“What a crazy bunch of women!” muttered Debbie Starling. ^*

It was two nights later when one of Bo's favorite operatives, Debbie Starling, muttered those very words into a Long Island pay phone, just a few blocks from the Duchess's Codependents Anonymous meeting. Bo and I were on the conference call. “I've never heard anything like it!” she added. “I mean, I don't know how to even describe it to you guys. It was like, uh…” There were a few moments of silence, as I sat on the edge of my seat, and Bo, I assumed, sat on the edge of his own seat. He was working late this Wednesday evening, still in his office, waiting for Debbie's postmeeting debriefing.

I had never met Debbie, but, according to Bo, she was perfect for the job. In her mid-forties now, she had spent most of her career camped out on a park bench, looking sexy and vulnerable, waiting for a would-be mugger to approach. When he did, she would lure him close and then slap the cuffs on him. Then she would blow a whistle—at which point half a dozen of New York's finest would emerge from the shadows and beat the shit out of the guy. Then they would arrest him.

Still, this wasn't what impressed Bo about Debbie, especially when it came to this operation. In fact, it had more to do with Debbie being in the drama club back in her college days, where she'd earned rave reviews from the critics. She was perfect, Bo had said. She was a born actress, who could infiltrate the man-haters club faster than the Duchess could say codependency!So he wired her up and sent her behind enemy lines.

Finally, the aspiring actress spoke: “You know, maybe I could explain it to you guys this way: You ever see the movie Jerry Maguire?”

“Yeah,” we replied in unison.

“Okay, well, remember that scene in Renee Zellweger's living room, where all the divorced women are sitting around, bitching and moaning, calling men the enemy?”

“Yeah,” we said again.

“Well, it was like that—but on steroids!”

We all broke up over that one, but after a few seconds I found myself wanting to jump through the phone. Bo regained his composure and said, “All right, Debbie, so what went down in Fantasyland tonight?”

“Well,” said Debbie, “it seems like Jordan's wife is the ringleader over there. Does that surprise you, Jordan?”

“No, not at all,” I said. “That's how she is. Whatever she's hot for at the moment, she plunges into headfirst. Today she's an aspiring codependent; tomorrow she could be an aspiring astronaut; there's no rhyme or reason, no telling. But I love her anyway.”

“Well, she's very beautiful,” noted Debbie.

No shit! I thought. Why else do you think I'm in love with her— because of her fucking personality? Christ, she's enough to drive any five men crazy! “Thanks,” I said, “but that's not why I love her, Debbie. Beauty is only skin-deep”—while ugliness cuts straight to the bone, I thought. “It's her personality I love: her feistiness, her quick wit, the way she gives me a run for my money,” and the way she used to blow me while I was driving my Ferrari on the LIE during rush hour, as truckers honked in appreciation. “Looks have nothing to do with it, nothing at all.”

There were a few moments of silence, while my bullshit hung in the air like Los Angeles smog. Finally Bo said, “All right, so what's the verdict, Debbie: Does she love him or not?”

“Yes, she loves him,” said Debbie— my spirits soared!—“but she also hates him”— my spirits plunged!Debbie paused for a moment. “More than anything, I think she's just confused.”

“Confused about what?” I asked.

“Yeah,” added Bo. “What the fuck does shehave to be so confused about? She ain't the one who got indicted! It's un-fucking-believable, these women.”

Debbie, with patience: “Are you finished, Bo?”

“Yeah, I'm finished,” he muttered. “So what's the story with the house?”

I immediately perked up. “Yeah, did she bring up East Hampton?”

“Not directly,” said Debbie— shit!I thought—”although she did say that she wanted to move out of Old Brookville.”

I perked up again. “Oh, really? Did she say why?”

“Yes; she said your name is in the paper all the time, and she's embarrassed”— my spirits plunged!“She says people are looking at her funny, especially at your daughter's school. She just wants to get away from it all and take the kids with her.”

“Well, that doesn't sound too promising,” I said softly.

“No it doesn't,” agreed Bo. “I think it's time you stop this housitationhunt. You know, Bo?”

“I wouldn't jump the gun,” countered Debbie. “See, right after she said that, then she started saying that she still loved you. She even said that she missed being with you.”

“Well, that's great!” I said.

“Well, don't jump the gun there either,” warned Debbie. “A second later she said she hoped you'd die in a fire, or something along those lines. That way she'd be rid of you for good.”

“Can you imagine?” snapped Bo. “You can't trust these females for a second! You turn your back and they stick the knife in!”

Debbie, losing patience: “You're not being constructive here, Bo.” A short pause, then, “Listen, Jordan: Like I said, she's very confused right now. Maybe you should give her some space for a while, just give her some time to sort things out. Then maybe she'll come back to you. Either way, you have one thing going for you, Jordan.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“She hates her father even more than she hates you.”

“Well, that's comforting,” I said. “He abandoned her when she was three.”

“So where does this leave us?” Bo asked Debbie. “Can you give us an opinion on this thing?”

“I'm not really comfortable doing that,” Debbie said. “Maybe if I go back next week I can find out more. I'm sure she doesn't suspect anything. I was welcomed into the group with open arms. I think they were just happy to drag someone else into their misery.”

“This might take a long time, Bo,” said Bo.

“I don't havea long time,” I shot back. “My wife is not gonna stop pressuring me with this; I know her.” And I was running out of time for other reasons as well, reasons that I couldn't share with Bo and Debbie. Next month I would be going before the judge to enter my guilty plea, and, as part of that, I would have to put together a detailed financial statement. Of course, all this would be done in secret; nothing would be announced until next year, aftermy cooperation became public. But, still, the best time to sell the Old Brookville house would be now, beforeI completed a financial statement.

Bo said, “There's gotta be a way to get her to spill the beans quicker.”

The former actress: “Maybe I could strike up a friendship with her. I mean, what if I walked into next week's meeting, hysterically crying, saying that my husband just beat me or something?” The actress paused for a moment. “From what little I know about your wife, Jordan, I think she would come running to my side to help me.”

Oh, good Lord!I thought. I was going straight to hell with this one. There was no way I could ever let this happen. Never! Not in a million years! “That's an amazing idea, Debbie! You could invite her out for a drink even, and then get her sloshed. You should see what she's like with a couple of drinks in her. It's like truth serum!” Good God—what was I saying? “And I know the perfect place for you to bring her: It's called Buckram Stables. It's some old WASP hangout in Locust Valley; it's nice and quiet there, so you can make a clear tape.”

“This is terrible,” said Bo. “I can't allow this to happen”—a pause—”without giving Debbie some sort of small bonus, if she pulls it off.”

“Well, thank you,” said Debbie, “but have no fear: I'll pull it off. I'll just bring an onion with me and peel it in the car before I go into the meeting. I'll walk into that church with tears streaming down my cheeks!”