Discretion (16 page)

“If you’re thinking about embezzling money from the company, you can forget about me helping you,” I say with a struggle to keep a straight face. My body temp is rising a little as the wine is working magic. Her hand is holding onto mine, resting on the table. Every Monday night should be like this.

“No seriously, how much is there?” She covers her mouth while trying not to laugh.

“A touch over fifty.”

“Fifty billion? Fuck, that’s a lot.”

Her surprise is amusing to me. “You had no idea, did you?”

She shakes her head, still laughing, but now more at herself and takes a long drink of wine.

“How many years have you been working for the firm?”

Her head tilts while facing me and her expression contorts. “Fuck you,” she says quietly enough to not carry far past my ears.

“I think we should have another bottle of this before we do, but I like where your mind is going.”

She laughs and starts rubbing my hand and tickling my forearm. She entertains, for a few moments, the idea of putting the top down on the Mercedes and climbing into my lap for a different kind of ride. I sit in silence and savor her dirty mind, while taking in her natural beauty.

“So…back to something serious…you can place trades on any account in the firm?” She asks.

“Yeah, any account. But if I were to place a trade on someone else’s account, I would have to have a well-documented and approved reason for doing so. If I placed a trade on another PM’s account without cause or reason, it had better be by human error. Which, really, with the system design, couldn’t happen.”

“You’re not drunk enough,” she says, laughing again.

I take a sip from my glass, which remains a quarter full. “I’ll catch up, don’t worry. But I have to drive home, so I shouldn’t push it.”

“Good. More for me, then.” She gets a little excited at the prospect of drinking more expensive wine than her quota.

“You know that I love you.”

“Especially when I’ve had too much to drink,” she says.

“Can’t hurt, I suppose.”

“So how was Flagstaff?” she asks as the main courses arrive at our table. Each of us digs in and I leave her question to linger awhile. My dish will get cold quickly. The pasta is from fresh dough and the cream sauce is a perfect compliment. Her filet of grouper looks moist and flaky.

“Flagstaff was as delectable as this meal.”

“That good?”

“I enjoy her company.”

“How old is she?”

“How old is your Grandma Mimi?” I say.

She starts laughing loudly and her hand quickly becomes a shield. “Older than dirt.”

“Well, my client is not quite that old. She’s in her eighties.”

She puts down her fork carefully and looks at me, as if she’s suddenly become completely sober. “You mean you gave up the afternoon to visit just one client? And here I was thinking you had a real meeting up there.”

“An important person to me.”

“Well, you are a saint.”

“I thought I was a sweetie.”

She points her reacquired fork toward me. “Hey, don’t be knockin’ Texas.”

A few moments pass with both of us focused on the food. The bottle of wine is nearing the bottom so we discuss what to order next.

“Are you loving the fish?” I ask.

“Amazing. It is amazing. About as good as the wine.”

“We should do this more often, I think.”

“Are you inclined to?” she says, steering toward the touchy subject we try to avoid.

“We’re engaged. I think it’s time.”

“I’m all in favor of that. In fact…” She resumes tickling my forearm on the table. “I think I know what I want for dessert.”

“I like the sound of that. Does it involve the car?”

Her eyebrows raise. “We seem to be of the same mind tonight. Must be the wine.” She finishes her glass while keeping her eyes fixed on me.

“We do think alike. Should I get two pieces of tiramisu to go for later on?”

She smiles a little. “If this restaurant weren’t crowded, I might just hop on the table for a second main course.” Her voice is smooth as silk and subtle.

I raise my hand for the server to order our takeout dessert, which can’t possibly arrive fast enough. I leave four one-hundred-dollar bills on the table with the black leather billfold and we meet inside the Mercedes. Marisa calmly sets the takeout on the floor, and then climbs across the center console, straddling me as if it were scripted. She hikes up her dress while I drop my pants. She goes to work quickly and starts moaning softly.

The vibration of my phone annoys both of us. I reach for it to press Ignore. Marisa doesn’t stop.

“No! You can’t answer that!” Marisa pleads, glaring at me.

“I’ll ignore it, trust me. I’m not giving this up for anything.”

But I will answer it. I know I have to. Something bad happened, as Joanna Laake is calling.

Marisa slows down enough to read the display of my phone. “Why is Joanna calling you?”

“Damn. I’ve got to know.”

I answer the call. And the news is worse than I thought.

M
arisa starts moving again, but my hand to her side stops her. That or the expression on my face shows the gravity of Joanna’s news. The immediate need is to get on the road. I would rather be at Jamal’s side and if anything can be done…

“What is it?” Marisa whispers to me, her hands resting on my shoulders. She rests; her thoughts drift from the kinkiness of sex in the car to curiosity about the call. She watches me in anticipation, though she knows it’s bad.

I make mental note of important details as Joanna talks in circles and I conclude it might be best to end the call and talk with her at the hospital, in person. I pledge to leave immediately and hang up.

“So what’s up?” Marisa says; her tone is telltale she fears the answer.

“Jamal was in an accident. Bad. He’s at John C. Lincoln Hospital.”

“Oh, shit. Bad?”

“Yeah. Bad. I hate to ask, but you need to climb off me.”

She climbs across the center console to the passenger seat and slides her dress back down, and then buckles herself in. The seatbelt has new meaning for me, given the catastrophe Jamal is in. It’s as if the belt suddenly means something that just moments ago was only a matter of routine. It may be the difference between life and death; drinking through a straw for all my days or living a normal lifestyle.

“I’m ready. You going to be okay to drive?” Marisa says, her thoughts drifting back to the wine at dinner.

This night was soaring for miraculous, and now a crash landing in tragedy.

I contemplate my options. I’ve had three glasses of wine, though I did consume a large quantity of food and the wine came over the space of about two hours, since we arrived at 5:30 and it’s now 7:24. Options.

“Are you okay to drive?” she asks again.

I grab the Breathalyzer, which I keep for situations such as this, and take the test, giving a deep exhale like a cop would command. Marisa fidgets while I wait for the LCD to give its opinion. “And?”

“Point zero five five. I should be fine. I’ll take it easy.”

“Rest a few minutes, maybe?”

“We have dessert. Do you want coffee?” I say.

She nods and looks down at the bag on the floor, remembering our takeout tiramisu order. I go back into the restaurant and emerge a few minutes later with two foam cups of cappuccino. I put XM radio on a piano station and we take ten minutes to eat dessert in the car. The java goes down smooth and I’m ready to leave. I send a text to Natalie and my parents, so they will be in the loop, as they’d expect.

Marisa and I are silent on the way to the hospital, since we have a lot on our minds. She is nervous about where all this leads and how she will feel should it come to the worst.

Marisa grew up near The Woodlands, Texas, her father being an heir to oil wealth that carried through generations. Her upbringing was similar to mine, as her parents were strict about academics and controlled friendships like they were flying a model plane.

The brothers, Blaine, Quentin, and Sanford, had built model planes and boats from a young age. Blaine, the firstborn and hardly a year-and-a-half older than Quentin, started easily mastering advanced models by the age of four. Quentin kept pace with Blaine and by the age of nine and seven respectively, the brothers were winning science fairs across the state, beating some of the brightest high school students.

Sanford proved to be the brightest of them. Sanford was four years younger than Blaine and possessed an incomprehensible understanding of mathematics from the age of five. At nine, he was making magic with Schrodinger’s equation for quantum mechanics.

Marisa’s father saw dollar signs and he put them to work in a private venture with handpicked PhDs to develop the young minds. Armed with deep pockets, the mission was to change the world and win a Nobel Prize. New developments in nanotechnology were the early success and thought to be just the beginning.

But there was a hang-up. The three boys got along reasonably well, but competition arose between them with the inevitable question: Who was smarter or who was responsible for each new development? Which theory was the best became a common argument. The dissension tore them apart as Marisa’s father struggled to keep the three beautiful minds in unison, each with unique aspects that added to a powerful collective mix. By the time Blaine was finishing his first PhD at the age of sixteen, the enterprise was hanging by a thread. The problem was, Blaine wanted to be a lab rat. Not a businessman. He developed a hatred of capitalism, society, and religion. With an inability to socialize, he was the first to drop out of the team. The dominoes fell from there and the patents were sold, one by one, to the highest bidder. All told, the company pulled in over eighty million dollars. Not bad for three kids. Their father was eyeing ten digits. Shit happens.

The boys moved on to acquire multiple doctorate degrees and each of them, much to their father’s dismay, to work in respective labs doing grant work.

Then there is Marisa. Little Marisa. Beautiful, Barbie doll Marisa. The grave disappointment. The runt of the litter.

Marisa was the only normal child born to the family, so it was an adjustment for her parents to have a child who actually went through grade school, did homework and attended social events, and begged for the car keys at sixteen. Once, her father suggested she try modeling, given her tall and slender figure. She had just been shopping for a dress to an upcoming dance and was feeling unusually self-conscious at that time and the conversation did not go well.

Seeing the pictures in later years, Marisa admitted her father was right to make the suggestion; she would have succeeded.

Marisa graduated in the top five of her class at an all-girls private school, two hours from home, far away from any boys. Her father’s fear was that Marisa would become promiscuous and bring home a child that no one wants; shipping her off was his last line of defense.

The mission failed.

“Any idea what area of the hospital?” Marisa says, her attention directed toward me for the first time during the drive.

I nod quickly and keep silent. The words aren’t going to come easily at this point and it will take all I have to keep it together.

Please let Jamal be all right.

“Joanna wasn’t making much sense on the phone, but I know where he is. From how it sounds, we won’t be able to see him since he’s in surgery.”

I grab the first parking space I can find in the visitor’s area about two hundred yards from the entrance.

“So what are we going to do?” she says, getting out of the car, a little tipsy on her high heels.

“Find Joanna and go from there. I have to get an idea of what’s happening.”

On entering the hospital, a young nurse at the front desk is helpful and points Marisa and me in the right direction.

We walk briskly through the corridors, past desks, up two flights of stairs. Staff are busy, moving about with hurried looks about them. The smell is a mix of sweat and bleach and the standard issue hospital odor. We arrive in an open waiting room, with a gathering of concerned people and few empty chairs.

Some are sitting on the floor, heads bowed while one person prays. Another group of five in a tight circle: hand in hand, one person in prayer; the rest are eyes closed in reverence. Sobbing takes place. A man who is praying makes a tear-filled cry toward the roof and his arms extend in the air, hands open.

Jamal must be much, much worse than I thought.

Marisa and I exchange looks, unsure what to do next. She takes my hand with a gracious squeeze. We stand about and listen to the man pray. Two additional prayer circles start, a group of five and a group of seven.

I feel the need to sit, but no seats are available. Marisa nudges me and points out Joanna, who is walking toward us from down the hall. Her face is rigid, as if marching out of a rotten board meeting. Her short, dark hair is cut close to the head with jagged layering and blonde highlights. Jamal’s wife is five feet tall, refuses to wear heels and loves clothing from White House Black Market, with hips that make the union work.

She has not seen Jamal. Jamal is in surgery.

She stops a few paces away, watching me with a contorted look, as though she is searching for what to do. I watch her, waiting for information, or a reaction—anything. Her eyes reluctantly meet mine and her tears run.

She is lost for words, for what to do.

I am the last to know. I’ve never been here before. I can handle two billion dollars of other people’s money, but I’m not positive I can deal with this.

“How is he?” I say, because I’m helpless.

She sighs; her dark pupils fix on mine. She is a pillar of strength, but she is frail at this moment. This is bringing her down like nothing else can. And she hasn’t an idea what to do. Where to go. The waiting is the killer. The not knowing hurts. Optimism carries only so far. Faith is what she clings to—it’s all she has left.

“It’s in God’s hands,” she says, her meek voice trying to be bold. I nod and look around the waiting room. The voices of prayer strain to drown out the thoughts of people that surface on their own. The people are asking God to heal Jamal.