While I am not a zealot, I am a staunch believer and woman of Faith. This story is not preachy; far from it, in fact (let's just say my pastor won't hear about this one). There will be an element of spirituality in it, but it'll be fun, I promise (:
"Where the hell is that coffee?!" I yell, slamming my phone receiver into the cradle while closing out the screen on my computer.
Suzanne, the latest in a line of pretty secretaries, comes bustling into my office with my coffee in hand. She's flushed, her eyes only settling on me briefly before shifting away as she places the mug on my desk.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Orr, I got a client call right after you asked for it and I've been on the phone since. I only just hung up with her; another divorce referral, sir." Suzanne hurries through her apology, smoothing the fabric of her skirt over her shapely thighs while nervously shifting her weight.
I wave my hand through the air, dismissing her apology; in truth, I don't care about the coffee. What I care about is this little dish standing in front of me and keeping her on her toes, keep her trying to gauge and guess what my attitude that day would be like. That had been my game for the past three secretaries, and I'd almost perfected it. I kept a disapproving demeanor about me for the first few weeks and made sure to bark at them with little provocation; that way, I could ensure they'd begin to try and find ways to subconsciously seek my approval. It made getting them into bed almost too easy, really.
"It's fine, Susan," I say offhandedly, noting her quick frown when I purposely called her by the wrong name. "I need you to print off my court schedule for the week, get Burt Freeman from Wells Fargo on the phone and interrupt me three minutes after you put him through. I also need dinner reservations for two at il Vicino for tomorrow at 8, and I'm going to need you to reschedule my physical for some time next month; I'm up to my neck in depositions and I've got to push it back."
"Yes, sir," Suzanne mumbled before beating a hasty retreat back to her desk. She might have the best ass of any of my secretaries yet, I think as I crane my neck to watch her swish out of my office. I was very much looking forward to bedding this one; she was ripe for seduction, having just divorced her own cheating husband. She's held out longer than any of my previous assistants, I'll give her that, but it's really only a matter of time – not to sound conceited, but I'm basically a catch.
My name is Richard Orr, but I go by Dickie. Makes me more personable – at least, that's what a political advisor once told me. I'd had bureaucratic aspirations years ago, well before my first marriage but those went up in smoke along with every suit I owned when my ex-wife burned them on our front lawn along with our wedding photographs. Word of my minor little indiscretion spread like a virus throughout all of Trenton and Newark and just like that, I was Public Enemy #1 as far as any government party was concerned. Cheating husbands don't fare well in the cut-throat world of politics but, lucky for me, philandering lawyers do just fine.
My practice was booming, thriving in an economy that had sucked the lifeblood from many a business owner. I have a reputation in Trenton for being ruthless and for winning cases, and it was due largely to the fact that I was a guy who knew the right people. Mob bosses, crooked judges, cops skirting the line between ethical and scumbag – they all had my number on speed dial and they all knew that Dickie Orr delivered. Alright, admittedly, I'd sold my scruples down the river ages ago and I had only a passing acquaintance with the truth but really, who was I hurting? So I got my palm greased by the odd errant cop; so what? And yeah, maybe trading job security for a little afternoon delight with my secretaries wasn't entirely on the up-and-up, but it's all part of the game. I'm playing to win and finally, finally after years of scrounging and trying to weather the veritable shit storm from my divorce, I was on top again!
I shudder involuntarily when I think about my first and last marriage. Stephanie Michelle Plum. A second shudder ghosts down my spine and I liberate the flask I kept hidden in my desk drawer, unscrewing the top and taking a healthy swallow. The bourbon burns as it goes down, a welcome distraction from The Incident. I can't help but remember it all…
I'd been working a lot in those days, even more than I worked now – like I said, political aspirations and all that. Stephanie Plum, Chambersburg Princess and Golden Ticket to the image I needed to succeed in a governmental capacity, had agreed to marry me after only 4 months of dating. I played around right up to the wedding; it wasn't official yet, and sowing wild oats was a rite of passage for all born and bred Jersey boys. A few months passed and we were so busy setting up house and writing the 'thank you' notes that we really didn't spend a lot of quality time together outside of campaign parties and the bedroom, which suited me just fine. I got her a job, a cute little 9 to 5 at E.E. Martin buying ladies underpants or something – my contact for the job was in The Family (covertly, of course) and you don't ask those guys a lot of questions. All in all, I'd been doing alright.
Joyce Barnhart had come onto me at a restaurant while my wife had been in the bathroom, and the rest was 'Burg legend. Stephanie had come home from work early, something she never did, and caught us christening the dining table my great-aunt Mable had gifted us for the wedding. Steph had lifted Joyce by her hair off of me and dragged her to the front yard before she came back for me. Lucky for me, I'd become acquainted with my wife's temper and beat feet out the back while she was dragging Joyce out the front. Not so lucky was the fact that I failed to take into consideration that a woman scorned holds nothing sacred, and so I'd taken a public beating and come out the other side discredited, broke and with almost zero job prospects.
I shake my head, pulling myself out of my reverie and glance at the fancy clock on my desk. With only half an hour before I was due to leave, I decided to indulge in one of my favorite vices – I call my mole.
Benny Gaspick held the well-earned distinction of being the biggest dick on the police force in Trenton. He issued tickets discriminately and wasn't above taking a bribe to look the other way. He also hated Stephanie Plum with a passion, and had ever since she discovered the whereabouts of Moses 'Uncle Mo' Bedemier and provided information that led to his arrest - an arrest that Picky felt he should've been given credit for since he made the initial arrest on the carrying concealed charge. And so, on occasion we like to get together and indulge in a little Plum bashing. I think it did both of us a world of good, and honestly, it was nice to bring Miss Holier-Than-Thou down a peg from time to time.
Gaspick answered his personal cell after the second ring with a sneer in his voice. "Yeah?"
I roll my eyes and rock back in my chair, already bored with his shitty attitude and feed him the line that I know will get me the information I'm after. "It's Orr. Just calling to see what the latest is with Trenton's First Couple."
He chuckles darkly. "They're off. Morelli went apeshit on her at the scene last night and she dumped him in front of the whole force. Another car bombing."
With a grunt and a mean grin I rocked back a bit further, positively giddy at Stephanie Plum's misfortune. "You call in another tip to the dark side and let the skip know she was on her way again, Picky?"
His mirthless chuckle bleeds through the line with enough animosity behind it to give me a chill. "Bitch needs to keep her fucking nose out of police business. She thinks she invincible because she's balling Morelli and Ranger; I'm just helping her maintain touch with reality. I'm sick of her poking around in ongoing investigations to get a lead on some dirtbag that's gonna nab her $50 and compromise my leads!" He was gearing up for another rant, so I fake an incoming call and disconnect. I mean, I know I've got issues but Picky is a few apples short of a bushel. Not only does he dislike Stephanie, he's actively gunning for her. I shudder to think what'll happen to him if Ranger or Morelli ever find out he's feeding info on her whereabouts to her skips so they can go on the offensive before she finds them.
Ah, well, all's well that ends well, right? And with that thought I shake off my call with Picky, my musings on the end of my marriage to Stephanie Plum and the pang I always get when I think of my wasted political aspirations and stand to gather my things for the trip home.
Once my briefcase is packed and I've got my coat over my arm, I venture out of my office and stop by Suzanne's desk. I glower at her, secretly enjoying the way she seems to shrink under my glare before I remind her sternly that she was almost late this morning and not to let it happen again. I hide my smirk until I step onto the elevator that'll take me to the parking garage, and nod at the paralegal my partner employs. He's a sanctimonious little shit, always looking down his rather long nose at me, and today is no exception.
"'Almost late'? Doesn't that technically mean 'on time', Mr. Orr?" His intonation reeks of disapproval and frankly, I couldn't care less. In the grand scheme of things, this little turd is nothing. I roll my eyes and discreetly but deliberately raise my hand to scratch my nose with my middle finger, staring him down, daring him to say something else as the elevator slows and stops. The 'ding' alerts us that we've arrived on the garage level.
He gapes at me, open-mouthed and in shock as I flip him my favorite hand gesture before I step smoothly off the elevator and saunter to my car – that's right, I saunter! Why the hell wouldn't I? I'm rich, I drive an Infinity, I've got a date later with Nanette the yoga instructor and I just got the last word with that little prick paralegal who can't mind his own business.
It's a good day to be me.
I make my way out of the industrial park where my office is located, zipping in and out of traffic as I make my way across town. I've got a very specific destination in mind, and I've got precious little time to waste before my evening out with Nanette.
I pull to a stop a block from 'Pleasure Treasures' and slide my sunglasses into place, adjust the ball cap I keep in my car and remove my suit jacket, replacing it with a Devils jacket and zipping it to my chin. With as much stealth as I can manage I cross the street and make my way to the shop, mindful of each passing car and foreign sound. Across the street is a tree-lined fence running the length of the block, and it takes me a moment to register what it is – a middle school baseball field.
The sound of parents cheering for their snot-nosed spawn as they play a mediocre (at best) game of pickup is irritating but it masks the sound of my shoes on the pavement nicely.
I enter the store, giving only a covert nod to the old lady working the register as I b-line for the ass aisle. Nanette lets me do things to her that would send Stephanie Plum into a conniption, and I plan to make the most of this evening.
With a bag laden with new toys I slip out of the store and head back toward my car, whipping out my cell phone to text Nanette and let her know what I've got planned for her after dinner; chicks love that kind of shit!
Head down as I cross the street, grinning at the little bubble on my phone and anticipating what her response would be, I don't even notice the delivery truck until it's inches from my face.
Awareness bleeds slowly into my conscious and I groan, remembering the fleeting image of a truck barreling toward me as I cross the street with attention on my phone. Smooth, Dickie, real smooth, I think as I flex and check for injuries.
Huh. For having just been hit by a huge truck, I feel pretty good. I stretch and sit up slowly, taking inventory. I feel…great. Like I just woke from a nap. And with that unsettling realization, I raise my eyes and take stock of my surroundings.
At first I'm confused; a field? With no houses? In the middle of Jersey? Such a thing does not exist! My next immediate thought was to wonder who the hell dumped me in this field, followed by wondering, out loud, "Where the Hell am I?"
"You're not anywhere near Hell," a voice behind me intones, and I just about jump out of my skin. Spinning, fists up, I prepare myself for any number of scenarios…except for the one that greets me.
A man, about 30, stands before me. Tall and lean, with a head full of black hair and the bluest eyes I've ever seen is standing with his arms crossed and looking at me in an appraising way, rocking back on the heels of his cowboy boots. He's got no weapons on him, no phone, and as far as I can see (and I can see pretty far), there's not a car in sight, nothing to indicate how we got all the way out here. I'm lost, totally lost, and I have no frigging clue what's going on.
"What the fuck is this!?" I can feel myself moving from confused to mad really fast – I don't know who this mook is, but I'm Richard friggin' Orr! I'm owed enough favors by the people who make up the underbelly of Trenton that this guy should be tinkling in his tighty whities by now. I open my mouth to tell him as much when he rolls his eyes and says, "'Tighty whities'? Come on, that's a little juvenile, don't you think?"
I freeze, my mind going blank – I didn't say that part out loud, right? That was all in my head, wasn't it? My crazy ex had this annoying habit of not knowing when she was muttering the trash that ran through her brain out loud for all and sundry to hear…surely that's what had happened. I mean, it's the only logical explanation.
Sinatra-eyes raised a finger and a single eyebrow and spoke again. "Or, maybe the mook standing in front of you knows what you're thinking, Dickie. That thought ever cross your mind?"
I feel, actually feel my brain shut down. Sort of like saying, hasta la vista, Dickie Boy! and then I can't even form a single thought. I just stand, mouth open, and stare at the man standing in front of me.
He takes me in for a moment before sighing and muttering, "I guess that was a bit much, eh?" and takes a step toward me. That snaps me out of whatever stupor I was under and I can feel my heart rate ratchet up a few notches as I scramble to put some space between us. This, this whole thing…the truck, the field, the weird dude in the ugly boots…it's too much. It's just too fucking much.
"Hey!" His voice snaps me out of my panic-induced haze and I meet his eyes for the first time in a few very long minutes. "These boots are primo! They're hand-stitched leather, made by the same company that supplies the leather for Rolls Royce!" His glare isn't the least bit menacing, but the fact that he picked up on the stream of words running through my head makes cold fear grip me. At this point, I think I'd welcome a fainting spell.
With a shrug, Pretty Boy says, "No can do, Dickie. There's no fainting here. Sorry." The last part didn't sound particularly sincere, but at the moment I didn't give a particular shit. I need answers, fast, before I head for the nearest rubber room and check myself in.
I try to speak, to demand answers, but my lips are trembling so bad all that comes out is a garbled grunt. Pretty Boy waves a hand across his front, and lo and behold! The shaking stops. I try to ignore just how creepy-crawly that makes me feel, clear my throat and speak.
"Who are you? Why am I here? Where the Hell is here?"
With a stern look and a frown, my companion levels me with a stare. "First of all, don't call me 'Pretty Boy'. I'm also not fond of 'mook', but I did enjoy 'Sinatra-eyes'." I can only nod; I have the feeling this moo…uh, this guy isn't in a big hurry, but I want answers so I'll play his game for now.
With a nod, he says, "Smart."
It's like a kick to the gut. He's been hearing, reading, I dunno, whatever the fuck he's doing, since I woke up but it's still not any less weird. I bite my lip and nod for him to continue.
He grins before he continues. "So, to answer your questions: One, I'm Gabriel. Lovely to meet you."
I bite harder and nod again, stiffly, holding my breath and hoping he gets on with it.
He eyeballs me again and grins knowingly before continuing. "Two, you're here because this is my idea of a Utopia. Perfect weather, gentle breeze blowing the grass…if you hike about ten minutes that way," he turns and gestures to his left, "there's a really beautiful lake with a dock and a rowboat. But no ducks! I don't like ducks. They're creepy, all the flapping and squawking, and they poop everywhere!" He shudders theatrically before continuing. "I brought you here because it's peaceful and there are no distractions."
He looks at me and he morphs in the span of two seconds. I don't mean literally, like some crappy Japanamation cartoon or something, but the nice-guy demeanor is gone. In front of me stands a man, seemingly taller than he was a moment ago, self assured and serious. His eyes aren't playful anymore; now, they're grave, darker in color and his expression is solemn. He draws in a breath before continuing.
"Third: 'here' isn't Hell. You aren't anywhere close to Hell…not yet, anyway. You're in Heaven, Dickie."
This is my second foray into FanFiction; I've been meaning to start this story for some time now, and had a fire lit under me recently with a review for my first story asking what happened to the planned #2? I had loads of fun the first time around and I'm very excited to dip my feet back into the literary pool!
Many thanks to my FanFiction editor, Elaine. I owe the fact that this is legible to her discerning eye.