Truths of the Heart (5 page)

“You sure it wouldn't be a problem for Rachelle?”

“Opportunity like that, hell no, ready to go, how much?”

“Sales Manager figures you'd be a natural at selling, give you a list,
beat the bushes, sell your show, commissions, bonuses, we'll do a package.”

“Hell's fire, yes!” He high fived Corky again.

****

Carl and Corky entered Chinatown's Three Dragons' restaurant and, with
a flurry of activity reserved for celebrity, were escorted to a corner booth
where, tucked snugly in, were San Francisco Forty-Niner cheerleaders Debbie and
Dawn. Smiling sweetly, blonde Debbie wore a red mini skirt and Brunette Dawn
wore a similar white dress.

After Corky introduced Carl, the party of four was visited by owner
Dong Lo. He greeted them, chatted, bought them a first round of drinks,
recommended the sea bass baked in banana leaves with a coconut shrimp and crab
meat stuffing. It was so ordered.

****

After dinner, two bottles of Dom Perignon, a little past midnight,
Corky invited the ladies to join him and Carl for overtime treats. Arrived at
Corky's opulent Union Square hotel suite, the wine flowed, the music played,
clothes were shed, and the Jacuzzi tub bubbled.

Soon bored with foreplay, Debbie stepped her six-foot dripping body out
of the bubbling water and, with the long fingernail of her right index finger,
beckoned Carl. Corky sang the Notre Dame fight song. Dawn giggled. Debbie took
Carl by the hand, led him to the bedroom and, as she closed the door, Carl
tackled her to the floor. She whimpered. He ravished her toes crudely then
rolled her over, pulled her into a doggie position, and rammed her. She screamed.
He smacked her rump, said “giddy up,” laughed. She pulled away and turned. He
smacked her face. She whimpered as he picked her up, threw her on the bed, and
presented his largess to her trembling lips.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rachelle dreamed:
Esther II sailed over some frothy wave tossing
never-ending sea. Her father at the helm, he wore a gray sweat shirt with, in
red letters, ytircoidem brazened across the front. He fought with the craft’s
wheel. Water and wind washed over the deck. Then some sagely voice, out of the
wind, droned Maugham's
Of Human Bondage
words: “In other things, if
you're a doctor or you're in business, it doesn't matter so much if you're
mediocre. You make a living and you get along. But what is the good of turning
out second-rate pictures?”

A ship’s bell clanged.

She opened her eyes. The phone ringing, she looked at the digital clock
display.
4:30 A.M.
She had an inkling who the ring originator was. She
snapped on the bed side lamp and checked caller ID. Yep.

Nuzzled up by her head, T.S. opened his eyes then closed them. She picked
up the phone and said sleepily, “Hi.”

Carl's voice slurred: “Is this Mrs. Carl Bostich?”

“Carl, it's 4:30 in the morning.”

“Only 1:30 here.”

T.S. bolted to the floor and scampered downstairs.

Carl: “Night`s young, my lady fair.”

“Carl, have you been drinking?”

“Never.”

“Carl, go to sleep.”

“Ya forgot again.”

“What?”

“To turn the answering machine on.”

Yawning, “Oh rats, darn.”

“Don't forget … airport tomorrow….”

“I know, 5:30.”

“Good girl. I'll wanna get something to eat, then get home and get a
hot bath, you can do my back. And don't forget to paint your toe nails, know
what I mean. Maybe we can have a bottle of Chablis.”

She closed her eyes. “Perhaps, now get some sleep.”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“Carl….”

“Airport tomorrow, 5:30 sharp.”

“You mean today.”

“You got it.”

“Nighty by.”

“Oh, hey babe, almost forgot, did I tell you about Dent?”

She knew of whom he spoke. She had met the pasty affable Denton Ruffin.

He had been Carl's former Notre Dame coach. Now a Detroit financial
mogul, also an NFL official, Dent happened to be engaged to Rachelle's Michigan
State colleague, Dr.Kim Lee.

Rachelle said, “What about him?”

“He's going to my best man … ain' that a kick in the ass!”

“I … yes.”

“That's all you can say?”

“You want expletives or adjectives?”

“Wise ass.”

Dumb ass
, she
thought, checked the impulse and said, “Well, that's good, Kim was looking
forward to being at the wedding anyway, this will make it even better.”

“Who Kim?”

“Carl … Dr. Kim Lee, my colleague, she's engaged to Dent, you know that.”

Silence then, “Ah, ah … ah….”

“Cat got your tongue, what's the matter?”

“I don't na anything about that.”

“You do too.”

“No, I do not.”

“Carl, I know you do.”

“Swear to gawd.”

“Get some sleep, I'll see you tomorrow.”

“5:30, sharp, Northwest, loves ya.”

“I love you too.”

“Bye babe.”

Rachelle put the phone down with a thought,
Carl knew Dent was
engaged to Kim.

She turned the light off, closed her eyes and, unable to sleep, began wandering
around in Carl's denial of Kim and Denton's engagement:

She had met Denton Ruffin, roughly a year ago, the same night she had met
Carl. Kim had been dating suave world traveler Dent for some time. He had been
the quarterback coach at Notre Dame when Carl played there. Dent was now a
partner with Martin Lang & Ruffin, a Detroit wealth-management company. He
also happened to be an NFL official. Kim had flown with Dent in Martin Lang &
Ruffin's private jet to the Caymans. Been aboard, moored at the Detroit Yacht
Club, his fifty-foot yacht TOUCHDOWN. The inconvenient pickle in their
relationship—Dent was being sued by wife Penny for divorce. He had moved out of
their Grosse Pointe mansion, now lived on TOUCHDOWN. There were no children.

Rachelle heard T.S. jump on the bed and nuzzle up to her. She stoked
him and, thoughts of Dent, Carl, and Kim stewing around like a simmering pot of
gefilte fish stew, she recalled the night of her first Dent/Carl encounter:

Kim regularly attended Detroit Lions home football games. Dent's firm leased
a $150,000 a year Ford Stadium suite. She invited Rachelle to a game. Not a
fan, she declined. Kim related how the suite had a great view, sumptuous food,
super beverages, and best of all, no rah-rah of the crowd. “You need to get away,
please.” The last no rah-rah perk and umpteenth please persuaded Rachelle to
accept Kim's offer. Then things nearly got scrapped when she refused to stay
the night on Dent's yacht. Instead, she and Kim checked into the Detroit Omni.
They met Dent at the
High Five,
an infamous sports bar/restaurant
located in Detroit's old warehouse district. The establishment featured a fifty
foot chrome and steel bar, seventy red booths, and brick walls dripping with a
glut of autographed sport's star photos. Scattered around in glass cases were
signed footballs, basketballs, helmets, jerseys, and baseball gloves and bats;
a full size formula-one sports car hung from the ceiling. Pink, blue, and red
neon signs advertising Coors, Corona, Bud Light, Labatt Blue. An ATM machine
sat in one corner. Cigar and cigarette smoke mingling with the smell of aged
beef and human flesh. Everywhere, TV screens spewed sports video, some silent,
some with sound.

Rachelle learned from Kim that High Five was a favorite hangout for high
rollers in the world of sports. Also courted were politicians, lawyers, power
brokers, movers and shakers. All were welcomed and pampered by owner Tommi
Gilmour. And guess what—not a few of the pampered guests were clients of Dent.
Rachelle recalled seeing the buxom lady servers decked out in skimpy Victoria's
Secret sleepwear with a tinge of embarrassment. Greeted by Tommi Gilmour,
seated in a maroon leather booth, she recalled thinking:
this Tommi lady is
a strange bird, actually bizarre.
A bottle of white merlot served at
Tommi's order, Kim related that Tommi lived in a plush penthouse above the High
Five. If you were good you might be invited there. Rachelle would never forget
Tommi's tummy-tuck chuckle.

Rachelle then remembered Dent's arrival, like he had just stepped from
an Esquire photo shoot—tanned, six feet tall, healthy glow, slender build,
tailored blue suit, white shirt, red tie, shiny black shoes, slick graying
black hair, and manicured fingernails. Kim introduced him and Rachelle recalled
his oyster-y marble blue eyes locking hers, undressing her, a haunting hunger,
almost a fear, like he was being pursued by somebody or thing, wanting to share
it. She recalled his copper tanned hands and the giant diamond ring on his left
pinky and the sucking way he kissed Kim on the cheek, then said he had to speak
to Tommi in private. Kim's look of embarrassment as they left and even now
Rachelle felt that icky feeling she had then felt.

She remembered, after what seemed an hour, Dent returned alone. He ordered
a glass of Chardonnay and said, like somebody might be watching, “My NFL crew
is off this week, I may imbibe.”

Shortly after that, Carl entered. A handsome hunk, smiling, confident,
in control, Rachelle recalled being attracted by his hard carnal maleness. As
the night progressed, it was obvious that Carl and Dent were bosom buddies.
Dent, the highlight of the dinner, told jokes, high fived customer clients,
while Carl's hands roamed over, around, and stroked Rachelle like she was a
regulation Wilson NFL football. Carl, on his third Coke, no drinking, he played
tomorrow, invited Rachelle to be his guest, “down on the sidelines, sit on the
bench, at tomorrow's game”. Amazing herself, third glass of merlot, she
accepted.

The weeks following, more often than not, two or three times a day,
Carl called her. When the Lions played home games, he insisted that she drive
over, staying the weekend at his condo.

T.S. stirred. Rachelle yawned, looked at the time, 4:55, and a funk
feeling came over her as she recalled Kim's excited words the Sunday night she
and Kim drove back to Lansing from the memorable Detroit football game:
“Rachelle, Dent proposed, his divorce will be final in a month, we're going to
be married in the spring. I'm so excited.”

Out of nowhere T.S. began snoring.

“T.S., stop that.”

He did and, billowing the curtains, a sudden gust of cool wind
fluttered through the open window.

Hint of fall, harbinger inklings of short days popped up.
Pre
wedding jitters, Doc. Not unusual they tell me … who the hell is they…?
she
thought.

Work to do at the office, picking Carl up at the airport, T.S. purring,
the time 4:59 A.M., she pulled a pillow over her head and tried to get back to
sleep.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Monday, August 5,
8:00 AM

Seth Trudow—six-one, slender (a track & field athlete in high
school),his hair resembled ripe uncut wheat after a summer thunderstorm. His maple-brown
eyes observing everything, he appeared to be taking inventory of the space
between molecules.

Fall semester commencing in three weeks, Seth had preregistered for his
required courses. A senior, he needed eight elective credits outside his major
(Fine Arts—emphasis studio painting) to graduate in the spring. Out of the
blue, a new Communication Department offering by Dr. Rachelle Zannes came to
his attention. Reading about the course in the Fine Arts Department's
newsletter, intrigued by the creative processes—a white canvas, a blank page, a
block of marble, a chunk of formless clay, something from nothing waiting in
the stillness—his interest was piqued.

And now here he was, in the hallway outside the locked Bessey Hall
office of Dr. Rachelle Zannes, waited for someone, anyone to arrive.

Dressed in white painter pants, black flight boots (remnant of his Air Force
tour of duty), and a black T-shirt, he held, in his right hand, the admission
form that would permit him to take Com. 501. The course, briefly described as
Communication
of truths through the arts,
seemed like a natural. Only problem: not open
to undergraduates, he had to get special permission.

Office hours posted to begin at 8:00 A.M., a round mud-brown clock
hanging on the wall read 8:06.

“Figures,” he said.

An undergraduate, to get into graduate class, he had to have signature approval
from five people in “descending order”–course instructor, student's advisor,
department chair, dean of graduate studies, and associate provost.

Seth had sidestepped the “descending order” instructions. All
signatures except Zannes' were on the form. Never available, never in her
office, out jogging or running around, phone calls unanswered, probably some
air-head professor, he had concluded. But he wanted this course and when he
wanted something he usually found a way to get it.