Tim Sandlin - Social Blunders

Okay, I lied. Crucify me. There was no CEO from Nebraska to wine and dine, and if there had been, I sure as heck wouldn’t be the winer and diner. Schmoozing was Ambrosia’s turf.

All I can figure is maybe I was falling in love, because my strictest ethical rule is never, ever lie to a woman. Let them lie to you. Maurey wrote a letter back in college in which she explained honesty, love, and sex. She wrote: “Sam, I’ve discovered how to seduce anyone I want. If you don’t love them, act like you do, and if you do love them, act like you don’t.”

So, by lying to Gilia, what I actually did was prove my love for her. I only hoped she saw it that way when I got caught.

The direct cause for my lie was Katrina Prescott’s birthday. Within minutes after Skip threatened me by phone Saturday, he and Sonny left for the Sport Shoe Trade Show in Atlanta. Every year they spent the first week of November in Atlanta, staying abreast of new developments in footwear—and drink and fornication, according to Katrina—and every year Katrina threw a hissy fit because Halloween was her birthday.

And Friday, in a moment of post-orgasmic pity, I’d promised Katrina she didn’t have to spend another birthday alone. The poor woman wanted a spark of out-front, formal celebration—something more traditional than bondage stunts with a stranger in a Ramada Inn motel room. She wanted to dress nice and eat in a public place with civilized lighting and table service. That’s not asking so much for a birthday.

She applied pressure and I said yes . I haven’t said no to a woman yet. No reason to think I’d start on a birthday wish.

Gaylene stormed across the Magic Cart Company parking lot, demanding to know who this Vernon Scharp was who’d shown up saying I promised him a job.

“He’s a process server.”

“And how does serving processes qualify him to build golf carts?”

“I felt sorry for him,” I said. “Bringing people bad news must be a sad way to make a living.”

Gaylene stared up at me and twitched. She’s fifty or so and about four ten, and the plant workers are scared to death of her. Much of my fear of fiery little women stems from Gaylene.

“You plan on hiring every sad case you feel sorry for?” she asked. “Because if you are, I’m going to work for R. J. Reynolds.”

I’d hoped to mention Babs and Lynette, but this didn’t seem the time. “I won’t do it again.”

“Write the checks, Sam. Leave running the shop to me.”

Mrs. Gaines told me Billy was in Atlanta at the Sport Shoe Trade Show. I’d never met the woman and didn’t know if Billy had told her my story, so I felt funny about saying, “I’m your husband’s bastard son and your legitimate son tried to kill himself in my garage last night.” There’d been enough life-shattering conversations lately; I couldn’t handle another one.

“What should I tell Billy this is in reference to?” she asked.

“His name came up as a possible judge in the Coke versus Pepsi competition.”

“Billy only drinks root beer. Caffeine makes him irritable.”

“I’ll make a note of that.”

Moses Cone Hospital was only too happy to accept my credit card. I talked to a woman in patient billing and I’m not sure but I thought I heard a smirk behind her voice. The whole staff was probably gossiping about the man who fathered two babies in one day.

She asked my relationship to the patients and I said, “Benefactor.”

Next I called the Dyn-o-Mite Novelty Company to cancel the As-God-Is-My-Witness bumper sticker. So much for my anti-monogamy pledge. From now on side sex would be fraught with guilt, which is how it should be, I suppose.

Wanda’s voice crackled. “Have you no gratitude?”

“Hi, honey.”

“After all I sacrificed for us as a couple, you have the unmitigated gall to break into my home and steal my property.”

“My property, actually.”

“You did me wrong, Sam, and now you owe me.”

“I notice you saved the autographed copy of The Shortstop Kid . Freud would take that as a sign you still love me.”

“The novels are trash, Sam. Only a whore writes genre fiction.”

“I saw your little video setup.”

Wanda’s controlled breathing oozed over the line. “My Art Erotica is none of your business.”

“Haul me into court and we’ll let the judge decide who’s creating art and who’s a whore.” I couldn’t help but wonder how charging Sam’s and Sammi’s births on my credit card would go over at a divorce hearing. Didn’t take a writer’s imagination to foresee messiness.

“I know you too well, Sam. You don’t have the balls to fight me.”

“Want to bet?”

She hung up.

Shirley poked her head through my office door.

“A man’s roaming the halls, looking for you.”

“I’m not here. Send him to whoever I would send him to if I was here.”

She scowled as if I’d insulted her intelligence. “I already did. He says he has to meet with you, personally. He looks like a politician.”

“Oh, God, it’s Cameron Saunders.”

“Should I tell him to go away?”

“Hell.” My mind raced through the boundless implications. Unlike Skip Prescott, who ran on heat and steam, Cameron wasn’t the type you could dodge until he lost interest. “Send him in.”

Tall, bald Cameron glided in on Cole Haan shoes. I own a pair, but I’m not pretentious so I don’t wear them. Cameron wore a three-piece suit that fit him perfectly and a tie so tasteful I could spit.

He said, “Mr. Callahan.”

I said, “Mr. Saunders.”

He stepped forward and spread a deck of Polaroid prints across my desk. I picked up the one on my far left, carefully, by the borders, so as not to smudge the picture of Katrina and me entering room 247 of the Ramada Inn. They all followed the same vein—Katrina and me coming out of room 247 with her hand on my butt, Katrina in her red-and-white cheerleader outfit, walking into the Manor House, a through-the-window shot of Katrina dancing while I hang naked on the wall with a pom-pom on my crotch. In each photo, she was smiling and I wasn’t.

“You hired another detective,” I said.

Cameron flashed his ice blue smile, smug as a snake on a rat. “Frankly, my man was following Katrina. You came as something of a bonus.”

I stood up and moved to the window. From behind a row of pines, a Piedmont Airlines plane lifted off, headed west, where I should have been.

Cameron spoke to my back. “My ambition is to run for Congress, for a start.”

“I knew you were a politician.”

“And I cannot afford a business partner whose wife causes scandals.”

“What does Skip think of you spying on his wife?”

“Skip doesn’t think.”

“He doesn’t know.” I watched the weather and waited for whatever was coming next. The problem, as I saw it, was I’d let myself fall into the hands of an unethical man who hated me while I loved his daughter. I smiled at my reflection in the window; that was nice, I loved his daughter.

Cameron leaned forward with three fingers forming a tripod on my desk. “Bottom line, buster. You are to leave Greensboro. You are never to speak of the incident in question to anyone. No newspapers. No TV. You better not even tell a priest, because I will find out and I will destroy you.”

One last look at the plane disappearing west, then I turned to face him. “Did you think to ask politely? I never intended going on TV.”

“This matter cannot be left to a bastard’s discretion. Politics is expensive, the party cannot risk you turning wise-ass the week before an election.”