My Wife's Big Mouth

"You can take a seat anywhere, Mr. Rosen," the receptionist told me, sweeping her hand across the smartly appointed lobby.

Everything looked fresh and modern. No stodgy wood panels on the walls, no drapes on the windows, no carpet on the floor; it was all glass and tile and meticulously fabricated metalwork. I don't go into the city often, so I'm not accustomed to this kind of upscale, urban minimalist aesthetic. I kept my mouth shut and just nodded, afraid that anything I might say would reveal me as a country bumpkin who doesn't belong here, like the guy who asks for the jelly in those Polaner All Fruit ads.

I chose a smoothly upholstered couch-chair hybrid and began browsing the reading material artfully fanned out on the funky coffee table in front of me. Lawyers Weekly was prominent among the offerings, but no way I was going to read that shit. The crisp, uncreased cover suggested no one does. I picked up The Wall Street Journal instead.

I don't often bother with newspapers, unless I'm lining a birdcage, but I find the Journal a tad more reliable than most. I assume the ruling class needs to know what's actually going on in the world, the better to propagandize the rest of us. I crossed my legs, snapped the paper open with two hands, and flipped to the "World" section. Most of the articles made my eyes glaze over, but then a provocative headline jumped out at me: "DEI: Level Playing Field or Long Con?"

I'm not some reactionary nob who gets triggered by the notion that people of all races deserve equal dignity in the workplace -- unlike a certain hockey dad who is fucking my wife -- but my curiosity was piqued. The article was about Tencent Holdings Limited, which I had never heard of before. Apparently it is one of the most valuable companies in the world, a massive Chinese conglomerate with an equity stake in hundreds of businesses around the globe. According to the article, Tencent is under investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission for allegedly deploying a fraudulent investment scheme that an anonymous corporate whistleblower dubbed "the Shenzhen Two-Step."

I was only a few paragraphs into the article, but already I was hooked. The first step, I learned, was to target a well-run company by planting stories in media outlets -- owned by Tencent of course -- about how profits are stagnating under a legacy ownership group that lacks diversity. That causes the stock price to drop, allowing Tencent to profit by short selling -- using a network of shell companies -- before, eventually, buying the dip. Once Tencent owns enough shares to get a seat on the board of directors, step two begins. The newly-installed director uses her -- it's always "her" -- influence to push out the company's most competent managers in favor of "diversity hires" with little experience in the industry. When their bad decisions inevitably drive the stock even lower, with the shell companies shorting it all the way down, Tencent acquires majority ownership on the cheap. The name proves prophetic as it snaps up businesses for ten cents on the dollar.

The article was so engrossing that I lost track of time. When I finally finished it, I needed to get up and stretch my legs, so I wandered over to the coffee station in the corner of the room, where I began fiddling with the knobs on a chrome-plated espresso machine. It took me a minute to get the contraption working, but eventually I figured it out and managed to fill a dainty little cup.

"Damn fine cup of coffee, isn't it?"

I recognized the voice before I even turned around.

"Seth, thanks for seeing me."

"Of course, Mike. Sorry to keep you waiting. Come to my office, let's catch up."

With that, my cousin led me down a book-lined hallway, where we navigated a maze of cubicles until we reached a sprawling corner office adorned with his nameplate. "Right in here," he said, holding the door for me.

Stepping into Seth's office, I was in awe. It looked more like a man cave than a place of business. I didn't see any law books, but there was a wall-mounted television, a refrigerator, a foosball table, a putting green, and even a full-sized golf simulator impact screen.

"What, no pickleball court?" I asked sarcastically.

My cousin smiled. "I'm a member at Bosse," he said with a shrug.

Of course he is, I thought to myself. Looking around at all the trappings of my cousin's success, my own career was beginning to feel embarrassingly small. When I remembered why I was here in the first place, I felt even smaller.

Seth must have sensed me withdrawing into self-pity because he tried to coax me back out. "Here," he said, handing me a Calloway. "You were always the best athlete in the family. Show me how it's done."

I chuckled ruefully at his faint praise. Being the best athlete in the Rosen family was like being the smartest Kardashian -- or the classiest Sarducci. I set a dimpled ball on the rubber tee, addressed it with head of the club as I limbered up my wrists, then took a full cut, missing it entirely. "That was a practice swing," I said sheepishly.

Seth gave me a friendly slap on the back. "Drive for show, putt for dough, right? Try again."

Somehow his encouragement helped me center myself. I felt my shoulders loosen and my balance return as I stomped my front foot into the turf, shifted my weight and smashed my next shot.

"Two hundred twenty-six yards right down the middle!" my cousin announced, his voice tinged with pride as if I had hit a real fairway. "I knew you could do it!"

"Yeah, now all I need are the goofy pants and a fat ass," I replied snidely.

Seth recognized the reference and chortled with appreciation. "Sandman!" he exclaimed. "Love it!"

For the next few minutes, it was like we were kids again, transported back to our summer camp days. We laughed our asses off trading Adam Sandler quotes, each more outlandish and vulgar than the last. By the time I belted out my Tollbooth Willie impression, Seth was doubled over, scarcely able to breathe. "You forgot to pay the fuckin' toll you dirty whore! I'll fuckin' drop you with a boot to the fuckin' skull you cum guzzling queen!"

When my cousin finally regained his composure, he slayed me with his over-the-top affectation of a talking goat. "Fuck me in the goat ass!" he brayed absurdly.

We howled with laughter.

It must have taken ten minutes before we could speak normally. "Oh my goodness, that takes me back," Seth sighed with nostalgia as he wiped a tear from his eye. "But I assume you didn't come here to reminisce. What brings you in today?"

"A cum guzzling queen," I deadpanned.

Seth looked at me quizzically. He could tell

from my stolid tone that I wasn't joking this time. "What do you mean?"

I hesitated for a moment, worried that I might be about to open Pandora's box, but I banished those doubts and forged ahead. "I mean my wife."

"Cindy?" Seth asked incredulously.

I nodded, my lips pursed grimly.

My cousin's expression lost its playful contours, his face enfolded in apprehension. "She's as straight-laced as they come," he responded. "What did she do?"

Before answering, I touched may neck with my hand, but nothing was there. I had removed the body camera and smashed it with a hammer, but the warm plastic sensation against my skin never entirely left me. I could still feel its phantom presence around my throat, gnawing at the edges of my awareness, and I had an instinctive need to confirm that we weren't being recorded. After soothing my anxiety, I exhaled loudly, then began telling my cousin the background. At first, I tried to sanitize the story, as much to preserve my own dignity as my wife's, but eventually I was giving Seth all the sordid details.

I told him about how that churlish douche nozzle Rocco had goaded my drunken wife into a foolish bet. I told him how I fucked up and managed to escalate the bet into the "Forty-Way Parlay," the terms of which Rocco later altered, while still threatening to carry out more "challenge cards."

To his credit, Seth tried to defend Cindy's honor. "No fucking chance! He'll never win," my cousin vowed.

I admired his confidence, but my own had been beaten out of me. "I used to think like you," I said brutally, letting the past tense do its work.

I went on to describe my wife's threesome with Bridget and Rocco in the hot tub; her threesome with Sam's hockey coaches, Matt and Todd; and her threesome with Rocco and Bridget's disabled, disgusting Uncle Anthony. I held nothing back. I told him how Cindy got face-fucked, face-slapped, tit-slapped, dick-whipped, finger-banged, ass-spanked, held down on a cock, held under water, spit on, cummed on and double-teamed like a whore. By the time I was done admitting that my wife took it in the ass from an old man in a wheelchair, the color had vanished from Seth's face, leaving him pallid and forlorn. I watched this swaggering lawyer transform before my eyes into a crestfallen cream puff.

I prattled on for a few more minutes, sharing my curiosity about Cindy's former teacher, Ms. McKenzie, and the cryptic message she left in her high school yearbook, but I'm not sure Seth was listening any longer. My story seemed to bounce off his forehead. He had a dazed look and his mouth hung agape, walloped by the deluge of shocking facts that continued to pour out of me. It was only when I mentioned Bridget's company, MasterBettor, that I saw signs of life rekindle behind his eyes.

"Whoa whoa whoa," Seth cut me off, raising his palm like a stop sign. "MB is involved with this shit?"

If anyone else had casually called the company by its initials like that, I would have found it painfully pretentious. But not Seth. Seth is a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. He is as sharp as they come, but he doesn't put on airs or try to impress anyone. He's the genuine article: a lawyer's lawyer. He's no stranger to the seamy underbelly of corporate America, so it makes sense that he would be passing familiar with MasterBettor. That's why I came to him, after all.

"Hell yes MB is involved," I confirmed. "Why, what do you know?"

My cousin glanced over at the door, as if making sure it was shut, then answered me in a hushed voice. "A lot," he confided. "I know a guy on the Gaming Commission. Every now and then he sends me a hot tip."

"Blue Horseshoe loves Anacott Steel," I intoned.

Seth snorted. "Yeah, something like that."

I waited for him to elaborate, but suddenly he clammed up. "So... what did this guy tell you?" I finally asked.

He checked the door again. My hand went back to my neck. "For one thing," Seth began, keeping his voice low, "he told me the company is mobbed up."

I nodded grimly, while Seth continued. "But they're trying to launder all that blood money and go legit. My guy tells me they just completed a Series C and now they're prepping for an IPO."

"That tracks," I replied, "I overheard Bridget and Bob fighting about who owns what shares, who is getting diluted, that kind of shit."

My cousin cocked an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Did they say who?"

"They didn't name names. Whoever it is, they referred to him as a 'lightning rod.' What do you think that's all about?"

Seth's eyes bore into me and a shrewd look crossed his face. I could tell he was already thinking a few steps ahead. "Rocco calls you 'Big Pussy,' right?"

"Yeah," I whispered, more from embarrassment than any concern about being overheard.

"So he is a fan of The Sopranos."

"He's a fan of banging my wife," I shot back. "Who gives a shit?"

Seth ignored my irritation, keeping his composure. "And Bridget encourages him?"

"Yeah," I said flatly, wondering where he was going with this.

"Remember when Junior becomes the boss? Tony is really in charge, but he lets Junior have the title, right?"

"I remember."

"'Thinks he's the king of kings,'" Seth said, doing a surprisingly good Gandolfini impression. "'The truth is, every decision is made by me.'"

A wistful smile embroidered my face as I recalled the scene.

"And what does Silvio say to that?" he asked rhetorically before switching up his voice. "'Now we got a brand new lightning rod on top to take the hits.'"

"Ah ha," I said, tapping my temple. My dumb ass was starting to catch on. "Smart. Very smart."

"I'm sure they think so," Seth sniffed dismissively, his voice cold. "But you and I will show those wife-snatching schmucks who they're fucking with."

I know I said my confidence had been beaten out me, but when my cousin said that, I could feel it returning. I rubbed my hands together, giddy with anticipation. "So what's the plan?"

"You track down Ms. McKenzie," he said. "My assistant can look her up for you on Westlaw. While you're doing that, I'm going to do some digging into MB."

I left my cousin's office with a renewed sense of purpose and an address scrawled on a piece of paper. As I plugged it into Maps, I realized I was headed to the rich side of town.

When I arrived, I pulled my shitty Subaru into a circular driveway and parked next to a sleek Mercedes S-Class, with "OO" on the custom license plate. Exiting my car, I found myself looking up at an imposing limestone mansion sitting on manicured lawns, a citadel of wealth surrounded by a sea of green. Pretty nice spread, I thought to myself, wondering how Ms. McKenzie could afford it on a teacher's salary.

As I approached the double front doors made of dark mahogany, set deep within a carved archway and illuminated by twin candelabra sconces, I marveled at the home's commanding beauty. I was only fifteen minutes from my own house, but a world away.

Before I could ring the bell, my phone buzzed with an incoming text message. It was my wife, wondering where I am. I couldn't tell her the truth, but our phones share data, so Cindy could find my location if she wanted to. A careless lie might be easily revealed. Suddenly, I felt stressed. I am not accustomed to sneaking around, nor am I good at it. I don't care what they say about a life of deception being the charm of marriage; for me, it's exhausting. Finally, I hit on the idea to tell her that I was checking out a garage sale to see if there was any used hockey equipment that Sam might need. That should stick.

I rang the bell and waited. After a minute, an elegant, dark-haired lady appeared behind the doors' beveled glass panels and greeted me through an intercom.

This time, I went with the truth, plainly stating the reason for my visit. That must have worked because one of the heavy doors swung open and I was invited in.

Standing just inside the doorway was the woman I came to see, the mysterious Ms. McKenzie. I introduced myself for the second time and she told me her name is Kristine, but she goes by Kris. Kris was stunner. She looked exactly the way she did in Cindy's yearbook. Even though that picture was taken more than fifteen years ago, she hadn't aged a day. As she ushered me inside her palatial home, I didn't see the finely-crafted furnishings or the artwork on her walls. I only saw the artwork right in front of me, wearing a flowy, lemon-print sundress and walking with a saucy twist in her hips.

Kris led me into a spacious sitting room, gracefully gesturing in the direction of a high-backed chair. As she half-turned to face me, I feasted my eyes on her generous bust line, filling out the top of her sundress to glorious perfection. She gave me a slight smile, as if to acknowledge the compliment I was paying her with my stare, which hastened me to my seat. Not wanting to be caught ogling her big tits again, I cast my gaze around the room, taking in my lush surroundings. Tall windows afforded a view of the grounds, dramatically framed by floor-to-ceiling drapes. A cream-colored, Persian rug anchored the space, which featured a marble fireplace at one end and a clutch of potted plants at the other. Kris sat down across from me in a jewel-toned sofa, folding her hands in her lap. In contrast to her opulent home, her hands were conspicuously unadorned. I noticed that she didn't wear a wedding ring.

Almost as soon as she sat down, however, she stood back up. "Where are my manners? Can I get you some tea?"

"That would be lovely," I said, watching the hem of her dress swish against her comely legs as she left the room.

When Kris returned, I was inspecting the gold-and-blue coat of arms hanging above the fireplace. "Your family crest is very impressive," I said, making awkward small talk.

Kris let out a little laugh as she set down the tray of tea beside me. "It's not my family any longer," she said with a shrug. "But I kept Dr. McKenzie's name even after the divorce. Why not? I figured I took everything else. Might as well take that, too."

"It looks like you got quite the haul," I said, looking around to admire the grandeur of the room.

"Oh, he got plenty, believe me," she replied querulously. "I got everything that was old and expensive. He took everything that was cheap and underage."

With that loaded comment hanging thickly in the air, I decided to change the subject and get down to brass tacks. "Do you mind if I ask how you know my wife Cindy?"

Kris took a sip of her tea, then gave me a grin. Maybe I didn't change the subject after all.

"I was her high school chemistry teacher," she said with a playfully haughty tone, "but I don't suppose that is what you're asking about. What is really on your mind?"

I stammered, too distracted by her crossing and uncrossing her legs to give a proper reply. "Um, I, ah... I read what you wrote in her, um, yearbook and it seemed like, I don't know, maybe there was, um, a bit more to your relationship."

"I see," Kris said, before lifting her teacup to her lips.

The silence made me uncomfortable, so I volunteered something more. "Perhaps you knew her from the honor society?"

Kris almost spit out her tea. "You must be joking," she sputtered, before her laughter turned to pity. "Oh dear, you're serious?"

"Yes," I said, as my cheeks began to burn. "Cindy is a doctor now, a psychiatrist, and I understand she was a straight A student back in high school. Am I wrong?"

"I seem to recall she was more of a 'scarlet A' student, actually," Kris replied, an inscrutable smile curling her lips.

I said I didn't understand without words, just a furrowed forehead and a befuddled squint.

"Have some of your tea," Kris suggested, her tone and her body language softening. "I'll tell you what I know."

I took a sip, taking care not to slurp in front of my genteel hostess.

Apparently satisfied, Kris began. "You'll forgive me for being blunt, but at my age, I don't have much use for discretion. And somehow I don't think you went to all this trouble just to hear hollow pieties about Cindy Bloom," she said, using my wife's maiden name. "You came for the truth, am I right?"

I nodded silently, suddenly afraid that my tongue might slit my throat. I hid behind my teacup as Kris continued.

"The truth is that Cindy was a middling student. Not a stupid girl, necessarily, but certainly not one of the brightest either." Kris paused to let that sink in. She scrutinized me closely, looking for signs of surprise, I imagine, but I kept my emotions in check, too beguiled by her ageless beauty to risk letting my feelings show on my face.

"One day, I caught Cindy cheating. Her lab partner, Cale, was doing her assignments for her, while she did nothing. Well, not nothing. Cale told me how she persuaded him to do all her lab reports." Kris punctuated that sentence with an arched eyebrow, as if to ask whether I wanted the particulars.

I remained expressionless.

"Let's just say she begged him on her knees," Kris added, studying my reaction.

"I've heard worse," I said with a flirtatious smile, hoping to conceal my sense of crumbling despair -- if not from her, then at least from myself. "And I see you still have some use for discretion."