One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel (2 page)

A thin smile. "You're saying Patty is junk food?"

"She is a human being." I shrugged and smiled back. "Still, maybe that's an apt metaphor. She has admitted she tends to pursue married men. And junk food can taste damned good sometimes."

"What should I do, Mick?"

"I can't answer that for you. It's your life. However, I can tell you some things that might help you decide on a course of action."

"Please do."

I had his full attention and the advantage of the moment. "Someone once wrote that integrity is 'obedience to the unenforceable.' That's a solid definition. It means that we all need a code to live by, something we can turn to when things go dark. Without integrity life can turn you inside out."

"I'm a Christian." A bit defensive. "I have my beliefs."

I opted not to go there. "I'm not here to debate theology with you, Quentin. However, it seems to be that there is a qualitative difference between dogma and integrity. One comes from the outside, and is hammered down our throats from an early age. We believe because we've been brainwashed to believe, or to be kinder maybe because it comes naturally. We get upset when someone makes us question dogma because our world is rooted in it, kind of like a foundation. Are you with me?"

"Yes."

"Okay. In my opinion, integrity is something that comes by trial and error, it's open to new information on a daily basis, and is chosen from the inside. As my sponsor always says, 'there is no outside answer to an inside problem.' The spot you're in now demands real integrity that can translate into decision making and action. Mere faith won't cut it."

Quentin struggled with that for a long moment. Had I insulted him, or perhaps his belief system? Well, yes and no. His features gradually darkened. I could tell that he wanted to be angry with me, maybe find an excuse to reject that statement and storm out of my office for good. I held back, for fear of setting him off, and let him digest things.

"So I have to give her up."

I almost didn't hear him, his voice was so low. I pretended not to. "Excuse me?"

"I have to give her up." It wasn't a question. He was trying a difficult sentence on for size. I didn't respond. Quentin said it again. "Give her up." He screwed his face up like a little boy and wiped his nose. "But I can't do that."

"You can do whatever you decide to do."

He didn't seem convinced. I allowed some more space. Way down the block a squeal of tires followed by silence announced that someone had narrowly avoided a fender bender. The clock ticked forward. I wanted a drink of water but sensed it was important to remain still.

"Oh, God," Quentin whispered. "Oh, God."

Time was running out. If I didn't strike now, I sensed he might not be back. I went for the throat. "I'm going to offer some final thoughts, Quentin. Just listen and consider what I'm saying. This won't fly. What you're feeling is similar to a physical addiction. It will pass."

"You promise that?" A trembling lower lip.

"Objectively, you have been seeing this woman for a matter of weeks. Weigh that against all those years with your wife. You tell me."

"I see."

"You've been honest in business, a good dad, and a man who believes in life having a purpose greater than the satisfying of appetites. The right stuff is in there, just look for it. If you dig deeply enough, your integrity will tell you what to do."

"Okay, okay."

"We'll have to stop here."

"Okay." Quentin took out his pen and began to write me a check. I got up and went over to my laptop to check for E-mail. I found one cancellation for the following Monday, and a note that I saved for later. Came back, sat down.

"It may be old-fashioned, but when I'm looking at marital issues, I always start with what is best for the children. They didn't ask for this mess, and have no vote. You've been married for a long time, Quentin. Your wife deserves a chance to keep it all together."

"I know that . . ."

I pressed on. "Your sons will look to you as an example of manhood, for better or worse. Your youngest, Mandy, is female. If you are found to have been unfaithful to her mother, you have cheated on her as well. She may never forget, much less forgive."

He looked stricken. I ignored that. I was hurting him for surgical reasons. "Now let me give you some painful statistics. Around eighty-five percent of new relationships that begin with an affair will not succeed. The essential trust necessary has already been damaged. Your girlfriend will watch you lying to your wife, and never believe you when you say you're working late. You'll go through every day knowing she cheerfully jumped into affairs with married men."

He was absorbing the trust issue, I could feel it. He was probably already jealous of her, and vice versa.

"So, if you do leave your family and want this new relationship to work, you'll need immediate and serious therapy to pull it off. I will give you the number of someone new who can be neutral and might be able to coach you through. But believe me, the odds are not good."

I had his full attention. I bored in further. "Also, she is too young, Quentin. I tell men that if a woman is under thirty she's too small, throw her back. Let's do the math. When you are sixty, she will be thirty-four, so when you're seventy, only forty-four. I've seen people beat this one, but it is rough. And the most likely outcome is that she'll eventually leave you for someone younger, and you'll have a heavy burden to carry."

"You're probably right." I wasn't telling Quentin anything he didn't already know. It just helped to have it coming from the outside. That made it a bit easier for him to focus on the truth.

"When we drift into an affair, it is usually because we've ignored the signs that our marriage has gone off the tracks. We feel so disconnected from our spouse that we withdraw that mysterious spark of attachment and allow it to begin to flicker elsewhere."

"Yes." He closed his eyes as if to soak in that idea.

"You probably started with harmless flirtation, right? Then some private time and sharing personal information you would otherwise have held back. And being in the same church group created a kind of false intimacy. You stopped talking to your wife about the things that matter. A crush became an emotional affair and then finally sex. But what if the proper connections had been nurtured months or years ago? What then? You've had crushes before, but never allowed an affair to start, right?"

"There was a woman in the choir maybe ten years ago," Quentin said. "She was married, too. We talked about it, but never did anything. She and her husband went into therapy."

"I rest my case. She did the right thing. And it would have been smart for you to have followed in her footsteps back then, for your own sake. Once the communication clears up, we often rediscover why we're together and save things."

"I don't like hearing this, but I get your drift."

"What I'm saying is that it's generally more about the problems in the existing relationship than the appropriateness or desirability of the third party in a triangle. There's still a chance you can fix this thing."

"You've seen it work out?"

"Lots of times." And that was the truth. People constantly amaze me with their resiliency and capacity for change. In fact, that's what keeps the work so interesting and rewarding.

"Can we still be friends, Mick?"

"After this?" I shook my head. "No. My advice is to lose her phone number. Send no E-mails, arrange no more meetings."

"That seems cold."

"Every young woman has read a dozen articles warning her not to get involved with a married man because he usually stays with his wife. Her friends will spank her and remind her that what she did was foolish and wrong."

"I can never speak to her again?"

"If you want to call her once to tell her you're going into therapy to try and save your marriage, keep it brief and not romantic in any way. Believe me, if she really cares about you, she'll get it. She may even be relieved."

Quentin cocked his head. "I don't understand that remark."

"People have affairs for lots of reasons. One reason younger women pursue older men who are married is a buried wish to take Daddy away from Mommy."

"Ouch."

I stared at him. Quentin's face was pink with shame. He'd deserved it. "Our time is up, Quentin. You have the card I gave you? Joan is a good marital therapist. Call her, set something up and take your wife in for a few appointments." I also told him about a book by John Gottman, PhD that I often recommended. Quentin found some tissues and wiped the tears from his face. His jaw settled. He looked like a man on a mission.

"Do I ever tell my wife about the girl?"

Now just "the girl," no first name. We'd won some ground. "That's another one I can't answer for certain, but my gut feeling is no. I'd just keep your mouth shut. It doesn't seem fair to unburden your conscience at her expense, especially if you decide it's completely over."

"I should go, it's late." Quentin looked me up and down as he decided on his next move. I'd stung him, but helped him at the same time. Finally, he said, "Can I come back?"

"Of course you can." I opened my appointment book. "How about next Saturday? We could keep this as a regular time."

Later that night I drove to the Kitty Kat Club, a dump located in a grey strip mall out by the Burbank Airport, just north of Vanowen. It's pretty much the same as any other bar of its kind; a darkened, neon-addled pit reeking of urine, smoke, and alcohol. The female dancers are a cut above average, mostly because a drunken businessman on the road with an expense account is generally the best tipper. I know, because I've had a few of those working girls as clients. Well, and I used to be a regular customer, but that was a long time ago.

When I pulled in, the parking lot was nearly empty, except for a Jeep Cherokee with rental plates, a panel truck, a BMW, and a geriatric station wagon that looked like it had been tenderized with a ball-peen hammer.

I drove to the back of the lot and parked sideways, so I could see the entrance and the alley at the same time. I turned the radio down and watched the door for a while. Eventually I heard my own voice. I should be used to that by now, but I'm not. I winced as I listened to myself pitch a brand name comfort mattress for the station. That reminded me that my job status was shaky again. Did I even care? I shut the car off and sat listening to some crickets and the ticking of the engine.

The Bone was back
. Unbelievable. . . .

There are moments in life that have an odd, almost leaden resonance to them. They give you the distinct feeling that a decision you're about to make could have magnificent or devastating consequences. This was one of those moments. I had no reason to feel so scared, no logical reason at any rate, but my gut was a plastic sack full of ice cubes. I hadn't seen Bud Stone in nearly nine years. I'd loved him like a brother through boot camp, leaned on him when we suffered through Hell Week in the SEALs, hated him for hitting on an officer's wife I was seeing at the time, even knocked him flat one Tequila-fueled night in San Diego. I washed out of the Navy because of that affair, and we'd eventually lost touch, but Bone proudly wore the trident until grievously wounded in Iraq. Then he'd returned to civilian life. Other than an occasional E-mail or phone message, I'd not heard a word from him in years.

Until now.

As if on cue, a man in a business suit opened the door with the ponderous gravitas of the dedicated inebriate. When he stepped outside, under the lights, his bald pate gleamed like a polished diamond. He struggled to light a cigarette, but couldn't hold the match steady. Finally he walked over to the rented Jeep, stood weaving like a cobra and searched his pockets for the keys. The door opened again and I instinctively slid down in the seat, out of sight. The drunk looked vaguely like Bud Stone, but I couldn't be sure. And Bone wasn't the type to wear a suit.

Two other customers emerged; both broad shouldered, with buzz cut hair and tight, stylish jeans. One wore a cowboy hat and a wife-beater tee with Old Glory on it, the other a faded green windbreaker. The two looked reasonably sober, though pretty worked up. They stood near a black Nissan, talking in low tones. Meanwhile, the drunken businessman leaned on the hood of his own vehicle and projectile vomited into some night blooming jasmine. I got a good look at his face, and it wasn't Bud Stone.

The guy in the windbreaker stayed blocking the door. The cowboy strolled after their mark, cracking his knuckles.

This was clearly none of my damned business. I was here to see an old friend, not to get my nose broken again.
Ah, shit
. I made a show of getting out of the car like a man who'd had a few, whistling and mumbling to myself, figuring maybe a witness would be enough to throw a monkey wrench into their plans.

It didn't work. The guy on the door just leaned back, folded his arms.

"Closed, pal. Take off."

I looked at my watch, started walking. "Don't let them bluff you, bro. Last call is one-thirty."

"You don't hear so well? It's my bar, and I said take off."

I kept moving, hands loose at my belt loops to show I was harmless. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cowboy closing in on the drunk. "One beer, a look at Tina's tits, and I'm out of here."

I was on him now, maybe two yards away. A brief, confused look crossed his face. "They ain't got any Tina."

Cowboy popped the businessman who looked like Bud; hit him once on the jaw. The drunk went down in a heap. Cowboy was lifting his wallet before he hit the ground, maybe looking for credit cards. My guy went for something in the pocket of his windbreaker, probably a small gun. I feinted giving a kick to the nuts. When he raised his thigh and got off balance, I ran him into the door, slammed my elbow into his temple a couple of times. He dropped hard, but still breathing. I spun and sprinted for the cowboy. He was already up, crouched with his hands loose like a man who'd gone a few rounds.