George Green arrived at the party dressed in his signature look—a light wool navy blazer, ironic T-shirt, distressed designer jeans, and vintage Nike Cortez sneakers in black with a white swoosh. The touch of gray at his temples lent him gravitas, but his face retained a youthful vigor that, from a distance at least, still read hipster.
Tonight’s party was the culmination of a conference sponsored by the city and various local pillars of industry, George’s company included. Advertising agency Burnam & Green occupied a full block of prime real estate in Portland’s trendy Pearl District and had satellite offices in the usual hotspots of Beijing, London, Rio, and Tokyo. The company’s Portland-based mothership was an architectural marvel of reclaimed Douglas fir, raw steel beams, and open workspaces outfitted with the finest furniture Design Within Reach had to offer.
Earlier that evening George had delivered the conference’s keynote speech to thunderous applause. A quick scan of social media assured him that the crowd had found it brilliant despite its notable absence of original content. His delivery was outstanding, his voice deep and soothing with a touch of grit, the residue of a youthful smoking habit. Though his words lacked real substance, twenty years of ad campaigns had polished them to a fine and appealing gloss.
Now, with the party at full tilt, George held court with a glass of Kentucky bourbon in his left hand, his smart phone in his right. He was flanked by groupies: eager young men—and a token woman—all pitching ideas, grasping for opportunity, desperately hoping George would help launch their careers.
George should have been in his element. The chance to flaunt one’s power in Portland was rare, but a restless unease deflated his mood. The reality was that Burnam & Green was poised on a knife-edge. The company had been hemorrhaging clients since the retirement of George’s older and wiser partner, Henry Burnam. Fortunately, no one but George and his CFO knew how bad things were.
For the moment, George tried to push aside his worries and do his best to pontificate. “You need to get to the sharp point,” he said. George’s admirers absorbed his words as eagerly as their watered-down gin and tonics. “Break down the silos and focus on the north star of your creative ideations.” The sea of heads bobbed. Even with this show of adulation, George felt his anxiety grow. At any moment he could pass into obscurity and irrelevance. He was forty-five after all, and admittedly in the full flush of a midlife crisis. Right now, he needed something stronger than bourbon to take the edge off. Across the crowd, he saw the woman who could give him that something—Sheila.
George excused himself and started to wade through the throng. He was greeted on all sides by associates known and unknown. No one let him pass without enjoying a moment in his orbit. Some merited a handshake, others an air kiss, a few received a hearty pat on the back, and he always replied with a modest “thank you” to their words of praise for his excellent speech. As he advanced, he kept a close eye on his target.
Finally, George shook off the last hanger-on, only to face disappointment. Sheila was deep in conversation. He couldn’t see her expression, but he recognized the man with whom she spoke. Unlike the rest of the attendees, who shared the damp, flushed cheeks of their second or third drink, Victor Smith was sober and angry.
Victor had a lean and handsome face, framed with a full head of deep gray hair that must have been black when he was young. Dark rimmed glasses gave him a slightly professorial look, and people were easily taken in by his natural charm, only to be later stunned by his complete lack of empathy. One of Portland’s most notorious slum lords, Victor had started his career tearing down historic buildings and replacing them with cheap apartments, parking garages, and strip malls. In the last few years, Victor’s company, Victor Smith Construction, had shifted focus. VSC cranes and work crews hovered over the Portland skyline, building high-end condos and shopping complexes. Victor had approached Burnam & Green about a rebrand, but George had laughed it off. If a company wasn’t in the Fortune 500 with a valuation equal to the net worth of a small European country, George wasn’t interested. Not worth the effort.
In truth, George was scared of Victor. Most people with any sense were. Victor was rumored in his youth to have killed a man with only a fountain pen—the same pen now affixed to the jacket pocket of his well-cut suit.
George watched as Victor gripped Sheila’s bare arm tightly. As she tried to pull away, George saw that her eyes were bright with fear under her thin, arched brows.
“Where is it?” Victor demanded.
Sheila answered, her voice shrill, “Your goons will never find it.”
Victor’s face darkened. “Maybe they can’t find it because it’s always on you.” Still grasping Sheila’s arm, he reached for her purse, but she held it just out of reach.
“Do you really think I’m that stupid?” she hissed.
“Thought I might get lucky.”
“Victor. I’m not being unreasonable. I’ll hand it over when you agree to my terms,” she said.
“You’re a power-hungry bitch, Sheila. I’ve always liked that about you, but you’re pushing it too far. Almost four years I’ve been dealing with your bullshit. My patience has worn thin.”
Sheila’s eyes glanced toward George. “We have company,” she said.
Victor released his grip and turned, seeing George. In an instant, his threatening look was replaced with a warm smile. He held out his hand. George reciprocated in spite of the jolt of unease he felt at Victor’s abrupt change of mood.
“George,” said Victor heartily. “Great to see you.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” George said, pulling his hand away and resisting the urge to wipe it on his jacket. He glanced at Sheila, who was lighting a cigarette. Her hands trembled. “Everything all right here?” he asked.
“Grand, just grand,” Victor said. His eyes left George’s and scanned the crowd. “I see that son of a bitch the chief of police. She owes me C-note from our last poker game. When you’re ready to sell me your building, George, you let me know. It’s the perfect spot for a two-hundred-unit condo complex. I’ll even throw a penthouse suite into the deal.” Without another word, Victor made his exit.
George stepped closer to Sheila. “What was that all about?” he asked.
Sheila rubbed her arm where the pink imprint of Victor’s fingertips lingered. “That was nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing. How do you know him anyway? Is he a customer?”
“Victor Smith?” She laughed bitterly. “Never. Listen, George, do me a favor and forget you saw that. It was just a little misunderstanding.”
“Consider it forgotten,” George said. The last thing he needed was to get caught up in his drug dealer’s drama. “You have something for me?”
She smiled. “Always right to the point. That’s what I like about you, George. This way.” She led him through the crowd, past the pod of food trucks to a vintage Airstream trailer. Unlocking the metal door, she motioned for George to enter, then followed him inside, securing the door behind her. “Wouldn’t want anyone barging in on us.”
“Speaking of, I’m surprised you’re here tonight,” said George. “Pretty ballsy to deal coke at the mayor’s big event.”
“Consider it a fuck you to Mayor Law and Order,” Sheila said. She crushed out her cigarette in a clean ashtray, then opened a small cabinet and set out a mirror, a packet of white powder, and a razor blade. “Here, give it a try. It’s organic coke from Peru.”
“Organic, really? Sue keeps telling me to watch my health.”
“Is your lovely wife here tonight?”
“God no, she hates these things. She’s been at a silent yoga retreat all week. I expect her back on Sunday.”
“So that’s why I haven’t seen her at the gym lately. Please tell her I said hello.”
“Of course,” said George, knowing he’d do no such thing. He didn’t approve of the friendship between Sheila and his wife, even if Sue was unaware of Sheila’s side gig as drug dealer to Portland’s elite. He cut a line, took a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, rolled it up, and held it out to Sheila. “Ladies first.”
Sheila shook her head no. “You know I never touch the stuff. Another client assures me this is the best he’s had since the eighties. I call it ‘Like a Virgin.’ High for the very first time.”
George laughed and bent to snort a line. He straightened and paused for a moment. “Incredible,” he whispered. The rush of the drug was immediate and thrilling. He was ready to give another keynote speech, do a thousand push-ups, fuck a beautiful girl. He took another hit. “I’ll take a gram now and send one of your boys over with an eight ball tomorrow.”
“Always a pleasure doing business with you, George.”
He smiled and handed her a few bills from his wallet. “Likewise, Sheila.”
Sheila gave him an appraising look. “Listen George, could you do me a favor? I’ll make it worth your while.” She pressed the money back into his hand.
“What is it?” he asked. He was suddenly eager to get back to the party.
“Could you hold onto something for me? Just for a day or so.” She opened her leather handbag and pulled out a thin, square DVD case.
“You want me to hold on to your copy of Die Hard?”
“That’s just a case I had handy.” She opened his suit jacket and slid the case into the inside breast pocket. “A perfect fit. You won’t even know it’s there. And George, don’t watch it. It’s a private video.”
George gave her a knowing smile and patted his lapel. An odd request, but it seemed harmless enough. He unlocked the Airstream’s door and rejoined the party. Either it had picked up considerably in the brief time he’d been conducting his transaction, or the coke was really doing its job. He felt fantastic.
And then he saw her. She was blond, with a great figure, wearing a tight sequined dress that picked up the last of the evening’s light and the unusual golden shade of her eyes.
It was clear to him what she was doing here. Same as Sheila, making a living. Sheila with her drugs, this girl with her body.
A pudgy young man eagerly handed the girl a drink, spilling a few drops in his haste. She smiled at something he said, then discreetly poured the drink out behind her back. George laughed at her artifice. Then, he remembered his empty house and smiled. He may as well enjoy the weekend with someone young, hot, and for sale.