Blind Faith

Copyright © 2023 by Patrick Girondi

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover artwork: Blind Faith by Megan Euker (wood, acrylic, bronze, rock on panel)

Cover design by APOTH Creative

Photo of cover artwork and author by Jon-Patric Nelson

ISBN: 978-1-5107-7830-6

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-7831-3

Printed in the United States of America

Dedications

I dedicate this book to my spiritual mothers and fathers:

To my own mother, who never gives up. I also will never give up.

To Zia Rosa, who, after all she has been through, remains a guiding light to me and many more. I will always be your scirompolato.

To Don Mario Paciello, whose wisdom has carried me through a few storms.

To Father John Frawley: You lived during the turbulent scandals of the church. Thanks for never bending.

To my three sons, the Skyhorse Publishing team, and to Megan Euker, my agent. Thanks for the confidence and support.

Contents

Character List

Chapter 1: Here Comes the President

Chapter 2: Granny’s Death Just in Time

Chapter 3: Pigs in Suits and Vans

Chapter 4: Maybe It’s Not That Easy After All

Chapter 5: It’s Cool for All and Easy for No One

Chapter 6: This Is Going to Fit Just Fine

Chapter 7: Misguided Destiny

Chapter 8: You Broke My Dollhouse

Chapter 9: Things Could Have Been Simpler, My Girl

Chapter 10: Crazy Baby

Chapter 11: There Is No God

Chapter 12: We’re in the Funnies

Chapter 13: God’s Really on Trial

Chapter 14: The Court Calls Howard Abbott

Chapter 15: The Truth?

Chapter 16: The For Real

Afterword

Blind Faith: Screenplay

Plates Section

Character List

Chapter 1

Here Comes the President

Since Anthony Cristiano’s salon opened in the Trump Tower on the Chicago River at Wabash Ave., few elitists trudged down to Kiva’s in Water Tower Place. It’s true that a haircut in Anthony’s could cost $600, but it was worth not having to mingle with the common folk. At least that’s what Aaron Abbott believed.

Daniel Abbott, Aaron’s direct ancestor, landed in Providence, Rhode Island in 1630. The griffin, a legendary creature with the body, tail, and back legs of a lion, the head and wings of an eagle, and eagle talons as its front feet, sits at the top of the Abbott coat of arms. In Aaron’s unpretentious opinion, it epitomizes the strength and splendor attributed to his blood dynasty.

Of course, the Abbotts should not be confused with the Abbotts of Dublin, Ireland, whose lineage has been polluted with servants and the like.

The Abbotts live in a thirty-thousand-square-foot mansion at 7 Fox Hunt Road in Barrington, an elite suburb northwest of the city of Chicago. Next to the manor is the Cabbage House, where Aaron’s little sister lives with Rebecca Riley.

Aaron skipped past the concierge desk, nodded and hit the up button. In a reflection, he sees a slender six-one figure, elegantly dressed in a brown suit, beige shirt, large blue tie, and large gold cuff links. Aaron smiles tightly. He’s gorgeous.

Anthony’s is on the mezzanine. Aaron was grateful that there was no escalator or stair access. The elevator worked as a populace filter.

It was a stressful period for him. He was trying to return his life to some sort of normalcy. He had lots on his plate, and a manicure and haircut was the perfect way to get back into the swing of things.

He got off the elevator and walked into Anthony’s. Beyoncé, the receptionist, smiled. Good morning, Mr. Abbott. Anthony is waiting for you and, of course, Taylor will be doing your nails.

Aaron smiles and gazes at the men and women sitting under dryers, getting their nails done and their hair cut and highlighted. While Aaron is walking toward Anthony Cristiano, his phone beeps.

Anthony is fifty. He’s working on the hair of an eighty-year-old man. The style and hair color is like Donald Trump’s. In fact, Donald asked Anthony to slow down on the look-alikes when he became president. Now that he has been impeached and is no longer president, there are far fewer imitators.

Adele, come finish here please. Anthony passes a few regulars heading toward Aaron. Oh, Mrs. Stern, it’s perfect. Red is your color.

Really? We have the opera tonight. I’d just die if I didn’t look perfect, Mrs. Stern says.

Mrs. Stern, when they see you, they’ll put you on the stage.

She croons as Anthony sails forward.

Aaron reaches for his phone, and it dawns on him: it’s lucky that Anthony charges for service and not results. Most customers would still be ugly after they spent $1,000 to get their hair and makeup done.

Aaron is staring at his phone: Andrew Industries loses investor confidence.

Anthony arrives and whispers in Aaron’s ear. Do you have a tip for me, Mr. Abbott? The three stocks you gave me are working like a charm. You’re the best.

Aaron’s face is suddenly drawn. He looks through Anthony in shock. One by one, clients watch and a few begin to whisper. Anthony takes out a comb and picks at Aaron’s hair. These blond highlights turned you into another Brad Pitt.

Taylor approaches and takes Aaron’s fingers in her hand. Mr. Abbott.

Aaron reaches into his pocket and hands Taylor a ten-dollar bill then creeps forward in a walking coma.

Mr. Abbott, are you going to return for your haircut and manicure? Anthony asks.

Seemingly, the whole salon watches Aaron walk out.

Anthony claps, Beyoncé, call the mayor’s wife. If she’s still in the building, I’ll take her.

Anthony looks at Taylor. He likes you, honey. What a catch, he’s one of America’s most eligible bachelors. His father, Howard Abbott, is at the helm of Abbott Electronics, one of the largest, best-run corporations in the state, maybe in the country. One day Aaron will command that ship.

She whispers something to Anthony. His eyes open wide in disbelief. He captures his composure and claps. Pull Miss Pritzker from under the dryer or she’ll roast.

Anthony continues to float forward. My own salon and I’m still the last one to know the dirt, Anthony whispers to himself.

Aaron is scrolling on his phone. Two old socialites, Mrs. Kittle and Mrs. Albright, step off the elevator. Aaron notices them but looks the other way hoping that they’ll spare him.

Suddenly Mrs. Kittle bubbles, Aaron, Aaron Abbott.

Oh, hi Mrs. Kittle, Mrs. Albright. Aaron nods his head slightly.

As always, Mrs. Kittle is sporting a mammoth, fake smile. Aaron, remind Mum about the Mid-America Auxiliary meeting on Friday, she says.

And do tell Melissa that we said hello, Mrs. Albright says.

The pair mechanically raise their right hands and wave. Aaron smiles reluctantly and nods.

Mrs. Kittle turns to Mrs. Albright, speaking in a low tone. He’s not with Melissa Andrew. He disappeared a few days before the wedding.

"I know, Mrs. Albright says, I just couldn’t resist. I hope he tells Ingrid, that witch of a woman he calls his mother."

He’s a cad, and everyone knows it, Mrs. Kittle says, My son, Arthur, told me that he left her because Andrew Industries is in financial trouble.

Mrs. Kittle and Mrs. Albright turn in to Anthony’s salon.

Mrs. Kittle, Mrs. Albright, what a pleasure to see you. Cristina, Rihanna, Beyoncé, Anthony says in a loud voice, the Albright and Kittle girls have arrived."

All eyes in the shop turn except for those who loathe Mesdames Albright and Kittle or those who object to the announcement of customers as if they were royalty arriving at a ball.

Less than a mile away, Attorney Sebastian Sherwin and Attorney Lawrence Barr are together in Sebastian Sherwin’s office and reading the same article that startled Aaron. Sebastian is a neatly dressed attorney of thirty but looks every bit of thirty-five. He’d be smiling from ear to ear, but his paper-thin lips would snap.

Sebastian is a self-proclaimed atheist of the Jewish faith. He’s a member of the Society for Humanistic Judaism and a big fan of Baruch Spinoza, a Spanish philosopher of the Age of Reason.

Attorney Lawrence Barr is twenty-five years Sebastian’s senior and also carries his age like a hog carries a tune. I doubt if Aaron’s old man knows how much Andrew Industries stock Abbott Electronics is holding.

It’s not something I’d volunteer, Sebastian says. If it comes back, he’s a genius. If not, he’s an idiot.

Sebastian shakes his head gently.

What was he thinking? Lawrence Barr asks.

The share price kept falling. He kept doubling up; greed’s my guess, Sebastian says.

He was engaged to Andrew’s only daughter. Why didn’t she warn him? Barr asks.

I think that’s why he dumped her. He thought that her family double-crossed him, Sebastian says.

And did they? Lawrence Barr asks.

Lawrence, how long have you been Luellyn Abbott’s puppet? Sebastian asks. Counselor, Barr returns.

Yeah, right, Sebastian slithers, that feisty old hag doesn’t take counsel from anyone. It’s a shame her grandson, Aaron, doesn’t have some of her astuteness.

She’ll be gone soon enough, Lawrence adds.

Why do you dislike her so? Sebastian grins pleasingly. She must have kept you under her heel.

I’ll finally get mine when she’s gone, Lawrence adds with a high degree of satisfaction.

I’ve been waiting seven years myself, Sebastian says.

Lawrence looks at him cautiously.

Sebastian, I’m divulging privileged client info here. How’s this going to help me?

"One hand washes the other . . . one hand washes the other. Besides, I doubt that Grandma Abbott is generating a lot of hours, and you’ve always sold to the best bidder." Sebastian shrugs his shoulders and smiles.

Andrew Industries got awful choppy and illiquid. Who sold him all the stock? Lawrence asks.

Yeah, Lawrence, right. As if you don’t know, Sebastian says.

Aaron looks at his watch and meticulously gathers his jacket as he boards the Uber. 1150 North LaSalle, quickly, he says.

Yes sir, the driver says.

Drop the visor, Aaron says as he points.

The driver quickly responds. Aaron studies the mirror and combs his hair.

Aaron walks into the offices of Judy O’Brien Public Relations at 11:15 a.m. Judy’s fiftyish and very sexy. She has large brown eyes and long brown hair with blond streaks. She’s at her desk with her female assistant, Tony. Aaron storms in and startles the women.

Aaron! You scared me, Judy says smiling.

Judy thinks she knows why Aaron is there but doesn’t have the time or the will to pass through that pond.

How was your trip? Judy doesn’t wait for Aaron to respond and rolls her eyes to the side, looking at an imaginary calendar. Don’t you have the luncheon for the president-elect in fifteen minutes?

As Aaron often does, he answers her question with a question. Did you see the article on Andrew Industries?

I heard something. What’s it got to do with us?

Aaron stutters, Us? Nothing, but you-you-you know how the press loves to crucify me. My ex is an heir. They’ll try to mix me in the mess somehow.

"Don’t sweat the Melissa stuff. Calling off a wedding isn’t that."

Aaron interrupts. No, it’s not that.

Judy stares at one of the few clients that she wishes would sexually assault her. Why else should you be mixed into it?

Aaron’s quiet.

Aaron, skeletons. As CEO of AE, you’ll be in the spotlight. I can only protect you from what I know. Clinton’s people found out first and eliminated oral sex as a sexual act. I need time to prepare. Got it? I can’t protect you from what I don’t know.

Aaron removes his hand from his pocket and rubs his forehead.

What do I have to pull you out of this time? she asks.

Aaron is offended. This time? he asks.

Judy waits for an answer as Aaron’s irritation level rises.

Just do damage control on this Andrew thing. I’ll hold up my end. Aaron heads for the door.

"If you really want to hold up your end, you should think twice about leaving town to avoid gossip about ex-fiancés."

It was your idea!

I’m an adviser. You and only you are responsible for your actions.

"This is deluxe. I pay for advice; if I don’t follow it, you ostracize me. When I do follow it, and it turns out to be bad advice, I’m responsible for my own actions. Can you tell me; exactly why do I pay you?"

Judy smiles at him in motherly way. You pay me because I’m the best at what I do. Now get to the luncheon.

Aaron walks out.

Tony looks at Judy. That guy should be in the movies.

If he plays his cards right, someday he’ll go from president of AE to president of the country.

He’s a doll. I’d vote for him, Tony says.

He’s our client. You better vote for him, Judy snaps.

Aaron grabs an Uber and gets out in front of the Conrad Hilton. He goes through the revolving door and up the stairs. Sebastian is watching him from below.

At the ballroom entrance, an attractive young girl greets Aaron with a name label. Hi, Mr. Abbott, can I tag you?

Of course, Aaron says, smiling broadly.

A line suddenly forms, and Sebastian butts ahead, almost to the front. He’s confronted by Susan, another attractive political aide.

May I have your name, please? Susan asks.

Sebastian glances ahead at Aaron. Sebastian Sherwin, he says loudly.

Susan goes through her file. I’m sorry, sir. You must be on another list. One moment.

Aaron moves away. Sebastian follows.

"Sir . . . Sir," Susan says.

Sebastian looks back. Don’t worry, damn it! I’ll send a check.

Sebastian disappears into the crowd. Irritated, Susan looks for backup, but she’s by herself and can’t leave her post.

The hall is filled with blue-suited men and gorgeous women. There are two long appetizer tables on either side of the room and four bars. Aaron cautiously makes his way through the crowd. He spots Illinois Governor Rauner, who is sixty-seven, but could easily pass for much older. Rauner’s surrounded by four people. Aaron reaches his hand in to him.

Mr. Abbott, good to see you, Governor Rauner says.

Governor, as always, you can count on AE.

They shake hands. Sebastian barges into the group. His back is to Aaron. He aggressively grabs the governor’s hand. Governor! It’s been a while.

Yes . . . yes it has . . . Mr. . . .

Sherwin, Sebastian Sherwin.

Oh yes . . . of course . . . Mr. Sebastian.

Sebastian’s my first name.

But of course, Mr. Sherwin.

The governor is completely comfortable speaking to people he doesn’t know. There are probably three thousand people in the ballroom, and he might know thirty of them. Of course, it’s essential that they write checks; whether he knows them or not is a trivial detail. The governor turns to Sebastian. This is Aaron Abbott of AE.

Aaron studies Sebastian.

I know Mr. Abbott, Sebastian replies.

Sebastian reaches for Aaron’s hand. Aaron hesitates, then shakes. Sebastian looks at the governor. We’re old friends, Governor.

The governor smiles. Well, we’ll need a lot of old friends to win this one. . . . We all need friends.

"If you only knew, Sir. . . . If you only knew," Sebastian replies.

An attractive young woman in a business suit interrupts the group. Mr. Abbott, you have an urgent call on the house phone.

Aaron smiles. House phone? I didn’t know anyone even used them anymore. Excuse me, Governor. . . . Mr. Sherwin.

Aaron, I’ll be at the bar, Sebastian says.

Aaron is on the verge of blowing Sebastian off.

We need to speak, Aaron. Something’s come out of the closet, Sebastian says.

The governor moves away. Aaron lamely nods at Sebastian.

Aaron follows the woman to the house phone. Mother, my cell’s dead.

Don’t be running around town like some gigolo. It’s not good for your image, Ingrid Abbott, Aaron’s mother, says.

I know, Mother, Aaron replies, and I thank you. I’ll find a suitable escort.

I’m worried, son.

I know you are worried, Mother. Oh, and Mother . . . have you? Never mind.

Aaron hangs up and walks into the crowd. Sebastian’s standing by the packed bar with a drink in his hand. He notices Aaron walking toward him and quickly turns away.

Aaron notices the coy move. He takes Sebastian’s shoulder and turns him around. All right, Sherwin, what gives?

Sebastian jerks his shoulder under Aaron’s hand. Machiavelli says that generosity can work against you, especially with politicians.

Cut the bull, Sherwin.

Sebastian looks to both sides. It’s seven years, friend. Seven’s a lucky number.

"Yes, Sherwin . . . is that what you wanted to tell me, that seven is a lucky number? I’ve got things