Jake's 8 (20 page)

“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 looking 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 t
o 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 respond.

“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.

I introduced myself and he motioned his hand as invitation to sit.

“Thank you for meeting me here, Mr. Gibb. I have a meeting flying in shortly.”

“It’s not a problem at all, sir. It’s a beautiful day.”

“It’s best we skip the weather chit-chat. I’m told that you work with Mr. Carmichael and you are a man to be trusted. I’m told you have some bad news for me. Let’s have it. I assume it’s about my wife and the divorce she wants.”

I steeled up my courage. I asked myself the question I’d been asking myself ever since Mr. Carmichael told me I’d be performing this bit of ‘client service.’ How am I going to tell a former governor and a former senator that his wife filmed herself having sex with multiple men to use as political blackmail to force him into divorcing her?

As with telling Kendra, there really was only one answer.

“Senator, your wife has filmed herself having sex with multiple men and is threatening to release the videos to the press unless you file for divorce.”

Before I said it, he was looking out at the small aircraft landing and taking off. As I said it, his jaw dropped and his head turned toward me and his eyes widened. The moment faded and he composed himself.

“You think she really did that?” he asked.

I squirmed in my seat a bit then came out with it.

“I saw the videos, sir. It is definitely her and it’s definitely a variety of men. The men are prominent in their fields. These are well-known men.”

The red rose from under the collar of his white Oxford. It climbed up his neck and flushed his face then passed.

“You know I met my first wife in the eighth grade,” he said. “Her family moved to Cincinnati from the hills of eastern Kentucky. She spoke with this charming twang that I just couldn’t get enough of. Her father wouldn’t let her date the first year I knew her, but I visited her every chance I got. I loved her. And she loved me. We were married the July after high school graduation. She helped get me through college and then law school. She stood by my side throughout those years in Columbus and Washington. We were both virgins on our wedding night and she was the only woman I ever went to bed with. Then she got sick. Then she died. Then I mourned and two years later I met Holly. She was the second woman I ever went to bed with and I knew after that night that she’d been around the block plenty of times. Like a fool, I mistook her curling my toes for love. Like a greater fool, I married her because she curled my toes. How could I be so lucky the first time and so unlucky the second? How could I be so stupid?”