Read Online Like Grownups Do by Nathan Roden - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nathan Roden
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back home, ‘no, fuck you very much, Boss’.”
“Tooooooouché. That was Millicent P. Potty-Mouth, ladies and gentlemen. It’s great to have her back here at the Comedy Shack where she’ll be performing all week to split your sides and tickle your funny bones—with maybe even a half-day of typing and filing on Saturday,” Babe said.
“In your dreams.”
“You know you could use the overtime, Mil,” Babe said. “We don’t pay you squat, and that boyfriend of yours—how much can they possibly pay a professor at MIT? My Gawwwd , Millie. You’re practically homeless.”
“I think the phone is ringing in your office, Mister Babelton, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Roll Tide,” Babe said.
Millie spun a 180 back to her computer, waving as she turned.
“Roll Tide.”
“Come on in, Babe,” Jordan Blackledge said. He was on the phone, pacing in front of his enormous bay window and holding up a ‘this will just be a minute’ finger. Babe nodded and crossed the office to the water cooler that stood next to a corner fireplace. The fireplace was a recent addition, a gift from Jordan’s wife. Samantha Blackledge had recently redecorated the mantel and the walls around it with an arrangement of photos, some of which Babe had not seen before. He filled a paper cup and looked up at a photo of Jordan and Samantha with Rudy Giuliani. There were a few pictures from Jordan’s and Samantha’s wedding, including one of the couple with Jack and Jill.
A slightly older photo showed Jordan and Samantha at a party fund raising dinner with Jack and Helen. Babe stared at Helen’s face. This photo was the latest picture of her that he had seen. It was taken about two years before her death. This was the first photo that Babe had seen where he could see signs of Helen’s illness evidenced in her face.
The look was suddenly too familiar; and he turned away. He took the seat in front of Jordan’s desk.
Jordan Blackledge was fifty two years old—six foot four and trim with a thick head of black hair with a few flecks of gray. He was the head of Research Consultants, Inc.—the company that employed but five people: Jordan, Babe, Tom, Millie, and Madeline Gerard, aka MG, who served as liaison between the company and the FBI.
Jordan exhaled a heavy breath that matched the exhausted look on his face. He hung up the phone and walked around his desk to sit on its corner.
“Sorry I’ve been out so much lately, Babe. How are you?”
“Fine, Jordan. Okay. How is Samantha?”
“She’s great. Say, I need to talk to you and Tom together. Are you free for lunch?”
“Tom and I are going to Momma’s in about an hour.”
“Bingo. I’ll join you if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Anything else?”
Jordan looked rather uncomfortable. He fidgeted, adjusting himself on the corner of his desk.
“I talked to the SAC from Phoenix this morning; for quite a while, actually.”
“So,” Babe asked, “How did that whole thing turn out?”
“They have the Palmer kid in rehab and on indefinite suspension,” Jordan said.
“The legal thing is going to take forever to sort out. Hell, one of the kids’ parents was trafficking millions of dollars’ worth of coke and the neighbor kid was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Babe nodded.
“He had a lot of questions about you.”
Babe looked down and then stared straight ahead into the wall.
“The SAC and Palmer’s father and uncles have been together since the Academy. He says you saved that kid’s life. They confronted Palmer with the things you said and he gave up the whole story in a blubbering mess. He’s getting proper treatment now and seeing a therapist twice a week. They like the results they’re having with some new medications, and they say he’s sleeping like the dead.
“The SAC said that according to the doctors, Cole would have been dead in less than a year the way he was going.”
Babe nodded some more.
“How the hell did you…
“Tooooooouché. That was Millicent P. Potty-Mouth, ladies and gentlemen. It’s great to have her back here at the Comedy Shack where she’ll be performing all week to split your sides and tickle your funny bones—with maybe even a half-day of typing and filing on Saturday,” Babe said.
“In your dreams.”
“You know you could use the overtime, Mil,” Babe said. “We don’t pay you squat, and that boyfriend of yours—how much can they possibly pay a professor at MIT? My Gawwwd , Millie. You’re practically homeless.”
“I think the phone is ringing in your office, Mister Babelton, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Roll Tide,” Babe said.
Millie spun a 180 back to her computer, waving as she turned.
“Roll Tide.”
“Come on in, Babe,” Jordan Blackledge said. He was on the phone, pacing in front of his enormous bay window and holding up a ‘this will just be a minute’ finger. Babe nodded and crossed the office to the water cooler that stood next to a corner fireplace. The fireplace was a recent addition, a gift from Jordan’s wife. Samantha Blackledge had recently redecorated the mantel and the walls around it with an arrangement of photos, some of which Babe had not seen before. He filled a paper cup and looked up at a photo of Jordan and Samantha with Rudy Giuliani. There were a few pictures from Jordan’s and Samantha’s wedding, including one of the couple with Jack and Jill.
A slightly older photo showed Jordan and Samantha at a party fund raising dinner with Jack and Helen. Babe stared at Helen’s face. This photo was the latest picture of her that he had seen. It was taken about two years before her death. This was the first photo that Babe had seen where he could see signs of Helen’s illness evidenced in her face.
The look was suddenly too familiar; and he turned away. He took the seat in front of Jordan’s desk.
Jordan Blackledge was fifty two years old—six foot four and trim with a thick head of black hair with a few flecks of gray. He was the head of Research Consultants, Inc.—the company that employed but five people: Jordan, Babe, Tom, Millie, and Madeline Gerard, aka MG, who served as liaison between the company and the FBI.
Jordan exhaled a heavy breath that matched the exhausted look on his face. He hung up the phone and walked around his desk to sit on its corner.
“Sorry I’ve been out so much lately, Babe. How are you?”
“Fine, Jordan. Okay. How is Samantha?”
“She’s great. Say, I need to talk to you and Tom together. Are you free for lunch?”
“Tom and I are going to Momma’s in about an hour.”
“Bingo. I’ll join you if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Anything else?”
Jordan looked rather uncomfortable. He fidgeted, adjusting himself on the corner of his desk.
“I talked to the SAC from Phoenix this morning; for quite a while, actually.”
“So,” Babe asked, “How did that whole thing turn out?”
“They have the Palmer kid in rehab and on indefinite suspension,” Jordan said.
“The legal thing is going to take forever to sort out. Hell, one of the kids’ parents was trafficking millions of dollars’ worth of coke and the neighbor kid was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Babe nodded.
“He had a lot of questions about you.”
Babe looked down and then stared straight ahead into the wall.
“The SAC and Palmer’s father and uncles have been together since the Academy. He says you saved that kid’s life. They confronted Palmer with the things you said and he gave up the whole story in a blubbering mess. He’s getting proper treatment now and seeing a therapist twice a week. They like the results they’re having with some new medications, and they say he’s sleeping like the dead.
“The SAC said that according to the doctors, Cole would have been dead in less than a year the way he was going.”
Babe nodded some more.
“How the hell did you…
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