The Best of Enemies (21 page)

I click on the note she mentioned and skim the contents.
Hoo-boy, here we go again, New World Order . . .
Trilateral Commission . . .
the Masons . . .
secret meetings in a bunker under a mountain in Colorado.
Come on, Nana Baba—you’re better than this.
One would imagine a woman who single-handedly raised, nurtured, and provided an undergrad education for four young children in the city after her husband passed away would have more sense.
Delete.

I read the subject line of every e-mail before sending them to the Big Trash Can in the Sky.
That way I’ll be prepared if—no,
when
—Baba quizzes me during her week here.

You’ve Gotta Read This!
No, I actually don’t.
Delete.

You won’t believe what happens next!
I bet I would.
Delete.

The REAL story behind Hussein Obama’s Birth Certificate!
Maybe it’s time to switch over to CNN, Baba.
Delete.

AmAzinG DOg VidEo Will HaVE U Cryin!
Probably.
Delete.

If I had a dollar for every fw: fw: fw: that I run across here, I could actually pay the landscapers.

I Can’t Stop Thinking About You.
Sure, you can’t stop thinking about me.
Specifically, you can’t stop thinking about how I buy my kids’ shoes with inadequate arch support, about how I spend too much time building an online presence, about how I don’t put enough starch in Dr.
K’s shirts.
De—

Hold on.

This e-mail isn’t from Baba at all.

This e-mail is from Trip.
I feel my heart begin to pound inside my chest and a sour taste in the back of my throat.

Kitty,

I wasn’t joking when I propositioned you in the pantry.
My feelings for you are real.
You pulled away and pretended you weren’t interested, but I understand your game all too well.
Players recognize players.

Remember—I always get what I want.
You and I are going to happen and the sooner you recognize that, the better.
Things are changing around here and I’m in a position to make your life very easy.
Call me on my private line at (312) 555-1820.

XO, Trip

According to the time stamp, he sent this e-mail approximately seventy-two hours before his Gulfstream jet depressurized and crashed into the shark-infested waters around Belize.

All those on board perished.

I barely make it to the sink before I vomit.

CHANDLER FINANCIAL GROUP MEMO

TO: All Employees

FROM: Henry Allen Black, Interim President

SUBJECT: Funeral Services

The office will close today at 1:30 p.m.
so that employees may attend the funeral for our beloved founder and friend, James “Trip” Chandler III, who tragically passed away last Wednesday when his plane crashed into the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Belize.

Services will be held at 3:00 p.m.
at Harris Brothers Funeral Home, located at 155 Western Ave, North Shore, IL.
For those who require transportation, a charter bus will depart at 1:45 p.m., parked at the Randolph Street exit, returning to Chicago after the service.

We ask that you don’t speak to the press out of respect for the family in this trying time.
Please direct any inquiries to Leigh Ann Kingsley, corporate counsel, ext.
3606.

In lieu of flowers, Mrs.
Sarabeth Chandler has asked that donations be made to the W3 Clean Water Initiative.

Chicago, Illinois

Tuesday

“You okay, Jack?
You’re a little green around the gills.”

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting at this antique leather-topped desk, staring at the phone in my hand.
Perhaps if I stare long enough, what I heard won’t be true and the roiling nausea I feel will cease.

“Jack, seriously—you need some ginger ale or something?
Plastic trash can?
Looks like you’re about to hurl.
Why’s that?
You didn’t have any of my Bobby-ritas last night.
Thought it was just Terry and me working the tequila like a boss.
Or, like bosses.”

Bobby comes over to the banker’s desk, where I’m still motionless.
How long have I been here?
Five minutes?
Five hours?

Terry and Ted created this work space for me, located in a little nook off the main living area in the basement.
The fine, old desk is nestled between two bookcases full of all the volumes I didn’t care to lug all over the world.
There’s a small but elegant and efficient galley kitchen down here, too, where all the stainless steel appliances are top-of-the-line, yet apartment-sized.
As always, the fridge was stocked with every manner of treats for my arrival.

I have one of the two small bedrooms in the back of the apartment and Bobby has the other.
My room includes a regal, four-poster mahogany bed that’s so tall I have to climb a step stool to get in.
Once mounted, I sink down into a billowy cloud because Terry’s layered three featherbeds on top of the mattress.
(He calls it my Princess and the Pea bed—says this makes up for all the times I sleep in a tent.) The sitting area’s up front and it boasts a beautifully aged, button-tufted, leather Chesterfield couch, which is flanked by a couple of wingback chairs.
The whole scene is reminiscent of a gentlemen’s club or an old English manor.
Funny, I haven’t covered the Home and Garden section for more than a decade, but still retain the lingo.
This place is a far cry from my usual digs.

Normally I’m so grateful for how my family insists on spoiling me when I’m in the States, despite my protests.
Visits here entail fluffed pillows and a never-ending stream of gourmet meals, but right now the luxury is cumbersome.
Discordant.
I feel like I should be sitting on a metal folding chair in a cold room with damp, bare cement walls.
I don’t deserve any creature comforts for having been so derelict in my duties as a friend.

Trip triggered my internal alarm bells from the first day.
Because I didn’t want to lose Sars, I kept my concerns to myself after she so thoroughly rejected what I thought I saw at the Air France counter.
Thought my interference would be the Kitty situation all over again.
Yet with this new information, I’m certain my initial assessment was on point.
He was not to be trusted and I fear the repercussions may be far-reaching.

Bobby passes me a steaming mug.
He lowers himself into the club chair across from me, after nudging a snoozing Bode Meowler out of the patch of waning sun.
Feels like a storm’s gathering out there, both literally and figuratively.
“You’re making me nervous with that scowl, Jack,” he says.
“So drink this, you’ll feel better.”

I take a whiff of the smoky, lemony concoction.
“What is it?”

“An experiment.
Terry might expand into the space next door and open a café.
I said he’d bring in more business if he served cocktails that went with cake.
Teddy says booze doesn’t go with cake, so I’m proving him wrong.”
He points at the mug.
“It’s my take on the traditional Hot Toddy.
There’s Irish whiskey, Earl Grey tea, and a citrus simple syrup I make with sugar, a bunch of lemons, a couple of blood oranges, and a secret ingredient.”

I take a sip and can feel the soothing vapors rush down my throat, warming me from the inside out.
When I exhale, I feel like I’m walking through a lemon grove in Tuscany.
“Amazing.
I’d order this in a heartbeat.
Imagine a cup served with a plate of scones.”

“I know, right?”

“What’s the secret ingredient?”

Bobby makes the shape of a heart with his thumbs and fingers.
“Love.
Splash of single-malt scotch for earthiness.
But mostly love.”

“What does Terry think?”

He flashes me the heart-hand again.
“Only problem is he wants to call it a Hot Teddy.”

“Gross.”

“Cosigned.”
He hooks one leg over the arm of the chair in order to get more comfortable.
“Anyway, nice job of dodging my question.
You’re upset, so spill.
Who were you talking to?
What’s going down?
More bad news?
Hope not.”

“You remember my friend Simon?”
I ask.
I begin to worry at a ragged cuticle around my thumb.

Bobby scrunches his eyes shut, trying to remember.
“The rugby player?”

“Definitely not.”
There was no mistaking Simon for an athlete back then.
I used to have better-developed quads than he had.
Surely still do.

“He came home with you for Thanksgiving a few times?
Pasty kid, real pretentious?
The one who couldn’t decide if he was Sid Vicious or an English professor?
Kept saying ‘Anaïs Nin this’ and ‘Anaïs Nin that.’
Spoiler alert, I still don’t know who Anaïs Nin is.”

I fondly remember a young Simon, so intense with his pipe tobacco and his elbow-patched cardigan, worn over a red capital-A anarchy symbol T-shirt.
He’d accessorized his dissonant look with black eyeliner and white-boy dreadlocks.
His persona was all over the map, back in the days when we’d try on new identities like a stack of Gap blue jeans, desperate to figure out which one fit best.

God, we were so young then.

“That’s him.
He’s a deputy managing editor for the
Times
now.
Lost the dreads, kept the sweater.”

“Good call.
He keep the pretention, too?”

“Little bit,” I admit.
“Anyway, he phoned because he remembered my connection with Sars.
Says they’re breaking a huge story on Sunday regarding the Chandler Financial Group.
He has confirmation from three independent sources, at least one within the SEC, so I don’t doubt he’s onto the truth.
The short of it is, CFG clients were anxious about Trip’s passing.”

“He was kinda their poster boy, yeah?”

I nod.
“Trip was definitely the face of the group.
So, investors started pulling their accounts at the news.
A few were able to cash out, but now Simon hears that the money isn’t there to handle the onslaught of requests and everyone’s beginning to panic.”

“Like that scene in
It’s a Wonderful Life
?”

“Yes, but on a global level.”

“Where’s the money?”

“Therein lies the problem.”

Bobby’s eyes grow wide.
“Holy shit.
Did Trip pull a Bernie Madoff or something?”

“For Sars’s sake, I hope not, even though evidence points in that direction.”

“Aw, Sars.
She doesn’t need this, too,” he says, empathy causing his voice to crack.
He’s been profoundly impacted by Trip’s passing, crying more than anyone else at the first calling hour.
Sars ended up having to comfort
him
.
Ted and I worry that Bobby’s too delicate for his own good.

Wracked with emotion, he says, “Poor kid, especially after losing both her folks in the last two years.
Fuck cancer.
Fuck cancer
hard
.
I’m glad we’re all here for her now.”

I nod, aching with the guilt of not being around when either of her parents passed away.
Bobby said Sars was inconsolable.
I was out of range in Sar-e Pol, not hearing the news about either Martin parent until far too late.
Sars said she understood why I wasn’t there and that she forgave me, but I’ve yet to forgive myself.
Her folks were such kind, loving people, always finding reasons to create a celebration for anyone they knew.
Teddy getting a learner’s permit?
Better bake him a cake shaped like a car!
Bobby’s braces coming off?
Let’s take the whole neighborhood to the candy store for caramels!
Jack’s first byline?
Champagne by the case.
They could not have been more proud of Sars, particularly after she founded W3.
If there’s any blessing in this instance, it’s that they aren’t here to see her so crushed.

Bobby clears his throat and tries to get a handle on himself.
“If Simon’s right, Sars is in for a shit show.
I used to work for a real fun guy in Southampton five years ago.
Name was Gidon, came from Israel.
Cool accent.
Made all his dough in the family diamond business and retired real young.
Lived in a huge mansion on Meadow Lane, right on the beach.
I’d run the bar at his parties, which were historic events.
He’d hire actresses and models to dress up like Greek goddesses and they’d feed guests grapes and give ’em shoulder massages.”

“You and I orbit entirely different planetary systems,” I blurt, marveling at how far removed our worlds are from each other.
“Sorry, Bob.
Didn’t mean to interrupt your story.”

“Nah, it’s okay.
Club Gidon was pretty surreal for me, too.
For example, we’d go through a hundred bottles of Cristal in a night, easy.
Guests all went nuts for this raspberry-vanilla puree I’d add because Gidon loved anything raspberry.
I’d try to tell him, ‘Cristal doesn’t need accessories,’ but he didn’t care.
Said the raspberries reminded him of growing up in the Golan Heights.
Anyhoo, the Madoff thing happened and the guy was wiped out.
Boom, everything he’d invested was gone.
The next summer, I stop by his place the first weekend and it’s all shuttered.
Foreclosed.
The bank took his cars, too.
I heard he’s working as a club promoter in New Jersey.
Sad, sad story and now I’m bummed any time I see a pint of raspberries.
Jesus God, please don’t let this happen to Sars.”

I slam my fists down on my thighs, hard.
“Damn it, I should have protected her!
I should have convinced her that Trip was no good!”