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“I’m fairly sure I am doing way beyond my wildest expectations. At least according to the polls.” Bishop clucked his tongue, and I heard him mounting his golf clubs to his cart.
No wonder Rossi did business with him. The hedonist asshole didn’t have the term work in his dictionary.
“Nothing a few bad press releases can’t ruin, I assume,” I quipped, getting to my point.
It was hardly a social call, after all.
“What are you insinuating?” White barked, and I could practically see the spit flying out of his mouth.
God, he was an awful-looking creature. I hated him a little extra for being a corrupted cop. A dishonest politician, I could handle. All politicians were corrupt, but some of them were still good.
Being a corrupted cop made you a piece of shit.
End of story.
White represented the Chicago Police Department, something my late brother was a part of. I’d hate to think how Romeo would feel had he known White was the commander and chief of operations nowadays.
“I’m insinuating that you’re still not doing your job to my satisfaction. My wife was in a car chase yesterday. Bandini’s people.”
“How is she doing?” Bishop asked, not even a little interested.
“Save me the pleasantries. Life’s too short to pretend we give a damn about each other.”
“A: do not threaten my campaign under any circumstances, and B: give me direct instructions and I’ll pass them through to the source you need help with,” Bishop offered.
“I don’t think you get to talk to me about circumstances,” I snapped.
The Jaguar rolled into the gates of my mansion. Today, I’d done something I hadn’t done in my entire career, not since I graduated from college.
I took a day off.
I wanted to make sure that Francesca was feeling well and didn’t need to pay a visit to the hospital. Smithy opened the door for me. I stepped out.
“Right now, to soothe my growing anger with your client,” I highlighted, “I’d kindly demand that you tell him to keep his associates and himself far away from my wife. It’s in everyone’s benefit, yours included.”
“Fine,” White bit out.
Bishop stayed silent.
“You, too, Tiger Woods.”
“I heard you,” he clipped. “Are you going to hang this over our heads for a while now, Keaton? Because you’re starting to make enemies everywhere. First with you-know-who and his crew and now with us. Do you have any friends left at all?” He wondered.
“I don’t need friends,” I said. “I have something much more powerful. The truth.”
I found my wife in her vegetable garden, sucking on a thin cigarette and tending to her plants.
She wore a long blue skirt and a white dress shirt. There was something strong and determined about her choice to follow her parents’ rules, even after they’d disowned her completely.
When I first met her, I thought she was a puppet. A shiny, pretty toy designed by Arthur Rossi that I could break. The more I got to know her, the more I realized how wrong I was.
She was humble, modest, resilient, innocent, and well-cultured.
The night of the masquerade, I ridiculed her for excelling in what her parents wanted her to become, completely disregarding the fact that being proper and well-behaved was much more daunting than being another defiant, rebellious, twenty-first century kid who wore short skirts and fucked everything that moved.
I mocked her for being rotten before finding out that she was a compassionate, good-willed woman.
Francesca wiped the sweat and soil from her forehead, turning around and walking to the shed to retrieve a bag of fertilizer.
