Ian Slater: Warshot

“No.”

“Because,” said La Roche, his lips in a thin smile, “he had to bail out over Ratmanov.”

Francine was racing to keep up. All Ratmanov meant to her was that it was some hunk of rock off Alaska the Americans and Siberians had been fighting over before the cease-fire. A lot of men were killed.

“Yeah,” said La Roche, “some Siberian nearly took Romeo’s eye out.” La Roche was still smiling, swirling the ice cubes in the glass.

“ ‘Course, he’ll want to get back to flying soon as he can. Right?”

“Sure,” agreed Francine. “I mean — it’s only natural isn’t it?”

“Yeah — well, I want him out of there — away from her.” He took a gulp of the Manhattan. “That natural?”

“Yeah — sure, Mr. La Roche—”

“You know all it’ll take to get him out of there?”

Francine shook her head. He handed her a thousand-dollar bill rolled tightly into a tube. Holding her hair back with one hand, she leaned forward.

“One phone call, sweetie. One fucking phone call. That’s all.” He held his hand out for the snuff box after she’d finished, and she watched his fingers covering it like an octopus. He laughed. “And a little campaign contribution.”

She smiled, figuring it was the right thing to do. It was, but then, suddenly, his mood changed. He sat down in the plush leather swivel chair and turned away from her. For a moment Francine thought he was staring at the drapes, but then noticed he was holding a Christmas-card-sized photograph he must have taken from his robe pocket.

“She wants me back,” he said. “I know it. Deep down I know it.” He swung around to face Francine again. “But I was bad to her, Francine. You know what I mean?”

“I–I think so, Mr. La Roche.” He was looking away from her again, back at the photo of his wife. “I have to pay for it, Francine.” He was speaking softly, his head back hard against the rest, but Francine didn’t hear him and didn’t care — already feeling the rush. He got up, walked over toward her, and, taking her hand, led her into the kitchenette, opened a drawer and took out a small, glistening paring knife.

She froze.

“Don’t worry,” he said contemptuously. “I’m not going to hurt you. Come here.” She hesitated. “Come here, you bitch.”

Her heart thumping, she glanced at the door.

“Go — if you want,” he said. “Think I’m going to cut you?”

“No…” she began uncertainly. He put down the knife, walked toward her, took her arms, pulled her hard up against him, staring at her, then released his grip. Her relief was audible as she stumbled back, rubbing her wrist. He held out his hand to her, and this time she came to him willingly, albeit hesitantly.

“Now watch,” he said. “I told you I’m not going to hurt you.” Deftly, quickly, he took the knife and, pulling the bodice of her dress toward him, sliced it open, then, hooking his left forefinger in the middle of her bra, cut the strap and dropped the knife into the sink, gazing at her breasts. Then, wordlessly, he led her into the bedroom and shut the door. He turned on a small bedside lamp, sat on the bedspread of pale blue silk and told her to take off his robe. He was getting big, she saw, but not fully aroused. He flung back the bed sheets and, from under the pillow, pulled out a strap — its buckle missing. He doubled it up and gave it to her. “Until I tell you to stop, Francine. You understand?”

“Are you sure you—” she began.

He screamed at her, “Until I tell you to stop! Understand?”

Before she could answer, he lay facedown, spread-eagled on the bed, his body much thinner than she had imagined— the robe probably had padded shoulders.

Only then in the dim peach glow of the lamp did she notice another photo of his wife Lana. He’d placed it so that he could see it as Francine began giving him the strap. He told her to do it harder and harder, and soon he was calling out his wife’s name and Francine thought that that’s all there’d be to it.

If Jay La Roche was thinking of his wife, she wasn’t thinking of him. Still busy looking after the wounded that had come in prior to the cease-fire — the worst cases from ferocious tank battles along the Never-Skovorodino road north of the hump formed by the Amur River — Lieutenant Lana La Roche — nee Brentwood — was far too occupied to think of anyone but her patients. And even if she’d had the time, she would have tried to avoid thinking of Jay — his kinky sex so vulgarly aggressive, to the minutest detail, that even the memory of their short and, for her, terrible marriage made her stomach churn. In her work she’d found a way of at least temporarily escaping the awful humiliations he had subjected her to in the bedroom while appearing to the outside world as a meticulously groomed and successful businessman, owner as well as chief executive officer of one of the world’s largest industrial conglomerates.

Work also helped Lana forget his petty vindictiveness— his refusal to grant her a divorce on any grounds, unless she wanted to see her family — in particular, her father, a retired U.S. admiral, and her three brothers — smeared in his tabloids. At first she thought he was bluffing. Besides, with her youngest brother, David, who had served with distinction in the Allied Special Air Service/Delta Force commando raid against the submarine pens on Lake Baikal; her brother Ray’s equally distinguished service as captain of a fast guided-missile frigate; and her eldest brother, Robert, serving as the captain of a Sea Wolf II Hunter/Killer; she quite frankly didn’t see how La Roche could do anything against her family.

“You want to bet, baby?” Jay had sneered at her through coke-bright eyes. “I don’t need your whole fucking family. Daddy’ll do fine.”

“What do you mean?” she’d asked him, flabbergasted.

La Roche had poured himself a half glass of scotch, downed it, then used a napkin to pat his sneering lips dry, staring into the distance, affecting the pose of someone in deep thought. “How about this for a headline? ‘Admiral Brentwood Denies He Is Homosexual.’ “

“But — But—” she’d said, flustered, angry, yet feeling utterly helpless before him. “He’s not! Even if he was, so what—”

“You naive little bitch,” retorted La Roche. “Don’t you know anything? You sure as hell don’t know how to fuck. Doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not. Hollywood wouldn’t care — or would say they didn’t care. Liz Taylor would probably donate another of her pearl chokers to the Fight AIDS Committee. But believe me, babe, in the rest of the country — in the navy, for Chrissakes—’Admiral Denies He’s Gay.’ Put that in a headline,” he shrugged, “and not even Clarence Darrow could sue me. We — and by we, sweetheart, I mean every goddamn paper I own, a hundred and twenty-three to be exact — would only be reporting the admiral’s denial.” His smile was pure evil. “Freedom of the press, right?” It was the first time she’d ever hit him, or at least tried to. The blow he delivered in return sent her reeling across the plush-carpeted bedroom of their Shanghai penthouse.

“That makes two black eyes you’ve got. You’d better quit while you still have your teeth.”

That night, looking down on the Bund, watching Shanghai’s waterfront lights smeared by the drizzling rain that was falling over the Huangpu and farther north at the mouth of the Yangtze, Lana felt as lonely and as homesick as she thought anyone could be. All she had wanted to do then was to go down and get aboard a ship, a junk, anything that would float and take her away from Shanghai and Jay. But realizing now die threat against her family was real, she had no option but to stay. The war and her volunteering as a Wave had allowed her the only possible escape. But even her volunteering made La Roche look even better — the successful businessman and patriot, unselfishly allowing his wife to go and help the “boys and gals,” as he was fond of putting it, at the front. Now and then he even sent La Roche-sponsored concerts to entertain the troops. But Lana knew that if she ever sued for divorce, his tabloids would unleash a muckraking, albeit invented, offensive that would totally bewilder as well as destroy her parents — if not her brothers’ careers.