David Levien: Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

“What about one of those bartenders? You can fight through the competition.”

“Maybe. Not sure assless chaps and dancing on the bar are good credentials for my next girl,” Chad said, scanning the sexy pair pouring drinks for a few rows of guys.

“Don’t try and act like a grown-up for my benefit-it doesn’t wash. You’d love a girl in assless chaps.”

“Speaking of grown-ups, wasn’t Grandpa Behr supposed to be meeting you?”

“He is.”

A pause ensued, during which Chad seemed to wrestle with himself over something he had to say.

“Suzy …” he began.

“Yeah?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“It’s just … what are you getting out of this?” Chad didn’t wrestle very hard or for very long. “I just don’t see it … I mean, how many divorces does this guy have rattling along behind him?”

“One, for god’s sake, Chad,” Susan said.

“And that other stuff. All that other stuff . This guy’s got baggage . He’s got a frigging luggage carousel spinning around his waist. And now with the kid on the way … I just don’t see it.”

“I do. And luckily you don’t need to.”

“All right, all right.” Chad retreated. “You want another drink?”

“No, I’ve had my one beer,” she said.

“You’re some kind of saint, Suzy.”

Behr made his way through the faux-log-cabin-themed bar toward the tables in the back. The crowd he waded through had made good use of their happy hour and were well on their way to being juiced. It was still early, but the music was loud. The place was a long way from the lodge it was trying to resemble. As he cleared a column, he saw her sitting there, pregnant, looking like she was ready to leave. And her little buddy Chad was there next to her, like a dog waiting underneath the table for a scrap to fall. He walked over to them, ran his hand over her blond hair.

“Hey, Suze,” he said. “Some place you picked.”

“Guys from the office picked it,” she said, smiling up at him.

“I feel ten years too old to be here.” Behr shook his head.

“Fifteen,” Chad said, “and overdressed too. How you doing, Franklin?”

“Chadwick,” Behr said. “Still trying to develop that personality, I see.”

“And that’s coming from the master. Well …” Chad said, pushing away from the table, “duty calls.” He gave Susan a half hug, stood, and made for the bar, where a gaggle of young professional females were sizing up a row of shot glasses along a six-foot-long wooden beaver tail.

“Be careful out there, player,” Susan called after him, then turned to Behr.

He didn’t know if her little party was done or if some of her coworkers were at the bar. He meant to offer her the chance to stay, but “You ready to go?” is what he said.

The units at Broad Ripple Arbor were clean and neat and spacious, with brand-new stainless steel appliances, cream-colored walls, and spongy gray carpet. There was a pool, a common room with a big-screen television, a fitness center, and an outdoor barbecue. The residents were mostly young professional couples, and more and more of them were having babies, which was giving the complex a family feel. It was near the Monon Trail, which was good for jogging, rollerblading, strollering.

Behr’s feelings were mixed. He didn’t feel at home in the well-scrubbed, almost cookie-cutter complex. We should have a house , he thought, as he followed Susan, a car length back, but the town house was a big step up from their current situation. There was no denying that. A three bedroom had just come available at the Arbor. It needed to be painted and cleaned and they could take it in about five days. All they needed to do was give a check for first, last, and security-forty-five hundred dollars-and pass the credit check.

Behr parked and made his way up the steps of their place. He knew Susan liked the town house. If they moved quickly, they could be in and settled before the baby came. He reached the door, where Susan waited. There was a wooden crate with his name on it blocking their way. Behr bent and saw a Laurel Ridge return address. Laurel Ridge was one of the highest-end neighborhoods in Carmel, which was about the highest-end suburb of the city. Behr bent, lifted the box, and carried it inside.

Once in the kitchen, he used a flathead screwdriver to pry the lid off.

“What’s that?” Susan asked.

“Don’t know,” Behr said. He pushed back packing straw to find smooth green wine bottles lined up, torpedo-like, in rows. The labels read: Harlan Estate, the Maiden, Napa Valley Oakville Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Who sent it?”

“Not sure.”

“So you want to take the town house?”

“Maybe.”

“I know it’s kind of expensive for a rental.” It was true, fifteen hundred a month was a much bigger monthly nut than Behr was used to, but that’s the way things were headed.

“Yeah, it’s not that-”

“And it’s not as private as we were hoping for …”

“Right.”

“We could-”

“Just let me breathe on it for a minute.” He said it quiet and calm, but the words themselves were strong and certainly didn’t invite further conversation on the topic.

Down between some of the bottles Behr found an envelope and opened it. Inside was a card with the letters “BK” embossed at the top that bore the handwritten message: With my deep thanks, Bernie .

“It’s from Kolodnik.”

“That’s nice,” Susan said, knowing enough not to dwell on the apartment question for the moment.

“Yeah,” Behr said, pulled a bottle out of the case and took it to the computer. He sat down and punched the wine’s name into Google and quickly learned that it scored in the high 90s in all the major ratings.

“Retails for two-fifty a bottle, case price twenty-two hundred,” he said.

“That’s an expensive gift, Frank,” Susan said.

“Technically I should declare it to the company,” he said, turning the bottle in his hands.

“What are you going to do, O ye of fancy friends?” she wondered.

“I’m gonna drink it,” he said, rummaging in the drawer for a corkscrew.

“Aren’t you supposed to wait a few weeks after shipping for it to settle?”

Behr just looked at her and pulled the cork.

A bright orange wind sock, luffing in the breeze .

It was the first conscious memory Shugie Saunders had. He was five years old, standing out on the tarmac at Hendricks County Airport, waiting to fly to Cincinnati with his parents. He had seen the sock filling and turning and instinctively understood why the airplanes were taxiing around, taking off, and landing according to which way the wind blew. It made sense to him, young as he was.

It was something he had taken with him all the way through his school years and into politics. Some called him a campaign manager, others an adviser, still others a fixer, but thirteen state senators, a dozen mayors, and the last three governors would all agree that when it came to the Indy political scene, Shugie Saunders was a necessity. But that day of clarity on the runway was forty-three years ago. Things weren’t so clearly indicated now. The wind sock was either hanging limp or blowing around in all different directions these days.

How the hell did I end up here? he wondered.

He glanced at the envelope on the edge of the desk, holding three thousand dollars he couldn’t really afford. Melting ice clinked in his glass and he took a sip of the sour-tasting small batch bourbon that was supposed to be so smooth and looked out over the city. Twinkling lights and the occasional monorail-like movement of a car along St. Clair were the only indications of life out there.