Her Yearning for Blood: Episode One
Page 7
her driver’s license back. Though she had never had a seizure while driving, he didn’t want to imagine the possibility.
“You’ll have to take a cab,” he told her.
Hannah pouted for a moment then nodded.
“You could...come with.” Her long nail painted a tracery on his chest.
“God, I want to. You know I do.”
“But you’re going to stay.”
“Yeah, I have to.”
“Okay,” she said. “It shouldn’t take me long. Save the horizontal dancing for me, or else.” Her exaggerated snarl made him laugh.
“Okay, okay.” He started to say something else but paused.
“What, Jack?”
“I should go with you. Tipsy hot woman, cab, miscreant driver; all the earmarks of—”
“Jack, Jack. Stop right there. I’ll take Yellow Cab, the one we use for the kids. Their drivers have always been good.”
“I just worry about you.”
“I’m the one who should be worried.” She pointed at the cluster of empty glasses on the table. “Promise me you’re going to behave.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “Less drinking and more face time with the real miscreants of the world.”
She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“You do realize you’re one of those investment banker miscreants, right?”
“Yeah, but I’ve been forced into it by my gold-digging wife who always wants more luxuries…like food and clothes for the kids. Next you’ll want to college educate them.”
“Maybe we should get them out of elementary school first,” she suggested. “I better get home. I’m feeling a little warm.”
“See, I should go with you.”
Hannah gazed into her husband’s eyes. “Really, babe, it’s okay. I’ll be right back.”
Knowing he was just being foolish, he nodded and watched her sway toward the far end of the conference hall where she would find her coat and the exit. At the last minute, she turned and waved. Something about her smile made him regret not going. He got up but then watched as she disappeared through the door.
The next hour was nearly as arduous as he had imagined. He moved toward the brown-nosing end of the hall where brokers wore permanent smiles and spouses aggressively flirted upward. Jack didn’t know for certain, but he assumed the flirters really would have slept with upper management if they thought it would gain them or their spouses an edge. He also wouldn’t have been surprised if those people abandoned one spouse for another, anything for a nicer home, fancier car or larger expense account. Of course, at the center of the kiss-ass whirlwind, he found Thomas Boonsen and his wife, Edith Boonsen, perched like silver monarchs at the end of the immense conference table. Around them crowded the most hardcore of their flock. One man—a hedge fund manager from the Seventh Avenue building—was actually spreading jam on a biscuit and handing it to Mrs. Boonsen who accepted it with the aloofness of a queen. Jack wished he could say she had been less haughty when he first entered the game or that had he seen the way the Boonsens really were he might have made different choices. But he would have been lying to himself.
He just found it increasingly hard to suffer it.
“Jack Werth,” Thomas Boonsen said, somehow noticing him through the throng of greedy hangers-on. “How’s my favorite manager of temperamental clients?”
Suddenly, every eye within fifty feet was staring at Jack. More importantly, a pathway opened up so he could actually approach the exalted couple to make his yearly bow of respect.
“I’m not sure managing one temperamental client makes me an expert.” He moved close enough to shake Thomas’ hand.
Since the queen’s blue-veined hand didn’t reach his way he simply nodded and smiled at her. Her return gesture could have been a wince. She had never been one to mingle much with the help, though everyone knew she was responsible for a majority of company decisions, including who got fired and who didn’t. The balding manager with curly red hair at the sides knew exactly what he had been doing when he handed her a jam-filled cracker.
“I see big things ahead for you and T. Boonsen,” Thomas said generously.
Translation: We’re going to make big money with or without your help this year.
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I hope you and your family—”
“Mr. Werth! Mr. Werth!” His assistant’s panicked voice lanced through the din.
Every eye at the clotted end of the room snapped to see a young redhead pushing her way toward them, a cellphone aloft in her hand. Though in her late-twenties, she still had a vicious case of acne and an awkward teen aura about her. Not having seen her since shortly after the party began, he was surprised that his secretary hadn’t actually left already.
“Mr. Werth, it’s the police,” Allison said, her voice carrying easily now that the room had fallen silent. “They’re calling from Mrs. Werth’s cell phone.”
Jack felt as though a glass dome had slipped over his entire body. People separated so he could retrieve the cell phone.
“They tried all her speed dial numbers,” the young woman said. “You must not have your ringer on.”
His chest tightening into a ball of black coal, Jack shoved back the way he had come. Most of the partygoers parted for him. At the distant end of the room people were still dancing, gesturing, their faces filled with smiles. He reached for the phone.
“He-Hello. This is Jack W-Werth.” He could hear sirens wailing and commotion pushing through the other end of the receiver.
“Mr. Werth, my name is Sergeant Abbott with the Minneapolis Police Department. I’m sorry to infor—”
“Where is my wife? Tell me where she is!”
“Mr. Werth, there has been an accident.”
“No. No. Where is she? I need to talk with her.” Jack’s head felt like an overheated steam furnace. His heart pumped fear straight into his brain.
“The medics are with her right now, Mr. Werth,” Sergeant Abbott said. “It might be best if you came here to the scene—”
“Is she okay? Is she going to be okay?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Werth. The medical technicians and the doctors will have to make that determination…”
“Which hospital?”
“We have a lot of victims here, Mr. Werth,” the sergeant said. “It has not been determined yet—”
“Which fucking hospital?” Jack screamed. He ignored the stares and expressions of horror and detached interest.
“She is still at the scene, Mr. Werth.”
“Where? I’m leaving right now!”
The lights were getting dim and a rushing sound reverberated in his head.
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Dislocated Man: Part One
BY TIM GREATON and LARRY DONNELL
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2012
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