Chapter 18

I got to the office by noon and was greeted by the department secretary with a stack of call back slips. I sorted through them and returned the most urgent. There wasn’t that much urgency – I was only out for a week after all.

Then I got out my secret laptop and used the VPN server thingy that ‘Salmonella’ Mason had insisted I use to contact him. He said he had the fake DNA report. It was waiting for the actual birth details to fill in. He advised me that the getting of the mother’s details and the younger Pendleton’s details turned out to be a trivial event. I’d forgotten that the DNA of the mother would be needed, but Tommy Mason didn’t forget, and he handled that little detail for me.

He asked me a strange question. He asked if I was still fond of my soon-to-be-ex-wife.

I said “No. I hate that bitch. Why?”

“Well,” Salmonella answered, “a funny thing turned up in her DNA report. They ran a family history, just as a routine thing. And she turned up to be a ‘McCoy’ – both her maternal grandparents were from the McCoys. So, being as I was a Hatfield – by marriage – I had to tell my in-laws. Sly Hatfield, my father-in-law, got real serious and asked me to ask you if you were particularly fond of her. He’s got a long memory, and he didn’t really like the partial feud ending that took place when he was a little boy ... So, I asked you, like he said to.”

“Oh,” I said. “I thought of offing her. But I’ve calmed down since then. She’s carrying my son. I certainly don’t want to get little Mark involved in that old feud. Or having a hillbilly in a slouch hat show up with a squirrel gun at the door, with blood in his eye.” I chuckled a bit.

“I’ll pass that back to Sly. I’m sure nothin’ will get that far. I think the whole situation about how she treated you didn’t sit well with any of us. That picture of an old hillbilly with a long rifle kinda reminds me of the old TV show. You know ... the opening film of Jed Clampett in the ‘Beverly Hill Billies.’” He laughed too. And then he broke into song: “Then one day, he was shootin’ at some food, and up from the ground came a bubblin’ crude. Oil that is. Black gold.”

Salmonella was a tenor, but Pavarotti could rest easy in his grave.

I guessed that I owed him more than the $10 I paid him. Somewhere down the line, I’d have to pay him back – probably in the form of a return favor.

Then I placed a call to Suzi’s hotel suite. No answer. Then I called New York Presbyterian Hospital. After an agonizing fifteen minutes dealing with their automated phone system, I got connected to her room. The elder Mrs. Moise answered the phone.

“Yes, this is Ms Moise’s room. Sorry but we’re not talking to the press. Give me your name and the paper, and we’ll get back to you ... Oh, Mr. James, is that right? Wait a minute, my daughter is fighting me for the phone.” She laughed. “Just a minute.”

“Mark is that you?”

“Yes,” I replied, “how are you and the girls doing?”

“They want to keep them a few days. Want to keep them to make sure there’s nothing wrong. I think it’s a dodge to make a few bucks. Or a few hundred bucks. I’m getting out of here tomorrow, the girls the day after, if they can’t find a reason to keep them longer.”

We chatted on, but I didn’t give her any of the details of my homecoming. Her father was going to the house in Smyrna, Ga., to see that all that could be done before the actual arrival of the new family was done.

I called the hotel and arranged for a dozen red roses and two single white roses were delivered to the suite tomorrow night. I thought what else I could do, and decided there was nothing. Then I re-thought. After a half-hour on the internet I found the owner of the violin. Il Cannone’s owner would be concerned about his Paganini violin. I connected with Mr. Russo’s secretary, who informed me that he could take a message. I explained to him about Ms Moise being in the hospital due to her delivery. That there was no danger to Il Cannone at all, but there might be a delay in getting it back to him.

We signed off on good terms and I left him with phone numbers and etc.

I called Suzi back and gave her the info about my telling Russo (the violin’s owner) all the details. She was flabbergasted that she’d forgotten and went into all sorts of ‘thank yous’ for me remembering. I told her it was a mere bagatelle. I usually called it ‘a mere bag of shells’ when I was in a jovial mood. Nothing to concern herself with.

Things over the next two weeks settled into a comfortable routine, except for one thing.

Early mornings and late evenings were centered around Kathy and her needs. The work-morning hours were tied up with the DOJ. I’d told them that I’d be leaving when my son was born – probably in mid-March. It would be a combination of parental leave and an extended vacation. That was no problem – people were coming and leaving the DOJ all the time.

Time and tide waited for no woman – even a goddess. And when she felt the first signs of quickening – at least the first signs of life that she allowed me to feel – in her belly, it became real to her. I tried to call him ‘little Mark’ and banished all thoughts of ‘Damien, the devil’s offspring.’ He wasn’t to blame, and he was probably mine. Lucas, the mamma-fucker, was going to think it was his, and I didn’t want him to learn otherwise.

The bitch sprouted horns when I began to call him ‘little Mark’, but I think she remembered the session when I face-fucked her; and I started to mention that Rufus would sure like to visit again after she was done spitting out the watermelon in her cunt.