what you made me do,” she said, dropping to her knees and embracing her dog. Suddenly in a whispery voice she began to sing: “I’m just wild about Harry.”
Risk And Reward
“He kept squeezing my thigh,” Maureen said. “See, I have a mark.”
She showed him, opening her robe. Josh looked at the faint imprint, bending over on the couch and kissing it.
“Poor baby,” he said, then straightening and nodding. “A good sign.”
“Easy for you to say,” she mocked, winking. “He’s awful, Josh.”
“You’ll have to hold your nose and close your eyes,” Josh said. “We need the son-of-a-bitch. He’s the green-lighter with the purse strings and power. I really need this loan.”
“I’m not into business, Josh. You know that,” she said, haughtily, shaking her head. She studied him and saw the anguish and pain on his handsome features. She hadn’t bargained for this. Not on my resumé, she thought, having grown accustomed to the lavish lifestyle he had given her for the past six months, the clothes, the travel by private jet, the apartment in which they lived, the furnished penthouse in the Bristol that he rented for thirty thousand a month.
She was nearly fifty now, a well-guarded secret, still fashion model exquisite, with a body carefully maintained for draping and showing off designer clothes. By every standard, she knew she could still turn an eye. In fact that was her occupation, to be stunning and statuesque. It took hard work, commitment and funding. While the paymasters had changed, the occupation persisted long after her modeling career had changed venues.
Josh was hardly the first of her devoted male worshippers, but she had decided that he had potential as a keeper. Hadn’t he left his wife of ten years for her? The divorce was messy, the usual financial arguments. That wasn’t her business, although she knew it would water down his personal net worth, which, was now, as he loudly proclaimed, at serious risk, a very worrisome condition. After all, she lived through the “generosity” of wealthy men and her value, she was well aware, would inevitably diminish with the passage of time.
Maureen was a realist. Her looks were her main asset and its presentation was her principal and only major concern. She was obsessively high maintenance and costly. As she aged, the price grew higher in time and money. She worked with her personal trainer three times a week and spent many hours with her hairdresser, make-up artist, manicurist, nutritionist, cosmetic dermatologist and a professional shopper to keep her wardrobe au courant with the latest designer clothes. She knew, of course, how to wear them, move in them, show herself off in the best light.
She had grown up, pampered in an upper-middle-class home in northern California, the youngest of three siblings. Pretty from birth, she was the favored child and had taken up modeling in high school. Instead of college, she went east and was quickly signed by one of the top model agencies and had had a good twenty-five year run. Her siblings were scattered now, having drifted away, and their communication with her relegated to occasional e-mails.
Both her parents were dead, having died early. She had been “on her own” for more than twenty-five years. She had earned enough for her elaborate personal maintenance, but as she grew older and the modeling jobs dwindled, she grew more and more dependent on other sources, mostly wealthy men.
To a number of them, she was “arm candy” and she knew it. Once she had actually been a “trophy wife,” having married a much older man who was a serial groom. Unfortunately, the prenup she had signed left her with little to show for it. More and more, she was on the lookout for some permanent arrangement, a situation that came with a guarantee that would cover the cost of her maintenance and assure her lifestyle.
Marriage, of course, was an obvious option, but the requirement of catering to the needs of a wealthy husband with its heavy social obligations and intimate commitments was more of a fallback position, a compromise she was prepared to make as a last resort and Josh seemed a logical candidate. She would rather have preferred a situation in which she was merely required to appear, a presentation to be admired, spending her time preparing for a “showing,” much like her days as a model.
Over the years, she had learned how to fully exploit her most valuable asset, her looks. To embellish them, she contrived a “look” and “persona” based on her modeling experience, a practiced coolness which made her seem deep and mysterious, although she knew she was neither. She had mastered the art of being a good listener and appearing intelligently engaged in discussions on most subjects, from politics to art to science, although she read only the gossip columns and those sections that dealt with clothes and beauty enhancement.
Men, she had discovered early on, were captivated by her looks and quickly professed their love for her. Although it had baffled her at first, she grew to accept the idea. Indeed, she had gotten used to it and she noted that it did give her a certain power, which she happily exploited.
At thirty-two she had her first facelift, at forty-three her second and, in between, surgical nips and tucks and Botox and Restylane injections. She likened these procedures to necessary maintenance, as if she were an operating railroad.
There was, of course, an obligatory sexual side and she had applied herself to learning all of the technical aspects of satisfying male needs in that area. She took little pleasure in the practice, but considered it a necessary condition of her lifestyle. She had learned, too, that no matter how adept she became in the process, sooner or later men, the kind of men in her target orbit, needed change and variety and she had learned all the little signs of eventual disinterest. In the heady Manhattan world of wealth and status in which she operated, the competition was fierce and battalions of younger and younger hopefuls were always entering the arena.
Being a realist, she knew there was a downside to her spectacular beauty… time. All of her energy was mounted to defend her against the encroachments of time, the ultimate enemy. Increasingly, she had become aware of her need for a more guaranteed arrangement.
Josh and she had been together for six months now and she had moved in with him to the Bristol, a super luxury complex on Lexington Avenue. Josh was not yet forty and she had passed herself off as the same age. To do so required hard work, money, commitment and time.
To hide her age, she had disposed of her driver’s license years ago and used her subway fare card as her photo ID, although she never used the subway. Not ever. She had let her passport expire and told him she hated travel to foreign countries, which, a
t least temporarily, foreclosed on her getting another.
Like most of the others, Josh had fallen head over heels in love with her. For her part, he was very acceptable and projected style and money, although, as she had recently discovered, the money aspect was increasingly shaky and he was panicked over the possibility of bankruptcy.
Applying her sense of realism, she knew that the curtain was falling on her long run, although she continued to believe that she could pass as arm candy or a trophy wife for a few more years. What she needed now was security, real security, for the days when her assets, which were dimming, were completely gone. Unfortunately, the promised guarantees of her intended spouse were in immediate danger.
“This loan is a matter of life and death, baby,” he told her, making it clear on numerous occasions that without this loan, he’d lose everything. His increasing whining was unnerving. Nevertheless, out of necessity, she reluctantly accepted her supportive role.
Her assigned mission that evening, was to charm the hell out of Myron Glass, the billionaire green-lighter for the bank loan that Josh needed desperately. At this point, he had been to every bank in New York and had been turned down by each of them, except Glass, whose rare privately owned bank was “considering” Josh’s loan. The bank fees were out of sight, but Josh was as desperate as Glass and his bank were greedy.
“It’s all over my head,” she insisted.
They had dinner at Le Cirque, which was attached to the Bristol complex, one of Manhattan’s most prestigious eateries, where they dined frequently and Mario always gave them a choice table. He made a huge fuss over Maureen, double-kissing her, and showering her with compliments. Maureen, used to such tributes, accepted it with a cool nod and a faint smile. It was, of course, expected and she knew Josh loved the performance. She was well aware that a man who appeared to possess a beautiful woman was envied for his imagined virility and superiority, a God among men.
Glass, pushing sixty, fat bald, and bathed in what Maureen thought was a sickening fragrance, was not averse to the attention. Like Maureen, he was used to it, but for different reasons. He controlled a lucrative money faucet and understood his prerogatives and his power.
Worse, he had opinions. He hated politicians, and blamed the poor, especially blacks and Mexicans, for their own plight. He was stubbornly obstinate about the rightness of his positions and all his supplicants knew better than to disagree with him.
In retrospect, as she lay beside Josh, she pondered what he had characterized as “a good sign.” It wasn’t just a squeezing. It was a stroking and it stopped just short of her panty line. With beaus and lovers she was tolerant and at times encouraging of such conduct and if the occasion called for it she reacted with mutuality. She woke Josh.
“A good sign, you said. His hand was headed north.”
“It didn’t,” Josh muttered.
“What should I have done?”
“In this case?”
“You said charm him, Josh. This wasn’t on the menu.”
“You did exactly the right thing, baby. You didn’t make a scene. Considering how important it is to both of us.”
“I let him keep on stroking through dessert.”
“When would he ever have such an opportunity to stroke one of the great beauties of New York?”
“The man’s a pig.”
“Yes he is. A greedy fat billionaire pig. But that pig stands between us and the abyss. He’s our last chance and he knows it.”
“And if his hand had headed further north, what was I supposed to do?”
“But it didn’t,” Josh mumbled, embracing her, leaving the question unanswered.
“Would it have made a difference?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, having drifted to sleep or feigning it.
“He’s making me jump through hoops,” Josh said, a few days later. “More numbers. More accountant charges. More lawyers. I’m really feeling the pressure now. And he wants us to have dinner again.”
They took him to La Grenouille and once again, he sat between them and put his hand on her thigh, stroking it. Her eyes met Josh’s who received the signal and shrugged. But this time Glass devoted himself almost exclusively to Maureen, practically ignoring Josh, who sought an opening to get into the subject of his loan.
“It’s looking good,” Glass told him, “but you have to be patient.”
“I’m being pressed, Myron,” Josh said. “I guarantee you, though, with your loan, I’ll pull through with flying colors.”
“Will you?” Glass said with a cryptic smile. Josh had explained to her that if the loan defaulted, Glass and his bank would own everything.
Maureen felt Glass’s hand go north, as she had put it to Josh. She froze but said nothing, although she did resist by putting her hand over Glass’s to keep it from going further.
“He really needs this loan,” Maureen said, interjecting, although she never had before. Josh nodded his approval of her remark. “It will be good business for your bank.”
“You think so, little lady,” Glass said, offering a big smile. His teeth, Maureen noted, were like Chiclets. Besides, she knew implants when she saw them.
“I do,” Maureen said in a cool but emphatic tone. She exchanged glances with Josh, who blinked his eyes in approval.
“I really value your opinion, Maureen,” Glass said, sliding his hand from under hers, then quickly embracing it and applying the pressure of familiarity and endorsement. “You say we should grant this loan?”
“Absolutely,” Maureen said.
“She has a sixth sense about business matters,” Josh said.
“A regular financial genius. I could tell the minute I laid eyes on her,” Glass said, chuckling.
“Tell you the truth,” Josh said. “I trust her gut reaction more than the numbers.”
“Beauty and brains, a rare combination,” Glass said smiling.
It was laughable, Maureen thought, since she hadn’t a clue to any of the business implications. Nor was she interested, except for the negative impact it might have on her.
“So you think we should grant this loan?” Glass said, showing her his row of Chiclets. He squeezed her hand and she returned the squeeze, which she was certain he would interpret as a promising sign.
“Of course you should,” Maureen purred.
“Tell you what,” Glass said while Josh was signing the credit card receipt. “You both come to my office tomorrow and we’ll see what we can do.”
Both, she thought, amused and not surprised. When they parted outside the restaurant Glass gave her a strong hug and his thick lips sought hers in a goodbye kiss, but before it landed, she quickly turned her lips away.
“He’s in love,” Josh said, winking at her, playing the comment as a joke.
“Poor jerk,” Maureen shrugged. Of course, she knew the signs. “But you did say charm him.”
“You were brilliant,” Josh said.
“Was I?” Maureen said, wondering where all this was going. She was silent for a while. “Suppose he makes it a condition of the loan?” Maureen asked. She had been picturing in her mind such a scenario.
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do,” Maureen said.
“There are laws against such things.”
“Just suppose, then.”
He turned his eyes away, thought a moment, then said:
“I would never let that happen. Never. I’d rather go bankrupt. No way. Nada. “
She knew better. Her experience with men had taught her where their priorities lay. Business was warfare and unforgiving. No holds barred. Anything to gain an advantage.
“Even if he says, no deal unless…”
“Then it would be no deal.”
“Are you sure?”
“Beyond the shadow of a doubt. I would never subject you t
o such a humiliation. As if you were a piece of meat to be bartered around.”
“Like a prostitute.”
“I love you, darling. I couldn’t bear it.”
She wondered if she could, picturing the man, naked and ready, his big belly hanging low over his engorged thing. Actually, she thought, having been with many men in that way, doing it had been pro forma, a price one paid for the privileges of her lifestyle. Concentrating on the technical aspects only, it had become a kind of out-of-body experience. She chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Josh asked.
“Nothing, really,” she said.
They showed up at the appointed time in Glass’s elaborate antique-ornamented office, one wall filled with civic service plaques and pictures with Glass with various political leaders and celebrities. Another wall was festooned with what she knew were certain works of art by famous painters. The carved wooden desk was large, polished and totally clean of papers. Glass got up from behind the big desk and greeted her with a tight embrace and a handshake for Josh.
He took her hand and led them to a conversational grouping off to one side of the large office and he sat down across from her and Josh who sat on the facing couch.
“We’re almost there, Josh,” Glass said after some small talk about the weather. It was a sunny spring day and she wore a beautiful beige Valentino dress with a hemline that showed her long shapely legs, which she crossed with polished provocation. She knew exactly where the hem would fall. He could not keep his eyes off her crossed legs.
“Almost?” Josh asked.
“There are still some Ts to cross,” Glass said, unable to keep his eyes averted from her legs. Occasionally she would reverse legs, offering a quick view of her inner thigh.
“Like what?” Josh asked, clearly disappointed, his expectations crushed. All morning, he had told her, he had called his creditors, promising that he was about to close his loan.
