Can You Remember My Name

I want to thank all those who were kind enough the comment, contact me, and vote on my last effort. I thank Xtctr for editing this story and pointing out where it was confusing. Please don't blame him if there are still spelling and grammar errors. I make a lot of mistakes. You can see I took many of the comments on the last story to heart and I hope this one is tighter. I enjoy criticism both good and bad and it does help. That said looking at the comments that have been appearing on the site I will give a warning. This story is a bit dark, has little graphic sex but a very adult theme and would fall into what is being called BTB. That said it has a beginning, middle and end and does try not to preach and I hope does not justify bad actors including the male protagonist.

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Nicaragua, South West of Managua

The Village had settled for the night, the quiet was broken only by the cry of a hungry infant. The boats were in, and the fishing nets hung to dry down by the beach. William Walsh had arrived yesterday from Managua on the rumor that there was construction work here. He had spent the day looking for work. He had the skills - he had once owned a construction business, but those days were gone. There was work alright but not for Anglos no matter how skilled.

The place had a smell about it. In fact, the whole country had the same smell. He had tried to identify it, and finally decided it was the smell of poverty. This place was Poor, and the capital p was no mistake. The beaten-up little fishing village was down a steep hill from a sizable ancient hacienda. Between the great house and the village, two and three bedroom cement and steel retirement homes were sprouting like weeds. The new dwellings were for the not so rich North Americans who sought to extend their retirement savings in the low cost south.

There would eventual be work for an experienced builder when the fools, buying those cement boxes, sought to fix the poor construction. But for now Bill Walsh had to find a way to live. He was down to his last few dollars as he entered the town's cantina. The place was just four bare walls and a smattering of tables and chairs. The bar was at the room's far end. To reach it, he had to pass two members of the town's constabulary, seated drinking Tequila. He tried to remain relaxed as he passed them. He didn't think anyone was still looking for him, but you never know.

As Bill approached the bar, he noticed a man quietly drinking at one end. As the man looked up, he observed that he was another Angelo. Taking a stool at the bar, Bill ordered a Dos XX and before he could draw his meager cash the other man called out: "On me Jose."

Moving over to where Bill had taken his seat the other man offered his hand.

"Always happy to meet another Northerner, "the fellow said.

Bill looked him up and down. The word for this guy was average. He was average height, average weight, average age maybe fifty, and the average amount of thinning hair-the average American guy. But he was not dressed like an average guy, from his expensive silk jacket to his Italian leather shoes this guy flashed money. The two were very different. Bill was younger, early forties, tall at six-foot-three—had a better build at two hundred and thirty pounds of hard-muscled flesh. He had worked at his father's construction business since his fifteenth birthday, at least part time and full time after his associate's degree from the local community college.

The other man could have been anything, but he was no physical laborer. He caught Bill sizing him up and smiled.

"My new friend, you and me aren't so dissimilar," the man in the silk jacket said. "For example Jose here can't tell us apart." Turning to the bartender, he said: "Jose can you remember my name?"

"Si, of course, senor," the barman replied but ventured no name.

"You see to them we Anglos all look alike. It's very hard to get remembered," silk jacket said.

Bill gave a nervous glance toward the policia before saying, "Maybe that is not a bad thing."

The other man laughed, "Oh my new friend you've nothing to fear, the Treaty of Extradition between the United States and Nicaragua was signed in 1901. Back then this was a prosperous piece of the world. I think that's why the US sent the marines to occupy it. The crimes you're guilty of did not even exist at that time. People would have laughed at the idea of arresting a man for such offenses. "

Bill felt a little resentment towards the other man's smug attitude. "How would you know what I might have done?"

The other man just shook his head. "My friend you think your story is unique, but it's an all too common tale that the white men around here can tell," he said. Then raising an eyebrow he continued,

"She was a cheerleader, a beauty queen, or just the prettiest girl in town. When you met her, she was younger than you but not all that much. She was not so young anymore, late twenties or early thirties; she had as the New Yorker's say been around the block and more than once. You were flattered when she came on to you. You're a big good looking guy, but kind of shy and not good with the opposite sex. So here's this beauty coming on to you and the next thing you're married and happy as shit."

"Well time goes by, and there are a couple of kids and then you discover she's messing around. You see she got the home and the family she wanted so why does she need you. That's when the pain starts, and you find that the women have got themselves a nice system. They get child support, spousal support, the mortgage and their car paid, and you get nothing. So she gets to fuck her boyfriend while you pay for it. Visitation with the kids- well that's a joke."

"One day you have had enough of working and slaving so she can play, and you take a runner. You head south and end up here, the last stop, broke and looking for work. You'll find it eventually, but it will be a long hard struggle."

Bill would have liked to pop the guy in that smile of his, but the bastard was right. He had everything but the color of her hair and eyes.

"I didn't think it was that obvious," Bill said with sadness in his voice.

The other man leaned in put his left hand on Bill's shoulder and said:

"I have a story to tell you, but first—Jose bring us a bottle of the

Patron

tequila and two glasses."

My story begins with a fellow just like us. Aston Phillips was a fellow just like us. You may ask what kind of name is Aston; well it's a family name which came down from his grandfather who founded the Phillips law firm in a small town in Northern New York. It was a one-lawyer Law Firm and had been so since Aston's father had retired. "Al" as people called him made a good if modest living doing estates and corporate filings for small firms. He was a good competent lawyer. Not flashy, but well liked and a regular around the surrogate's court. His troubles began with an oil change.

"Bit late on the oil change, aren't you Mr. Phillips?" said Tom of Tom's Foreign Auto.

Aston Phillips had brought in the wife's two year old Honda Odyssey for an oil change.

"What do you mean Tommy? It's only been three months," Aston said. His father had drilled into his head that they were lawyers, and a smart man gave the other man his due. You maintain your vehicles by giving the mechanic his due, change the oil every three months and every 3000 miles.

"She's at 4,500 additional miles Al," said Tommy.

Well, wasn't that odd, where could Doris be driving to add that kind of mileage? Al had switched cars with Doris that morning to bring the Odyssey into the shop. Otherwise, he would have been driving his Accord. Al's father swore by Fords, but Al had switched to the boring if more dependable Hondas

Never mind he needed to be at Court. The case of the State of New York against the Richland estate was called at 10:17 a.m. The Phillips law firm had represented Stephen Richland, the founder and chief operating officer of Highland Oil until his retirement. He and his wife Connie were great friends of Al's father. The Richland family was wealthy but unfortunate. Their only daughter Sharon Richland had married James Allen, Mr. and Mrs. Allen were killed in an auto accident. Their son Peter Allen was eleven at the time. As he grew, he developed a drug problem and the associated run-ins with the law in a state with extremely harsh drug laws. At some point, Peter skipped for points south.

Steve Richland died first, his estate passed to his wife Sara, who in turned left everything to her grandson Peter Allen. That was five years ago and Al had searched desperately for Peter ever since Sara's death.

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"Your honor this estate has been open for seven years." Margaret Sharpe began before Al jumped in to correct her.

"No! Your honor this is the estate of Sara Richland not Stephen. Sara died only five years ago."

"Your honor the state has been patient, but with no heirs here."

Judge Macklin looked down from his high bench. He was a rather short man and had raised the ancient Surrogate's bench a half foot to make it more impressive. He was not a martinet and he liked to think he had a kind soul.

"Al have there been any developments since last month on locating this heir?" the Judge asked.

Al was ready for this. "Judge as you know I traced him to Mexico City and then Guatemala. Finally, my private investigator tracked him to Nicaragua. At that point, I had to look for a new PI since the firm I was using didn't cover that country. I'm hopeful of obtaining news very soon," Al said.

"All right one more adjournment of thirty days," said Judge Macklin.

Maggie Sharpe was not happy, and she would have been incensed if she had an accurate accounting of this estate. When Steve Richland died, he left an estate of about ten million. When Sara died, it had risen to about twelve. But that was five years ago, and Al had not done what he was supposed to. Proper administration said he should liquidate the assets and reduce them to cash, but at the time interest rates were in the toilet, but Oil prices were on the rise. Highland Oil was a takeover target when that happened the estate that was principally stock in Highland Oil vastly increase and increased again when there was another takeover that was followed by another. The estate now held over one million shares of Exxon Mobile at a price of over one hundred dollars a share.

When the final tally was in Al expected the estate to come in at more than one hundred twelve million dollars. He stood to get two, and a half percent of that or two point eight million dollars, but to get that he needed to find Peter Allen. If the estate were to be forfeited to the state, Al would be paid for his work on a schedule based on an hourly rate maybe a few thousand dollars for seven years of work. He had to find Peter, and all his troubles would be solved.

Al had troubles. He was married to Doris, a strikingly beautiful woman. A lady well out of his league, but notwithstanding that she had come on to him some twelve years ago at the wedding of a close friend. He was flattered that a woman so breathtaking would be attracted to him. He asked her out of course half expecting she would turn him down. But Doris had said yes with just the right bit of hesitation to keep him wondering. So it began and in short order he found himself married to this gorgeous woman. At first everything had been great, but after the birth of their second daughter, Doris began to lose interest in sex. They went from several times a week to maybe once every two weeks, and only when Al pushed it.

Doris made up for a reduced sex life by shopping, gallivanting with her girlfriends and eating fancy meals in expensive restaurants. She kept her figure doing yoga five days a week. Al made a good living. He was highly respected and had the reputation of being scrupulously honest. But Al was having a hard time keeping up with the bills.

Doris had wanted the big colonial center hall in Highland Estates, the new Honda Odyssey with all the extras. Their daughters, who he loved above everything else in this world, went to private school at the cost of $24,000 a year for the first and $16,000 for the second. Al was having problems keeping up with expenses. The Richland estate was his life-preserver, if he could bring that in, and he was saved.

On the way out of the Courthouse, Al ran into John Fletcher the state pathologist.

"Hey, Al wait up," John called to Al.

Al turned and waited for John on the Courthouse steps.

"How you been?" John asked. The two men had not seen each other in several months and decided to have lunch together since it was 11:45. They decided to have lunch at Benny's Lunchroom that was a sandwich served with chips kind of place. Al passed on the chips, so John consumed his chips as well.

"What brings the State Pathologist to Columbia County?" Al asked.

"The Dawson murder trial starts next week and I just met with DA Perkins to go over my," then speaking in strict confidence to his old friend John explained the problem with his evidence.

Janet Dawson was indicted for stabbing her step-father to death. She may have had a good defense that he was sexually abusive, but she decided early on to deny all involvement in the killing.

"Yah see the Dawson girl, after the killing, burned her clothing in the big fireplace that the old Dawson house has. She did a thorough job of it too. So the only blood evidence is from the ashes," John said.

"Now most people watching TV these days think you should have DNA evidence," John continued "But the fact is heat destroys the DNA, so all I can say is that there is evidence of blood in the ashes not whose blood it is, could be the father's or anyone's."

"Sounds like a problem," Al said.

"Yea, but I guarantee she won't escape a conviction with Ted Perkins prosecuting. He's bound and determined to make a run for Attorney General next year, and that girl's fate is sealed," John postulated.

The two men finished lunch and said their goodbyes, promising not to let so much time pass without reconnecting. Al set the conversation into his memory of little facts you might need some day.

The fact that was nagging Al was the excess mileage on the minivan. He had no idea how his wife could have incurred that amount of excess mileage. He should ask her, but for the last several months things had been rather strained between them.

Doris, his wife, had always been very affectionate but just lately the affection between them had seemed to cool. It was clear that she had been taking some trips that he had not been a party to. He was uncertain as to where she was going without telling him. When they were first married she had been everything you could ask for in a wife: Loving and affectionate in public and at home, the very standard for a good wife. In the bedroom, she was a tigress. Doris denied him nothing and was up for anything a man and woman could do together. Then the girls were born, first Susan and then Dianna.

The girls became Al's reason for living. He showered his love on them and Doris, but Doris seemed to pull away. She had everything she had always said that she wanted, the colonial house the new minivan, and membership in the country club. Al gave her everything, but the more he gave the unhappier she became. Their sex life faltered but never disappeared - that was something Al would not tolerate. For her part, though unhappy, Doris seemed to love him and the girls. Doris was still the good wife and mother, although unable to be happy for some reason. This was the odd state of respected attorney, Aston Philips', marriage, a kind of uneasy equilibrium.

The night it fell apart they had an invitation to the Alexander's house. It was a party given to celebrate Jack Alexander's birthday. He was fifty -five. Jack and Al had never been close, but since they were both attorneys in a small town they had exchanged invitations on numerous occasions and often filled in for each other for court appearances and other professional matters.

Jack and Melissa greeted Doris and Al warmly when they arrived. Melissa was a good ten years older than Doris and not near as pretty, but she had the kind of warm, loving personality which Al had always envied Jack for. The party was well underway when Doris and Al were approached by a couple that Al did not know.

Manuel Nieves was a big man about six foot two. He was clearly part Hispanic, but part Black as well- the woman with him, Jasmine Dakarai, was very dark indeed. Jasmine had remarkably European features for a black woman. She was tall maybe just under six foot and model thin. The two were expensively dressed, but they felt wrong to Al. He had been a lawyer for more than twenty years and in that time he had learned to spot the client who was not quite on the level. They were a very handsome couple, but just not right.

The next thing he noticed as they introduced themselves was that although they pretended not to know Doris they clearly had a familiarity that was inconsistent with having just met for the first time. Moreover, Manuel was giving him the kind of false smile that to Al said that the black man knew something that Al did not.

The conversation was trivial, and Al was hardly listening until it came to where the couple lived: Castleton -not very far about forty miles, a good eighty miles round trip. Could it be? He looked hard at his wife Doris. Yes, at that moment he knew he had no proof, but he knew. This arrogant mulatto was cuckolding him with his tramp of a wife.

On the way, home Doris knew something was wrong. Al was silent, but she let the matter slide; this was a mistake she would eventually regret. Al on his side was lost in thought when had it started. Why was it happening, and of course was he giving her something that Al could not.

Al was sure of what was going on, but he had to know for certain. The next day at his office he set out to catch Doris. It was not difficult. Fred Thomas was a PI that Al had used for years to locate people in estates maters, but Fred's main business had always been cheating spouses. Al had never thought he would need Fred for this purpose. Fred was even surprised.

"It happens," he said when Al called, "but you never know. A third of the time the woman is entirely innocent. Let me check and get back to you."

It only took Fred three days. He had pictures.

"Not very discreet, they don't even draw the curtains," he said passing pictures taken through a bedroom window. "Kind of a 'ménage et trois'," Fred said.

Al could see everything in the photos; Doris, Jasmine and Nieves. The guy was hung like a horse, and he was using Doris like a cheap whore-so much for the marriage. It was over right there.

"Ok, Fred this stays strictly confidential for now," Al said and Fred assured him it would.

Al spent the rest of the day trying to calm down. There are times it is not good to be a lawyer. He knew how this came out. Two kids meant 27% of his gross in child support; then spousal support, plus half the mortgage and all those credit cards that Doris had run up in his name. New York was an equitable distribution state so forget 50/50 on assets. The law seemed designed to give over to the guilty spouse the lion's share or more accurately the lionesses' share of the assets. There was no way that Al could survive unless he took advantage of the warning, given through the grace of God.

When he went home that evening, he played it as if he knew nothing. When rather surprisingly Doris initiated sex he played right along. She dragged him into the bedroom, shedding her outer garments to reveal a lacy bra and panty set. Sex between them had always been rather tame, but tonight Doris was a tiger. She had sent the kids to his sisters, and she seemed out to fuck him to death.