Just then Gwynne came walking out of the kitchen.

Oh, Jesus!I thought. Jabber jabber jabber!

Would she spill the beans? There was no telling. Her heart was much too pure to fathom all this wickedness going on here, all this deceit. As she approached, I noticed she was holding the cordless phone. She greeted the Chef first, in warm Southern tones: “Well, hi there, Dennis, how are you?” which came out like, “Wail, hi there, Dainess, how'r yew?”

“I'm fine,” answered the Chef, in warm Jersey tones. “Nevuh bedduh. How youdoing, Gwynne?”

“Oh, ahhhm fahyn, ahhhm fahyn,” the Southern belle answered, and there was a very sad smile attached to those two “I'm fines,” a smile that so much as said, “As fine as could be expected, considering my boss has one foot in the slammer, his wife has one foot in a new gold mine, and I'm about to be out of a fucking job!” Then she turned to me and said, “Your lawy'r is on the phone. He said it's important.”

Magnum? Why would he call now?He knew about this meeting. Why interrupt the flow of things? I held up a finger to the Chef and then rose from my chair and grabbed the cordless from Gwynne. With my back to the Chef, I looked Gwynne in the eye and motioned discreetly toward the kitchen with my chin, as if to say, “All right, why don't you skedaddle on out of here before you spill the beans, jabber-jaw!” to which Gwynne shrugged and headed back to the safety of the kitchen.

I walked a few feet away, to the wrought-iron railing at the edge of the patio, placed my elbows on the railing, and leaned over. I was still within earshot of the Chef when I said into the phone, “Hey, Greg. What's going on?”

“Yeah, it's Greg,” said OCD's voice, “but not the Greg you were expecting. Just act natural.”

Jesus Christ!Why the fuck was OCD calling? Had he lost his mind? “Yeah,” I said casually, “well, that doesn't surprise me. Danny's a stand-up guy; he'll never cooperate.” I turned to the Chef and winked, then said into the phone, “Anyway, just tell Danny's lawyer that I'm there for him no matter what. Whatever he needs.”

“Good,” said OCD, “that was quick thinking. You're doing great so far. But listen to me: Dennis seems very open to talk to you, so I want you to see if you can set up a meeting with Brennan. I think he might go for it.”

“I'll try calling her,” I said skeptically, knowing full well that the chances of getting a face-to-face with the Blue-eyed Devil were one in a million. Even in the best of times he was one paranoid bastard, but now—in the worst of times—there was no wayhe'd be reckless enough to take a meeting with me.“But I haven't spoken to Nancy in almost a year,” I said into the phone. “I think she hates Danny more than the government does.”

I looked at the Chef, who was staring at me quizzically, the way a person does when they're trying to figure out the other end of a phone conversation. Christ, if he only knew!I flashed him a quick smile and rolled my eyes and shook my head quickly, as if to say, “My lawyer is totally wasting my time here,” then I said into the phone, “Yeah, well, you just tell Danny's lawyer to make sure Danny knows I'm with him. That's the”— beep, beep,went the call-waiting—”most important thing. Anyway, I gotta go. I got another call coming in.” I clicked over to the next line. “Hello?”

An unfamiliar female voice, rather sultry, said, “Hi… is this Jordan?”

“Yeah,” I replied, slightly annoyed at the sultry voice. What the fuck did this voicewant? “This is Jordan, who's this?”

“Maria Elena. I'm Michael Burrico's fiancée.” My heart sank to my stomach before my brain even knew the reasons why. Michael Burrico was the Duchess's first love—back from her glorious Brooklyn days—when she was still a Duchess in embryo. Last I'd heard, he was living in Manhattan and he'd struck it rich in the construction business. In the Duchess's mind, I knew, that could translate into only two simple words: precious ore.

In a tone laced with sarcasm, I said to Maria, “Yeah, Maria. Your fiancé was my lovingsecond wife's first boyfriend. To what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”

Maria let out a tiny grunt before she said, “Well, I know you're going through a bad time right now, but I thought you'd like to know that your wife was knocking on my fiancé's door last night— around midnight. She was…” and Maria kept on talking, but I stopped listening—or, more accurately, I was unable to listen because my head was now filling with steam. I could literally hear the hissing sound, as hurt, anger, embarrassment, and hopelessness flooded my senses all at the same time.

I didn't even know who to be more embarrassed for at this point, her or me. Our life together had come to represent a laughingstock, the ultimate cautionary tale of rich men and trophy wives, of cutting corners in business, of cutting corners in life. We had played the Game of Life hard and fast—careening down the highway at a million miles an hour—and we had ended up losers, the ultimate crash-and-burn story. The only difference between the Duchess and me was that she was trying to walk away from the accident without a scratch, while I had no choice but to accept my fate as a quadriplegic burn victim.

“… and I would really appreciate it,” Maria continued, in an edgy tone, “if you would tell your wife to keep her paws away from my fiancé.”

Well said, I thought. In fact, I couldn't have agreed with Maria more, which was why I answered her with a big fat clickin her ear, without saying so much as good-bye. Then I turned to the Chef and froze, bewildered, not knowing what to say. My mind was double-tracking wildly. It had been hard enough to focus before, but now—this was a bit much. Everything was hitting me all at once, from all angles. Every man has his breaking point, and I was now at mine.

As I stared at the Chef, I knew I should be trying to figure out a way to broach the subject of the Blue-eyed Devil, and I knew that OCD and the Mormon were right upstairs, hanging on my every word, making careful notes of my performance—notes that one day would go into my 5K letter and decide how many years I spent in prison.

Yet, with all that was going on, with all that was at stake, with my freedomhanging in the balance, the only question my brain was asking itself was: What time is the Duchess coming home tonight? That was all that mattered to me. I wanted to confront her—no, I neededto confront her. I couldn't move forward in my life until I had an all-out brawl with her. A rip-roaring fight that could end with only one thing: violence. The Duchess was toast. History. I was not going to let her get away with this, not for one second longer. If this was, indeed, a crash-and-burn story, then it would be one without any survivors, save the children. Let my parents raise them, I figured; they'd certainly do a much better job than the Duchess and me.

“You okay?” the Chef asked warmly. “You look a bit pale.”

No response, then—”No… I mean, yeah.” I began nodding my head. “It was, uh, just something with Nadine's maternity business. A girl called. She's pregnant. With a baby.” I smiled vacantly. “I'm okay. I'm… I'm as right as the mail, Dennis,” and the first thing I'm gonna do when the Duchess gets home, I thought, is confront her. But I won't tell her about the phone call, not in the beginning. I'll wait until she denies ringing that bastard's doorbell; then I'll spring it on her. Then we'll see…

I sat back down, my heart beating out of my chest, my mind racing out of control. I placed the phone on the table. My mouth was bone-dry. I looked at the Chef, forcing a smile. It was time to end this meeting. I couldn't sit here anymore. I couldn't muster a single constructive thought until I confronted the Duchess.

With despair in my heart, I threw a Hail Mary pass. “I'll tell you the truth,” I muttered, “I don't know which are worse: my problems with the feds or my problems with the Duchess.” I shook my head in genuine bewilderment. Then, with a smirk, I added, “Maybe I should go see Bob; maybe hecan offer me some words of wisdom, because for the life of me I don't have any.”