by Hal Ross
Back in the great room, I noticed the tremor in my fingers as I raised my hands to my face and rubbed my eyes. Memories of the past wouldn’t leave me. Too much had transpired. Too much regret. Before long, my head started spinning.
3
Late evening
I knew my name and age: Miles Delany, fifty-three. And I believed my description was fairly accurate: 6’ 1”, 227 pounds, blackish hair, hazel eyes.
Everything else was a blur. I had no idea of time or place. No idea of where I was. And no idea how I got here. I remembered parking my car in front of a bar with a half-lit neon sign above the door.
The neighborhood was seedy but bustling. Dozens of people mingled, predominantly men in their twenties and thirties, with the occasional teen thrown in the mix for good measure. Many held bottles of beer or liquor; some openly toked on joints; a few of the women laughed too loudly.
I walked among them, feeling far too old for this crowd. Maui Jim sunglasses shaded my eyes; a blue Dolphins cap positioned low over my forehead.
This particular street was narrow, with few spots where I could pass without being bumped. There were no “Excuse me’s.”
People jostled each other and I went with the flow. But when a heavily built, mustached man in his mid-thirties, scowl on his face, came too close, I was ready for him. I made sure our shoulders connected.
The man swore at me, aimed his fist at my ribcage.
Somehow, I hadn’t lost my dexterity. My turn was slower than usual but quick enough to avoid contact. The fist passed harmlessly to the side.
The man tried coming at me again.
A voice in my head urged me on. I threw an uppercut that clipped the man’s chin, sending him crumbling to the ground.
Which was when his friends approached.
I counted four of them; or what appeared to be four. My focus was off at the moment so I couldn’t say for sure. But they were all athletic looking. Not a wuss in the bunch; overconfident enough to believe in the odds.
They took the classic approach: one in front, one in back, and one on each side.
It became a flurry of punches and kicks. I knew I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but I was. And I gave as good as I got; blackening eyes, breaking teeth. Not that I was eluding punishment myself. Some of what I absorbed was truly painful. But even that wouldn’t have stopped me. It took the sound of a siren in the distance to make me realize the folly of my game.
As I started to back off, I heard my assailants taunting me.
“Where you goin’, chicken-shit?”
“Pussy can’t take the heat?”
“Runnin’ home to momma?
I paused. Stay or go?
Finally, I flipped them off and bolted. But I had no idea how I found my car. No recollection of driving home.
* * *
Sleep was elusive. When it came, the dreams were troubled. Images flashed then dissolved: men with clenched fists, arms flashing, punches missing, punches connecting. Violence for violence ‘s sake.
I awoke early the next morning, fully dressed in last night’s clothes, feeling soreness in both hands. I looked in the bathroom mirror and froze, disbelieving what I was seeing. I’d been fantasizing. That’s all it was, a fantasy, right? My imagination had involved me in a situation that went against my nature. It couldn’t have been anything else.
I unbuttoned my shirt. Something was wrong here. Numerous bruises peppered my body. If this had all been a fantasy, how could I explain that, along with my swollen knuckles?
4
January 7
Frank Sinclair stood in the bathroom, looking down with disgust as he tried to coax the urine to flow. He gave it his utmost concentration. He cursed and stroked until, at last, an unstable stream began to trickle. A portion splattered the lip of the toilet bowl. Then he noticed the backsplash on the floor and swore to himself. Various prostate examines all proved he was healthy; though peeing still remained a challenge. He was told there was a pill that could help but it’d likely mess with his libido. This was a risk Frank wasn’t willing to take.
He took hold of his penis and examined it. Was the damn thing getting smaller? His doctor had confirmed in a recent visit that his body was changing. He was gaining weight and losing height. It probably made sense that his penis would shrink as well.
He washed his hands and finger-combed his hair, then paused. The artificial color his hair stylist applied every five weeks or so was adequate; not overdone. Light brown with just enough trace of gray along the sides.
He smiled at what he saw in the mirror. For some reason the short-sleeved, half-unbuttoned pink shirt he was wearing amused him. That, and his lime-green shorts. In another era he would’ve made the perfect hippie.
He reached into his pocket and removed a Viagra tablet in a single foil wrap. Why carry a full sleeve when only one Viagra’s necessary? he was thinking.
Actually, not necessary at all, he acknowledged. But lately he’d gotten into the habit of popping the pill before each of his dalliances, simply to be on the safe side. He’d never been accused of failing to please. But ever since his prostate enlarged, he didn’t want to take the chance on performing inadequately and being embarrassed.
* * *
Barbara Miller, tall and thin, with long black hair and wide enticing eyes of a provocative nature, was lying naked beneath the covers of the king-size bed in the master bedroom, wondering what was taking Frank so long.
She knew that under the circumstances—so close to the murder of Frank’s wife, one of her best friends—she should’ve canceled today. But Frank had insisted, using the argument that breaking with their monthly tradition would throw their karma off for good.
So here she was. And if the truth were known, that tingle was back; she felt it beneath her skin. A sly teasing that rose from her loins and threatened to turn her brain into mush.
Her monthly “lunches” with Frank, for over a year, had given Barbara a purpose. The simplest show of affection, from either sex, had always turned her on. Frank filled a void that she felt was lacking.
Barbara’s husband, Bill, was nineteen years her senior. They’d met in his accounting office in Buffalo, New York. She was a registered nurse at the time, hired by Bill’s insurance company to handle his annual examination.
It wasn’t love at first sight; nor was there a physical attraction on her part. But a few dates for a harmless coffee led to a harmless lunch, which led to a harmless dinner. Things multiplied from there until it was harmless no longer.
Bill had been married for thirty-two years but promised to leave his wife. Barbara wasn’t involved with anyone, having broken up with her boyfriend half a year previously.
He proposed a month after his divorce finalized and Barbara accepted. Their first years together were more tolerable than unique. Then Bill retired and insisted they move to Florida. His health issues began soon afterwards, and Barbara grew bored.
A neighbor suggested she try real estate. Once into it, Barbara knew she’d found her calling. An added bonus was the empty homes she had access to, many of them completely furnished.
Her trysts with both men and women were kept discreet. Most were one-night stands—until Frank. Thanks to her newfound career, there was no need for a hotel. Her affair with him continued in relative comfort and seclusion.
* * *
“Ta-ta!”
Barbara looked up, amused by a beaming Frank standing in front of her. His arms were spread above his head, his shirt half open, the zipper on his shorts undone.
She stopped him before he could fully undress. “Here—let me help you with that.” She came off the bed.
Frank placed his hands on her shoulders and coaxed her closer.
Barbara noticed his grin turning lecherous and almost gave herself to him then and there. Instead, forcing her concent
ration, she helped him out of his shirt, then placed her palm on the fly of his shorts. “My, my, my,” she said playfully. “Wee Willie is growing.”
Frank placed a gentle hand between her legs.
The least contact, as usual, was enough to send Barbara soaring. She moved quicker, removed Frank’s shorts, then his underwear. His penis sprung loose, pointing skyward. She ran her fingers up and down its shaft.
“It would behoove you to let loose,” she joked.
Frank trapped Barbara between his body and the mattress, thrust out his pelvis until she tumbled backward onto the bed. She went to pull him on top of her, but Frank had something else in mind.
His mouth between her legs sent Barbara into ecstasy. She moaned, then cried out. She arched her back and shuddered, not wanting anything more than to feel what she was experiencing at the moment. Her imagination soared. She implored Frank to continue, calling him “baby” and “sweetie,” but hardly aware of the words she was using.
Frank rose above her, cupped the back of her neck, and brought his face close. Their lips met; she opened her mouth and French kissed him. Barbara found she wanted more, reached down, being willful but not caring. She guided his penis inside, clamped her eyes shut, and waited for Frank’s thrusts to match her own.
Then, determined, Barbara stilled her body.
Frank pulled free and asked, “What’s wrong?”
She wanted to tell him but was unable to say it aloud.
“Barbara?”
She hesitated, a hint of lasciviousness in her eyes.
“What is it?”
She whispered in his ear.
Frank shrugged, waited to see if she was serious.
She nodded once, a flush reddening her cheeks.
Frank changed positions.
His penis entered her mouth and Barbara found all extraneous sound coming to an end. As she sucked, she felt she was tasting her own essence, as if having sex with herself. And she needed it, craved it.
Frank followed her instructions of a minute ago. He pulled out of her mouth, lowered himself, reentered her vagina.
Barbara lost count of the number of times he exchanged places, from bottom to top and back again. The sublime taste on her lips was soon matched by what she was feeling below. And she was struck by this visceral sense of pleasure she couldn’t describe. She wanted it to go on forever.
5
Bill Miller—balding and rail-thin, a mere shell of his former self—was seated nearby in his car, a one-year-old Bentley with 3,347 miles on the odometer.
He’d seen his wife enter the house over an hour ago. Frank Sinclair had followed her in not long afterwards. Bill had fostered suspicions for a long while. He now had it confirmed and it angered him in the worst way.
He sat up straighter and conjured up old memories. What had I been? All of twenty-five at the time? Too young to be married, even if Ruthanne was his childhood sweetheart. Too young and too foolish.
* * *
Bill’s parents paid for his schooling. He graduated from University of Buffalo with a degree in accounting. He was expected to join the family’s well-established firm in his hometown. But Bill declined, alienating his father.
Ruthanne became pregnant and they eloped. Bill soon felt trapped. A friend invited him to join his business, servicing soup aisles of the large retail chains, with a great deal of travel across the northeast. This was the precise opportunity Bill had been looking for.
A girl in every port wasn’t a cliché. Bill not only had his looks back then, but charisma and the gift of gab. The thought of having sex with a total stranger had always been tantalizing to Bill. More and more he anticipated that first kiss, the first reveal of a naked breast.
Ruthanne’s pregnancy caused her to put on quite a bit of weight. Bill often compared the lithe bodies of his one-night stands to that of his corpulent wife.
His son, Jonathan, was born, and for a time Bill acted like a normal father. He cut back on some of his travel. But he didn’t lift a finger to help at home. Ruthanne fed their son and changed his diapers, tended to his tantrums, his multiple coughs and colds.
Bill couldn’t wait to get back on the road. He could no longer deny that his craving for sex was insatiable. From Boston to Pittsburg, Philadelphia to New York. There wasn’t a woman he met who he didn’t want to bed.
Making love to Ruthanne became a chore. She got pregnant a second time and Bill was upset with himself. By the time Gary was born, his escapades had become so convoluted he lost track of which girl, in what city, he’d been with last.
His travels would have continued had his father not put additional pressure on him to join the family firm once and for all. But remaining in Buffalo didn’t stop Bill from lusting after an entire new group of women: barmaids and waitresses, even secretaries in his office.
Meanwhile, Ruthanne was taking better care of herself. Her weight was back to normal and she’d regained a sense of style.
Bill didn’t change. Not until his sons were graduating high school, followed by university. Which was when guilt finally manifested itself and he came to understand that something profound was lacking in his life. He didn’t know if he was capable of being faithful, but he wanted to try. He stopped his sexual dalliances cold turkey and paid more attention to his wife.
Her reaction wasn’t what he expected; she was aloof. Whenever he took her to dinner, her silence in the restaurant was magnified by the noisy chatter around them. He’d go to touch her and she’d pull away. Finally, Ruthanne asked for a divorce.
Bill continued to live at home, though he realized he wasn’t wanted. Barbara entered the picture and he was primed and ready. His sole objective was to pursue and win her over. He talked about divorcing his wife as if this would be a sacrifice, and not something into which he was being pressured.
He was persistent. As soon as his split from Ruthanne was finalized, he formally proposed. It felt strange being married to another woman, but he remained faithful.
Bill retired at the age of sixty-six and the move to Florida followed. His home in Bonita Palms cost upwards of five million dollars. In less than a year he had difficulty maintaining an erection. He visited one specialist after the other and tried numerous solutions. The Viagra experience lasted six months; the daily use of Cialis a few months longer. From there he went to pumps to rings to naturopathic cures. Nothing worked.
Bill found it ironic: he was committed to having a monogamous relationship for the first time in his life. Instead of reaping the benefit, it had become a curse.
* * *
Bill started the car but waited, taking a last look at the house. He pictured his wife and Frank Sinclair in bed, bumping thighs. He could imagine the sounds they were making, could practically inhale their secretions.
It took eight minutes to arrive at his address in Augusta. A long driveway led to a multi-car garage. Bill activated the door and parked.
His home office was spacious and brightly lit. Twenty by thirty, with a built-in library running the length of the far wall. He took a seat at his mahogany desk, removed a pill from a container he kept in the top drawer, put it in his mouth and dry swallowed. Celenome was his stomach cancer medication. Bill had revealed his disease to no one, especially Barbara. He wasn’t being magnanimous or selfless. He simply knew that she wouldn’t care one way or the other.
But it wasn’t his physical problems that occupied Bill’s mind at the moment. His finances had begun a serious decline nearly two years ago. Bad investments coupled with greed. Whatever he tried had failed to pay off. Solid tips became dangerous pratfalls. People he always listened to were no longer trustworthy. His portfolio had shrunk by several million dollars.
Bill did what he figured any other red-blooded American would do. He was facing financial ruin, so he began a second career. The easy part was getting his friends and neigh
bors to trust him. He’d always been creative; it took a bit more time to decide what scheme to use.
He called it The Bill Miller Fund and promoted it by arguing that inflation was once again around the corner. The U.S. dollar was going to fall. His fund promised to buy an unspecified commodity at an unspecified price at some unspecified future point in time. Bill gained the trust of his clients by explaining that commodity prices didn’t always go up but fluctuated. His fund would take long or short positions to hedge against these swings.
The commodity of choice, in Bill’s case, was oil, especially with the universal price being deflated. He ascertained that a contract covering an amount of a thousand barrels, for instance, would solely require a deposit of five to ten percent, enabling him to use ninety to ninety-five percent of the invested money for his own use.
However, not being wedded to correct ethical, fiduciary and regulatory principles, Bill decided to not risk any of his own cash. After all, he had a comfortable lifestyle to support. To keep people at bay and avoid suspicion, he made sure to pay out modest “returns” at the end of each month. Meanwhile, his clients were on the hook for millions of dollars.
Bill smiled at the thought as he pulled out a key from his pants pocket and unlocked the top drawer of his desk. How perfect that Frank Sinclair was one of his largest investors. Bill removed Frank’s file and relocked the drawer.
A feeling of satisfaction came over him, knowing that he was going to do to Frank … Exactly what the son-of-a-bitch is doing to my wife.
6
January 17
The memorial service for Cathy Sinclair was being held in a private function room at the Bonita Palms clubhouse, three o’clock in the afternoon. I made sure to arrive early so I wouldn’t miss anyone. My investigation into Mrs. Sinclair’s death was going nowhere. Forensics confirmed that her murder was caused by blunt force trauma to the head. The weapon was indeed her husband’s wrench left at the crime scene. Why it was used and how it came into the hands of the doer remained a puzzle.
