Choke On Your Lies Part 13

I unfolded the receipt and said, "Yes, I'm trying to track down what happened with this particular work order. I had some changes made to my computer, but it's still not working correctly, and I need to find the guy who did the work."

"You don't need to, I don't think. I can send another tech who would know just as much-"

"I'm sure, yeah, if this was a normal job." I leaned closer and quieted my voice. "I know I'm not supposed to, but I had a student take a look."

"Oh dear."

"Yes, it was that frustrating. He told me it's all wrong, as if the guy was making it up as he went along. Weird wiring, missing pieces, jury-rigged components. So whoever he was, I want to figure out what he did first, and why we spent money on it."

She sighed. "Computers. They're supposed to make life easier, but look at what happens."

"It's like we can't get away from the d.a.m.n things now."

She nodded, into it now. "Right, like, kids can't even buy a CD anymore. It has to all be downloads. I wouldn't know where to start."

Pity. I wasn't that much younger than her, and while I didn't have an iPod, nor did I use my cell phone as a Walkman, I could at least buy some MP3s and listen to them on my laptop. "They know so much more these days, but some of the most basic stuff about the world around them..."

"I know, I know. Preaching to the choir." She held out her hand. "Let me see what you've got."

I handed the receipt over. It started well enough, with her eyes going over it appropriately. But when she hit the name, I think, her lips twitched and she tensed up. Looked up at me, then back at the paper.

Which I didn't exactly expect, even though by then I knew that the name was a code. It was used anytime the Provost had some sort of blackmailing evidence he wanted hidden away or lost in the system. There were only a handful of people around who knew this, and wouldn't you know that the clerk at the desk that day was in on it.

Right. Which meant this indistinct past-her-prime lady and her husband partic.i.p.ated in Carl's extracurricular activities. Oh boy. I had believed Carl was shallow enough that he would only choose those women he felt were attractive, as I'd inferred from Stephanie that it seemed the men could be truly awful, as long as their wives brought the hotness. I'd underestimated him. He had also chosen those whose jobs gave him power-clerks in sensitive areas, billing, AV, and I was willing to bet the executive a.s.sistant of the President was most certainly involved in some way. Carl had the whole campus under his thumb. What was next? A coup?

This woman-I checked her desk for a nameplate, saw Deb-gave me a quick grin and said, "Let me make a couple of calls about this." Then she turned to her phone, her back to me, while she called our back-up plan.

Not that she knew that's what she was doing, but I'd been able to convince Alice to help us after all. Because naturally, who else would Deb call?

While she was on the phone, I had a sudden mental image of Deb being double-teamed by a couple of administrators. I shook my head, blinked a few times. As long as she was enjoying herself, one might think, what was the problem? Except that once the Provost started tightening the screws-unfortunate metaphor, I know-she, all of them, would realize they had been used, and then it was as bad as prost.i.tution. Worse, like those in s.e.x trafficking, women never able to pay off the "loan" that brought them to whatever country they'd looked to for a better life, only to find something much more horrific.

If people wanted to swing or have orgies or call it polyamory or whatever, fine. Maybe it wasn't for me, nor for many millions of others, but it wasn't fair or right to tell others they could not express themselves s.e.xually in the land of the free. For Carl to then use those free expressions against these pitiable folks, well, it made me want to crush him. It had become about much more than my house.

Deb started talking, low and hushed, to Alice, who would tell her that I was 'in the know" and that it was okay for me to be put in contact with Dan Moose-not Ron Moore-apparently the real tech and AV guy for the swingers.

The price for Alice's help was high. In fact, it was me. She still wasn't willing to tell us what we needed to know all at once, or make it look as if she had turned readily on Carl. As per usual, it would simply be another clerical error. It was enough, however, and it meant a tryst with me she'd apparently been dreaming about for quite some time.

Deb's voice had raised in pitch and volume. She laughed, thanked Alice, and turned back to me a completely different woman. Confident, lips just so. She crossed her arms and set them on the desk in front of her, then leaned towards me, pressing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s up and together, and even though her blouse and unders.h.i.+rt didn't encourage cleavage, she was doing her best.

"So, what exactly was it you needed again?"

"Um...I need him to explain some work he did on my computer."

Deb winked. I wondered then if Carl hadn't pulled the peep show curtain back for her yet. No, it was still all a big game to Deb, reawakening her senses after years of a so-so marriage and the expected dull middle-cla.s.s life that so many people find themselves drifting into on the side of the highway, a cozy if boring rut. I saw it in her eyes-it had made s.e.x with her husband better, the both of them swinging, able to talk about all the things they'd wanted to tell each other but felt afraid to before.

I felt sad for her. She had no idea what was in store.

Plus, it was a little disconcerting-I was fast becoming an object of desire for women I had no desire for, while the ones I wanted either didn't want me or were out of reach.

Deb dipped her head and raised her eyes, and for a split-second she was a movie star, her authentic self slipping behind this fantasy persona she reveled becoming. "I'll give you his number."

"Thanks."

She smiled wide, reached for a pen and scribbled it out. Paused. "Would you like my number, too?"

I cleared my throat. How to answer that? "Wouldn't, um, your husband-" I pointed at her ring. "Have some issues with that?"

She posed again, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s wanting to bust a b.u.t.ton. Lowered her voice. "If it wouldn't bother you, he'd like to watch."

I took the paper. She held on, made me tug it until I ran my fingers across the back of her hand. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, then let me take the numbers.

"Thanks for your help." I turned to go.

"He doesn't have to watch. I can meet you at a hotel."

I willed myself out of there, on towards my other dreaded rendezvous for the morning, but I stopped, looked back over my shoulder. The voice in my head yelling Tell her! Save her! Help her!

If only that voice wasn't followed by Octavia's, cupping her hand over my conscience's mouth and telling me Let her be happy. Right now, she's as beautiful as she's ever wanted to be. She'll find out the bad news in her own time.

She stood. "Ready to go?"

I shook my head. "Thanks again."

Before the door closed behind me, I heard her say, "Call me."

Had I tried this sort of cloak and dagger act on my own, I'm not sure it would've worked. I hate to admit it, but as intelligent as I am, the details always trip me up. It was why I didn't enjoy chess-you have to know pretty much the entire game from the opening gambit. Thinking about every piece and all of the possibilities before the first p.a.w.n slid forward.

No, I am the poet. I live in the moment, for the moment, and try to make each moment the sharpest mental picture for when I need to see it again and convert it into words. I was never a "big picture" sort of guy.

Octavia was. She thought like a chess player-hated the game, though, as it was mostly waiting for the other person to accept the inevitable. She thought globally, which was why when I thought up this plan, she immediately saw all the holes.

Most importantly, we had to guess what was more important to Alice-a good f.u.c.k or loyalty to her boss? I stated that horrendous things were being asked of her. We had to consider her feelings, try to win her over. Octavia said, "Don't you think she gets a thrill out of it, though? Following others around, being a voyeur? It's like p.o.r.n without the fake moaning. A very powerful feeling, I would think."

"She has the goods on Carl."

"If he didn't have something worse on her, this would all be academic. Look, he's been hiding his Roman Orgy Club for several years without anyone spilling. Face it, your own wife kept it from you for over a year."

"Gee, thanks."

"True. You want the truth or you want me to pet your pathetic little head?"

"I know. I know. Look, I don't know. Tell me the truth."

She was standing in the front sitting room, where she usually spent a couple of hours a day meeting with attorneys for businesses she was suing since the library wouldn't make the best impression, lest any of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds mistook the opulence for weakness of argument. No matter how many times her wealth had been brought up in court, all it took was a visibly crushed Octavia to struggle from her place at the plaintiff's table, needing much a.s.sistance from Jennings or Pamela, before waddling out of the courtroom, for the attorneys to remember how she got all that money in the first place. So they met in her sitting room to discuss structured settlements and stock options that gave her quite a powerful stake in a variety of interests, as well as a free stock portfolio to die for.

She faced the front window overlooking the circular driveway while she spoke. "You have to be very forthcoming. She'll see through flattery or seduction or any of that nonsense. It's simple-help me and I'll f.u.c.k you. I'll f.u.c.k you however you want me to, whatever you've been daydreaming about, as long as you help me and don't tell Carl. We'll keep your name out of this. Now, she's going to say yes, but she's going to want to tell Carl. In fact, let's just a.s.sume she will. They are going to want to tape the s.e.x, control every aspect, and probably still not give up this Don Moose character."

"Okay." Sounded like the whole project was futile. "So...we're done, then. We only get half the picture. Okay, I suppose I can live with that. But it doesn't feel right."

She cut her head my way, eyebrows raised. "How the h.e.l.l did you get anywhere in life acting like this? I'm surprised you didn't walk into your job interview and say, 'I know you're looking at another candidate who's probably better, so I guess I'll be leaving now. Sorry to bother you.' Jesus, no wonder the b.i.t.c.h is leaving you. If she had a soul, I'd feel a little sorry for her right now. And you know what a c.u.n.t I think she is."

I crossed my arms, hugged myself. She kept the place freezing. Mild for her, frigid for the rest of us. "Sorry. Go on."

"Let's tell her you want to meet the man face to face before she can see you. You're going to want proof. Tell her as long as you understand how you were tricked, you'll still be willing to accept Carl's offer...if you can be part of the s.e.x club. Whine a bit. It's not fair that Frances got to f.u.c.k around like that and not you. You want a little revenge. Of course, by now, it's not about s.e.x for Frances anymore, so she won't care. In fact, she'll be relieved to know you're that shallow after all."

"What if he says no?"

"Remember, he thinks this is all your own idea. As long as Frances doesn't know I'm involved...you didn't give the Provost my address yet, right?"

"No. I'm going to give it to Alice after...you know."

She smiled and moved away from the window. She sat on the couch and stretched her arm across the back, chin held high. "I would recommend calling him directly instead."

And she told me why.

I yelled at her for an hour after that, knees shaking, hands trembling, but she convinced me it was the only way. If it didn't work, someone would either die or end up in jail.

After I got the name and number of Don Moose from Alice, I called Pamela, read her both.

"All right. You'll be ready?"

"Yes, just waiting for you."

I killed some time by going to Half-Price Books and browsing the ever diminis.h.i.+ng poetry shelves, not finding anything very worthy of which I wasn't already aware. So I moved over to paperback mysteries, a genre I wasn't usually fond of, but due to the activity of the past few days I felt a certain kick out of seeing detective t.i.tles and some of the more lurid covers. I picked up a couple of the more vintage-looking, not the pulpiest but certainly not the coziest, on a lark. Maybe they would melt the glacier that had built around the part of my brain that let me write. Sometimes pulp would do that for you.

The girl at the checkout counter looked to be of college age, pierced in her lip, nose, and eyebrow. Hair dyed black with bright yellow tips and cut as if she didn't give a s.h.i.+t. She looked at my choices.

"Hey, wasn't this a TV show? Isn't it like, the 40's or something?"

"I think so, yes." I remembered, even though I can't say I ever watched it.

She shrugged. "Yeah, I might have watched it in cla.s.s once. I don't read this sort of thing, but I think my grandma used to."

Paid her, got some change, smiled, and left. Just in time for my cell phone to ring. Out on the sidewalk, I answered.

Pamela said, "I'm going to meet with him right now. This sounds like a winner, unless your Provost had time to construct some elaborate prank."

"All right, so we're clear?"

"Absolutely."

"I'll be waiting." I rung off and walked to my car. It was this next part that worried me most.

I made a quick call to Alice and left the message we'd agreed on before driving down to Bloomington, the southern side of the metro area around the airport and the Mall of America, which was an impressive sight even if it did bring with it a sense of fear and loathing about American culture. No matter how often I impressed upon my students the need to get back to basics and think for themselves, I knew in the back of my mind that the Mall was still where they would buy their jeans and shoes. I'd bought several pair of each their myself, along with a nice winter overcoat, before finally shaking myself of the "convenience versus fairness" debate in favor of fairness.

So I ventured into the world of strip malls, restaurant chains, and middle-of-the-road hotels, one of which was, of course, where we had planned to meet. In fact, it was supposed to be as public and mediocre as possible in order to give the appearance that I had no clue what I was doing. This is what all middle-aged men who hadn't had affairs before thought they were supposed to do. I tried to imagine what would've happened with my favorite student, Nuha, had I gone this route rather than the clumsy and guilt-ridden attempt at oral satisfaction in my own home.

The hotel was big. Sprawling, actually. Right across the road from the mall, almost like one of those hotels you might find right outside the gates of an amus.e.m.e.nt park. A handful of upscale chain restaurants lined the same avenue, not quite fast food but definitely a.s.sembly-line fare. Let's just say Harriet's fabulous steaks would hardly be recognizable to the patrons of one particular western-themed joint.

None of it mattered. It was just something to think about while I parked and made my way inside, checked in under my own name-you couldn't fake it in places like this anymore. They all need a credit card and license. Once I had the key, I told them Alice would be meeting me here, and to please send her around. Then I drove to the farthest entrance from the road and pulled into the spot closest to the door. Well, second closest, as there was a convertible Mustang taking the closest. That wasn't a problem. As long as the handicapped spot across the way was still open, we would be fine. I grabbed the small cooler out of the backseat and headed into the side door. Slid my card through the lock, opened the door, and my room was right around the corner.

Inside the room, I was surprised at the small TV, the remote with electrical tape holding the batteries in. The bed felt like egg cartons and cheap fleece. It had a sliding gla.s.s door that led out to the parking lot. Seemed kind of pointless. I hadn't been into a place like these in years and years. Even the dive hotels of Europe had a scuzzy charm, whereas our chain-hotel boudoir felt like a forgotten display at a cheap furniture store.

Except in the bathroom, where the shower head was huge with a decent number of settings. The soap smelled very nice. The vanity was sleek and modern. So now we knew what the typical middle-cla.s.s road weary travelers wanted most-a good place to shower and s.h.i.+t. Other than that, they were cool with a torturous bed and television set from 1989.

I spread out on the bed. Bounced my a.s.s on it a few times. Very noisy. No doubt that the neighbors would be able to follow along from beginning to end. That is, the ones who weren't out shopping at the mall. I turned on the TV and flipped around until I found HBO, an old movie I couldn't remember, but I already knew how it ended. Weird.

A rustle at the door, metal cranks and clicks. And then a second later, there was Alice, key card in hand. She wasn't smiling, but there was something to her expression-pride, perhaps. She pushed the door closed and stood against it a minute like she was in a movie, hands behind her back, chin tilted low.

I smiled, lifted the bottle of cheap merlot from the cooler at bedside. "Have a drink with me?"

She curled her lip. "G.o.d, I hate wine. You didn't have to do that."

"I just thought...you know. Sometimes, it takes time."

"Oh, s.h.i.+t, you need a pill for this?"

"No, no, G.o.d no. I'm just saying..." I sat up. What the h.e.l.l was I saying? Because I couldn't say, Here, drink this all down and don't mind the fizzing or the leftover powder in the bottom.

So I said, "I'm shy. That's all. I like to be, well, it's embarra.s.sing."

Finally got a smile from Alice, and she stepped away from the door to the foot of the bed. "Aw, this sounds juicy. You have to tell me now."

"Okay, but please." I reached out my hand. She took it, stepped in front of me between my knees. I told her, "I like to be seduced. And, don't take this the wrong way, but I think that's not going to be a problem for you. You seem very forward."

"You're saying I'm pushy?"

"Wait, that's not it. I mean...a strong woman is s.e.xy, you know? I like how upfront you are about it."

Which was a total lie, especially in Alice's case. She had "p.o.r.n-appeal". The "f.u.c.k me now" thing is probably great at first, until you're in the middle of it and you think about how easy Alice is, and how it's not really that she's into you or anything. It's just that she's a nympho and you're a notch on the bedpost. Maybe that's good for the fraternity boys, but I preferred coming to it slowly, where both people have taken steps until you meet in the middle and feel comfortable knowing that when you wake the next morning, not only would you share an intimate breakfast, but you might even have another roll in the hay before you go your separate ways-to meet again later that evening.

Thinking about that made me wonder how Octavia spent last night.

"Sweetie," Alice said, taking a step back. "I understand. Really. I do. But you should know I don't have all day. This whole thing for me, it's a big journey. I want to experience so much in my life, and believe me, this has been an eye-opener."

"Okay, but at least sit and talk a few minutes. Talk about likes, dislikes. I don't want it to be five awkward minutes of, um, whatever."

She c.o.c.ked her hip, planted her hands on either side, which was quite s.e.xy in her slinky dress, sleeveless, gray, hanging at mid-thigh. "Something about you, the sensitive poet type. I've read your work. It's l.u.s.ty and sweaty and all about souls touching and that sort of c.r.a.p, which is beautiful, don't get me wrong. Just...f.u.c.king gorgeous, that book of yours, the award winner? What was the name?"

"Yeah, a chapbook contest, nothing major. It was The Intensity of Our Intentions."

She shook her head. "Blew me away. I mean, I'd seen you around campus, but the way you carry yourself. Kind of cute, but definitely that skinny, quiet, tweed and corduroy thing going on. I couldn't fit the two together-the one who wrote those raw poems versus you. Like you're a hidden Casanova or something. I'm dying to find out. That's why I'm helping you. Believe me, if I thought you could really hurt Carl with all your detective work, I wouldn't be here right now."

I shrugged. "I had to try."