Chapter 32
Thanksgiving break was in the air, the students wearing superfluous scarfs and unnecessary boots.
Good looking kids, all of them staring at their phones as they walked.
I once heard that this generation of kids was only living their physical lives in order to generate content for their online lives.
God help us. Whoever created social media should be keelhauled for the next thousand years.
I knocked and pushed in.
He hit pause and turned to smile at his visitor. When his gaze landed one me, he did a little jump and he stood, his wooden chair rolling backward into the wall.
“Excuse me, sir, you can’t… You have no right to be here. What’re you—” He made a squint at me. “Wait. Who are you?”
“A friend. We met. You came to my office to make me feel blue about following you to the casino.”
“Oh. Yes.” He chuckled and rolled his eyes and straightened his shirt. I was struck again at how well he presented. Sharp dresser, groomed, manicured, bright eyes. “You startled me. I thought you were someone else.”
“A heavy sent by a bookie?”
He smiled and indicated the chair opposite him. “Please sit. Was it Mr. August? Am I remembering correctly? I didn’t expect you in Lynchburg.”
See, this is what the self-important jackass at Georgetown didn’t understand. Manners maketh man. Always offer your visitor a chair.
I sat.
“What brings you to our fine university, Mr. August?”
“Neo-Nazism is on the rise, and I want to know how their online influencing campaign is switching off the world’s long-held stigma against them. Will we never learn from our past mistakes?”
He lowered toward his seat, pausing halfway to take a sharper look at me.
“I have strong thoughts on our skyrocketing White Supremacy sympathies being the result of a backlash against woke-ism, how they are forced to rise in response to the other, but I suspect that’s not truly the reason for your visit. ”
“Well. Neo-Nazism,” I said, “and I’d like to know the name of your bookie.”
“You mentioned a bookie. I don’t follow.” He steepled his fingers. “Enlighten me?”
“You remember our conversation in my office.”
“I do. You admitted the nettlesome women at the nursery hired you and you discovered no sign of infidelity. Case closed.”
“Montessori school, but yes. After I followed you to the casino, and after you spun me the yarn about being blackmailed by the editor, I did some investigating. Freelance. You don’t owe me anything.”
“What a relief,” he said.
“I visited that editor in Georgetown and got his version of your story,” I said.
I wasn’t positive, but I thought he held his breath.
“You two tell divergent tales. Befuddled at the incongruity, I called your former colleges. I talked to people you worked with, and I discovered your history of gambling debt. You’ve been in hot water with bookies before.
Bookies, Professor, are like sports-betting loan sharks.
I learned you’ve had to disrupt your career multiple times, selling your house and moving suddenly, likely to pay off your losses, despite being up for tenure.
Now I know you attempted to extort the publisher of the best-selling book—no need to deny it, I have the audio recording.
You’re playing poker on the weekends, in part because you love gambling, and I’m guessing in part because you’re in debt again.
That explains your terror when you saw a big guy walk in the door just now—it’s happened to you before and it’s unpleasant.
The nature of my visit is, I’d like to help. ”
As I laid out my case against him, he didn’t move other than his eyebrows rose. Not in shock, but more like dry amusement.
He took his time answering, playing his role well. “Mr. August. I’ll be frank. I don’t understand what in the hell kind of odd game this is.”
I noticed while I was talking, his phone screen displayed constant notifications that looked like sports updates.
His eyes darted there often. “Rod, it comes down to this—I’m fond of your wife.
Silly, I know, but she’s my son’s preschool teacher and our whole family dotes on her, and I want to make her life easier. ”
“And how would you make my wife’s life easier?”
“Aiding you in your financial troubles. I’ll likely know the bookie and can reason with him, concerning your debt. That means, you keep more of your discretionary income and can buy Mrs. Buchanan a new car and handbag.”
He frowned, like worried for the lunatic in his office, and he sighed wearily. “This is quite a fiction you’ve worked up.”
“Is it.”
“I’m afraid, however, you have the wrong man.”
“I don’t,” I said.
“I bet on sports occasionally but it’s never gotten out of hand.”
“It has.”
“I do not have a gambling addiction.”
“You do,” I said.
“And whatever audio recording Mr. Baxtor played for you has apparently been doctored.”
“It hasn’t. I’m not interested in this juvenile back-and-forth. I don’t bandy wits with fools. Here’s what I propose. You tell me the name of your bookie and I’ll visit him. I’ll cut him a deal to get him to back off. Instead of the casino, you get counseling.”
“Mr. August—”
“Shut up. I’m in my forties now, and find myself being more judgmental.
I hate it and I’m trying to stop. But trust me, I’m holding a lot of angry judgment in abeyance, and if you keep playing the role of innocent, long-suffering, misunderstood, kind professor, and if you keep lying, I will kick you in the nose.
You tell me the name of the bookie. I buy you some financial wiggle room.
You get counseling and stop all gambling.
That way, your wife can enjoy a quiet life, her husband home on the weekends and not yelling at the ballgame on the television. ”
The door behind me opened and sounds of youths in the hallway poured in. Dr. Buchanan peered over my shoulder and smiled and said, “Kevin? Give us five minutes, Kevin, okay? Thanks, buddy.”
The door closed.
He pretended to choose his words carefully.
“I thank you for your concern. I’m glad people care about my wife.
I can see you’re genuinely worried for her welfare and I appreciate it.
Can I find you online? Because I’ll tell you what, Mr. August. If I ever find myself in gambling debt, you’ll be the first person I call. Okay, big guy?”
Big guy.
I nearly jumped over the table at him. I hated being belittled.
“You’re denying the evidence against you?” I said. “You’ll still play this farce?”
He spread his hands out, indicating all the nothing between us. “I see no evidence. My wife and I have a good life. I have a job I love and so does she. Be at peace, Mr. August. I am.”
“My good sir,” I said, “you’re an asshat.”
“That’ll be all. You may go.”
“If it gets bad, don’t sell Mrs. Buchanan’s house. Call me first.”
“Mrs. Buchanan’s house?” He smiled and for one sick instant the serpent behind his eyes was visible. “No need to worry there. The house is in my name. Everything is. Mrs. Buchanan owns nothing.”