He dutifully stroked his double blade through the foam. The reassuring sound of whiskers being loped off were the low notes accompanying the chirping of birds in the tree outside his second-story bathroom window. Post the staff meeting he’d have a light lunch at his desk. He wasn’t actually much for diets, but when he’d had the irregular heartbeat detected at age forty-five, he finally quit smoking and resolved to loose the fat.
Roger guided his razor underneath his jaw. Initially he’d hated running. He’d tried the treadmill at the gym his wife belonged to, but found that boring. Yet jogging through his neighborhood-Wilshire Vista, the upscalers called it-he had sights and sounds, and this kept him occupied. In the five years of this regime, including regular sessions with weight machines, he’d lost forty pounds. He ran a palm over his handiwork. For a man his age, his wife and girlfriend both told him amorously, he looked reasonably fit and even a little buffed.
He worked the razor on his upper lip, recalling fondly the moustache he’d also shed five, no, more like four years ago. That’s when he’d met Nanette. Finished, he toweled off the excess of lather and dabbed on aftershave, then stepped back into the bedroom.
His wife, Claudia, was up and moving about. He watched with lascivious interest as she bent over to search in her underwear drawer. Usually she wore sweats or pajama pants and a top, but this morning, this birthday, she wore only lacy purple panties.
Roger sat on the bed, picturing himself as David Niven in Raffles. “Have I mentioned how spectacular your ass is, honey?”
“You always know what to say to a woman.” She pushed him back and straddled him, nuzzling and biting his neck.
“Glad you woke me up this morning,” he said, pulling her down and kissing her full on the mouth. He was going to miss her. Yes, he certainly was.
“You didn’t do too bad for an old dog.”
“Careful, I might have to show you my double play.”
She smiled, biting her lower lip. This always got to him, even after decades of seeing it. “I’d like to, baby, but I have to hit that inventory this a.m. You know how that tight-ass Pelecanos gets.” Claudia managed a heavy-equipment rental service.
“Forget your clown boss. He couldn’t find balls in a bowling alley if it wasn’t for you.” He slipped his hand inside her panty and caressed that wondrous backside. His wife reluctantly broke free.
“Tonight we’ll have all kinds of time,” she said.
“Well, I don’t know. At my age, Lord knows, I need my rest.”
She shook a glossy purple nail at him. “You just be ready and don’t drink too much.”
He chuckled. “I won’t.” Damn, she looked good.
The phone rang. He reached for it but Claudia moved quicker and plucked the handset loose.
“Hello?” Then, “Oh, hi, sweetie.” She listened some more, glancing once or twice at her husband, frowning.
Roger languidly reposed on the bed, but a spring was winding in the base of his spine. That had to be their daughter on the phone. She attended Cal Berkeley up north. Was there some emergency? If so, what would that do to his schedule? But he had to be cool. Can’t let ’em see you sweat, he reminded himself.
“All right, honey. We’ll see you tonight.”
“Why’s she coming home?” he asked as his wife hung up. “There some problem?”
“Not really…” Claudia began.
“Not really?” he said more shrilly than he wanted. “This is the middle of the school year, Claudia.” Now what did he just tell himself? Keep it on low burn, man. Low burn. He rose, clasping his wife’s shoulders. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get all tense. You know how us pensioners get mood swings.”
Claudia Crumbler-Morris looked preoccupied, fooling with a towel. “Janice’s coming home because she doesn’t have class until Monday, and wants to talk to us about something.”
Roger wondered aloud, “Dropping out?”
“Or pregnant.”
“Aw, hell no.” He began to stomp around the room. “We’re too damn young to be grandparents.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Jesus.”
Claudia chuckled. “I don’t think she’s pregnant.”
“She’s twenty and we’ve both seen how them knotheads with their pants hanging down around their cracks drool at her.”
Claudia was heading toward the shower. “She’s not attracted to those kind of boys.”
“Even boys with slide rules like a little-”
“Roger,” she admonished.
“Taste,” he declared.
“Heathen.” She closed the bathroom door and ran her shower. He knew she wasn’t that sure Janice wasn’t pregnant, and neither was he.
And if she was with child, then what of his plans involving Nanette? It wasn’t like he could pull this off any time he felt like doing it. He finished dressing. It would be casual today, the pressed chinos, button-down shirt, sports jacket, no tie. It was his birthday and it was expected he’d be coasting once the Carlson file was closed out.
Putting his socks on, the ones with the blue hourglasses, he reveled in the simplicity and beauty of the virus he’d planted in his firm’s computers more than two years ago. At 9:24 tonight, his new life would begin.
By then he and Nanette would be heading east, toward Texas, in the used car they’d bought more than a year ago. He’d gotten the brakes fixed, the head gasket replaced and what have you, so that the vehicle was completely reliable for the getaway. And, most importantly, the final transfer of the funds he’d siphoned off, little by little, had been completed three days ago. The computer crash would cover his nefarious deeds for weeks, time enough to set up his new life with the younger woman.
Naturally, Roger would be a suspect, but he’d be gone, no forwarding. The cops and the firm would hammer at Claudia, give her a rough going over, but she was innocent. She didn’t have a clue about his plans.
“What time will you be back home? I know you’re going to have drinks with Wayne and the guys.”
“What time is Janice supposed to be here?”
“About 7:30, she said.”
“Alone?”
His wife dangled an earring from her lobe. “Good question.” She blew him a kiss. “You have such a suspicious mind.”
“I’ll be back here no later than 8.”
“All right. See you then, Rog.” She gave him a peck, then gripped his lower face in her hand. Using her tongue, but keeping her fresh carmine lips off his, she probed his mouth. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
As she hummed and walked down the stairs, he stood at the railing, watching her go. He remained there, hearing her car start up and fade away. After tonight, he’d never see her or his daughter again. But he was resolved, he was going to spend the second half, well, really, if he was lucky and kept exercising and watching what he ate, the next thirty years with a woman twenty years his junior, plus some two and a half million dollars in ill-gotten gains richer.
That was an amount a bling bling rapper like 50 Cent or actor Tom Cruise might sneer at, hardly enough for them to get out of bed. But it was sufficient for a humble man like Roger Crumbler.
The down payment had been made through intermediaries on a condo in Port Saint Charles in Barbados. And through budgeting and living within their means, they’d be comfortable. They wouldn’t be driving Jags or Bentleys, nor vacationing on a whim, but it’s not like they’d have to subsist on Top Ramen.
And should the need or notion arise, Roger had also entertained money laundering for a select list of individuals. Certainly more than once over the years, several clients of the firm had hinted at such. Millionaires, more than the middle class, were willing to step over the line to hold onto that which they felt entitled to by birth or happenstance.