W Is for Wasted

doctor’s voice dropped into the manly range that must have served him so well in other circumstances. “If you don’t leave my office this minute, I’ll call security.”
    Pete stood and took out a business card that he placed on the desk. “I’d give it some thought. You’ve got a lot at stake and you can’t afford to get caught out. Even the
accusation
of trimming, founded or unfounded, would open up a can of worms, especially in light of your previous infractions.”
    “Get out of here.”
    “Call if you want to chat, buddy. I’m here for you.”
    Linton Reed was already reaching for the phone, prepared to summon the troops. Pete left in as unhurried a manner as he could muster, refusing to admit the doctor had struck fear in him with the threat of campus gendarmes. The secretary studiously avoided looking at him as he passed, which was fine with him.
    He returned to his car and when he pulled up to the exit gate, he noticed the kiosk was empty and the parking attendant was nowhere to be seen. Pete waited a moment, then got out of the car and walked around the rear until he reached the kiosk window. He peered over the sill, reached in, and activated the mechanism that raised the gate. Then he got back in his car and pulled out. The validated ticket he stuffed in the glove compartment in case he had some future use for it.
    Pete headed for home. He’d planted the seed and now he’d leave it to Dr. Reed to follow the thread to its logical conclusion. Give him a week and he’d cave. What struck Pete as weird was he didn’t feel that good about the deal. There was something depressing about the whole thing. Linton Reed was a bad egg. He was a man who cut corners and to date he’d managed to tap-dance out of harm’s way, using his considerable charm and his good looks. The encounter should have given Pete the satisfaction for a job well done. In truth, he was weary beyond belief.
    Maybe it was time to retire. Ruthie made excellent money and it wouldn’t be a problem getting by on what she earned. Essentially, that’s what they’d been doing for the past eighteen months. The house was paid for and their expenses were minimal. She must know how broke he was. She could probably see through Pete’s pie-in-the-sky claim of imminent financial gain. She knew him better than he knew himself, and what he loved about her was she’d never dream of calling him on his shit. She was protective of him. She made it possible for him to save face. In the meantime, it crossed his mind that if the good doctor never called him, it might be reason to rejoice. They’d find a way to survive. If the good doctor didn’t call, he’d take it as a sign and he’d hang up his spurs.
    •   •   •
    At the office first thing the next morning, his phone rang. He nearly let the call go to the answering machine, but for once he picked up.
    Linton Reed said, “What do you want?”
    “Whatever you think it’s worth.”
    “I’m not going to
pay
you. Why would I do that? You’re way off. You don’t know the first thing.”
    “You don’t want to pay, we have nothing to discuss.”
    “Whatever you think you have on me, you’re dead wrong. What you’re attempting is extortion. I’ll call the FBI.”
    Pete felt something sour rise in his throat. “I’m not talking about money to keep quiet. I’m talking about making the threat evaporate. You got a problem. I got a plan.”
    “For which I pay.”
    “Everybody pays for services. That’s how business is done.”
    “How do I know you won’t come back for more?”
    “Because once I neutralize the danger, that’s the end of it.”
    “What are you, a hit man?”
    “What’s the matter with you? I don’t hurt people for any reason. I’d never do such a thing. Any rate, I don’t think this is something we should discuss on the phone. Why don’t we find a place to meet? That way, we can pursue the matter in private and see if we can reach an agreement.”
    There was a long silence and Pete waited it out.
    Finally, tersely, the good doctor said, “Where?”

21
    I followed Alice as she crossed the back porch and went down the wooden stairs. Lolly sat in a shady spot under a cottonwood tree on one of two metal lawn chairs. These were duplicates of the ones I remembered from the scrim of yard in the trailer park where I’d lived with Aunt Gin; metal back and seat, supported by a continuous bend of U-shaped tubing, which gave the chairs some bounce. The finish