Broken Trust (Badge of Honor 13)

“Marriage and divorce. The days of most folks having a traditional long-term nuclear family are over.”

Payne looked at Wohl.

“Have you heard this?” he said. “More to the point, has my sister? Clearly, you two have been talking.”

Wohl shook his head.

Payne took a sip of his martini and gestured with his free hand for Tankersley to continue.

“Pray tell,” he said.

“Okay,” Tankersley said. “So after your glorious honeymoon’s over and everyone gets back to the nitty-gritty of everyday life, then what? Maybe you make it to when the seven-year itch kicks in. Or, before that, boredom sets in. Or job stress. Whatever . . .”

“It’s no secret that about half of first marriages do end in divorce,” Payne said, a bit sharply. “But, call me naïve, I intend to be among the happily ever after other half.”

“Oh, now, don’t we all, Mr. Naïve?” Tankersley said. “No one goes in thinking short-term. And for those really brilliant ones who go and get remarried”—he raised his hand over his head and pointed at it—“that divorce rate is even higher. And cop marriages that go kaput? Through the roof. It takes a really special woman to put up with us. They exist, God bless ’em, but they’re really rare.”

The waitress delivered three more martinis. Payne glanced at his first glass. It was still half full.

“I don’t mean to suggest this applies in either of your cases,” Tankersley went on, looking at Payne, then Wohl, “but, hell, there’s a lot of females who don’t even bother with the charade of dragging you to the altar. All they want is the kid. And then you get the court order saying, ‘Congratulations, Daddy, you’ll be paying child support until that little tax deduction turns eighteen.’ And there it is: Game over.”

He took a sip of his martini, and added, “So, word to the wise: You’d better keep that rascal wrapped when playing hide the salami. Even better, get the Big V.” He held up his hand and moved his index and middle fingers together, simulating scissor blades. “Snip! Snip!”

Payne shook his head.

Wohl said, grinning, “With all due respect, Tank, you really are one cynical bastard.”

“Cynical? After two marriages? You bet. And let me tell you, it ain’t limited to baby mamas, though they pop out more little bastards—ahem, children out of wedlock, if you prefer—than anyone. I’m not making this up. You can look it up. The numbers track with the level of education. They’re highest for those without a high school diploma, then drop for those without a college degree, and drop again, though do not go away, for those with a college education. Hell, just check out online dating services. My nephew showed me. They are packed—and, I mean, packed full—with single mothers in their twenties to forties who say they’re either divorced or never been married.”

His eyes moved from Wohl to Payne as he took a sip of his martini.

“Ask any lawyer practicing family law,” he went on, putting down his glass. “They’ll tell you that the vast majority of divorces end up with the wife getting at least fifty—standard, really, is sixty—percent of the couple’s assets, plus custody of the kids. Which means they usually get the house, plus alimony to keep the house the way they like it, and, of course, child support, which they invariably spend on themselves and maybe their new boy toy. And you? Yeah, lucky you gets to drag your indebted ass back to your cheap rental apartment and work on growing hairy knuckles.”

Making another visual aid, he formed a fist and jerked it back and forth a few times.

Payne shook his head and grinned.

“You a religious man, Matt?” Tankersley said.

“Well, I don’t wear it on my sleeve. But you’re looking at one who served as an acolyte and then an altar boy in the Episcopal Church.”

“Then along the way you might’ve picked up on the teachings of Jeremiah, who is said to have warned: ‘The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?’”

“At the risk of repeating myself,” Wohl said, with a chuckle, “you really are one cynical bastard.”

Tankersley shrugged.

“When did you start having a hard time accepting uncomfortable facts, Wohl?” he said.

“This all reminds me of what some rock star once said,” Wohl said. “To paraphrase: ‘When I considered getting married a third time, I got smart, and instead of an expensive diamond ring, I just gave her a new house.’”

Tankersley laughed, and nodded.

“Now you’re getting it,” he said. “And I just heard Rear Admiral Fellerman’s voice offering me his sage advice on this issue.”

“Which was?”

“Which was advice that I clearly chose to ignore. Twice. ‘Tank,’ the good admiral said, ‘I’ve sailed the world and can counsel you unequivocally that if it flies, floats, or fucks, rent it.’”