He stopped at the red light on the corner of Fifth Avenue. A mannequin in the window of a lingerie shop down the street beckoned to him, her barely-there lacy pink bra and panties like a goddamn magnetic force calling out to him.
“Fuck,” he seethed as the September sun beat down. These images were not helping the case one bit, nor was that strategically placed shop. As if it were there to tempt him. Taunt him. He needed to think of baseball players or bunnies, not of how enticing Michelle would look in that bra and panty set. Because of course she would. That was a given.
Focus, Jack. Get your mind out of the gutter.
He grappled at topics that were boner killers.
The Yankees were playing tonight. They were down by a game and a half, which meant they’d need to win tonight and then again tomorrow. Jack computed batting averages and RBIs and statistical likelihoods of no-hitters, given that there had already been two so far this season. By the time he reached the next block, weaving around a bicycle deliveryman riding on the sidewalk, Jack was a man on a mission.
Today’s mission? Politics. Henry had called this meeting with his brother-in-law, the city council candidate they were throwing gobs of support behind. Jack hated politics and was still outraged that Henry's brother-in-law was being attacked because Henry and Marquita owned BDSM clubs. Jack would be surprised if Paul Denkler had ever been to a BDSM club. He seemed to be straight-laced, and trying to do some good things for the city.
He reached McCoy’s in mid-town, a favorite spot for late afternoon power lunches. A shot of air-conditioning blasted him as he opened the door. The cooler inside air was a relief. He joined Henry, Marquita, Paul Denkler and Casey at a plush red booth in the back, cloth linen napkins spread across laps, silver utensils gleaming.
After orders were placed, Henry clasped his hands together. “We have a problem.”
Jack nodded. “I figured as much. Unplanned lunch meetings usually stem from problems.”
Paul cleared his throat and opened his tablet, clicking open a news article from a prominent NY blog site. Conroy Blasts Denkler for East Side Fire.
Casey’s jaw twitched and her eyes burned. “Now you’re responsible for a fire?” she said, narrowing her eyes as she bent closer to Denkler to read the post.
After a fire broke out last night on 88th and Madison in the basement of an apartment building that had been hosting a sex-themed bondage party, former litigator and city councilman candidate Jared Conroy called anew for closures of all the BDSM private clubs that have sprung up on the Upper East Side.
While the small blaze was quickly snuffed by the local fire department, a few attendees suffered smoke inhalation. “This is a classic example of why we need to shut down these establishments. Not only do they bring an untoward element to our neighborhoods, they are clearly dangerous. I shudder at the thought of the type of damage the fire could have wrought had the fire department not been nearby,” Casey said, reading on, the frustration deep in her voice.
Jack blew out a long stream of air after she’d finished.
“What are we going to do about this? This is a whole new wrinkle. How are you going to finesse this?” Jack said to Henry.
“We don’t have to finesse it,” he said. “Because the facts are wrong. This isn’t one of our clubs.”
Casey’s eyes lit up. “This is perfect. This shows exactly why it’s better to have regulated clubs run in a reputable fashion.”
Jack beamed at his sister. “Look at you. Already toeing the party line.”
Denkler laughed. “We’ll send her to Nevada next. Talk up keeping prostitution legal.”
“Well,” Casey said insistently as she turned to Henry, “that’s the point, right? You don’t have any problems at your club like this. You have regular inspections. You adhere to the fire code. You have a liquor license. You follow laws.”
“Exactly,” Henry said with a nod, and Marquita dropped a hand over his, a look of pride on her face as her husband spoke. “We afford a safe place for these activities. If the regulated clubs are shut down, there will be more incidents like this.”
“The question is, how hard do you want to hit this message?” Jack asked, turning to Denkler. “How bad is this killing you in the polls?”
“It’s pretty bad. No one wants to hear about schools and safe streets anymore, now that Conroy has made everyone think the clubs are bringing down the neighborhood,” Denkler admitted, his voice that of a man nearing the end of his rope, as he pushed a hand through his hair. He seemed like a classic heart-of-gold guy. He’d clearly gotten involved in politics because he wanted to make a change for the better, but his platform had been turned upside down by a bastard who went for the jugular.
“You need to get preemptive,” Jack said firmly, reflecting back on his days with the army. “You don’t let the enemy walk all over you. You have to understand the enemy. Understand the problem. Act on it.”
Denkler nodded enthusiastically. “We’ve tried refocusing back to the core message, but my PR manager doesn’t think that will work until we explain openly why we’re not opposed to the clubs, like Conroy is. He thinks we need to talk about why the neighborhood doesn’t need a Times Square style sweep of the clubs. Come at it from an education point of view.”
Henry jumped in. “We should be more vocal in our support too. I think we need to talk more to the press about why Eden and the clubs support Paul, and not simply because he’s my lovely wife’s brother,” he said, squeezing his wife’s hand.