The Enabler, Page 3

answer. I hate my brother. Maggie calls again. I turn all phones off and head to sleep. Yes, I am aware that it is not even 8pm. I just need to get away for a while.

  The press conference was a mess. Funny how to clear my name they want me to give some of the names of my more famous and well-known clients. I gave each member of the press one of my contracts stating that it was against my oath and illegal for me to release the names. Nothing short of a Supreme Court ruling would get me to release these names.

  I get back to my office and Maggie is still there. I ignore her and head inside. There is a new message from Mrs. Phillips asking me to meet her for lunch nearby. I’ll humor her. She’s distraught. She may be a new client. Stranger things have happened. There are also a few messages from reporters inquiring to the price of my service.

  I call Mrs. Phillips and tell her to meet me at Tony’s. She suggests meeting at her home. I stifle a laugh and tell her no, give her directions to Tony’s, and hang up. Maggie calls again and I answer.

  “Should I get a restraining order?” I ask her. She sobs.

  “I made a mistake, okay?” she says. “We all make mistakes. I know I shouldn’t have left you the way I did. You have to forgive me.”

  “Really?” I ask her. “Why do I have to?”

  “Because you still love me,” she says. I guess today is Stifle Laughter Tuesday.

  “No, I don’t,” I tell her and hang up. I have a client coming in half an hour.

  Far too many murders, disasters, and wars have been caused because of love. Did I at one time think that I loved Maggie? Yes. I firmly believe this. But what I think I was truly in love with was the idea that someone could love someone like me. I'm not like you. God, I would never want to be like you. But the fact that someone could say that they loved me caused various chemical reactions in my brain that had not transpired ever before. I was in love with the idea of being in love. Actual love is messy.

  Mr. Stanford. needs a little motivation. I make a few phone calls until he arrives. He looks like a mess. His hair is disheveled. His clothes are wrinkled. I can smell alcohol on his breath five feet before he shakes my hand.

  “Can you help me?” he asks. He’s slurring.

  “Of course,” I tell him.

  “You haven’t even heard what I need,” he says.

  “I am confident that I can help you,” I say trying to speak through the smells radiating off of him. He chuckles.

  “Something funny?”

  “I saw you on TV yesterday” he says. “I thought, ‘This guy looks like the most arrogant asshole ever.’ But seeing you in person I see it isn’t arrogance. It’s confidence. I want that kinda confidence.”

  “And you deserve it,” I tell him. I can feel his head get bigger.

  “Yeah, I do,” he slurs. “Look. I have a problem with my wife and kids. They’re not my kids really. She had them with some Black guy a few years before we met. I raised them like my own though. Now this nigg--, guy comes back into the picture and wants to take the kids. Says we haven’t raised them right. Ignoring their heritage and all that shit. I don’t want this to go to trial because I know he’ll win. That’s just how my life is. The wife will leave me if those kids are taken away. So what I am asking you is how you can help me?”

  “I can save your marriage, your kids, and make sure this guy never bothers you again,” I tell him. He scoffs. “You are free to leave now if you want.” I begin to stand and show him out but he stops me.

  “Okay, I get it. You’re good.” He wipes his brow. “Damn. You're good. So how does this go?”

  “You pay. I get results.” I slide a contract across the table and have him read it. He doesn’t. He whips out his checkbook and hands it to me. It’s blank. “You forgot to write a price.”

  “If you are as good as the news is making you out to be you write it yourself,” he says to me. I do. He leaves. I head to Tony’s.

  Mrs. Phillips is waiting inside. Punctual. I head to my booth, walking past her. Ira waves and I smile to her. Mrs. Phillips comes over to where I am seated, straightens her skirt, and sits down. She doesn’t look half bad. Ira comes back and hands her a menu.

  “Just coffee” she says. Ira shrugs and walks away. A moment later she is back with the steaming hot cup. Tony’s is one of the last great places that don’t worry about lawsuits from customers burning themselves. She doesn’t touch the coffee. “How do you live with yourself?” she asks me. I don’t respond. With most women you have to realize that they talk in circles. Eventually they’ll get to their point. “You killed my husband.”

  “According to police reports he killed himself” I remind her. “If anything you killed him.” Her eyes widen. I spot Ira over Mrs. Phillips’ shoulder and shake my head. I’m not ready to eat yet. I'm just getting started. “Do you know why he found me? Because he had no money. He was worried about taking care of you and your children. He wanted to get money to make all of his problems go away not realizing that his biggest problem slept next to him every single night. When was the last time you worked, Mrs. Phillips?”

  “That is none of your concern,” she hisses.

  “It became my concern once your husband called me,” I say calmly. She slowly reaches for her purse and pulls out a small handgun. I’m not shocked or surprised. I checked her records. I knew that she had a license to carry. I knew that she was distraught. I knew that she would look at everyone else to blame but herself. She aims it at my chest. I hear Ira drop a plate. That’ll come out of her paycheck. “It’s fine, Ira” I assure her. “If you plan to shoot me can you do it soon?” I ask. “I have a meeting at 4.” She fires a shot that misses my arm by an inch.

  “That’s so you know I’m not joking,” she says. I laugh.

  “It’s like listening to a clown say ‘Don’t laugh at me’,” I say. “I’ll have the usual,” I tell Ira. “Now, Mrs. Phillips, if you wanted me dead, you’d have shot me as soon as I walked in. What you wanted was someone to talk to. Someone to listen. To hear you. I hear you. I know what you sacrificed for your family. You sacrificed your body, time, and career. You were a model once, right?” She just stares at me. “You meet a man, he has everything you dreamed of. You left your boyfriend of 8 years to be with him. Life moves on and you have a kid. Then another one. Then another one. Next thing you know you can't remember the last time a guy looked at you. The last time your husband touched you. It’s not right. It’s not fair. But you have three beautiful children that were closer to your husband than they are with you even though you were the one that gave everything up to take care of them. Your husband was scum. He didn’t deserve a woman like you. Very few men do. But now look at you. You’re too old to work but too young to go to prison for murder for the rest of your life.” She looks down at the gun. “You know what you have to do, right?”

  She looks at me, tears streaming down her cheek. She raises the gun to my face and smiles. Ira is slowly making her way over with my meal. Mrs. Phillips puts the gun to her own head and pulls the trigger. People on the street scream. Ira drops my food. The window shatters as pieces of Mrs. Phillips’ brain and hair lands on the sidewalk. I take her cup of coffee and frown. Bitter. I add some sugar and stir while dialing 911.

  “Hello, there’s been a suicide.”

  Motivation. That’s all we all ever need.

  THREE

  Leonardo Da Vinci once said “Where there is shouting, there is no true knowledge.” I’ve never been much of a shouter. Not when I was young nor as an adult. Shouting and raising your voice is a sign of weakness. Animals do it to frighten other smaller, weaker animals. Women do it to belittle their men. Babies do it to get attention. My father was a shouter. He would shout until he could shout no more. His last words before I talked him into killing himself was a shout.

  My newest client, Ms. Sarah Richards, shouts. Loudly. My new secretary, a temp, Lucy hates Ms. Richards. Lucy wont be here for much longer. I don’t expect my clients to follow my strict set of rules but anyone employ
ed by me will. I can hear Lucy sigh loudly each time Ms. Richards shouts. I don’t know which annoys me more.

  “He says that I haven’t put as much into the relationship as he has!” she screams. “Me?! I’ve given up everything for the sanctimonious son of a bitch only to have him tell me I haven’t done enough! Fuck him! I knew I should’ve stayed a lesbian!”

  That last statement surprises me. I think it surprised Lucy as well as she doesn’t sigh. I have had my fair share of gay and lesbian clients. I have helped usher in many divorces from those who chose to keep their outside activities secret. I got them to break it to their spouses. Only three times did I have my life threatened later. No. Four times. Ms. Richards, as she refuses to be referred to as Mrs., is not a lesbian. How do I know this? It’s not her haircut which is quite masculine. Not her clothing which appears to be Oliver Twist chic. It’s none of that. It’s the fact that she has cheated on her husband three times with men exclusively. So either I’m wrong or I am in my office with the worst lesbian ever.

  “What exactly do you need me to do?” I ask her calmly. She’s giving me a headache and my next client is due in half an hour. I never keep clients waiting.

  “I don’t need you to do anything,” she tells me. “I want you to help me get out of this worthless marriage!”

  “I see” I tell her.