Dantley sprawled out on a chaise lounger in the courtyard tucked inside the big fat center of the home of Monica Green and Graham Carlson. His face sprawled into a wicked blush as he clinked glasses with Nicholas and Amy as Monica had popped a second bottle of champagne for the ‘occasion’. As far as dating stories went, Dantley was outdoing himself with this one. He figured such an ill conceived ensemble cast was full of risk, but with two healthy glasses of Veuve Clicquot swimming around in his stomach, he was brimming with the newfound freedom of a man on the ledge.

“What a beautiful home you have,” Amy smiled as Monica handed her a glass.

“Thank you love. It was designed by Pedro Mel, are you familiar?” Monica asked, knowing the answer full well.

“Not in the least,” Amy replied with no shame or shyness.

“He was the darling of la haute bourgeoisie in Paris. Mel was an architect in the city back when Francois Mitterand was busy playing Robin Hood and all the old money socialites were fleeing as if it were the second coming of the Third Reich. So Mel being the restless prodigy that he was . . he followed,”

“Where’d they go?” Amy asked with serious interest.

“Most went to the UK, Switzerland, the states. A handful, Mel included, made way for Belgium, they settled in the foothills of Bruges,”

“The Venice of the North,” Dantley said.

“And they say Americans are shit for when it comes to geography,” Monica winked.

“Mel was a trust fund kid whose favorite hobbies were . . elaborate,”

“Yeah, married women and money laundering,” Nick belched, his champagne glass already empty and his slurred speech proving it.

“Honey you’re such a lightweight with your drink. Just like your father,” Monica tsked. “Don’t mind Nick, he loves to embellish. No . . Mel was a brilliant mind who was charmingly rudderless,”

“And he designed this place,” Amy said, cutting off Nick’s next bubble burst.

“I asked Mel to think up a home that was equal parts pre-revolutionary war and something out of a Moroccan wet dream,”

It was of course, the perfect description of the three-story mansion with the gambrel roof and flared eaves of a Dutch Colonial that also featured the Moroccan influence of a broadly arched ten-foot high set of intricately carved Atlas cedar double doors scrubbed in marine spar varnish; the stain providing a warm embracing glow for its visitors.

“And so that’s what Mel does now? Designs homes?”

“Did. Yes, he passed several years ago. Heart attack,”

“Yeah . .  heart attack,” Nick repeated, each syllable brushed with a thick layer of snide.

“More champagne?” Monica asked Amy and Dantley.

“Oh not me, thank you . . I’m driving. And Dantley, I feel like you probably need a ride from here,” Amy said.

“One for the road then,” Dantley said as he held out his glass.

“Atta boy,” Monica said as she refreshed his glass.

“You know what mom? I’m happy for you . .” Nicholas remarked, without the slightest hint of deprecation as he poured himself another glass and took a healthy swig.

“Happy for me dear?” Monica asked as she sipped from her fluted glass.

“For ordering out when it comes to your romantic entanglements . . .” Nicholas explained.

“Are you being coy?”

“Not in the least.”

Monica’s smile transformed itself into a slow blinking feline curl; the shape of her lips thick with the guile of a woman who was so thoroughly dismissive of the rules that being found with a paramour by her own son didn’t faze her in the least.

“Nicholas is not a fan of Graham’s,” Monica said matter of factly.

“Understatement of the year,” Nick replied cooly.

“Family is complicated,” Amy blurted out in a desperate attempt to provide a modicum of normalcy to an otherwise clusterfucked situation.

“He’s not family,” Nick replied bitterly.

“Honey don’t be morose . . .”

“Yeah Nick, let’s keep things light,” Dantley said.

“I’m sorry Amy, I didn’t mean to snap like that,” Nick said as he gently weaved his hand inside Amy’s.

“Hush. You’re fine,”

“Am I late for the party?”

It was Graham Carlson. Because why fucking not?

“This is officially what they mean by a bridge too far,” Dantley whispered to Amy as Carlson pecked Monica on the cheek and filled a champagne glass for himself.

“You weren’t officially invited but that’s never stopped you before dear,” Monica replied.

“So Dantley, I see you’ve made yourself right at home,” Carlson said, a boiling enmity filling his eyes.

“I was just leaving,” Dantley said as he and Amy rose from their chairs now.

“Don’t leave just yet. Carlson is just being his typical childish self,” Monica said, but Dantley was heading for the door as Amy gave Nick a goodbye kiss on the cheek.

“Can’t wait to read your piece,” Carlson shouted as Monica saw them out.

“I’ll have your car delivered to your place first thing in the morning,” Monica promised.

“Ah, you don’t have to do that Monica. I can Uber out here and get it,” Dantley said.

“Nonsense, I insist . .” She replied, supplying him with a rather friendly peck on the cheek.

Amy and Dantley rode in silence . . for all of about five seconds before the post-date romantic comedy analysis got cooking.

“Yanno handsome. When I decided to go to dinner with you, I figured you would be good for a few laughs but I have to say . . you exceeded all expectations,”

“How so?”

“Is this a normal day in the life for you? I mean, sipping champagne with the family of your married lover after playing in her jungle room?”

“This was an outlier and for the record, I didn’t invite anyone else over . . that just happened,”

“You happen to notice how a LOT of shit just happens around you?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you want a list?”

“A list would be nice,”

“Hmm . . let’s see. Dead guy in a wall, a mysterious bag full of cash, an almost dead detective in your parking lot, an affair with the wife of the guy running for office? The same guy you interviewed this morning? And if that wasn’t enough of a shit list . . a champagne party with every single person who didn’t want to be there! Excepting for Monica, that is. She seemed unnervingly comfortable with the situation,”

“She did, didn’t she?”

“What’s the attraction?”

“She’s a West End girl,” Dantley replied.

“I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, remember the Pet Shop Boys song . .”

“Yeah, yeah . . and?”

“West end girls are posh, glamorous and mostly unattainable to working class boys such as myself. It’s the merging of social classes through primal negotiations,”

“And here I thought it was just a really good song with a beat you could move your hips to,” Amy said.

“I overthink things sometimes,” Dantley admitted.

“You also underthink things sometimes,” Amy said.

“You think I made a mistake here?”

“You have to ask?”

“I didn’t know she was married. I didn’t know she was married to Graham Carlson. I thought she was his com director for chrissakes!”

“But come on handsome, you roll up to a two million dollar villa and you don’t ask questions? What? You took off your reporter glasses and put on your panty blinders?”

“I didn’t know, I told you . .”

“Of course you didn’t know. But maybe you should’ve vetted Lola a little better than . . oh, I don’t know, asking her whether she preferred taking it on all fours or riding you like a stripper,”

“I like to think I was a little more appropriate than that,” Dantley sniffed.

“Were you?”

“Okay, maybe not,”

“Well, there’s some very shady shit going on with this filthy rich little clan and we should be spooked as hell about it,” Amy confessed.

Dantley knew she was right. About all of it.

Pet Shop Boys- West End Girls

The interview with GOP candidate Graham Carlson at Central Market was just the kind of pablum Dantley had always made fun of. But when the newspaper bumped up his usual rate on the condition he deliver a “structured meat and potatoes piece” by midnight Dantley played along. Freelance reporters usually had some leeway when it came to deadlines but since the election was coming up, the paper wanted something for the local boy trying to make good. It didn’t hurt one bit that the House candidate was chummy with the editor of the paper, proving once again that all politics is local.

Carlson was an impressive looking figure at six-foot four with jet black hair that felt natural enough and an athletic frame he’d successfully maintained from his years as a college basketball player at Penn. A self-made millionaire in his mid fifties, Carlson was stepping back from his real estate career to “fulfill my promise to this great country,”. Whatever that meant.

If nothing else, Dantley respected the man’s attention to privacy, as evidenced by the fact he was unable to find much information about Carlson’s personal life, which included his latest marriage. Not an easy task when considering Carlson’s standing in their small town.

With the interview concluded, the two men busily gulped the last of their overpriced boutique coffees as they circled up a little small talk before going their separate ways.

“Are you a married man Mr. Grisham?”

“I quit the habit,”

“Shame. I believe marriage makes the man,” Carlson sniffed.

“Well then, you’re a made man three times over now . .” Dantley said, alluding to Carlson’s two failed marriages.

“Marriage and God are the pillars,” Carlson replied, completely ignoring Dantley’s comeback.

“Robert Hansen believed that too,” Dantley said.

“I’m not familiar with this Hansen fellow,”

“He was a small business owner, a devout church goer and a real family man whose hobby was hunting and murdering young women in the woods of Alaska . . .”

More silence.

“Can I read this piece before you send it?”

“No sorry, that not how I roll. And besides, I basically gifted you a textual hand job with this one, as per the agreement . . .” Dantley said, referring to the short and sweet conversation he had with Carlson’s communications director the night before. A phone call that led to a lunch date with her this afternoon.

“Oh well, I had to try. I’m thankful that Barry has my back on this though, seeing as how the media tends to break our balls on the regular . .” Carlson winked.

“The media is a convenient punching bag most of the time and while I’m sure my editor will approve of the puff pastry piece I baked up, I was referring to your communications dir . . .”

“Oh sorry, I’ve got to take this call but thank you for the time Mr. Grisham,” Carlson said before turning and walking off.

“Yeah, God bless America and all that . . dickhead,”

Dantley headed for the parking lot when his phone began ringing. Josh.

“What’s up Tonto?”

“You have to come with me to Joyce’s house to pick up a blender. Ours shit the bed and Emie wants to make a clementine cake,”

“This hardly feels like a two man job. And oh by the way, the interview with Carlson was a shamelessly easy money grab for me, thanks for asking!”

“I’m happy it all worked out but come on man, her sister doesn’t like me!”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Something she said,

“What’d she say?”

“I don’t like you,”

“Consider this a personal growth challenge then,”

“I don’t need to work on my personal growth with Joyce, I need to not be around Joyce is what I need. So I figure I’m going to enlist you to baffle her with your bullshit and then I’ll treat you to lunch,”

“I honestly can’t imagine why Joyce doesn’t like you man,” Dantley said sarcastically.

“Come on Dantley!”

“Sorry my friend but I have a lunch date,”

“With who?”

“The comm director for Carlson,”

“You realize it’s not this easy for most of the male population, right?”

“I figure since I have a deficiency when it comes to journalistic integrity, I might as well go full Monty. Hey, that’s her. I’ll call you later okay?”

“If I go missing, let it be on your conscience,”

“Stay gold, Ponyboy,” Dantley said before sliding over to his incoming call.

“Dantley?”

He felt his stomach growl when she unleashed that crushed sapphire voice on him. He was quite certain the harmony of her words possessed an acceptable degree of danger for a man who so enjoyed towing that mysterious line.

“You already knew that,”

“Yes I did. How about you come over here for . . . lunch?”

“You drive a hard bargain but . . sold!”

A couple hours later, they were enjoying their much talked about lunch in bed. It was a hastily gathered repast of cold fried chicken and champagne as they toasted their maiden voyage together.  Her digs were next level for a communications director so the money had either come from family or some kickass investment strategy. Dantley wasn’t asking questions though, not when the company was this sexy.

“Dammit, who could that be?” She cursed. It took Dantley’s brain several moments to awake from the fog of horizontal conclusions. By the time he realized they had visitors, she was headed for the front door dressed in his sweater while he lagged behind in a toga made of the finest Egyptian cotton bedsheets. She swung the door open and lost her sultry voice.

“Mom?” Nicholas Green asked, his mouth agape.

“Amy?” Dantley said upon arriving at the front door.

“Handsome?” She replied.

He was about to learn that his ‘lunch date’ was married. Of fucking course. And it only got worse from there because she was married to none other than Graham Carlson. There’d been good reason for the fruitless Google searching because the woman he’d just spent the late side of the morning with had a history, to say the least. For Dantley, his entire existence as a divorced bachelor had been about pushing the envelope.

Monica Green was the kind of bad company that pushed back.

Cher- Dark Lady