RED HOUSE
Fiction. Perhaps.By KENT KILLMERiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Kent Killmer
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-6038-1Chapter One
Menlo Park, California
October 2008
Originally, Francis had no intention of staying that late. As a Menlo Park venture capitalist, he knew God had put hands on the clock for others. Not for him. He did what it took. He did what came next. Deals were his life and his wife, a mistress whose passion knew no bounds. Francis had become a deal junkie. Initially, the transformation was intentional, for the green and for the glory. Now, the process was the cause and he was the effect.
Holding the flaming cedar shard to the end of his seven inch-long, fifty-two ring Ashton Churchill cigar, he rotated the thin, earthen-colored cylinder slowly, first to warm and then to ignite. This action consummated the plural marriage of nicotine, tar and fire, which his mother had warned him repeatedly was so wrong and yet his mouth, nose and palate knew to be oh so right.
Mr. Francis Scott Key—after the Francis Scott Key (a shirttail relative)—was a right wing, conservative, Regan-Constitutionalist who was a card carrying member of the Silent Majority. A man of means, Key was always impeccably dressed while working. Urban legend reported of the time his shirt cuffs' excessively starched razor edged, actually drew blood from his wrists. Although he'd always denied the story, those who knew him saw just a fleeting glint of pleasure in his eyes when the tale was rebuffed. His mouth would draw slightly thinner, his eyes would narrow to a squint and a sardonic smile would appear and then flit away just as quickly.
A master of appearances, deception and distance, Mr. Key allowed few to become acquaintances and no one to become close. When not working, he found comfort sandwiching his apparel and styling in that natty niche between ber-casual and squalor that is best known by young men in their teens and wharf rats.
Late thirties, six feet two, tanned and sinewy, he had maintained the gritty physique acquired from prior years as a Navy SEAL. Arrestingly handsome, he'd honed his craft extracting a small measure of pleasure from each black ops experience. Somewhat self-absorbed, his gait and carriage made him appear more like a short stop than a high-powered executive, with his age just starting to make its appearance in the occasional fine line on his face.
Key's hair was coal black with the obvious exception of the forward leaning My Friend Flicka shock of gray. This appeared as so much frontal festooned plumage, hanging la Elvis, raucously from fatigue, or cantilevered out just slightly over his forehead.
"Don't do it all in one day, Mr. Key," quipped the office janitorette. She whisked behind him brushing her torso ever so gently against his arms—arms linked to hands, which were finger-laced behind his head. The brush was so masterfully slight it could be confusing to the uninitiated as to whether it was deliberate or not.
Key, on the other hand, was anything but uninitiated. He had lost any degree of ambiguity as to her intentions some six brushes ago. Promptly following the veiled touching arrived a wall of aromas—a plaid smorgasbord of odors, which was an elegant blending of Lysol, DDT and the finest perfume offered up on aisle sixteen at the Dollar Store. Her skin was tighter than the surface of an overinflated volleyball. And her eyes were so large they would make Bambi's appear beady. And yet ...
Something isn't there, he thought. Oh yes. It was the ability to initiate and retain a single cogent thought. Yet again. Who cares? He knew a real man wouldn't. In his ill-spent youth, he and his expatriates would do the town, then they'd do the women. After all, it was their due. They were manly men—hairy-chested, meat-eating, trans fat-binging, seegar-smoking, drink-till-you-puke, sport-fucking men. Ah yes. Those were the days. Tie into a bad piece of livestock? Not to worry. Sashay on down to your local OBGY-MEN and a shot of penicillin about the size of a Red Bull would fix that runny nose and any other body parts that might be similarly affected. But now? Now he had likened the current sexual lollapalooza and its buffet of infections to going to Vegas and betting your Johnson at the roulette wheel. He just didn't like the odds.
"Mr. Key?" again questioned the cleaning lady.
"Yes?" said Scotty.
"Should I put the cat out? Or are you commming?" she asked with the guttersnipe flirtatious style consistent with her youth and a HUD housing upbringing.
While all the obvious double entendres raced through Key's mind as to an appropriately testosterone-charged comeback, he responded quietly instead, "No. You go ahead." He did not lift his eyes or his head.
The cigar smoke curled up languidly skyward from the pale green, crystal, octagonal ash tray. The crystal was inset into a thirty-inch-high, wrought iron stand that continued over the top of the glass. It prominently displayed two dogs on their hind legs holding hoops up with their tiny front paws, joined at the apex, as if celebrating the doggie Olympics—perhaps the smoking doggie Olympics. The ash tray had been his grandfather's, then his fathers and ultimately his. The relic was over a hundred years old. The dogs were Scotties.
Still. If her teeth were just a little straighter, she had perhaps just slightly better posture and her blouse's polka dots were just half as large, she might be an appealing onesy in a Daisy Mae Meets the Wolf-Man Behind the File Cabinet kind of way. But then, he mused, he worked there. He'd see her again. Awkward.
And then, there was this whole breath thing. Her breath was registered in three states. It could stop a London Cabbie at full throttle well in advance of a shrill bobby's whistle. He knew that breath anywhere. A fifty-five gallon drum of Listerine, followed up with the white hot cleansing of a small nuclear device could not neutralize that odor.
Key harkened back to his childhood. He recalled the omnipresent goldfish that lived in an opalescent bowl, centered upon a dusty doily on the dark walnut nightstand, right by his bed. Over time, the bowl had etched a small ring into the furniture. The fish had been his little buddies. The bowl's pungent, brown green moss-laden, oppressive odor which wafted heavenward, had the moist night air spiriting it into his nostrils as he slept. It was eerily reminiscent of the cleaning lady's breath. Yes. She had aquarium breath. It was a deal killer.
It has been said that nothing fails like success, as in too much success. Francis, while being acutely aware of this phenomenon, was beginning to become numb from his prior accomplishments. Sometimes he'd form, not so much the words but rather, the concept in his mind: Is this it? Is this all there is? Am I not going to make a difference? A real difference? Am I going to be but a pimple on the buttocks of life? He reflected on the impact his long removed great-great-great-uncle had wrought on the national stage with the anthem. Pretty cool. He wanted to do some good as well, to effect something bigger than himself. To be remembered.
He found he was staring into his computer screen with the look of a walleye who'd just been introduced to a fisherman's mallet. Sometimes, he'd fantasize about being physically pulled into the screen—going into a world where he would make a difference on a grander stage. The thought intrigued him.
Whaaap! The office door slammed behind Daisy Mae, snapping him back into reality.
Scotty Key was demanding. He was a perfectionist. And he was Oxford-educated in economics and math. Normally right, as an intellectual property venture capitalist, Key had learned early and well how to quickly don his game face. A sardonic smile peppered with just enough pleasantries to feign true California sincerity offered up the illusion of caring. This was an acquired skill stamped onto his admission ticket ages ago in the Menlo Park firm where he plied his craft. While this facade had served him well for years in the venture business, the mantel on which he carried it was beginning to become a bit heavy. It had become less important, now that he had his demons mostly under control.
Chapter Two
"Yo! Scotty!" came a cry from the next office. The voice belonged to another of the firm's partners and Scotty's best friend—Cornelius Brandon III, esquire, also known as Pig.
Blazing from around the corner of the rich walnut wainscoted corridor by the art deco sculptures and clean-lined, euro-glass walled conference room emerged a fireplug of a man on rails. "Go home, man!"
A product of Stanford, Pig was in his late twenties. He sported fire engine hair, complexion, temper, drive and delivery. He enjoyed carrying a set of business cards that proclaimed:
Introducing The Son of a Bitch from the Bay With All the Answers
Humility was not one of Pig's strengths. Incandescently bright, Pig had been a linebacker in school. That "caring and sensitive" delivery had served him well on the gridiron and was symptomatic of his approach to work and life. A blistering IQ, Pig used to notch his locker by biting off a hunk of the multi-yellow-stained pine top shelf every time he broke an opponent's limb. His collegiate football nickname was "Bonecrusher."
He still liked to break things. He liked to bust junior MBA's balls when they made a funding request from his firm, PacRim Ventures. While the "Pac" stood for Pacific, Pig took delight in claiming he traded this in his compensation package in honor of the Pac 10 Conference of which he was a proud alumnus.
"Scotty! Scotty! Scotty!" roared Pig.
"What?" responded Key.
"Did you see me squash those Nipponese empty suits today? They're bugs! What Pussies!"
"No. I missed that. My loss."
"You couldn't have. Not possible. You were in the room!" Pig's volume and magenta pigmentation were both elevating.
Scotty spun around in his chair to give Pig his full attention, realizing any attempt at feigning disinterest would be futile.
"Didn't you see Mr. Sushi's face when I asked him about the international patent rights?" Pig was screwing up his face into an overly leering oriental pout. "Like he's going to parade in here with his pursed lips, anchovy up the ass, oily haired, Brandon-San bullshit and expect us to drop a twenty million dollar-dime on him."
"He's negotiating, Pig. Relax," said Key.
"Okay, so we get the US and oh, by the way, he and the rest of his slipper footed centipede get the rest of the fucking planet!" In so saying, Pig slammed the rich, purple heart wood and abalone inlaid conference table violently with his bulbous hands. His ring finger had struck the corner so aggressively it made a slight indentation. A notch.
"Does it say fucking stupid under here?" he asked sarcastically as he raised his bangs up to expose his forehead. Pig started coughing, twice in quick succession. He coughed again, more furiously the third time. He coughed uncontrollably. Pig was a smoker and he liked to chew. His teeth were as yellow as the tops of his laceless Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. He was simultaneously laughing, choking and wheezing.
In an effort to clear his throat, he leapt to his feet with such ferocity that the studded leather chair flipped over backward. Attempting to keep his balance, he inadvertently backhanded his beer. It became a high-speed, foaming, spewing projectile vomiting ale four feet heavenward and a good third of the way across the twenty-five thousand-dollar conference table.
Ignoring the carnage he'd just created, Pig continued, "Those guys come over here, get degrees out the wazoo, go to one Giant's game and think they've got us all figured out. They come prancing in here, all heel-toe, nose in the air, heads bobbing like pigeons, throw me a gang sign with two `sup, bros' and think they own us!"
"As a matter of public record, they do own 56 percent of all the triple A office space in downtown Los Angeles," said Key.
"Scotty, you're such an asshole. You know what I mean. And don't give me any of that namby-pamby, pinkie-ringed, I'm so very trs-trs European Oxford-educated and above all this shit either!" demanded Pig.
"You're right. It eats at me too sometimes. In particular, politically it is becoming more troubling as of late. But hey, it's a changing world. Handle it, or it will handle you," said Key.
"I knew I could count on you for some philosophical bull droppings," fumed Brandon.
"The guy's just doing his job," said Key.
"Exactly the problem with you, Key. Nothing bothers you anymore. You got no soul. You should call a spade a spade, or in this case, a greedy slope a greedy slope," bemoaned Pig.
"Has anyone ever told you how articulate you can be when you're upset?" taunted Key as he ran his forefinger across the top of his desk's inlaid filigree perimeter.
"Fuck you," said Pig.
"Good comeback. I'll place it in `the journal of rapid retort, moderately droll, yet mindless comebacks'," said Key, while turning and reaching for his Mont Blanc, collecting his Blackberry and turning his computer off.
"Jag-off." Not looking back, Pig walked out in mock disgust, while making two rapid, up and down gestures high in the air with his right hand.
Key stopped half way home at one of his favorite haunts—the Jack-Daniels Hookah & Fern Bar Dojo. The fluorescent sign, but two thirds illuminated, sputtered noisily as it burned insects and filled an entire window due to the copy length. Approaching the entry way through the alley, one was first greeted by the stifling aroma of the sweaty mats and the unmistakable, sugary sweet and smoky odor of Jack Daniels whiskey. The rather eclectic blend was the amalgamation of a contemporary karate school and an '80s throwback of a touchy-feely watering hole juxtaposed against a new millennium hookah bar, with a Jack Daniels finish.
This combination offered an exceptional spot to get in touch with your feminine side, while driving your colleague's sternum back three-sixteenths of an inch into his chest cavity with the heel of your foot. It had it all. Scotty had many times suggested adding the trailing phrase "and Car Wash." The Owner would quietly smile and bow the notion away.
The Korean owner who had refitted the failed fern bar had found many of the prior green residents so restive he'd decided to keep a few. Okay, he'd kept them all. Subsequently, he'd reopened the establishment with the plants bearing brass and walnut individualized nameplates. This allowed the opportunity to raise endowments for and on behalf of a patron's favorite plant. Customarily, the creativity and checkbooks came out after the fourth Jack.
Scotty liked to personally name some of the more striking examples of flora. His favorite three nameplates, which he sponsored were:
1 Ulysses S. Plant Boston fern 2. Robert E. Leaf Squatty palm 3. Dwight D. Eisenflower Who knew?
The owner simply went by "Master Dihm." Dihm was one of the most Americanized, Californicated Asians one could ever come across. He and Key were tight. Master Dihm abhorred sake as it made him sweat and loved Jack Daniel's Green Label neat. He could always be found stretching, performing his kata (karate dance routine for those with grace yet no rhythm) his teiso, or at the corner stool with a double Jack. He explained that he ingested the latter solely to help him relate better to his Western clientele.
Key liked Manhattans when it was cool but favored a gin and tonic in the warmer months. Due to this switching, Master Dihm affectionately referred to Scotty as "Flask Hopper." Key returned the riposte by calling the owner "Master Dihm Bulb." Key came through the locker room to the bar and promptly sat next to Master Dihm.
"Hi," said Key while pulling up a tall highly lacquered bar stool and resting the soles of his shoes on the bar's strong and long, four-inch diameter brass, foot rail.
"Height!" snapped Dihm. The greeting was such a crisp pronunciation of the word hi, it sounded like height.
"Six two," responded Key without emotion, as he made a toasting gesture toward Dihm.
"Scotty-san, your trousers are at half-mast," said Dihm.
Key looked down.
"April Fools!" exclaimed Dihm gleefully even though months early, unintentionally sparking a flood of unpleasant memories rushing back for Scotty.
April first every year, Scotty tried to wish that page away on his calendar. On this day, Scotty had wrestled a demon every year. On a much earlier April 1, he, along with his older brother and best friend, had attended Barnum & Bailey's Circus for the very first time. The threesome was excited, anxious to watch the tigers jump through the flaming hoops, hear the lions roar, see the man get shot out of the cannon and guff aw at the garishly large, red-footed clowns squirting each other with seltzer. Most of all, they were excited to be out on their own.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from RED HOUSEby KENT KILLMER Copyright © 2010 by Kent Killmer. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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