Time spent with Victoire consisted of passionate
encounters at Ricky’s Hyatt in Palo Alto or his apartment, one more memorable
than the next. Every time he ran his hand and mouth over her body he caught
glimpses of heaven. She called him a twentieth century visionary, a legend in
the making. She told him he was magnetic, irresistible and sexy in the throes
of passion, and he believed her.
The weekend could not
come soon enough to join her in the cliff house. When Friday’s affairs came to
an end, he pulled out Victoire’s directions and headed for their rendezvous in
Tomales Bay. Peter was in Chicago with plans to return early Tuesday.
Victoire took advantage of his absence to instate
phase two of her scheme. She was rehearsing her script when the knock came. “I’m
so happy you’re here,” she cried, wrapping her arms around Willy like a
frightened bird. He held her with equal force, and she felt his excitement. “Willy,
I found something,” she pulled back, her blue eyes big and wild, “something so
shocking, I’m beside myself!”
“My love, what is it?”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You look so spooked!”
She took him by the
hand to the living room and pulled out a manila envelope from a bag. “I found
these.” She took out the sordid photographs and handed them to Willy. He went
pale looking and shook his head in disbelief. He was speechless.
Victoire let a tear
trickle down her quivering lips. “It’s vile… it’s perverse- and Peter’s the man
I’m married to!” She gasped. “ I had no
idea!”
Willy put the photos
down and went to console her. “You’ve got to divorce the son-of-a-bitch. I don’t
believe this. God, I never imagined.” He pulled her up from the sofa. “You’ve
got to divorce the son-of-a-bitch, Victoire!”
“I want to Willy,” she
said looking meaningfully at him, “now more than ever.” She walked slowly
towards to enormous windows.
She told him how from
the onset, she wasn’t in love with Peter and how her mother pressured her into
marrying him. Knowing how unhappy and lonely Victoire really felt allowed him
to become her knight in shining armour. He jumped into his steed’s saddle fully
charged and ready to do battle for her.
“You
must call an attorney, Victoire. Don’t delay. Make an appointment first thing
Monday.”
“I have. I called one once I got my breath back.”
“And? What did they
say?” His eyes shone with hope. “It shouldn’t be too complicated, Victoire. You’ve
got all the proof you need!”
“They said I need more
evidence.”
“What? Did you show
them that shit?” he asked, pointing toward the glossies.
“Yes! According to the
lawyers, Peter could argue that they were doctored, that they’re fakes and that
somebody was trying to blackmail him.”
Rumours about the CEO
circulated down the corridors prior to his nuptials. “Are you kidding? It’s him in those shots. Have them blow
them up if they need a closer look.”
“Another lawyer told me
basically the same thing. What am I supposed to do? Do a stake out? He’d
recognize my car in a flash.” A gust of wind hit a low-lying cypress. Its
branches clung to the side of the house making scratching sounds on the glass. “Who
can I possibly ask for help, Willy?”
Willy called in sick to
work Monday and spent the long weekend in the arms of his muse planning
Prentice’s demise.
# # # #
Tuesdays and Thursdays
Peter went on the prowl. On those evenings, Willy checked into a motel on Van
Ness Avenue under a false name and paid cash while he followed his target’s
moves.
The CEO frequented an
establishment near Polk Street and another off Market. To Willy’s surprise, Bradley
drove his boss to and fro his clandestine rendezvous. Peter tended to arrive
alone, but usually exited with the same three men: two Caucasian, one Middle
Eastern.
The stakeouts took
their toll on Willy after a month: his skin turned pasty, he gained eight
pounds on a diet of submarine sandwiches, donuts and copious amounts of coffee.
It wasn’t until the third week that he felt secure enough to park nearer the
locations and shoot film. But that evening, instead of their usual exit time,
the delicate looking Middle Easterner of the foursome burst out of a nameless
establishment wearing nothing more then a look of panic. He hopped on his
Harley and sped off to the sound of burning rubber.
In no time, Peter and the remaining entourage
came out looking as if they had seen a ghost. Willy shot as many pictures as
possible and held his breath. The two men were half-dressed; Peter wore a wife
beater T-shirt and fringed chaps without the trousers. He gestured wildly with
his arms. Bradley pulled up seconds later. The men pushed their way inside the
awaiting car. Willy refocused and aimed the telephoto lens at the get away car
until the Mercedes disappeared from view.
Willy pulled off the
baseball cap he wore during every night of his mission and slumped back onto
the car seat. A feeling of intense relief flooded his cramped up body. Gotcha! It’s over, he thought. He turned
on the engine and carefully dismantled the large lens from the camera while the
car warmed up.
No sooner had he placed it back in its case, two
police cars descended upon the Victorian house, their sirens at full blast.
Willy hunkered down and turned off the ignition. He reached for the cap and
placed it back on his head. His hands shook. Slowly, he lifted his head to peer
out the window. Pandemonium ensued as a hoard of horror-struck men ran from the
place like cockroaches under a fluorescent light.
Willy watched with astonishment as the cops
stuffed two men in handcuffs into the back of a police cruiser.
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