The Case of the Rich Man's Wife

"May I have a cigarette before I go?"

"No," I snapped at him. "You do not need to be smoking, young man. You are only eighteen years old. Baby, you'll find plenty of time in life for better things than smoking," speaking in a firm tone. The poor boy needed guidance, and determination filled me to be his guide.

"If I had a mom, I would hope she was like you," he said.

While his words touched me, and yet, for personal reasons, they saddened me. Besides, I was far, too, young to be his mother. Still, I wasn't sure what I thought about his comment, considering our carnal activities during the evening.

"Before you leave, dear boy, please fetch me a glass with some ice, baby." Twisting to my left, I removed a bottle of Kentucky's finest from the liquor cabinet. A nostalgic squeaking greeted me as I opened the door. This old familiar sound dated further back than my recollection stretches. The creaking helps me to shut out the outside world. The ancient cupboard, a family history memento, my father's liquor cabinet, handed down, one generation to another. At least, so the story goes.

The antique piece of furniture was a measure of solace in a world devoid of harmony.

"May I have some whiskey with you, Miss Drummond?" The plaintive appearance of his face almost caused me pain.

"Yes, I can't think of any reason why you can't." Saying this without thinking. As an afterthought, I added, "We will drink together the day you turn twenty-one. Your first drink will be my treat." Consistency, Theo, this is essential, I reminded myself as he brought me a glass with ice. Warm bourbon poured over rocks, the ice cracking, followed by ice tinkling against the glass. Umm, just what the doctor ordered.

The rocks cooled the whiskey while the sweet sounds aided my relaxation before I took my first drink. Pulling the sickly, sweet, raw bouquet into my nose. A sip rough, sweet sort of molasses-like, and smoky wait for the sting ... ah, the burn. Always, what my doctor ordered!

Bourbon's my favorite painkiller. My back, still numb from where he had touched the slug, lodged against my spine. The alcohol wouldn't dull the other pain, the loss, the terrible thought, I was half a woman. Nothing dampened my suffering from my loss. Aaron turned from me, walked to the door, turned to me, he spoke.

"Miss Drummond, I didn't make the grade, I've missed the war, and with VJ day come and gone, the guys are coming home. I lost my chance for glory." With a touch of sadness in his voice.

A painful thought, in those days, most young men dreamed of war and glory. Once they experienced the horrors of war, I also grasped, their dreams of glory were, all, too, often replaced by nightmares, and I was glad he would not suffer from those.

"I, for one, am glad you missed the War, Aaron." For the past four months, he had worked for me. When VJ day had been announced a few days ago, the boys' dream had been shattered.

"Why?" He asked me with a peculiar tone.

"Because I don't need to worry if you'll come home in a box, sweetie." Sweetie was the most common name I called him. In reconsideration, one might believe I baby talked him, somewhat, like a mother. Aaron had no mother, no father either.

"Thanks, Miss Drummond, your concern means a lot to me," he said, with a goofy smile on his face.

"Go straight home and do not be late for work in the morning," I told him.

After I kissed his cheek, I closed the door behind him. Locking the door and the two deadbolts, I moved to the window, spied on Aaron while he sauntered away on the sidewalk toward the subway. With my eyes following him up the street. Reassured he was safe, I left my spot at the window. No one would say I corrupted his soul. Or had I? Does using him for pleasure qualify as the corruption of his soul, despite how much he enjoyed our lovemaking? Shit, before he met me, Aaron was a virgin.

Having had no knowledge of who his parents were or what happened to them. His parents' destiny, shrouded in mystery, buried for over seventeen years, bothered the lad. The important thing, Aaron was healthy and happy. Answers to his questions, I was sure, the truth would be his, though. The cold reality, I worried he wouldn't want the answers he might find.

Coming to work for me in May as my personal assistant after trying to hire me to find out who his parents were, if they were alive and why they had abandoned him. I promised to check into the matter. I explained to him that his paltry $50.00 wouldn't go far. After some hounding, he convinced me to hire him and let him earn the information.

In the months, which followed, he proved to be a quality employee. What I found out about his mother, I decided to keep from him, for the time being, at least. Sometimes reality is the last thing a person wants. Every time he quizzed me about what I found out, I told him, "Nothing yet." So much balderdash, someday, I'd tell him his mother was dead and his father was not.

Lost in my thoughts, I became aware of a constant, relentless racket, tick-tock, tick-tock. The constant ticking sound from the old clock on the wall drew my attention. The old family timepiece became louder with each passing year. Each year the grandfather clock hit a steady march, never missing a beat. One tick, followed by one tock, moving ever forward, reminding me, no moment comes twice in this life. After midnight, where had the day gone?

After enough time passed for Aaron to get home, I picked up the phone and dialed Nevins-2102. The phone rang several times.

"Hello," a woman said.

"Did Aaron Foundling make it home, Mrs. Danner?"

"Yes, do you want to give him a hello?"

"No, I'm his boss, just making sure he made it home safely after he left work. I kept him rather late," I said.

"I should hope to croak, you kept him late, and on the Lord's Day. It's after midnight. In the future, Miss Drummond, take him with you if it's this late when you're done with whatever it was you were doing. But if the two of you are dragging me out of bed at 12:42 and 1:07 in the wee hours, you might as well wish the child a good night."

"I'd, rather, he not find out that I checked on him," I said.

"Well, good night then." The line went dead. The bluenose, teetotaler landlady snapped her cap, slamming the phone down. Waking her twice didn't help matters.

With that, I thought, "I had better go to bed myself." A memorable day awaited me in the morning as well. Opening the face of the old clock, I stuck the key in the slot, winding the mainspring, for another week of timekeeping to ensure I marched boldly into the future.

I rested in bed, smoking and sipping my drink as a wondering mind queried what the third richest man in America wanted with me. Cracking a piece of ice between my teeth, crushing the cube, tiny, cold particles moved down my throat. The case promised to be a profitable gig. The rich man guaranteed me a minimum payday of $10,000. Whatever you call money, clams, moola, lettuce, or dough, I understand money isn't everything, but cash sure does come in handy.

My mind wouldn't stop. You would think our sex marathon would've made sleeping an easy task. I mean, sex is supposed to be one sure cure for insomnia. At least, this was what I understood. Though, for sleep, sex never worked for me. Sacking out never came easy for me, not when I'm not fatigued nor after I'm exhausted. I'm not sure how many bourbons I belted down, but I polished off all the last Camel in my case.

Around 2:45am, my eyelids began to grow heavy. Stubbing out my last smoke, I downed the last drop of liquor in the glass and allowed my mind to relax. Lying above the sheets was cooler. The summer heat, with a tenacity, refused to bolt from the night's air.

The ceiling fan made her usual racket, complete with squeaking and screeching of blades. The cooler air wafted over my skin in light gusts. Soon, my mind began to drift. After a while, the cool air raised goose flesh on me. "Heat exhaustion or hypothermia, take your pick," I thought as I crawled back under the sheets.

After all my thoughts ended, Morpheus wrapped his arms around me. For my night's sleep's spell held me in a light grip as the world melted away. And I dreamed what I suppose were sweet dreams. Never remembering much of such things, I can't tell you what they were. The blasted alarm clock didn't miss a tick. Five-forty-five AM rolled around quicker than I wanted.

Chapter Two

The sun hadn't risen, but this meant little. Nothing funny in this. When the richest man in town comes to hire your services, you arrive well before him. The sky lighted up with a pinkish hue. Shadows crept from the buildings, and streetlights blinked out on their predetermined schedule.

Cars rolled down the streets, and a small tide of pedestrians flooded the sidewalks. Those poor souls who began their work early were making their way to their jobs. The city never takes forty winks, never shuts down, not all together, never. All through the night, business conducted the amalgamation of commerce. Unity is born of purpose. Not all the trade in the old burg might be called proper or legal.

This small island was the center of so much history going back so far. Who would think a bag of beads would've bought so much. Always with the sweet, you find some of the sour. Through the years, this old rock in the river, brothers and sisters, handed out a fair portion of bad times. Anyone here would testify to the accuracy of the statement on a stack of Bibles.

With some reluctance, I removed my nightdress, starting the shower. Still, I waited until the water reached the perfect temperature before climbing under the spray. Bating in the warmth, I let the hot water spray across my back, priming my brain and body for the day. Lathering the soap up frothy, I permitted the water to stimulate me. My hands roamed over my breasts, arousing me. I love my showers far more than a long soaking bath.

The warm shower began to cool, the signal, time for more hot water and less cold to keep the temperature perfect. I let the water massage my muscles getting them ready for the stresses of activity to come. Again, the water cooled, and at last, I gave up, having nothing left of the hot.

Toweling off after the shower, I took a brief moment to admire my own form in the mirror. When you are a knockout, you may as well admit you are. On more than one occasion, I've been told I am the ginchiest dish a man's ever seen. Sometimes, I allowed myself to believe them. Until I catch sight of the scar near my butt and the long surgical one above my pubic mound, I come back down to earth with a thud.

The wounds are old, and the bullets, which caused the injuries also damaged my future joy with my possible fulfillment pilfered from me. For I'd become the end of my family's line. The night flashed before my eyes, the one awful night, all those years, before. Twisting, sideways, I made myself as thin as feasible, but not quite, small enough!

"Like a thief in the night," I said. Speaking to no one, my words broke the thought. A single tear ran down my face, and I wiped the moisture from my cheek. The melancholy lifted, and I returned to my morning tasks.

After I had dried off, I sat in front of my vanity mirror for the same daily ritual as most other women in the world. Wondering where this conceit started. In retrospect, I suspected Eve to be the original culprit.

Staring back at me from my mirror, a pair of brown eyes with some fine lines of crow's feet. For some reason, my hair took my attention. One single idea ran through my mind, should I dye my hair? I had been a brunette for some time. Perhaps red would be a pleasing change, perhaps not.

Taking a little care, I picked out my clothing. From stockings to dress and everything else, I took care of myself. The clothes against my skin pleased me. I looked fine and felt terrific. Being open with you, my appearance was the point of the way I dressed. Not for others, only for me, for I liked being spiffy.

Grabbing my handbag as I walked to the door, I paused at the old roll-top desk of my father's, another piece of my past I held on to tight. Pulling my .45 M1911 Colt auto from the drawer, and I shoved the weapon in my purse. With a steady hand, I pulled out the second one, a small .38 snub-nosed revolver, and put her in a holster under my skirt on the inside of my left thigh.

In my line of work, one can never be, too, careful. Pressing my legs together, the coldness of the gunmetal against my silk, covered flesh soothed me. The Boy Scouts and me, we're always prepared.

Stopping at the magazine stand outside my building, open for business for at least an hour. Always the veteran held a perpetual smile on his face, the newsie sits at his stand in his wheelchair. With a firm hand, the young fellow held a paper out to me. With a light touch, I took the newspaper, tossing a silver dollar into his box.

"Way, too, much, Miss Drummond. You understand the paper cost a nickel." He gazed at me, embarrassment burned on his cheeks.

"Someone else set the price of the paper. However, I determine the tip, Joey, not you," I told him with a bright smile while marching past him to my car. Making sure no trace of pity might be gleaned from what I said. A war hero deserved better than being reduced to a newsie!

Before, too, many hours passed, the invasive, wet heat of August, like a moisture-laden oven, would invade Manhattan Island. The Newsie would sit in his wheelchair with his lower pant legs flapping in the boiling breeze. My heart broke every time I spotted him. I wondered what he was like before the war.

The young gentleman still had a light in his eyes. A presence about him told me he'd been extraordinary. No, not been, for Joey's still remarkable. I wondered if those whose lives he had saved appreciated what their lives cost him.

Pausing without looking back, I yelled out, "Semper fi!"

"Hoorah," barking at the top of his voice. You understand what they say, once a Marine.

****

As was my habit, I maneuvered through the pre-rush hour traffic to my favorite breakfast spot. Strolling inside, Josephine glanced at me with questions in her eyes. With a bob of my head, I nodded a yes to her. A visible relief washed over her features, and her body language relaxed. She mouthed the word "thanks" to me. I told her to stop over and talk awhile, adding the phrase…

"The usual, please."

The scents of the kitchen were almost overpowering. Inviting Aromas lingered in the air. Wafting through the place, fresh bacon, sausage sizzled and popped as the cooking hen's fruit added its own ambrosial, and the mixture drifted their yummy invitation. Oh, man, the pancakes and waffles, all the temptation necessary to let you understand the food was tasty. The best perfume of all, their coffee, deep, dark, and oh, so, delicious.

Sitting in my favorite corner booth, Josephine brought me coffee. Resting the coffee in front of me, the waitress turned to Al, the owner.

Approaching us, Al nodded his head, indicating she should sit and talk for a minute. Sitting across from me, Josephine peered at me with anxious eyes. As Al ambled away from us, he flashed me a grin. I took a sip of the dark fluid, and I composed, pondering what I should tell her.

"Well, am I clear of the charges?" Josephine asked.

"The next step, Josephine, you go to the DA's office today and sign a probation agreement in front of a judge. You will be on probation on the prostitution charges. You agree not to prostitute yourself out again. You further agree not to be involved in ‘any' criminal activity. You're lucky the ‘john' decided to let you off; Girl, you might've killed him." Josephine nodded her head, gazed down. Casting her eyes to me, this ‘what if' expression on her face.

"The probation lasts one year," I said.

"Thanks for doing me a solid, but you get James is going to," holding her hands up, she shrugged, "you know, set something up, now and again ..."

"Josephine, stop being stupid! James is the reason you are in this mess. Any husband who'd rather sell his wife out to strangers than find a job isn't worthy of a wife." Eyeing my coffee for some inspiration, I gathered my thoughts. Josephine opined about how her husband was a fine man.

"We both recognize your draft-dodging, lazy assed husband isn't a decent man," I said, staring her square in the eyes. "He batters you, he cheats on you, and his involvement in various criminal activities all speaks for his character. He is gutless, lacking enough backbone to even manage as a cheap gunsel. For your own safety and future, you need to move away from him. Divorce him. Should be easy as you don't have children, so leave the boob behind." While I told her this, I thought about a salmon fighting the current to swim upstream. A sad story, Josephine's not the first battered wife I've dealt with.

"Not flapping my lips, he loves me, Theo, swear to God, he loves me!"

All the while, justness demanded dues, and I spied her blackened eye, which she tried to hide under far, too, much makeup. With a light, tender caress, I put two fingers on her bruised cheek, touching the mark. This abuse hit hard, my eyes watered, and I dabbed them with my napkin.

"Wake up, you call what he has for you, love, I've seen real affection, and this thing the two of you have isn't. Josephine, get the tarnation away from him! Don't go belly up at his hands. First and most important, you've got the only get-out-of-jail-free card you're likely to receive. As of today, Josephine, you've got a record, only prostitution. Lucky you, they aren't recording the assault or theft. But next time, you won't be cutting any rugs anymore. You'll do time in the joint, and the dance won't be fun."

As Josephine walked away, I appreciated my words were like an ice cube in a fire. I worried, someday soon, Josephine might wind up on a cold slab with glazed-over, blank, empty eyes.

"Some honey's never learn, sister," Al's said. His voice was deep, scratchy, and comforting. Gazing down at me, he had an enormous smile on his pockmarked mug. In his late fifties, a man of medium height, not fat, but plumpish, exuding friendliness, as any business owner should. About the only thing soft about Al, other than his second chin, was his deceptive manner.

"Tell you what," he said as he sat across from me, taking Josephine's place in the booth. "I will try to protect her. I'll let Tillie talk to her about all this. No promises, though, gals who marry this sort of a jerk, well, they pick the same sort of feller, time after time. You appreciate, there's every indication these women enjoy having the stuffing knocked out of them."

"Geezuz, I don't savvy," I told him. "Must be, I think, they have something inside them, the jerk senses. And these men, the bastards, learned to project something to those women. The women who are damaged inside. So, to them, the man possesses something they need. Those women can't walk away from them."

In due course, Josephine brought my food. Settling in, I ate my breakfast while Al and I talked. We talked about many things, not only Josephine or her problems. After a few minutes, he began to reminisce about my parents. His eyes glazed over near the end. My father and mother had left many friends behind.

"What's it been, 12 years? No, 15 years," he said, "Lord-o-mercy, woman, you must be 32 or 33! All grown up, ain't you?" Tears glistened in his eyes, "Never found the bastards either!" He got up and walked away a few feet. "At least the bastard who shot you got his! Some justice is better than none." Al moved to the men's room.

My parent's friends always treated me so well over the years. The ground was solid with their friends, and I always found comfort with them. Most of their old pals are my friends. For the most part, their friends were cops, the widows of police officers, or retired law enforcement. My Uncle Frank and Aunt Marjorie saved my life way back when. All things considered, I wouldn't've made adulthood without Frank and Marjorie. Calling a spade, a spade, I have to tell you, we aren't related. Still, they raised me.