Retaliation

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Hank II

“You worthless, miserable piece of crap,” She screamed. “You think that I'm going to stay with you when you are out screwing that beanpole little b***h every chance you get?”

“Melinda. Calm down,” he said, a begging, almost patronizing note in his voice.

“Calm down? Calm down? I go to the market and I hear that you are seen in the Perchance Bar with some skinny cutie half your age. I get a f*******: photo of you and some two-bit, flat-chested cream puff from the bakery. You get your photo on page one of the papers with your arm around some dip-s**t, horse-faced broad who happens to be a member of the state legislature. The suite at The Five Seasons that you seem to be keeping on a permanent basis is not, I'm sure, just for business purposes, is it? Then, just for a final note, I see your videos... didn't know I got to those, did you, asshole... of you and that anorexic real estate garbage bag who sold us this piece of s**t house. You want me to calm down?”

“Please, Honey. Those are all just business. I wasn't screwing anyone.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove I was.”

“You're done, Dickhead. Done. Get out of here. The lake house is mine. The Palm Beach estate, in case you've forgotten, went into my name when you were worried about the IRS discovering your dalliance with that Columbian fuckhead, Carlos. The pitiful mortgage on this dump is in my name. The cars are mine. You have your puissant bank account and your passport. That's it. Luanne, my attorney, who I am reasonably certain you haven't f****d yet, will be in touch. You have ten minutes to get out before I call my father and his guys, who will redesign your oh-so-hip face, break your knees and dump you in a ditch.”

Hank knew Her father, Tony, “The Phony,” Lianetta. He was, according to the local newspapers, a second tier hoodlum who got his nickname when he went before a Supreme Court judge on a tax evasion charge. The judge was unimpressed with Tony’s state tax returns and branded him a phony and a sham, fining him fifty thousand dollars for poorly cooked books. But Hank also knew Tony had a bad temper and tended to overreact when something annoyed him. Three times in three years, the best efforts of the district attorney had resulted in Tony barely avoiding indictment on major criminal charges, including assault and real estate fraud. So Hank tried to steer clear of his father-in-law whenever possible.

“Come on, Melinda. You’re over-reacting to this. I can prove it to you. You can't throw me out. Where will I go?”

“Go f**k yourself,” She replied and strode out of the kitchen, her long, tanned legs flashing through the hip-high slit in her Japanese gown, her full and gelatinous breasts bobbing enticingly about under the thin silk.

Henry Rostrom stood in the kitchen, wondering if perhaps this time he had gone too far. One too many bimbos in his bed at the fancy hotel and the wrong friends, all buddies with his wife, were finally doing him in.

“Now what?” he thought. “I can't go to Cindy or Georgia. They know Melinda and would text her the second I showed up in the driveway. They probably already know. Oh well, Five Seasons Towers, here I come.”

He went upstairs, packed as many of his valuables as he could locate and stuffed them into a leather carry-on bag She gave him for his birthday. His gold initials were neatly embossed on the side: HHR.

He opened the dresser drawer, removed the polished walnut watch storage box with its twelve automatic Swiss timepieces and unconsciously noted that if he had to sell them, the box full of stainless steel, Carbon Fiber, Platinum, Pink Gold and black watches would easily net him something close to seventy or eighty thousand dollars, even at the city's least desirable jewelry pawn shop. On the Internet market, he was sure that the Blancpain 50 Fathoms with rose gold trim alone could bring twenty grand and his prized Jaeger-LeCoutre Master Compressor perhaps half that amount, assuming he had time to list them and patience to await a legitimate buyer. Among the other jewelry watches, he picked up the gold Vacheron Constantin Overseas Chronograph, his prize timepiece that he only wore on rare occasions that seemed to merit showing up wearing a fifty thousand dollar watch. He stuffed all three into a soft, velvet, draw string bag and left the rest in the case.

From the pocket of the Hermes black woolen blazer in the closet, he slipped out his emergency getaway pack, a thick leather packet that looked like a fancy cigar case with three bogus cigars. The secret compartment containing his passport and twenty, brand new, five-hundred Euro bills, the highest value currency available in Europe, was ingeniously incorporated to look like soft padding for the cigars. He opened the calfskin packet, quickly counted the stack of bills and placed them inside a rolled up black sweatshirt.

From an inside pocket on the blazer, he removed a clear plastic zip loc bag with the details of an electronic airline ticket, first class with a sleeper berth to Quito, Ecuador. A stack of shorts, socks and white T-shirts went into the bag, followed by a small box of gold cuff links, a few rings, including his old school signet ring and a silver chain bracelet from his San Francisco years. Dress shirts, two pair of shoes and two pair of slacks followed. The bag was brim-full, so he pulled out a larger duffel and emptied his dresser and closet into that as well; leaving what he figured was of minimal value. Then, for a moment, his dominant sadistic side took over and he took a heavy leather bag full of what might have looked like mechanic’s tools and placed that next to the duffel.

Making an final mental check of his personal assets, Hank walked quietly down the stairs, put both filled travel bags into his Jeep SRT Cherokee and then, just as he was about to get into the car, he stopped. One other thing he could not resist taking was the case of the 1982 Lafite Rothschild in the cellar. That case of twelve bottles of the rare Pauillac wine, he thought, recently valued at over $3,000 US a bottle, would be his ticket to a good hotel room for at least a few weeks, perhaps months if he found someone who knew the real street value of the rare Bordeaux wine. Walking back into the house, he unlocked the cellar door, turned on the lights and went down the circular steel stairs into the basement. As he reached the concrete floor, he thought he heard something behind the stairs and then something hard hit him on the back of his head and the lights went out.