Old money? Jesus! If there were newer money anywhere in the Hamptons, I was yet to find it. Perhaps she meant evaporating money? That would be more accurate. “Thanks,” I said, “but it's not old money, Sarah. It's as new as it gets.” I smiled, eager to change the subject. “Anyway, you want to take a walk on the beach? It's a beautiful night tonight.”
“I can't,” she said sadly. “I gotta get home; my boyfriend's waiting for me.”
I popped upright. “Your boyfriend! You have a boyfriend?”
She shrugged. “Yeah, I live with someone. I probably shouldn't be here. You know what I mean?”
I took a moment to run that through my mind and decided she was right: She probably shouldn't be here. But, then again, at this time of year there weren't many girls in the Hamptons, so if I let the Blow-Job Queen go I would be alone again. I took a moment to study her features. Was she beautiful enough? Could she stand up to the Duchess? She had a very nice nose, the Blow-Job Queen, and perhaps I could find peace through her blow jobs. In fact, maybe I could even turn her into another Duchess! I could take her shopping and buy her clothes and jewelry, and then take her out for fancy dinners; maybe I would even introduce her to my kids. After all, she was sober for three whole days now and was definitely on the rebound. All in all, I would say, she was a very good catch!
And so it was that five days later I convinced the Jewish Blow-Job Queen to break up with her boyfriend, and I moved her into my mansion on Meadow Lane, where twice a day she gave me world-class blow jobs and occasionally made love to me. And it was perfect. We exchanged our first “I love yous” on day seven and started talking marriage on day ten. She shrugged off my ankle bracelet as if it were no big deal—in fact, the Bastard, in a rare moment of humanity, had eased my restrictions, changing them from a twenty-four-hour lockdown to a midnight curfew—and I shrugged off her excusing herself from the dinner table and vomiting up her food with the same kindness and understanding.
Meanwhile, my cooperation was going fabulously. I hadn't heard from OCD in weeks, which, according to Magnum, was par for the course. After all, I had spent a solid month singing on Court Street, going through all of Stratton's deals while giving OCD and the Bastard the education of a lifetime. Now they needed to do their homework—to subpoena records, interview witnesses, follow paper trails.
On a down note, my meeting with the Blue-eyed Devil had turned out to be a complete waste of time. He was far too cagey to get caught speaking on tape, especially to someone under indictment. Nevertheless, my captors had taken my failure in stride, assuring me that it wasn't my fault. As long as I tried my best, said OCD, I would receive my 5K letter. It was all about honesty; just remember that, he'd urged, and I'd emerge from jail still a young man.
And that was the last time we'd spoken, with the exception of a brief heads-up call, during which he told me that Danny had made bail and that Victor Wang had finally been indicted. And without saying it, the message was clear: Danny was cooperating, and Victor had become the Witch's captive, her personal trophy to be put on display.
Whatever the case, it was sometime around Thanksgiving when I finally introduced the kids to the Blow-Job Queen. And she was wonderful with them; in fact, with the exception of one hiccup-she suffered a panic attack, accompanied by violent body shakes, while the four of us were having lunch in East Hampton—I began to view her as a suitable stepmother for the children. And while we hadn't actually set a wedding date, it was only a matter of time. We were perfect together, two damaged souls who had somehow managed to fix each other.
And then disaster struck. It was the week before Christmas, and we were lying in bed together, happy as clams. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was watching TV and she was reading a book. I glanced over and noticed that she was wearing granny glasses. I also noticed a tiny scar beneath her chin. I stared at the scar. Not very attractive!I thought. Then I stared at the granny glasses. Even less attractive!I thought. Then I lowered my gaze to her tiny chest and her reed-thin arms. Downright ugly!I thought.
We were lying beneath the white silk comforter, so I couldn't take in her whole body, but, in spite of that, there was no denying that I'd caught her at a very bad angle. And that was it: I no longer loved the Blow-Job Queen.
I took a deep breath and tried to steel myself, but it was no use. I couldn't have her in my house anymore. I needed to be alone, or with the Duchess. Perhaps I could convince the Duchess to get back together for the sake of the kids. Alas, I had already tried that angle, to no avail. The latest rumor was that she was banging Michael Bolton, that ponytailed bastard of a singer!
In any event, the next day I threw the Blow-Job Queen out—or at least triedto, at which point she had a nervous breakdown in my living room, threatening suicide. So I told her that I was only kidding, that I didn't reallywant to end things. I was just getting cold feet as a result of all the turmoil in my life.
To that she smiled sadly and asked me if I would like a blow job. I pondered that for a moment, knowing that this would most certainly be the best blow job of all, considering the Blow-Job Queen would now be blowing me to maintain her position on Meadow Lane.
But in the end I told her that I wouldn't, although perhaps I would later. She seemed relieved by that, so I quickly excused myself, saying I needed to take a quick ride to see my sponsor, George, who lived just down the road.
“Can't you just come over with a straitjacket and take her away?” I asked George. “I don't see any other solution.”
Those weren't the firstwords I'd uttered to George that afternoon, but they were close to the first. The first were: “I'm in deep shit, George. The Blow-Job Queen is threatening to commit suicide, and my dick is so sore from all the blow jobs that it's ready to fall off!”
George and I were sitting in his French country kitchen on opposite sides of his bleached-wood table, while his wife, Annette, a five-foot-tall, beautiful Brooklyn firecracker with strawberry-blond hair, perfect Irish Spring skin, and a ferocious Brooklyn accent fixed us coffee. Actually, it was more than coffee (it was donuts, muffins, coffee, and freshly cut fruit), because Annette never did anything half-assed, especially when it came to achieving her life's primary mission, which was to make George's life as comfortable and wonderful as possible. And, in truth, George deserved it.
At sixty-two, he was twelve years older than Annette and served as living proof that a leopard canchange its spots. Those who hadn't heard from George in the last twenty-two years would warn you: “If you see this guy walking down the street, cross it and don't make eye contact. He's angry and dangerous, especially when he's drunk, which is always. And if he doeshappen to beat you up or simply hold you upside down by your ankle and shake you for a while, don't bother calling the cops, unless you tell them that it was some six-foot-tall, two-hundred-fifty-pound guy named George who assaulted you. This way they'll know to bring tranq-darts!“
Whatever the case, George eventually got sober, and spent the next twenty-two years of his life redeeming himself. He made his first fortune in real estate, his second fortune in drug rehabs, and, along the way, helped more recovering Hamptons alcoholics than any other ten men combined.
Ironically, the first time I met George was on TV, when his menacingly handsome face popped onto my screen at three in the morning, while I was in the midst of a cocaine binge. George was doing an advertisement for his rehab facility, Seafield, and he was saying things like, “Are you stoned… drunk… high? Where is your family