One to Go

by Mike Pace

  “Impossible,” responded Zig, with a certainty born of his lofty status as a fourth-year associate at SHM.

  Brian Zigler, Virginia undergrad, Harvard Law, had been assigned to Tom as his mentor when Tom joined the firm. SHM had instituted a mentoring program for new associates several years earlier, and had received glowing reviews from top law schools for the firm’s sensitivity to the stress experienced by newcomers. Numerous other firms had copied the program, a feather in the cap of senior partners in the continuing battle for status among the city’s legal elites.

  Zig was single, and also lived in Adams Morgan. After the mentoring period had ended, they continued to hang out together. Zig had been there for him when he’d had to deal with the breakup, and Tom had moved to the area on Zig’s recommendation.

  “Then how could I have known?” asked Tom.

  “Who the hell knows? First, you could be reading her reaction wrong. Second, if it is true, maybe she said something about her instructor that at the time seemed innocuous, but your subconscious noticed the tone of her voice, or a tic in her expression. Then when you had your flash-vision, your subconscious mind shot that idea forward to your conscious mind.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, do you?”

  “Absolutely none.”

  They laughed, then clinked their glasses and drained half the contents.

  Zig turned back to front-door surveillance. “Bogie entering the grid.”

  Tom saw an attractive brunette come through the door and head toward two other girls sitting mid-bar. Zig caught her eye and waved. She waved back, then greeted her friends.

  “Who’s she?” asked Tom.

  “No idea,” responded Zig. “But before the night’s over, my friend, that will change.”

  Tom shook his head. Zig was not what anyone would call classically handsome. At an even six feet, he was two inches shorter than Tom. Red hair, acne scars, and maybe fifteen pounds overweight. But for some reason, women were attracted to him. Zig explained it as projecting confidence. He was probably right.

  After Gayle had left him for another man, Tom fought his sexual insecurity by chasing every skirt who walked across his path. Zig suggested his conquests were solely the result of young women desiring to date a lawyer. To prove him wrong, thereafter Tom had told prospects he was an elementary schoolteacher, which, up until a couple of years ago, had been true. While he admittedly noticed some drop-off, he’d discovered there were more than enough women who didn’t care what he did for a living.

  “So, what were their names again?” asked Zig.

  “Chad and Britney. He called her Brit.”

  “Hot?”

  “I don’t know, I guess so. I wasn’t checkin’ out her body, I was trying to save my daughter’s life.”

  “Who did she look like in real life? If you were visionating, chances are you were projecting someone you know for real.”

  “Nobody. She was blond, tan—” Afraid she’s burnt to a crisp. “slim, friendly—” Sadly, it was painful. Tom shuddered. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Fine by me.”

  Tom watched Zig slide off his stool and approach the brunette. Within a minute, he had all three girls laughing. He waved Tom over.

  Unable to stop thinking about the bridge vision, he decided the best way to clear his mind was to clear his pipes.

  He grabbed his beer, switched on his most charming smile, and headed for relief.

  CHAPTER 7

  The next seven days passed quickly. Tom called Janie three times during the week, and picked her up Friday after school for the weekend. They’d gone to a movie Friday night. Saturday afternoon, after getting up at five a.m. and putting in six hours at SHM, he’d taken her to visit his cousin, Estin, who lived in a small waterfront town south of Annapolis. They’d gone fishing for rock in Estin’s boat, and had eaten crabs out on a deck overlooking the Chesapeake Bay. He’d kept his promise to Gayle and had limited himself to three beers. Estin was the town’s sheriff and had administered a complimentary Breathalyzer—.07, no problem. Janie had a ball, and Tom couldn’t remember having such a pleasant weekend himself in a long time.

  When he dropped off Janie Sunday evening in Arlington, Rosie, her husband, Gino, and Angie were at the house. Tom thought Rosie seemed different—quiet, as if she were trying to put on a brave face. Probably his imagination.

  Rosie was five years older than Gayle. Tom had seen pictures from her high school yearbook that established her as one of the hottest girls in school. Short, trim, big rack, she was the cheerleader always posing in the front row. She had the same dark complexion as their Italian father, while Gayle—tall, blond, blue-eyed—drew from their mother’s northern European genes.

  Rosie was still short, but her waist had thickened and her boobs had drooped. Gino was more than ten years older than his wife. After the marriage, he’d gone to work for his new father-in-law’s residential construction business, and six years later had taken over control of the company.

  Despite their age difference, Tom had always gotten along pretty well with Gino. Short, weighing over 250 pounds with arms the size of Tom’s thighs, Gino was built like the proverbial brick shithouse. Both sports fans, Gino sometimes got ’Skins tickets from one of his suppliers, and a couple times a year he’d take Tom to a game. When Gayle had dumped him for Dr. Dave, Rosie had naturally sided with her sister, suggesting not too subtly that if Tom had paid more attention to his wife and daughter, Gayle wouldn’t have been compelled to seek comfort elsewhere. Gino’s analysis, on the other hand, was less subtle. As Tom heard him express once to Rosie when Gayle was out of earshot, “She screwed her doctor, so it’s her fault, period.”

  At Janie’s insistence, they’d brought back a dozen crabs from Maryland for her mom to enjoy. Janie spread newspapers on the kitchen table and, armed with the small wooden mallet Estin had given her, demonstrated to Gino, Rosie, and Angie the most efficient way to extract the sweet crabmeat. He knew every father thought his daughter was the most beautiful girl in the world, but, of course, with Janie it was true.

  Tom noticed Rosie seemed detached, only speaking when her opinion was specifically solicited. On his way out the door, Tom pulled Gayle aside.

  “So what’s the deal with your sister? She doesn’t seem her normal bitchy self.”

  “Got me. For the last week she’s been in a deep funk. I pressed her as much as I could, but she keeps denying anything’s wrong.”

  “What about Gino? Everything okay between them?”

  “As far as I know.”

  He said good-bye, received a big hug from his daughter, then walked out the door. As he reached his car, he felt someone close behind him. He froze, then turned, fearful he might see—it was Rosie.

  “Sorry, you startled me.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “I don’t know how you found out, but I’m begging you, for Gino and Angela’s sake, for my sake, please don’t say anything.”

  His initial response was to deny he knew what she was talking about. But he had to be certain. “How long has it been going on?”

  She bit her lip to fight back the tears. “Couple of years, but it’s over. A silly fling. I told myself it was harmless, a little bit of excitement every Wednesday afternoon. The woman thing, I don’t know. I never cheated on Gino, with a man, I mean. Somehow, doing it with a woman didn’t seem like it really counted. I swear it meant nothing. I love my husband and my daughter. I’m begging you—”

  “Your secret’s safe.”

  She embraced him and whispered, “Thanks, Tommy.”

  Over her shoulder, Tom saw Gino standing in the doorway staring at them. He didn’t look happy.

  For the first few days of the next week, Tom was swamped with work and had little trouble blocking from his mind any thoughts of an impending deadline. He only had a short time left in Corporate, and he wanted to do the best job he could finishing his assignments. While he hadn’t made up his m
ind completely, he strongly leaned toward slotting Corporate first on the preference list he’d fill out at the completion of his rotation. Ultimately, it was up to the department chair to decide who would join their practice group, but the associate’s preferences were taken into account.

  Still, as the week progressed he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. He couldn’t wait for Sunday to arrive.

  Zig asked if he wanted to go out Saturday night on a double date. Actually, more of a blind date—the girl was the roommate of Marcie, a Hill staffer he’d met the previous week at a fundraiser for Liz Guthrie, the junior senator from Oklahoma. Zig had introduced Marcie to Tom at Napoleon’s. After just one appletini, she’d been all over Zig. Barely five feet tall, she had a boyish figure—no hips, no boobs. Later, Zig had been quick to mention she’d been on the Oklahoma State gymnastics team, information conveyed with a clear message: you should see what she can do in bed.

  To entice Tom, Zig pitched Marcie’s roommate, Jess, as a “party girl,” winking when he said it. To Zig’s mild surprise, Tom agreed immediately. He didn’t care whether she was a nympho or a cold-fish spinster who wore ankle-length black dresses and her hair in a tight bun. He needed a distraction.

  Her full name was Jessica Hawkins. Attractive—slim, strawberry-blond hair—she wore a tight, green V-neck sweater that matched the color of her eyes, a mid-thigh black skirt and six-inch heels. Her vibe definitely skewed closer to the nympho than the spinster end of the scale.

  They went to the Hawk ‘n’ Dove on Capitol Hill, one of the oldest Irish pubs in the city, an institution dating back over forty-five years. Jess kept his attention through three taps of Guinness and a couple of buffalo burgers. Tom was impressed that she’d gone the burger and fries route instead of a girlie salad as Marcie had ordered.

  Like her roommate, Jess lost little time before conveying she was really into Tom, and took every opportunity to touch his arm or shoulder throughout the evening’s conversation. But as the night wore on, he’d sneak a glance at his watch, then scold himself for giving any credence to what he’d come to call his “bridge vision.”

  Zig suggested a round of Metaxa, and insisted the Greek brandy include a coffee bean, since that’s the way it had been served to him when he visited Santorini two summers earlier. The liqueur went down smoothly, and after the second round, Tom felt a hand rubbing his knee. Assuming it wasn’t Zig, he figured sex would be the ultimate diversion, and squeezed Jess’ knee under the table.

  The moment Tom touched her skin, Jess scrunched forward so his hand moved up her skirt. He slowly withdrew his hand, intentionally teasing her. But his movements seemed mechanical rather than sensual. Normally, he would be feeling some level of arousal at this point—what Zig called a semi—but the image of the bridge vision, which he’d pressed into the farthest reaches of his mind, continued to leak out.

  Afraid she’s burnt to a crisp—Sadly, it was painful.

  A little after midnight, they finally exited the bar. Despite exceeding his self-imposed drink limit, Tom felt stone-cold sober and was absolutely certain he could pass a Breathalyzer. He suggested it might be more convenient if he took Jess home, and was greeted with three matched expressions which loosely translated into, “duh.”

  During the trip to Foggy Bottom, where Jess rented a small townhouse with Marcie, she leaned heavily into him as he drove. She hummed along to the music from an oldies station on the radio playing doo-wop music from the ’50s and ’60s:

  “—and that set included three of the top 100 doo-wop ballads in history. The Penguins’ ‘Earth Angel,’ ‘Pennies from Heaven’ from the Skyliners, and the Platters with ‘My Prayer.’ Next up, The Shirelles…”

  Tom couldn’t stand it any longer. He gently freed his right hand. “Uh, need to check on my daughter, just to make sure she’s okay.”

  “Isn’t it a little late?”

  Tom could think of no rational response, so he ignored her and hit the speed dial on his cell phone. After the fourth ring, Gayle answered.

  “Hi, it’s me,” said Tom.

  Her voice was groggy with sleep. “Tom?”

  He heard a male voice in the background mumbling, “Who is it?” They weren’t married yet, but recently Gayle had transitioned Janie to accepting that Dr. Dave might be “camping out” with mommy some nights.

  Tom glanced at Jess as he spoke into the phone. “Sorry to call this late—”

  “Christ, it’s almost one o’clock.”

  This time he didn’t look at Jess. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just checking to see if Janie’s okay.”

  “Why wouldn’t she be okay?”

  “Just checking, that’s all.”

  “Are you drunk? Again?”

  “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but could you go check on her?”

  “I’m not going to get out of my warm bed to check on my daughter. Besides, I was up just a little bit ago, looked in, and she was fine.”

  He tried without complete success to drain the anxiety from his voice. “How long ago, what time?”

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes ago, what the hell difference does it make?”

  Tom glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 12:48 a.m. Even assuming she was off by 100 percent, Janie would’ve been confirmed safe after midnight. He couldn’t help but breathe a deep sigh of relief. “Thanks, sorry for calling so late. Give my best to Dave.”

  He ended the call before she could say another word.

  Three hours later he was sound asleep, with Jess spooned up naked against him in her canopy bed. Living up to and beyond her reputation, she’d been a sexual crazy woman, even offering to introduce him to the contents of what she called her toy box—a drawer in a bedside table filled with various sex-play devices—for the second round. He’d politely demurred and fallen instantly into a dreamless sleep.

  “Hail to the Redskins, Hail Victory—”

  Tom’s eyes flew open. The Redskins fight song was his phone ringer.

  “Braves on the war path—”

  He scrambled out of bed and dug the phone from his pants pocket. The screen alerted him that Gayle was calling. Janie.

  He answered quickly. “Gayle?”

  She was crying so hard she could barely speak. “Tom, you need to get over here.”

  Oh, my God. “Is Janie—?”

  “Not Janie—Rosie. She and Gino and Angela…staying over, and—”

  “What happened?”

  Lost among her sobs, her words were incoherent.

  He shouted into the phone. “Gayle, what happened?”

  “Gino—he beat Rosie to death.”

  CHAPTER 8

  During the drive to Arlington, Tom turned the radio volume up full blast, hoping the Shirelles, the Five Satins, and the Marcels would help block his mind from any thoughts about green minivans and missed midnight deadlines.

  It didn’t work.

  As he pulled in front of Gayle’s house, an Arlington police cruiser was just leaving. He could see Gino in the backseat, wedged tightly between two cops. For a moment, Gino’s eyes met his. Expecting to see anger or fear, Gino’s expression could only be described as bewildered.

  There was no sign of an ambulance; Rosie’s body must’ve already been taken away. A small crowd of neighbors appeared to be dispersing.

  Tom made his way up the steps. The door opened as he reached the porch. Janie, wearing her favorite purple Elmo pj’s, shot through the doorway into his arms.

  Her body wracked with each sob. “Daddy—Uncle Gino—”

  “Shhhh.” He gently pushed her head down onto his shoulder. Gayle was sitting in the living room, responding to questions from a young guy with a crew cut wearing wire-rim glasses. Probably an Arlington County police detective.

  On the other side of the room, Tom could see into the kitchen where Dave was comforting Angie. The girl was wrapped in a blanket. She sat at the table in front of a small p
late of Oreos and a full glass of milk. Dave’s head was bandaged.

  Gayle spotted him and stood, her favorite blue terrycloth robe wrapped tightly around her body. Tom couldn’t remember ever seeing his former wife look so forlorn.

  “Didn’t see you come in. This is Detective Berger.”

  Not wanting to release his grip on Janie, Tom just nodded.

  “What the hell happened?” asked Tom.

  Gayle nodded toward Janie. Tom understood. “Maybe you and David can put the girls to bed while I finish up with the detective,” said Gayle. “I didn’t mean to wake you, but she wouldn’t go to bed without seeing you.”

  “Glad you did.”

  Gayle alerted Dave, and the two men carried the girls upstairs to Janie’s room. There were two twin beds, but the girls insisted on sleeping together. As soon as their heads hit the pillows, they were out.

  On the way down the stairs, Tom considered asking Dave about his head wound, but concluded it best to hear the whole story from start to finish. When they reached the living room, Berger was just leaving. He asked for Tom’s card in case he needed to contact him later for additional background on Gino. As soon as Berger left, they sat around the kitchen table, and Gayle poured everyone a cup of coffee. “We were celebrating Rosie’s birthday. She wouldn’t turn thirty-five till Tuesday, but we thought we’d celebrate it on the weekend.”

  “Gino had been acting weird all night,” said Dave. “He’d had a few beers before they arrived and more than a few after they got here. Nobody was concerned; in fact, Gino and Rosie had decided they’d spend the night so they could all have a few drinks and not have to worry about driving home.”

  Tom knew Gino could put away the booze, but he was a big man, and Tom could honestly say he’d never seen the man drunk. He wondered if that information in the hands of the authorities would help or hurt Gino.

  “So we’d just sung happy birthday,” said Gayle, “and right before Rosie blew out the candles, Gino pulls this folded piece of notepaper from his pocket. Rosie, she just kind’ve froze up. Tom, I’ve never seen her so scared.”