by N. C. Lewis
Duke half turned to face the woman. "Rich enough to keep me a pretty lady."
"Really?" the woman said, taking a seat. A tantalizing trace of perfume filled the stale air. "Do you think I'm pretty?"
"Mighty fine," Duke replied, running his eyes along the length of her body.
"Another drink for the fine lady?" smirked the bartender. His eyes gleamed with something Duke couldn’t read. "The usual, Lesley?"
"On me," replied Duke, reaching for his maxed-out credit card. "And one for yourself, barman."
"Oh, that's so kind," replied Lesley. She gestured around the empty bar. "We have the entire place to ourselves. It isn't often I have the pleasure of welcoming a newbie into my nest."
"You telling me your nest is empty?" Duke asked in a low tone, admiring her extraordinarily long eyelashes.
She inclined her head a fraction of an inch. "Oh, plenty would like to climb in… but you see I'm very particular. I'm looking for a gentleman—if you see what I mean." She ran a hand along her curves.
"Ah, yes." He took a sip of gin, looking delighted.
The bartender placed the drinks on the counter, folded his arms, and winked at Duke. "Drink up and be on your way."
Lesley batted her eyelashes and stroked her locks of red hair.
Well, if I can't make progress with my article I may as well have some fun, Duke told himself. When I get paid for my next security gig, I'll pay down the credit card a little. He made a rumbling noise in his throat and then said, "Ready, Lesley?"
"I'm always ready, on the off chance, for an acceptable opportunity to come along. And it is such a pleasure to meet you." Lesley stood up. "Come on, gorgeous, let's go to my place."
That's funny, Duke thought suddenly, glancing down at Lesley's feet. She wore stilettos, long and broad like platform shoes from a 1970s glam rock band. The shoes were too long, too broad, and too high. He stared at her face, seeing through the bright lipstick, heavy makeup, false eyelashes, and wig.
Then it struck him. Lesley wasn't a she, she was a he.
Duke Savage hurried from the bar to the angry shouts of Lesley, whose voice had dropped an octave. In the bright light of the late evening sun, he scurried a block and a half down the street and turned a corner before he stopped and rested against a low, whitewashed wall. He was out of breath, sweating, his hands shaking.
He cursed.
Now, chasing his big story, he had sunken to picking up men who dressed as women in seedy bars, and it was all Danny Fontane's fault.
Duke stood up, straightened out his jacket, and put on a pair of sunglasses even though it was dusk. It was fruitless looking for the woman on his laminated card. If his dream of a big payday wasn't to go up in smoke he'd have to try a different tactic. But what?
The only thing standing between him and his payday was Danny Fontane. There was a rumble of thunder. It began to rain. Suddenly, Duke's mouth twisted with bitterness. "Danny Fontane's going to spill the beans," he muttered. "And I'm the person who's going to make him talk."
Chapter 6
A keen wind whipped the branches of the tall oak trees that lined the yard of Amy and Nick King's two-story, southern colonial house on Gaston Avenue. The storm had passed, leaving an inch of rain and an evening sky darkened by clouds and loaded with more. Noel Laird sat on the deck staring out into the blustery evening, alone and preoccupied.
Amy stood by the patio doors that led onto the deck and the neatly tended garden beyond. "See you later, Noel. Enjoy your evening in with Ruby."
The marriage between Ruby and Noel almost crumbled partly because of Noel's inability to hold down a job. His only glimmer of success was his last job, for an international investment firm, but the long hours turned him into a distant shadow of himself. It left Ruby on her own filling the void by shopping. Then the investment firm went bankrupt, and Noel found himself out of work, again.
"Okay, enjoy your meal," Noel replied without taking his eyes off the yard.
Amy thought about saying more but kept quiet and stood for several moments staring out onto the deck. Things had improved between Ruby and Noel, but she could sense a growing wave of hopelessness gradually washing over him. He needed a break, and soon.
"Come on, Amy," Nick said, walking up from behind, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Let's leave the two youngsters and have some fun."
"Saucy boy," Amy replied, turning around, embracing her husband. "Where is my Prince Charming taking me this evening?"
"Ah ha, that's for me to know and you to find out."
Amy giggled.
Ruby walked into the room. "Oh Mom and Dad, you two are acting like teenagers! Go on, get… and enjoy your meal." She strode through the patio doors out onto the deck taking a seat next to Noel, leaning her head against his shoulder.
There was a break in the clouds. Late evening sunlight sent a final golden shaft of rays onto the moist lawn, then faded to orange and red. Together they sat in silence for several minutes gazing at the changing light.
Ruby's mind drifted back to the night when Noel had proposed. They were in Dallas for a show, and Noel took her to the fanciest restaurant she'd ever been to. They dined in candlelight to the strains of classical music piped low through unseen speakers. She'd giggled and laughed at Noel's offbeat sense of humor. That night she could see how much Noel loved her in his eyes.
At the end of the romantic dinner, he pulled out a small black box, took her hand and bent down on one knee.
"Yes," she had said delighted and a little in shock. "Yes, yes, yes!"
Now as she leaned against the warmth of his shoulder, she knew it was a mistake to give up. She still loved him. "Darling, dinner's ready. Let's eat."
Noel helped her up, and they strolled, arm in arm to the house. In the kitchen, he sat at the table and sniffed—enchiladas. He loathed enchiladas.
When Ruby was upset or wanted to talk she'd head to the grocery store. Returning, she would sit in the kitchen with her feet propped up, reading Mexican cookbooks and preparing a meal exactly as it appeared in the text. It always seemed to involve enchiladas. He had been presented with varying versions of the gooey, Mexican staple over their short marriage but never had the heart to mention his distaste for it.
Now, as he sat at the kitchen table, he prepared his stomach for the loathsome dish.
"There you go," said Ruby, dishing out an extra-large helping on his plate. "Enchiladas suizas or Swiss-style." She added salad and dished out her serving. "Enjoy!"
Noel picked up his fork, prodded the glutinous mess and steeled himself to take the first mouthful, but couldn't control his rising nausea. He put down his fork.
Ruby was watching him closely. She smiled sweetly and pointed at her plate. "The white sauce is béchamel, a simple mixture of flour, butter, and milk. Go ahead, enjoy." She popped a generous forkful into her mouth and chewed, her eyes half closed." Mmm, delicious."
Noel chased a dollop of the slithery mess around his plate with a fork, stabbed it, haltingly bringing the substance to his mouth. He swallowed hard, not allowing it to touch his palate and immediately took a gulp of water.
"What do you think?" asked Ruby, eager to please her husband. "It took half a day to do the shopping. Then there was the preparation followed by the cooking. Do you like it, darling?"
"Wonderful," he replied, not looking at his wife. "I'm a very lucky man."
Ruby beamed. "Are you sure? It's a little different from my usual recipe."
He shot a warm smile at Ruby. She smiled back, but her eyes told him there was something on her mind. What would it be this time?
Noel sighed, picked up the fork again, all the while watching his wife closely as she made up her mind.
"How is the job search going?" she said bluntly.
So that was it.
"Well," Noel said carefully. He'd searched a few websites but hadn't gotten around to filling in any applications. The shock of being promoted to second-in-command in his last job, just before the company
tumbled into insolvency after the founder was murdered, had left him depressed. "Today sort of came and went."
Her tone became brittle. "How many applications did you fill in while I was out shopping?"
It bothered him that Ruby sounded like his mother. "None."
"What about while I was preparing the meal?"
He responded with a murmur that didn't convey much enthusiasm, shook his head dispiritedly, and pushed the plate away. "It's not that easy."
Ruby snorted. "How difficult is it to fill in an online application? It doesn't take ten minutes. Well, does it?"
"I'm looking," came Noel's feeble response. "Been feeling low today."
Ruby's tone stiffened. "Dr. Walden prescribed action rather than drugs. He told you to get up and start applying for new positions. If you don’t do something, how will you ever get better?"
"Yes, I know, I'm visiting with Dr. Walden tomorrow morning, but—"
Ruby snapped. "You can't mope around here all day. Get a job and pick yourself up or get out!"
Chapter 7
Dr. Walden knew it wasn't a question of if Danny Fontane would call.
He was in his office on Neal Street, the east side of town. It was little more than a cedar-paneled room with potted plants in the window with an old oak desk and a small coffee table next to an armchair. His first patient wasn't due for another hour. Then another patient after lunch, business was slow. It had been slow for several years.
He poured a whiskey, picked up a magazine article on the tactics of the chess grandmaster, Bobby Fischer, and stretched out in the worn leather of the armchair. He took a sip from his glass, glanced at the Egyptian chess set on the side table, always ready and waiting for a quick game, and read the article about one of the greatest chess players of all time.
Dr. Walden prided himself on his mental agility, his ability to think things through to a satisfying conclusion. As a cognitive-behavioral therapist, he worked with patients to transform negative patterns of thought into more productive sentiment. That's why he enjoyed chess. It wasn't just playing the game, but all that came with it—the psychological preparation, tactics, attack and defense, opening and endgame techniques.
As he read, slumped deep in his chair, time seemed to stand still. Like an explorer stumbling across an oasis, Dr. Walden dove deep into the cool flowing waters of chess history, philosophy, and strategy. The only movement was his limbs twitching ever so slightly and his eyes darting keenly across the page.
It was the stupefying clamor of the desk telephone that shook him out of his trance-like state. Stunned by the abruptness and the pressing urgency of the familiar ringtone, he remained, for a few moments, in a state of total bewilderment.
Who? What? Where?
And then, as he gradually returned into the present, his lip curled in disgust.
It was Danny Fontane.
Chirp, chirp, chirp.
He'd set the upbeat chirpy ringtone to identify Danny. Once, when he was in a private consultation with a patient, it rang. He'd found it amusing. Now, it annoyed.
He took a long gulp from his glass and stood up. He knew what Danny wanted even before he picked up. What he always wanted—money.
For a moment, Dr. Walden hesitated, deep in thought. "Perhaps," he said aloud, "if I had hired an assistant they could screen my calls. Screen out the likes of Danny Fontane." But he knew he liked to play solo. An assistant would take time to train, poke their nose into his business, and whether he liked it or not, he would have to take Danny's calls.
Still, he thought, rolling the idea around in his mind, it would take some of the paperwork off his hands, give him more time to focus on his other business. "And if I train the person to keep their nose out of my private activities…" Suddenly optimistic, he ran over a list of potential candidates in his mind. "Ah," he said at last. "I know of just the right person… Yes, Noel Laird would be perfect. Problem solved."
Except the telephone was still ringing.
Chirp, chirp, chirp.
Dr. Walden drained his glass and ambled over to his desk. Speed was not of the essence. Danny wouldn't give up. The phone would continue to ring until he picked up.
"Hello, this is Dr. Walden," he said in his upbeat, professional voice.
There was no answer, only a rapid hyena laugh, deliberate, measured and rhythmic, like the swing of the pendulum in a grandfather clock.
He ran his left hand through his hair. His right hand growing slowly damp with sweat clutched the handset as he held his breath, his heartbeat racing. "Dr. Walden… Hi, Danny… Slow, I guess, but I'm making ends meet… How much?… I can't pay that… Uh-huh… Uh-huh… I'll need some time… Okay. Uh-huh. I will… by Saturday… I know… Bye."
He slammed the handset down staring at it in disbelief. Then cursed at the mistake he had made decades ago. A mistake for which he was still paying.
Dr. Walden closed his eyes, remembering. Two decades ago, Danny Fontane was an out-of-work actor. Struggling to make it on the stage he'd visited as a patient. Danny had responded to treatment, made solid progress, but struggled to find paid work. When Danny couldn't pay his therapy bill, Dr. Walden offered to waive it in exchange for help with his administration. That—Dr. Walden had long recognized—had been a mistake.
Danny uncovered Dr. Walden's other business; the business venture that kept his therapy practice afloat. Dr. Walden had paid him to keep quiet. It worked, and for almost seventeen years as Danny's fame rose, business continued as normal.
And then two years ago, Danny contacted him. Down on his luck, Danny needed cash. Dr. Walden was the tap. A tap Danny had returned to frequently.
Dr. Walden poured another drink. And it didn’t seem to matter that the clock, which hung at a slant on the office wall, indicated it was still breakfast time.
There was a timid knock at the door.
"Enter."
The door opened about ten inches, and the worried face of a woman poked through the gap. She was fifty but looked closer to seventy.
"Come in, Mrs. Riera."
Maybelline Riera stepped into the office carrying a large envelope in her hand. Her anxious eyes darted around the small, cedar-paneled room.
"Is safe today?"
"All clear. Please take a seat." Dr. Walden gestured to the leather armchair with his whiskey glass.
Maybelline sat down, making fidgety movements, passing the envelope from one hand to the other. Born in a village, about sixty miles south of Guatemala City, she came to the United States hidden between sacks of flour with her youngest sister, Camila. They settled into life as undocumented workers. Camila married, had children. Life was uneventful until Camila witnessed an attack on a frail, old woman and hung around to give a statement to the police.
The authorities deported Camila.
Maybelline didn’t want that to happen to her. She cared for Camila's three children as best she could making ends meet by working many jobs.
Dr. Walden tented his hands, stared at Maybelline, and waited.
"Señor Walden," she began. "I have money for you, here." She waved the envelope. "You take and we good, no?"
He leaned back in his swivel chair with his hands locked behind his head, staring hard at Maybelline. But he didn’t speak.
"Money all here for you, señor."
If there had been a mirror in the tiny office, Dr. Walden would have seen a rather nasty smirk on his face. "The price has gone up."
Maybelline put a hand to her cheek. "No entiendo. I don't understand."
"Inflation," he said dryly then paused for a sip of whiskey. "The price is double."
Her face crumpled in despair. "Since when?"
"Right now."
She stood up and paced from her chair to the desk then back, her head spinning. "Señor Walden, I work four jobs, no have more money."
"Life is tough; what else is new?" He cupped his chin in his hand and looked thoughtful. "I need a cleaner for this office; you can start with that. Three morn
ings a week before I arrive. That'll cover three fourths, the other fourth is cash only. Lo entiendes?"
She looked at him, trying to keep the distaste off her face. "Sí señor, I understand."
"Superb," he said evenly and got to his feet, indicating the meeting was over. Maybelline placed the envelope on his desk, hurried from the room, her tear-stained face hidden from Dr. Walden's stone-cold eyes.
Before the door clicked shut, Dr. Walden picked up his whiskey and carried it over to the armchair. Lowering himself down he glanced at the chess set. He'd had enough of Danny Fontane. He was done paying for a mistake made decades ago. It was time to silence Danny Fontane for good.
He already knew it would need psychological preparation. He'd have to have his tactics in place. His attack and defense, opening and endgame all lined up. He leaned back in his chair and laughed, making a deep hee-haw sound like that of an angry donkey.
"To win this game," he said aloud, "I must play Danny Fontane, like a chess grandmaster."
Chapter 8
Dr. Walden greeted Noel at the door and showed him to the armchair, adjusting the cushion as he sat down. He returned to his desk, flipped on a tiny video recorder, and pressed the start button on his session timer. Sixty minutes per session and not a second longer.
He opened a notebook and turned to his patient. "Ready, Noel? Let's begin. Have you completed the exercises from our last session?"
Now, Noel drew a breath, gathered his resolve. "Not exactly."
Dr. Walden frowned. "I see."
"It's just that…"
Dr. Walden leaned forward, tapping a pen on his lip. "Yes?"
"Well, I… I have a problem, and you're the only person I can turn to. I mean that’s why I'm here—"
"Tell me about your problem," interrupted Dr. Walden. "Start at the very beginning."
Noel rubbed his chin, waited for a moment, then continued. "I can’t find the energy to fill in the job applications. As soon as I sit down at the computer and search for investment-related jobs, my energy disappears."
Dr. Walden's eyes registered a hint of intrigue, but the frown remained. "Disappears?"
"The moment I sit down at the computer, zap! There goes the energy."
