through a variety of blue-collar jobs. His mother, a homemaker, had resigned herself to maniacally vacuuming their ever-diminishing apartments and clipping coupons for Hamburger Helper.
Carter had determined not to be resigned to anything. He worked his butt off to get good grades, get into a prestigious college, and win a full scholarship to boot. He was eager to prove that he had what it took to succeed.
Did he ever. In four years, he earned a combined bachelor’s/master’s degree in economics, graduating with highest honors, while serving as editorial page editor of the student newspaper. He wasn’t sure about a career in journalism; but he knew the post was a great contact for after graduation.
He was right. One phone call, one interview, and he was fast-tracked into investment banking in New York City. Carter didn’t stop there. He became one of the youngest mutual fund managers in his firm, regularly racking up double-digit annual growth figures, even when most stocks and bonds slipped badly after the high-tech bubble burst. The “Financial Wunderkind,” Fortune Magazine had dubbed him. And he was scrupulously honest, publicly denouncing companies whose CEOs were greedy for Learjets and lackadaisical when it came to corporate accounting factors. “The Conscience of Corporate America,” declared The Financial Times.
Not surprisingly, his personal portfolio bulged as well. He acquired tidy holdings in stocks, bonds and real estate. The garage space for his Porsche Boxster cost almost as much as his penthouse overlooking Central Park. Then there was the vacation “cottage” in the Hamptons. And who could forget the tall, willowy wife with a degree in art history and a deep-seated ability to spend money—lots of money. After all, he was too hot a catch to escape the matrimonially inclined junior members of the Save Venice Society and other like-minded causes.
Not bad for a boy from Dayton.
The only problem was, Carter never saw his apartment, his country house or his wife, who he seemed to have forgotten somewhere along the way, after all. And when his wife divorced him, taking both the apartment and the summer house—not to mention a Lhasa apso he never knew he had—Carter suddenly realized he might have had it all, but so what?
And that’s when he ran into Ted, standing on a subway platform, waiting for the E-train. Ted had suggested that Carter visit him in Grantham, where he had moved back into his parents’ old place; they had retired to warmer climes and better golf courses in Scottsdale.
Carter thought of the good times he had shared with his former roomie, and he took him up on it. And he’d stayed. Quit his job and moved into the chauffeur’s apartment over the garage. First, he sat around and drank beer, swam in the pool and played tennis with Ted. Ironically, now it was Ted who was putting in the long hours building up a practice, while Carter was perfecting his two-handed backhand and sleeping in.
But retirement soon proved boring for someone who had always been a confirmed overachiever. Carter thought of joining a local investment firm, but decided that making money no longer held that much charm. In any case, he was comfortably set for life if he didn’t do anything foolish. Forsaking his Porsche had caused only momentary regret.
So, as an alternative to adding yet another zero at the end of his holdings, he worked out daily at a local gym, took an adult education course in Italian, and read the complete works of Charles Dickens and Elmore Leonard. But that was simply a way to fill in time.
And then it hit him. After years of being totally self-centered, he would help others. He no longer craved fast cars and gold watches. He created a foundation out of most of his investments, and with the aid of a local law firm—run by the husband and wife team of Ted Daniger and Simone Fahrer—he anonymously supported needy causes. He even went back to college, the state university this time, taking courses in law enforcement. He passed the state exam, and applied and got a job on the local police force.
And he loved it. Even liked the paperwork. Well, sometimes he liked the paperwork. Mostly, he liked being part of a community without having to make a personal commitment to anyone in particular. Interaction from a distance was the ticket, he decided as he contentedly sipped his gin and tonic. Secure in his new world, he admired his friends’ affection but didn’t have to feel guilty about wives he neglected or Lhasa apsos he had never known he had.
Ted, after all, was the one who had made the turnaround in Carter’s lifestyle possible, and if he and Simone wanted to smooch to their hearts’ content, so be it.
Then Carter remembered. “Actually, talking of underwear, sorry, lingerie, how’s that little number you bought?” he asked Simone.
Ted looked interested. “And what little number would that be?”
Simone grimaced. “Aw, Carter, now you’ve ruined my surprise. I was saving it for later tonight, after pizza at Tonino’s.” Tonino’s was a Grantham institution; a pizza parlor/bar that attracted adult league baseball teams and families with armies of kids. The decor was early fifties—tiny, mirrored tiles on the support columns and pink Formica on the tabletops. The waitresses had big hair and little aprons. They didn’t slop the beer, and they always remembered the ketchup for the fries.
Ted held up his glass. “Ah, the anticipation is killing me. Please, everyone, drink up, so we can move on to dinner, and get to the quote-unquote dessert as quickly as possible.” The dog, Buster, took that moment to thump his tail.
Simone beamed at Ted. “Eagerness is one of your more endearing traits, you know.” She patted him on the arm, then turned to Carter. “Speaking of eagerness, I was pretty sure I detected a certain, what you might call tension in Eve Cantoro’s store today.”
“That’s only because I’ve never been surrounded by so much black lace and sheer stretch material in my entire life,” Carter said defensively.
Ted kicked the tennis ball, and Buster lumbered across the grass to retrieve it. “You must have had an interesting day. Tell me more.”
Simone patted him on the shoulder. “It’s a new lingerie shop in town—Sweet Nothings. And it’s run by this woman, Eve Cantoro, who seems to have a good head on her shoulders.”
Carter could easily have added that she had a few other good things close to her shoulders.
Simone gave Carter the evil eye. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking.”
“So, Carter, what brought you to the land of lace and fantasy?” Ted asked. Buster returned, and Ted leaned over and picked up the ball. He threw it farther. Ted clearly was well trained.
“I was there in a professional capacity,” Carter said.
“A little fieldwork in garters and nighties?”
“Very funny.” Actually, not funny at all. The thought of Eve Cantoro, surrounded by all those sexy little under-things, was driving Carter crazy. He remembered her description of a thong. And there definitely hadn’t been any visible panty-line showing under her black slacks.
Carter sipped his drink a little unsteadily, sloshing it down his chin and onto his wet T-shirt. “Jeez,” he wiped his front. “What a waste of good alcohol.”
“So?” Ted asked again.
“I was responding to a call about a reported theft.”
Simone sat up straighter. “Theft?”
“Seems that a person or persons has a thing for red tap pants.”
“Come
