everyone
had been salivating over what the division of his assets would be.
Roxanne Vanderbrook, who looked like a Victoria’s Secret model, but
had in fact been a former Frederick’s of Hollywood model, a
beautiful bit of fluff, twenty-two years to Earvin’s sixty-eight,
had known she
would get the bulk of the estate. The newspapers and tabloid rags
had exploded when it had been revealed that she’d been given a
settlement of only $15 million, and Earvin’s “love and affection
for all eternity” since she’d told him that was “all” she’d “ever
want.”
It had been a low blow and very
sneaky, but the ironclad prenuptial Earvin had made his sixth wife
sign had been very detailed, and she hadn’t had a leg to stand on
in court. Which hadn’t made her very happy. So she’d released a
tell-all book, which had done very well for her. She was now
starring on some reality show. I had to admit it was my guilty
pleasure.
Earvin’s children had been a totally
different situation. He’d only had kids with his first wife, who
had died tragically from cancer. His three children had been raised
by Earvin’s second wife who had been an uber-conservative Christian
and had raised Earvin’s children the same way. All three children
had grown up to be intolerant, homophobic, transphobic, borderline
racist, right-wingers who only had time for Earvin when they needed
money. They all married the upper crust of Dallas society, though
Earvin had moved to California with his now third wife, having
divorced his second wife when he found her sleeping with the
pastor. His children decided to stay in Texas with the second wife,
having taken her side in the divorce. Earvin married his fourth
wife three months after his third wife passed away, scandalizing
the Californian high society when he married his former wife’s
niece.
I told Dodger I knew this
much about his family’s story. I mean, it had been in all the
papers and on television. It made no sense for me to try to hide
it, as he helped me from the back of the limo, and I walked beside
him up the paved circular driveway to the seven marble steps that
led to the porch and to the double front doors. I wanted to whistle
at the opulence, but I didn’t. Instead, I squared my shoulders and
walked beside my date… no, my client . I couldn’t let myself think
of Dodger as anything other than a client. Otherwise when he paid
me at the end of the night, I would be disappointed and hurt, and I
couldn’t afford that.
I don’t know what I was
expecting when we got to the front door of Dodger’s home. Maybe a
butler to swing the door open and say “Welcome home, Master
Vanderbrook.” Perhaps a line of servants to be standing in the
front entrance to greet us like in Downton
Abbey , and yes, I did watch that show
whenever I wasn’t “entertaining.” But whatever I was expecting, it
wasn’t what I got.
Dodger pulled out his keys and
inserted them in the lock on the left door before swinging it open.
He swept out an arm and bowed to me.
“ Welcome to my somewhat humble
abode.”
I chuckled and stepped inside. I had
never been inside the Vanderbrook “palace,” obviously. I had barely
moved in the same circles as the mogul, Earvin Vanderbrook. Many of
my clients had dreams of being able to even say hello to the man,
much less to have any type of business dealings with him, so I had
often watched him from afar. I had known Earvin’s fifth wife,
Betsy, a former stripper turned housewife, who was now a
restaurateur. Betsy was the closest I’d ever gotten to Earvin and
then it was only before they were married, when she was still a
stripper, and he’d been a favorite patron. After they’d gotten a
divorce, and he had financed her now-booming, worldwide chain of
restaurants, we’d once again become friends. In spite of my
somewhat controversial status as a companion, Betsy made sure I
could get into any Yeda restaurant in the world, all because I had
been nice to her
had been salivating over what the division of his assets would be.
Roxanne Vanderbrook, who looked like a Victoria’s Secret model, but
had in fact been a former Frederick’s of Hollywood model, a
beautiful bit of fluff, twenty-two years to Earvin’s sixty-eight,
had known she
would get the bulk of the estate. The newspapers and tabloid rags
had exploded when it had been revealed that she’d been given a
settlement of only $15 million, and Earvin’s “love and affection
for all eternity” since she’d told him that was “all” she’d “ever
want.”
It had been a low blow and very
sneaky, but the ironclad prenuptial Earvin had made his sixth wife
sign had been very detailed, and she hadn’t had a leg to stand on
in court. Which hadn’t made her very happy. So she’d released a
tell-all book, which had done very well for her. She was now
starring on some reality show. I had to admit it was my guilty
pleasure.
Earvin’s children had been a totally
different situation. He’d only had kids with his first wife, who
had died tragically from cancer. His three children had been raised
by Earvin’s second wife who had been an uber-conservative Christian
and had raised Earvin’s children the same way. All three children
had grown up to be intolerant, homophobic, transphobic, borderline
racist, right-wingers who only had time for Earvin when they needed
money. They all married the upper crust of Dallas society, though
Earvin had moved to California with his now third wife, having
divorced his second wife when he found her sleeping with the
pastor. His children decided to stay in Texas with the second wife,
having taken her side in the divorce. Earvin married his fourth
wife three months after his third wife passed away, scandalizing
the Californian high society when he married his former wife’s
niece.
I told Dodger I knew this
much about his family’s story. I mean, it had been in all the
papers and on television. It made no sense for me to try to hide
it, as he helped me from the back of the limo, and I walked beside
him up the paved circular driveway to the seven marble steps that
led to the porch and to the double front doors. I wanted to whistle
at the opulence, but I didn’t. Instead, I squared my shoulders and
walked beside my date… no, my client . I couldn’t let myself think
of Dodger as anything other than a client. Otherwise when he paid
me at the end of the night, I would be disappointed and hurt, and I
couldn’t afford that.
I don’t know what I was
expecting when we got to the front door of Dodger’s home. Maybe a
butler to swing the door open and say “Welcome home, Master
Vanderbrook.” Perhaps a line of servants to be standing in the
front entrance to greet us like in Downton
Abbey , and yes, I did watch that show
whenever I wasn’t “entertaining.” But whatever I was expecting, it
wasn’t what I got.
Dodger pulled out his keys and
inserted them in the lock on the left door before swinging it open.
He swept out an arm and bowed to me.
“ Welcome to my somewhat humble
abode.”
I chuckled and stepped inside. I had
never been inside the Vanderbrook “palace,” obviously. I had barely
moved in the same circles as the mogul, Earvin Vanderbrook. Many of
my clients had dreams of being able to even say hello to the man,
much less to have any type of business dealings with him, so I had
often watched him from afar. I had known Earvin’s fifth wife,
Betsy, a former stripper turned housewife, who was now a
restaurateur. Betsy was the closest I’d ever gotten to Earvin and
then it was only before they were married, when she was still a
stripper, and he’d been a favorite patron. After they’d gotten a
divorce, and he had financed her now-booming, worldwide chain of
restaurants, we’d once again become friends. In spite of my
somewhat controversial status as a companion, Betsy made sure I
could get into any Yeda restaurant in the world, all because I had
been nice to her
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