I perked up my ears.
“You and Mr. Carmichael are going to approach my husband and make him an offer.”
“How much?”
“No. That money is my grandfather’s. He worked for it. He gave his life for it. He wouldn’t approve of the way I enjoy it, but he’d want me to enjoy it and not some politician.”
“If not money, then what?”
“His career.”
“You’ll have to elaborate.”
“You and Mr. Carmichael are going to meet with my husband. You are going to tell him that he should file for divorce or his wife will destroy his career.”
“I take it you have something on your husband?”
“No. He’s so clean you could eat off of him.”
“I’m stumped.”
“I have something on me.”
“You’re being coy, Mrs. Hessenbaum.”
“I guess it’s better if I show you, Mr. Gibb. Followed me. Bring your drink.”
I picked up my drink and laid down forty bucks for Bobby. I followed Mrs. Hessenbaum’s ponytail off the portico and into the country club. I followed the hem of her skirt as it playfully flipped up with each step out a side entrance. I followed the swing of her hips down a wooded lane to where three bungalows sat hidden by a small stand of trees. I followed her legs through the front door of the last little house.
It was a small, one-room place with a bed off to one side and a sitting area with a TV off to another side. There was a kitchenette in the rear and what looked to be a bathroom behind it.
“Have a seat, Mr. Gibb.”
I passed up the large overstuffed couch for two and took a seat in the most uncomfortable looking chair in the room. I took another long drag off my highball. She saw me pass up the couch and tossed me a crooked grin while wrapping those lips around her straw to take another hit off of her Dark ‘N Stormy. She flipped back a seascape hanging on the wall and unlocked a small wall safe. She pulled out a flash drive.
I’ll admit that old cat killer jumped into my lap.
She left the wall safe open as she walked back. She inserted the flash drive into the TV.
“I had some security cameras installed in this bungalow about six months ago, Mr. Gibb.”
I kept quiet. Instead of speaking, I took a drink. You rarely get in trouble keeping your mouth shut.
“They’re inside the bungalow, Mr. Gibb.”
My eyes jumped involuntarily around the room.
“They’re off now, Mr. Gibb.”
I didn’t believe her, but I took another self-conscious drink. She picked up the remote and changed the TV’s input over to ‘USB.’
“Have another good long sip, Mr. Gibb. You’ll need it.”
The screen was quartered. In each quarter, the view of a different camera showed the same scene. It was the room I was sitting in at that moment. Mrs. ex-Governor, ex-Senator Hessenbaum was with a man not her husband. Both were jay-bird naked and doing what jay-bird naked adults do when jay-bird naked in a country club’s private bungalow. Holly Hessenbaum was doing it vigorously. Her partner was straining to keep to the pace she was setting.
“You recognize him, Mr. Gibb?”
I directed my attention from Holly Hessenbaum’s frenetic form to the face of the fellow underneath her. The man had Ken-doll good looks complete with cleft chin and golden tresses.
“He looks familiar.”
“He’s a political reporter for one of the national networks.”
She hit a button and the images sped up. The high speed made the coitus comical. She stopped the video when the lighting changed. The political reporter was gone now. Another man was in his place.
“And him?”
I looked at the naked man on the screen lying on his side taking it slow with Mrs. ex-Governor, ex-Senator Myron Hessenbaum.
“Yes, I know him. The CEO of...”
“Yes, he is that and a big campaign fund bundler for my husband.”
She fast-forwarded again and stopped the video.
I gave a long whistle when I saw the face of the man in the throes of Holly Hessenbaum’s passion.
“Yep. Him too. And he likes it like that all the time by the way. Exciting at first, boring after a couple of hours. Okay, that’s enough. There’s more, but I’ll stop here. I feel like I’m showing off.”
She turned off the TV and sat on the edge of the bed.
I gathered myself together.
“Why do you want a divorce? You don’t seem restricted by your marital vows.”
“No. I’m not. I sleep with who I want when I want. I have since I was nineteen.”
“So why a divorce?”
“Because Cincinnati is boring.”
“What?”
“I grew up here and when I went to college, I choose Barnard in Manhattan. I stayed in Manhattan. I had fun. I really had a lot of fun. But then I got bored. I met Myron at a fundraiser an old friend was having for him and thought it’d be fun to live in D.C. as a senator’s wife. Washington is full of dull people, but it was exciting being close to power. When I got bored, I caught a train north and in two hours was in Manhattan. If the winters got too cold, I caught the Silver Star down to South Beach. But then Myron lost that election and it was back to Cincinnati for us. It’s miserable here. No culture. No theatre. No night-life. It’s a black hole of boredom.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Haven’t I heard your husband is running for the senate again.”
“The election is in two years. Do you know how miserable the campaign trail is, Mr. Gibb? It’s brutal torture. It’s a year of listening to idiots, talking to idiots, eating with idiots in their idiot little towns all over Ohio. I want out now. I want to move back to New York, but Myron won’t have it. He won’t sign off on the checks from the trust funds. He pays for the country club, gives me a clothing allowance and the cars, but that’s it. Nothing else. He said my living in Manhattan will damage his reelection. It won’t look right and he says I’ll get into trouble.”
“It looks like he’s right,” I said nodding to the now blank TV.
“He is. I like trouble.”
“So what’s the plan?” I ask.
“The plan, Mr. Gibb, is for you and Mr. Carmichael to tell my husband that unless he files for divorce, these videos get released to the press. It’ll destroy his career. Once the videos are out he’ll have to file just to save face. Why not file now and avoid the embarrassment?”
“You want me to blackmail Senator Hessenbaum for you?”
“It is not blackmail. It’s a negotiation.”
“You want me to negotiate a former governor, a former senator into filing divorce papers against his wife that will not only send him to the poor house but cause problems for his reelection campaign. And as motivation, you want me to tell him that his wife has pornographic films of herself with several prominent men that she’ll release if he doesn’t file for divorce.”
“That’s about it.”
“That’s some plan.”
“It’s the best I could come up with.”
“And you’re not afraid of the damage to your reputation?”
“You’re old fashioned, Mr. Gibb. A damaged reputation is an asset in today’s world. Worst case is I end up with a reality show.”
“I’ll have to talk to Mr. Carmichael about this.”
“Sure. I understand. I’ll give you both two weeks to sort this out.”
“Why not just tell your husband about this little plan of yours?”
“Does any of this sound like fun?”
“No.”
“That’s why you’ll do it, Mr. Gibb. I like fun things. This isn’t fun.”
Mrs. ex-Senator, ex-Governor Hessenbaum kicked off her shoes and pulled the tie from her pony tail. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders and over the curves of her breasts. She leaned back onto the bed, parted her legs slightly and smiled.
“You’re a good l
ooking guy. Why don’t we have a bit of fun before you go?”
I’m not saying I wasn’t tempted. It’s not often that sexual favors are offered up to a man so directly—at least without a form of payment being involved. And never by a woman who is so exquisitely formed. But she made me mad. It was too easy for her to threaten her husband—a fine man—and to possibly destroy the lives of her lovers by turning over those videos to the media. Plus, she was such a whore about it.
I walked to the bed and stood between her partially spread legs and used my knees to part them wider. I bent down and ran my fingers into her hair and held the back of her head firm. Her hair was the softest I’d ever felt. I bent down and kissed her. I flicked my tongue across hers. She flicked back. Tasty. I bit her lip hard then pushed her away. I stood up as she gave a little cry of pain.
“You like to play rough, Mr. Gibb?”
“Yes, but I don’t play as rough as you,” I said with a nod toward the TV. “Anyway, I’d rather my bare ass not end up on the news.”
“Don’t be silly. The cameras are off. And you’re too unimportant for my husband or the media to be interested in. You’re a nobody, Mr. Gibb.”
“Thanks. You’ve given me something to work toward.”
I walked over to the table and drained the last of my Dark ‘N Stormy. I walked out the door without a look back and made for the office. Along the way I dialed up Mr. Carmichael and told him to stay put. No leaving the office. We had to talk.
With nothing more than a nod to Mrs. Johnson at the reception desk, I skipped my office and went directly to Mr. Carmichael’s. I ran down my hour with Mrs. ex-Senator, ex-Governor Myron Hessenbaum only leaving out her offer of a little post-meeting slap and tickle. He didn’t interrupt or check his email or the Hessenbaum’s account files. He listened, and when I was done talking, he pushed himself away from his desk and leaned back.
“An amazing woman,” he said after a few moments.
It wasn’t the response I thought he’d give.
“Are you charmed by her, Mr. Carmichael?”
“I’m just impressed. Her actions are completely amoral, of course, but you have to admire the brass it takes to implement such a plan.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it ‘brass.’”
“You only saw those three men. Did she name any more?”
“No. And I didn’t ask.”
“Very well. Let me make some phone calls and I’ll decide how to proceed.”
I went back into my office and busied myself with some reports. I had to make sure all our clients who were turning seventy and a half that year were set up to take their I.R.S. mandated required minimum distributions. I was going to have to redo the work because I couldn’t concentrate. My eyes kept drifting over to my right where my phone showed Mr. Carmichael’s line was lit up solid red for three hours. Who was he calling, I wondered. My eyes then went to the left where I’d recently posted a silver framed picture of Kendra. I was looking at Kendra’s face but thinking of Mrs. ex-Senator, ex-Governor Hessenbaum’s bungalow-bed offer. It would have been an experience to not tell my grandchildren about.
The markets closed at four. Usually, I hear Mr. Carmichael locking his door at that time and his footfalls out of the office, but a quick glance at my phone showed that red button still on fire.
It stayed that way until six thirty. Mrs. Johnson had left. Before going, she told me goodbye with an eyebrow arched that asked “What’s up?” I looked back down at my desk as if to say, “I’m not telling.” She left. The light was lit until seven. I jumped when my line buzzed and Mr. Carmichael asked me to join him in his office.
“I’ve been on the phone with several individuals. It’s suggested I keep my distance, but they’re comfortable with you negotiating this with Senator Hessenbaum.”
“What individuals?”
“People with an interested in this turning out well for Senator Hessenbaum and our country. I’ve got you an appointment with Senator Hessenbaum tomorrow morning at nine. He’ll meet you outside the terminal at Lunken Field. I’ll have Mrs. Johnson clear your calendar for the day. There is no telling how long this could take.”
I’ve never believed in conspiracy theories. I’ve never believed in shadowy men controlling governments from behind the scenes. The Freemasons, the Illuminati, the Episcopalians. Mr. Carmichael’s referencing ‘people with an interest’ made me question my unquestioning nature. I wanted to know who ‘they’ are but thought better of inquiring.
“Do you have any advice for how I tell Senator Hessenbaum about his wife’s threat?”
“Tell him exactly what his wife proposes. He’s a politician and accustomed to negotiation. Take his counteroffer to Mrs. Hessenbaum. Try to facilitate an agreement of some kind that makes Mrs. Hessenbaum happy and doesn’t hurt Senator Hessenbaum’s career.”
“I’m going to tell a former governor and a former senator that his wife filmed herself making the beast with two backs with multiple men to embarrass him into filing for a divorce. Also, that I’ve seen the videos. What if he kills me on the spot?
Mr. Carmichael chuckled.
“He won’t. He is a good, kind, wise man who made a bad second marriage.”
“Any other guidance?”
“Use your best judgment. But before you accept this bit of client service,” Mr. Carmichael continued, “I want you to realize that this is dangerous. I recommend you have your lady friend move out of your place.”
“My lady friend?”
Kendra had moved in with me but that’s nothing I speak about at the office.
“I assume you’re sharing your home with a lady friend. You’ve put on a bit of weight. You coordinate your clothes better. That’s usually the sign of a woman living with you.”
I let it pass. He was right.
“Dangerous?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“How so?“
Even as I asked the question I began to piece the answer together. I was putting myself in some very hot, very turbulent waters. Mr. Carmichael filled in the color for me.
“Multiple ways,” he said. “Senator Hessenbaum wants his senate seat back. The senate is nearly equally divided. Control of the senate may come down to one seat—Senator Hessenbaum’s seat. And what does the senate control? A Federal budget of over three and a half trillion dollars. The party who controls the senate gets to divvy up those funds the way each wants. Each senate committee chairperson gets their own little piece of that pie. And the senate majority leader gets to have her fingers in that whole pie. Mrs. Hessenbaum is risking putting the majority leader and all those committee chairmen and all those senators out into the cold and letting the other party control all that taxpayer money.
“Then there are those men that Mrs. Hessenbaum was intimate with. Each of them is very powerful. Each of them has their own interests—personal, political and financial—to protect. Some may not care. Some may care a very great deal. You will not only be negotiating a divorce, you’ll be negotiating the future professional and personal lives of these men who have entangled themselves with Mrs. Hessenbaum and you may very well be negotiating the political future of our country.”
I went pale and swallowed hard.
“I guess I better get Kendra under wraps, eh?”
“I’ll have Mrs. Johnson book her a room at the Netherland under an assumed name.”
Mr. Carmichael showed the same comforting smile he uses on clients who are spooked by a bear market.
“You’ll do well.”
It’s a problem I’d never expected to have to deal with: how to tell your live-in girlfriend that you’re at the center of a yet undisclosed political sex scandal that could have enormous repercussions from Cincinnati to Washington, D.C.? How do you tell her that you are possibly now in physical danger and, thus, she is also in physical danger and, thus again, she needs to check into a hotel under an assumed name?
You pretty much say it like that. There’s really only one way she can res
pond.
“Give me a break, Jake,” she said. “You’re a financial advisor. You know what financial advisors do? They wear suits and sit in offices and look at spreadsheet and stock tickers and charge their clients to talk to them. They play golf and drink too much and have so-called conferences at fancy resorts where they catch the crabs. They don’t act like private detectives. They don’t get involved with their client’s family lives. They don’t get themselves put at the center of any national political sex scandals. It doesn’t happen Jake. No. No. I won’t argue with you. Have it your way. Don’t tell me the truth. If you or Mr. Carmichael are paying, I’ll check into the Netherland. Just be warned—and tell your boss the same thing: I’m getting room service every night, I’m scheduling manis and pedis and hour long massages and I’m drinking at the bar and signing all the costs to the room. I’m going to stick whoever is paying for this with one fat bill. Got it?”
I had indeed got it, but she was out the door before I could tell her I’d got it.
At five minutes to nine in the a.m. the next morning, I parked my car in front of the terminal building at Lunken Airport. I took a deep breath and wished I kept a flask in the car. I needed to steady my nerves. Instead, I took some deep breaths and admired the terminal.
It’s an aged beauty of an art deco building. At one time, it was Cincinnati’s main airport. Lindbergh landed here. So did the Beatles. But it’s bordered on two sides by rivers—one being the mighty Ohio and on the other two sides by main roadways, not to mention several hills. In the past, the rivers would flood and swamp the low lying airport. By the 1950s, flooding and larger airliners were making the airport a relic. While Cincinnati politicians squabbled on how to solve the problem, some investors in Northern Kentucky got their act together and built an airport south of the river—which is how Cincinnati, Ohio’s airport ended up in the Commonwealth of Kentucky.
I finally quit using the architecture to delay. I went in search of the man.
Although I’d seen his picture for years in the news, my eyes almost passed over ex-Senator, ex-Governor Hessenbaum. He was smaller than I would have guessed. Not only shorter, but somehow smaller than I thought a senator should be. He was dressed as any middle-aged, eastside Cincinnati man dresses. He wore comfortable brown shoes, pressed khakis and a red sweater over a white Oxford that showed an allegiance to the either the Cincinnati Redlegs, to the University of Cincinnati or to a simple preference for red sweaters. It didn’t really matter which. Like all men of his milieu, his hair was thin and grey and precisely combed and parted on the side and hair-sprayed down.
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