Checkmate

Checkmate

1

“There’s no easy way to put this, so I’ll just say it. This is the end.”

Angelo spoke so matter-of-factly that his partner nearly missed his meaning.

“What are you talking about?” Lynne stared across his paper-strewn desk. “The end of what?”

“Us,” he said. “You, me, all of it.” He sighed. “It’s been a good run, we’ve had some good times, made some good money, but I want to do something else. I’m liquidating the business, moving out and moving on.”

She stared, eyes sharp, mouth slightly open. One hand brushed some stray blonde hairs from her forehead. She hunched forward, hands in her lap, fingers intertwined, slowly shaking her head. “I don’t believe this,” she said softly. When he didn’t respond she went on, getting louder as she spoke. “You can’t just do this, like this. Something’s going on and I deserve to know what it is.”

Angelo flashed his trademark smile, the one he shared with their so-called clients, the one she’d grown to despise in her more honest moments. The smile dissolved into stony indifference.  “You deserve nothing.”  He leaned back in his chair, letting her stunned silence fill the space between them.

He studied her, the lower fingers of his right hand stroking his carefully trimmed black Van Dyke beard, index finger on his cheek. He slowly swiveled his chair and with his left hand gestured around the off-white walls of the office, cheap prints in faux-gilded frames, small tables capped with mass market sculptures. “I built all this, you know, you were just window dressing.” 

Lynne found herself caught between laughter and anger. “All this? You make it sound like this is a financial empire or something, not a cheap financial scam.” She paused and her anger found voice. “And how dare you call me ‘window dressing.’ I did as much as you, probably more.”

“No need to be bitter,” he said. He paused. “You did your part, and I’ll see that you are properly compensated.” Another pause. “Let’s be honest, shall we? The sign on the door and on the letterhead says ‘Venuto & Associates.’ I’m Venuto and you are the associate. Your job was to find lonely old men and lure them here. You did it well. But it was I who did the real work, pried open those tight bony fingers, extracted the funds, and drew up the documents.”

Lynne leaned back. “And what about us? Is that over too?”

Angelo sighed. “It’s been good working with you, I must admit. You were a pleasant diversion.” He smiled again, obviously enjoying her open-mouthed astonishment.

She drew her breath to respond, but he raised a hand to stop her. “Even better living with you, but it’s time we went our separate ways there, too. I’ve had the locks changed on our apartment door and will put your stuff in storage until you have a place to send it.” 

“But you can’t just --”

“I can, I did, and that’s all there is to it.” He pulled a Cross pen from a ceramic pencil cup and pulled a small bundle of papers across the desk. After glancing at the top one, he looked back up at her, as though surprised she were still in the room. “I’ll be sending you a check for your share of the company, as I determine it. In the meantime, let’s end this pointless conversation, shall we? I think you know the way out.”

Lynne sat straight up, eyes dark, brows tight, face locked in a stare of incredulity. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “You,” she said, “are a real piece of work. But don’t think you’re going to get away with making these final decisions without input from me.” 

“Oh, I do think so, and I have.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling both hands in front of his face. His voice hardened.  “And don’t think about seeking any legal recourse. The business paperwork is solid on the surface, and if you go to the authorities, remember, you’re as deeply into this as I am. Even more when my lawyers get done with you.” 

“But you can’t just end a relationship like that, I have rights, too.”

“Same story there. The courts are notoriously unwilling to enforce any meretricious contracts relating to personal relationships.”

She pushed her chair back, stood, and strode to the office door. She opened it and looked back at him. “It may be the end of the operation, but it’s not the end of our story. You’ll find that out soon enough.”  She tried to slam the door behind her, but the hydraulic door closer made that impossible, and pushing at it made her feel weak and silly. Unthinkingly, she glanced back at him.

He flashed that trademark smile again. “Checkmate.”

She let go of the door. “Asshole,” she spat, and left.

Angelo pushed his chair back from his desk and watched the door slowly close. Sighing, he pulled a bottle of Amaretto di Amore and a wineglass from the bottom drawer of his desk. Ordinarily he would wait until five or so for his evening nightcap, but today’s events merited a big glass, either in celebration or sedation, or both. 

2

“And,” Angelo was saying, “that about wraps it up, Mr. Vineyard. Your investment in Silver Springs Technology is so sound, it can take care of itself.” Angelo was in the final stages of winding down the business, and this was his final meeting with his last, and oldest, client.

“I hope so,” said the wizened little grey-haired man across the desk. “I really don’t know what I’ll do now, Mr. Venuto. You’ve worked such wonders with my money.”

“You'd be amazed,” Angelo thought, though all he said was, “You’re too kind, sir. Just some careful reading of the markets. That’s what we’ve always promised, and I’m glad I delivered.”  

Bruce Vineyard, 85-years-old, with an institutionalized wife and estranged children, had been a perfect target for the business. Mr. Vineyard had grown to trust Angelo as the reliable son he’d never had, and Angelo had milked that trust for all it was worth. A quick glance at the books showed that Mr. Vineyard had invested nearly $4 million in various sham businesses, money the older man would never see again but would make a nice nest egg for Angelo, regardless of where he went next. 

Angelo was looking down at some paperwork when he heard Mr. Vineyard saying, “Well, hello, Miss Freberg, I didn’t expect to be seeing you again.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Vineyard,” Lynne said as she stood in the doorway, “and I’m going to miss you, I can tell you that.”

Mr. Vineyard bowed and left, while Lynne stepped into the office. Angelo studied her carefully, uncertain what to expect. Feeling flush with money after reviewing his books, and feeling a bit guilty about the cavalier way he had treated her, he had mailed her what he considered a very generous severance package.  He hoped she felt the same way.

She quickly confirmed his feelings. “I know I left on very bad terms, and even though you talked like a jerk, I don’t think I helped matters along. So I was hoping we could wrap it all up on an upbeat note, especially given your willingness to pay me my fair share.” She was bearing a large bottle of Amaretto di Amore, and already twisting open the top.

“This,” Angelo said when he saw the bottle in her hand, “is so unnecessary, so unexpected, and so wonderful.”

“Well,” Lynne said, “I decided if you could stop being an asshole after all, we maybe ought to celebrate it.”

“Indeed,” Angelo said, “but no one has ever shared Amaretto with me here before. I have only one glass in my desk. Let me go find you one.”

“That’s so like a man,” Lynne laughed, “I work and live with you for five years, and you never notice I have an allergy to all tree nuts, including almonds. I’ll get a soda from the fridge.”

“Guilty as charged,” Angelo called as she left. He was beginning to wonder if he’d been too brash in deciding to end everything with her. He could have handled things differently, and maybe still could. He poured himself a large serving of the Amaretto as he considered how to raise the topic with her.

She came back with a can of Coke and settled in her usual chair across the desk. She raised her Coke.  “Cheers.”

He raised his glass, and both took long sips. “Again,” she said, and they repeated the drinking.

Lynne settled back in her chair and smiled across the desk at him. 

Angelo tried to return the smile, but suddenly felt his gut filled with fire. He pushed his chair back, tried to stand, fell back into his chair.

“What’s the matter,” Lynne asked matter-of-factly, “you don’t look so good.” 

“I . . .don’t . . . feel . . . so . . . good,” Angelo replied, dropping his glass. He fell forward onto his desk, face first, knocking over the bottle. Amaretto poured across his papers, filling the room with hints of almond.

Lynne laughed. “No, I bet you don’t feel so good. Cyanide will do that to a person.” She reached across the desk and gathered his glass and the bottle. She walked to the kitchen area, wiped both clean of prints, and returned them to the desk. “The nicest thing about Amaretto is that its taste covers up the taste of cyanide. At least that’s what I read, and it seems to be true.”

He groaned faintly.

Lynne walked to the door. Looking back at the figure hunched over the desk, she added, “I don’t know if they will catch me or not, but whatever happens I know I’ll be in a better place than you.”

She stepped out, letting the door slowly close on its own. She stopped it just before it closed, held it open with her hand, and called into the room, “Checkmate.”

This time he had no answer.