“You’re going to the Purity Ball with Daddy tomorrow, and you have to eat something at the dinner. Don’t make Daddy tell you to eat. Everyone’s going to be watching him.”
“Did you tell him about what happened at school?”
“He’s campaigning today, so, no. And I’ll make a deal with you. I won’t mention it to him if you eat some of that lasagna.”
“You swear?” Kendra nods. “Whatever.” Brittany grunts in displeasure as she departs.
Kendra takes another can of the chocolate drink out of the refrigerator. Wonders for a moment if drinking several diet drinks defeats the purpose but Brittany vexes her and that justifies it in her mind. Better diet drinks than vodka, she concludes.
Kendra’s cell phone rings and she looks at the caller ID: Private Caller. She doesn’t like to pick up the phone not knowing who it is, but Randall has taught her that you never know when it might be a donor so she dutifully presses the Talk button and says hello.
“Kendra?” She doesn’t recognize the caller, a woman.
“Who is this?”
“Remember me?” Flirtatious, tense.
Kendra doesn’t bother lowering her voice since the only adult in the house is the cleaning lady whose grasp of English is, at best, vague. Then it comes roaring back. Nadine! Oh, god, why is this person calling? What could she possibly want?
“I need to see you.” The air conditioning is frosting the house, but Kendra feels her body temperature leap two degrees. “Please.
“I asked you not to call here.”
The voice says “Meet me for a drink at Melvyn’s at 6:00. There’s something I want to show you.”
“I can’t come.”
There is a long pause on the other end, during which Kendra debates whether to just hang up. This is someone she has no desire to ever see again.
“It can help your husband.”
Kendra hands the parking valet her keys and enters Melvyn’s. The place is old school, venerable by Palm Springs standards, which means it evokes the Technicolor era of big-finned cars and unfiltered cigarettes. Framed black and white photographs of dapper Melvyn the desert dandy line the walls, smiling with his famous customers, images of deeply tanned men in suits with thin lapels, women wearing ermine and lots of makeup, everyone looking Rat Pack. A long, tiled bar trimmed with mahogany runs along the left side of the room. The white tablecloths are starched. It’s just shy of the dinner hour and the place is nearly empty. Kendra and Randall come here occasionally. If anyone sees her they’ll think she’s just having a drink with a friend.
Nadine waves from her seat at the end of the otherwise empty bar. She wears a clingy yellow sweater with a scooped front, a blue cotton skirt and tan flats. A small gold tennis racquet dangles from a thin chain around her neck. Kendra sits next to her on an upholstered bar stool.
Nadine’s tan masks a tired face. Kendra thinks she looks as if she hasn’t had much rest lately. But she smells good. Like lemons. Nadine thanks her for coming. Kendra offers a tight smile, then looks around again, making sure she hasn’t missed anyone who might know her. Not that sitting with Nadine is suspicious behavior. She just doesn’t want to be blindsided in the middle of their conversation. Two matronly women are getting a head start on a bottle of Riesling in the dining room. They wear expensive dresses, lots of jewelry, and bored expressions.
The bartender approaches, an older guy with a red face and a full head of dyed-black hair. “I’ll have another,” Nadine says, holding her glass. “Seven and seven.” The bartender nods and looks at Kendra. She hopes he won’t recognize her. His expression says he doesn’t.
Kendra orders a Mel-tini, a concoction of raspberry vodka, peach schnapps and cranberry juice. The bartender nods and turns around to mix the drink. “What’s this about?”
“You can’t be friendly? It’s been almost a year.”
“I’m a little stressed out.”
“The campaign?”
“Yes, and other things.”
The bartender places Kendra’s drink in front of her on top of a cocktail napkin with a pencil drawing of James Dean printed on it. She takes a sip, then another.
“How’s Brittany? Is she still playing?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Nadine, I shouldn’t even be here. But now that I am, I want to be honest with you. This encounter is not really appropriate, so . . . ”
“You’re hurting my feelings.”
“I don’t want to do that. But I have limited time. There’s an event tonight.”
“She has so much potential as a tennis player.”
“She hasn’t played much lately,” Kendra says, draining most of her Mel-tini. She’s barely eaten today and the drink sneaks up on her. It’s a pleasant sensation, one that takes some of the edge off being sucked back into Nadine’s orbit, so she signals for another.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Then, considerably more relaxed than she was a moment ago, “Brittany was suspended from school for two days.” She has no idea why she’s telling Nadine this other than she is overcome with the compulsion to share the information with someone who knows the girl and will be supportive. Kendra finishes the remainder of her drink. She daubs her lipstick with James Dean’s face, crushes the napkin and places it in the glass.
Nadine leans forward conspiratorially. “I have a Valium in my purse.”
“I’m okay, really. Do you know what sexting is?
“Sure.”
Kendra thinking Of course you do. “That’s why Brittany was sent home today.”
“She wasn’t doing it with a teacher or anything?”
“No, thank god.”
“I sent pictures of myself to Chief Marvin.”
“Chief Marvin? Is he an Indian?”
“The police chief. You know, in Desert Hot Springs? Hard Marvin?” Kendra looks baffled. Is she supposed to know the person Nadine just referenced? Or care that she sent him pictures? “We were intimate.”
This revelation arrives like a giant metal object from outer space, one that is puzzling when glimpsed on radar and whose meaning is not inherently apparent when viewed with the naked eye, and Kendra cannot imagine what Nadine means by telling her. In the catalogue of possibilities reviewed by Kendra during the drive to the restaurant, reasons Nadine might have wanted to meet, this one had not occurred to her. Further, what interest could she have possibly had in the sexual peccadilloes of Chief Marvin? Kendra assumes Nadine has had multiple sex partners. That Chief Marvin was among them means nothing. Still, she feels impelled to say something so out comes: “Intimate?”
“We had an affair.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“I have emails he sent me.”
The bartender chooses this moment to return. Kendra hopes he has not heard any of the conversation. He serves the drinks and silently slips away. Nadine withdraws a neatly folded piece of paper from her black leather purse and hands it to Kendra.
“Read it.”
Kendra unfolds the paper:
From: Harding Marvin < [email protected]
Subject: Sexy You
To: “Nadine Never” < [email protected]
Date: Tuesday October 2 1:23 P.M.
You are a glorious sexy girl and I hope you understand that, my sweet Nadine. Can you comprehend how beautiful your smile is? Have you been informed lately how warm your blue eyes are and how they glow with the special nature of your soul? I mentioned to you that when I married I did not need love, but as the battle scars of life have worn on me this is something I don’t mind telling you now I want. I love your gentle kisses and your tan lines and your magnificent twin peaks . . .
When Kendra arrives at the phrase twin peaks she folds the piece of paper in two and demurely hands it back to Nadine.
“Is that his real name?”
“It’s Harding. But everyone calls him Hard.”
Kendra looks down the bar where the bartender is reading a newspaper. The ladies
in the dining room are now eating their dinner. “I’m a little confused. Where do I fit into this?”
Nadine looks away impatiently, her manner conveying slight annoyance at having to now impart such an obvious piece of information. Kendra waits for her to continue. Lowering her voice to a whisper, Nadine says, “He’s close to Mary Swain’s campaign and he’s married. She’s all family values and come to Jesus, right? So if this gets out about Hard, it’s not gonna help her.”
Kendra knows the American version of politics is played with everything from pointed elbows to pointed knives but she has never been confronted with anything this contemptible. The campaign has been rough, charges and counter-charges flying, and the election is now a week away. Any advantage is gold. But erotic emails from Hard Marvin to Nadine? This is not traffic in which Kendra wants to play. Because, really, what could it do? Marvin might have problems with his own job, but how, exactly, is it supposed to damage Mary Swain? The buffed and ruthless candidate would flush him like a crushed bug.
Kendra’s sense of decorum restrains her from just getting up and walking out and she dutifully pushes the conversation forward.
“What do you want me to do, Nadine?”
“I’m moving to Seattle. I need money.”
Kendra takes a gulp of her second Mel-tini, wonders how far Nadine is prepared to take this.
“Do you want to ask your husband?”
“I don’t think he wants to go there. It’s not like it’s you and Mary Swain.” Kendra says this half-joking, wanting to relieve the tension she is feeling. It doesn’t work. Her shoulders creep toward her ears. Breathing is shallow. Although she manages to remain cool on the surface, Kendra wildly calculates the possible ramifications of Nadine’s startling arrival back in her life. The idea of slipping sexually charged emails to some slavering journalist in order to torpedo an opposing candidate is repulsive to her, although in the annals of campaign tactics it is hardly unheard of and even, in certain circles, admired.
“I’m looking for fifteen thousand dollars.”
Nadine is clearly a little more of an untethered trunk on a pitching deck than Kendra had realized and this is a situation she will need to handle with the delicacy of an art forger. Nadine has nearly finished her second drink—at least it’s the second one she has seen her consume—and Kendra does not want there to be even the slightest possibility of a scene. She knocks back the Mel-tini, and says “Look, Nadine, I wanted to give you the courtesy of a face to face meeting which is why I’m here, but I can tell you this is not something Randall’s going to go for.” Her tone is quiet, calm, and tinged with disingenuous regret. She has wrestled her panic into temporary submission. Political wives are masters of the ersatz, trained to systematically annihilate any genuine emotion or thought. As Randall’s wife, Kendra dissembles as naturally as she smears butter substitute on a non-fat corn muffin.
Nadine appears momentarily deflated. Kendra watches her face for signs of storm clouds, hopes the reaction will be subdued and not lead to public histrionics. “Are you sure?”
“I think I know Randall pretty well.”
“You don’t even want to ask him?”
An impulse arises in Kendra to reach across the table and slap Nadine hard across the face. She knows a swift physical strike can be emotionally satisfying but that kind of behavior will not only fail to create the desired long-term result, it will surely exacerbate the present state of affairs. “Nadine, this isn’t a good idea. It’s the kind of thing that can come back to bite you. You’re better than that,” Kendra lies.
Nadine tilts her head and smiles crookedly. Kendra thinks she is trying for impish, but it reads more like a tic.
“Its not just Hard.” She waits for Kendra’s reaction, but none is forthcoming.
“Nadine, I’m not following you.”
“I could tell them about us which I don’t want to do but I could. The matching tattoos we got down in Mexico are pretty neat.”
Pretty neat? Kendra can think of a few words to describe what Nadine has just said but “pretty” and “neat” are not among them.
“You’re blackmailing us?” How can something like this be occurring, she wonders, a turn of events so cheap and tawdry. Is it not enough that she has sacrificed (temporarily, please God) her own career to perform as the smiling mannequin at Randall Duke’s side, that she, a professional entertainer, articulate, ambitious, and determined, has been relegated to serving as caretaker to a moody teenager? And why did she allow herself a fling with this tanning technician who is threatening to smash her carefully constructed future like a house of toothpicks.
“That is definitely the wrong word. It’s blackmail when you pay me. No one’s blackmailing anybody. I would never do that. But I’d like to see you try to explain the matching kitty tattoos we got on our butts.” Nadine smiles, as if this is amusing.
“Don’t do this,” Kendra says, in a tone she hopes is equal parts threatening and advisory. Kendra doesn’t know Nadine well. They had become acquainted at a tennis clinic where Nadine was one of the coaches and the two of them met for coffee at Nadine’s suggestion. She had told Kendra she wanted career advice and Kendra, always looking for an advantage, had assumed Nadine was better positioned in life than she actually was. Still, the vivacious instructor was energetic and fun, and when she volunteered to coach her daughter Kendra couldn’t see why not. After their third lesson, when Randall was in Washington, Kendra had asked Nadine if she wanted to come over for a drink. Later she wondered what could possibly have motivated her. Boredom? Curiosity? Or simply the opportunity to explore an aspect of herself she had yet to acknowledge. They had drunk wine, watched TV for a while and waited until Brittany had gone to bed. When Nadine ran the tip of her forefinger down Kendra’s neck Kendra shivered but she didn’t object.
Since Kendra was concerned that her daughter might see them, their subsequent encounters occurred at Nadine’s place. When Nadine suggested they go on a tennis holiday to Mexico, just the two of them, Kendra viewed it as a satisfying way to get back at Randall for his myriad transgressions.
Kendra had never had sex with a woman before but after getting over her initial trepidation, she found it to be not dissimilar to being with a man: the sex became dull and soon ennui spread like the wild orange flowers that bloom in the high desert every April. When Nadine lost her job, finding work was all she talked about. Kendra was sympathetic but this was beginning to feel too much like being in an actual relationship so she ended it as gracefully as possible.
What the two women shared was more a series of trysts and Kendra’s view of Nadine is not predicated on a deep well of experience with her. This lack of information suggests that the woman’s behavior might now be highly unpredictable. That she is trying to peddle compromising emails is already beyond the pale. Clearly, Kendra has misread her. She had made Nadine for a party girl, not a criminal.
“Are you sure you don’t want to at least ask him?” Nadine says.
Kendra looks directly at her and whispers: “This is an extremely bad plan.”
“People really like Mary Swain,” Nadine says. “They think she’s sexy. Your husband is gonna need all the help he can get.”
Kendra considers this for a moment. She knows Nadine is correct on both counts. But this scheme reeks of desperate and foolish. Not every journalist would devour a tidbit like this, but what if Nadine tipped off the Machiavelli blogger?
“Bad things happen to people who do what you’re doing, Nadine. Really bad things.”
“What do you mean?” Nadine says, like they’re just two friends chatting.
“Use your imagination,” Kendra says. Her eyes are pitiless and Nadine seems startled by this response.
Kendra drops some money on the bar and leaves the restaurant. She almost expects Nadine to follow her out and continue their conversation in full view of the parking valet and is surprised to find herself out there alone. Her foot keeps time to the mad beat in her head as she waits fo
r her Chinese lantern-red Mustang and when it arrives she dives in as if she is fleeing a bank robbery.
http://WWW.DESERT-MACHIAVELLI.COM
10.30 – 7:32 P.M.
As we hurtle toward the Apocalypse—sorry, I mean the election—lets take a moment and reflect on the Randall Duke career. He’s an Army veteran and a graduate of the University of Santa Clara Law School. Randall is running for his fourth term in the United States House of Representatives. He’s a member of the House Rules Committee. He’s a member of the Homeland Security Committee and the Sub-committee on Border, Maritime, and Global Terrorism. And, finally, he’s a member of the Judiciary Committee. But what, exactly, has he done in Congress during his time as your representative? He would tell you he has brought federal dollars and jobs to the district. He would tell you he has fought for veterans’ benefits. He would tell you he has sponsored a hate crimes bill. But has his name been attached to any major piece of legislation? No, my friends, it has not.
Now lets look at Mary Swain. She’s a former flight attendant on a private jet with a sketchy educational background and the mother of four young kids. We know she likes church and sports and making babies. But do we really know her? She claims to have been born in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, close to Canada, but where are the records? Mary Swain has never produced a birth certificate. I think you Blogheads will agree there is a case to be made that she is a closet Canadian and is not even eligible to run for this office. Whatever you want to say about Randall Duke, the man served in an Army bomb disposal unit under combat conditions. He is an American hero. Mary Swain, on the other hand, has excellent legs.
CHAPTER NINE
When the sun drops behind the mountains but there is still light in the western sky, Jimmy leashes Bruno and takes him for a walk. Surveying the Yucca Valley spread below, he considers his older brother’s latest maneuver. He knows Dale would not have been released without Randall’s intercession and he also knows this wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t going to benefit Randall. Growing up in Palm Desert, the two oldest Duke boys had always been competitive with each other. Both were athletes and because Jimmy was the physical equal of his older brother, they were always scrapping for dominion. It was an ongoing conflict, never settled. Dale had liked Jimmy well enough, but he idolized Randall. Whether because Randall was the oldest, or the better-looking one, or just because he was less ornery than Jimmy—a boy who never backed down from a fight and wasn’t above picking them—it was his oldest brother that Dale tried to emulate. Throw in that Randall did well in school, always had fine looking girlfriends, and worked two jobs in the summer so he could afford an orange 1975 Camaro with racing stripes, mag wheels, dual overhead cams, and a V-8 engine, he was the one that was easy for a kid brother to admire.
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