The guy was about six foot six and closing on three hundred pounds. He filled my office doorway. I was ready to offer the standard, "May I help you?’ when I noticed the barrel of a small bore revolver protruding from his puffy right hand.
Deciding to play it cool, I rose from my executive chair and asked, “What’s a big guy like you need with a pea-shooter like that?”
“It’s for varmints,” he said, pointing it at my nose.
My mouth went slack, and I tried to think of an appropriate, saving response. I asked, “You sure you’re in the right office?” Inadequate, inane, stupid. Jeezuz, this guy’s going to kill me.
He pointed the gun at the nameplate on my desk. ”It says, Dave Andrews--Financial Advisor, that you?”
I sank into my chair, wishing I had something to pull over my head, an M1 tank would be good. “That’s me.” I bit my lip. “Should I know you?”
“You should,” he waved the gun like an accusing finger, “you been screwing my wife.”
"Oh, oh" I asked, “ And, she is?”
“You know damn well who she is.” Knots formed in his jaw as he spit her name, Carol, Carol Lawson.”
Shit. A vision of Carol, bare-breasted, bending over pulling her pantyhose slowly up over her thighs, smiling her sly little, like- what- you- see’ smile for me. I damn well did know her. How do I handle this guy? Does she smile like that for him?
Yeah,” I said, “I know her. But,” I threw the dice, “ I’m not screwing her. She’s screwing me.” I thought Lawson’s eyes were going to pop out of his head. This was scary stuff. Please don’t, don’t let him pull that trigger.
The big guy leaned over the desk. “What the hell do you mean?”
His hot breath was in my face. Maybe he won’t shoot me. Maybe, if I play this right, he’ll just beat the shit out of me,
"I think you know what I mean.” Careful, now. “Carol’s, ah, highly motivated. I mean she needs it, really needs it.”
Lawson stood up straight, towering over me. His eyebrows curled into a frown. The spider of uncertainty skittered behind his eyes.
I quickly added, “I don’t think she gets enough from either of us.”
His shoulders slumped. The pistol was in his hand, hanging loosely at his side.
I believed I had him. If he buys this, I’m through messing around. A vision of Carol’s taut flanks flared and was gone in a millisecond. Damn, it’s not worth it, no more married broads. I swallowed hard. This could be a dangerous lie. “She says she loves you, but doesn’t think you love her.”
Lawson took a step back. He seemed to deflate.
I couldn’t believe it. His great chest heaved; he was on the verge of tears. I felt a sudden empathy for the big guy. “Hey" I started my condolence speech, but he turned, lurched into the hall and was gone.
“Holy shit.” I’ve escaped. Lawson is another victim a sufferer not a doer. I was shaking. Funny, I was sweating and shaking at the same time. I shuddered, and promised, “Never again, no more married women.” My mouth was as dry as a confessional. I needed a drink. I locked the office and headed for Sully’s Saloon.
“Hi, Dave. The usual?”
I looked at Sully, at his bow tie and white hair, not one strand out of place the essence of trouble-free calm. “Make it a double.”
Sully poured the scotch over ice and slid it to me and wiped the bar. “You look rattled,” he said, “woman trouble?”
“Husband trouble,” I said, before drawing the soothing liquid over my tongue.
Sully nodded and turned to tend a waitress at the service bar.
I was into my refill before I felt easy enough to look around the familiar barroom. The green felt wall covering and rich dark wood lent a subtle ambiance to the gathering place and late-afternoon clientele. What conversation there was washed easily through the room. I relaxed, feeling at ease and safe. Two guys at one end of the bar were ruminating over a stock deal gone sour --trading coulda-woulda-shouldas. An eavesdropping waitress looked amused.
At the other end of the bar, by the half-draped window, a young woman, could be a model but not busty enough for the Cosmo cover, perched on a padded stool toying with a swivel stick. Her blond hair and the ice in her glass caught the sunlight from the street.
“You know her?” I asked Sully when he stopped to converse.
“Sort of,” he said, “she works in the building across the street. Usually with a guy; her husband, I think. Now that you ask, I haven’t seen him for a couple of days. She’s been coming in alone. After work, I guess.”
“Hmm.”
Sully moved to the two stock traders.
Late twenties...business attire skirt demurely over her knee. Heavy handbag. Probably keys, Daytimer, cell phone, lipstick, the usual. Not a hooker. Just a drink before heading home. I finished my scotch, then moved down the bar to where she sat.
Watching me approach, she dropped the bent stick in the glass. Her left hand drifted unconsciously to her hair. There was a glint of gold wedding band.
“Hi,” I said, “I’m Dave. Buy you a drink?”