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Chapter 31
October 2004
Special Agent Baugham
made himself comfortable in Fitzwilliam's office. "Nice
office. Congratulations on your promotion, Captain."
"Thanks,"
Fitz said in a non-committal fashion. "What can the NOPD
do for our friends in the FBI?" The FBI wasn't the most
popular law enforcement agency among its peers. They had a habit
of taking over investigations from the locals.
"Getting right
down to business, huh?"
"You're a busy
man, and so am I."
Brougham reached
into his attaché case. "Tell us what you know about
this man." He slid the file over the desk.
Fitz's heart almost
skipped a beat after he opened it. "You're after Wickham?"
"We're looking
for him. He's a person of interest in a case we're working. We
understand you know this guy better than anybody on the force."
"Unfortunately."
Fitz looked up at the FBI agent with a wolf's grin. "Special
Agent Baugham, I'm now your new best friend."
~*~*~
A week later, on
a wet Wednesday morning, a combined force of federal agents,
Louisiana State Police, and Jefferson Parish Sheriff deputies
descended upon a small house in Gretna, executing a federal search
warrant. In attendance were observers from the sheriff departments
of Lafourche and Terrebonne parishes and Captain Fitzwilliam
of the NOPD. Guns drawn, agents of the FBI, DEA, and Customs
Service secured the premises and began to search for evidence.
They found the floor safe rather quickly and $75,000 in cash
within. There was nothing else, as it seemed the house had not
been inhabited for some time.
"Looks like
our friend was using the place to stash cash," Baugham reported
to Fitz.
"Anything else?"
"No drugs or
weapons. We'll see what the forensics team comes up with."
Fitz nodded, his
hopes sinking. Wickham wasn't the brightest bulb in the package,
but he had the devil's own luck. Somehow, the bastard's animal
instincts had told him to keep his assets in separate locations.
The cops had his money, but not his product. And unless the forensics
people got real fortunate, they had no idea where Wickham was
holed up. In a metro area of 1.5 million, he could be anywhere.
He looked out down
the street, blocked off by JPSO. A deputy was redirecting traffic
from the crime scene, a black sports car being the latest vehicle
turned away. The rain dripped off the brim of Fitz's hat as despair
began to grow.
Will I ever catch
that bastard?
~*~*~
Greg Wickham, to
his surprise, found out it was hard to spend one hundred thousand
dollars in cash. You couldn't deposit it into a bank without
filling out federal forms, stating the source of the money. You
couldn't buy any big ticket items legally with cash without providing
the same information. One could only use the cash in the black
market, where everything went at a premium.
Wickham wanted a
new car, thinking his red Camero was getting well known as his
signature. But he had to settle for painting his trusty two-door
black. He was investigating buying a stolen car that had the
VIN numbers removed, but he had spent some time checking out
the seller. He was on his way to his "bank" when he
saw the red lights. His worst nightmare had come true - the cops
had found his hidey-hole.
As the deputy turned
him away, a terrified Wickham thanked his lucky stars that he
had the car repainted. Surely the cops were looking for a red
Camero. But his black one would only protect him for a short
time. He knew he had to go to ground.
As Wickham made
his way back to the Crescent City Connection, he beat the steering
wheel in frustration. Seventy-five big ones were gone. All he
had left was about fifteen G's and the cocaine. Lots of product,
but with no organization to distribute it, he had only two options.
One, sell the stuff at a steep discount to another dealer and
get out of town. It was the smart play, but it meant Wickham
was giving up the chance to make a million. Wickham had never
had this opportunity before, and he wasn't going to blow it.
The second option
was to build his own organization. That was dangerous, as the
other gangs wouldn't take kindly to an interloper. Without the
cash, he couldn't hire people or buy cooperation. And now the
cops were after him.
Still, he had earned
his chance to be rich. Bought it with blood. He was made
now - he was a killer, a dangerous mother-fucker. G-Daddy
wasn't backing down to anybody.
Wickham made his
way to his second hidey-hole, deep in the upper Ninth Ward.
~*~*~
November 2004
The presidential
election came and went in the Bayou State, and while the nation's
eyes were turned towards Ohio, in Louisiana the attention was
on the local congressional elections. Two long-term members of
the state's delegation to Washington were retiring: Democratic
Senator John Breaux and Republican Representative Billy Tauzin.
The parties switched seats, and the state's delegation remained
split 7-to-3 in favor of the GOP.
But there was more
to it than that. Seniority was the coin of the realm in Washington,
DC. No matter how hard-working or talented the newcomers were,
they would not get the plum committee assignments, and the power
that went with them.
Louisiana was a
considerably weaker state on November 3 than it was the day before.
~*~*~
Golf was a growing
sport in Louisiana, as the Cajuns learned one could have fun
besides shooting animals or hooking fish. The state had recently
commissioned the Audubon Golf Trail, a series of a dozen top-notch
tracks promoted to entice duffers from out-of-state to visit
the Bayou State and swing their clubs, rather than tackle the
similar golf trails in nearby states, such as Alabama's Robert
Trent Jones Trail.
Most courses in
Louisiana were flat, as was the rest of the real estate. There
were some exceptions. The land in the northern part of the Florida
Parishes - Tangipahoa, St. Tammany and Washington - was very
hilly, which gave architects something to play with. One of the
best examples was an old, converted hunting club north of Abita
Springs owned by the Goodyear family named Money Hill.
The signature hole
at Money Hill Golf and Country Club is Number 16, a beautiful,
nasty par-3, most of its 162 yards over water to an island green.
It's not as intimidating as the 17th at Sawgrass, but it's close.
But the hole that tells the golfer that this place is different
is the difficult 10th, the hole that starts the back nine.
Taking the tee box
of the 10th on this unseasonably warm day was a foursome, all
guests of Chuck Bingley. They were playing a Round Robin, and
Chuck's partner on this hole and the next two was Chris Breaux.
Everyone was using handicaps, and it was the only thing keeping
these two duffers in the game, as their playing companions were
both scratch players. Chuck had won the first six holes partnered
with his brother-in-law, John Buford, by a stroke over Chris
and Will Darcy. Now the two aces were together, and they were
killing them.
Will Darcy, having
the honors, stood on the tee box, gazing at the hole. A glorious
457 yard downhill par-4, it was a slight dogleg to the left to
a well-bunkered green. The mature 100-foot pine trees lining
the fairway gave the golfer the impression that this hole had
been carved out of the woods of North Carolina, rather than built
out of a tree farm an hour north of New Orleans.
"Well, are
ya gonna look at it all day, or are ya gonna hit?" asked
his playing partner and competitor.
Will grinned at
Buford. "Want to go double or nothing on this hole?"
To make the middle six of the Round Robin interesting, Darcy
and Buford had a side bet of a dollar a hole between themselves,
and Darcy was up two, stealing a birdie by chipping in from off
the green on Number 9.
Buford waved his
agreement. Darcy set up carefully and played an easy draw right
to the bottom of the hill. Buford was more aggressive, his drive
going almost 300 yards, but leaving him an uphill lie. Chuck
kept his ball in play, but Chris found one of the fairway bunkers.
Chuck flubbed his second shot and was left with a hundred yard
pitch after his third. Chris got out of the bunker, but still
had two hundred yards to get home.
Darcy's approach
shot, from a level lie, landed just short of the green between
the bunkers and trickled on. Buford's bled to the right and ended
right in the middle of a sand trap. But Buford's sand shot ended
up stiff and Darcy missed his birdie putt, so they halved the
hole.
Approaching the
11th tee box, Buford said, "How about a press?"
"You're on,"
replied Darcy.
"You know,"
Chris remarked to Chuck in the other golf cart, "it's worth
losing my money to these two, just for the privilege of watching
them beat each other's brains in."
Chuck grinned. "Why
do you think I invited them?"
~*~*~
St. Tammany was
the fastest growing parish in the state, as people fled the chaos
of the city and the cookie-cutter sameness of suburbia to flock
to the piney woods of the North Shore. Folks there loved their
trees, believing they lived in a primeval forest. What they didn't
realize was that those 100-foot pines were not native to Louisiana
but were shallow-rooted Loblolly and Slash pines, designed for
agriculture. In fact, the entire parish was one big tree farm.
The only reason that there were so many trees there was that
the soil was too poor for any other kind of agriculture.
Throughout the parish,
developers carved their subdivisions out of the "forests"
so that the commuters could have their little quarter-acre or
half-acre of paradise. Most of the employed people of the North
Shore commuted to the high paying jobs in New Orleans, along
the river, or at the Stennis Space Center just across the line
in Mississippi. St. Tammy was a commuter parish, and most of
the local jobs were in the relatively low-paying service or retail
sectors.
Chuck and Jane Bingley's
slice of heaven was located near the parish seat of Covington.
Chuck had his beloved house built near the street, to maximize
the size of the chain-link fenced back yard. Their yard was being
enjoyed that Saturday afternoon by Jane, Lizzy, Carrie, and Marianne.
They sat on the patio, watching the treetops swaying in the breeze
and the kids scampering on the lawn. It was amazing how much
noise three children could make.
"Hmm,"
observed Jane. "I think Trey's going to be in sports."
Her nephew, John Taylor Buford III, was running all over the
place, head down making a spurting sound.
"What's that
sound he's making?" asked Mari.
Carrie waved her
hand. "His latest obsession. He heard a motorcycle, and
now he's imitating it. Constantly."
"How long has
this been going on?"
"Three weeks."
"Great,"
said Jane. "Is that what I've got to look forward to when
Brett reaches that age?"
"At least with
a sister, he'll be potty-trained sooner. We just got Trey over-the-hump,
as it were." She stood up. "Trey! No, no!"
The child had just
approached the Great Dane puppy, Rufus, and turned at his mother's
admonishment. "Max?"
"No, Trey,
that's not Max." She walked over and picked up her son.
"Who's Max?"
asked Lizzy.
"Max is Carrie
and John's Boxer," Jane replied.
"Max just loves
Trey and lets him climb all over," Carrie explained. "The
trouble is Trey thinks every dog is Max."
"Rufus is very
sweet," said Jane. "I'm sure he wouldn't have any problem
with Trey."
"I'm certain
you're right, Jane, but we're trying to teach Trey not to climb
on every dog he sees."
"Max!"
Trey pointed at Rufus.
"No, sweetie.
That's not Max. That's Rufus. Say, 'Hi, Rufus.'"
Trey looked at the
dog, his face scowling. "No! Max!" he said triumphantly.
By this time, Jane's
daughter, Hailey, walked over to have her share of the conversation.
"No, Trey. My doggie's name is Rufus, not Max. Don't be
such a little baby."
Trey considered
his cousin's comment for a moment, and then screwed up his face
to say, "Brruurrrpppttt!"
"Well, that
ends that conversation," laughed Carrie. "It's nap
time, young man." Carrie and Jane went into the house, Jane
collecting Brett on the way. They returned after a few minutes
with a pitcher of margaritas. The girls were into their first
drink when the boys returned.
Lizzy remained seated
as the men were greeted by their ladies. Chuck got a hug and
kiss from Jane, before he was assaulted by both Hailey and Rufus.
Mari latched onto Chris and gave him a long, slow kiss, knocking
off his golf cap. Buford's welcome was much more sedate - a peck
on the cheek - as Carrie was not into public displays of affection.
They stood close together, her arm around her husband's waist,
and no one saw Buford's free hand gently cup her ass. Carrie
only smiled, as she had no intention of moving - why else would
she have worn a thong under her loose-fitting Capri pants?
"How did you
play?" Mari asked her fiancé.
"Not too good.
Lost all the money. Everybody else won, 'cept when they played
with me. Guess I'm the bad luck charm today."
Mari kissed Chris'
cheek. "You'll play better next time, sugar."
"It was fun
watching John and Will go after it toe-to-toe during the middle
six, wasn't it?" injected Chuck.
"You take him,
Johnny?" asked Carrie in a low voice.
Buford shook his
head. "Nah, not this time. Played good, though. Just wasn't
my day."
Lizzy looked around.
"Where's Will? Didn't he come?"
Chuck answered.
"He left right after the round. Had some charity thing to
go to."
"And we have
to make our farewells, as well," added Chris. "Mari's
got a gig tonight." The couple bid everybody goodbye, which
gave time for Lizzy to hide her disappointment, for she had hoped
to see Will that evening. Soon, Chris and Mari were pulling out
in his Envoy, and Jane turned to her husband.
"Now that you've
had your fun, how about getting started on the grilling? The
chickens are all ready."
Chuck pouted. "Janie,
Don't I get a beer first?"
"You light
the grill and I'll grab one for you. John, want something?"
Seconding the beer
order, the two men returned to the patio, where Chuck lit the
gas grill. The menu tonight was his specialty - drunken chicken:
chicken roasted vertically on top of drink cans filled with beer
and spices, including crab boil. It was the perfect entertaining
dish, as it took ninety minutes once the birds were carefully
placed on the grill. No muss or fuss. Plenty of time to mingle
with the guests.
Everyone was soon
in chairs around the patio, Hailey in her father's lap, while
dinner roasted. The conversation was lively and open, and every
effort was made to include Lizzy, but she still felt somewhat
like a third wheel. She was odd-woman out, without a date. She
volunteered to hold Brett when it came time to retrieve the boys
from their naps. She enjoyed playing with her nephew, but still
she couldn't get Will Darcy's absence out of her mind.
Is he really
at a charity event, or is he avoiding me?
~*~*~
George Katz pulled
into his garage and walked into the house. He was puzzled, as
his boss had told him to go home, rather than observe a heart
procedure scheduled for that evening. He wondered about the request
and found the "you've been working too hard" explanation
unsatisfactory. His puzzlement increased as he found his house
deserted.
"Hello! Where
is everybody?"
"Right here."
Emma rose from the couch.
"Em? What's
going on? Where's Abe?"
"He's out.
Mrs. Taylor took him to a movie."
"You're kidding
me."
Emma nervously held
out her hand. "Why don't you sit down?"
George put down
his briefcase and walked over to the sofa. "Sure."
He sat and was surprised that Emma didn't join him. "Em?
Is something wrong?"
"No. I mean…George,
we need to talk."
George rolled his
eyes. "What did Abe do now?"
Emma sat on the
far end of the couch, her eyes focused on the back yard through
the windows. "It's not Abe I want to talk to you about."
"Oh? Then what?"
"You."
She turned to her husband. "You and me. Us. Our marriage."
George was stunned.
"What…what about our marriage?"
Emma tried to concentrate
on the advice Rabbi Tuckmann had given her -
"Be clear
about your feelings. Be as positive as you can. Do not blame
- do not say, 'You are bad.' Rather say, 'This is how your behavior
affects me.' Do not forget to praise him for positive actions."
"George, the
first thing I want to say is that I love you very much. You've
worked very hard to provide for both me and my father. You've
seldom complained about Papa living here, a situation that has
been difficult for me, and I'm his daughter. I can't imagine
how it affects you."
"Emma, it's
okay. I know that we have to have Abe here…"
"George, please,
let me finish. This is very hard for me." She took a deep
breath. "I trust you - you've given me no reason to mistrust
you. But George, I wish I could say I'm as happy in this marriage
as I would wish to be - as much as I could be. But I'm not."
"You…you're
unhappy? Why? I don't understand."
"I feel we've
become strangers in our own house. I hardly see you any more.
I feel more like your roommate than your wife."
George looked at
her, taking in her words. "Emma, I…I'm shocked. I had
no idea. I'm sorry. I've been so tired after work. Half the time
you're already in bed. I was just letting you sleep. Oh, Emma,
honey, I'm sorry. I'll do better. I'll try to be more attentive
when I come home." He reached out his hand, but Emma wouldn't
take it.
"George, you're
missing the point. I don't just want more of your attention when
you are home. I want you home more."
George blinked for
a second. "Home more? You mean, work less?"
"Yes."
"Emma, I can't
do that!"
"Why not?"
"I've got work
to do - important work! I've got classes to teach, patients to
care for, paperwork to do. Being a surgeon in a teaching hospital
isn't a nine-to-five job. Somebody comes in, I've got to take
care of them."
"George, just
listen to yourself! You're not an emergency room physician -
you're a cardiac surgeon. Almost all of your operations are by
appointment. You set your own schedule…"
"Not all the
time," George interrupted her. "Why, just last week,
this heart attack came in…"
"GEORGE, STOP
IT! Can't you see you're a workaholic?"
"I am not!"
"Yes, you are!"
"What is this,
some sort of intervention?"
"Yes, it is."
George laughed without
mirth. "Where did you get your medical training? You don't
know what you're talking about! Working long hours comes with
this job!"
Emma fought to control
her temper. The rabbi had warned her that George would be in
denial, and he might get insulting. I don't recommend you
do this yourself, he had told her. It can get very rough, breaking
through the denial. Unkind things are often said. Still, if you
are insistent, remember to stay calm and stay on task. Stick
to your points and let everything else roll off your back.
It was easier said
than done. She gritted her teeth. "I am fully aware that
you are a dedicated doctor, George, and that you have a lucrative
practice."
"Damn right!
It's paying for this crappy house!"
"We do have
expenses, but Papa has offered to chip in."
"I know, but
I don't know if I want to sink any more money into this place."
"You've paid
off your student loans."
"Yeah - finally."
He rose to his feet and began pacing. "But malpractice keeps
going up, Medicare keeps cutting back…"
"So you keep
going after extra work."
"Emma, you
know we can use the money."
"George, I
do the books. We're doing well, enough that we have money in
our savings account."
"Yeah, but…what
if something happens? The roof goes bad, or one of the cars breaks
down? I'd like to have a bigger cushion…"
Emma started to
relax, as she realized that George was making excuses. She decided
to dig a little. "I know it's hard on you being the only
bread-winner. If I had stayed in school…"
George dismissed
that with a wave. "I make enough for both of us. We talked
about that before we got married. Besides, you've got a full-time
job watching Abe."
"Yes."
She would hold that issue for later. "But not everything
you do at the hospital is for pay, is it?" He turned to
her as she continued. "How many procedures did you observe
this month?"
George turned to
her. "Several. But that's part of my job, to observe interns
and the newer surgeons…"
"George, honestly,
how many of them were students or newbies?"
George colored.
"Umm…most of them." Emma continued to look at
him. "All right, so I watch my colleagues sometimes. That's
not a crime, is it?"
"George, please,
is there a problem at Tulane? I ask in all seriousness. If the
quality of the physicians is in question, then I quite understand
that you need to supervise them closely. Please be frank with
me."
George began pacing
again, running his hand though his thinning hair. "No, there's
nothing wrong with the other surgeons. They're all top-notch."
"I see. Then
the only answer is that you find it more enjoyable to interact
with your colleagues than with your family. That you're more
comfortable at the hospital than here."
He froze, his face
in shock. "Emma, no - you can't believe that!"
Emma shrugged. "George,
I do believe it. It's understandable. It's your livelihood, your
life."
George crossed over
to her and took hold of her upper arms. "No! You're my life!
Nothing is more important to me than you!"
She looked him full
in the face, dry-eyed and serious. "Then prove it."
"How? What
do you want me to do?"
"I want you
at home more often."
"Emma, I'll
try, but they need me…"
She broke away from
him. "See? You're already trying to wiggle your way out
of this."
"Honey, be
fair. It's not just up to me. My supervisors…"
She kept her back
to him. "Were you sent home today?"
George was taken
aback. "Yeah. How'd you know that?"
She turned and looked
at him, one eyebrow raised.
George gaped. "You…you
don't mean…?"
"You were sent
home at my request."
"How did you
do…? Emma! What did you say to them?"
"That I thought
you had been working too hard. Dr. Griffith agreed."
George groaned.
"Aw, crap! What he must think of me!"
Emma was emotionless.
"He thinks you're the most gifted surgeon on the staff,
and he's been afraid you might burn out. It was very enlightening."
"What do you
mean?"
"He told me
he had been considering calling you in about it. I just beat
him to the punch."
"Oh."
George stared out the back window in despair, both hands on top
of his head.
Emma said in a comforting
voice, "It's only because he's so worried about you. He
really cares…as I care… Oh, George, please, can you
understand?"
"Em…Em…I've
got no words," he managed. "I…I got to think.
By myself." He started to the back door.
"George!"
"Not now, Emma.
Not now." He let himself out the back.
Emma stood in the
middle of her den, wondering if she had succeeded in saving her
marriage, or in wrecking it.
~*~*~
George had been
sitting on a lawn chair in the cool darkness of his backyard
for what seemed like a year, staring at the pool, when he heard
the door open. He made out his wife's hesitant steps on the patio.
"George? It's
been a half-hour. Are you hungry?"
Had it only been
a half hour? It felt like a lifetime. "No. Yes. A little."
"Something
light?"
"That would
be nice." He heard her retreat into the house. A couple
on minutes later, she joined him with a tray of cut-up muffulettas
and beer.
"I thought
you could use one," Emma said hesitantly. To her surprise,
George put his head down.
"I don't deserve
you."
Emma put the tray
down on the patio table before taking a seat next to her husband.
"Why do you say that?"
"I've been
out here thinking, and you're right. I've been a crappy husband."
Emma closed her
eyes as a thrill charged though her. Everything was going
to be okay! She then focused on her husband. "I never
said you were a crappy husband."
"You might
as well have. It's true. I've been running away. I haven't done
right by you."
"Neither one
of us is blameless, honey. I've should have told you how I felt
a long time ago. How can you 'do right by me' if I don't talk
to you? That's something I have to work on. But you said something
just now. What have you been running away from? From me?"
George took one
of the beers. "Not you, but everything else. The stress,
the pressure, the… Em, I'm sorry to say it, but the disappointment.
The disappointment of not having our life the way I wanted it
- the way I intended." He took a sip and sat back. By admitting
his great shame, he felt a need to explain all.
"When we got
married, all I wanted to do was to love you, care for you, and
protect you - take care of you. But when Abe got sick, everything
changed. Everything… It didn't go bad, please believe me,
but it wasn't what I planned. Honey, I know we had to take care
of Abe; I recognize that. It just changed everything."
He looked at the
sky. "We were gonna live in my downtown condo for a couple
of years, just enjoying being married. Have a lifelong honeymoon.
Travel the world. Treat you like the princess your dad keeps
calling you.
"Instead, we
have to plan our whole life around a near-invalid. We had to
buy this lousy house because it had two master suites and a single
floor, because Abe couldn't handle steps anymore. All the money
I wanted to use for vacations we poured into this piece of crap.
"And Abe. Honey,
I know it's been hard on him. But he hasn't really helped, you
know? And all the work catering to him has fallen on you. I should
have been here for you, taken some of that stuff off you. But
I didn't. Instead, I ran away - hiding in my work. I can see
that now. I haven't been very much of a man."
Emma sighed. She
knew she couldn't let George wallow in self-recrimination any
more than live in denial. "Yes, George, it's been very hard
for me to carry the burden of caring for Papa by myself, but
I share the responsibility for what happened by allowing you
to escape to the hospital when we should have been working this
problem through together. Like I said, I'm not blameless. I should
have talked to you about how I was feeling long ago. I should
have asked you for your help. I should have trusted you with
my feelings. Instead, I let all the stress and resentment build
up. That was wrong of me.
"George, I
have something to confess to you. I've been talking to Rabbi
Tuckmann for almost a month now. He's been helping me see why
I'm unhappy, and we've been exploring ways that will help me
deal with all the stress of caring for Papa.
"I do need
your help and support, because I can't do this alone. I admit
that now. But I need a partner to share my burdens, not a savior
who's going to step in and make everything all right for me.
And I want to help you by sharing your burdens, but I can't do
that unless you let me in. So the question remains - what are
we going to do?"
George looked at
her. Emma steeled herself to look back with no emotion whatsoever.
George broke first.
"I'll do better."
As kindly as she
could, Emma asked, "What do you mean by that, George?"
"I'm going
to be here more - not hide at work. Be here when you need to
talk. Be here when I need to talk. Try to help you with Abe."
"I want more
than your help. I want…" Emma's voice broke. George's
expression turned to concern as she struggled to continue. "I
want you back. I want us back."
"I want that,
too," he whispered.
Before either knew
it, they were holding hands, so tightly they thought they would
cut off the blood to each other's fingers. Yet, nether relented.
"I love you."
"I love you,
too."
They said nothing
for a while, as they allowed their mutual love to begin to heal
their hearts.
Finally, Emma said,
"You ought to eat."
"How 'bout
you?"
Emma reached over
and took a quarter of a muffuletta. Both ate their sandwiches,
made of Italian meats - capicola ham, salami, and mortadella
- with provolone and emmantaler cheeses smothered in olive salad
on a large round Sicilian loaf. They munched and sipped the beers
in companionable silence.
"Can I ask
one more thing of you, George?"
George took a breath.
"All right."
"Can we get
away somewhere soon? Just the two of us?"
"You mean a
vacation?"
"Yes."
"I guess so.
What about Abe?"
"I'll take
care of that."
"Okay. When?"
"Soon. Chanukah's
early this year; it's on the 8th. Maybe over Christmas?"
"I don't know…have
to get time off."
"Please? Will
you please try?"
George looked at
her and could see how important this was. "You go ahead
and book it. I'll make it happen."
"Thank you,
George. I love you."
"I love you,
too." He paused. "When is Abe due back?"
He couldn't make
out her expression anymore, but her voice held a touch of amusement.
"About a half-hour."
"Rats. Not
enough time."
"Not enough
time for what?"
"For really
good make-up sex."
She chuckled. "We
have all night, George."
He sighed softly.
"Yeah, but we'll have to be quiet."
She looked him straight
in the eyes. "Then - we'll be quiet."
He leaned over.
"Then we will."
As she kissed him,
she relaxed as the first and most difficult part of George's
intervention was completed. Phase Two would be during the vacation.
We'll be quiet
tonight, my love - this time. But we're going to fix that "putting
me on a pedestal" tendency of yours - and soon.
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