Cruel Justice

20

“DO YOU THINK THEY’LL mind if I sit in?” Ben asked as he took a seat in the back of the country club’s main conference room.

“I doubt if they’ll even notice,” Mitch replied. “They’re usually pretty mellow in the early afternoon. Until they’ve had a chance to shake off those three-martini lunches.”

Mitch left Ben and unlocked a cabinet at the north end of the room. As soon as Mitch turned the key, the lid popped up, revealing an extensive liquor cabinet. Ben saw countless bottles with more varied and expensive labels than he could find in most Tulsa liquor stores.

Like Giselle at the sound of a can opener, as soon as the cabinet was open the board members began to flow into the conference room. The first was a short, round man with a bushy red beard and not a single hair on his head. He had apparently just come in from outside; he wiped sweat off his forehead and temples with the sleeve of his monogrammed shirt.

“Some enchanted evening …” The man crooned to no one in particular as he swaggered over to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a Scotch and soda, then held it aloft in one hand and serenaded the glass. “You will meet a stran-ger …”

So, Ben thought, the first board member is an out-of-work lounge singer.

The red-bearded man downed half his Scotch, then shifted songs. “A foggy day, in London town …”

He stopped when he noticed the club secretary, already seated at the conference table. She was young, probably in her early twenties. Her well-coiffed hair was almost as short as her skirt. Ben had the immediate impression that her shorthand skills were probably slight and her salary enormous.

“How about a hug, baby doll?” the man said as he approached. The young woman smiled, stood, and stretched out her arms to receive him.

“Are they sweethearts?” Ben whispered.

“No. Dick Crenshaw is a strong believer in hug therapy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hug therapy. It’s supposed to be very healthy. Relieves the stress of the workplace.”

“I’ll bet.”

“It’s entirely platonic, or so Dick keeps telling us. Good for the staff. Good for everybody.”

Ben watched the man’s hands rove and squeeze. “So he’s actually providing a community service. And here I thought he was just trying to get a cheap thrill.”

Over the secretary’s shoulder, Crenshaw saw another man in the hallway. “Rutherford! Stop talking about your goddamned rutabagas and get in here!”

This man, Rutherford, was taller and thicker and older. He walked with a slow, slightly hunched gait. “Jesus H. Christ. It was hot as hell out there today. I had to shower off.”

“Shower off? I bet you had to jerk off.” Crenshaw passed his friend the bottle of Scotch.

“That’s really more your specialty, isn’t it?”

“Me? My dick’s so short I can’t even find it. Hell, my wife’s been looking for it for years.”

“Ah.” Rutherford swirled his drink around in his mouth, then swallowed. “That would explain why Emily bought that magnifying glass last Christmas.”

“Magnifying glass? She’d need a microscope.” Crenshaw poured himself another Scotch. “Dick Dickless, that’s what they used to call me back in school.”

Rutherford contemplated the refraction of light in his glass. “Dick, why is it every time I see you we end up talking about your genitals?”

“I don’t know, Rutherford.” He batted his eyelids. “Maybe you’re thweet on me.”

Ben leaned over and whispered to Mitch. “The short guy has a real, uh, rich sense of humor.”

Mitch nodded. “He fancies himself quite the humorist. Problem is, all his jokes are about his—”

“I get the general idea.”

“I’m sure,” Mitch reflected, “that his mother had no idea, when she decided to call him Dick, that she was determining the course of his life and setting the stage for a thousand variations on the same tasteless joke.”

“Pearson told me Crenshaw bought some of his foreign import gas. So he must be loaded.”

“You know it. Beaucoup bucks. ’Course, he’s a lawyer.”

“Oh, right,” Ben said. “All us lawyers are swimming in moolah.”

“Crenshaw was born rich and managed to stay that way by protecting his country-club buddies from the IRS and keeping their kids out of jail. He’s handled a bunch of big-bucks divorce cases, too. D’you hear about the Finney breakup?”

“How could I not? It was all over the TV and radio.”

“Exactly. I’m told that Crenshaw isn’t really that good a lawyer, but he’s well enough known now that he can get on all the talk shows. They don’t hire him for his courtroom prowess. They hire him because he can win the case before it gets to the courtroom, by trying it in the media.”

“Why would anyone want him on a talk show?”

“See for yourself.”

Ben looked. Crenshaw, third drink in hand, was grabbing his crotch and singing “In the Mood.”

“He’s a character,” Mitch said.

“And works pretty hard at it,” Ben added.

“Doesn’t matter. Most lawyers are so boring. Tailored suits and long complicated words. TV people love characters.”

Ben frowned. This presumably explained why he wasn’t on the talk-show circuit. “Who’s the other man?”

“Harold Rutherford. Hal to his friends. Old money. His job is managing the family fortune. His hobby is organic gardening. He’s nuts about it. Has a garden just a short stroll from the eighteenth hole. Insists that the club dining room use his vegetables.”

“Is he popular?”

“As popular as anyone can be who habitually babbles on about high-grade manure and compost heaps.”

Ben scrutinized the man’s ruddy, weather-worn face. “For a guy born to privilege, he looks like he’s had a hard life.”

“He has. Hard drinking, hard gambling, and hard womanizing.”

“I take it you don’t like him.”

“You got that right. Son of a bitch almost got me fired.”

“Why?”

“Oh, nothing really. Typical case of upper-class snobs holding the peons to standards they never come close to meeting themselves. He caught me in the men’s room sleeping it off one New Year’s Eve after I’d had a few too many.”

“And he was mad?”

“Kicked up a real fuss. In front of half the party. I wouldn’t be here now if his wife hadn’t intervened. She’s the one with the heart in the family. Her and the little boy.”

“Rutherford has a little boy? He’s got to be in his fifties, at least.”

“Yeah. Adopted the kid the same year he hit the big five-oh.”

“Wow. Never top late.”

“Especially if your wife wants a kid in the worst way. That’s her, sitting on the far left.” He pointed to a slender, attractive woman with short blonde hair. She was significantly younger than her husband. “I wonder what she’s doing here.”

“Looks like she takes care of herself,” Ben commented.

“She does. And the kid, too. I’ve been told that several years back she was miserable—drunk, bitchy. Everyone avoided her whenever possible. Their marriage was on the skids. Finally, to everyone’s relief, they managed to adopt that boy.”

Ben saw Captain Pearson enter the room and, a few paces behind him, a well-built man with wavy brown hair. His skin was golden-tanned, his hair was brushed back and immaculately styled.

“Bentley!” Crenshaw waddled up to the newcomer, who was about a foot and a half taller. “What are you doing here? We keep the hair spray in the locker room.”

Bentley spoke with a distinct Southern accent. “Always the clown, Dick?”

“Better than always being a dick, you clown!”

Bentley grinned. “Still stinging from yesterday’s golf game? I only beat you by eighteen strokes.”

“Yeah? Well, stroke my dick.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass. Didn’t bring my bifocals.” Pearson and Rutherford laughed. “Face it, Crenshaw. As a golfer, you suck.”

“Spare me your ego. You’re so fond of yourself you’d probably like to use your dick for a five iron.”

“Ten iron,” Bentley corrected. “We’re talking about me, not you.” All four men laughed.

Ben tried to process the information he was receiving. “So, basically, these four all hate each other, right?”

“Actually,” Mitch replied, “I think they’re best friends. This is just their idea of convivial male interaction.”

“What do you know about the new guy? The one who looks like an underwear model.”

“Chris Bentley. Pretty Boy Bentley, we call him.”

“Judging by his unblemished good looks, I assume he was also born wealthy?”

“Actually, no. He’s the only one of the bunch who has to work for it, although it isn’t work as you and I understand it.”

“What’s he do?”

“He marries.”

“I don’t quite follow you.”

“Sure you, do. He marries rich women, preferably widows, usually older than himself. He’s done it three times. Marries, divorces, then enjoys himself until the money runs out. His last divorce was two years ago. I understand he’s searching for a fourth.”

“Surely no one would fall, for—”

“You might be amazed what you can get away with when you’re monstrously good-looking. Especially with a woman who thinks she’s past her prime. She may not care whether it’s true and eternal love. A couple of good years in the sack may be sufficient. Particularly with his reputation.”

“His reputation?”

“Yeah.” Mitch’s voice dropped. “Club gossip has it that he likes to engage in … deviant sexual practices.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Mitch replied. “But it’s gotten him three very wealthy wives.”

Pearson waved his hands in the air. “All right, you knuckle-heads. Let’s get this meeting started. If we hurry, we can still get in nine more holes before the sun sets.”

“Yes, and I need to water my turnips,” Rutherford added. “Do hurry.”

Pearson rolled his eyes and took a seat at the head of the table. The other three sat nearby. Pearson removed a gavel from a walnut box and pounded it a few times on the tabletop. “The meeting is hereby called to order. The Honorable Ronald Pearson hereby comes—”

“Pearson is going to come?” Crenshaw squealed. “I want to see this!”

Rutherford pressed his hand against his forehead and sighed. “Is it time for Crenshaw’s nap?”

“Evidently.” Pearson cleared his throat. “Let’s all calm down and see if we can have one of those classy Robert’s Rules of Order-type meetings, okay? After all, we have spectators today.”

As one body, all four men turned and stared at Ben. The three who had not met him frowned; Ben wasn’t sure if their expressions spoke of curiosity or irritation. On the other hand, the one man who did know him—Pearson—seemed outright hostile.

Pearson briskly moved through the meeting’s agenda. They discussed green fees and dress codes and reported scandalous incidents of nude badminton and golf-cart drag races. A lot of talking occurred, but no decisions were reached. Ben felt his head nodding; this meeting was giving new meaning to the word boredroom.

“How do these people ever accomplish anything?” Ben whispered.

“They don’t,” Mitch replied. “They hire flunkies like me and write checks. Real work is beyond them and has been for generations.”

“I need to talk to these guys,” Ben said, glancing at his watch. “Someplace I can get each of them alone, if possible.”

“They’ll never agree to an interview.”

“Maybe we could arrange something less intimidating.”

“Well,” Mitch said. “They play golf together almost every day.”

“Great. Can you get me in on a game?”

“I don’t know. Can you play golf?”

“Well enough,” Ben bluffed. “I don’t have to win.”

“No. On the contrary, it’s better if you don’t. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.” Crouching, Ben tiptoed out of the conference room. On his way, he had a chance to observe Rachel Rutherford’s face at closer range. Despite what Mitch had said, there was something disturbing in her face, some almost invisible stress, some unspoken tension. She wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to the meeting. There was something else on her mind.

Ben didn’t know what that could possibly be. But he had a suspicion that he should find out.