More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

the 11:30 to Greenwich, made it to his car without being stabbed by any knife-wielding crazy men and drove home to peace and quiet. Cathy’d had two martinis and was fast asleep. Monroe watched a little TV, fell asleep on the couch and slept late the next morning; he made the 8:11 with thirty seconds to spare.

* * *

At nine-thirty, Charlie Monroe strode into the office, thinking: Monday’s over with, it’s a new day. Let’s get life moving again. He decided to spend the morning getting into the new computer system and printing out prospective client lists for Shapiro. Then he’d have a romantic lunch with Carmen. He’d also give Jill a call and charm her into drinks tonight.

Monroe’d just stepped into his office when Todd Foxworth, even more cheerful than yesterday, waved to him and asked him if they could have a chat. An ironic thought occurred to Monroe — that Foxworth had changed his mind and was going to give him a good raise after all. Would he still sell the confidential info? This was a dilemma. But he decided, hell, yes, he would. It’d make up for last year’s insulting five percent raise.

Monroe sat down in Foxworth’s cluttered office.

It was a joke in the agency that Foxworth didn’t exactly carry on a coherent conversation. He’d ramble, he’d digress, he’d even make up words. Clients found it charming. Monroe had no patience for the man’s scattered persona. But today he was in a generous mood and smiled politely as the rumpled old man chattered like a jay.

“Charlie, a couple things. I’m afraid something’s come up and that invite for golf this weekend? I know you’d probably like to hit some balls, were looking forward to it, but I’m afraid I’ve got to renege on the offer. Sorry, sorry.”

“That’s okay. I—”

“Good club, Hunter’s is. You ever play there? No? They don’t have a pool, no tennis courts. You go there to play golf. Period. End of story. You don’t play golf, it’s a waste of time. Of course there’s that dogleg on the seventeenth… nasty, nasty, nasty. Never near par. Impossible. How long you been playing?”

“Since college. I really appreciate—”

“Here’s the other thing, Charlie. Patty Kline and Sam Eggleston, from our legal department, you know ’em, they were at Chez Antibes last night. Having dinner. Worked late and went to dinner.”

Monroe froze.

“Now I’ve never been there but I hear it’s funny the way the place’s designed. They have these dividers, sort of like those screens in Japanese restaurants, only not Japanese of course because it’s a French restaurant but they look sort of Japanese. Anyhoo, to make a long story short they heard every word you and Hank Shapiro said. So. There you have it. Security’s cleaning out your desk right now and there’re a couple guards on their way here to escort you off the property and you better get yourself a good lawyer because theft of trade secrets — Patty and Sam tell me this; what do I know? I’m just a lowly wordsmith — is pretty damn serious. So. Guess I won’t say good luck to you, Charlie. But I will say get the hell out of my agency. Oh, and by the way, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you never work on Madison Avenue again. ’Bye.”

Five minutes later he was on the street, briefcase in one hand, cell phone in the other. Watching boxes of his personal effects being loaded into a delivery truck destined for Connecticut.

He couldn’t understand how it’d happened. Nobody from the agency ever went to Chez Antibes — it was owned by a corporation that competed with one of Foxworth’s big clients and so it was off limits. Patty and Sam wouldn’t have gone there unless Foxworth had told them to — to check up on Monroe. Somebody must’ve blown the whistle. His secretary? Monroe decided if it was Eileen, he’d get even with her in a big way.

He walked for several blocks trying to decide what to do and when nothing occurred to him he took a cab to Grand Central.

Bundled in the train as it clacked north, speeding away from the gray city, Monroe sipped gin from the tiny bottle he’d bought in the club car. Numb, he stared at the grimy apartments then at the pale bungalows then mini estates then the grand estates as the train sped north and east. Well, he’d pull something out of the situation. He was good at that. He was the best. A hustler, a salesman…. He was grade-A.

He cracked the cap on the second bottle, and then the thought came to him: Cathy’d go back to work. She wouldn’t want to. But he’d talk her into it. The more he thought about it the more the idea appealed to him. Damn it, she’d hung out around the house for years. It was his turn. Let her deal with the pressure of a nine-to-five job for a change. Why should he have to put up with all the crap?

Monroe parked in the driveway, paused, took several deep breaths, then walked into the house.

His wife was in the living room, sitting in a rocking chair, holding a cup of tea.

“You’re home early.”

“Well, I’ve got to tell you something,” he began, leaning against the mantel. He paused to let her get nervous, to rouse her sympathies. “There’s been a big layoff at the agency. Foxworth wanted me to stay but they just don’t have the money. Most of the other senior people are going too. I don’t want you to be scared, honey. We’ll get through this together. It’s really a good opportunity for both of us. It’ll give you a chance to start teaching again. Just for a little while. I was thinking—”

“Sit down, Charles.”

Charles? His mother called him Charles.

“I was saying, a chance—”

“Sit down. And be quiet.”

He sat.

She sipped her tea with a steady hand, eyes scanning his face like searchlights. “I had a talk with Carmen this morning.”

His neck hairs danced. He put a smart smile on his face and asked, “Carmen?”

“Your girlfriend.”

“I—”

“You what?” Cathy snapped.

“Nothing.”

“She seemed nice. It was a shame to upset her.”

Monroe kneaded the arm of his Naugahyde chair.

Cathy continued, “I didn’t plan to. Upset her, I mean. It’s just that she’d somehow she got the idea we were in the process of getting divorced.” She gave a brief laugh. “Getting divorced because I’d fallen in love with the pool boy. Where’d she get an idea like that, I wonder?”

“I can explain—”

“We don’t have a pool, Charles. Didn’t it occur to you that that was a pretty stupid lie?”

Monroe’s hands slipped together and he began worrying a fingernail. He’d almost told Carmen that Cathy was having an affair with a neighbor or with a contractor. Pool boy was the first thing that came to mind. And, yes, afterwards he did think it was pretty stupid.

“Oh, if you’re wondering,” Cathy continued, “what happened was someone from the jewelry store called. They wanted to know whether to send the receipt here or to Carmen’s apartment. By the way, she said the earrings were really tacky. She’s going to keep them anyway. I told her she ought to.”

Why the hell had the clerk done that? When he’d placed the order he’d very explicitly said to send the receipt to the office.

“It’s not what you think,” he said.

“You’re right, Charlie. I think it’s probably a lot worse.”

Monroe walked to the bar and poured himself another gin. His head ached and he felt stuffy from too much liquor. He swallowed a mouthful and set the glass down. He remembered when they’d bought this set of crystal. A sale at Saks. He’d wanted to ask for the clerk’s phone number but Cathy had been standing nearby.

His wife took a deep breath. “I’ve been on the phone with a lawyer for three hours. He seemed to think it won’t take much longer than that to make you a very poor man. Well, Charlie, we don’t have much more to talk about. So you should pack a suitcase and go stay somewhere else.”

“Cath… This is a real bad time for me—”

“No, Charles, it will be bad. But it’s not bad yet. Good-bye.”