The Ghastly Girlfriend

Two days before Halloween, Mick Newhart woke to the tumble of the Mediterranean Sea on the French Rivera shore below his hotel window, the scent of seaweed, salt, and brioche wafting through the open window, while the light in the room edged from pure darkness to deepest violet blue. He had been sleeping fitfully, a feeling of impending dread unshakable about him. On the dresser, he saw one dead soldier, then another, a brown puddle of liquor sticky beneath the lips of one bottle neck.

"How much did we drink?"

In the quickening morning shadows, the sensuous curves of a naked hip, an extended leg, a firm round butt, and the nodes of an arcing spine appeared like ghosts from the darkness. Gracie Penning had kicked the luxurious sheets completely off, revealing her glistening white torso, evidence of the soothing aloe he had lathered on her last night. Pink sunburn glowed over her despite his care. Her hair was white gold, straight, and chin-length. He recognized the white shoulders hunching in rhythm to the sobbing she had begun.

"What's the matter, Gracie?" he asked.

"I'm just so happy!" She rolled to face him. Her teary blue eyes matched the early morning sea. Her luscious lips parted, waiting to be kissed. Her smallish breasts pointed at him. His dick responded to her accessibility despite his own reluctance to roll with her again. Her sobbing slowly ended.

"We have to go, Gracie. I need to be back in New York by tomorrow morning."

Gracie groaned in disappointment, while her hands reached for him, and her legs tried to wrap around his own. Mick slipped out of her grasp and stood on his side of the king bed. He found a robe and covered himself, his dick insisting on poking out. Gracie lifted herself on one elbow, pouting. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. Then he picked up his cell to check the messages.

"What's so important in New York? Just tell them you're trapped on a nude beach."

"Tried that. Sylvia won't buy it anymore. She says I have an important meeting first thing tomorrow. Come on, get yourself up. Do mind if I take the first shower?"

"Oh, go ahead. I know our plane doesn't leave until this evening. I'm going back to the beach for a bit. You don't mind, do you?" She dried her eyes, rolled out of bed, and stretched her arms high overhead, standing naked before the large window facing the sea. "You've turned me into a nudist now. I like it."

"I had hoped to get an earlier flight back."

"Oh, I don't want to go back yet. Who knows when we'll get a chance to come back to Cap d'Agle, darling."

"Take sunscreen with you, Gracie, and use it. You're still too pale."

"We've been here a week. I think my skin has adjusted."

Gracie grabbed her green bikini with the thong bottoms and pulled them on. Her white ass bulged around the narrow strip in back. She didn't bother with the top. With a towel draped over her arm, she opened the door. Before she left, she said, "You know where to find me when you get tired of answering your little work messages. I'm ordering a Sex on the Beach, and I want you to deliver it, darling. We can always make wild monkey love."

She blew him a kiss before she closed the door.

Mick dodged the kiss and ran his hand through his hair. His phone was blowing up with messages. His financial clients didn't like him gone for such a long time. He'd answer them, but first, he needed to take a long shower. He stood under the warm water, soaped completely, then washed off with icy cold water for five minutes that left him tingling and breathing rapidly. It was a great antidote for a hangover, his favorite kind of shower, and one that Gracie refused to share with him.

Mick Newhart arrived by taxi at the stark gray modern skyscraper early on the day before Halloween. He ran to the entrance, Gracie Penning clinging tightly to his arm. Her white gold hair bobbed at her chin. A slight sunburn glowed on her creamy white skin. As the glass doors whooshed open, a security guard with a broad smile said, "Hello, Mr. Newhart. Hello, Gracie. How was your vacation?"

"We've been to the Cap d'Agle in the south of France," Gracie Penning bubbled, clutching Mick's arm tighter. "It's the nudist capital of the world."

"Jim, can we get Ms. Penning a taxi home? I didn't have time to drop her off before we got here," Mick said.

"No!" said Gracie, nestling more closely into his arm. "I want to see where you work — your office, where the magic happens."

"I have a meeting with my boss today. It may take a while. You should go home. You should call Andrew. He may be worried about you."

"Oh, pshaw," she said. "I'm so over Andrew. I saw you win the tennis tournament at the firm outing. You looked so sexy in your tennis whites, darling."

Mick caught Jim rolling his eyes. He knew how the security guard felt, in spades. How was he going to get rid of Ms. Penning? Mick leaned closer to the guard and said, "Watch for Andrew Granger when he comes to work. He's got a concealed carry permit."

The security guard nodded with his chin extended. He tootled a goodbye to Gracie, still firmly attached to Mick.

They rode to the top floor. As the car eased to a stop, she gave his cheek a quick kiss. Mick reacted as though a mosquito had landed there.

Mick's corner office had a view of the East River and the Atlantic Ocean, with sunlight bouncing on the waves. Gracie took a minute to gaze out of each window in the office. Sylvia, wearing a tight pencil skirt over real nylons, a white satin blouse, and her auburn hair pulled up loosely into a bun off her neck, brought Mick his latte in an over-sized black cup.

"Your meeting with Mr. Janes is in fifteen minutes. Would you like me to reschedule?" she asked, nodding at Gracie.

"Of course not!" Mick sipped a little from his cup. "Tell Mr. Janes I'll be right there. Take Miss Penning and get her a ride home. Gracie, it's been fun. Let's keep in touch."

Gracie moved toward him, her arms open for an embrace, her lips partially open for a kiss. Mick used his executive desk to block her advance.

Sylvia poked her head in again. "Security downstairs called. He said Andrew Granger is here and is on his way up to see you. He was carrying a concealed Baby Glock. He still has it."

Mick pushed Gracie into Sylvia's arms. She had dealt with clingy women before. She firmly grasped Gracie's arms and guided her to the door.

"You son of a bitch!" Andrew Granger charged through the door. His suit looked as though he'd slept in it, and his red hair wild. His hands were balled into fists, but he did not show his Glock. He wound up and took a roundhouse swing at Mick, followed by a jab to the midsection and an uppercut.

"Don't hurt him! Don't hurt him!" Gracie screamed. Mick couldn't tell who was not supposed to be hurting whom.

Mick anticipated the punches and deftly blocked them, dancing backward. He hadn't even spilled his latte, which he slid onto the desk. He tried not to be distracted by Gracie's screaming,

When Andrew realized couldn't land a punch, he charged directly at Mick, tackling him over the wrap-around mahogany desk. The monitors, phone, keyboard, and coffee cup crashed over the side of the desk. Files, notes, and latté were splashed to the corners of the room. Mick rolled Andrew of, and stood in the center of his office.

Jim, the security guard, burst in and pinned Andrew's arms to his sides. That didn't stop him from trying to kick Mick in the balls. Mick dodged that attack as well.

"Why?" Andrew asked through gritted teeth. "Why did you have to fuck Gracie? She's my fiancée. Who do you think you are, asshole?"

"I don't like that word," said Gracie, "fuck. It's so crude." Her lips curled as though she had tasted flat champagne.

"So you didn't fuck him? Is that what you're telling me?" Andrew yelled at Gracie as Jim wrestled him out of the office. "I know you fucked the shit out of him!"

Once Andrew was out of earshot Gracie turned to Mick and in an annoying little girl voice whispered, "I'm not going to tell him the things we did, Mick. It'll be our little secret, darling." She put two fingers to her lips and twisted an imaginary lock.

"Go home, Gracie," Mick said. "Now! Or better yet, go and apologize to Andrew."

Gracie's blue eyes widened. "I won't. I only want to do it with you. You know, fuck." She whispered the last word as her face turned even redder. Then she turned defiant. "There. I said it. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuckety-fuck. With you, Mick. Only you. Wild monkey love, darling."

"Your meeting is starting," said Sylvia. "I'll have this place cleaned up before you're back."

As Mick left, he gave Sylvia a nod regarding Gracie, which meant, "Get her the hell out of here, too."

Mr. Janes's office was a corner office like Mick's, but deathly quiet. The windows were almost entirely covered. His view of the city seemed sterile compared to the robust seascapes that Mick saw. When Mick entered, he moved into shadows. The silence pressed down on him.

"What am I going to do with you, Newhart?" Mr. Janes said, then stared with hard eyes at him. "You earned the largest bonus again this quarter, but you were personally responsible for three of our best female employees quitting."

"We're all big boys and girls at this firm, right?" Mick said.

"And now you and Andrew, one of our most promising young talents, brawl in your office? I had such high hopes for him. He could have been another star like you, without your destructive need to defile every woman he sees."

Mick squirmed.

"Andrew was engaged to be married to Gracie Penning this December. Did you know that? She comes from old, old money and lots of it. She's the third richest woman in Westchester county. But you probably knew that part."

"I don't give a shit about Gracie Penning's money."

Janes stareded at Mick. "No," he said, "I don't believe you do. So, it's not enough to bed wives, models, or sports figures anymore, is it?"

Mick shrugged uncomfortably. "Don't fire Andrew. He was under a lot of pressure. He can be a star."

"If you haven't destroyed his self-image."

"Can we just talk about my bonus?"

Janes shook his head slowly. "I usually want employees like you who are never satisfied when it comes to money. But not when it comes to dominating others. Let's face it, Newhart. The bonus money will never satisfy you, any more than sleeping with every woman you see will satisfy you. "

"I admit I'm driven, Mr. Janes."

"You're not just driven. You're rapacious. You think you're entitled to what others have. You were wrong to test yourself by bedding Andrew's fiancé.

"I see a challenge and I want to test myself."

"You will never find the challenge that satisfies you completely. I've seen others destroyed the same way, Newhart."

"Knowing I've earned the highest bonus helps, Mr. Janes. So, if there's nothing else to say, perhaps you could just give me my bonus?"

Mr. Janes said nothing for a few moments, letting the silence bear down on Mick. It felt as though each moment was a heavy stone, piled on his shoulders. Janes pulled a pipe from his drawer, filled it, and lit it. He drew on it a few times, and exhaled an exquisite aroma attached to a lengthy puff of smoke.

"Before I award you this bonus, Newhart," he began, puffing intermittently between phrases. "You know bonuses are discretionary, not an entitlement." He puffed again, "I would like you to spend some time with another man who once had your destructive tendencies."

There was knock at the door. Mick turned to face the door, but Janes did not move. The knocking sounded again, quieter this time. Janes still did not move.

"Do you want me to get that?" Mick asked.

Janes exhaled again, looked intently at Mick, then nodded.

Mick opened the door. Xavier Tonsin, a large man with wiry black hair, filled the doorway. He carried a weight-lifter's shoulders and a gymnast's waist, a face carved from granite, and eyes that did not look at him or at Janes. Xavier Tonsin stood six inches taller than Mick, who was himself 6'4". Tonsin was the quiet, unknown entity who did his work extremely well, didn't complain, and didn't socialize. When he was referred to at all, it was as Mr. X.

"Xavier Tonsin, this is Mick Newhart. He faces a problem that you overcame several years ago — the need to win, to dominate, to conquer everything in sight."

Xavier spoke, like the rumble from a deep cave. "Alexander the great cried because there were no more worlds to conquer."

"Yes," said Janes, with a long exhalation. "We all know the feeling. Now I want you to show Mr. Newhart how he can overcome his obsessions."

Mick shook his head. "No offense, Mr. X, but I don't want to become a zombie or an automaton. I want to live fully and embrace the next challenge."

"So far, Mr. Newhart," Janes said, "you've only embraced women that belong to other men."

Mr. X didn't chuckle at the comment or make any movement at all.

"So when do I get my bonus?" asked Mick.

"If you get your bonus, it will be after you have spent some quality time with Mr. Tonsin. I want you to pay attention to what he learned on his own sabbatical. You may find that a sabbatical will do you well."

"Remind me, Tonsin, how long was your sabbatical," said Mick.

"A few years, more or less."

"You were gone over three and a half years. I had just started with the firm back then, and you were all anyone could talk about. 'Where had Mr. X gone? What was he doing? Is he making more money now?' Eventually, they stopped talking."

"We kept his job open. We'll do the same for you, Newhart, no matter how long it takes," Janes said.

"People thought it mysterious and spooky that you were gone. One day, the Prince of Wall Street, and then suddenly — poof! — You were 'on sabbatical.' A woman came looking for you. She was a beautiful girl with long dark hair and bright gray eyes, asking us what we knew about your disappearance. Nobody knew nothing, and that's what we told her."

"Gina," rumbled Xavier Tonsin. "Gina is her name."

"Persistent and loyal, I'll give you that. You and she had something special, she said. But even she gave up on you after a while." Mick clapped Xavier on the shoulder, but the comradely gesture did not move him at all. "The one job that was not kept open was her love for you. You guys never did get married, and I haven't seen her around since you've been back."

"Gina did not give up on me," said Tonsin with a growl.

"Well, that's all water under the bridge, now isn't it?" said Janes. "Newhart, no woman is likely to come looking for you, unless they are coming to file a paternity suit." Janes laughed at his own joke.

"When does this mentoring start?" asked Mick.

"Now," Janes said. "The quicker you learn what Xavier Tonsin can teach, the sooner you can come back to the fold. I'll hold on to your bonus, invest it for you so that it doesn't lie fallow. When you're ready, come back. Agreed?"

Xavier Tonsin had turned without waiting for Mick's decision. Mick saw him plodding down the hallway toward his own office. "Well, you've given me a great opportunity, Mr. Janes. I'll learn everything Tonsin has to teach and be back before you even know I'm gone."

"That's what I'm hoping, Newhart. That's my prayer. Close the door."

Xavier Tonsin did not stop at his office, even for his coat. He trod heavy steps down the hallway to the elevator, without looking to see that Mick was following. The conference rooms occupied the third to the fifth floors and were available for use by the firm for training, meeting with clients, brainstorming and Mentoring. But in the elevator, Tonsin pushed the first-floor button.

"Where are we going?" asked Mick.

Tonsin looked straight ahead and didn't answer. He lead the way past the security desk to the bustle of the street outside. Then, he kept walking to the subway station, and descended the stairs more quickly than he had walked on the pavement. Mick tap-danced to keep up with the long strides he took.

The morning subway screamed to a halt in front of them, and they got in. Tonsin stood, holding onto a silver pole. The car was crowded, and the passengers swayed and jolted along the route. Tonsin wasn't affected by the physical forces of inertia or gravity. He stood firm like a stone outcrop in the car. It was all Mick could do to prevent himself from jostling into Tonsin.

The train traveled well outside the city and crawled into the mid-morning, leafy, autumn light. This was a trip to the country, the way the metropolitan area might have been three hundred years ago. Stone fences, outcroppings of trees, large barns set into hillsides flashed by like scenes pulled from a child's storybook about Rip Van Winkle or Johnny Appleseed.

When the train screeched to a halt at the end of the line, Tonsin led Mick farther on, through a remote section of the last town. The homes had been built in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth centuries, with tall gables, broad porches, and clapboard surfaces. No McMansions in sight. They walked through a small copse of trees to another village not on the train line. A two-lane road with parking on the side ran through the village. The sidewalks were crumbling and in some places none existent. Where the sidewalk ended, a large crossbar stood, warning that this was the end of the road. There was a small neighborhood bar on the right-hand side of the road, lit only by Halloween decorations and the glow from nine beer signs. It looked like a small house that had been rudely converted to commercial use. It had an oversized window that covered most of the front, underneath a sign that read Bald Mountain.

Tonsin halted in front of the bar but looked across the street at a graying, gabled, wooden-sided monstrosity with windows that needed washing, and a porch that needed new steps. A stone fence ran in front of the yard, topped by pieces of broken glass. Flagstone steps led from the road to the porch, a distance of about twenty yards. A foreboding black door discouraged entry. Each of the seven topmost windows was located in the center of one of the house's gables.

Tonsin studied the gray house for several minutes. Mick watched as well, but he saw no movement or sign of life.

"Where are you taking me?" Mick asked after they had studied the house a while.

Tonsin heaved a deep sigh and turned toward Bald Mountain bar. He held the door for Mick, the first time he had acknowledged that Mick with him. He nodded to the barman, a burly Irishman with a shaved head, bushy red beard, and most of his teeth. They grabbed a table near the front window. The barman brought them both glasses and a bottle of Irish whiskey and sat down with them.

"You're my first two customers today. 'Tis going to be a slow day, I'm t'inking."

Tonsin watched the gray house through the large, dirty window, and with nothing else to do, Mick watched as well.

"What do you see?" Tonsin growled.

"An eyesore. A tumbledown ramshackle three-story house that should be condemned." Mick took a drink of the expensive whiskey. It burned pleasantly as it went down.

"It's condemned, fer sure," the barman said. "Damned is more like it."

Tonsin glared at the barman.

"But 'tis not my concern," the barman said, and poured some more whiskey into each glass.

Tonsin turned to Mick. "What do you see inside the structure?"

"Through those grimy windows? I can't see nothing. I don't think I'd ever want to see anything in that house."

"That's where I spent my sabbatical," Tonsin said.

"Forget it," Mick said. "No way I'm locking myself up in that creepy place. Not even if it taught me to be the best broker in the world."

"I was told you liked challenges," Tonsin said.

"Oooh, like 'stay a night at the haunted house' challenge? I don't believe in ghosts, and I don't believe in haunted houses."