Cruel Justice

15

“BUT YOU PROMISED!”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“Did so. You said you’d come home early and we’d go to the ball game.”

“I said I would try. That’s all.”

“I shoulda known better. You never wanna do anything with me. You hate me.”

“I do not. Now listen to me, son.”

The man in the red wig listened carefully to Abie and his father’s argument. Nice of them to squabble on the front porch. He was safely tucked away behind the eight-foot-high hedge surrounding the Rutherford estate, but he could hear every word. He could see them, too, but they would never notice him. The estates were spaced so generously that none of the neighbors were likely to see him either.

“Listen to me, son,” Rutherford continued. He was much fairer than his son; it heightened the contrast between them. Family relations in chiaroscuro. “Your father has many important business affairs that have to be managed. I wish I could spend all day playing with you, but I can’t.”

Abie folded his arms across his chest. “You could if you wanted to.”

Rutherford’s lips tightened. “Abie, sometimes I have to work. Look around you. Look at this house. Look at those cars in the garage. Not everybody lives like you do. Who do you think paid for that? Where do you think all that money came from?”

“Mommy says you got it all from your daddy.”

“That’s—beside the point. Someone has to manage the money. Protect our investments. That’s what your daddy does—”

“Mommy says you spend all day at that stupid country club.”

“Your mother—” He muttered something under his breath. “That isn’t true, and it isn’t—”

Abie pushed away. “You play all the time. You just don’t wanna play with me!”

“Abie. Abie!” Rutherford reached for his son, but Abie slipped out of his grasp. “I go to the country club to maintain business relationships. Those club members are my partners. They’re movers and shakers. Some of the wealthiest men in the state. I know you’re only ten, but try to understand.”

“I understand. You’d rather swing a stupid golf club than take me to a baseball game.”

The man in the red wig grinned. The dysfunctional family was a beautiful thing, at least from his point of view. If it weren’t for fathers who couldn’t find time for their sons, or who treated their sons badly when they were around, he’d never find an opening. But rich, pompous asses like Rutherford made his job almost too easy.

“Look, son.” Rutherford’s face was flushed with exasperation. “I have some meetings tomorrow, but … what time is the game?”

“Two o’clock. Like always.”

“All right. Let me see what I can do. …”

“Is that a promise?”

Rutherford laid his hands on his son’s shoulders. “All right, then. It’s a promise.”

“We’ll have to leave by one-thirty to be there for the opening pitch.”

“All right. To save time, why don’t I pick you up on the corner of Peoria and Twenty-sixth, all right? At one-thirty.”

“You won’t forget?”

“Of course not.” He hesitated. “I promise.”

The man behind the hedge could see the change in Rutherford’s expression, could see his arms tentatively extended. He had undoubtedly hoped his son might give him a hug. The first step on the road to reconciliation. But it was not to be. Having extracted his promise, Abie turned away and ran inside the house.

It would take more than a stupid half-baked promise to fix problems that ran so deep.

Quietly, the man moved away from the hedge, back to the street. What a splendid idea this impromptu visit had been. What a gold mine of information. Now he knew everything he needed to make his dream a reality. To claim another conquest.

He took a ballpoint pen and wrote himself a note on his wrist. Peoria and Twenty-sixth. One-thirty.

He’d be there.