Honest Addict, Chapter Two

2

The funeral was held at Grace Cathedral on San Francisco’s famous and eminently wealthy Nob Hill. There was not an empty seat in the spacious house. The attendants represented every important element of society in the Bay Area. The mayors of Oakland and San Francisco, district supervisors and council people, members of the ballet and symphony, the curator of the Museum of Modern Art, a member of Congress, several famous local actors and actresses, religious leaders from every community, downtown financial titans, artists, writers and musicians were all in attendance to pay homage to the wife of financial titan Eugene Rutherford, the richest and most influential man in the history of Northern California since William Randolph Hearst. Everybody who mattered was there to be a part of the event, which was, in its own way, the closing of a chapter in history. The press, never to be dissuaded from an opportunity to capture fleeting images of the rich and famous, skulked and sniffed around the outside of the Cathedral like ravenous wolves.

The reception was held in the Ballroom at the Ritz Carlton. Only a few of the entourage from the service did not find their way into the sumptuous interior of the hotel, where only the finest wine, booze and food was being served. They, too, were ravenous: for the food, the drink and the attention. As Peter gulped his vodka-tonic he surveyed the lamentable scene that was unfolding in front of him. Everywhere he looked he saw fraudulence; the smiles, the handshakes, the impeccably rehearsed memories, the crocodile tears: nothing he viewed or heard rang true in the least to him. Of all the people in the room he was perhaps the best to judge the veracity of the crowd, for in his heart he knew that he was as full of shit as any of them.

Jeanette at least was being herself. She had begun drinking prior to the service and was drunk before the reception was an hour old. At first, her intoxication took on the form of a strange solemn chattiness, a papier-mâché brave face that fell apart after half an hour. Subsequent to that, she became inconsolable with grief, her tears smearing makeup down her face. Peter had tried to be a comfort, taking her to the bathroom, helping to clean off the running mascara, attempting to say the things he believed she wanted to hear. But at this point she manifested a sullen, brooding attitude and wanted nothing at all to do with him, preferring instead the company of another young man she knew, a twenty-something musician named Brad whom Peter suspected Jeanette was sleeping with when it suited her.

“What’s the story with your girlfriend?” a woman’s voice asked from out of the crowd.
Peter focused his vision in the general direction of the voice. “Excuse me?” he responded.
“You are Jeanette Rutherford’s boyfriend, right? I saw you sitting with her in the front row of the funeral. Now she’s hanging all over that little twerp at the bar, the one with the spiked hair wearing jeans. What the hell is up with that?” She was an older woman, probably in her late forties or early fifties, but she was extremely attractive – straight, full, dark brown hair that went down her back, an angular face offset by perfectly round eyes and ample, dark red lips and a curvy figure that women decades younger aspired to – the kind of woman men dream of having when they enter their more advanced years.
“She is getting drunk,” he responded bluntly. “She is a different person when she drinks, I assure you. You can hardly blame her for tying one on; her mother has only been dead six days.”
“Oh of course. But still, it must bother you…”
“Actually, no. People think of me as her boyfriend, but I’m not really…not in the traditional sense.”
“And what sense is that?”
“I know there is no future with her, that sooner or later this thing will fall apart. You’d be surprised how liberating having no expectations can be.”
“But I did see you in the front row.”
“I have been a friend of the family for many years now. I will continue to be a friend of the family in the future, even after…”
“Look at my manners,” the mystery woman interrupted as she extended her delicate hand, “my name is Margaret Swift.”
“Peter Castellano.”
“What do you do for a living, Peter?”
“I manage high net worth accounts at Dunlop, Doskocil and Weir, Investment Consultants.”
“Really? That must be fascinating work.”
He recognized something in her tone and knew what was coming even though it did not fully materialize in his mind at exactly this moment. It was more of a familiar feeling, a sense of deja-vu, that he had been in this position before. “I’m afraid you would find what I do for a living to be very tedious, Mrs. Swift. It’s little more than upper-level babysitting.”
“Ms. Swift.”
“Pardon me. I saw the ring.”
“I got divorced a year ago but I’ve always loved the ring, and see no reason to take it off now.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m going to be blunt, Peter, as at my age one tires of delays and misdirection. I have a room here at the hotel. You interest me. Men are usually interested in me. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“I do.”
“What do you think?”

Suddenly, a great crash came from the bar and Peter could see Jeanette struggling with Brad. She screamed, “Get your fucking hands off me you son of a bitch!” The party came to a complete standstill. All eyes were focused on the scene. Not a word was spoken; not so much as a cough or a sneeze cut through the silence. Jeanette Rutherford, realizing the effect of her words, put her hand to her mouth and began giggling uncontrollably. She stumbled at first forward and to the left, then to the right, reaching out in the air for the bar that was now several feet behind her. She slumped to the ground, her legs crossed unnaturally. Peter turned toward his new companion.
“I think that would be very pleasant. I’m sure you are everything you appear to be and more. I have no doubt you could fuck any man in the room you wanted to. But I’m afraid I have more important matters to attend to at this time. It was a pleasure meeting you. Excuse me.”

He walked over to the bar and picked Jeanette up off the floor. She was mumbling something incoherent in his ear.
“Don’t worry, babe. I’m taking you to bed now. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” she muttered, her head resting on his shoulder, her legs wrapped around his torso like a sleepy child.

They entered the sumptuous suite and Peter threw her on the bed. He took his jacket off, unbuttoned his collar and loosened the tie that was knotted tight around his neck. He felt like he could breathe again. He grabbed a tumbler from off the table and poured a heavy glass of Johnnie Walker from the makeshift but complete bar Jeanette had assembled.
“What about me?” she inquired. Now her voice was sweet and pleading. He turned and saw as her eyes rolled into the back of her head.
“You’ve had enough, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, well I think you’ve had enough.”
“You’re probably right,” he said, as he took a pull off the warm scotch. “But it’s not as obvious.”
“Motherfucker,” she hissed spitefully.
He turned the television on and flipped around looking for the scores of the morning football games.
“Peter?”
“Yeah.”
“I want you to fuck me.”
“Uh-huh,” he responded, sitting on the edge of the bed as he found a wrap-up of the early NFL action.
“Are you listening to me?”
“I heard you, hon. You’re too drunk for that now, much as I’d like to.”
“I am not too drunk. I’m exactly as drunk as I should be. Now get over here, whip out your dick and fuck me.”
“Could you be quiet for just a minute? I’ve got a lot of money riding on these games.”
She moaned. “I need to feel something goddamnit! Take off my dress for me.”
Peter turned toward her and felt a twinge of compassion that vaporized almost immediately. She certainly was a bad drunk, he thought to himself. Even her good looks could not overcome the revulsion he felt when she was in this condition. “Listen,” he said seriously, “one of us has to get back to the reception. Now how about I tuck you into bed? You’ll feel better once you get to sleep.”
“Whatever,” she said as she rolled onto her side.

He pulled out the sheets and put them over her, tucking them under her chin. Her mouth opened wide and she began breathing heavier. She was asleep within a couple of minutes.

The scores of the games flashed by quickly, but Peter had no problem keeping up with the results and their effect on his financial position in his mind. He had a gift for the quick math of gambling.
Kansas City 23, Miami 17: minus $1650.00 on the straight bet on the Dolphins plus three and a half, minus $1000.00 on the parlay to the under: negative $2650.00.
Indianapolis 35, Oakland 21: plus $1500.00 on the Colts minus seven and a half: overall negative $1150.00.
San Francisco 17, St. Louis 14: plus $1500.00 on the 49ers, pick ‘em: overall positive $350.00.
Pittsburgh 23, Cleveland 17: minus $1650.00 on the Steelers, who were favored by 7: overall negative $1300.00.
New York 28, Tennessee 27: plus $1500.00 on the Titans, underdogs by a field goal: overall positive $200.00

Not bad, he thought to himself. As the 1:15 games had only just begun, he turned off the television, not bothering to check their scores. He had twelve thousand dollars riding on the afternoon games, and wasn’t going to watch them. What a waste, he thought ruefully.

He went to the bathroom and stared in the mirror. The face that looked back at him would have pleased most men in their thirties: clear, blemish free, tanned skin, a full head of thick black hair, dark brown eyes and a face that was the definition of symmetry. No feature was too large or small, no single area stood out as a problem. Despite his habitual self-destruction, he was still in good shape and had never developed the thick midsection of some of his married friends. He should have been satisfied, but he wasn’t. For as Peter Castellano stared into the mirror all he saw was the reflection of a man who had lost his way, a reflection of the same society that coughed up all those sycophantic, self-absorbed fakers he had been forced to deal with all day.

He splashed cold water on his face then dried it off with a towel. He tightened the dark blue Hermes tie that hung loosely around his neck and buttoned the top of his shirt. Staring again into the mirror, he reminded himself that he had a job to do, that today wasn’t about his petty psychological problems. A vision of Carol Rutherford just before she died flashed in his memory. It was impossible for him not to find life pointless when these images entered his mind.

But then he remembered her bravery during those last days and hours; he saw that spark of light that still shone in her eyes even after she had lost the capacity for speech. He thought of the woman who had lived life so well, even when tragedy befell her, and wondered how more of Carol’s fortitude had not been handed down to her daughter. A sign of the times, he mused: each successive generation in fact degeneration.

Peter returned to the bedroom and closed the shades. It was almost completely dark inside. Jeanette stirred in bed but he knew that she was dead to the world, possibly for the rest of the day. He took a deep breath before he returned to the objectionable scene in the ballroom below.