The Coaster (11 page)

“Hell, no,” Corny said. “I would have left that motherfucker in a ditch. You fuck with me, Bobby, you get what you get.”

***

Corny was a maniac. I'd forgotten after all these years. One time in college a few of us were in line at a late night deli where people would try to sop up the liquor in their belly with a sandwich or a donut. A couple of townies were hassling me and another guy. We were too drunk to engage in any kind of verbal exchange, but there was a decent chance we were going to get our asses pounded anyway. Without warning, Corny took out both guys with roundhouse kicks. We called him Chuck Norris for a while. Kids today would probably go with some vampire or werewolf.

Corny wasn't the biggest guy around, but he had that rare combination of crazy confidence and extreme ruthlessness that's essential in a street fight. Was he smarter or tougher than everyone else? No, but he would go the extra mile, do horrible things other people wouldn't do, ratchet up the stakes until it wasn't worth it to the other guy. But it was always worth it to him.

The rest of my recollections are an out-of-order kaleidoscope of Fellini-esque images. I would feel comfortable testifying to the fact that the following events transpired in one form or another:

Shots.

Spelling YMCA with my body on the dance floor.

More shots.

Pantomiming throwing a lasso over Natalie's head on the dance floor.

Shots.

Vomiting in a trash can.

Shots.

Belting out the words to “Dancing Queen,” “Sweet Caroline” and “Brandy (You're a Fine Girl).” The songs I like are so old they've come all the way around to being popular with young people. Mostly as a joke, but still.

Shots.

Being lifted into a cab.

Chapter Thirteen

I woke up hard. No, not in a good way. Hard in that it was difficult to attain consciousness. I struggled to open one eye. I felt like my entire circulatory system was too dry. My organs were dried-up and shriveled like raisins. A visitor would have seen a glassy stare out of my one open eye and a completely motionless body. My skin felt like it was made out of light bulbs. It was secreting alcohol like a tree in the rain forest releases oxygen. I felt pain in individual hair follicles that had been misdirected by the pillow during the night. I could feel other follicles reaching for water like thirsty tree roots. My head throbbed like a cartoon character's thumb when he hits it with a hammer. My stomach couldn't decide whether it wanted to shit or puke, but for the moment the battle was being fought to a draw. It was early rounds Leonard-Durán but eventually one of them was going to say
“No más.”
To call this a hangover would not be doing it justice. People come out of a twenty-year coma fresher than I was.

To say I felt “bad” would be like saying Evel Knievel felt “bad” after he broke every bone in his body on the Snake River Canyon jump. This was the hangover to end all hangovers. If I was up to it, in a week or so we'd have a ceremony retiring the trophy.

My bedroom shades were wide open. The light of day was pouring in. It was as bright as the sun because it was in fact the sun, but I had no idea why it was hovering right outside my bedroom window. I closed my one open eye and pulled a pillow over my head. I may have lost consciousness for a few more hours. Or days. Time had no meaning. A native girl sat by my side dipping a damp cloth in a wooden bowl and pressing it against my forehead as I rambled deliriously about jungle fever.

Later I opened my eye again. The same one. It scouted the surroundings and found no immediate danger, so I gave the second one a try. Two working eyeballs enabled me to focus my vision to “blurry,” an improvement from the earlier “legally blind.”

People who drink in moderation have no conception of how terrible a killer hangover can be. They see a bloodshot-eyed guy in sunglasses, ice bag on his head,
shhh, no loud noises, ha ha
, it's all very comical. But the real thing is no laughing matter.

Despite possessing a body that appeared to be totally devoid of liquid, I had to pee. I steadied myself and swung my feet out of bed and to the floor. I sat up. I could see the clock said 11:38. I hadn't slept this late since before Nick was born. I still had my clothes on from the night before. Everything, including my shoes. I staggered to the bathroom. Despite both arms outstretched and hands flat against the wall, I wobbled to the point that I had to sit down. As I finished up, I felt my organs returning to their original positions that had been usurped the previous evening by my engorged bladder.

I made the decision that, despite the supernova going on in my bedroom, staying awake was not an option. I stumbled out of the bathroom, took off my clothes, and climbed back under the covers. Before I could drift back into blissful unconsciousness, I felt some movement on the other side of the bed. Did Sarah come back late last night? Was she already in bed when I got home? I had the typical hangover horniness, so I decided to see if she might be willing. I sidled over and whispered through morning-after liquor breath, “Are you awake?” It hadn't occurred to my addled brain that my wife hasn't slept past seven in twenty years. And if Sarah was in town, she'd be at work.

As I lay there trying to focus my bloodshot eyes on the form next to me, it became apparent that my wife was not only inexplicably sleeping but she had also colored and cut her hair. It should have been obvious to me by now, and it's surely obvious to you, that the sleeping form in my bed was not in fact my wife.

I scrambled away from her. The figure remained motionless. I climbed out and crept around the bed using the same gait I would use to exit a sleeping baby's room. I reached down and carefully peeled back the comforter to reveal a still unconscious, mouth-breathing Natalie from last night, her makeup smeared all over my wife's pillowcase.

For several minutes I stood there and watched her sleep. I was in no condition to handle this. I needed a morning-after expert. Fortunately, I had one in Corny. He'd sent more girls home in the morning than a school nurse.

***

I heard some commotion downstairs so I headed to the kitchen. Corny stood there in American Flag bikini briefs whipping up some eggs in a bowl. “Morning, sunshine! You look like shit.”

“Why is that woman in my bed?” I asked. “There's makeup and saliva and probably nosebleed on my wife's pillow.”

“What happened to ‘good morning,' Bobby? Lexi and I were in the guest room bed. Where was Natalie supposed to sleep? On the floor?”

“I don't know, but not in my bed. Sarah will be able to tell. Women have a sixth sense for that kind of thing.”

“You're such a fucking pussy,” Corny said. “It's no big deal. I'm a pro at this. And anyway, we've got bigger fish to fry today.”

He returned to making his eggs and I sat in a stupor. Nausea washed in and out of my gut like the tide. It still felt like there were hurricanes sloshing around in there. I sat there hating people like Corny who never worry about anything but also never have anything to lose.

Corny scraped some eggs out of the skillet and onto a plate and slid it in front of me. The mere sight of the egg film on the pan almost made me gag. “Just have some breakfast,” he said. “Nothing cures a hangover like some bacon and eggs.”

“The only thing that would cure this hangover is a morphine drip.”

“Are you serious? I've probably got some Vicodins if you need them.”

We ate our eggs in relative silence, Corny conceivably because he was enjoying his meal, me because I was trying not to puke. This wasn't an “Oh, my God, I'm starving” kind of hangover. Corny made a few references to the night out that rekindled some fuzzy memories, none of them good. I was more interested in the future than the past anyway.

“Corny, go get those gals up and let's get them the fuck out of here.”

He headed toward the master bedroom and returned a minute later. I heard the shower kick on. He walked by me in silence and returned to the guest bedroom and shut the door.

I thought about checking in with the office, but why? They weren't expecting me and if they really needed my help, I was in no condition to give it. I went into the family room and collapsed on the couch. I must have dozed off for a few minutes because when I looked up, Corny was standing in front of me.

“Get up, Bobby. We've got a big day ahead of us.”

I stared at him out of my good eye. I kept the other one closed. If I didn't, there were two of him. “What do you mean ‘we'?”

“I mean you and me,” Corny said. “I've got a meeting set up with one of my business associates.”

“I don't go to meetings when I feel good, Corny. There's no way in hell I'm going to a meeting when I feel like I just spent a week in Tijuana.”

Corny leveled his gaze at me and spoke softly but with gritted teeth, like he'd been practicing
Dirty Harry
lines in the mirror. “You're going to that meeting with me, Bobby.”

I covered my face with a throw pillow to protect myself from the blinding light. “The fuck I am. I'm going back to bed as soon as we get these girls out of here.”

“I'm going to have to insist.”

Then silence. I thought maybe he'd given up, so after a minute or so, I slid the pillow off and opened my eyes. There was a gun in my face.

***

When someone suddenly points a gun at you, the most important thing is to remain calm.

“Holy fucking shit, Corny!! Are you out of your mind?” I flung myself off the couch and sprinted down the hall toward the bedroom. “Girls, run for your lives!! Corny's gone crazy! He's got a gun!”

Natalie stepped out of the bedroom, holding a tiny, hot-chick-appropriate gun. I'll bet she posed with it in front of one of those trifold full-length mirrors they have in ladies' dressing rooms to see how it looked before she bought it.

“Jesus Christ,” I screamed. “What are you doing? You can't fight him with that thing! He has a real gun!!”

Natalie sighed and shook her head disgustedly. If she was tweeting what was happening, she would have typed “smh.” It was a gesture I've seen a thousand times from my wife. “Jesus, Bob. Dave said you weren't the sharpest tool in the shed but he didn't put near enough emphasis on the tool part. Are you a complete dumbass?”

Natalie marched me back into the living room at gunpoint. Lexi came out of the other bedroom and followed us. They were both dressed businesswoman-sexy, tailored suits with hose and black pumps. I was dumbfounded at how clean, professional and, well, normal they looked. Do they do this every night and wake up looking like they were home in bed before
The Tonight Show
? I was dying and they were raring to go.

I sat back down on the couch. I looked back and forth among these three individuals towering over me in their expensive suits as I sat shirtless in my underwear. I held the pillow on my lap. Corny still held the gun loosely in his hand. “So how about someone telling me what the fuck is going on?” I said.

Corny nodded at Lexi and she brought over a laptop. Corny sat it down on the coffee table and punched a few keystrokes. He had put the gun away somewhere, but what was I going to do, hit him over the head with the laptop and run out the front door in my boxers, dodging bullets from Natalie all the way down the drive? When he turned the laptop toward me, the eggs I'd eaten decided to make a run for it. I stumbled over to the kitchen and vomited in the sink. I drank some water right out of the tap and went back to the couch.

The laptop images themselves didn't make me lose my breakfast. They weren't gruesome crime scene photos like a cop uses to shock a witness or anything. In fact two of the three participants in the photo montage were quite attractive. The third was me.

Chapter Fourteen

The first photo showed Natalie and Lexi totally naked crouching over my similarly nude body. Corny hit a button and the next picture appeared and another and another, all showing me getting expertly worked over by two beautiful women in my marital bed. These were the kind of high-quality sex scenes Corny would have forwarded to all of us on his e-mail distribution list. He had a talent for staging.

I shouldn't have been so surprised. In college, Corny was notorious for messing with unconscious guys. Even though he drank more than anyone, Corny never passed out. When his drinking partner for the night inevitably succumbed, Corny would go to work. We didn't have digital cameras back then, thank God, so he couldn't record the incident for posterity, but he would strip the guy naked and lock him on the fire escape or draw cocks all over him with a permanent marker. One of our pledge brothers had to go to a job interview senior year with the faint outline of an impossible-to-scrub-off dick right in the middle of his forehead. He didn't get the job.

I scrolled through all the pictures. No Corny, just me, Natalie and Lexi. My first three-way and I wasn't even awake for it. “I'm just glad you weren't in the photos, Corny. I've seen what you do to unconscious people.”

Corny grinned at that. Unfortunately, he was born without the shame gene. “I saved all the teabagging photos to another disk. I'm having them made into an album.”

“Does all this have a point?”

“The point is, I don't imagine your wife would approve of what you've been doing in her bed.”

“I wasn't even awake.”

“But Mr. Happy was, as you can plainly see,” Natalie said with a giggle. “Well, if you zoom in real close.”

“You can also see a couple lines of coke on your wedding photo on the bedside table,” Corny said. “Photo glass is a good chopping surface.”

Lexi laughed. “The wedding photo was my idea.”

“Good work, Lexi,” I said. “You're showing some real initiative.”

“Enough chitchat,” Corny said. “Bob, go take a shower and get yourself cleaned up. We have a meeting to go to. This is one your wife would definitely want you to attend.”

***

I stood in the shower and tried to assess the situation and by assessing the situation I mean I threw up. I sat down on the shower bench and told myself I was a fucking idiot. How could I let myself get in this situation? I don't look for trouble and trouble doesn't look for me. But here I was.

I thought about Sarah. I thought about my kids. I even thought about my father-in-law, who would never have let himself get in a situation like this. For all I know, he had a mistress in every town, powerful men often do, but he would never humiliate Sarah's mother by letting anyone find out about it. None of this was explainable. None of it. I was guilty. I got shitfaced and out of control with a beautiful young woman who was not my wife. Whatever happened after that is my fault. I didn't know what Corny wanted me to do, but my quick hungover shower-analysis led me to the inescapable conclusion that whatever it was, I was going to have to do it.

I got out of the shower and dressed in a daze. As I was pulling on my normal business-casual khakis, Corny shouted from the family room. “And put a suit on. You need to show some respect.”

***

I put on my suit and joined the group in the family room. Corny said, “Let's go.”

A new problem entered my mind. What was one more? “We can't just leave the house with two strange women in the car.”

“Why not?”

“Because Sarah's horse trainer is probably out there.”

“So what? He's your employee. He does what you tell him.”

“He's Sarah's employee. He'd love to tell her about this.'

“Okay, girls, you'll have to lie down in the backseat. I'm guessing it won't be your first time.”

We got into my car in the garage and the girls assumed their positions, making lewd noises and giggling. “It's not the same without you, Bob,” Natalie purred. Ah, the simple pleasures of the party slut. You probably wouldn't want to marry one, but they definitely had their charms.

I peered out the garage door before opening it and all was quiet. As we backed out, I glanced anxiously toward the barn. When I needed the trainer's help, I could never find him, but of course this time he was walking across the grass toward us, shouting “Bob!”

I pretended not to hear him, gave a perfunctory wave and sped off down the driveway. When he eventually told Sarah, and he would, I would just say Corny and I were late for a meeting, which was true. Include as much truth in your lies as possible, I always say.

As I drove, I realized I was still probably over the legal limit for blood alcohol content from last night's drinking. Adding a DUI to my resume would be a nice topper to the day. Corny directed me to one of the nice hotels downtown. Think Ritz-Carlton, but that wasn't it. “A hotel?” I asked. “Don't you have enough blackmail material?”

“Lots of meetings are in hotels,” Corny said, shaking his head. “You really don't know anything about business, do you?”

“No, I don't, so I'm sure I won't be any help to you. Why don't I just drop you off somewhere and we'll forget this ever happened?”

“Afraid not, Bobby. You're the right man for the job.”

We valet parked and approached the revolving glass doors. I stopped and bent down to tie my shoelace. It wouldn't look good to be seen walking into a hotel in the middle of the day with two attractive young females. If I was
lucky
, people would think they were just hookers.

“What are you doing?” Corny asked.

“What's it look like? I'm tying my shoe.”

“You're wearing loafers.”

“So I am.” I stood back up and followed the girls inside, where they were thoughtfully waiting for us. I tried to act inconspicuous and avoid eye contact with the staff, but almost immediately, I heard my name shouted. I turned the opposite way, hoping whoever it was would think they were mistaken.

“Bob!” If I saw someone I knew in a strange place, the last thing I'd want to do is talk to them, suspicious women in tow or not, but this person wouldn't be denied.

I turned around as if I just heard him and there was Ned Kruppen, a harmless but overly friendly fellow I knew from the country club. We golfed occasionally and tennised if I got roped into it. We weren't great friends, but I knew him. The only time I would ever call out to
him
would be if my tee shot was about to hit his golf cart. And maybe not even then.

“Ned.” I said and shook his hand.

Ned eyeballed each of my compatriots as he spoke. “What brings you downtown, buddy? You normally don't cross the mid-town line.”

I had wasted the drive here
not
concocting a cover story, so I couldn't think of anything to say. Anxiety flushed my face, I'm sure, and liquor-fueled perspiration began to flow. Obviously, I should introduce these people to Ned, but as what? As I fumbled for a response, Corny spoke up.

“Hi, there. Scott Van Pelt. These are my associates Linda Cohn and Hannah Storm. We're treating Bob here to a late lunch trying to convince him to switch his company's Internet and phone service. We knew since Sarah and the kids were out of town, Bob couldn't claim he had to have lunch with the missus.”

“That's right, Ned,” I said. “And we're actually running late, so I'll talk to you later. When it gets warmer, we'll knock the pill around.”

“Sure, Bob, looking forward to it.” Ned looked a little puzzled, but by then we were walking away. I doubt it was lost on him that we were headed not for the restaurant but toward the room elevator banks.

“That was smooth,
Scott
,” I said. “Let's hope he doesn't watch
SportsCenter
.”

“He doesn't,” Corny replied. “Look at him, for Christ's sake.”

Corny hit the elevator button for one of the top floors, although not all that high in a mid-sized city like ours. We followed Corny down the hallway. There weren't very many rooms on the floor, so I assumed they were all expensive suites. Corny stopped in front of one of them and knocked. A nondescript smiling man, who could easily have been a dentist or a pet shop owner, opened the door, smiled and said, “Bob, Tom Swanson. Good to see you again.”

***

I know what you're thinking. Who else would it be? But I was a hungover, frightened husband who didn't know what to expect and it shocked the shit out of me to see Swanson open that door. He was an overly aggressive salesman, but I never would have pegged him for a ruthless blackmailer. On the surface, he was a virtual stereotype of the successful, middle-aged white guy.
Nobody knows anybody.

We all took seats in the sitting area, like normal people in a normal conversation. “Bob, I've tried to do this the easy way. You make money, we make money, everybody wins. Apparently, you're not smart enough to recognize this for the opportunity it is.”

“It doesn't matter what I think. It's not what Sam wanted.”

“Look, about that,” Swanson said. “It's true Sam sent me that e-mail, but that wasn't the end of it. He had some legitimate concerns and we answered them. We continued to work on the deal and he was reconsidering. You can't tell what Sam would have wanted from one tiny form letter of an e-mail. And even if you could, Sam's dead. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but it's a fact. You've got to make the decisions now and the sooner you realize it the better.”

“I do realize it and this is my decision.”

“You understand this deal could also be lucrative for you personally?”

I sat up a little at that. “How so?”

“I understand you're not even being paid for all the work you're doing.”

How the hell did he know that? “I'm happy to do it.” I think I even meant it.

“Maybe so,” Swanson said, “but we could put you on the board at Sanitol and pay you a couple of hundred thousand dollars a year for going to four board meetings.”

“Isn't that unethical or a violation of my fiduciary duty or something?”

Swanson snorted in derision. “Hell, no. Every powerful person is on a bunch of boards and gets paid for essentially doing nothing.”
I'll admit I liked the sound of that.
“If you couldn't invest in any company that the Bennett Trust is involved with,” Swanson continued, “you'd have to start keeping your money in a coffee can in your backyard.”

“The answer is still no.”

“I understand your family is still grieving and you're new to the job,” Swanson said. “The last thing I want to do is push you. But we're running out of time here.”

“I don't see how ruining my marriage is going to help you, Swanson.”

“Nobody's trying to ruin your marriage, Bob. You're just an impossible man to convince using traditional business methods, which you seem to be largely unfamiliar with.”

It was at about this time in the meeting that I released a silent but excruciatingly deadly fart. I note this only because under normal circumstances, I would have been completely embarrassed. In this case, I found it interesting that even criminal enterprise types, in a business setting, politely pretend they don't smell it. Even Corny couldn't mention it in case it was Swanson who'd dealt it.

I moved on. “You guys have crossed a pretty serious line. It's one thing to try to convince me, but another to commit felonious extortion.”

Swanson leaned forward. “Bob, business
is
extortion. When people buy up the shares of a company to threaten a takeover, they call it greenmail, not blackmail. If somebody pays me to drop a lawsuit, how is that different from extortion? I threaten to do something unless they pay me to stop. It's exactly the same. I know you're not a very sophisticated businessman, Bob, but grow up. This is how things work. You use whatever leverage you can get to make the best deal for yourself.”

“That leverage doesn't usually involve incriminating photos.”

“Sure it does. It happens all the time. But whatever. The bottom line is you have until Friday to agree to this deal or we'll have a DVD of last night's festivities delivered to your wife.”

Corny leaned in and winked at me. “I might even throw in some old Polaroids I took in college.”

***

I left the three of them in the lobby to check in. “Remember,” Corny said as I walked away. “We're going to be watching you. I may even stop by to check on you once everyone's back in town. I'm sure Sarah would love to see me.”

I turned around and pointed my finger at him. “Stay away from me and my family, Corny!” I shouted.

Corny was as rattled by that pathetic outburst as you'd imagine. “Take it easy, Tiger. Just do the deal and you have nothing to worry about.”

I made my way to my car. My hangover was still operating at about fifty percent power, so it was down to the level of a normal, run-of-the-mill, “I swear I'll never drink again” hangover. Unfortunately, I was faced with a situation that required more than I could give on my best day.

I went home and sat down on the couch to think. Remember how I said everything is relative? A week ago I was unhappy with my unfulfilling life. Now I'd give anything for that boring existence. Because of the anxiety of the day combined with my already jittery hangover nerves, I was suddenly bone-tired. I felt like my entire nervous system had been on high alert all day and now it crashed. I fell fast asleep sitting up on the couch.

At around eight-thirty, the house phone began to ring. Normally I can't fall into a deep sleep sitting up, but there was nothing normal about today. I practiced a couple of hellos to see if my voice would work and picked up the phone.

“Bob?” My wife's voice on the other end. “Why do you sound like that? Did I wake you up?”