The War of the Roses

smashed the camera with a sledgehammer and threw the pieces into the kitchen garbage compactor. When everything was sufficiently flattened, he carted the refuse out to the trash cans in the alley.

He had worked in a sustained rage, unthinking, not conscious of his actions. As the heat of anger abated he felt himself unstiffen. His mind began to clear and his reason returned.

Stripping the cover off his Ferrari and removing the fiberglass top, he climbed in, felt the cool leather, and breathed deeply, savoring its aroma. Opening the glove compartment, he removed the key, placed it in the ignition, and flicked it. The eight cylinders caught almost immediately and the engine purred, soothing him.

It was a toy, really, but it gave him pleasure and he mothered it like a baby, changing its plugs, keeping it shined and covered. It was three years old, a work of art, and he knew its value was appreciating rapidly. Fifty thousand dollars' worth of car.

Perhaps, he thought, he should take this one acknowledged personal possession and ride off into the night, a lone cowboy, in search of new adventures, a new life, leaving the old behind. Me and my little red Ferrari, he thought, feeling the wheel, the close, warm security of the tight driver's seat. He stepped on the accelerator, listening to the satisfying whisper of the 205-horsepower engine. A 3,200-pound magic carpet.

Finally, reality intruded. He remembered Mercedes. Surely Barbara was responsible for its death. He climbed out of the Ferrari and shoved the cat into a plastic bag. Putting the crushed body into the seat beside him, he carefully backed the car out and sped over the darkened streets. The wind felt good, relaxing him. Momentarily forgetting the incident, he let himself merge with the. Ferrari's power, savoring the sense of freedom. An escape. When he reached Memorial Bridge, he stopped, grabbed the neck of the plastic bag, and flung it into the Potomac River.

By disposing of Mercedes, he assured himself, he would spare the children any embarrassment over their mother's wanton act. She had used their child's room for her filthy spying. That was a crime worse than the spying itself, a disgusting act. It was no wonder that Mercedes had been killed. It was retribution. Let them think the cat was lost.

When he returned, he tucked in the Ferrari. Then he gathered up the tapes and burned them in the library fireplace. Nixon should have done this, he thought, watching the plastic curl and turn quickly to ashes. He wished it were Barbara.

At seven in the morning he called Goldstein and told him what had happened.

'Meet me at the delicatessen on Grubb Road,' Goldstein said, responding to Oliver's agitation. 'We'll put some Jewish soul food in you. It will calm you down.'

Goldstein was waiting in a booth, smearing globs of cream cheese on a dark brown bagel, on which he then placed two strips of Nova Scotia lox. His mouth was full and he pointed to a platter on the other side of the table.

'I want to take her to court. Invasion of privacy. Something. Anything.'

Goldstein continued to chew without pause. 'Well, what you intend to do about it?' 'I'm thinking.' 'You're eating.'

'You think it's impossible to eat and think at the same time?'

'Nothing's impossible.'

Goldstein quickly finished all the food on his plate and lit a cigar.

'Now I'm finished thinking,' he said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. Goldstein puffed again and began to speak.

'The strategy was as follows. Remember the objective. The house. The whole house. To make their case better, they want you out. Anyhow, any way. They catch you red-handed with the governess -'

'Not really a governess. Sort of an au pair girl.' Oliver was surprised at his odd defensiveness, as if he wanted to raise her in his own esteem.

'But involved with the children.'

'You might say that.'

'I did say that. They go to the judge and say you have been shtupping their child's governess. You are an unfit father, a moral threat to the children. Shtupping her under their noses, so to speak. Such an immoral action is dangerous to the children's welfare, et cetera, et cetera. They get an injunction. You go. The governess goes. You're finally out of the house.'

'It's ruthless. She's an innocent.'

'Sounds to me she's not so innocent.'

'I don't mean that. She's only a bystander. She doesn't have to be hit with a bag of shit.'

'Anybody within spitting distance of a divorce gets slopped with it. It can't be helped. Don't be such a dummy. Your lovely wife set you up. Leaving you alone in the house with a young, attractive girl. Am I right?'

'Yes.'

'You are a sexually deprived man, right?'

Oliver pointed a finger directly at Goldstein's chest. 'That's entrapment. I want her in court.'

'You want to have the gumshoe testify. Then what's-her-name. And the press comes. Before you know it, it's the plot for a pornographic movie. You want to subject your kids to that?'

Oliver looked down at his plate of lox, cream cheese, and bagels. His stomach turned. He reached into his pocket for a Maalox and popped one into his mouth.

'Anyway, you destroyed the evidence. So they have nothing to go on. It was their move and they blew it.' Goldstein looked covetously at Oliver's plate. He pointed with the cigar. 'You gonna have that?' Oliver pushed the plate toward him and Goldstein began to eat.

'The inhumanity of human beings depresses me. And when I get depressed, I eat.' Goldstein sighed through a