30. The Bombshell
It was great to be back at work, the big honcho again! Frank Armstrong sat behind his desk with a mug of Gallon Jug Estate coffee, specially imported from Belize. This was his favorite brew; the hospital sure as hell had nothing like it.
He experienced the first real contentment he’d known in days. A sense of power and security was finally returning to his mauled ego.
Frank took another sip of coffee and thumbed to the next page of the business reorganization proposal Henry had sent him. He had to admit to being impressed. In general, his estimation of Henry was not the loftiest, but this piece of work showed that his son just might be evolving into somebody worthwhile. He’d already quit the Democrat Socialist party, hadn’t he.
Could it be that Henry was getting over his childish dalliances, too? The rumors about his son’s sexual indiscretions had become so blatant that Frank asked an investigator to look into them – the rumors were all true, unfortunately. And when he found out exactly whom Henry was dallying with, the knowledge had curdled his spirit.
But maybe this well thought out proposal marked a turning point in Henry’s life, and in their relationship, too. Maybe it was time for father and son to pull together after so many years of frosty relations. The plan was ruthless, aggressive, bold. And, as far as Frank could tell, it pushed the envelope of legality hard. These were all attributes that he admired. The plan made a lot of economic sense, too, and it certainly put his young wife in her place if she ever tried to assert control of his business interests.
His wife ...
Frank settled back in his chair and thought about Laila. He wasn’t used to doing this. He’d regarded her as a given, somebody who would always be there for him. He was a highly successful alpha male, and such men always attracted the most beautiful women. It was as simple as that.
Hadn’t Helen been a beautiful woman before she turned into a lush? He’d wanted to get rid of her for some time, but his traditional moral code would not allow it – until he found out about the gigolos. How odd that he discovered Helen’s infidelity and Laila’s beauty all at the same time.
He thought about the shallowness of his relationship with Laila, his attitude that she was more of a possession than a person, a lovely bauble to grace his bed and attend his arm at social events. Yet he had deeper feelings for her, too. He needed to express them before it was too late.
He’d never thought of his life as being in the ‘before it’s too late’ phase, and it ran a chill up his spine. Recent events had shaken him more than he wanted to admit.
No, Frank, you ain’t going to live forever.
Had he been treating his sensitive young wife as nothing more than a means to an end? Was business success really more important than her feelings were? Had he made a mistake about kids?
Sure the vasectomy had short-circuited the delivery system, but there was reversal surgery and artificial insemination procedures. Maybe he should look into that. What would be wrong with another child? It’s not like he couldn’t afford it.
He’d never thought in such terms before, but he’d never sensed the old Grim Reaper’s presence so keenly before, either – like that nightmare vision which confronted him in the mirror at the hospital.
He seized the coffee cup and drained it. Enough of the sentimental journey! He had business to handle. He leaned forward decisively and jabbed the com button for his secretary, Phyllis.
“Yes, sir?” she replied.
“Get a hold of John Hogan, will you?” Frank said. “See if he can come by today and look at some papers I’ve got.”
“Right away, sir.”
Frank sat back in his chair again, very much the man in charge, his moment of weakness over. He pushed the coffee cup aside and placed his fingers together in a steeple formation. His face was hard and inscrutable, the visage he displayed to the hostile world.
But his facade soon began to fade, and doubts assailed him again.
Frank regretted losing his temper at the house that morning. He shouldn’t have let that landscaper get to him, but the damn guy had almost run him over! Wouldn’t anybody be furious about that?
To tell the truth, if Frank been paying attention to where he was going in the yard, none of it would have happened. This was quite an admission for him; he simply wasn’t used to accepting blame for anything.
He didn’t feel right about snapping at the driver, either. The poor guy was just doing his job, and he did get there within ten minutes.
Well ... Frank could only change so much in one day. He needed time to pull back from old habits – become a more relaxed, calm person. Maybe he could try one of those anger management programs. He thought gloomily of the coming appointment with Dr. Keating. What had the tests revealed?
Why couldn’t he get one of those ‘germ-zapping robots’ to eradicate his past mistakes? Why was he always such a bully? He was no coward, he’d proved that many times. Over the years he’d had to stare down some very formidable opponents.
But why this compulsion to push around people who were in an inferior position? Well, the men, anyway. He’d always prided himself for his courtly manner with the women in his employ. Why did he feel so threatened by men who had abilities that he lacked – a roofer, for God’s sake, or a car mechanic!
He suspected that something was fishy about his accident on the ladder, but it didn’t seem very important somehow. Maybe it had been for the best. As he hovered in mid-air, he’d experienced something like a ‘near death’ experience. It had been an illuminating moment.
Phyllis knocked for admittance.
“Yeah, come on in,” Frank said.
She entered, carrying a white cardboard mailer.
“Mr. Hogan says he can stop by in an hour or so,” she reported.
“Good.”
Frank studied her from over the top of his papers. She was a still attractive middle-aged woman – highly competent and loyal. He valued her abilities and made sure that her compensation topped the scale for executive secretaries. She’d been with him for years, but he really knew almost nothing else about her. Why was that, he wondered?
She presented him with the mailer.
“This just came, by special courier,” she said.
Frank took it from her, rather nonplussed.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Armstrong?” Phyllis asked in her cool, professional manner.
He felt like replying, “Please just call me Frank,” but thought better of it. That would have been an awkward moment for both of them.
“Uh, not right now, thanks,” he said.
Phyllis left the office to resume her gate-keeper post outside. Frank hefted the cardboard envelope; it had an evil weight, somehow.
What the hell is this?
It was from a Michael Hamilton, whoever that was, and it had an unfamiliar return address. He ripped it open. A note dropped out:
Dear Mr. Armstrong,
I’m certain you would not want these photos published on the internet, and it is within your power to prevent that. Another courier will call on you tomorrow with payment instructions.
Needless to say, the address and name on this envelope are fictitious.
Have a nice day.
“Mike”
With trembling fingers, Frank withdrew a half dozen photographs. Pictures of his wife with a well-dressed young man. Even without the beard, Frank recognized him as Keith Frost, Laila’s ex-husband.
Volcanic rage seized his heart, then an overwhelming despair. He buried his face in his hands.
“Ohhh, Christ!”
Thank heaven no one was present to see him weeping.