Four: It All Comes Together
It was not my strength that wanted nursing, it was my imagination that wanted soothing. – Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
37. Liberation Day
Frank Armstrong sat in the big leather chair of his home office, grinning from ear to ear. His groggy headache from last night’s horrific sleep had vanished. Clutched in his hand was the cell phone which had brought him the most blessed news of his entire life. He brought it to his lips and kissed it reverently.
The security camera monitor on the wall beeped, indicating that someone was requesting entry to the front gate. Frank looked up to see the Bert’s Landscaping and Tree Removal truck on the screen.
That guy’s here early, Frank thought.
Well, so what? On a morning like this, even a lowly landscaper truck was a beautiful sight. Frank buzzed open the gate and watched the truck enter the property.
It was towing something – a wood chipper by the looks of it. Nagy must be planning to take down that dead tree. Get ready for another day of racket, but ... what of it! Frank turned his attention back to his glorious cell phone.
“I’m gonna have you gold plated,” he said.
The first thing he’d heard over it today, after he’d dragged himself out of bed and stumbled into his office, was a curt voice message from John Hogan:
“I was right Frank, it’s all a scam. Call me.”
He sure as hell did! And every word that dropped from Hogan’s lips was pure honey. He’d spoken to Keith Frost and learned about his part in the fraud. The damn guy didn’t think much of it – all just a joke, according to him.
Somebody, he didn’t know who, had paid him a lot of money to approach Laila at the mall and engage her in some small talk, then take her to lunch. Why not? He needed the cash. In fact, he’d just got back from Las Vegas where he’d done pretty well with his windfall.
Of course, Frost could have been lying, just caging in order to pocket a bribe, but he’d dropped a few details about the people who had hired him. This led Blackjack’s investigators to the disreputable Ace in the Hole detective agency where they got the rest of the details about the frame-up.
The whole ‘tryst’ had taken scarcely an hour, and Laila had stated bluntly (as verified by the long-distance mike in the surveillance van) that she never wanted to see Keith again.
“Now for some bad news,” Hogan intoned next. “I’m afraid it was your daughter, Patricia, who set the whole thing up.”
Bad news? Frank had been so overjoyed that he’d scarcely heard it. But now, after the initial rush of joy and relief had abated somewhat, black rage began surging in his heart.
Damn her to hell!
How could Patricia have put him through this misery, after everything he’d done for her? She’d be living in some rent-controlled dump if it wasn’t for his generosity. The exclusive residential high school, the elite university, the big allowances, vacations, cars, on and on ...
She was an ungrateful child – a viper to his breast!
He forced himself to calm down. Black rages were for the old Frank Armstrong, not for the new and better man he so fervently wished to become. As his anger abated, he started to see the situation more clearly, and he almost pitied his daughter for her toxic resentments.
He confined himself to writing Patricia an email. Then he wrote another one to Henry. Finally he sent a message to Phyllis, directing her to take certain actions regarding the company’s legal representation.
He was so intent on typing, that he did not hear Laila walk past his closed door on the way toward her room. When he finished sending the emails, he shut off his computer and kicked back luxuriously in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“I could do with a cigar!”
$$$
Out in the vast reaches of the Armstrong yard, Bert Nagy drove his truck over the grass toward the dead tree; the wood chipper banged along behind. He turned sharply so as to run the trailer wheels over the flower garden. Expensive blooms churned under the treads.
“Take that, you little bastards!” he snarled.
Bert felt energized, in control. All the planning and scheming had come to an end at last. Today was the real deal – Liberation Day. He’d be free of Armstrong, free of Sally, everybody! The tyrants dominating his life were going under, just like those loathsome flowers.
Bert parked by the dead tree and got out of the truck, closing the door behind him with authority. He began to unload chain saws and other equipment. He looked off toward the house at Mrs. Armstrong’s window, wiped his brow, drank from a bottle of water. Jittery nerves tried to clutch at him again, put he shoved them brutally aside.
“Well, let’s get down to it.”