54
Simon
After class, I walk to the Chicago Title & Trust Building. The usual routine, the Starbucks, sitting down in the lobby, powering on the phone, inserting the SIM card. At ten, I send a text:
Hello, princess.
She replies quickly:
Hello, Prince Charming. How r u?
The word “charming” is not a word usually associated with me. I reply:
I can’t concentrate on anything but you. I forgot what case I was teaching this morning. You have me floating, lady.
She responds:
Can’t really talk right now. Tonight no good either. But tomorrow?
I text:
Tomorrow it is, my queen. Pretty soon, we’ll have all the time we need.
I shut off the phone, remove the SIM card, and close my eyes. We’re really doing this.
On my way back to my office at the law school, I see my favorite person coming from the other direction. On any given day, I’d rather eat bark off a tree than force myself to have a conversation with Dean Comstock.
But I’m not in the mood to run or hide. Not now.
His expression changes when he sees me.
“Hello there, Simon,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets, lest I be under the impression that a handshake is in our future. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”
We haven’t talked since I submitted all my materials in the closing hours of the application period. I would’ve loved to see the look on his face when he heard.
“I thought we had an understanding,” he says.
“I don’t remember ever agreeing to anything, Dean.”
“No, that’s right. But I thought you understood that I was looking out for your best interests. What with your . . .”
“My what? My sordid history?”
“Since you put it that way, yes.”
I glance around, as did he, making sure we are alone in the hallway. I lean in slightly and lower my voice. “You’re going to trash me to the faculty, Dean? That your plan?”
“Well, as I said before, Simon, in any kind of a close contest between applicants, people will naturally look for—”
“Tiebreakers, yes, I remember,” I say. “You and I both know I’m the better professor. I’m the better scholar. I’m the one who deserves the job.”
“You’re certainly entitled to your opinion.”
“So is everyone else. On the merits. On the merits, Dean. Not rumor or gossip or innuendo.”
“Well, Simon, I don’t dictate to the faculty what it should or should not deem relevant—”
“You don’t have the balls,” I say.
The dean draws back. “Say again?”
“Sure, I’ll say it again. You, Dean, do not have the balls.”
I’ll say this for the old chap, he has a good poker face. His eyes glisten and his jaw steels, but otherwise he keeps up a good front. He even lets out a small chuckle.
“My friend, do not make the mistake of underestimating me,” he says.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Funny,” I say. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”
55
Christian
I come into work like every morning. A quick hello to my receptionist, Emily, and then I go into my office. As I am not actually a financial guy, I don’t really need this office, but appearances are appearances. Besides, I’ll go crazy spending the entire day at home every day. A change of scenery is nice.
Sometimes I do actually work. Though “work” isn’t checking the markets and forecasting investments; it’s scouting for targets and considering other cities for the next venture. But now that I’ve found Vicky and her twenty-one million dollars, I won’t need any other targets. I’m going to be done soon.
For Emily, a nineteen-year-old I found from a temp agency who is going to college part-time, I play the same role I play for Vicky, a rich, genius money guy who only has a few hugely wealthy clients. Most of these clients have been with me for years, I’ve explained, they live all around the world, and they have my personal cell number, so this office of mine downtown doesn’t really function as much of an office.
I imagine Emily thinks I’m one of those uber-rich, uber-brainy eccentrics for whom the expense of an office and receptionist is just pocket money, who just wants a place to call an office. But she doesn’t complain. Why would she? It’s a perfect fit for her. She has morning and night classes at DePaul and only works afternoons for me. She spends almost all her time doing homework at her desk. To keep up appearances, I let her pay the company’s few bills and give her research assignments now and then. But this job is a walk in the park for her.
Just after eleven, my phone rings. Not my regular cell phone. My burner, the one I use for Vicky. She doesn’t know that I have a special phone for her, but it’s necessary. Once I take her money, I need to cut off all connections between us, remove any trace of myself from her life, and hers from mine.
“I need to talk to you,” Vicky says, breathless.
“What’s up? You okay?”
“No, I am definitely not okay. Where are you?”
“At the office.”
“I don’t want to come to your office. Can we meet somewhere else?”
Vicky is standing in the alley by my garage when I pull my car in. She is dressed in a sweatshirt and blue jeans, no makeup, her hair a mess. I’ve never seen her like this. I don’t mind it—I actually dig the look—but the tight expression on her face is making me nervous.
She hikes a blue bag over her shoulder and says, “Upstairs,” when I get out of the car.
I follow her up the stairs to my apartment. She pulls a laptop and a green notebook out of her bag, places them on the kitchen table, and points at them like they’re kryptonite.
“He’s going . . . to leave me,” she says, her voice shaking. “He’s going to file for divorce before November . . . November third.”
“Wait, what?” I say. “Just . . . hold on a second.”
“‘Hold on a second’? Okay, I’ll hold on a second while that tramp steals Simon and his money. My money. My fucking money.”
“Who—who’s a tramp? Will you just—”
“Lauren,” she spits out. “Lauren Lemoyne. That skank he dated when he was a teenager. Remember?”
“Um, yeah, you said somebody broke his heart—”
“Well, apparently, she won it back. She’s back in town and they’re together and they’re going to get married!”
“I’m sure you’re overreacting.”
“I’m overreacting?” She opens the laptop, the screen dark, and types in a password. The screen comes alive.
It’s a court document. I’m not an attorney, but I’ve seen my share of divorce filings in my day, among the many women I’ve targeted. It says “Petition for Dissolution of Marriage,” the official phrasing. Simon Peter Dobias, petitioner, v. Victoria Lanier Dobias, respondent, in the Circuit Court of Cook County. “Irreconcilable differences have arisen between the parties that have caused the irretrievable breakdown of the marriage. Past efforts at reconciliation have failed, and future attempts at reconciliation would be impracticable.”
Fuck me. Simon’s divorcing Vicky.
“Still think I’m overreacting?”
“Hang on, hang on.”
I open the notebook with a green cover. Some kind of a diary, handwritten in pen. With dated entries. The first one, the Fourth of July.
“God, I can’t believe this,” Vicky says. “I am nine days away from our tenth anniversary. Nine days!”