Fair enough, I'd thought, but what about the wire attached to the recorder? It was rising up out of the belt line of my Levi's, then continuing up the midline of my abdomen. At the tip of the wire, a tiny microphone, about the size of a number-two-pencil eraser, was taped between the manly depression of my pectoral muscles. According to OCD, this taping apparatus—called a Nagra—was so sensitive that it would pick up our conversation even if we whispered. And those were his final words of wisdom before I left my daughter's bedroom and headed downstairs to the patio.
So here I was, wired for sound. The Chef, I prayed, would be too smart to incriminate himself.
Just then my longtime maid, Gwynne Latham, emerged from the kitchen's side entrance. She wore white cotton slacks, a loose-fitting white T-shirt, and white tennis sneakers. In fact, dressed the way she was, you might have mistaken her for the Good Humor Lady, if not for the fact that she was carrying a sterling-silver tray with a pitcher of iced tea and two tall glasses on it. Gwynne was in her mid-fifties, although she looked a good ten years younger. She was an ageless, timeless, chubby, light-skinned black woman, with fine Caucasian features and the purest of hearts. Gwynne was a Southerner who, back in the day, had doted on me like I was the child she never had. In the early days of my addiction, she served me iced coffee and Quaaludes in bed, and in the later days, when I was so drugged out that I'd lost most of my motor skills, she changed my clothes and wiped gobs of drool off my chin.
But now, since I'd become sober, she'd redirected that unconditional love toward Chandler and Carter, spending most of her day doting on them. (God save them.) Anyway, Gwynne was like family, and the mere thought of having to let her go one day made me terribly sad. Just how much she knew about what was going on I wasn't quite sure. And then, all at once— a terrible thought!
Gwynne was a Southerner, which meant she was genetically predisposed toward idle chatter. And, like everyone, she loved the Chef and would most certainly try to strike up small talk with him. I could only imagine it: “Oh—hi, Chef! Can I fix you something to eat, maybe a turkey sandwich or a bowl of fresh fruit?”… “Well, sure, Gwynne, do you have any strawberries?”… “No, I'm sorry, Chef, the two men in Chandler's bedroom ate the last of the strawberries.”… “There are two men in Chandler's bedroom? What do they look like, Gwynne?”…”Well, Chef, one of them smiles a lot; he's wearing headphones and he has a camera around his neck with a telephoto lens; the other one doesn't smile at all, but he has a giant revolver on his hip and a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt loop.”…
Oh, Christ—I needed to say something to Gwynne! I had introduced the occupying forces as old friends, and Gwynne, never one to ask questions, had taken things at face value, smiling warmly at the invaders and then asking them if they wanted something to eat, just like she would with the Chef! I had arranged for the kids to be out this afternoon, and I could probably get by without Gwynne for a few hours, although she might get insulted if I were to just ask her to hightail it off the property without explanation.
“I brought you some iced tea for your business meeting,” Gwynne said lovingly, although it came out like, “I brawwght yuh sum ice tea fuh yuh biznez meet'n.” She placed the sterling-silver tray on the obscenely expensive round teak table with great care. “Ya sure those men upstairs wud'n care for sumthin’?” she added.
“No, Gwynne, I'm sure they're fine.” With great weariness, I said, “Listen, Gwynne, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't mention anything about those two men upstairs while Dennis is around”—I paused, searching for a possible explanation as to why— “because it, uh, has to do with, uh, security issues. It's all about security issues, Gwynne, especially with all that's been going on around here.” What the fuck was I talking about?
Gwynne nodded sadly, seeming to understand. Then she began staring at my light-blue polo shirt, twisting her lips. “My oh my, you have a li'l stain on yer shirt. Look,” and she began walking toward me with her finger pointed straight at the hidden microphone.
I jumped out of my armchair, as if the teak had suddenly become electrified. Gwynne stopped dead in her tracks, and there she stood, the Good Humor Lady, staring at me with a strange look on her face. Christ—she knew, didn't she!It was written all over her face—and all over mine too! I practically shrieked it: I'm a rat, Gwynnie! I'm a rat! Don't talk to me! I'm wired for sound! I'm wired for sound!
In fact, her face betrayed nothing save genuine concern that the man she'd worked for for almost a decade had suddenly lost his marbles. In retrospect, there were many things I could have said to Gwynne to explain my irrational behavior. I could have told her a yellow jacket had spooked me, that I'd gotten a cramp in my leg, that it was a delayed reaction to those three torturous days behind bars.
Instead, all I said was, “Jesus, Gwynne, you're right! I better go upstairs and change my shirt before Dennis gets here,” and I ran upstairs to my closet and changed into a dark-blue short-sleeve polo shirt. Then I went into the master bathroom—with its $100,000 gray marble floor, oversize Swedish sauna, and glorious whirlpool bathtub that was so large it was better suited for Shamu the Killer Whale than the Wolf of Wall Street—and I flicked on the light and took a good hard look in the mirror.
I didn't like what I saw.
“Eyyyyyy,”said a smiling Chef, extending his arms for a welcoming embrace. “Come here and give me a hug, you!”
Christ Almighty! The Chef knew too!He had seen it on my face-just like Gwynne had! When he hugged me he was going to pat me down for a wire. I was frozen, panic-stricken. It was precisely 1:05 p.m., and time seemed to be standing still. We were in the mansion's grand marble entryway, separated by only four gleaming squares of black-and-white Italian marble—arranged checkerboard style—and I was trying to conjure up a lame excuse as to why I shouldn't embrace the Chef as I always did.
The calculations began roaring through my brain faster than I could keep track of them. If I didn'thug the Chef he would know something was wrong—yet if I didhug the Chef he might feel that devilish little recorder taped to my loins or that supersensitive microphone taped to my chest. Such dishonesty! Such deception! I was a rat!Yet if I perched my ass out a bit and slumped my shoulders forward, then perhaps I'd be safe.
As I stared at the Chef I became terribly conscious of the devilish wares OCD had affixed to my body—the recorder, the microphone, and the masking tape seemed to be growing larger, heavier, more obvious. The recorder was no bigger than a pack of Marlboros, yet it felt larger than a shoe box, and the pea-size microphone weighed less than an ounce, yet it felt heavier than a bowling bowl. I was sweating profusely, and my heart was going thump thump thump,as if a frightened rabbit had taken up residence there. And there stood the Jersey Chef, in his snazzy single-breasted light-gray suit with light-blue overplaid and a crisp white dress shirt with spread British collar. I had no choicebut to hug him, but then—a brainstorm: a contagious pathogen!
With a couple of sniffles, I said, “Jesus, Dennis, you're a sight for sore eyes… sniff, sniff…Thanks for coming over.” I shot my right hand out and locked my elbow, offering a hearty handshake. “But don't get too close to me; I think I caught something in that jail cell… sniff sniff… A flu bug, I think.” I smiled sheepishly and jutted my right hand out an extra inch, as if to say, “Put it there, pal!”