The Flower Man Read online

  Alleged being the key word here.

  I take a quick moment to observe my immediate surroundings. I have to admit, there’s something about the living room that’s off. At first, I can’t put my finger on it until it dawns on me. The room is full of flowers. Orchids to be precise. There must be at least a dozen different vases set up around the room, and all of them are filled with orchids surrounded by little red, poppy-like flowers which, if I must guess, gives the otherwise all-white presentation some color.

  “You like your flowers I see,” I say to Janice.

  “Oh yes,” she says. “I just adore orchids. Especially in the winter when it’s so gray in Albany. I’ve been trying for years to get Terry to move to a warmer climate. He can work for anyone, you know. But he refuses to move.”

  “My tribe is located in New York’s capital city, honey,” he says. “You know that. I can’t just abandon the people who are directly responsible for my success.”

  You can’t abandon your affairs I want to say, but since I’m about to be their house guest for a few nights, I think it prudent to bite my tongue. Instead, I place my computer bag on the couch and turn to them both.

  “Shall we get down to business?” I say. “I’m sure you’re both wondering what it is I plan on doing to protect you from anyone who might want to do you harm.”

  Janice gives Terry a look. The smile that painted her face just seconds ago vanishes.

  “Mr. Jobz is our bodyguard?” she asks.

  Terry clears the frog from his throat. He says, “Detective Miller never mentioned your, how shall I put this delicately, your rather diminutive size.”

  There it is, the icy coldness running down my spine.

  “I’m more dangerous than I look,” I assure him.

  “Oh, and handsome,” Janice interjects like that makes up for Terry’s comment about my size.

  “Thanks, Janice,” I say. “I might not weigh in at more than one hundred fifty pounds wet, and I might be near-sighted, and with my shoes on I’m five-feet-seven, but I was a police officer once and a lot tougher than I appear. And quick.” I’m not sure I believe the tough and quick part, but it feels good to say it.

  “Do you carry a weapon?” Terry asks.

  “As in a gun?” I clarify.

  “Exactly,” Janice says.

  “Only if it’s necessary.”

  “Is it necessary?” Terry begs.

  I take another look around the living room at the framed picture over the fireplace, at all those flowers. The wood fire snaps, crackles, and pops loudly. It takes me by surprise. Like a sudden gunshot. Pulse elevates. I’m inside a lovely house that belongs to a man I’ve trusted my entire life. He’s Mr. TV. Yet, somehow, I feel like something really creepy has either happened here or is about to happen. Something creepy and downright dangerous. Evil even.

  “You know what?” I say. “Maybe it really is five o’clock somewhere else. Think I’ll take that drink after all.”

  Turns out, Janice is quite the mixologist. She’s prepared a pitcher of old-fashioned 76ers. She pours the gin, champagne, and lemonade concoction into tall glasses over ice and tells us to pretend its summertime since a 76er is intended as a refreshing hot season drink. Something a rich person might imbibe in while watching the ponies race around the track at Saratoga or while taking in a polo match at the polo grounds. While the McGoverns seat themselves beside one another on the couch, I take one of the easy chairs across from them.

  McGovern takes a long drink from his glass. I can tell the drink pleases him. So does the alcohol, no doubt. Janice also steals a long drink, draining half of it.

  “You say you were a cop,” McGovern says. “If you were a cop, that means you’re not one anymore?”

  He shakes his head dramatically like he’s confused.

  “Actually, I work for the New York State Department of Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency.”

  I see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his neck.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. McGovern,” I say. “I’m well aware you applied for UI. Sad to say you aren’t going to be approved since technically speaking you are not laid off. You’re just suspended pending an investigation.”

  “Over that cheap Russian whore,” Janice chimes in bitterly. She’s already showing signs of slurring her words. “She flirts with you, throws herself at you, and you’re the one taking the heat. It’s the political climate. The accuser is always right these days.” She looks into my eyes. “There ought to be a law, Mr. Jobz.”

  Not a bad assessment of our politically correct identity politics going-south-fast American culture. Janice is smarter than I initially gave her credit. She refills her glass with more 76er.

  McGovern sips his drink.

  “I didn’t apply because I need the money.” Waving his hand over his head in a gesture that suggests he’s swimming in loot. “Just look around, Mr. Jobz. Do I look like a man who requires unemployment insurance to get by?”

  I think about my houseboat on the river, my depleted bank account, the weekly two-hundred I still have to send to my ex-wife even though we’ve been divorced for nearly five years thanks to a shitty divorce lawyer who claimed he cut me a sweet deal. Sweet, my ass. I think about all the have and have nots in the world. There are people a hell of a lot worse off than me, so who am I to complain? I see their plight every time I gaze at their unemployment insurance files, and their futile attempts at gaming the system in order to sign up for a few more weeks of access to free taxpayer money that doesn’t belong to them. What’s their recourse? Go on welfare or sell drugs.

  But I digress.

  “No, Mr. McGovern,” I say. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

  “And look at how the TV station treats him,” Janice adds. She drinks more of her 76er and stares at the Lilac plant set in a tall white base on the end of the coffee table. The little round, blood red flowers paired with the plant remind me of bullet wounds.

  “So, what’s your plan, Mr. Jobz?” McGovern asks.

  “I’ve been told to keep a watch on the place,” I explain. “That means staying with you folks for a bit. Until things cool down.”

  “I guess that means we’d better start addressing one another on a first name basis,” McGovern suggests. “Isn’t that right, Steve?”

  “That’s right, Terry,” I say. It feels a little uncomfortable for me, if not weird. I’ve been looking at this guy’s face for thirty years and never once called him by his first name. I feel like I know him the way I once knew my own father, but I’ve only just been introduced. Formally introduced anyway.

  “And please, dear,” the wife chimes in. “Call me, Janice.”

  She does something then that could be entirely accidental, the result of too much 76er and whatever she was drinking before my arrival. But she opens her legs up. Opens them up just enough to expose her black undies. Silk black undies, if my still eyeglass-covered eyes don’t deceive me.

  I swallow something dry, my pulse elevates. I try not to stare, but I can’t help looking. Janice might be middle-aged, but she’s still got some serious talent in the looks department.

  “Janice,” I say, raising my glass like I’m saying Cheers. I steal a deep drink and set the now empty glass back down on the table. She quickly pours me more.

  “Easy, Janice,” I say. “I don’t want to get drunk on the job.”

  “Nonsense,” she says, “you look like a man who knows how to handle his liquor.”

  Terry stands, his face is suddenly tight as a tick.

  “Janice,” he says, “I don’t wish to break up our party, but why don’t you show Steve where he’ll be staying.”

  “Good idea, darling,” she says, standing. Then, her eyes on me. “Follow me, Steve. Your nice cozy bed is all made up for you.”

  She leads me not out into the vestibule and up the stairs, but through the back French doors and onto the deck. There hasn’t been much snow this year, so the wood deck is dry. But the air is cold and damp,
and it feels like snow could be in the forecast. We head down to the south end of the deck, descend a set of three steps onto a footpath that takes us past a covered in-ground pool to the opposite edge of the property where a small cottage is located.

  The single-story cottage is paneled in the same clapboard as the house. It’s painted white and contains two double-hung windows with black shutters. In between the windows is a wood door. She opens the door and steps inside. I follow right behind her. The interior is warm and comprised of one room with a kitchenette at the very back and a small bathroom on my right. There’s a bed to my left and a desk. A flat-screen television is mounted to the wall opposite the bed.

  “This will do,” I say, thankful I don’t have to stay in the same house as my hosts. I’ve got this thing about sharing bathrooms with strangers, especially after a few drinks. “Thank you very much.”

  She looks at me like she’s free to size me up now that Terry is out of eye and earshot.

  “We take our evening meal at seven,” she says. “We fully expect you to join us. Otherwise, our kitchen is entirely yours for the perusing. If you like, I can always make you something to eat. I love to cook for men who appreciate it.”

  “I’m sure Terry loves that,” I say.

  “Terry doesn’t eat. He claims the television puts ten pounds on him automatically. He starves himself and exercises incessantly.”

  I smile. “Must keep him young and virile.”

  She takes a step toward me, raises her hand to my face, touches my chin with her index finger.

  “If you’re suggesting my husband is good in bed, Steve Jobz,” she says, “that’s where the physical fitness portion of our program ends.”

  Okay, pause the camera. I haven’t been a part of the McGovern family for more than twenty minutes, and already I’ve got a frustrated semi-alcoholic wife-slash-cougar who’s hitting on me, and a local news anchor who’s been a father figure for me since I was a kid who is clearly a serial philanderer. Now, his philandering has resulted in death threats from someone who doesn’t like the idea of his suing his accuser for fifty million dollars. Not that anyone has that kind of money to hand over in the first place, even if a judge demands it.

  Already something isn’t adding up in the McGovern household. But then, I suppose that’s one of the reasons Miller wants me on the job rather than one of his blue uniforms. My job is not necessarily to report on any suspicious activity occurring outside the house but to gather intel on suspicious activity happening inside the joint. Roll cameras . . .

  I take a step back.

  “Sorry to hear that, Janice,” I say. “You’re certainly an attractive lady.”

  “Do you really think so, Steve?”

  She’s fishing for compliments, so I guess it can’t hurt to take the bait, just for now anyway. After all, I’m the guest.

  “I know so,” I say.

  “The problem,” she goes on, “is not me. It’s the whores my husband picks up. He’s got a problem. An addiction. It’s plagued him . . . plagued us . . . for years and years, and now with this death threat, I feel as though the chickens are coming home to roost, so to speak.”

  “Chickens,” I say. “More like hens.” It’s supposed to be a Steve Jobz witticism, but she doesn’t laugh. Big surprise there. “I recall just a few moments ago you were accusing the harlots of going after your husband and not the other way around.”

  She brushes the comment aside with a casual wave of her hand.

  “Oh, that’s just something I say for my husband’s benefit,” she says.

  She closes the gap between us once more, places her hand on my arm. She’s looking into my eyes, her face coming closer to mine, our lips nearly touching. I need a diversion. Holy crap, this is Mr. TV’s wife we’re talking here. Clearing my throat, I take another step back. Pulling my computer bag off my shoulder, I set it on the bed, unzip it, pull my laptop out and plug it in. My busted smartphone vibrates in my pocket. Saved by the bell so to speak.

  I pull the phone out, press send, place the phone to my ear.

  “Jobz,” I say, in place of a hello.

  The voice on the other end of the line is obviously a cop, judging from his lack of personality. He tells me my car is out front, key in the ignition. Then, without my having the chance to thank him, he tells me to have a “nice fucking day” and hangs up. Even from inside the cottage I can make out the sound of two cop cruisers burning rubber outside the main house.

  “Listen, Janice,” I say, returning the phone to my pocket, “if it’s okay with you, I’m going to head back to my houseboat to grab my toothbrush and a few other things, like clean clothes and underwear. I’ll be back in a jiff.” I dig one of my UI Fraud Agency business cards from out of my pocket. “If there’s an issue, anything at all, call me on my cell phone.”

  Her face painted with concern. “What if, in the meantime, that nasty man who’s making threats shows up at our front door? You’ll never forgive yourself if he harms even a single hair on my body.” She gives me a sly wink. “Not every place on my body has hair if you know what I mean.”

  Oh brother. She’s shrinking the personal space gap again.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine for now,” I say. “My guess is big-Russian-death-threat-man is a lot of talk and no action.”

  Eyes back on the laptop. A little voice inside me tells me to bring it with. I don’t bother with stuffing it back in the bag. I just unplug it, shove it under my arm like an old college textbook.

  “A houseboat,” Janice repeats. “Where do you keep it?”

  “On the Hudson River,” I say. “Not far from old Port of Albany. Sometimes I fish from it. I was a fly fishing guide back in my younger days.”

  “How romantic,” she says. “A man, his boat, and his rod. You’re the independent type.”

  “Yes,” I say. “A man and his rod. What more could a girl want?” Going for the door. “I’ll be right back, Janice.”

  I take hold of the doorknob, twist it open.

  “I’ll have a nice lunch prepared,” she says.

  “That’s not necessary,” I say.

  “Oh, but I want to. Do you like salmon?”

  Not really, unless I’m fly fishing for them. But I don’t want to break her heart more than it’s already been broken by her wayward husband.

  “Sounds great. Salmon. Mmmm, good.”

  John Hemingway, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author’s son, once invented a fly called the Irresistible Cocksucker since it was made from the hackles on a rooster. I used to use them all the time back when I was guiding. Something tells me that if Janice were a trout, and I was floating an Irresistible Cocksucker, she’d be biting the end of my line.

  I step into the cold air. It feels good considering how hot the cottage was getting.

  Like the cop said, the keys were still in the ignition. Whatever cop drove the Mustang to this address moved the seat back all the way, which means I have to move it back up. Damn my short legs. The 1966 convertible Mustang is my most prized possession, aside from two custom made bamboo fly rods that hang from the ceiling of my houseboat. I hate it when anybody else drives my car, and I also hate it when they mess with the seat position. It’s the same personal invasion feeling I might get if I were to catch them rummaging through my underwear drawer.

  I fire up the engine, pull away from the curve. I wait until I take the turn that puts me onto the main north-west road that will lead me down to the port before I dig out my cracked-screen smartphone, speed-dial Miller’s personal cell.

  “Miller,” he says.

  “You sure you need me for this McGovern project?” I ask.

  “Oh, and hello to you too, Jobz, how’s your day going?”

  “Listen, they don’t need a babysitter. They need lawyers. Divorce lawyers. She’s lonelier than a lost puppy in the rain, and all he wants is the closest skirt that doesn’t belong to his wife.”

  “So what? They’re still fielding death threats, and that require
s someone of your talents, Jobz. You see, they don’t want a real police cruiser parked out front.”

  “Invites too much attention,” I say.

  “One would assume.” Then, after a beat. “How come I hear traffic in the background? You driving somewhere?”

  “I’m heading back to my place for my toothbrush,” I say. “You said it was cool.” I’m thinking of his answering me with all those Yups.

  “They have extra toothbrushes,” he says. “You can’t sit still for five minutes?”

  “Hey, when you work inside a four-by-four cubicle every day, you learn to carve yourself little bits of freedom every now and then.”

  “Well, grab your toothbrush and whatever else you need and hightail it back there. These Russian pricks show up at their front door, they’re liable to make good on their threats.”

  “Which is precisely what I wish to speak to you about, Miller. You never explained to me the nature of their threats.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Are we dealing with one man here? Or multiple men? How can you be sure he’s Russian? Do they call, email, or show up unannounced? And what exactly entails a death threat? What specifically does said Russian dude say to McGovern and/or his lonely wife that’s so threatening?”