Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [12]
The night he told her wasn’t fun for either of them. Beth dropped her bag on the bed, crawled toward the pillows, and when he sat beside her she curled into a tight, fetuslike ball, covered her face with her hands, and began to sob, “Tell me I’m a bad girl … tell me I’m a whore!”
He gently lifted her hands and held them between his.
The light shone on her tears. The edge of the rope poked from the top of her bag like a fuse.
“Tie me up,” she demanded. “Make me feel like the dirty slut I am.”
“Not tonight, Beth,” he said softly, cradling her to him.
She seemed to recoil slightly before yielding. “You’ll be back?”
“Not tonight or ever again.”
Tony missed what she made him feel, but not how she made him feel. On the other hand, after nearly seven decades, it was good to feel challenged. More than anything, that was what life had to be about.
As soon as he got back to the city that night, he immediately went to Peter and Paul Church in North Beach and begged Jesus to forgive his sin. Like millions of lapsed Catholics, Tony loved Jesus, admired the Church less, and was no longer constrained by the sexual edicts of a corrupt priesthood.
* * *
When Jack finished editing the footage of Drabinsky, Tony was the first person he showed it to.
“Damn if I don’t have tears in my eyes,” Tony Antiniori said.
“Thanks,” Jack said.
“I mean it, that’s a helluva tribute,” Tony said. “You think you’ll run into any resistance from the networks?”
Jack shrugged. “My name isn’t exactly welcome, but considering what I’ve got here and the price I’m asking, how can they refuse?”
“Because they’re kind of like reverse terrorists,” Tony said.
“I don’t follow.”
“They will blow up an entire network news division just to keep one guy from the spotlight.”
Jack smiled. That was as good an assessment of the network mind-set as he’d ever heard.
“They’re putzes,” Tony added for good measure.
“That’s what my grandfather used to call my old man.”
“Your mother’s father?”
Jack nodded.
“Because your dad wasn’t Jewish?”
Jack shook his head. “No, because he was hoping his daughter would marry up. In Granddad’s mind, watch repair didn’t quite cut it. Even though my dad loved it.”
They were sitting in the aft salon of Jack’s Aleutian 59 he’d dubbed the Sea Wrighter. He and Rachel had bought it during the real estate boom, with money she made from flipping houses. Jack had been a live-aboard for two years, since moving out of the house in Tiburon he’d shared with his ex-wife. He often marveled that his boat was almost double the size of Hemingway’s famous thirty-eight-foot Pilar. Named for his second wife, Pauline, whose nickname was Pilar, it was also the name of a pivotal character in For Whom the Bell Tolls. Built in Brooklyn, New York, in 1934 by the Wheeler Shipyard, it cost $7,455. Jack chuckled thinking about the 70-hp Chrysler Crown gasoline engine, which drove her at 8 knots with a top speed of 16 knots. Jack’s Aleutian had two 1000-hp Caterpillar diesels, which could drive his forty-ton beauty upwards of 22 knots. Jack also had a small apartment in town but he rarely spent time there, preferring life on the marina instead. There was a sense of community here, of shared purpose, that you didn’t get in the city.
Tony lived aboard the Tarangi, a thirty-two-foot Chey Lee clipper just three slips down—a slot he’d managed to score despite size restrictions when one of the larger boats pulled anchor. So a day wouldn’t be complete without Tony at least popping his head in, and more often than not he brought along a bottle of wine. Tony considered himself something of a budget connoisseur and liked to share.
Jack preferred beer or a single malt himself. His favorite combo was a few ’85 Glenrothes followed by a couple of cold Becks, but he indulged his friend’s passion and usually gave in when offered a glass. Tony’s selection tonight was an ’04 Gaja Sori San Lorenzo, which he’d received in exchange for his mechanical skills on