An unfamiliar female voice, rather sultry, said, “Hi… is this Jordan?”
“Yeah,” I replied, slightly annoyed at the sultry voice. What the f**k did this voice want? “This is Jordan, who's this?”
“Maria Elena. I'm Michael Burrico's fiancée.” My heart sank to my stomach before my brain even knew the reasons why. Michael Burrico was the Duchess's first love—back from her glorious Brooklyn days—when she was still a Duchess in embryo. Last I'd heard, he was living in Manhattan and he'd struck it rich in the construction business. In the Duchess's mind, I knew, that could translate into only two simple words: precious ore.
In a tone laced with sarcasm, I said to Maria, “Yeah, Maria. Your fiancé was my loving second wife's first boyfriend. To what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”
Maria let out a tiny grunt before she said, “Well, I know you're going through a bad time right now, but I thought you'd like to know that your wife was knocking on my fiancé's door last night— around midnight. She was…” and Maria kept on talking, but I stopped listening—or, more accurately, I was unable to listen because my head was now filling with steam. I could literally hear the hissing sound, as hurt, anger, embarrassment, and hopelessness flooded my senses all at the same time.
I didn't even know who to be more embarrassed for at this point, her or me. Our life together had come to represent a laughingstock, the ultimate cautionary tale of rich men and trophy wives, of cutting corners in business, of cutting corners in life. We had played the Game of Life hard and fast—careening down the highway at a million miles an hour—and we had ended up losers, the ultimate crash-and-burn story. The only difference between the Duchess and me was that she was trying to walk away from the accident without a scratch, while I had no choice but to accept my fate as a quadriplegic burn victim.
“… and I would really appreciate it,” Maria continued, in an edgy tone, “if you would tell your wife to keep her paws away from my fiancé.”
Well said, I thought. In fact, I couldn't have agreed with Maria more, which was why I answered her with a big fat click in her ear, without saying so much as good-bye. Then I turned to the Chef and froze, bewildered, not knowing what to say. My mind was double-tracking wildly. It had been hard enough to focus before, but now—this was a bit much. Everything was hitting me all at once, from all angles. Every man has his breaking point, and I was now at mine.
As I stared at the Chef, I knew I should be trying to figure out a way to broach the subject of the Blue-eyed Devil, and I knew that OCD and the Mormon were right upstairs, hanging on my every word, making careful notes of my performance—notes that one day would go into my 5K letter and decide how many years I spent in prison.
Yet, with all that was going on, with all that was at stake, with my freedom hanging in the balance, the only question my brain was asking itself was: What time is the Duchess coming home tonight? That was all that mattered to me. I wanted to confront her—no, I needed to confront her. I couldn't move forward in my life until I had an all-out brawl with her. A rip-roaring fight that could end with only one thing: violence. The Duchess was toast. History. I was not going to let her get away with this, not for one second longer. If this was, indeed, a crash-and-burn story, then it would be one without any survivors, save the children. Let my parents raise them, I figured; they'd certainly do a much better job than the Duchess and me.
“You okay?” the Chef asked warmly. “You look a bit pale.”
No response, then—”No… I mean, yeah.” I began nodding my head. “It was, uh, just something with Nadine's maternity business. A girl called. She's pregnant. With a baby.” I smiled vacantly. “I'm okay. I'm… I'm as right as the mail, Dennis,” and the first thing I'm gonna do when the Duchess gets home, I thought, is confront her. But I won't tell her about the phone call, not in the beginning. I'll wait until she denies ringing that bastard's doorbell; then I'll spring it on her. Then we'll see…
I sat back down, my heart beating out of my chest, my mind racing out of control. I placed the phone on the table. My mouth was bone-dry. I looked at the Chef, forcing a smile. It was time to end this meeting. I couldn't sit here anymore. I couldn't muster a single constructive thought until I confronted the Duchess.
With despair in my heart, I threw a Hail Mary pass. “I'll tell you the truth,” I muttered, “I don't know which are worse: my problems with the feds or my problems with the Duchess.” I shook my head in genuine bewilderment. Then, with a smirk, I added, “Maybe I should go see Bob; maybe he can offer me some words of wisdom, because for the life of me I don't have any.”
There were a few moments of silence, then the Chef nearly knocked me out of my seat when he said, “I think that's an excellent idea. Bob would love to talk to you. How's Tuesday at the golf course? You think you could work it out with the ankle-bracelet people?”
Yeah, I thought, I'm sure the ankle-bracelet people would be willing to look the other way for a meeting with the Blue-eyed Devil, although, at this particular moment, I couldn't give two shits about that. All that mattered was what time the Duchess was coming home.
Everything else was incidental.
CHAPTER 10
HOW TO CONFRONT A DUCHESS
tep one: Light a raging fire.
The master bedroom's French limestone fireplace was four by six feet wide and had been retrofitted with an electric-starter mechanism. As always, four thick logs of premium-grade ponderosa pine, split lengthwise, sat atop a prodigious heap of white-cedar kindling wood. By this time of September, the fireplace hadn't seen a flame in nearly five months. Fine. Good. At precisely 9:15 p.m. I pushed the stainless button on the wall, igniting the first—but not the last—raging inferno of the evening.
Step two: Burn a piece of overpriced furniture.
Grunting and groaning, I pulled over one of my formerly aspiring decorator's favorite procurements—a $13,000 white silk ottoman that had taken some thieving bastards in High Point, North Carolina, nearly a year to manufacture—to within three feet of the flames. I sat down and stared into the flames. In less than a minute, the kindling wood was crackling away menacingly and the flames were blazing away ominously. Not satisfied, I rose into a crouch, reached behind me, pulled the ottoman closer, and sat back down. Much better. In ten minutes the ottoman and I would be toast.
Step three: Ignite the flames of righteous indignation.
A simple task. Was there a jury that would convict me if I stabbed the Duchess through her ice-cold heart, using that 18-karat-gold letter opener, which was resting comfortably on her $26,000 white lacquer secretary? I would only need to worry about a jury of her peers, which would consist of twelve blond-headed gold diggers who saw no crime in a married woman—with two children, no less!—knocking on her ex-boyfriend's door at midnight, while her husband was lying home in bed (under house arrest), contemplating suicide, and dreaming of ways to win her back. I held on to that thought and took some deep, angry breaths. I kept staring into the belly of the flames, letting the fire bake my skin-growing angrier, more righteous, more indignant, with each passing second.
Just then I heard the familiar sounds of the arriving Duchess, the gravel crunching in the driveway, the slamming of the massive mahogany front door, the clickity clack clack of her overpriced high heels ascending the sumptuous stairs. And then, finally, the door opened. I turned from the flames and there she was, dressed in black. That was appropriate, I thought, considering she had just arrived at her own funeral.
When she saw me sitting so close to the flames, she stopped dead in her tracks and struck a pose, with her head cocked to one side and her hands on her h*ps and her shoulders thrown back and her back slightly arched, pushing her glorious br**sts forward. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Then she began chewing on the inside of her cheek.
There were a few moments of silence as we just stared at each other, like two gunfighters waiting to throw down. The Duchess looked good, of course. There was no denying that, even now. The light from the fire set off her entire ensemble: that tiny black dress, those sexy black high heels, those long bare legs, her great mane of shimmering blond hair, those brilliant blue eyes, her high cheekbones, those glistening lips, that perfectly smooth jawline.
Yes, the Duchess was, indeed, a woman of parts, although at this particular moment the only part of her I was interested in was a tiny area just over her left breast implant, right between her second and third ribs. That was where her ice-cold heart was located, and it would be there where I would plunge the golden letter opener. Then I would jerk the letter opener upward and slightly to the left, with a twisting motion—slicing her pulmonary artery, which would cause her to drown in her blood. It would be a ghastly, horrific, painful death, the sort of death a gold-digging Duchess deserved.
“Why the fire?” she asked, giving up her pose and heading toward her white lacquer secretary. “It's a bit early in the season, don't you think?” She flashed me a dead smile as she sat on the edge of the secretary, placing her palms on it and locking her elbows. Then she crossed her legs and wriggled her butt, as if to get comfortable.
I stared back into the flames. “I was cold,” I said, because you sucked every last drop of blood and life force out of me, you conniving, gold-digging cunt, “so I figured I'd light a fire,” before I slice you to ribbons and rid the earth of you.
A few moments of silence, then she cocked her head to the side. “Where are the kids?” she asked.
I kept staring into the flames. “At Gwynne's,” I answered tonelessly. “They're sleeping there tonight,” so I can murder you without upsetting them.
Now confusion mixed with trepidation: “Why are they, uh, sleeping at Gwynne's?”
Still staring into the flames: “Because I wanted the house to myself,” without bystanders, witnesses, distractions, or any soul who might try to talk me out of doing what I know I must do to free myself of you, “that's why.”
She chuckled nervously, trying to make light of what she now realized was going to be a very dark encounter. “Yourself?” she answered. “Well, what about me? I'm here too, right?”
I looked up, and she was holding the golden letter opener in her right hand, tap-tap-tapping the blade on her left palm. How had she known? Was it that obvious that I was planning to stab her? Or was it just coincidence? No matter. I had once seen Arnold Schwarzenegger stab an Islamic terrorist with the terrorist's own knife, and it had looked rather elementary.
Just then I noticed the Duchess was still wearing her wedding band. What a f**king joke! The philandering Duchess and her wedding band! “You're still wearing your wedding band, I see. Don't you think that's a bit ironic, Nadine?”
She put down the letter opener and extended her left hand in front of her, staring at it quizzically. After a few moments, she looked up and shrugged. “Why?” she said innocently. “We're still married, no?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah,” I said, “I think we are. So what did you do last night?”
A quick answer: “I went to see Earth, Wind and Fire. With my friends.” The last three words screamed: Alibi!
I compressed my lips and nodded. “Oh, your friends,” I said understandingly. “Which friends are those?”
Another quick answer: “Donna and Ophelia.”
Donna Schlesinger—why, that lousy cunt! She definitely had a hand in this, no doubt about it! She and the Duchess had been friends since high school, and, back in the day, she'd dated one of Michael Burrico's closest friends.
“How was the concert?” I asked casually.
The Duchess shrugged. “It was okay. Nothing special.” Then a strategic subject change: “I was hoping the kids would be home tonight.”
Why? So you could use them as human shields? Sorry, Duchess, no such luck. It's only you and me tonight—you, me, and the golden letter opener. Prepare to reap the consequences of your infidelity! I said, “Just out of curiosity, where'd you sleep last night?”
“At Ophelia's,” she snapped. “Why?”
“You went straight from the concert to Ophelia's?” I asked skeptically. “You didn't stop anywhere along the way, not to eat or anything else?”
She shook her head. “No, I went straight to Ophelia's. No stops.”
There were a few moments of silence, during which I found myself desperately wanting to believe her. Just why, I still couldn't explain, although it had something to do with the bizarre nature of the male animal—his vanity, his foolish pride, his desire not be spurned by a beautiful woman. Yes, in spite of everything, my masculine pride was still trying to convince me that my wife was faithful and that this was all some giant misunderstanding.
I took a deep breath and stared into the belly of the fire, relighting the flames of anger, hatred, and righteous indignation. “So how's Michael Burrico?” I asked, and then I looked up from the fire and stared into her eyes.
The Duchess recoiled. “Michael Burrico?” she said incredulously. “How on earth would I know?” She stared at me with a blank expression, and still I wanted to believe her. I really did.
But she was a lying sack of shit; I knew it! “When's the last time you've seen him, Nadine? Tell me! How long ago? Days? Weeks? Hours? Tell me, God damn it!”
The Duchess sagged. “I have no idea what you're talking about.” She looked away. “Someone's giving you bad information.”
“You're a f**king liar!” I sputtered. “A total f**king liar!”
She kept looking down, saying nothing.
“Look at me!” I screamed, rising from the ottoman. She looked. I plowed on: “Look me in the eye and tell me you weren't at Michael Burrico's apartment last night. Go ahead and tell me!”
She shook her head quickly. “I… I wasn't. I wasn't there.” Her tone was just short of panic. “I don't know what you're talking about. Why are you doing this?”
I took an aggressive step toward her. “Swear on the kids’ eyes that you weren't there last night.” I clenched my fists. “Go ahead and swear to me, Nadine.”
“You're f**king sick,” she muttered, looking away again. “You're having me followed.” Then she looked back at me. “I want you out of this house. I want a divorce.” She raised her chin in defiance.
I took another step forward. I was less than three feet from her now. “You… f**king… cunt!” I sputtered. “You no-good, lousy, philandering, gold-digging cunt! I didn't have you followed! Michael Burrico's fiancée called here. That's how I knew where you were, you… lousy—”
She cut me off. “Fuck you!” she screamed. “You're calling me a cheat! How many women have you f**ked, you f**king hypocrite!” With that she popped off the edge of the desk and took a step toward me, closing the distance. We were less than two feet apart now. “I want you out of my life!“ she screamed frantically. “I want you out of my house! I don't ever wanna speak to you again!”
“Your house?” I sputtered. “Are you f**king kidding me? This is my house! I'm not going f**king anywhere.”
“I'm hiring a lawyer!” she screamed.
“Yeah, the best my money can buy!” I screamed back.
She clenched her fists. “Fuck you! You're a f**king crook! You stole all your money! I hope you die in jail!” The Duchess took an aggressive step forward, as if she were about to take a swing at me, and then suddenly she did something that I would never forget for the rest of my life. With complete serenity, she dropped her arms to her sides and relaxed her posture and tilted her head back all the way, exposing the most vulnerable part of her long bare neck, and she said, “Go ahead: Kill me.” Her voice was soft and mellow, completely resigned. “I know that's what you want, so just go ahead and do it.” She tilted her head back even farther. “Kill me right now. I won't fight back. I promise. Just strangle me and put us both out of our misery. You can kill yourself afterward.”
I took a step toward her, ready to commit murder, when suddenly my eyes lit on a picture frame affixed to the wall. It was just over the Duchess's left shoulder. The frame was long and narrow, perhaps one by three feet, and inside were three large pictures of our children. Chandler was on top, and she was smiling bashfully. She had on a fancy yellow T-shirt with a buttercup collar and a matching yellow headband. She was three and a half at the time, and she looked like a tiny Duchess. Beneath her was Carter, only eighteen months at the time, and he had on nothing but a snow-white diaper. His eyes were wide open, his expression full of wonder, as he stared at a bubble floating in the air. His blond hair shimmered like polished glass. His regal eyelashes were as lush as butterfly wings. And, again, all I saw was the Duchess. And beneath Carter was a picture of him and his sister. He was sitting in her lap, she had her arms around him, and they were staring into each other's eyes adoringly.
In that very instant the true irony of my plight hit me, like one of Zeus's thunderbolts. It wasn't enough that I couldn't kill my wife because she was the mother of my children; it was much worse than that. The simple fact was that because she was the mother of my children I would never be rid of her. She would be in my life forever! Haunting me until the day I died! I would be seeing her at every birthday, graduation, wedding, confirmation, and bar mitzvah. Christ, I would even have to dance with her at my children's weddings!
I would see her in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, and for better or worse, until death did us part. In essence, I would always be married to her, linked together by the intense love we shared for our two children.
And there she was, standing there, waiting to be choked to death.
“I'll never forgive you for this,” I said softly. “With my dying breath, I'll never forgive you.” I headed for the door, walking slowly.
Just as I reached the door, I heard her say in a soft, gentle tone, “I'll never forgive you either. Not with my dying breath.”
Then I left the room.
BOOK II
CHAPTER 11
THE MAKING OF A WOLF
ell, I'm sorry to hear that,” said the Bastard sympathetically, and he leaned forward in his cheap black armchair and rested his bony elbows on the conference table. “It's always a shame when kids are involved.”
“Yeah,” I said sadly—and, yeah, right! I thought. This is what you live for, Bastard! You relish stripping a man of all his worldly possessions! What else could make a feeble life like yours worth living? “It's sad for all of us, Joel, but I do appreciate your concern.”