your assignment. That assignment is to persuade Laura Bishop to remain silent with regard to any information she has about me. And I don’t want her harmed. If it’s traced back to me, well, you know the ramifications as well as I.”
I didn’t think it necessary to respond. Besides, I was dumbfounded because she placed a cashier’s check for $125,000 on the table.
“When you’ve completed your job to my satisfaction, Ms. Rosten, I will give you another check for the same amount. However, if you fail, or our meeting here tonight becomes public, you will not only lose the next payment, you will lose your entire business.” She looked around the living room. “And it appears your business is extremely lucrative. Do we have a deal?”
“Let me look into it. See if it’s a job within my skill set. If not, I will destroy the check. As for your visit here tonight, all my clients are on a confidential list kept only in my head. To expose you would possibly expose other clients, so, no, I won’t be calling the press for a tell-all. No matter what. Is that sufficient?”
I didn’t pick up the check or the flash drive. I really couldn’t take my eyes off this woman. She was the standard bearer for people so deluded, they would follow her into a snake pit, believing her to be a woman of God. She was a fraud, and I wasn’t one to question my intuition anymore. She was repugnant to me, but I wasn’t going to fully show her my distaste any more than I already had. It was a lot of money she was waving around. Maybe I could fashion a way to achieve Stratton’s goals, acquire a quarter million dollars, and see Laura Bishop, in person, for the first time in years. It was an irresistible moment of personal and professional dishonor.
“I know you don’t want to work with me, Ms. Rosten. But let me assure you that I have always been an unwavering supporter for the Jews. They will always find an ally with me. It will be worth it for you to help me…for your people.”
I could tell she was sincere about supporting Israel, but then the cynical caveat “for the moment” passed through my head. She meant what she said, and she always said exactly what she felt, or so her campaign claimed. What Elizabeth Stratton didn’t see was her shadow self, her blind spot. Elizabeth Stratton compartmentalized her feelings and, therefore, her rhetoric. That was how she could seduce people into believing every incendiary word she said. She believed it herself, until the moment arrived when a particular political stance was no longer convenient. Then, like discarding underwear, she donned a new, more crowd-rallying stance and railed on. If it ever served her purpose, she’d put Jews in the crosshairs too. I knew that better than she did.
I let her out my front door and watched her pull her hood over her hair, as protection from both the rain and recognition. Her black SUV waited in the driveway. I could tell by the barely discernable little puff of exhaust trickling out of the tailpipe that it was running. Someone had been waiting for her.
I went back into the living room and stood over the check and flash drive warring with myself. Finally, I took the check, folded it, and tucked it into a small, never-used drawer in the coffee table. I put the flash drive in my pocket.
I flopped down on the couch and thought about Laura Bishop, vexed by how my heart rate increased when I envisioned her face, her eyes as she looked at me with trust, more than trust, during the press conference. I became even more disturbed when I realized that I needed to find her, not for Elizabeth Stratton, not for money, but for me.
*
After several minutes of torturing myself over Laura Bishop, I heard a door slam and movement in the kitchen. I jumped in alarm and then remembered Fitch was around, and I’d sent her on a food errand. Food felt like a great idea.
“Goddamn, son of a bitch, Rosten. What kind of people live around here? What is this, Heil Hitler
I didn’t think it necessary to respond. Besides, I was dumbfounded because she placed a cashier’s check for $125,000 on the table.
“When you’ve completed your job to my satisfaction, Ms. Rosten, I will give you another check for the same amount. However, if you fail, or our meeting here tonight becomes public, you will not only lose the next payment, you will lose your entire business.” She looked around the living room. “And it appears your business is extremely lucrative. Do we have a deal?”
“Let me look into it. See if it’s a job within my skill set. If not, I will destroy the check. As for your visit here tonight, all my clients are on a confidential list kept only in my head. To expose you would possibly expose other clients, so, no, I won’t be calling the press for a tell-all. No matter what. Is that sufficient?”
I didn’t pick up the check or the flash drive. I really couldn’t take my eyes off this woman. She was the standard bearer for people so deluded, they would follow her into a snake pit, believing her to be a woman of God. She was a fraud, and I wasn’t one to question my intuition anymore. She was repugnant to me, but I wasn’t going to fully show her my distaste any more than I already had. It was a lot of money she was waving around. Maybe I could fashion a way to achieve Stratton’s goals, acquire a quarter million dollars, and see Laura Bishop, in person, for the first time in years. It was an irresistible moment of personal and professional dishonor.
“I know you don’t want to work with me, Ms. Rosten. But let me assure you that I have always been an unwavering supporter for the Jews. They will always find an ally with me. It will be worth it for you to help me…for your people.”
I could tell she was sincere about supporting Israel, but then the cynical caveat “for the moment” passed through my head. She meant what she said, and she always said exactly what she felt, or so her campaign claimed. What Elizabeth Stratton didn’t see was her shadow self, her blind spot. Elizabeth Stratton compartmentalized her feelings and, therefore, her rhetoric. That was how she could seduce people into believing every incendiary word she said. She believed it herself, until the moment arrived when a particular political stance was no longer convenient. Then, like discarding underwear, she donned a new, more crowd-rallying stance and railed on. If it ever served her purpose, she’d put Jews in the crosshairs too. I knew that better than she did.
I let her out my front door and watched her pull her hood over her hair, as protection from both the rain and recognition. Her black SUV waited in the driveway. I could tell by the barely discernable little puff of exhaust trickling out of the tailpipe that it was running. Someone had been waiting for her.
I went back into the living room and stood over the check and flash drive warring with myself. Finally, I took the check, folded it, and tucked it into a small, never-used drawer in the coffee table. I put the flash drive in my pocket.
I flopped down on the couch and thought about Laura Bishop, vexed by how my heart rate increased when I envisioned her face, her eyes as she looked at me with trust, more than trust, during the press conference. I became even more disturbed when I realized that I needed to find her, not for Elizabeth Stratton, not for money, but for me.
*
After several minutes of torturing myself over Laura Bishop, I heard a door slam and movement in the kitchen. I jumped in alarm and then remembered Fitch was around, and I’d sent her on a food errand. Food felt like a great idea.
“Goddamn, son of a bitch, Rosten. What kind of people live around here? What is this, Heil Hitler
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