Read Crime of Privilege: A Novel Online
Authors: Walter Walker
Tags: #Nook, #Retail, #Thriller, #Legal, #Fiction
But now, as I studied her, I realized her hair was more blond than brown, her eyes
were actually hazel, and her skin was virtually flawless. How, I asked myself, had
I missed all that? Two people sitting in a room for weeks, each immersed in his or
her own problems, barely looking at each other. Except now we were.
“Where?” I asked. Was that a good response to a personal invitation? I was still wondering
why she was asking me, her office-mate, with whom she never so much as went to lunch.
“Oyster Harbors.”
Yes. Of course. An island community, where you have to go over a drawbridge and be
cleared for entry by a man in a booth. Eight years on the Cape and I’d never been
there.
“It’s the family home,” she said, as though embarrassed.
“Sure,” I said.
I BROUGHT WINE
. Nickel & Nickel cabernet. The guy in the wine store on Route 28 acted as though
he was selling the Romanov jewels. I told him I wanted a good wine and he pulled it
out from behind the counter, cradled it like a baby, looked both ways, and said it
would cost me $80 but be well worth it. I figured Barbara’s parents were likely to
know their wine and made the purchase.
Who’s this young man, Barbs? Oh, and such exquisite taste. He must be one of us!
I made it across the drawbridge well enough, but then had to wait several minutes
while the guard searched for my name on a list.
“Ah, here it is,” he said at last. “Straight ahead. Bear left, then second left on
Indian Trail. Go to the end of the road. You’ll see the cars.”
Indeed, I did. Mercedes Benzes, BMWs, Jaguars, Cadillacs, convertibles of all makes,
including a Bentley. Luxury vehicles filled the crushed-shell driveway and lined the
road in front of a twenty-first-century version of a sea captain’s home. The real
thing, only better. With a widow’s walk on the roof.
I heard the sound of a steel band and multiple voices from the backyard as I walked
onto the property, and so I steered directly there without going through the house.
Men and women were clustered in little groups, maybe clustered closer than usual because
it was not that warm, even though the sun was shining. Men wore polo shirts under
sport coats or golf sweaters; women wore slacks and light jackets. All looked as though
they were gritting their way through the brisk weather because it was worth it to
have drinks and be in such august company.
A few people looked up as I entered the backyard, but no one acknowledged me. No one
even stopped talking. I glanced around, thinking there had to be someone I knew, someplace
where I could at least point myself to deliver my wine. An outdoor bar was located
at the far end of the patio, manned by a bartender in a waistcoat and bow
tie. I did not think he would fully appreciate my gift, so I stood there holding it
by the neck, figuring sooner or later at least Barbara was bound to see me.
A tall man with a full head of perfectly brushed gray hair was leading the discussion
in one of the groups. He watched me as he spoke, kept his eyes on me to the point
I had to nod at him. Nod and smile and raise my shoulders in admission that I did
not know what to do, where to go. I saw him say, “Excuse me,” to those he was with
and make his way over to rescue me. Or confront me.
It could have been either.
His manner was a little brusque.
“Hello,” he said in a way that was impossible to interpret as welcoming, “I’m Hugh
Etheridge.”
“George Becket,” I told him. “I work with Barbara.”
Only then did he extend his hand. I think he was glad to see that I was bringing wine
and not pilfering it. I offered the bottle and he held it out from his chest and read
the label closely. “California, is it? Oh, yes, Napa. Fine, fine. I’ll have it opened.”
His admiration was at an end and he lowered the bottle and scanned the crowd, looking
for someone to carry out the assignment or, perhaps, for someone to whom I could talk.
“Are you alone?” he asked, and I told him I was.
I could see a slight change as it occurred to him that his married daughter had invited
a man of about her age to a party where he knew no one else.
I quickly explained that Barbara and I shared an office. “We kid that we’re cellmates.
Down in the dungeon.”
Mr. Etheridge stopped scanning and looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “The
what?”
“That’s what we call it.” I was beginning to sweat. Sixty-five degrees and I was overheated.
“Because we’re on the bottom floor.”
I wished what I had said had been funnier. My host did not smile. He just went back
to scanning. I had an impulse to tell him that I had been married. That I was a lawyer.
That I had gone to prep school. That I knew the difference between
that
and
which
.
“Ah, there she is, playing croquet. Come.”
He strode off in the direction of the water, which I could see in the distance. There
was a patio, where we were standing; then a border of outdoor grills, where men in
aprons were busy flipping sizzling hunks of meat; and then a broad green lawn rimmed
by great bushes of light blue hydrangeas. On the lawn holding mallets were several
people of various sizes, but my attention was distracted.
As we walked across the patio I could see that the largest cluster of people was around
a tall, thin woman with white-blond hair and a fixed smile painted in red lipstick
on her face. I knew that woman. I had seen her face before. I slowed my step, not
enough to let Mr. Etheridge get away from me but so I could get a closer look and
see that she was hanging on to the arm of a shorter man with a distinctively floppy
hairstyle, a white shirt, a blue blazer, a pair of khaki pants. The woman, I realized,
was an actress. The kind of actress whom everyone knew but whose movies were not likely
to come readily to anyone’s mind. And the man she was with was none other than Jamie
Gregory.
He looked up, looked through the crowd of admirers right at me. Or right through me.
Didn’t he?
Wasn’t he grinning at me? Not the same God-awful grin I had seen in Palm Beach, but
it was a grin just the same, and it chilled me.
“George.”
Somebody was annoyed. Mr. Etheridge, still with my bottle of wine, his hands inverted
on his hips. I apparently had stopped, since I was not moving. And I most definitely
was staring.
“Yes, yes, that’s Darra Lane. She’s with Jamie Gregory and I’m sure you’ll get to
meet them later. Come along now because I want to get you to Barbara.”
Five minutes into the party and I had already incurred the ire of the host. Perhaps
he was not going to like it so much when I confronted Jamie, when I knocked him down,
tore off his runt punk bastard lips and fed them to the seagulls while I danced around
his prostrate body, delivering kicks to his ribs and an occasional stomp to his head.
Yeah, I would do that. But in the meantime I had to hurry after Mr. Etheridge.
BARBARA WAS WEARING
a white jacket over a black-and-white striped jersey top that appeared to cover only
one shoulder. Her slacks, too, were white, and they hugged her long legs, something
I had never seen any of her other clothes do. I had thought that white was not supposed
to be worn until after Memorial Day, but this was her house, her family’s party, and
she could clearly wear whatever she wanted.
With her mallet gripped mid-shaft, she held out her arms to greet me, calling my name.
In all likelihood, I had never done more than shake her hand, and now here I was,
hugging her in front of her father. Hugging Barbara Belbonnet, who had let her hair
down and whose skin was as smooth and cool as silk. I did my best to hug deferentially,
positioning myself slightly to one side so as not to make too much contact. She kissed
me loudly, exuberantly, on the cheek. When, I wondered, had she become so radiant?
“Pop-pop, this is my very best friend in the office, George Becket!”
Pop-pop? Intimidating old, steel-haired Hugh Etheridge?
“Yes, we’ve met,” he told her, with just the slightest flutter of irritation. “You
might have noticed I brought him over. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to return to
the other guests.” And with that, he turned his back on us.
“Oh, don’t mind him,” Barbara said as we watched him walk away. “Do you play croquet?
You can take my place. Here.”
She thrust the mallet into my hand. Three other people stared at us. A Gatsbyish man
and woman, obviously a couple, were introduced as Grace and Parker. Maybe they weren’t
Gatsbyish. Maybe I was just thinking that way. Except the man was wearing a white
hat with a brim and a thick black band around it and the woman was wearing a sailor-type
dress that went to her ankles. The third person was a boy of about eleven, introduced
as Malcolm. Grace and Parker said hello. Malcolm did not. He squealed something about
“Gwa!” and ran awkwardly to swipe at a ball.
“Malcolm’s different,” Barbara whispered unnecessarily.
FIVE MINUTES INTO THE PARTY
, I had annoyed the host. Ten minutes after that, I had ruined the croquet game. Without
Barbara, Grace’s play became desultory. Parker made a cutting comment and then suddenly
announced he was going to get a drink. That made Grace stop playing altogether and
start whispering to Barbara. Only Malcolm wanted to keep going and it fell to me to
keep going with him. Then the patrician tones of Hugh Etheridge wafted over the lawn,
calling to Barbara, telling her one of the guests was leaving and she had to say goodbye
and all of a sudden both she and Grace were gone and I was left alone on the back
forty to play croquet with a boy with Down syndrome.
Over the next twenty minutes I made several efforts to extricate myself, but Malcolm
would have none of it. I had no idea to whom he belonged, but he wanted to play and
nobody, not Barbara or anyone else, came to rescue me. It was only by convincing Malcolm
that he won and enticing him into the ritual of exchanging high fives that I was able
to lay down my mallet and scurry away.
I arrived back at the patio looking more or less like an escaped prisoner with the
sheriff after me. I tried to blend in, but I knew no one. I could not see Barbara,
Hugh turned his back on me, and as best I could tell the guest who had departed was
Jamie, taking with him, of course, the movie star. People were forming a buffet line
to pick up their meats and salads and spring vegetables and hot rolls. I contemplated
getting in line with them, but then I would be a sitting duck for Malcolm, who was
pushing his way through the crowd, mallet still in hand.
I would get my food and then what? Sit with Malcolm? Sit by myself?
Georgie Becket, all alone. Georgie Becket hit the road.
T
HE FIRST PHONE CALL WAS FROM BARBARA. SHE WAS SO SORRY
.
Her fourteen-year-old daughter had had a meltdown. “You know what it’s like with fourteen-year-old
girls,” she assured me. “Everything is a life-ending crisis.”
I pretended I did.
“Anyhow, by the time I got back outside you were gone and nobody knew what had happened
to you.”
Nobody, meaning Pop-pop, Malcolm, and Mr. and Mrs. Gatsby.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”
Oh, sure. Yes. No problem. Don’t give it a second thought.
THE SECOND CALL
came from Chuck Larson. He wanted to know if I had had a good time at the party.
How, exactly, did you know I was there, Chuck?
Did Jamie tell him? Did Jamie recognize me? Chuck wasn’t saying. His job was only
to tell me things he wanted to tell me. He did, however, tell me what Jamie was doing
there. He was thinking of producing a movie for Darra.
“I thought he was a Wall Street banker.”
“Banker? Sort of. Right now, Jamie’s making a lot of money for a lot of people in
nontraditional investments.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Something to do with mortgages. Sub-prime mortgages. Don’t ask me, but folks at that
party all want to invest with him. So now he’s thinking of branching out.”