The BOYS

Episode Four

Four hours later, a worried (but still-at-liberty) Walter Fales sat at the head of the dining room table which his wife, Missy, had covered with their best white damask cloth in some weird, drunken delusion that this was an occasion worth celebrating. Their youngest, Scotty, a senior at the public highschool who'd already scored early admission to one of those Ivy colleges back East... not Harvard, one of the less famous ones, but a coup, all the same... fidgeted as his father carved slice after slice after slice of roast beef with grim, obsessive strokes while Missie drained her wineglass, reached for the near-empty bottle of Cabernet to pour another.

"Dad," Scotty finally had to ask, "are we in trouble?"

Walt lay down knife and fork as if shaken out of a bad dream. "'Course not!" he snapped. "It's just more political crap... politicians putting their pressure on bureaucrats to make a name for themselves before Election Day. Bill's stepped on a few sensitive toes on his way up, who hasn't? It'll go away..."

"That's not what the Chinese lady on the news said..."

"It was on the fuckin' news?" Walt brayed at his wife. "Did I miss something?"

Missy swallowed, shrinking back in her chair although she was well out of her husband's reach. "You were in the den," she apologized, "on the phone with Herman."

"Well... there you have it!" Walt rewarded his family with a smile that, he thought, might seem like it shone off a man-of-the-world, a carefree devil, or lucky duck against whom no quantity of rain or government paper could adhere. "Did I tell you he made Silver Circle, again? Two years running, that's a damn good job. Some kids," and he glared at Scotty, "turn out alright... oh, did they mention my name?"

And, because Missy was staring back at him, stuporously, he added... "On the news?"

"No, they just said that the company had been shut down," Scotty volunteered. "And tried to get a statement from Mr. Braxton, but he pushed the cameraman..."

"Bill?" The knife skidded, spattering blood and gravy over the tablecloth, Missy cringed. "Where in the hell did they find that son-of-a bitch?"

"He's on an island," Scotty said, with no little admiration. "One of those hot ones, they don't send people back to be arrested from unless they've done something like, you know, kill or rape somebody... Dad, the newsman on the scene said that he stole everything..."

"Well, he damn well didn't steal this food off our table, did he? Yet?" snarled Walter Fales, brandishing fork and carving knife so ferociously that Missy, taking just the tiniest sip from her wineglass, coughed and sputtered in helpless dread.

When their oldest boy, John... the stupid fuck!... dropped out from La Jolla thirteen credits short of a degree to run tourists around in the backwoods of Alaska back in the Obama Administration, Catherine Everett Fales had moved into his quarters, behind which door Walt could hear her sobbing in his excursions from the master bedroom to the toilet or the fridge. Twice he slowed, in passing, the other night, but continued on his way.

He’d spent most of Thursday... the tenth day of the ninth month of the fourth (or was it fifth) year of the plague-inspired New Reality (as had supplanted the New Millenium) in the cavelike family room with ESPN and a bottle of Dewars, waiting for the phone to ring. It didn't.

So he’d voyaged to the Law Offices of Salvador P. Duquesne – situated in an old bungalow next to the abandoned railroad tracks that cut through the outskirts of Escondido, crawled up Starvation Ridge to the west, then down towards the wealthy coastal communities strung out between San Diego and Los Angeles. To the east, the trains had used to pass through Ramona and the Anza-Borrago Park, into the irrigated grapefruit groves and lettuce fields of the Imperial Valley until, a few decades ago, most of Escondido... and San Cristobal, too... which had been rural until the developers realized that there was more money to be made subdividing the groves and farms, ripping up the irrigation pipes and harvesting a rich, smooth crop of subdivisions with names like Desert View, Meadow Acres, or Walter Fales' own gated community, Alta Mesa. Sal's office wasn't really ancient... it dated back to just before, or maybe a couple of years after, World War II. But, owing to the portion of the planet it occupied, it had been granted the dubious status of an historical landmark, a visible, termite-rife throwback to the days of lemons and cattle and, for all the new denizens of the developments, knew, revenants of rustlers, revolutionaries and silent movie backlot brawlers among whom Tom Mix, Roy Rogers and, maybe, the Duke himself had duked it out with the masked minions of evil.

Sal had moved out of the office six years back, after his fourth marriage and... practice making perfect... keeping the Escondido condo after the divorce. So the files and clutter (that had been confined to a spare bedroom when Walter Fales hooked up with him from time to time during the last decade) had gradually spewed over into the rest of the bungalow, giving the place an air of desperate busyness, balm to the psyche of the desperate, beleaguered souls who found themselves the target of estranged spouses, or a wrathful government now that the economic recovery, which had followed the plague-impelled crash, had crashed again.

The lawyer had grown pudgy since his ambulance-chasing, drunk driver defending days in the old century, and his hair had turned an agreeable shade of silver. His suits were impeccable, now, and expensive, his shoes and ties from the Old World. Having first consulted bank and checkbook, Walter fidgeted like a kid in the principal's office, twisting his wedding ring when Sal turned an exceptionally questioning stare upon him, and began...

"So... and this is absolutely critical now, you have not answered a single question since the day before yesterday?"

"Not a fuckin' word," Walter held up two fingers, "I swear! Scout's honor! Not to those pukes from the SEC, not to the IRS, even the fuckin' media..."

"They're calling you?" the attorney frowned.

"Should they be? It's like I'm fuckin' Jeffrey Epstein..." and, although he was about to add "without the money", or some wisecrack about a noose, he caught himself in time, and spread his hands. "It's only a matter of time."

"Probably they'll just be fishing. Walt..." Sal shook his shaggy, silvery locks, "...I am going to have to level with you, and I do not want you taking this personally. I made a few calls, I know people who will still tell me things. Thing is... Braxton's so fuckin' wrong I hardly know where to begin. Shell companies investing in black holes in Pakistan, loans from persons in the so-called oil "bidness" associated with organized crime and even terror on four continents, quote unquote double... hell, quadruple... bookkeeping, at a minimum? He’s still even playing with the Russians!"

"Everybody does it, Sal," Walter squirmed.

"Yeah... yeah, I know, but unless they start hanging bodies out dry once in awhile, the cattle start mooing. And, in Bill's case, that's no harm, no foul..."

"Well what about me? My customers were good, patriotic Americans, and I gave them a damn good deal... or it would've been, if Bill hadn't fucked up..."

"He didn't fuck up," Sal corrected, and in a none-too-friendly tone, "he knew exactly what he was doing, down to the instant that he picked up that phony passport from the casino lockbox in Vegas and flew off to make whoopee with his money. Cigarette?"

"I'm tryin' to quit," Walter declined. "Or at least cut back to the occasional cigar."

"Good boy." Duquesne lit up, coughed, and ran his free hand through his scalp. "You... you're what might be called collateral damage..."

"Like... like that movie Governor Terminator was in?"

"Somethin' like that. Lemme ask you... are you alright?"

And Sal rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, squinting covetously.

"Is BCM preferred alright?" Walt fired back.

"Not alright. Consider it gone..." and he coughed again. "You weren't exercising options to buy on margin, over and above your compensation package, were you?" And, after Walt nodded, glumly, Sal sat back in his leather chair and sighed, "I gotta ask you again... so... are you alright?"

Walter considered lying, but gave it up the instant that Duquesne stared at him again, as if he were a piece of liver in a tiger's cage. "Technically... and there's things I still don't understand but, figuring on the worst-case scenario, I'm, well... broke. I don't even qualify for the fuckin' unemployment or social security because of the way Bill wrote us up as independent contractors, and my medical coverage got cut off as of yesterday... in case I decide to shoot myself, and miss. Actually, I'm worse than broke, which is..."

And he shrugged.

Sal took another drag, stubbed the cigarette out on one of those black ashtrays with the blind justice lady, dressed up as a wee, porcelain hooker. Lawyer humor.

"Walt, let me give you some free advice... which I am not, ordinarily, in the habit of giving out. Not that I seem to have any choice in the matter, but I do you this favor because you've been a good guy in the past and maybe... just maybe... you'll get through this. Get a job, Walt, now! Any job... as long as there's some cash coming in... bank job, retail management, drive a fuckin' Uber, if you have to. The recession is getting deeper, but there’s still plenty of openings. You’re a sales genius… try shoes, cellphones, women’s underwear. No commission sales that hold your take longer than a week or two, no consulting, quote unquote. Besides everything you own bein' frozen, those regulators are going to put you under their microscope and it becomes a character issue. People talk. Because they're drawing up their lists of naughty and nice as we speak, this very moment, deciding who's gonna be given the chance to sing for their supper, and who's gonna be made an example of. Are you really a working stiff, a regular guy?... or are you one of those crooks they can gift-wrap and serve up to their bosses in Washington and Sacramento, not to mention the media? Oh yeah... they're out there... they ain't parking their trucks on your lawn, yet, 'cause somebody hasn't yet made up his mind what to do about you. Braxton's out of reach, for now, so they're auditioning for a patsy."

Walt squirmed like a bad case of poison ivy had attacked his butthole, and he tried to look over Sal's shoulder, out the attorney's window where the single lemon tree struggled to hold on to a past that was flying into old folks' memories.

"They are?"

"They are!" Duquesne nodded. "And a rat! Get a job, Walt... anything... and get it now and then squeak when you’re squoken to. Well, you can start lookin' Monday, long as they ain't comin’ into your house and cleaning out your liquor cabinet, my professional advice would be to get good and drunk; do it now, get it over with. Get a Korean massage before they cut your credit cards off... your wife..." and Sal winced, "she is going to be a major problem, trust me... and, by the way, how's your home equity?"

"Not so hot," Walt admitted. “This adjustable rate that looked so tasty couple of years ago is killing me now.”

"Probably for the better. Tho' the Government takes an interest in people sittin' on their butts on a stack of bills. Think you've got this pile socked away... offshore, maybe... ain't been quite earned legally. That wouldn't be true, would it?" Sal wondered, sort of hopefully...

"Hell no!" Walt denied. "I mean... I knew there was some shit floating around on the fourth floor, but Bill never cut me or the rest of us workin' stiffs in. Said we were already set for life with BCM Preferred."

"There is life..." Sal agreed, "...and then there is, also, life... as in twenty-to. I'd throw you a bone, myself, but I'm havin' to cut back on my charitable instincts... fuckin' recession has too many former wonderboys in trouble, but without money."

"I'm not looking for charity."

Walter stood up, taking the hint as Sal began shuffling through papers.

"Thanks... Sal... I'll make it up to you. I ain't bent, Sal, and I ain't nofuckin' bum,” he added, indignantly. Fuckin' Bill..."

"I know, Walt. You talk the good talk, but the Feds'll want you to walk the walk. Get a job! And, when this blows over and you're ready to get somethin' better, maybe the economy will have had a miracle, and real American people will be worth somethin' again. Might happen..."

"Might happen," Walter agreed.

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