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Councilman Herb Snell spent the morning
peering through a crack in the blinds of his office window watching cars pull
in and out of the strip mall parking lot where his insurance agency was
located. The appointment wasn’t until eleven but Herb wanted a jump on things.
Right on schedule, a silver Land Rover with
two child safety seats in the back pulled into the lot. That would be her.
Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, Herb
adjusted his toupee. He turned one way and then another, hoping for an angle
that would conceal the forty pounds he had added since high school. The ring of
the phone on his desk made Herb jump.
“Yes?” he said, pushing his voice down deep.
“Mrs. Sedgewood-Vanderfell to see you,” said
Marcy, his receptionist.
Sedgewood-Vanderfell, thought Herb, What kind
of wimp lets his wife keep her own last name?
“Send her in,”
Suddenly Herb was unsure where to stand,
deciding at the last second it was best to be seated, looking busy.
He glanced back at the wall behind him where
his Associate’s Degree diploma from the local junior college, a framed
certificate proclaiming him a Certified Financial Planner, and various civic
awards hung. Satisfied all were in order, he took a seat and poised a pen over
a sheet of paper as though he were hard at work enacting important legislation.
Catherine Sedgewood strode in. Herb had to
remind himself to breathe. She was every bit as breathtaking as Herb
remembered. She was older, of course, what…thirty-one?
“Mrs. Sedgewood-Vanderfell,” he said, rising
to his feet, conscious as he did of how his belly nestled comfortably onto his
desktop. He could tell she noticed it too. “A pleasure to meet you.” He thrust
out his hand, remembering too late a gentleman never offers to shake a lady’s hand
unless she offers first. But there it was.
“Councilman Snell,” she said, turning on a
smile and taking his hand.
Herb searched for a glimmer of recognition but
there was none. “Please, have a seat.”
Hoping he wasn’t staring, but unable to stop
himself, Herb watched as she settled gracefully into the chair, resting her
Prada handbag on the floor and tucking the hem of her yellow sun dress primly
over her tanned knees. The diamond on her finger was as big as a beer nut. Her
wristwatch – Herb sensed this wasn’t even her nice one- probably cost what Herb
earned in a year.
Two kids had done nothing to Catherine
Sedgewood’s figure. Well, a pound or two maybe, but in all the right
places. “Good breeding,” as Herb’s
mother had been so fond of saying, “Good breeding.”
“You and I went to school together, you
know.” Damn! Why had he said that? Damn! Damn! Damn!
“Oh?” Her eyes – Herb had always been amazed
how even in a dimly lit room they gathered the light and threw it back –
searched his face, trying to stir up a memory.
“Well, a few years apart.” Damn, just shut up
about it already! “I graduated in ‘86” Which meant that when Herb had been a
senior she had been in what…the fifth grade.
“I see,” she said. From the subtle change in
her expression Herb could tell she had him pegged – another stalker, Couldn’t a
guy be an admirer anymore? Hell, he wasn’t a pedophile, but even at ten she had
been one of those girls you couldn’t take your eyes from. It wasn’t as if Herb
had spent the next twenty years creeping in her shadow – who in town didn’t
know all about her? The only child of the wealthiest man in town, her life was
chronicled in the society pages: scholarships, vacations abroad, graduation
from Harvard, engagement and marriage to some mister-oh-so-perfect. And now she
was living a life that was so flawless and tasteful even “Town and Country” had
done an pictorial on it. In this little burgh she was an icon.
Obviously, chit-chat wasn’t working so well,
so Herb decided to dive right into it. “How can I help you?”
“I need your assistance in a city matter,
Councilman,” she said, giving her head a tilt. “A question of proper zoning.”
Herb leaned back in his seat. He could have
guessed as much. Certainly Catherine
Sedgewood-Vanderfell wasn’t here for an insurance policy. She was here about
Slurpee’s.
Slurpee's was the super store of strip joints.
They were fixtures in several major cities and now there was about to be one in
Walden as well.
“Walden has several zoning laws prohibiting –
adult entertainment establishments,” said Catherine Sedgewood Vanderfell, “But
apparently the management is confident the city council will overturn our
laws.”
Yes, they were confident. Renovation of the
old Piggly-Wiggly was almost complete. They had hung a sign you could see from
the interstate - a huge pair of flashing neon lips and an animated tongue.
The place promised to be a boon for the local
economy – at least for the city council anyway. Each member, Herb included, had
already received an unmarked envelope containing ten thousand dollars in cash.
With the promise of lots more where that came from.
“Mrs. Sedgewood-Vanderfull, I understand
completely. I assure you I intend to do everything in my power to see that vile
place never opens.” With every syllable Herb punched the air to punctuate his
sincerity. There, that should do it.
A long pause.
“Unfortunately, Councilman Snell, I have
reason to doubt your sincerity.”
“Oh?”
“So I have taken measures to ensure your
cooperation.”
She pulled a large envelope from her purse and
opened it. It was an 8x10 photo of his receptionist, Marcia, at her desk. Well,
on her desk. Naked. With Herb on top of her. Also naked.
“You are aware of your receptionist’s age,
aren’t you, Councilman?”
“Eighteen?” His reply sounded too much like a
question.
A small smile
here, almost sympathetic, but not. “Not quite.”
Herb felt his balls shrivel to the size of
raisins. “How did you get that?”
“That’s not the
important question, Councilman Snell. The important question is, how do we
prevent this from falling into the wrong hands? Say, for instance, an ambitious
reporter from the Gazette?”
Herb wiped his brow with his sleeve. “That
would be bad. Really bad.”
His marriage would be over, not to mention
what a few years in prison would do to his political career.
Political career. Herb had never thought he
would actually win the election. Hell, the presiding Council was practically an
institution. It cost only 62 dollars to file as a candidate and he hoped being
on the ballot might give him some name recognition and help him write a few
policies. And then Walter Ketchum, the forty-year incumbent, keeled over with a
heart attack and Herb became Councilman by default.
“As you
mentioned, Councilman Snell, you and I go way back. I’d hate to see you suffer
any legal misfortunes. And I am certain, provided construction of Slurpee’s is
halted forthwith, such a tragedy can be avoided.”
With that, she
left.
Shit! What was he
supposed to do? Then he remembered. He dug furiously through the contents of
his desk drawer until he found it. “Anyone give you any trouble on this matter,
you call me,” had said Mister Gale, tucking a business card with the Slurpee
logo into Herb's pocket.
Herb’s hand was
shaking so bad he could barely dial the phone.
Mister Gale refused to discuss the matter over
the phone. Instead, he instructed Herb to meet at the construction site.
Ten minutes later
Herb pulled his Taurus into the parking lot.
Workmen directed Herb inside.
They had really done a job on the place, Herb
noted as he made his way to the loading dock where he had been told Mister Gale
could be found.
While Gale supervised the unloading of several
wooden crates from the back of a semi, Herb spilled his guts. Mister Gale took
a few notes, including Catherine Sedgewood Vanderfell's name and address.
“Don't you worry about a thing,” said Gale
when Herb was done, “Consider it taken
care of.”
“How?” said Herb, doubtful.
“Don't ask.”
Herb was immensely grateful. As he turned to
leave he heard someone sneeze. It came from one of the crates.
“What's that?” he asked.
“Talent,” said Mister Gale with a shrug. “Like
I said, don't ask.”
Three days later
Catherine Sedgewood-Vanderfell disappeared. Oh, there was a stir, quite a bit –
state police, the FBI, even the national news media. But no one could find a
trace of her.
ONE YEAR LATER
Herb Snell needed a bath and a shave. Any of
the cheap motels he passed would have served the purpose, but there was not time.
He wheeled the station wagon into the lot and parked under the animated neon
sign – a huge pair of lips with a slurping tongue. This was not the Walden
Slurpee's – Herb could not be seen there, of course, he had a promising
political career to protect – this was Tyler, Texas, nearly a thousand miles
away. It was his tenth Slurpee's in as many nights. Herb was a man on a
mission.
As he approached the entrance he fished out
the twelve dollar cover charge and tossed it to the cashier without even
stopping. A bouncer swung the door open and the music assaulted him with the
force of an explosion. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the laser lights and
stage smoke. The main stage was at the far end of the place, with half a dozen
elevated runways shooting off from it. On the runways danced a hundred or more
girls in various stages of undress.
It was a Tuesday night, and early, so there
wasn't much of a crowd to contend with – hell, probably more strippers than
customers. He made the circuit once without any luck, though he did it slowly,
enjoying the sights. The dancers were of all shapes, sizes and race. The only
thing they had in common, besides their unfaltering smiles, was the pair of
lips and slurping tongue each had tattooed to her ass. He gave it another half
hour before making the circuit again, again without success. Damn! He pulled
out the map in his back pocket and consulted it. San Antonia. He could make it
by three am if he pushed it. Plenty of time, the motto at all Slurpee's was
“Dance Until Dawn!”
And then, just as he turned, he saw her,
slipping from behind the stage curtain.
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