The Lonely Road

Chapter 1

Fat Freddy’s was a dive, a wannabe classy joint that had the misfortune of being squeezed in between a warehouse and UPS depot. The chairs were covered with simulated leather, the walls with simulated oak paneling, the chandelier with simulated crystal. Its owner had great expectations for his creation when it first opened. Despite its poor location he believed he could turn it into the in place for the elite of Carlton Beach. And Carlton Beach had plenty of elite. The once run down area had been enjoying a renaissance in recent years, as real estate along the Jersey Shore became more in demand, and more expensive. Moneyed refugees from New York and Philadelphia were snapping up any piece of run down property that was within walking distance of the boardwalk. They rid the landscape of undesirable buildings and undesirable people and erected a yuppie Xanadu.

In time, Freddy realized the clientele he was counting on were more apt to frequent a yacht club or a trendy sushi bar than a humble establishment embedded within a decidedly working class area. Fortunately for Freddy, the warehouse workers and UPS drivers held no such prejudices and he did a healthy lunchtime trade. This is not to say that the movers and shakers in town were totally ignorant of the eatery. It was a place where a man of means and his paramour could share a dinner with virtually no chance of running into Mrs. Man of Means. Most of Carlton Beach’s fine ladies would rather die than be seen in such a venue - and fear of what they might discover kept the rest at bay.

So when big shot banker William Paterson Hillman entered with a stunning thirtyish redhead clinging to his arm, no one so much as raised an eyebrow. The couple was guided to a table in a discreet corner. Hillman settled his fifty-eight year-old, two hundred sixty pound frame onto a creaking wooden chair. His looks were as bland as his personality, eliciting neither excitement nor revulsion from the opposite sex. His wife had been mainly attracted to his checkbook, and now spent most of her time adding to her considerable collection of art, perhaps hoping the artist’s passion would in some small way make up for the absence of the emotion in her own life.

William had no need of passion, sex was so much better and less complicated when paid for, a simple business arrangement that left both parties satisfied and unfettered. Tonight was an exception. Julie Ryan had gotten in touch with him and suggested the engagement. William was enough of a realist to understand that Julie was way out of his league, but he had something she wanted. Julie owned a construction business she inherited from her father. She had done quite well with it, so well that a year ago she gambled all her assets on the purchase of some prime beachfront land and began building luxury condos. Although the company was operating on a tight budget, the work was progressing on schedule. Until the labor problems began.

Tommy Fitzgerald, the cantankerous old prick that ran Construction Local 182, started pulling his workers for the slightest of infractions: not enough overtime, too much overtime, not enough safety precautions, too many safety precautions. It seemed that Julie couldn’t win no matter which way she turned. So, as with most problems in life, Julie’s troubles boiled down to money. The constant delays and shakedowns from the union had eroded Ryan Construction’s bankroll to dangerously low levels, and Julie desperately needed a loan to keep the project going.

Hillman, a trustee of Shore Savings and Loan, could guarantee the money, but he wasn’t about to. The fact that she’d suggested they meet at Fat Freddy’s told him what she had in mind. Well, she would find out that he wasn’t as out of his league as she thought. He’d lead her on, right into the sack, and then tell her to get lost. The thought of using and disposing of a woman who would normally heave, or worse, laugh, at the very suggestion of them in bed together, gave him a perverse thrill he had never had the opportunity to experience before.

The banker ordered for both of them, leaned back in his chair and waited in silence; a malevolent monarch awaiting the desperate, but ultimately hopeless, plea of a troublesome subject.

Julie leaned slightly forward, Have you had a chance to go over the updated proposal, William? (Hillman was never addressed by such crass diminutives as Will, Bill, or God forbid, Willy. Indeed, when introducing himself he invariably used all three of his names.)

As a matter of fact I have. Unfortunately, the situation has not changed. You simply do not have enough collateral to protect our investors should your project meet with failure, which, I must say, seems more likely every day.

You’re looking at the short term, Julie persisted, and missing the real value of what I’m offering. We’re putting up 120 units at half a mil per. We already have commitments on a third of them, more than enough to cover the note we’re requesting. In addition we are willing to cut the bank in for a percentage of the monthly maintenance fees, giving you a steady stream of income long after the initial debt has been satisfied. I don’t see how you can possibly take a pass on a deal like that.

Julie knew the pompous asshole wasn’t going to take the deal, no matter how much she sweetened the pot. A labor problem was one sure way of sending the corporate moneymen diving for cover. They were not, as a whole, a courageous or adventurous lot. But it was okay, the rejection she knew was coming was just the opening salvo of a game she had every intention of winning.

William pretended to ponder the point as the waiter delivered the salads. These commitments you speak of are merely five per cent deposits your buyers have anteed up thus far. You will not be seeing any more money from them until the units are nearer to completion. So in fact, you are still a very long way from having ‘more than enough to cover the note.’

Silence, occasionally broken by snippets of banalities, punctuated the remainder of the meal. William was quite pleased with the way the evening was going. He had rejected Julie’s best offer, and now enjoyed watching her squirm as she realized she only had one card left to play.

The waiter placed dessert menus before them. Julie placed her hand over William’s as he reached for his. I have a better idea, she whispered.

In the summer, the Laguna Motel was a bargain overnight stop for budget-conscious travelers on the way to Cape May or Atlantic City. It was clean rather than opulent, and situated just off the Garden State Parkway. Now that another summer had come and gone, the staff had settled into a leisurely routine, centered around the few late- September guests, mostly truck drivers, who wandered in seeking shelter for the night. Julie pulled her Escalade in front of unit 18, a room positioned around back, invisible to traffic on the main road.

William parked his Lincoln several spots away, he’d wait a couple of minutes after she entered before he went in himself. A very cautious man, Julie mused, but his precautions would not save him tonight.

The banker cast furtive glances about him as he made his way to the room. It was doubtful his wife would even care if she discovered his extramarital activities; he just didn’t want to give her lawyers ammunition in the event of a divorce. He closed the door carefully behind him and locked the deadlock and slid the security chain into place.

He didn’t waste any time talking; after all, they were two business people here to close a deal. The fact that he had no intention of actually signing the papers he was sure Julie had stashed in her purse did not mean he wasn’t going to accept what she was offering tonight. He made no commitments to her, and she, therefore, had no reason to expect any.

Julie remained motionless as the obese moneyman slobbered and fussed over her. He thrashed around like a beached whale, as Julie stared at the ceiling and considered the best way to allocate the funds he was about to approve.

Finally satisfied, William rolled off and lay next to her, his considerable paunch rising and falling as he sucked in the room’s stale air. Julie got up from the rumpled bed, reached into her purse and sat down next to him. She held some papers in one hand, and a pen in the other.

I already said no, William reminded her.

So you did, Julie replied, smiling. Sign the papers, anyway.

Still gasping, he got up and started dressing. I am not going to sign those tonight or any other night. You think you can play with the big boys. Well, since you’re not getting anything else tonight, I’ll leave you with this: It takes more than a screwing from a small-town slut to buy your way into this game, honey. And frankly, I’ve had better, much better.

Julie spun around and, without bothering to get dressed, headed for the door. William froze, wondering what she was up to.

Julie turned to the banker, smiled briefly, unlocked the door and then stepped out into the night air.

Rape! she screamed, in a voice much louder than her petite frame would suggest.

Somebody help, I’ve been raped!

William Paterson Hillman, still half-dressed, reached the door just in time to see a police cruiser pull up. Two officers got out as Julie ran to the bed and threw a blanket around herself.

One of the officers, a veteran of too many years on the force, positioned himself squarely in front of William and barked, What have you done?

The banker, his face pale, stammered, N-N-Nothing, I swear.

The other officer, younger than his partner, but not by much, stood beside Julie, as if prepared to defend her from further attacks.

He raped me, she stated, pointing at the banker.

William was beginning to regain some of his composure. She invited me here, whatever happened was with her complete consent.

The younger officer turned toward Julie, Is that so miss?

No, it is not. He was supposed to sign some loan papers for me. We met at a restaurant, but he said he left the papers in his motel room, and we’d have to come here and get them. Julie spoke the words with no emotion, like a representative reading a statement into the Congressional Record. When we got here, he insisted I do other things before he signed. I said no and started to leave. That’s when he threw me on the bed and attacked me.

Hillman may have been an egotistical jerk with an over inflated opinion of his own importance, but he wasn’t stupid. Although caught off guard at first, he was quickly recovering. She’s lying, he blurted out. This room isn’t even in my name, she rented it.

That’s easily enough checked out, the older officer said. He spoke into the walkie-talkie clipped to the shoulder strap of his shirt. In less than a minute a bored-looking young man was led into the room, closely followed by a second man. The second man appeared to be in his early forties, clothed in civilian garb, not tall, but powerfully built despite a slight bulge in the midsection. Although he was more than capable of handling himself in a physical confrontation, he rarely had to; he had the look and sense about him of someone who was better off left alone.

You the desk clerk? the officer snapped.

I am, the young man answered.

Who reserved this room?

The desk clerk pointed at Hillman, He did.

Hillman took an angry step toward his accuser before being restrained by the veteran cop. You lying little piece of shit, he bellowed. Show me the credit card receipt.

You paid cash, the clerk responded.

Hillman pondered this for a moment. Bring the register in here, I never signed it.

No you didn’t, the clerk agreed, you printed your name in the book – Smith, I think it was.

Smith? the younger officer smirked.

The clerk shrugged his shoulders. It’s the slow season; we don’t ask a lot of questions.

The banker exploded. This is all a bunch of bullshit! It’s a bullshit setup. You people don’t know who you are fucking with. He jabbed his finger at the cops, I’ll have your badges, he turned on the clerk, and your job. He glared at Julie. "And you, you little whore; the only way you’re ever going to make any money is by selling blowjobs for five bucks a piece on - -

Hillman gagged as the civilian grabbed him by the throat. It’s okay, Manny, Julie intervened. Let him rant. He’s already lost; he just hasn’t realized it yet.

I’ve lost? the banker bellowed. I’ve lost? You’re the one who is going to regret this day. None of this bullshit will hold up in court.

It doesn’t have to, Julie suggested. How many of your country-club buddies are going to stand by you when they hear the word rape? How long will your Board of Directors allow the name of their beloved bank to get dragged through the mud along with yours? I’m guessing not long. Oh, and let’s not forget the church. You’re one of the Elders in your congregation, aren’t you? Now you can no doubt fight this in court and win, but you’ll have precious little left in the way of money, friends, or reputation when you’re finished. You see Willy (she emphasized the name) the difference between us is that I’m willing to go down and take you with me if I have to. Are you willing to give up everything just to spite me?

Manny retrieved Julie’s papers from the bed. Sign these, then get dressed and get the hell out of here. The banker did as he was told, then stormed out of the room.

Manny handed an envelope to each of the officers, who then quickly disappeared. He slipped a fifty to the desk clerk and ushered him to the door. Standing in the doorway, Manny turned back toward the room. You want me to hang around?

No, I’ll be fine, Julie assured him. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

Chapter 2

Mike Ryan slammed his palm against the top of the kitchen table, making the salt and pepper shakers dance frantically before they toppled to the floor. Damn! he exclaimed.

His twin sister, Val, calmly looked up from the several textbooks laid out in front of her. Having a little trouble, are we? she asked, sarcastically.

Shakespeare, Mike returned, as if that explained it all.

Oh, so it’s the English language that has you stumped again, Val observed as she returned the errant shakers to the center of the table next to a chrome napkin holder.

Mike loved his sister but hated when she affected that superior air. They were twins all right, but somehow Val had managed to hog most of the brainpower that had been allotted to them. She could comprehend in minutes things that it often took Mike most of a semester to grasp. It wasn’t that he was stupid; he just didn’t have the discipline or desire to pore over pages of text again and again until the general concepts wormed their way into his head.

This crap is not English, he protested. Besides, I doubt I’ll have use for this stuff in the Army, anyway.

Val put down the book she had been studying. The Army? she asked.

Yeah, Mike answered, excitedly. You know those recruiters who have been around campus this week? Val nodded. Well I talked to them today. Do you know that I can sign up now, and leave right after this semester? I can get a GED in the service, and never have to step inside a school ever again.

Val clapped her hands, feigning elation. How wonderful for you, she gushed. Off to find fame and glory on the battlefield. Gosh, you have no idea how much I envy you right now. But tell me, how do you plan on getting Julie to agree to this grand scheme of yours?

Mike drew himself up in his chair and smiled. That’s the best part. Julie has no say in this.

Well, correct me if I’m wrong, Val began, but doesn’t someone have to sign for you since you’re only seventeen?

They sure do, Mike agreed, and that someone is Mom, not Julie.

Val shook her head; Mike could be endearingly dense at times. Mom is not about to do anything Julie doesn’t want her to, or did you forget who pays the bills, including Mom’s bar tab, around here?

Well, I think it’s a great idea. Sandra, the oldest of Doreen and the late Frank Ryan’s children entered the kitchen and headed for the refrigerator. You need to get away from this place and live your own life, make your own choices, experience the world beyond this stinking little hovel.

Like the way you’re experiencing it from behind the jewelry counter at KMart? Val asked.

I’ve seen plenty, and done plenty, Sandra retorted, testily.

Sure, Val agreed, until the guy you’re with gets tired of you and dumps you in the middle of nowhere. Then you head right back to the ‘stinking little hovel,’ don’t you?

Sandra snagged an apple from the crisper and flicked the refrigerator door shut. "My plans may have not always worked