The Assistants(23)
“I was blown away the first time,” said Dillinger, who at least had the decency to wear contact lenses. “You really get to see a new side of Barlow. Though, you probably know him better than any of us ever will.”
“Probably,” I said proudly, for this was the one thing I had on all the guys with hot wives in the office. My access to everything Robert.
“Got any good stories about him?”
Nice try, Dillinger. Of course I had good stories about him, but if I’d learned anything in my six years of servitude, it was discretion. Robert trusted me because I was good at keeping my mouth shut. (No ten-gallon mouths around here.)
However, I did keep in my conversational arsenal a few choice tidbits that I’d toss to the needy in moments such as these.
“Well, I do have one favorite story,” I said, leaning in and lowering my voice in such a way that even Kathryn stirred. “Did you know he once got into a fight with George Clooney on a golf course?”
This was a safe story to tell, because I knew Robert loved people to know about it.
“I heard that once.” Dillinger’s pallid face pinked. “Is it true?”
I nodded. “Apparently, Clooney left a bunker unraked after he’d bumbled his shot, and Robert is a real stickler for smoothing out the sand. So he marched right up to Clooney and told him to get back over there and get to raking—and don’t leave any furrows either.”
I should mention here that when I first started working for Robert, I would spend my nights searching the Internet, diligently looking up all the words, names, and places he’d thrown at me during the day that I didn’t understand. In time, I figured out how to talk about all the things Robert cared about. Golf, tennis, boating, Texas sports teams, luxury vacation spots, fine wines, and rare liquor. My knowledge was shallow, but it was enough to sound like I knew what I was talking about—which is all most people need anyway.
“So what happened?” Dillinger asked.
“What do you think happened?” This was the best part of the story. “Clooney got his ass over there and smoothed out the sand.”
Dillinger shook his head, rosy with admiration. “I could totally see that happening.”
“I know, it’s so Robert,” I said. “But obviously never repeat that.”
“No, no, of course not.” Dillinger leaned back, silently deciding who would be the first person he’d relay it to.
“You know,” he said, “I asked Robert yesterday, what should we do if it rains today, because the forecast was predicting a storm, and he answered, matter-of-factly, ‘It doesn’t rain when I have a barbecue.’ Then I remembered the last three times I came out were all beautiful days. And now look.”
Dillinger pointed past disinterested Kathryn, through the sunny train window, to the clear cerulean sky. On top of everything else, he now accepted as fact that Robert could control the weather.
When we arrived at the Poughkeepsie station, we took a ten-minute cab ride to the house—or the estate or whatever. To say it was vast would be an understatement along the lines of calling the Great Wall of China or Michael Fassbender’s penis “long.”
The cab took us uphill along a gravel driveway, where the house—a white two-story colonial with dark trim—appeared to the left, upon another small hill. To the right there was a barn, and past that, a far stretch of grass that disappeared into a forest.
We stepped out of the cab just off the house’s front porch, and there was Robert welcoming us, glass of bourbon in hand, wearing khaki shorts, loafers, and a striped polo. I’d never seen his knees before, and I was having serious trouble focusing on anything else. His wife (Avery, a former Texas Longhorns cheerleader) was at his side. She was the same age as Robert but didn’t look a day over fifty-five, dressed casually in white cotton shorts, sandals, and a sleeveless top. Her auburn hair looked like she’d just stepped out of the salon.
“Y’all have a smooth ride getting here?” Avery Barlow had been to the office on a few occasions so this wasn’t my first time meeting her, but when I looked into her bright hazel eyes, I still couldn’t help but think: You are married to Robert. You knew him when he was nothing but a brassy college boy who read too much James Lee Burke. You married him before his first billion. What was he like back then? Did he always speak in commands? Was he even the natural leader of your friend group?
“Getting here was a breeze,” Dillinger said in response to Avery’s question. “The train ride was a pleasure.”
Already he was laying it on a little thick.
Robert pointed toward the backyard with his drink. “Come on around back.”
We did as we were told, and, reaching the backyard, the stunning swimming pool was the first thing to catch my eye—followed by red-faced Glen Wiles lounging poolside, smoking a cigar.
Shit.
Wiles struggled up from his chair and over to us. He was wearing a T-shirt, which he’d already mostly sweat through; cargo shorts; and no shoes. I thought Robert’s knees were bad. Glen Wiles’s feet were like two ham hocks past their sell-by date.
I was beginning to wonder what the hell I was doing here.
“Tina, you’re hanging with the big boys now, huh?” Wiles gave me a smack on the back with his big bear-paw hand. “That’s my wife, Carolena, over there, she’s catching some sun. Say hi, honey.”