The Belinda Triangle Read online

  Owen opened his mouth, but could only berate himself silently for not being better prepared.

  “I say it’s like the Four Musketeers.” Lewis lifted his wine glass for a toast. “All for one, and one for all!”

  With some effort, Owen refrained from pointing out the reversed order of the quote. Oh, crap.

  BECKETT HAD GEN’S SCREEN on calculator mode when she came out with a white towel around her hair. That’s all. The rest was nothing but curves and planes, artfully arranged to turn the most ardent Darwinian into a believer in intelligent design. “Okay, here’s what we do,” she said, casually poking a corner of the towel in an ear as if her mind wore blinders, oblivious to her body’s effect on innocent bystanders.

  “Whoa!” He held up both hands. “First, here’s what you do. You put on a robe or something.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” She turned back to the bathroom.

  While he admired the rear view as well, he lost track of what they were going to talk about.

  “Is this acceptable, kind sir?” She returned, tying the belt on a cream-colored terry cloth robe and sat across from him.

  “Much better, thanks.” It was a little too open at her neck and the scent of soap did not help his focus, but he would try. He was glad to see that the swelling around her eyes was almost gone.

  “I do my best thinking in the tub, and I’ve got a three-part plan, okay? First, I will do screen marketing during the day and conduct yoga classes in the evening. Second, you will—”

  “Screen marketing for what?” Her high energy level was fascinating to watch, but sometimes he had to slow her down.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Whatever pays the best.”

  “What pays best is probably sex-related.”

  She paused, pursed her lips, then continued. “So? It’s just a picture on a screen, it’s not my actual body. I’ll wear a wig or something.”

  He rubbed his forehead in an effort to erase that image. Moving on might also help. “You’re not certified to teach yoga, and that would cost money and take months.”

  “I’m good enough to teach the basics, and I can do it at cut-rate pricing. Don’t be negative!” She took on a fierce look.

  “I’m just pointing out—”

  “Second, you will take that hospital admin job, and—”

  He raised his hand like an old-fashioned traffic cop. “The prison job pays better.”

  “I know, but not much better, and it might be dangerous. I mean, most of the prisoners are from the riots, aren’t they?”

  “Probably.” He was glad she hadn’t called it a war as so many did. The news networks had started that, but it was not really a civil war, not like the one almost two centuries back, though tens of thousands died. It was too spontaneous, too unorganized, leaderless, scattered, unfocused, and produced barely a tenth of that earlier conflict’s casualties. But of the tag lines used by the competing news networks—The Great Uprising, The Debtors’ Rebellion, Civil War 2.0, and others—it was the latter that caught on, probably because it was catchier and easier to use the acronym on social media: CW2.

  “So what if they riot again?”

  “Now who’s being negative? Besides, I’d be upstairs in an office, so—”

  “Upstairs in an office is the worst place to be if they set the building on fire!”

  He expelled air noisily. “Look, I’ve been crunching the numbers, and all of that, even if it worked out perfectly, would be too little, too late.”

  “I know.” She looked hurt. “But you haven’t heard the third part.”

  “Which is?”

  She took a deep breath. “Well, the third part is . . . something good will happen.”

  “What?” He wasn’t sure he had heard that right.

  “Something that will fill in the gap, just in time.”

  So there was nothing wrong with his hearing. He spread his hands. “And that something is . . . ?”

  She looked away. “We can’t know that yet.”

  Eyes wide, he waited for her to explain, to assure him that she hadn’t regressed to kindergarten mentality. When that didn’t seem to be forthcoming, he had to ask, “And whatever this good thing turns out to be, it will happen because . . . ?”

  “Because it has to. Because of all the work we will have done by then.” She nodded her head in agreement with her own idea. “Because we are good people, so . . .”

  He closed his eyes, unable to watch the pain in hers.

  “But you have to believe, too. I can’t do it alone.”

  He stood up. “And they told us that brain-eating program had self-destructed. I think they missed a strain.”

  “That’s not funny!”

  He began pacing the floor, talking over his shoulder. “Aren’t you a pediatrician?”

  “You know I am.”

  “And isn’t that a kind of scientist? And don’t scientists use logic?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And now you’re telling me we need to bank on winning the lottery? That’s your part three?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of the lottery, specifically, though someone does win every day . . .”

  “But you’re willing to bet our unborn child on that plan?”

  She teared up. “Do you have a better one?”

  The pain in her eyes had spread to her voice. Now it was in the air between them, palpable, reaching for his throat. If he wasn’t careful, it might . . . He stopped pacing, hesitated, then said, “I’m taking that cruise job.”

  She stood to face him, wiping her eyes. “You certainly are not!”

  “Listen. I figure those debt forgiveness vouchers should pay our way out of the bottom quartile in about seven months.” The Financial Viability formula was public information, but one had to wade through a hundred pages that attempted to explain the weighting of the various factors. These included credit scores, current income, net worth, employment statistics in your career field, your age, health status (including psychological test score), police record, whether or not you voted in the last election, and “other.” Beckett wondered if the latter category included who you voted for in the last election. “You’re not due before January, right?”

  “I don’t think so, but—”

  “Okay. So there’s your gap-filler, just in time.” He attempted a smile of confidence.

  “I forbid it!”

  He cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s unethical . . . immoral . . . unconscionable . . .”

  “What? Lectures on the history of this great country of ours?”

  “You know what I mean.” She crossed her arms.

  “Yeah, well, it’s necessary.”

  “You’re saying the end justifies the means.”

  “In this case that’s exactly what I’m saying.” He couldn’t help adding, “As you must have said to yourself when you embraced the idea of screen sex.”

  “That’s unfair!” She turned away. “There’s got to be something else.”

  “Well, even if there is, we don’t have time to wait for it, or we’ll miss the boat. Literally. The rehearsal cruise leaves a week from today, and I’ve got to reply to this offer before they pick somebody else.”

  She pouted. “You can’t even swim.”

  “I can swim well enough.”

  “You never learned to turn your head and breathe correctly.”

  “Well, they’ll have life vests and life boats and anyway, the ship’s not going to sink. Don’t be silly.”

  “You’re just going to ignore my feelings?”

  Stand firm. “You work your plan and I’ll work mine, okay? We’ll both make it happen.” He saw no need to mention the opportunity for a chapter in the book he’d been contemplating for years: “The Decline and Fall of the American Empire.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “We don’t deserve this. This country is all messed up. I don’t want to sound like a victim, but where’s the mercy? Where’s the second chance? W
here’s the justice with the corporation that sold defective pills?” She raised her voice. “I have work to do. People need me, parents and children. It’s just wrong that I’m not being allowed to do my job. The same with you. You’d be wasted on that cruise. It’s a double mistake, and there’s no good reason for it.”

  “Tell you what. The first week’s cruise is just a rehearsal. Then there’s a week off, so I’ll come home then and if the training is too . . . too much, I’ll just not go back. Okay?” At the minimum the experience would be worth a magazine article.

  “It’s not the real thing yet? You’re sure?”

  “I went over the brochure while you were in the tub.”

  “She put her arms around his neck. “Oh, Doyle . . .” Her belt came loose and the robe fell open. “We’ve never been apart a whole week before.”

  He slipped his arms inside the terry cloth and pulled her to him, the smooth skin under his hands distracting him from her tears on his neck. “You know what? I’m glad Morales sent you home.”

  “Are you crazy? That’s my career you’re talking about.”

  “Really, though. You’ll be safer here.”

  “That’s twisted logic.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “At least I won’t have to worry about you being out on these roads twice a day while I’m—”

  “Oh, Doyle,” she groaned, “shut up and fuck me.”

  He heard an undertone of anguish, a plea for soothing, less for the body than for the mind. And though he felt inadequate to the task, he stepped back and bowed with a flourish. “In all things, my lady, I am your humble and obedient servant.”

  Dear Reader,

  THANK YOU FOR READING this excerpt. If you enjoyed this sneak peek, you can pick up the full book at https://www.amazon.com/Dick-Hoffman/e/B06XRRPSKQ. And you can connect with me through www.dickhoffmanauthor.com, where you might find the “About” and “Free Stuff” tabs interesting.

  BY THE WAY, I HAD ALMOST finished writing this book when I realized that it should be the second in a series. So now I’m working on the prequel, which will show how the seeds that sprouted as The Belinda Triangle, set in 2031, were sown by “Civil War 2.0” in 2029. So be on the lookout for Beckett’s Rebellion in the not too distant future. Thanks!

  About the Author

  George Richard (Dick) Hoffman was born in Oklahoma and grew up (or at least older) in Texas except for a couple of years in California, which hardly slowed him down at all. He attended Texas A&M before it became a university. Before it had a creative writing program. Before it discovered women. After A&M, the Army sent him to fight the Battle of New Jersey. When he won that, they sent him to West Germany. Some say that's the main reason the Russians stayed on their side of the Iron Curtain. Others say that's BS. In any case, after he returned to the Dallas area he fought with one hand in the Real Estate Appraisal Wars for 39 years and 10 months, not that he was counting. With the other hand, he wrote poems, stage plays, screenplays, short stories and novels. He’s now writing with both hands. That is, between honey-do's and walking the two mutts, who must remain nameless because they're in the Witness Protection Program.