My right wrist twisted in frustration and I realized that in my haste I was not as attentive as usual in tightly securing the cuff. As Jamie dabbed with the towel and devilishly pursed his lips to blow on the underside of Little Sam, I was able to slide my hand about within the cuff. I smiled with the tantalizing sensation of Jamie’s tease. But I also smiled because in moving my hand, I encountered the knob of the small spring loaded piston that held closed the ‘D’ clamp. It moved as the tip of my index finger pushed.
“A margarita, Jamie. Please may I have a margarita?”
“Already made, Mr. Sam.”
A subterfuge but I would eventually imbibe. And the request had Jamie prancing to the kitchen. He would return quickly but I did not need much time. The ‘D’ clamp yielded and with hands free to move, I took off the cuffs. For the first time in eight weeks both Little Sam and my hands were free. And whereas I needed the mental and physical release of wickedly stroking myself to glorious climax, I abstained.
The patter of Jamie’s little feet brought evil thoughts.
The little ingenue returned to the examination room, margarita perfectly presented, smile radiant, eyes glowing in femininity, but wearing that cocktease of a skirt. That would have to go. I wanted Jamie and I wanted her naked.
Chapter Twenty Three
The next day I called in sick, needing time to think. In leaving the CB-2000 behind I knew Liz would act quickly and that the tape would be mailed or if Ms. Hobson indeed had it, the executive committee would be viewing it even sooner. But I had escaped the Stockholm Syndrome. In that I reveled.
Friday, I had a long scheduled business meeting in Chicago. I did not bother checking in with my defacto new boss, Ms. Hobson. She knew the appointment was on my calendar. I just went, returning Friday evening well after business hours.
Upon returning, there was no message from Liz, which I thought odd. So I reveled again, this time in bachelor’s freedom all weekend. With Little Sam having been more than satiated, I just watched sports. Drank beer with a few friends. Went to see the Giants try to play football on Sunday.
I knew Monday would be tough. Facing Ms. Hobson, if she was in on the conspiracy, would be challenging. My job would be gone. I knew it but figured I had a couple of weeks if not months of pay coming.
I was wrong.
The security personnel would not let me into the building. There was no explanation.
I returned to my apartment building to find a UPS box waiting, filled with personal stuff from my office. The doorman handed me a letter. I read it in the elevator. It was an eviction notice for non payment of rent with my latest rent check enclosed. It had been returned from my bank due to insufficient funds. A call to my local branch revealed that my latest paycheck, scheduled for automatic deposit on Thursday had not been wired to my account.
I had to admire the speed with which the no-nonsense Ms. Hobson worked. I did not admire the legality of her action. One cannot be terminated retroactively and I was legally owed money. But on the other hand, lawyers require good funds and the legal process takes time. I had neither.
I moped about, consoling myself and mentally trying to justify for my brash action. I dispensed with having any margaritas, opting for straight tequila.
On Tuesday I awoke somewhat hungover to the sound of the house phone. The doorman announced the arrival of a letter by special messenger.
“It looks important,” he laconically reported. With his years of experience, he readily distinguished important versus the likes of trifling love notes.
I dressed hurriedly and went to the lobby to retrieve it.
A very stern looking envelope with the embossed lettering of a law firm awaited. My first reaction was more bad tidings about my eviction. I was wrong. It was from the two-person law firm of Regal & McCabe and signed by Suzanne Regal, attorney-at-law.
I held it up to scan and a handwritten note within fell to the floor.
I read the formal letter first which indicated that Samuel L. Winthrop III and his attorney were invited to attend a ‘settlement’ conference with one aggrieved ‘Ms. Jamie Lindsay’ and her guardian ‘Ms. Elizabeth Mouquod’.
Guardian?
I picked the note off the floor. Liz’s signature caught my eye.
“Sam, I trust you can attend. For convenience we’ve arranged to use the MacDonald, Bear audio visual facilities.”
Yes. I had recognized the address.
I could not afford an attorney and the letter seemed to suggest settling something of which I was not aware and for which I certainly had not been served.
But the need to meet was compelling. Liz was due an explanation if not an apology. And I needed financial help and some answers. Dare I begin mailing resumes if that videotape lurks?
The invitation was for the following day, Wednesday. I was accustomed to meeting Jamie on Wednesdays.
I could not refuse. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do other than to put together a curriculum vitae. And the tone of the letter was ominous.