War (11 page)

She’s not leaving me. I’m not leaving her. This is our lives we’re talking about here. Fuck a drink. Fuck a brunette in a bar. Fuck a blond.

Fuck Jon.

I knock on the door three times. Not hard enough to wake the neighbors, since it is only 6:30 in the morning, but just hard enough to let Red know that I haven’t been to sleep all night and what I really want is to be back in my bed beside her. Listen, I get why she’s mad at me. I understand her reasoning. I’m not blaming her anger on hormones. I’m not blaming it on the baby. I get it; she saw me, laid the hell back, enjoying a Scotch next to another woman and sliding my bank card to the bartender.
Here, it’s on me, baby.
She’s mad. I’m not going to try to make her see my side of the story. I won’t give her any justifications. I won’t tell her that I couldn’t care less about these women. That I don’t want their conversation. I don’t want their time. I don’t want their pussy.

I’m not a Monk, I see nice-looking women all the time. Come on, we live in Boston. But why leave
Red
for another woman? What would be the point of it? Why go sleep with another woman? Just so I can see her dressed in black lace? Or hear her say my name? Or feel her suck my dick? Or feel how wet she is? Or watch her as she rides me? Or slide her on her back and tell her to spread her legs wide? Or hear the clapping sound her ass makes every time it lands on my groin? No disrespect, but can I be honest with you? I don’t have to go out looking for that shit. I get that at home. So why would I cheat?

I give the front door three more soft knocks.

              I would’ve gone to my parents’ house last night but Red took my keys. So Jacob and I went to the Four Seasons. As soon as I got to the suite, I showered, shaved, put on the sweats, sneakers, a tee and hoodie from my gym bag, sat on the bed and waited until it turned six. Then I hopped up, left Jake a note that I went home, ran downstairs, hailed a cab to Starbucks on Tremont and bought Red and myself tall coffees. Decaf for her with six raw sugars and whipped cream on top. Then I took a cab to my condo building. I know it’s early. I know she’s probably asleep. But I don’t care. I’m not about to lose my wife. I’m not even about to argue with her. I just want back in.

              I give the door three more soft knocks…and slowly it opens.

              Her hair is down and she has this thin grey robe of hers on with shiny hot pink painted toes peeking out at the bottom. Her stomach is round and firm. Doesn’t look like I woke her up out of her sleep. I would say that she looks beautiful, but I’m sure that description means nothing when it’s coming out of my mouth. I’m biased. She has my baby inside of her, she could’ve come to the door in rags and she’d still be beautiful. She glances down towards the coffee cups in the carrying case and then looks back up to me. We don’t have to say a word. We’ve taken ‘the look’ to another level. Red and I have mastered the art of the unspoken language. Slowly, she backs away, allowing me entrance.

And I’m in.

              She leads me towards the kitchen without a word. Our living room is spotless since the boys are at her parents for the weekend. I walk past our grey suede couches, clusters of pink roses in short, round glass vases on end tables; a small fire in the fireplace; a Thomas Kinkade painting called
Flags Over the Capitol
hung on the wall; another of his,
Pirates of the Caribbean
, a Christmas gift from my Jasmine, hanging nearby; a few vanilla candles burning around on the top of the bookshelf. God, I love it here. To hell with the Four Seasons. When it was just me, all I had was a brown leather chair and a TV. When Laura and I lived here (relax, yes, Laura lived here with me), she decorated the room in red and green, Alpha Chi Omega’s sorority colors. Fuck my fraternity, I’m sure she couldn’t even tell you what it is. I was nervous when Red moved in; I feared my entire house would be decked out with portraits of Gloria Steinem, Dorothy Pitman Hughes, Eleanor Roosevelt and every other feminist, dead or alive. But instead she looked around, saw my leather chair and TV and then ordered Nicky and I out for the day. She hired a decorator.
This is a 4.5 million dollar condo
, she said to me that Saturday morning as she was packing Nicky a snack.
I’m not playing these games with you.
She created the oasis that I now call home. Hell no, I’m not leaving here.

She and I walk into the kitchen.

I take a seat at the kitchen island while she heads to open up a window to let fresh air in. That’s my queue.
Turn on the stove
. I turn around and put the oven on three-fifty to keep the kitchen warm. She walks to the kitchen island and takes a seat opposite me.
Where’s my coffee?
I place her coffee in front of her while grabbing hold of mine. She takes the top of her cup off.
My spoon.
I turn around and reach in a drawer and pull out a spoon. I hand it to her and watch her stir her coffee before taking her spoon out of the cup.
I’m finished.
I reach out my hand. Without looking, she passes the spoon back to me. I get up and put it in the sink. When I get back to the island she’s opening a drawer.
Now down to business.
I take a seat and then take a sip of my coffee. I hear a few keys clanking. After she closes the drawer, she puts my keys on the counter next her.
If you want them, take them.
I reach over and slide them over to me before putting them in my pocket.
Of course I want them.

We sit there and enjoy the sounds of our Saturday morning. Just her, me, coffee, Boston and my damn house keys (thank God). And…an envelope? Off to the side of the island is an envelope:

             
Dear Dan,

Love Marl (and Jon)

A white flag? A truce letter?
Please
. Don’t take my current serenity for peace. For the sake of keeping my wife, I’ve decided to leave Jon alone for the moment. I’m a patient man…very patient…I always have been. My history validates my claim. I can see a girl whom I know I’ll marry one day and then let her walk out of my life for twelve years, if that’s what she needs to do. I’ll tell her to take her time, I’ll be waiting for her on The Hill. I’ll watch her marry another man. I’ll watch her have his baby. I’ll watch her move across the country with them. I’ll watch her sit next to me on church steps in a far off country. And I’ll watch her get up and walk away. And when she’s ready, truly ready, as she’s sitting at a bar, a glass of Scotch in her hand, I’ll sit next to her and finally introduce myself. My history is not only a testament to my patience, it’s a testament to my commitment. When I say something, I mean it. When I want something, I get it. So let there be no mistake: yes, for the present moment I’m holding my peace. But, Dear Jon, I’ll tell you just like I told your bride on your wedding night: This is not over.

Part II

MALCOLM

“What are you up to, Marlon? What are you up to?” Nat says to himself as he taps the steering wheel, in time to the music in his truck. I’m sitting in the passenger seat, eating an eggroll and Chinese noodles. It’s 7:30 at night and we’re on a stakeout outside of the Starbucks on Tremont Street, watching Marlon and Senator Demetrius Westlake dressed in work attire, in the window, talking. No coffee in sight.

              “They came for business,” I say as I open up a sweet and sour package.

              “Oh yeah.” Nat continues to tap the steering wheel.

              Funny thing is, Nat and I weren’t following Marlon. We were following Demetrius who led us to Marlon. Nat still has his flight connects, the same ones that put Red on the No Fly List five years ago. He tracks the movement of people we happen to be interested in. Usually these
people
are trying to fuck with one of our clients, so we get proactive.

We monitor their every move.

Boston is our town, we want to know what’s going on at all times. We place flight notifications on spouses suspected of cheating, mistresses who were given a settlement to leave town and never come back, trust fund brats who decide to go missing to prove a point to daddy, and anyone else who could possibly be up to something that fucks with our clients or one of our own. Demetrius Westlake falls into the latter category. Jacob had Nat put a track on him years ago during the Jacob and Winnie Divorce. Back then, whenever Demetrius’ ID was entered into an airline’s database and his destination was Boston, Nat immediately received the notification. He would then tell Jacob. That gave Jake enough time to, say, have the airline hold Demetrius up in his connecting city so that he missed his flight to Boston; or perhaps have TSA postpone the entire flight filled with weary travelers as they re-checked Mr. Westlake’s bags; or have Demetrius’ hotel reservation accidentally canceled; or have the hotel managers deny him a room on the basis that it was full.
Sorry, Senator, we overbooked. But The Boston Motel is over in Roxbury, I’m sure they have room for you.
You know, little things like that. Harassing him, whenever he came into town to see Winnie, became a part-time gig for Jacob.

After Jake and Winnie were remarried, Nat paid no attention to Demetrius’ flight notifications. After all, he hadn’t scheduled a flight to Boston since. So imagine Nat’s surprise when his android buzzed this morning saying that Demetrius had boarded a flight to Boston. He immediately called me.

We didn’t tell Jacob.

Jake gets too emotional about Demetrius. Plus, it could be nothing. But just to make sure, by the time Demetrius landed in Boston, Nat and I were waiting in baggage claim for him, seated side by side, behind a group of Asian tourists.

“After this, I’m stopping to get an eggroll and noodles,” I told Nat.

              “There he is,” Nat said as Demetrius strolled out of the security checkpoint, his cell pressed to his ear, a smile on his face. Who was he talking to? “Wife?”

              “Nah, he’s not married,” I tell him. “He’s in a
life partnership
with a feminist. Samantha Rosen.”

              “Friend of Danielle?”

              “No, just an associate on the feminist circuit.”

              “Ah.”

              “Those are some bad ass shoes he has on, though.”

              “Prada.”

              “Damn, I hate Prada.”

              “Obviously you don’t, you like the shoes.”

              “Prada is for pretty boys, Nat. Like you.”

              “So you don’t have a pair of Prada shoes?”

              “Hell
nah
.”

              “You lie.”

              “Whatever.”

              “So what shoes do you wear besides Tom Ford?”

              “How do you know I wear Tom Ford?”

              “Because everybody wears Tom Ford.”

              “Well if you must know, Red bought me a pair of black leather Burberrys the other day that made me weak in the knees and I’m not even a Burberry type of guy. Got tired of all that brown
-
checkered pattern when we lived in London. Why the hell do people wear logos?”

“No idea.”

“That shit was annoying. But I’m telling you, the leather on these shoes is so supple it melts in your hand. And you wanna know the good part about them?”

“No.”

“There’s no checkered pattern in sight. Between you and me, these shoes and I were made for each other.”

              “Really…do they melt in your hand, Mac?”

              “I’m just saying… Alright, Senator Westlake’s got his bag. Let’s roll.”

              Nat and I followed at a safe distance behind him. We watched as Senator Westlake was escorted into his town car.

              “Get the plate numbers and the name of the limo company off the driver’s badge,” I told Nat.

              “Already ahead of you.”

              By the time we got to my truck, Nat had entered the backend server to Limo Limited. He entered the license plate of the town car Demetrius was traveling in and up popped the destination. Four Seasons, downtown Boston.

              “Going to the Four Seasons,” Nat said.

              “Get the room number,” I told him.

              “Let me do what I do, alright Mac?”

              “I’m just saying…”

              “Yeah, and what I’m saying is that I’ve been doing this shit for a while now.”

              “Relax,
honey
. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

              “Shut the hell up.” Nat entered the Four Season’s back server and looked up Demetrius’ reservation. Suite 781. He was scheduled to stay over the weekend.

              “For what?” I asked.

              “Political function?”

              “Not in Boston.” There’s no way in hell there would be a political function going on in the city without Blair and Associates knowing about it.

              “Winnie?” Nat said. I thought about that.