Fatal Gambit

by Ray Flynt

  Sharon drove to the Philly office building where Oliver interned three days a week. From half a block away, she spotted him standing with his back against the marble façade, looking handsome in his three-piece suit, holding his white walking stick—the only indicator of his disability. As she pulled to the curb, he moved in her direction.

  Damn! He recognizes the sound of my engine.

  Oliver folded his cane, jumped in the car, and leaned toward her for a kiss.

  Sharon made up the rest of the distance, and their lips met. “How’s your day?”

  “Better, now that I’m with you.”

  “What happened?” She checked her side view mirror before easing into traffic.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Look. It’ll take us ten minutes to get there, and I’m going to keep nagging. Now what’s going on?”

  Oliver exhaled. “A jerk at work keeps making digs about my ability to do the assignments.”

  “What kind of digs?”

  “Like, ‘not sure if you’ll be able to handle this,’ or ‘you can’t see what you’re getting into,’ followed by a laugh.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You should speak to your supervisor.”

  “He is my supervisor.”

  Sharon clenched her jaw. “Well then, maybe his boss.”

  “He’s one of the partners.”

  “Dude. Everybody has a boss. There has to be somebody in the firm he’s accountable to.”

  “That would be the other partners—nine of them. I’m one of three interns. I know I’ll prove myself, but…”

  Sharon squeezed her Civic past a garbage truck stopped at the curb. “But what?”

  Oliver lowered his head. “Part of it is my own insecurity. This is a corporate law firm. My interest is criminal law. They’ve got the interns poring through contracts—not my favorite thing.”

  Sharon honked at the driver in front of her staring at his phone when the light turned green. “You’re so conscientious.”

  They traveled several more blocks. “Because I’m blind, he thinks I can’t handle the assignments. This morning, he brought files to a meeting with the interns and started passing them out, like dealing cards. It was my turn, and he handed me a thick folder, then said “No,” snatched it back, and instead gave me a skinny file. I felt belittled. One of the other interns commented after the meeting.”

  “You have your text to voice equipment, right?”

  She glanced and saw him nodding.

  “Show him you can handle whatever he gives you.”

  “I know.” Oliver still sounded glum.

  “Gimme his name. If he doesn’t shape up, I’ll post a scathing review of him and the firm—anonymously—on Yelp. That’ll get the attention of the partners.”

  Oliver laughed. “You’ve only got a block to go, so we can talk about this later.”

  Sharon pivoted toward him. “How do you know?”

  “I heard the five o’clock carillon at St. Ignatius. Growing up, my uncle lived right around the corner, near Henderson’s.”

  She glimpsed the kitschy logo for the restaurant, styled after the familiar ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas’ sign, before pulling into the mostly full parking lot.

  Even though Sharon persuaded Oliver to ditch his tie, they still looked like a mismatched pair, and drew stares when they entered.

  Happy hour patrons gathered near the crowded bar. She didn’t see Milo. The restaurant, in spite of their Monday night wings special, was only a third full. They sat at a table mid-way between the entry and kitchen.

  After ordering a Yuengling draft, Sharon reviewed the menu with Oliver. “I’m on expense account, so plan to eat hearty.”

  She ordered a six-piece traditional Buffalo wings with fries, while Oliver selected the nine-piece version. While waiting for their food to arrive, Milo walked in the door. The first she’d seen him without the aid of binoculars.

  Milo wasn’t married, the woman accompanying him was most likely a girlfriend. They looked as odd a couple as Sharon and Oliver, with Milo’s roly-poly physique in jeans and a T-shirt, and her stylish navy pantsuit, size four.

  Sharon nudged Oliver’s elbow. “They’re here.”

  The waitress grabbed two menus and motioned for Milo to follow. Sharon saw no hesitancy in the way he walked. Although she knew disabilities are often invisible, he didn’t move like a man claiming to be unemployable due to a back injury. Before sitting, Milo winked at Sharon. She averted his gaze, trying not to react with disgust. If her assignment succeeded, karma would be his bitch.

  Sharon leaned into Oliver. “He’s right behind you.”

  Oliver bobbed his head.

  Classic country blared from speakers above them, with artists like Patsy Cline, Tammy Wynette, and Hank Williams.

  Milo faced away from her. Sharon cupped her hand behind her ear for a better shot at hearing. Oliver grinned. Of course, he had no idea what she was up to.

  Their food arrived, complete with celery sticks and creamy blue cheese.

  “Let’s save room for dessert.” Signaling to Oliver that she wanted to stay as long as possible to observe Milo.

  She kept her eyes on Milo’s table between bites of her own food, occasionally making small talk to disguise her real reason for being there.

  Milo’s companion seemed to do most of the talking, even more so after food arrived. She picked at her salad while he devoured a fifteen-piece mega-order of Teriyaki wings. The woman spoke with her hands, seemingly discussing distances or giving dimensions.

  Music and the din from other diners made it a challenge to pick out more than a scattered word from the conversation at the next table. Sharon sighed.

  Oliver reached and found her hand. “You’re wearing a new perfume.”

  Amazing what he tunes into.

  “Yeah. I picked up a sample at Macy’s. It’s called Moroccan Spice. I figured it would complement the wings.” She laughed. “Do you like it?”

  “On you, yes.”

  His expression highlighted his dimples, and for an instant, Sharon forgot she was on assignment.

  Their waitress appeared and rattled off the dessert choices: apple pie à la mode, pecan brownie with caramel sauce, or a strawberry sundae. Alerted earlier to the prospect, Oliver plunged into the decision-making process. “I’m trying to choose between the brownie and the sundae.”

  At that moment, a different waitress approached Milo’s table delivering Styrofoam to-go containers and collecting a credit card from the lady.

  She’s buying. Interesting.

  Sharon grabbed her tummy. “I don’t think I could stuff another bite. We should go.”

  Oliver looked confused muttering, “Uh, no dessert, thanks.”

  She asked for the check.

  Milo and his companion were already headed for the door when Sharon added a tip and kept a copy of the receipt. She stood and tapped Oliver on the shoulder. “Come on, I want to see what they’re driving and maybe get a plate number.”

  Sharon watched as they got into a Chevy Silverado, with the navy pantsuit at the wheel. As the truck backed out of the space, Sharon made note of the license number. “That’s not his usual vehicle.”

  “It’s his sister’s,” Oliver said.

  She doesn’t look a thing like him.

  “Actually, half-sister,” Oliver continued. “She mentioned his step-mom.”

  Sharon stared at him in disbelief. “What else did you hear?”

  “A few things.”

  After returning to her car, he recounted the conversation he’d heard at the adjacent table. “The half-sister asked for his help in replacing a dilapidated deck on the property where she lives with his step-mother. Milo said he could do it as long as she paid for the materials. He asked if he could borrow her truck to pick up the supplies he would need.”

  “Did he say when?”

  Oliver shook his head.

  “Okay, this is promising. I’ll run the plate and find out where s
he lives. If I can get video of him hauling lumber and building a deck, that should be all the proof we need to bring his lawsuit to a screeching halt. You done good.”

  Oliver blushed. “Yeah, but I didn’t even get dessert.”

  “I have an idea. After I take you home, how about if I spend the night?”

  “Even better than dessert.”

  14

  Two days before the New York trip

  Brad Frame circled the Home Depot parking lot for the third time before pulling into a spot where he’d wait for Sharon to exit. He feared drawing unwanted attention if he continued to drive his Mercedes around a lot with ample empty spaces.

  He’d been pressed into service as a driver when Sharon’s car wouldn’t start—probably a frozen fuel line. He would recommend a can of Drygas and keeping the tank full. On Tuesday, Sharon learned the identity of Milo’s half-sister, Julia Spencer, and since then had divided her time between surveillance of Milo, in Upper Darby, and Julia, who lived in West Chester.

  If Oliver had overheard the conversation correctly, Julia needed a new deck and prevailed on her half-brother to build it for her. If they could photograph Milo muscling 4” by 4” posts and 2” by 10” support trusses in the construction of a deck, it could mean the end of his multi-million-dollar disability lawsuit against his employer.

  Sharon confirmed that Julia needed a new deck. The only evidence of a dilapidated one was a weathered ledger board beneath a set of French doors. Even better, her property backed onto a community park, making surveillance of the building project easier. The day before, she followed Julia to the same Home Depot and observed her placing an order for lumber. The clerk promised it would be available for pick-up this morning.

  Brad wondered what was taking so long.

  They’d followed Milo to Julia’s house where he swapped his Subaru Crosstrek for her Silverado. Since they knew his destination, trailing a quarter-mile behind wouldn’t raise suspicion.

  Fifteen minutes had elapsed since Milo parked in a handicapped parking spot and entered the store.

  Exit doors glided open, and Sharon hustled out wearing a down-filled parka with the hood pulled over her head. Sunshine belied the arctic temperatures in the mid-twenties. She held her phone and glanced about.

  Brad glided the car out of its parking spot and aimed for a rendezvous point in the lane nearest the store’s exit.

  Sharon jumped in.

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “Nobody. I was shooting video and didn’t want to be too conspicuous.”

  “What happened?”

  “Circle round once,” Sharon instructed. “I want to watch Milo when he comes out.”

  Brad made a U-turn at the end of the row and headed back toward the front of the Home Depot.

  Sharon pointed. “There he is.”

  Milo exited with his coat unbuttoned, holding a phone to his ear, engaged in animated conversation.

  Sharon lowered the window a few inches on the passenger side. “Go slow.”

  Brad stopped for oncoming traffic behind where Milo stood next to his half-sister’s truck. He could hear him shout. “Well, you fucked up. If you’d asked, this wouldn’t have happened. No. No. It’s gonna cost you more.” In the side view mirror, Brad spotted a car approaching behind him. He turned, momentarily beside the Silverado.

  “This is totally your fault. I don’t give a…” The sound of Milo’s voice trailed off as Brad aimed for the intersection with Route 30.

  Sharon closed the window.

  “What happened inside?”

  “Milo went to the service desk, gave his name, and mentioned he was picking up deck supplies his sister had ordered and paid for. The guy at the desk summoned another clerk and told him to bring the order. Most of the time I stood with my back to him, phone in hand, acting like I was discussing what paint color to select from a rack of samples. When the clerk arrived with a rolling cart full of wood, Milo went berserk. I began videoing. Milo said it needed to be pressure-treated lumber. They told him his sister hadn’t paid for pressure treated. He called her ‘a fucking bitch,’ which I have on video. If we get evidence of him constructing a deck, those remarks will demonstrate to the jury what a jerk he is.”

  Brad grinned. “Good work.”

  “Yes and no.” Sharon sounded disheartened.

  “How so?”

  “They promised him the corrected order on Monday, so I’m going to miss the opening night festivities. We’ll have to leave after seeing Hamilton on Sunday.”

  “I’ll see if I can arrange tickets for you and Oliver to see Gambit on Saturday night.”

  “Thanks.” Sharon brightened. “Maybe go backstage, too?”

  “Ninety minutes of my life I’ll never get back.”

  “Riveting. I’m still catching my breath.”

  BroadwayVamp Blog

  Comments from Gambit’s preview audiences

  15

  Critics’ weekend

  Zane bid farewell to his grandmother that Thursday morning in a parlor of Biddle’s Funeral Home at a somber gathering presided over by the Rector of St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church. Aaron accompanied him, even though he’d never met Zane’s grandmother.

  At Lillian’s age, many of her close friends had already passed or were too infirm to attend the memorial. Fewer than a dozen people participated, most of them residents from her Gramercy Park co-op. He recognized Harriet and Clyde, who lived on the same floor as his grandmother.

  Her ashes were already interred, alongside those of his grandfather, at a mausoleum in Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. He never knew his grandfather, Charles Zane Tilghman, who died at the age of 49. Though he’d been saddled with his middle name, the uniqueness of which might give cachet to a playwright, not so much for a kid trying to fit into middle school.

  Zane wondered if the rector ever met his grandmother. Her “Celebration of Life” seemed devoid of personal stories or remembrances.

  Ken showed up, sitting on the opposite side of the parlor like those artificial friends-of-the-bride-or-groom separations at a wedding. Ken wept openly. Zane’s tears wouldn’t come.

  When the service ended, the funeral director drew Zane into the office and handed him an envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “Three copies of the death certificate. You’ll need them to settle your grandmother’s estate.”

  Zane stumbled out into the lobby feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Ken was there waiting, and offered Zane a warm embrace, whispering “call me,” before Aaron tugged him away.

  They took a cab back to the theatre district where they stopped at Ciance’s deli for lunch. Despite not shedding any tears, Zane felt emotionally drained and picked at his salad.

  “You okay?” Aaron asked.

  Zane sighed. “Said goodbye to my grandmother this morning, and starting tonight my life is at the mercy of a couple dozen critics—The New York Times in particular. Why wouldn’t I be hunky dory?”

  Aaron frowned and continued munching his ham and cheese croissant.

  A chilly silence enveloped the table.

  Aaron cleared his throat. “Is everything cool with us?”

  Zane averted Aaron’s gaze.

  “It’s not, is it? What the hell’s wrong?”

  “Did you snort coke at Sweeney’s the other night?”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me.”

  Aaron bristled. “What if I did? You sound like my dad.”

  Zane stared at the ceiling listening to echoes from his past. Similar words had crossed his lips, spoken in anger to a long-forgotten lover with good intentions. He’d known plenty of people who had avoided the death spiral of addiction while using cocaine—their recreational drug of choice. Therapy clued him to his own additive personality. It wasn’t fair to project that onto Aaron.

  “You’re right. It’s not about you. It’s me. Because of my history, I’ve been warned to steer clear of Swee
ney’s.”

  “Who warned you?”

  “It wasn’t Ken, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Then who?” Aaron insisted.

  “Hector.”

  Shock registered on Aaron’s face. “Jesus.” After a beat, adding, “You should tell him to go fuck himself.”

  A wry smile crossed Zane’s lips. “Not while he’s in charge of birthing my baby.”

  Arriving at the theatre, they encountered a bus load of seniors waiting to be admitted for the matinee. Aaron aimed for the box office to arrange a few more comps for critics while Zane worked his way toward the stage.

  The wings were empty, so while he waited, Zane reached for his phone and checked the BroadwayVamp blog. It had become his obsession to see what theatre groupies were saying about the show. He didn’t mind the digs at the weatherman’s creaky performance—he agreed with those. It was the sweeping indictments of the play without offering any reasons or rationale that bothered him. He closed the app, wishing he hadn’t looked.

  Angela, the wardrobe guru, scurried between the dressing rooms.

  He pointed at the scissors she carried. “Problems?”

  “One crotch split and a few hanging threads. Nothing I can’t handle. Trevor’s pleased with his costume.”

  Zane had nearly forgotten Trevor Dodson would take over the role of Hayden Whitcomb that afternoon. As the great Russian actor and director Stanislavski had taught, “There are no small parts, only small actors.” He couldn’t wait to see what a real actor would bring to the pivotal role. In the minds of the audience—until they learn the truth in the third scene—the invitation to the Hamptons was Whitcomb’s gambit. His presence hung over the action, even when he wasn’t physically there.

  Zane popped into the men’s dressing room to say hello.

  Doug Brennan, who played Pawn, spotted him and said, “Shhh… the playwright’s here.”

  Zane laughed.

  Ed Minteer, who played Bishop, and Tucker, one of the standbys, offered a wave.

  Standing in front of the mirror adjusting his tie, Dodson cut an impressive figure. He was tall, portly, and the pinstriped suit Angela fitted him with looked appropriately tailored for a wealthy Hamptons’ estate owner. For an instant, Zane envisioned Michael Gambon playing the role in the movie version of Gambit.