Special Smashwords Edition
Wish List
(A Donovan Creed Crime Novel)
by
John Locke
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
WISH LIST
Special Smashwords Edition
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Copyright © 2010 by John Locke. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Cover Art Design: Telemachus Press, LLC
Cover Art Illustrations:
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Copyright © istockphoto/Josh Blake (Computer "Overworked")
Copyright © istockphoto/Ambient Ideas ("Red Smoke Rising on Right")
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Edited by: Winslow Eliot
Digital design by: Telemachus Press, LLC
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Visit the author website: http://www.lethalbooks.com
eBook published and distributed by: http://www.smashwords.com
ISBN: 978-1-935670-27-8 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-935670-26-1 (eBook)
“If you Like Wish List, You’re Going to Love Saving Rachel!”
“If Dean Koontz collaborated with Alfred Hitchcock at the circus, this would be their brain child.”
Dusty Mills, Vintage DM Book Reviews
“For the first time, having read more than 1,000 books, I found myself on a blind-folded, thrilling roller coaster ride with no idea what twists and turns were coming up next. I pride myself in having never been stumped by a work of fiction. Saving Rachel has ruined me.”
Todd Rutherford (@PublishingGuru)
“Saving Rachel transcends ordinary storytelling into a class of genius, a stylishly fresh and energetic genre of writing. For those who are unfamiliar with Locke’s writing and history, this is a perfect way to introduce you to one of the most creative contemporary talents. I’m certainly now one of his fans for life.”
Gary Sorkin, Pacific Book Review
“A truly spectacular read about an absolutely marvelous con! Terrific job!”
Claude Bouchard, author, Vigilante
“I loved Saving Rachel! I could hardly pause for breath! The plot is tight as a drum. The pages flew late into the night; I simply could not stop until the last page!”
Winslow Eliot, author, The Bright Face of Danger
“Five out of Five Stars! Dizzying action! Saving Rachel moves at a frenzied pace and is bursting with plot twists. I highly recommend it.”
Melissa Levine, IP Book Reviewers
“Saving Rachel is a fast-moving thriller, technically complex and a star example of intricate plotting.”
Elizabeth A. Allen, Clarion Reviews
“While I expected it to be interesting, I didn’t expect that I would get so caught up in it! I didn’t quit reading until the last page had been consumed!”
Jo Ann Hakola, Book Faerie Reviews
“Five Stars! An intriguing thriller with a healthy dose of morbid comedy, Saving Rachel is a fine fiction read for crime readers.”
Midwest Book Reviews
“Saving Rachel is a frenetic, mile-a-minute thriller. Will remind readers of a Hollywood blockbuster full of shakes, rattles, and a high-pitched roar.”
Kirkus Discoveries
“John Locke's book Saving Rachel is hot hot hot. This book starts at page one and doesn't let go. The twists, turns, plots, and shots, are jam packed into this short novel. Never has any book kept me so intrigued all night long until it was done. I started at seven and ended at twelve and never once moved from my seat. GREAT JOB. I can’t wait to get my hands on more of John Locke's novels.”
Johnica Dingus, Baltimore, MD
“I loved this book! I just could not stop turning the pages. Just a wonderful action packed book, you won't want to put it down until it’s done and when it finally is done you will wish that it wasn't. A sure must read!”
Katherine Neves, Ft. Lauderdale, FL
“Five out of Five Stars! Bravo! Just when you think you have figured it out, you are wrong…and then wrong again…and again!”
Steven Himes, Ohio
“Here's a must read for your reading list: Saving Rachel by John Locke. Five Stars!”
Leslie Moon, Author, Moondustwriter
“FIVE STARS! This was one of the best books I have read in a long time. I could not put it down. I read these 200 pages faster than any of the last 20-30 books I have read. The plot has so many twists and turns I could not keep count of them.”
“FIVE STARS! It delivers me both the action that I crave and the mystery that I find interesting.”
“FIVE STARS! This book is great. I downloaded it and read it on my Kindle. I really enjoyed reading it. I did not want to put it down. When I was not reading it I was wondering what was going to happen next. It truly is a great mystery book.”
“FIVE STARS! Refreshing idea indeed. Add to this the great storyline, character set ups, and fast pace of the action....and you simply won't be able to put it down.”
“FIVE STARS! Saving Rachel is a wonderful action-packed thriller that will have you wishing the book never ends!”
“FIVE STARS! Locke is an engaging and talented writer who can capture your attention and thoroughly entertain.”
“FIVE STARS! John Locke did not disappoint me once again! I read his first book, Lethal People, and was very impressed. I became hooked and decided to read another one of his masterpieces and let me tell you it was just as great, if not better, than the first! A perfect action thriller!!”
“FIVE STARS! This is my first read of the Donovan Creed series and what an introduction to the character it is. I could not put the book down, once I started. It did not take me long to get hooked, basically from page one on I wanted to just get to the end and learn how the characters were connected and why someone would think up this evil game.”
“FIVE STARS! This book is written in an easy to read style that is perfect for vacation read. If you like thrillers with unexpected twists and surprise endings, this book is for you.”
“FIVE STARS! Saving Rachel will sink its grip into you and keep you on the edge from beginning until the end. It is a perfect book for fans of action thrillers!!”
“FIVE STARS! I highly recommend this book to anyone that loves a good mystery, with plenty of plot twists to keep you guessing.”
“FIVE STARS! This is a sexy, intriguing, engrossing story that I had trouble putting down. It is definitely worth a read.”
“FIVE STARS! This book is well written and easy to read. You won’t be disappointed!”
“FIVE STARS! This story is full of mistaken identity, questionable heroes and likeable anti-heroes. For anyone who likes mystery thrillers this is a great book.”
“FIVE STARS! Man, I love the main character. He is just as cool as it gets.”
“FIVE STARS! What a great book!”
“FIVE STARS! What a wonderful book. I have grown to love the main character Donovan Creed. Once Donovan comes into play it is amazing and WOW what a whirlwind. John Locke tells stories that keep you guessing. Look out crime and adventure fans, you’re in for a great ride.”
“FIVE STARS! It took off running from the very first second and does not give you a chance to stop. Saving Rachel is fast paced, full of unexpected turns. It really takes some imagination to come up with the events of this read, so you will definitely not be disappointed. I can't wait to read more from this author, but Saving Rachel is going to be hard to top.”
“FIVE STARS! The story centers around a cheating husband and what ensues is a thrilling ride through plot twists and turns. You are never quite sure what will happen and just when you think you have got it solved, the story takes another turn. This is a book that I just could not put down and was thinking about when I wasn't reading it. Great story line, great characters and a great mystery!”
“FIVE STARS! I really enjoy reading mystery books and John Locke created a thrilling story with the book Saving Rachel. The plots and twists of the story are very exciting. I really enjoyed this book.”
“FIVE STARS! Saving Rachel by John Locke creates the perfect mystery novel. While the imagery can be disturbing, its real life. I was riveted and could not put the book down. This story of infidelity pushes the limits of what you mind can comprehend and you are not sure until the very end, what will happen. The plot twists are exhilarating and something any good mystery should strive to be. If you want to be taken on a fun ride where you really have to think and solve the case, this is the book.”
“FIVE STARS! John Locke has made my day with his latest Donovan Creed tale, Saving Rachel. Saving Rachel pushes the envelope of excitement. The seemingly standard cheating husband story quickly turns into a fast paced race to discover who is out to get Sam. You can never be certain of the villains and the saviors. It is not surprising that the good guy/bad guy lines are blurred: after all, this is a Donovan Creed novel. The story is enjoyable because the reader will keep guessing through the twists, and you learn not to assume anything. Poor Sam has an unbelievably bad day and I loved watching the story unfold.”
“FIVE STARS! Another Donovan Creed novel by John Locke titled Saving Rachel that has you at the first page and doesn't let you go until it is over. If I were in any kind of trouble I want this guy on my side or looking for me in a good way. This book keeps you locked and pointed and rooting for the good guys.”
“FIVE STARS! Saving Rachel by John Locke is a gripping fast paced thrill ride. This novel is easy to read and keeps you going. I did not want to put it down till I had finished it.”
“FIVE STARS! I was intrigued from the first page and surprised at how many odd twists and turns there were. Basically, if you want to read something that has you guessing the whole way through - this is the perfect book for you.”
“FIVE STARS! The first 30 pages melted under my eyes because I was reading so fast. I had to know what happened next. And that was just the first 30 pages!”
“FIVE STARS! I hardly read books because I'm a such a busy working mother, but I couldn't put this one down. I started reading it and just loved the story. John Locke does a wonderful job of keeping the mystery going so it's not predictable, but he ties it all together in the end. I recommend giving it a read. You will enjoy the ride.”
“FIVE STARS! Get ready for a ride that goes a mile a minute from first page to last, you're never sure where the next sentence is going to take you. and then the ending leaves you craving more. Reminds me of books I used to sneak into my room and read when everyone else was asleep.”
“FIVE STARS! Great action book! This book was definitely action packed! You were never quite sure what was going to happen next!”
“FIVE STARS! John Locke the author will not disappoint you with "Saving Rachel". He hasn't in the past with his other stories and now he delivers another Donovan Creed Crime Novel that will have you exhausted by the time you are done. It had the 5 key points, action, suspense thriller, mystery, seduction and a bad man. Everything you need to keep you turning the page.”
“FIVE STARS! Saving Rachel (A Donovan Creed Crime Novel) (Kindle Edition) by John Locke is a great story. A suspenseful thriller with twists and turns you just don't see coming. This book holds your attention until the very twisted end. Great read!”
“FIVE STARS! "A succession of snippets each leaving you addicted to more," is how I'd describe the brilliant way John Locke tells his story in "Saving Rachel." Just like the old Lay's potato chip ad, "I bet you can't eat just one," I'd say, "I bet you can't read just one." Right from the get-go he creates a seductive, sensuous, and seriously entertaining storyline laid out like a storyboard of an action movie being created.”
“FIVE STARS! Saving Rachel is author John Locke's third dance with the talented, sly, funny, and determined Donovan Creed. Dizzying Action! Oh, so good.”
“FIVE STARS! I have only recently come to know the fiction written by John Locke and his work will easily be at the top of my favorites list. John has truly created a unique form of literature that is almost in its own genre. If you appreciate books that really move, surprise you on every page and are built upon a premise having layers that make you think, then you will not be disappointed.”
To us, and those just like us.
Damn few of us. Pity, that.
Acknowledgment
I would like to thank those who provided guidance, support, suggestions, and critical reading skills for this project, including Winslow Eliot, Claudia Jackson, Ricky Locke, Courtney Baxter, Claude Bouchard, Joanne Chase, Jessica Brown, Libby Crew, Terri Himes, and Donovan Creed.
Prologue
Donovan Creed
We’d met on the internet, exchanged emails, and she was married. But she accepted a dinner date anyway, and showed up. We toasted, talked, flirted unmercifully, shared a sissy dessert, and then went to my room for a nightcap. The drinks came and went, then we cuddled and kissed and I started to undo her blouse and she said, “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Do this.”
“Why not?”
She looked as though she didn’t mean it, but said, “It’s not right.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not. I thought things were going well. I was wrong.”
“It’s not that. Really, it’s just, we shouldn’t do this.”
“It’s me?”
“No, of course not! You’re incredible! I’ve had a wonderful time.”
“But things could have gone better tonight. For you, I mean.”
“No, that’s not it. Look, I promise, it’s not you.”
I nodded. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you buy a new bra and panties before coming here?”
“What?”
“I’m just curious. You don’t have to show me or anything, I was just wondering if your underwear is new.”
She blushed. “It is. It’s new.”
“And you bought it when?”
“What difference does it make?”
I said nothing.
She said, “Two days ago. What’s your point?”
“So…two days ago you thought it might be okay for you to take your clothes off if things went well between us, but now it’s not okay. And the only thing that’s different is we’ve met and spent some time together, which you say was incredible.”
She started to say something but changed her mind, then closed her eyes tightly and winced, as if trying to compute something mathematically.
“Oh, hell,” she said, “Let’s just do it and get it over with!”
“Let’s,” I said.
I started working the buttons on her blouse with renewed vigor, giving her little time to regret her decision. I got the damn thing off, along with her bra, meaning, I’d just gotten to the good part when my cell phone vibrated on the nightstand.
“You need to get that?” she said.
I grabbed my knife from under the pillow and plunged it through the center of the phone in a motion so quick it should have impressed the shit out of her. In retrospect I guess she hadn’t expected the knife or my ability to use it.
She ran to the door screaming, clutching her bra and blouse to her chest. She was fidgety, and it took a while to get the door unlocked, but when she realized I wasn’t chasing her she paused to put her clothes on, while keeping a wary eye on me.
I was aware of all this, but I was more interested in my cell phone.
It was still ringing.
I pried the knife loose and answered it.
“Creed.”
“Mr. Creed, this is Buddy Pancake. I’m in trouble.”
To the girl in my room I said, “Wait. You lost an earring.” It was a large gold hoop, probably bought at the same time she bought the underwear. I slid it on the blade of my knife and hurled it in her direction. She shrieked as it stuck in the door frame and vibrated back and forth. It was a good throw, one that should have dazzled her, landing as it had a mere two inches from her face.
“Buddy,” I said, “You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Sorry, Mr. Creed.”
My date angrily tried to pry the knife out of the door frame, but I’d thrown it too hard. She gave up, opened the door, and, rather rudely I thought, flipped her middle finger at me before leaving.
I said, “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, Buddy?”
“The worst kind.”
I sighed. “Where are you?”
Part One:
BUDDY PANCAKE
Introduction
On April 8, 2010, custom motorcycle builder Jesse James was voted “The Most Hated Man in America,” for cheating on America’s Sweetheart, actress Sandra Bullock.
The story broke three days after Sandra won the Oscar for Best Actress for her performance in The Blind Side.
The Academy Awards had been held Sunday, March 7, at Hollywood’s Kodak Theatre. In attendance that night were a number of famous beauties, including Mariska Hargitay, Kate Winslet, Maria Menounos, Demi Moore, Jinny Kidwell, Amanda Seyfried, and Charlize Theron.
If you’re lucky enough to be a world famous actress, and one of the world’s most beautiful women, you might not say it out loud, but secretly you know you can have any man on the planet.
For this reason, the entire world would be stunned to know that five days after Sandra Bullock won her Oscar, a balding, pudgy, middle class nobody named Buddy Pancake managed to do something only three men in the entire world had done.
He fucked Jinny Kidwell.
How did a man like this wind up in bed with Jinny Kidwell?
Simple.
He wished it.
Chapter 1
This whole thing started the way things often do: a few guys hanging out together on a Sunday afternoon, talking about pussy.
It’s early March, and we’re three underachievers, soft, wimpy, mid-management worker bees, sitting in the basement of my split-level ranch, in the room I like to call my office. There’s an old college couch in here, and a black, faux-leather bean bag chair. An ancient, but working, TV sits atop a maple desk I salvaged from my neighbor’s yard sale last summer. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine, and has a matching chair. The room’s only window shows half dirt, half sky. It’s split horizontally, and the top half pushes open about six inches, just enough to let the weed smoke out.
By way of introduction, I’m Buddy Pancake.
I’ll pause a minute, while you bust my balls. Go ahead, ask me if Pancake is my real name.
It is.
Ask me “What’s Mrs. Butterworth?”
I don’t know. What, maybe five bucks?
Hilarious.
Move along to where I live.
Yeah, that’s right. The Pancake House.
I know. You got a million more.
Do me a favor. Put the pancake thing on hold while I tell my story. You won’t be sorry, it’s a helluva story.
For five days I was the luckiest man in the world.
And then I wasn’t.
Chapter 2
Like I said, here we are, me, Mike and Richie, in my basement office. My wife, Lissie, on her way home with a pound of pasta and a bottle of Patsy’s All Natural Puttanesca Sauce.
Me, telling my friends the origin of the name puttanesca: “It means Whore’s Sauce.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Mike says.
I pass him the joint and say, “No, for real. Puttanesca was a cheap, quick dish Italian hookers made between tricks. The ingredients can be found in any Italian larder.”
“Listen to you,” Richie says. “Larder. Jeez. How gay is that?”
I flip my middle finger in response.
Mike, pensive, says, “Ever been with one?”
“What, a hooker?”
“Yeah.”
“Get real,” I say.
Mike passes the torch to Richie, and we’re quiet a minute, thinking about doing it with a hooker.
Mike breaks the silence. “Well, you got Lissie. Don’t know how you managed it, but who needs a hooker when you got a looker, eh?”
We laugh, take another hit off our communal joint, blow it in the general direction of the window, and chase it with a swallow of scotch.
“But say you didn’t have Lissie,” Mike persists. “Who would you want?”
“Whaddya mean?”
Richie, getting into it: “Say you can have any chick in the world. Who would you choose?”
“Wait,” I say, “You mean like for one night? Who would I want to fuck?”
My friends nod.
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Mike says.
“I mean, I never thought about it.”
“Oh, bullshit!” Richie says. “I know who I’d take.”
Richie knows we’re looking at him, so he makes us wait a few seconds. Then he says, “Megan Fox.”
Mike nods. “Yeah, okay. I thought you were gonna say Angelina Jolie, but yeah, Megan’s hot. Me? I’d take Katrina Bowden.”
“Who?”
“Chick on 30 Rock.”
“Oh, right. Wait. The receptionist?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, she’s hot. Great ass.”
Richie locks onto my eyes, says, “Your turn.”
I smile. I’m with friends, and know that the words I’m about to utter will never be heard by my wife. I take a deep breath and say, “Jinny Kidwell.”
“Whoa,” Richie says. “Oh, shit. Yeah, okay, you win.”
We sit there grinning like monkeys flinging shit through a cage, thinking about pounding Jinny Kidwell.
Yeah, that Jinny Kidwell, the twenty-five million per movie one.
“What else would you wish for?” Mike says.
“I get Jinny Kidwell for one night?” Richie says, “I don’t need nothin’ else. Game over. I die a happy man.”
“Yeah,” Mike says, “but in addition to sleeping with Jinny Kidwell, say you can have anything in the world.”
I realize Mike is talking to me.
“What,” I say, “You mean like a genie grants me three wishes?”
“Yeah, like that. Only let’s say it’s four wishes. What would you ask for?”
“Easy. A million bucks.”
Mike takes a hit, holds it, then exhales loudly. “Okay, sure. But then what?”
“What, a million bucks and sex with Jinny Kidwell ain’t enough for you?”
“Not if I got two more wishes coming. What else would you wish for?”
“Wait,” I say. “Where’s this bullshit coming from?”
Richie and Mike look at each other.
Mike says, “We found this website called Wish List. It’s like a survey. You type in your wishes and they compile them and tell you the most popular ones. It’s updated every day.”
“This is guys only, right?” I say. “’Cause chicks are gonna put down stupid shit.”
I don’t normally talk this way in real life. Mike and Richie probably don’t either. But when we’re together we talk the way we used to, growing up in the South End. It’s comfortable. We’re hard working guys, stuck in dead-end jobs. We’re a hell of a lot smarter than we sound on afternoons like this when we’re passing a joint around, shooting the shit.
“There’s a guy list and a chick list,” Richie says.
“You guys fill it out?”
“Naw,” Richie says. “But it’s fun to think about.”
Mike says, “I did.”
We look at him like, no shit?
“Yeah, I filled it out. It’s just a flippin’ survey, right?” He shrugs his shoulders. “What’s the big deal?”
Lissie’s home now. From the kitchen, we hear her shout, “Buddy? Want to help me with dinner?”
Richie grabs his crotch and says, “I’d like to help her with dinner!”
Mike says, “Jesus, Richie, show some respect. She’s Buddy’s wife!”
I glance at Mike, thinking there’s something weird in the way he said it, like he was really pissed. Hey, if anyone should have been angry…
“Hey, sorry man,” Richie says. “It’s the weed. You know I’m just acting out.”
“Bygones,” I say.
Mike stares at me a long moment, then stubs out the joint, puts the butt in his pocket, and stands up. Gives me a bro hug and says, “Check it out: Wish List.bz. Let me know what you wish for.”
Chapter 3
My friends leave. I’m in the kitchen, checking out Lissie’s ass while salting the water for the pasta.
I’m thinking Mike’s right about Lissie being top of the food chain in my pond. I take a minute to wonder how a beautiful, kind, loving woman like her winds up with a fat fuck like me. Well, I’m not fat fat, but compared to the guys Lissie could get, I may as well be the Hindenburg.
Anyway, here’s the thing about me: I’m ungrateful as hell. Here I am, an average guy with a cartoon last name and a shit job I’m on the verge of losing. I hit the lottery when Lissie fell for me—and it’s still not enough.
I know I’ve already achieved the pinnacle with Lissie, but I’m thinking about Jinny Kidwell anyway. I try not to, but there she is, fixed in my brain, like a pregnant woman craving Twinkies at two a.m.
I know it’s nuts. I mean, come on—Jinny Kidwell?
Of course it’s nuts. But I’ve studied enough biology to know that a half million years of evolution has hard-wired my brain with the biological imperative to spread my seed with the highest genetic code available, and…
Christ, listen to me. I embarrass myself sometimes.
Forget my biological imperative. It’s not utter bullshit, but I don’t know enough about it to make a winning case to a female jury. Nevertheless, there is something utterly compelling about Jinny Kidwell. You know it, I know it, and Hollywood knows it. Or they wouldn’t pay her twenty-five mil to star in movies, and we wouldn’t pay ten times that to see her in them.
I know there is no way in the world I will ever have sex with Jinny Kidwell. If she and I are stuck in an elevator and the world is coming to an end it won’t happen. If we emerge from that same elevator to find we’re the last two people on earth—it’s still a no. I know with every fiber of my being there is no set of circumstances on earth that could result in the two of us being in bed, in a sexual situation, with her consent.
And yet…
And yet it did happen, five days later.
But wait. I’m getting ahead of myself.
Dinner’s over and I’m in the kitchen, watching Lissie bend at the waist to pick a bit of lettuce off the floor. I’m staring at her long, tanned legs looking for a flash of panty. Her dress doesn’t hike that high, but I see it in my mind anyway. Now she’s tossing the lettuce into the sink, asking me if the puttanesca had been hot enough.
I nod. It’s all hot in the kitchen this night, and in my mind my wife’s legs are Jinny Kidwell’s, and I’m allowing myself to keep the image there because it’s fun and it’s certainly not the same as cheating. There’s no way I’m ever going to be in the same room with Jinny, much less in the same bed, so it’s not cheating, right?
I’m only thinking all this about Jinny because there’s something about the idea of putting her name on a wish list that makes it seem almost possible, and that’s what it’s all about. I mean, when you’re a guy, and you’re alone and thinking about sex, you can either look at porn or create a fantasy in your mind. But the fantasy has to be based on something plausible in order to work. What I’m saying is, if I’m alone and seeking relief, my mind can only create a plausible connection with Jinny Kidwell if there’s some type of outside influence. But thinking about the wish list, and having verbalized it with Richie and Mike, I’ve caused Jinny to move into the realm of visualization.
And if you can visualize it…
Lissie likes watching the Academy Awards. I usually let her do it alone, but I remember from the promo that Jinny Kidwell is one of the presenters tonight. When the time comes for Jinny’s entrance, the cameras are all over her. She’s wearing a gunmetal gray dress that’s tasteful in front, and practically obscene from the back. When she turns to exit the stage I can see two dimples between her hips, which means if her dress was a half inch lower in the back, the show would have to carry a PG 13 rating.
“God, she’s gorgeous!” Lissie said.
“You think?”
“Don’t you?”
I do. But what I say is, “Compared to you? Not so gorgeous.”
A short time later I’ve got Lissie in bed. I’m really going after it, really hammering her.
I know I’m disgusting. I know she can’t possibly want me touching her, much less riding her, but there she is, acting like I’m her version of Jinny Kidwell. Like I said, I don’t deserve her.
I’ve got my eyes shut tight, mouth slightly open. My back arches upward…
Then something shifts in the cosmos.
I feel it beneath me.
One minute Lissie’s into it, the next she’s not.
Still, if I can just hold this image of Jinny in my mind for three more seconds…
But no.
Lissie says, “Damn it Buddy!”
And pushes me off.
“Jesus, Lissie! I was just about to—”
“I know exactly what you were about to do,” she says, scooting away from me on the bed. I try to follow, but she makes her arm rigid between us, like Diana Ross, singing Stop in the Name of Love.
Then she says, “Who is she?”
“What?”
“Some new girl start at the office today?”
“What? Are you nuts? Of course not! Why would you even think that?”
She sits on the edge of the bed, her back to me. Her eyes follow the trail of clothes that runs from the door to her feet.
“Your friends were here today,” she says. “What did you talk about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I swear!”
“Uh huh.” She reaches down, picks her panties off the floor, slips them over her feet and pulls them to her knees. “Fine.”
“Jesus, Lissie.”
She stands, lifts her panties to her waist in a fluid motion, then goes to the dresser and selects a flannel nightie that practically screams, “Don’t Touch Me!”
“Lissie, you’re the only woman in my world. I swear!”
She shrugs the nightie on, walks back to the bed, and stares me down.
A moment passes before I cave.
“I mean, yeah, Richie and Mike are a little uncouth sometimes, you know? They were talking a little crude.”
She waits. Like me, she’s wondering where this is heading.
“I think maybe Mike likes you.”
She arches an eyebrow. “What do you mean, likes me?”
I can’t believe I’m willing to sell my friends out so easily.
“Well, he made a crack about how lucky I was to have you, and how you’re way out of my league…”
I peek at her face to see if she’s buying my bullshit. She isn’t, but I have an endless supply and know how to shovel it.
I say, “I guess it hurt my feelings, you know?”
“Hurt your feelings.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew Mike was right.” I shake my head. “It’s true. I don’t deserve you.”
She gets a funny look in her eyes, like when her nephew soils his diaper, the one she just finished changing. She doesn’t like changing diapers, but she loves her nephew.
“So this was some sort of caveman thing? Like I’m your woman or something?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
Then her voice gets an edge to it and I know it’s all going south on me.
“So you were going to show Mike who’s boss.”
“What? No!”
“No? Well, guess what: this time I believe you!”
“Uh…whaddya mean?”
“This had nothing to do with Mike, and your feelings weren’t hurt. You were having sex with me, while thinking about someone else.”
“I wasn’t!”
“You were, and I won’t have it!”
“What’re you talking about? How can you even draw that conclusion?”
“All night at dinner you’re staring at my body, not at me. Then you rip my clothes off, never once looking at my face. Then you start touching me differently, but still I give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Until?”
“Until just now.”
“Ever dawn on you I might be adding variety to our love making?”
“Not when you pound me like a street whore.”
“What?”
“You practically raped me! So don’t even—”
She presses her lips into an angry frown and stares at me like I’m a stain in her panties.
Hoping to diffuse her anger with humor, I say, “I guess a blow job’s out of the question?”
Lissie grits her teeth.
“Don’t even try to tell me you weren’t thinking about another woman. What’s really going on? Are you having an affair?”
“No! Honey, I swear!”
She climbs back in bed and turns her back to me. “Thanks a lot, Buddy.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Look, I—”
“Just…stop.”
“But—”
“Real class act, you are.”
“But—”
“Asshole.”
Out loud I say, “Jesus, Lissie,” but in my mind I’m thinking, How did she know?
But then I realize, women always know.
Chapter 4
It’s the middle of the night. Lissie’s sleeping soundly.
I slide carefully out from under the covers, pad down the hall, and creep softly down the steps to the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of water, sit at the counter, open my laptop and fire it up. I feel guilty, like I’m sneaking porn or something. When the welcome bell chimes, I nearly jump out of my skin, and shuffle quickly to the hallway to look up the stairs to see if Lissie’s coming. I stand there a full minute, but the house remains quiet, save for the light whooshing of my laptop fan in the next room.
I go back to the kitchen counter, click the internet icon and wait for the welcome page. When it appears, I type www.wishlist.bz in the address bar. A few seconds pass while I wonder what the hell .bz stands for, and then the survey appears, just like Mike said it would. I type in my email address, skip over the bullshit wording that gives the nut jobs hope that their wishes can come true, then type my list quickly:
Sex with Jinny Kidwell
A million dollars
My boss dies a horrible death
I pause. The first three are bullshit; I know it, everyone knows it. But I allow myself to think, what if?
What if I put down something plausible? Maybe there’s some whacko millionaire out there who’s reading these lists, waiting for a sincere wish to pop up.
I think about it a full minute and finally decide to do something special for Melissa, something to get her mind off what happened earlier. Wish number four becomes “Two Front Row Seats, Springsteen Concert, Louisville, Kentucky, Friday, March 12, 2010.”
Chapter 5
The next morning Lissie’s still upset. We barely speak while drinking our coffee. I apologize for the second time.
“You can’t apologize for something until you admit doing it,” she says.
Her eyes are pale blue, large, and full of disappointment. She looks down at her wheat toast and spreads honey on it.
Lissie works as a counter sales clerk in the makeup department of Macy’s, nine to five, weekdays only, a schedule that allows us to spend quality time together every workday morning.
“I’m apologizing because I disrespected you last night.”
She takes a bite of her toast and looks at me while chewing.
I add, “Instead of cherishing you.”
She sighs. “Let’s just get through the day.”
“It was stupid,” I say.
“Was it?”
“I was having a guy moment. I was being a jerk.”
She studies my face with those giant doll eyes. Then, amazingly, she winks.
“Maybe tonight you’ll get another chance. You know, to get it right.”
I rush to her side and give her a hug. We’re cheek to cheek, and her upper body is pressed against mine, and I think about Jinny Kidwell once again…
And realize I wouldn’t trade Lissie for ten Jinny Kidwells.
Moments later I’m driving to work, a place where morale is so low you could shoot craps on it. My boss? What can I say—he’s a client-stealing scumbag. I’m a loan officer at Midwestern Meadow Muffin’s main office in downtown Louisville. That’s not the actual name of the bank, but I don’t want to be sued for slander. I’m on I-65, heading under the interstate, trying to merge into the right lane so I can make the Jefferson Street exit, thinking about how Boss Ogleshit threatened to fire me. Ogleshit isn’t his real—oh hell, who gives a damn? I’m broke. Let them try to sue me! I work for Edward Oglethorpe, VP of Midwest Commercial Savings and Loan.
Friday, before closing, Oglethorpe said, “Buddy Flapjack? I hope you’ve got another career lined up, because time’s run out on this one. You’ve got one week to submit—” he looked at the printout in his hands—“three million in new loans. That’s new loans, Buddy.” To my coworker he said, “Marjorie Campbell? You’re next in line. It’s time to stop resting on your laurels, people. You’re only as good as your last loan app.”
I merge onto Jefferson Street and turn left into the bank’s parking lot. I find a space, turn off the engine, and take a deep breath. If you’ve ever seen an abused dog cowering before its owner, that’s me each day at the bank.
You need to realize—well, you don’t need to realize anything at all. But I want you to know there are four loan officers here at the main branch, and we’re all good at what we do. But every time we land a strong client, Oglethorpe swoops in, bribes them with golf dates, lunches, and sports tickets, and tells them to deal with him for future loans.
“What about Buddy?” my clients say.
“Buddy’s a great guy,” Oglethorpe says, “but he’s a worker bee. If he writes your loan it has to go to committee for approval. That’s fine for the average customer, but you’re top tier, so why deal with subordinates? You need money, call me, personally. I can get you same day approval.”
We can’t compete with Ogleshit, so we’ve become hamsters on a wheel, always scrambling to replace the clients he steals.
As I enter the main office, all five senses are assaulted by the contrived atmosphere some bullshit artist conned the bank’s management into buying. This is supposed to appeal to customers? Who says so? And who signs off on these decisions? Who approved the blue and black geometric-patterned carpet, the plastic potted plants and fake ivy clinging to the walls, the shiny wood veneer desktops, and mind-numbing Muzak piped through the ceiling speakers? Who selected the sickening sweet air freshener that squirts a blast of “Sunny Island Breeze” every fifteen minutes the first and third weeks of the month and “Polar Ice Mist” the second and fourth?
Muzak’s upbeat version of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” is playing, as it does every two hours of every day, as it has for the past six years, as it will for the rest of my career, which apparently means Friday. The cloying tune is half over, and I’ve been conditioned to know that “Please Release Me,” is on deck. I wonder why companies like mine pay people to make bad music sound worse.
I pass Gus, the narcoleptic security guard, and head to my desk. Along the way, I nod in the general direction of the tellers’ forlorn faces, but avoid making eye contact, since I can’t abide their hapless glances.
I place my briefcase on my desk and take a seat in my faux leather executive desk chair. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, steeling myself for the beepy, electronic version of “Please Release Me” that’s cuing up even as we speak. I open my eyes and flip the tabs on my briefcase to remove some papers, and feel a cold wave of evil wash over me. I look up and—
“Jesus!” I say, startled by the face that could launch a thousand shits.
Oglethorpe’s secretary, Hilda, is standing over me, frowning, tapping her watch. My eyes instinctively go beyond her scowl to the faux wood clock on the wall. I’m five minutes early, which makes me ten minutes late, as per Oglethorpe’s Fifth Rule of Success.
“Guess you don’t care about office rules, since you’re out of here on Friday,” she says.
Bad as Ogleshit is, he’s not the boss I wish would die.
Hilda is.
Since Ogleshit is out of the office most of the time, schmoozing my former power clients, Hilda has assumed control over the office. Everything that happens within the confines of that space is recorded in her journal: every remark, mistake, or profanity. Every water break, bathroom break, cough, giggle, or fart.
The bitch is relentless.
Last month, deep in an audit, I noticed it was 11:30 p.m. and realized I’d been working sixteen hours. I looked across the conference table at Hilda and said, “Wow, it’s almost midnight.”
Hilda’s look told me I was dogshit on her shoe.
“I’m fading,” I said.
“Sink or swim, Pancake,” she said. “Your choice.”
“Can I at least get some crackers, maybe take a quick cat nap?”
“Man up, Pancake. This ain’t preschool, it’s your job.”
I manned up, kept my job.
When my grandmother was dying in the hospital, and the rest of my family had gathered at her bedside, I asked Hilda if I could leave an hour early to share her final moments.
“You a surgeon?”
“No.”
“Faith healer?”
“No.”
“Not much you can do then.”
“But she’s dying!”
“Then let’s remember her as she was, before the bad times. Wait a minute. Did she ever bake cookies for you?”
I nodded.
“Goody. Cling to that happy thought till closing time. But don’t let it interfere with your work.”
I know you think Hilda can’t be this bad.
You’re right.
She’s worse.
Chapter 6
Lunch. Second best part of the day, next to closing time.
Unless I’m entertaining a client, I only get forty-five minutes, so I have to make it count. I rush out the door, jump in my eight-year-old Taurus, and head for Tokyo Blue, where every Monday they offer a discount for those who sit at the sushi bar and order off a special menu. If I can get a seat at the bar, I’ll have time to make lunch happen. If not, it’s burger and fries, back at my desk.
The drive is four blocks to Broadway, two to Eighth, where a nearby parking lot provides easy access to the restaurant. Naturally, the lights are timed to make me stop at every intersection, which gives me plenty of time to think about the shameful way I’d spent the morning. I’d been forced by desperation to turn to the one thing I swore I’d never do: write letters to total strangers, invoking their children’s affiliation with my niece, who attends Bluegrass Academy, the city’s most prestigious private school.
I have two hours to change my mind, but the letters are already in the mail bag for the two o’clock run. I felt dirty signing my name to the sixteen dreadful letters, all of which had been personalized with information I extracted from my poor niece, Reece.
I wince thinking about the expression I’ll see on Lissie’s face tomorrow when her sister calls to tell her the disgusting way I’m pimping loans. Would she read one of the letters aloud to my wife? Of course she will:
Hi John and Beth,
My niece, Reece, told her Aunt Lissie and me how “awesome” your daughter, Meagan is. Apparently, our girls are quite the pair! Reece isn’t ours, of course, but we get her on “loan” regularly. And that thought made me wonder if Meagan’s parents are getting the best possible terms on their “loans.”
On the chance you might benefit from the best loan rates in town, I’d like to call you Wednesday to see if we can meet on Thursday, so I can offer you a complimentary portfolio review.
Sincerely,
Charles ‘Buddy’ Pancake.
I know what you’re thinking: could I possibly sink any lower? Stick around. You have no idea.
So sure, I hate myself. How could I not? But I loathe my job and my bosses even more.
How bad is my job? When I think about today’s lone bright spot, this is what I come up with: I only have to hear “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” and “Please Release Me” two more times today.
Unless Hilda makes me stay till six-thirty.
In which case I’ll kill myself.
Chapter 7
Tokyo Blue is filling up fast, but I spot three empty seats at the sushi bar. I claim the middle one, and within seconds a long-haired kid in a corduroy jacket and designer jeans grabs the one to my left. I can’t help but notice the kid’s Prada loafers and wonder how he managed to find employment that allows him to dress like this, and pays him well enough to afford it. I’m about to ask what he does for a living when I hear a voice to my right say, “What’s good here?”
I turn my head to find the seat on my right occupied by an elderly lady wearing a hat that looks so ridiculous, people behind her are pointing and laughing. It’s enormous, and beige, with a dozen huge, mud-brown feathers protruding a foot out the top, arranged in a circle, like some sort of aviary Stonehenge. I can’t tear my eyes away from it, and wonder if maybe someone is filming the customers’ uproarious reactions for a hidden camera TV show.
“What’s good here?” she repeats.
“I’m sure it’s all good,” I say, slightly annoyed. I’m thinking about the whiz kid on my left, wondering if he’s self-employed. Maybe he could use a line of credit to expand his business.
The elderly lady says, “What do you order?”
I frown. I’d hoped to have a quiet lunch, maybe fortify myself with a glass of sake to keep me from going back to work and cutting Hilda’s head off. For a moment I think about stuffing her bloody, severed head in her panty hose like so much sausage, and smuggling it out of the bank. I picture her fat head bobbing up and down in the Ohio River current like a volleyball.
“I usually get the Derby Roll,” I say. “It’s got tempura shrimp in it. I don’t usually go for the raw stuff.”
She’s watching the sushi chef pack a roll.
“Does he touch everyone’s food with his hands like that?” she says, her voice much louder than necessary.
The sushi chef glares at her across the top of the glass bar, and I can only hope he doesn’t think we’re together. I look at his face and feel like hiding under my chair. She can’t possibly comprehend the magnitude of the insult she’s given him—suggesting he’s unclean. I try to diffuse the tension before the old bat insults him again.
“What type of sushi do you normally like?” I ask.
“Never tried it. Nor will I, after watching Tokyo Joe put his hands all over the food like he’s searching for a tumor.”
“For the love of God!” says a young lady on the far side of the bar. She gives her ahi tuna a look of horror and lets it fall to her plate.
“Well, if you don’t eat sushi…” I say to the old bat.
“I’m here for my granddaughter.”
I don’t understand. If she’s here for her granddaughter, why is she sitting at the raw bar with me?
“Did she stand you up?”
Her face registers surprise. “Of course not! She’s running late.”
I nod. My interest lies only in the kid on my left, and who, if anyone, is handling his finances. But I can’t seem to shut the lady up. I’ve become a conversation hostage.
“That’s what they say nowadays,” she says. “’Running late.’” She picks up a plastic menu in her gloved hands and frowns. “What does ‘running late’ even mean? She’s not running, she’s just late.”
The young man on my left finally looks up. A wave of recognition passes over his face.
“Mrs. Blankenship?”
She tilts her head up so she can peer at him through her bifocals.
“Do I know you, young man?”
He stands.
“Not personally, ma’am, but I help manage your AMCT.”
“My what?”
“Ali Maddox Charitable Trust.”
“That’s Allison,” she says, emphatically. “Not Ali.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. We often abbreviate, and shouldn’t. My mistake.”
Extending his hand to her he says, “I’m Rob Ketchel.”
She nods. “I don’t shake hands. Nothing personal, but you look like a scruffy vagabond to me. I suppose it’s the style nowadays.” To me she says, “I like the cut of your jib, though.”
She turns her attention back to the menu.
Rob is uncomfortable standing there with his hand outstretched. He holds the pose a moment, then reclaims his seat.
“My granddaughter intends to hit me up for a loan,” Mrs. Blankenship says. “You’d think she’d have the courtesy of meeting me at a decent restaurant and showing up on time.”
My outlook brightens. “A loan, you say?”
Chapter 8
Even without the hat, Mrs. Blankenship is overdressed for Tokyo Blue. She’s wearing a tan linen skirt, white silk blouse, and a linen jacket that’s too young and hip for her. The jewelry adorning her hands and wrists is the old fashioned, inherited kind.
It’s finally coming together for me: Mrs. Blankenship. The Allison Maddox Charitable Trust. Sitting next to me, liking the cut of my jib, is none other than Whitney Blankenship, one of the wealthiest women in America.
I signal the waitress and clear my throat.
“I’ll have a Derby Roll, and my lady friend will have a miso soup and salad.”
Before Mrs. Blankenship can protest, I say, “My treat.” Then I whisper, “They don’t touch the soup or salad with their fingers.”
She assesses me a moment, and says, “Well, why not? Serves my granddaughter right. I’ll just start eating without her.”
“An excellent lesson in punctuality,” I say. Then add, “What type of loan is your granddaughter seeking?”
Mrs. Blankenship raises her eyebrows at my impudence.
“I’m only asking because I might be able to help. I’m a loan officer.”
“For whom?”
“Midwest Commercial.”
“Truly?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“I wouldn’t know. You might.”
“True. But why would I?”
She ponders this a moment, then says, “How’s Jake?”
She’s referring to Jackson “Jake” Robards, our President and CEO. Whitney Blankenship’s eyes are dancing with humor. She’s toying with me. Before I can respond she says, “When I wish to secure a loan from your bank I call Jake personally. Why on earth would I waste my time dealing with you?”
I hear Rob Ketchel’s soft chuckle to my left. He’s enjoying what he assumes will be the evisceration of my ego. But I’ve got an idea, an argument so brilliant and powerful, it seems divinely inspired.
“Mrs. Blankenship,” I say. “Have you loaned money to your granddaughter in the past?”
“I don’t see what business that is of yours.”
“Bear with me, please. I’m trying to help. What’s your granddaughter’s name?”
“Chelsea.”
“I’m going to assume that Chelsea is like a lot of grandchildren I’ve worked with, and if so, she’s probably had a number of business ideas that haven’t always been sound. I’m also going to assume that you’re a loving grandparent who has loaned her money despite that fact. Or, at the very least, you co-signed her notes.”
“Well of course I have. I love my granddaughter.”
“But when we lend money for poor decisions, we’re not teaching our youngsters sound financial practices, are we?”
“Are you suggesting I refuse to lend her the money?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me?”
“In a way.”
She fixes a haughty gaze on me. “What’s your intention here?”
“To protect your money, and help your granddaughter, Chelsea, become financially responsible.”
“And?”
“And to convince you I’m the perfect person for this situation.”
“You, and not Jake Robards.”
“That’s correct.”
“And why is that?”
I smile. For once in my life I’m about to turn my biggest weakness as a loan officer into my biggest strength.
“My loans are required to go through committee for approval.”
“Well, I don’t see how that helps.”
“If you send Chelsea to me, I can help her formulate a business plan that will have to be approved by our loan committee. If they don’t like her idea, you’ll have the perfect excuse to keep her out of your pocketbook.”
She nods her head slowly. “And if they approve the loan?”
“They might lend Chelsea the money directly, and keep you out of it completely. Worst case scenario, you might have to guarantee the loan. But if they approve her loan, it’s almost certain to be a good risk.”
She thinks about it a moment, then smiles.
“What’s your name, young man?”
“Buddy Pancake,” I say, smiling broadly.
“You’re joking,” she says.
“Not in the slightest.”
She laughs heartily. Then says, “How much is Mrs. Butterworth?”
I laugh lustily, as though I’d never heard such a witty remark in all my life. “What,” I say, “maybe five dollars?”
She howls with laughter.
Chapter 9
I march into the office like a bullfighter with mustard on his sword.
“Howdy, Gus!” I holler.
I’ve startled him awake. He jerks to attention, grabs the butt of his gun before realizing I’m an employee on my way back from lunch.
I smile at the tellers. “Good afternoon, ladies!”
I walk over to the mailbag, turn it upside down on the mail desk and remove my sixteen shameful letters from the pile. Then I put the remaining letters back in the mail bag and look around the room. All eyes are studying me, just as they were on Friday when Oglethorpe threatened to can me. Only this time there’s a nebbish curiosity in the air. I see Hilda pointing at her wrist watch, and I break into a loud song, effectively drowning out the Muzak. I’m performing both parts of Richard Wagner’s Tannhauser, the Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd version:
“Oh, Bwoonhiwda you’re so wuuuvwy!”
“Yes I know it, I can’t heeelllp it!”
“Oh, Bwoonhiwda be my wuv!”
“For I wuuuuvvvvv youuuuuuu!”
I bow and hold my hands high in the air, expecting great applause.
The silence is deafening.
All faces turn to Hilda, whose mouth is hanging open like the door of a cargo plane. Suddenly she spins around, grabs her pen, and begins writing furiously in her notebook.
“Write all you want, you dreary shrew,” I say, aware there are no customers on the floor. “But when you’ve completed your thought, write this down in your stupid journal and shove it up your big fat ass: I just landed the biggest account this bank has ever had!”
All afternoon I refuse to answer questions, saying only, “At nine o’clock tomorrow morning, you’ll see. I’m going to own this bank!”
That evening, as I pull into my driveway, I see Lissie standing outside the front door holding an envelope in her hand. I stop and get out, wondering if it’s a late payment notice. She runs to me and throws her arms around my neck.
“Lissie, what on earth?”
“I can’t believe you did this for me!” she says.
“What?”
“Nothing says apology like front row seats to the Springsteen concert! How in the world did you manage this?”
My mind is going a hundred miles an hour. “Where did you get those?”
“The same way you sent them, my darling. Zip express! God, I could just eat you up!”
And a few minutes later, she did.
Chapter 10
“You’d better get going, rock star,” Lissie says. “You’re going to be late.”
“No worries. I’m bulletproof.”
It’s Tuesday morning and I can’t believe how fast my luck has changed. In an hour I’ll be sitting with Chelsea Blankenship and her business associate, Emma Glendenning, who are applying for a million dollar line of credit for their new business. I don’t know any of the details yet, but by the time I complete the loan app it will be a sure thing. Although Oglethorpe is demanding three million in new loans, Whitney Blankenship has promised to run all future Chelsea loans through me, which means my position at Midwest Meadow Muffin is cemented.
As if that’s not enough, Lissie got her concert tickets last night, and I’ve become a hero in her eyes. I called it right, thinking some rich guy checking the Wish List website must have seen my request for tickets and made it come true.