Wulf reached his office before Rae and sat behind his desk, flipping through bright bands of email on his phone screen.
One of Wulf’s great uncles, a German who had married an Englishwoman, had spouted the WWII-era maxim “Keep Calm and Carry On,” as if he, himself, had originated it, and Wulf allowed that phrase to cycle through his mind while he tapped his phone screen, reading the banal emails that appeared in his account every day.
The desert sun shone in the window and glared on the phone’s screen. Wulf angled the phone away so he could see the small type.
Most of the emails originated with accounting firms and detailed his and his family’s other business holdings, which he tracked. His family knew nothing of The Devilhouse. Wulf had been misled about the business model when he had become a silent partner five years ago, believing the club was meant to be a dance venue. When his old friend, an alumnus of the Swiss boarding school where Wulf had been raised, had absconded with a substantial portion of his initial investment, Wulf had taken over and had planned to manage the property until it produced a profit.
The Devilhouse had turned an excellent profit for the last three years, and yet, he still hadn’t divested himself and moved on. Perhaps a genetic weakness for extravagance and indulgence was to blame.
The second to the last email was from his father. He chatted in German about problems he was encountering in the state parliament and his Grand Prix race next week. Wulf marked it to follow up.
The last email, from his sister Flicka, concerned her wedding plans, which he skimmed. He would concoct some excuse at the last minute. From her effusive detailing of the bouquets and décor, he suspected that even she did not believe he would attend though, as always, they kept up appearances. He would visit her and Pierre sometime soon after, somewhere private.
He paused for a moment and glanced at the gardens just beyond his window. Spring flowers bloomed at the bases of the hedges. He tried to appreciate the desert spring, but rage still seethed in his head.
When Rae did a scene with another man, it perturbed Wulf.
Any attempted rape of any of his women would have been dealt with harshly.
After what Mulligan had attempted, that jackass was a lucky bastard that Wulf hadn’t lost his temper in Play Room One and flayed his mottled skin from his fat body with the signal whip.
Wulf still wanted to destroy the puny man. His hand itched to dial his mobile phone, call the state’s attorney general, another Devilhouse client, and alert him about the warehouses full of drugs in Pirtleville.
One of Wulf’s old school chums worked in US Attorney General’s office, too. Networks of Anciens Roséens reached into most governments around the world.
Wulf could crush Jim Bob Mulligan as flat as he desired.
He must control his emotions. He must not lose control. He must not send a Panzer battalion against a lone horseman.
Keep calm and carry on.