Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

10

A bright orange wind sock, luffing in the breeze.

It was the first conscious memory Shugie Saunders had. He was five years old, standing out on the tarmac at Hendricks County Airport, waiting to fly to Cincinnati with his parents. He had seen the sock filling and turning and instinctively understood why the airplanes were taxiing around, taking off, and landing according to which way the wind blew. It made sense to him, young as he was.

It was something he had taken with him all the way through his school years and into politics. Some called him a campaign manager, others an adviser, still others a fixer, but thirteen state senators, a dozen mayors, and the last three governors would all agree that when it came to the Indy political scene, Shugie Saunders was a necessity. But that day of clarity on the runway was forty-three years ago. Things weren’t so clearly indicated now. The wind sock was either hanging limp or blowing around in all different directions these days.

How the hell did I end up here? he wondered.

He glanced at the envelope on the edge of the desk, holding three thousand dollars he couldn’t really afford. Melting ice clinked in his glass and he took a sip of the sour-tasting small batch bourbon that was supposed to be so smooth and looked out over the city. Twinkling lights and the occasional monorail-like movement of a car along St. Clair were the only indications of life out there.

The musical ringing of his cell phone startled him and made him angry all at once. It was going to rouse Lori, and she was going to leave. He crossed quickly to his desk to answer, and his anger grew when he saw the name of the incoming caller: Lowell Gantcher. He would have loved to have let the call go to voice mail, but that would be four more rings, four more times through the brassy samba figure that was his ringtone, and Lori would certainly be gone by then. He snatched the phone off the desk.

“What is it?” he said by way of greeting.

“I want to talk to him,” Lowell Gantcher said on the other end of the phone. The connection was so clean it was as if he were in the room.

“No,” Shugie Saunders said.

“What do you mean, no?” Gantcher asked.

Shugie let silence reinforce his answer, and heard the regretful sound of rustling in the bed behind him. He glanced back and caught a profile view of Lori’s rounded breast, the curve of her back, as she reached for a piece of clothing in the near darkness.

“Come on, Shugie, don’t gate-keeper me. You’re standing in between Bernie and me, and I’m reduced to leaving messages like some kind of jerk off.”

“Then stop leaving messages.”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“Not now.” It was a conversation they’d had a dozen variations of over the past few months, as things had tightened to the strangle point on the business front and as the political picture grew more clear for Kolodnik. Lowell Gantcher was an important builder who held some sway in certain business matters around the city, but for him to call Shugie, insisting on a conversation with Kolodnik now, revealed thinking that verged on the delusional.

“He’s my partner, for god’s sake,” Gantcher insisted.

“Was,” Shugie corrected. “He doesn’t touch that investment anymore.” Then he felt a tap on his shoulder, a few fingernail tips dancing like ballerinas along his clavicle. Shugie turned to see Lori standing there, dressed, her sandy blond hair bed-ruffled, and her eye makeup gone slightly raccoon. He loved seeing her this way. She looked five years younger than her already youthful twenty-three, and it also meant that they’d been together, that he’d had her. He raised a single, feeble finger for her to wait one minute.

“He’s in public service now. He considers you a friend, but that’s all. He’s got to weigh the public good and many other interests against those of the gaming industry. Perhaps you can talk to the trustee overseeing the blind trust-”

“Fuck you, Shugie,” Gantcher said.

“I’m going,” Lori mouthed to him.

Disappointment and fury met in Shugie’s chest and he vented it on Gantcher. “This conversation is over,” he said icily and hung up.

Lori already had the envelope in her hand as he tossed the phone down on the desk. Her hand crushed the paper softly, and she let him wrap her in an embrace that had a similar effect. He breathed in the scent of her hair-a synthetic fruit smell-that delighted him to his core. She stepped back.

“When am I going to see you again?” he asked.

“Just call me.” She smiled. Of course.

“Better question: when are we going to take this to the next level?” he said, as lightly as he could.

“Same old question.” She sighed. “You know the deal, Shugie: overnight is no problem if you tell me in advance and you’re willing to spend the eight. And you can book a weekend.”

“Sure, just go on the Web site, and you’ll need your own room. Right?”

“Just for a few hours a day. It’ll still be a great time. And you don’t have to go on the site, you can text me,” she corrected.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he said, hating how it sounded.

“I know,” she answered, and he swore he recognized real feeling under her words. He embraced her again, nuzzled her neck, and then she was gone as if he’d been holding a ghost.

He knew exactly how he’d ended up here.