 
### CHILL: A Confession

The bizarre tale of a penny stock fraud wrapped in a dysfunctional relationship sprinkled with addiction

Otherwise known as...

What on earth was she thinking?

A Novel

(Based on a True Story)

By Danielle Rothenberg

~~~

Published by Danielle Rothenberg at Smashwords

Copyright © 2015 by Danielle Rothenberg

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free e-book. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Thank you for your support.

### If you enjoy the book, please consider reviewing it!

For questions and comments:

chillthebook@gmail.com

~~~

# Table of Contents

Prelude

Introduction

Prologue

PART I: The Romance

Chapter One: The Whole Tooth and Nothing but the Tooth

Chapter Two: Out of the Frying Pan... Into the Inferno

Chapter Three: 'Tis Woman's Whole Existence (Lord Byron, Don Juan)

Chapter Four: Pain is a Many Splendored Thing

Chapter Five: How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Check My Bank Balance

Chapter Six: 'Til Death Do Us Part

Chapter Seven: There's No Room at the Inn

Chapter Eight: Now You See Him, Now You Don't

Chapter Nine: Just How Dumb Do You Think I Am?

PART II: The Scam

Chapter Ten: A Gun is a Terrible Thing to Waste

Chapter Eleven: Wealth Maketh Many Friends (Proverbs)

Chapter Twelve: One's Too Many and a Million Bucks is Not Enough

Chapter Thirteen: When Hell Freezes Over, the Devil Won't Need a Refrigerator

Part III: The Unraveling

Chapter Fourteen: Take Cover and Watch Your Assets

Chapter Fifteen: If This is the Greatest Show on Earth, Where are the Elephants?

Chapter Sixteen: It was Never like this in the Movies

Chapter Seventeen: It Ain't Over Till the Fat Lady Sings (Dan Cook, TV Sportscaster)

Epilogue

~~~

# Prelude

CHILL is a novel based on true events. It's the story of a series of very poor decisions. A cautionary tale.

But even now, I'm struggling with the karmic consequences of putting my story out into the world... and whether doing so will cause more harm than good.

The events on which this novel is based happened over 30 years ago. But they changed the course of my life... thankfully. There are some who think I didn't reap enough punishment for the harm that I caused, but I beg to differ.

I have carried this story around with me all these years. Originally, it was written around 1987 as a stream of facts for a psychiatrist who requested it after my attorney decided it was a good idea to have someone evaluate my state of mind, i.e., whether I intended to commit a crime. But more about this later.

The psychiatrist was stunned at the 80 pages I presented him, when he'd only asked for a summary, but he read it. "Wow," he said, in a rare moment of unprofessional, but ego-flattering, reaction. "You should write a book about this." So I did.

Adventures in (Not) Publishing

Fear made me fictionalize the story, changing everyone's name to protect... well... me. As time went on, I tried to get the book published.

Had an agent who insisted Barbara Streisand would be interested in a movie. But after a year of nothing happening, I realized that my ability to be deluded had not yet diminished.

Over the years, I made feeble attempts to do something with this story that I nurtured and fed with edit after edit (nine complete revisions so far, and currently containing an Introduction, a Prologue, 17 chapters, and an Epilogue). My life improved as I made better decisions and began to recover from compulsive overeating and drinking (alcohol was nothing but refined flour and sugar, both of which are highly dangerous and addictive drugs for me). But I continued to carry this story in my soul, reaping unintended consequences long after the fact. It was like some sticky stuff that I just couldn't wash off myself.

Once, a lawyer wanted to sell the movie rights and thought she could get me $10,000, but not even a "story by" credit. I passed on that, but two years later, when I really needed the money, I swallowed my pride and approached her again. She wasn't interested.

Years later, a friend with industry contacts got the story in front of a producer she knew who worked on true crime. He handed it off to his reader, who said the writing was just abominable. And, other than one or two query letters to TV shows like "American Greed," that was the last time I dipped my toe into the shark-infested waters of "the Industry."

In retrospect, this was for the best as there is a law preventing people from profiting off their crimes — "the Son of Sam" law.

Why Now?

I turned 60 this year. I'm now disabled, with nothing life-threatening, but enough to make my old life impossible to live. The desire to share my story, as a cautionary tale, and probably to satisfy my ego's urge to have others read what I've written about what happened, has washed over me like a tsunami over the past few months.

The publishing world no longer controls writers. The TV and movie industry longer controls filmmakers. Now, no one has to take no for an answer. I am free to publish my story however and wherever I want, and no one can stop me... except myself.

I kept fighting this mounting desire, telling myself that it's just garbage and no one will be interested in reading my story. My husband says to forget about it because it's old news, that other scams have eclipsed this series of unfortunate events that occurred in my life. But I just don't know if that's true.

The Facts are Not the Story

You see, it's one thing to read the facts of a case. Quite another to know the story behind it. And the story behind the penny stock fraud, and my relationship with a con artist who one reporter said "could sell voodoo dolls to nuns," is a tale that others who have read the book have found compelling.

In addition, women who have read the manuscript, especially those who have made unfortunate decisions around choosing and staying with inappropriate partners, and allowing themselves to be manipulated into going against their own best interests, enjoyed the story because they recognized themselves in Linda Golden, the main character, and found solace in knowing they weren't alone. So it is my hope that women, and men, who relate to those types of self-destructive behaviors may read this story and find comfort in that recognition.

But mostly, I hope that by finally just putting my story out there, the last vestiges of its grip will leave me.

Do No Harm

I try hard now to consider the consequences of my actions. So as I thought about how to share my story, it became clear that it had to be freely available to read, both because of that law and because I'm just not looking to profit financially off the harm I helped cause.

But then, there is also the issue of causing harm to those in the story itself. While I'm using a pseudonym for this endeavor, it wouldn't be hard to figure out, with a little research, who the actual players were.

And I fear that my impressions are dripping with a sardonic mean streak, which is not the way I communicate today. It is not my intention to hurt anyone, but to share, from my point of view, an experience that I went through that was completely out of character for the person I thought myself to be. And there is no question that I am hardest on myself.

So I apologize in advance if anyone happens on this story who believes I am writing about him or her and takes offense. I insist this is a novel, because the filter I used to refine the story over many years has surely rubbed off some of the hard edges of truth.

And Finally, about Sex

OK, so I had a hard time breaking through the self-imposed morality barrier and writing the sex scenes, made worse because I'm using a satiric voice. And I must admit that I ended up removing one of my favorites (as a writer, not as a participant) because it truly seemed to serve no purpose other than to show the seamy side of the man I loved, and, besides, it didn't really move the story along. But it pained me to do so because I thought it was well written. As a writing exercise, the sex scenes were truly the most fun part of the book... other than the description of Mona, a character in Chapter Fourteen.

So, without Further Adieu

I present the _Chill: A Confession_

~~~

# Introduction

This story takes place in the 1980's, a time before cell phones proliferated; before the Internet gripped the world; before Wall Street went under yet again; before Carrie Bradshaw was an inkling in a writer's eye or Lena Dunham could walk or talk. Nevertheless, there have always been gullible women, men who take advantage of them, and a world too easily conned out of money because of greed.

~~~

# Prologue

Judge Robert C. Maynard was on a mission. "Ms. Golden, I am sickened by the loathsome nature of your actions..." Oh God, I thought, I'm going to jail. I felt an ocean of perspiration soak right through my new white, silk blouse. The fires of Hell were licking at my heels. I was sweltering.

But there was a lot more at stake than embarrassing wet spots, so I turned my attention back to the judge they called "Dudley Do-right."

"Though I've been told there are extenuating circumstances surrounding your actions, I cannot treat this situation lightly."

It's ok, I calmed myself. I can handle this. I'm sure there's a support group in prison for women like me, "Women who are Stupid Beyond Belief."

"Ms. Golden, when I consider the consequences of your devious conspiracy, I would like to impose the maximum sentence." Breathe, Linda, breathe.

As the judge droned on about my lack of decency, my immorality, my irresponsibility, I tuned him out again, turning my thoughts inward to keep from bursting into tears. Certainly, I didn't need Judge Maynard to tell me what a mess I had made of my life.

The memory of an innocent bus ride, not two years before, swept through my mind. Though I had been drenched with sweat only moments before, a chill ran through me, and I shuddered as I remembered that if it hadn't been for a toothache, I wouldn't be standing in this courtroom today.

~~~

# PART I: The Romance

~~~

## Chapter One: The Whole Tooth and Nothing but the Tooth

On January 3rd, 1985, instead of packing for my long-awaited vacation, I found myself pinned down in the dentist's chair. It was 10 a.m. My bus was leaving at two. I was not happy.

Dr. Horace, on the other hand, whistled cheerfully as he performed the routine crown fitting on my lower right molar. Full of Novocain, I barely twitched when his hand slipped slightly. "Oops," he said, without missing a beat.

It seemed odd to me that the Novocain wore off moments later. "Not to worry," he said confidently as he finished up. Dr. Horace assured me that the excruciating pain gripping me down to my toes was simply due to sensitive teeth. "After a couple of Demerols, you'll feel better in no time," he chuckled, then patted me on my back and sent me on my way.

Dr. Horace was right. A few hours and three painkillers later, my boyfriend Jerry and I were happily lounging at the Sylvan Retreat, a quiet resort in the Poconos. Jerry was an actor, handsome in a quiet sort of way, mild-mannered, laid-back, and out of work. I was footing the bill, as usual.

The Sylvan Retreat had no round beds and hot tubs. It was simply a peaceful respite from the clatter and clutter of urban life, a place to recharge your psychic batteries. Translation: there was one pay phone at the front desk, no television, and a bathroom down the hall.

After eight years living in Manhattan, moving through life at warp speed just to survive, I had no doubt this was the perfect vacation spot for me. For years, I had been seeking inner peace, trying, unsuccessfully, to quiet that thunderous chatter in my brain, the chatter that kept me a slave to chocolate chip cookies.

Spartan retreats weren't in vogue that winter. It turned out that Jerry and I were the only guests. We had a glorious time ... at first. But four days later, I was ready to punch out the next forest creature who wandered by. Here I was, surrounded by a Winter Wonderland and all I could think about was finding a weapon to either dull the yawning cavern of pain in my mouth or kill Dr. Horace. During my sixth pleading, screaming long distance phone call from the pay phone, my ever-chipper dentist finally acknowledged that, perhaps, he should take another look at my tooth.

Jerry and I shared a teary farewell at the bus stop. I don't know about Jerry, but I was crying because I had paid for this vacation. My beloved was staying on until my return the next evening. Jerry kissed me deeply and I melted as usual, except for subtly dodging his snaking tongue, which was edging just a little too close to my throbbing tooth.

We noticed a couple of guys, one in a suit, also waiting for the bus. I found a seat near the back. The bus was nearly empty. The Suit got on a few minutes later and sat across the aisle from me. I had this weird feeling that he was going to hit on me.

As I'd never been particularly lucky with the opposite sex, I found this a strange premonition. My yearlong relationship with Jerry was certainly a fluke. The truth is, I'd spent most of my life engulfed in a passionate stranglehold with cookies, milkshakes, and pizzas, too infatuated with food to let men seriously interfere. Food had been the safest of lovers, always there when you wanted it, never fickle, and highly satisfying. But over the past few years, even food began to let me down.

Alas, my body continued to widen long after the thrill was gone, which is why I tentatively turned back to men. At least men don't make you fat, unless you consider the amount of hot fudge sundaes ingested by women who've been dumped.

Sitting on that bus, I was definitely into my size XL sweatpants, which still did little to hide my currently rotund rump. With pain as a constant companion that week, I couldn't have cared less about my appearance. My hair was stringy, I wore no makeup, and the ketchup stain on my sweatshirt was crusty.

Luckily, Jerry never seemed to mind. Why should he? After all, I was a casting director in New York City, the person who auditions actors to play talking toilets, singing spray cans, and dapper daddies for commercials. Since meeting me, Jerry was working more than he had in his whole career, which still wasn't saying much. He was delighted with sporadic jobs I threw his way as a commercial extra, looking on them as a valuable career opportunity. And if Jerry was happy, I was happy.

Career-wise, I was doing very well for myself. Aside from my job with Buchman and Dill

Advertising, I was sought after by companies and acting schools to train performers in the art of commercial acting technique. And believe me, there is one.

Though I earned a good living, even by New York standards, and was highly respected in my field, I was utterly miserable. The career that seemed so glamorous to everybody else drained me of my life's energy. Every cab driver and waiter I met was an aspiring actor. Every postal clerk, a comedian. Even my family would call me from time to time to tell me that cousin Ruthie's nephew Lenny's third cousin Jimmy, who was an actor, was on his way to New York from Omaha next month and would I please help him out?

Day after day, I saw actors, actors, and more actors, all of them wanting something from me. For the first few years, it was exciting. But then, it wore thin and I desperately wanted to get away from any mention of "lights, camera, action." As for the legendary casting couch, take it from me, it's a myth. Not only didn't I ever have one, but most of the actors I longed for were either gay or interested in women half my size. The rest of them didn't want to date me for fear of repercussions when we would (inevitably) break up. And then I met Jerry during one of my actor training classes.

Jerry wasn't exactly a loser, which is why I was so excited about this relationship. In fact, I thought he had tremendous potential, which is the best possible excuse for chronic failure. Though he gave me no reason to imagine he would ever make a permanent commitment, Jerry hadn't yet run screaming in the opposite direction. It was certainly the best relationship I'd ever had, although my best friend Rhonda once commented that Jerry was about as exciting as a peanut. Still, I was only 31. I had plenty of time to waste.

Back on the bus, I glanced over at The Suit. He definitely wasn't my type. For one thing, he looked like he made a decent living and, for another, he was taller than me. His eyes were quite dark, very beady, but he had long, long eyelashes, which helped. His slicked back, shiny jet-black hair was corporate length and his red pin-striped suit gave him a dignified and professional appearance. I figured he was close to 50. When he sat down, I noticed his chin, or, more precisely, the lack of one. Still, when he looked right at me, he didn't look half bad, once I got past the hair and the gold pinky ring.

"Hi," he said, flashing a set of gleaming white teeth. "My name is Morgan Phillips. I couldn't help noticing you out there. Was that your boyfriend?" Now there was a great opening line, and the last easily understood words uttered by Morgan Phillips on that bus. The man talked so fast, as though he had only a few moments to say it all. I was no slowpoke, myself, but I could barely keep up with him. Ten minutes later, I realized that deciphering what Morgan said made me forget my tooth, so I moved next to him to double the dose.

By 9 p.m., I knew quite a bit about my bus mate. Morgan called himself a stock promoter. His business involved taking companies public through penny stocks, doing whatever he could to "encourage" the sale of the stock. He emphatically told me that this was not illegal, although sometimes the company's product didn't actually exist. "But," he assured me, "the ideas are solid."

The emergency evacuation device, Evacumerge, was one of Morgan's prize promotions. This project was launched after the big hotel fires in Las Vegas, as a way to move people out of the upper floors quickly and safely. The stock was moving up. Morgan was getting rich. In fact, all was going just peachy until the Securities and Exchange Commission forced Morgan to present a product demonstration.

Unfortunately for poor Stanley Arthur, who volunteered to be the guinea pig, the quality control experts Morgan hired at the last minute were in their late 70's and their vision wasn't what it used to be.

With great gusto, Mr. Myer and Mr. Weiss approved the Evacumerge unit. Mr. Arthur signed an indemnification waiver, and, believing this to be his chance for fame and glory, leapt joyously from the 35th floor, only to discover that his (plastic) Evacumerge unit jammed at the 23rd floor, propelling him with gale force against the side of the building. Morgan cracked up, "When they finally peeled the poor guy from the wall, he was babbling, 'Let's try it again.'"

The "poor guy's" back was broken in 12 different places and Mrs. Arthur suffered a heart attack on the spot. "Hey, they're both fine now," Morgan said, "and they collected a hefty sum from the insurance company. They made out fine." Unfortunately, the stock plummeted along with Mr. Arthur and, although others have worked on developing the product since then, I doubt they had quite the same panache as Morgan's team.

He received what he called a legal "slap on the wrist" from the SEC, along with an injunction ordering him to sever his ties with the company. "I always believe in the deals I'm promoting," he said sincerely, "I never mean to hurt anybody. Hey, Mr. Corn Fritter, a big truck with a huge corn cob for a head was real," he laughed. "Look, nobody cares as long as they're making money, you know what I mean?" he said with a beady wink. "Besides, I always deal with people who know just what they're getting into." Except for poor Stanley Arthur, I thought.

Morgan had written a book called "Go Public in Six Weeks without a Lawyer." "This book is going to flip out the SEC, the whole legal community," he said proudly. And then he giggled as he told me that there were whole countries in Europe from which he was banned because of his business exploits.

Morgan perked up even more when he discovered my ties to advertising. He casually mentioned the terrific partnership we could have, but I shrugged off his kind offer, laughingly telling him that I couldn't even take a pencil from work, much less help promote a company that has no product. "Oh, well, never mind then," Morgan responded.

I had another good laugh when he let me know that people often mistake him for the dashing actor George Hamilton. Yeah, I thought, maybe if George gained about forty pounds and lost his chin.

He talked about the millions of dollars he'd made and lost, and the homes, boats, and cars that had slipped through his fingers. Between spending money like it was water and the bad luck he'd had with partners, Morgan had developed a nonplused attitude. "After you have enough different partners run off with half a mil' a few times, you learn to shrug your shoulders and say, 'hey, you gotta take the good with the bad. I'll make it back again.'"

I wasn't sure I could muster up such enthusiasm about losing $10, much less half a million, but my head was swimming with all he told me and I was fascinated by this eccentric character who had captured my interest. Listening to Morgan was a wild roller coaster ride. You never knew what was coming next.

He paused for a moment as he changed gears. "Linda," he said, "I haven't met a woman I could really talk to in years. I know we just met, but I feel like I've known you forever." He looked at me with great seriousness. It was now 9:45 p.m. We had been on the bus for two and a half hours. "Linda, I mean it. I just know I'm going to marry you. You're the woman of my dreams," he purred. Although a warning signal flashed in my brain, I also felt a little flutter in my stomach and I was flattered.

Our bus approached Manhattan. By the time we got to the terminal, Morgan and I had exchanged phone numbers. Though I had no intention of seeing him again, I rationalized my actions by thinking about how one never knows when someone else might need a single man. Waste not, want not.

Morgan carried my small bag to the entrance and since he (conveniently) happened to be going my way, we shared a cab uptown.

He wanted me to join him at a fancy East Side bar, but, by that time, my aching tooth had made a guest appearance. Besides, I was worn out and feeling a little guilty for the flirtation I'd indulged in, so I said goodnight and have a nice life to Morgan Phillips.

An hour later, my phone rang. It was Morgan. "I wasn't kidding," he said. "You and I are meant to be together. I can wait. You won't be able to forget me." Forget him, my brain hadn't unscrambled from all the chatter of the previous three hours. Again, I politely said thanks but no thanks, and wished him a good night.

The phone rang again at 7:30 am. "Good morning. How are you feeling? I hope you slept well." Who the hell was this? Jerry was never this chipper unless the part demanded it. "Linda, it's me, Morgan. Just wanted to touch base with you. I hope everything goes well at the dentist." His tone softened. "I needed to hear your voice again, Linda. I won't forget you." I had no more time to deal with this, so I mumbled a polite reply and hung up.

Dr. Horace informed me that "we" had a slight problem. "Oh, really?" I said, fighting a tremendous urge to bite his gloved forefinger as he pressed on my aching tooth. Apparently, my root had a nice sized hole in it thanks to Dr. Horace. The dentist giggled. "Oops," he said again as he had that fateful day, "I guess I goofed." I needed surgery. "But don't worry about it while you're on vacation." Yeah, I'll just ignore the throbbing crater in my mouth.

I don't have a clue what he did next, but the pain subsided. He told me to see him when I got back. Many months and two operations later, what started as a tiny "oops" mushroomed into the loss of my tooth and the root beneath it. Looking back, I should have seen it as an omen.

But on that Wednesday morning in January of 1985, with the pain finally gone, I wanted to live again. I thought about the events of the past 24 hours as I traveled back to the Sylvan Retreat. It occurred to me that I hadn't heard from Jerry since I returned to New York from "our" vacation. Though I didn't expect flowers, a friendly phone call might have been nice.

Jerry was all smiles when he greeted me at the bus stop. "So," I asked, coldly, "What did you do while I was gone?"

"I read a really good book," he answered.

"Great."

When we got back to the room, I asked Jerry if he was at all curious about my tooth. "Of course," was his mild-mannered reply, and then, "Let me rub your back." I told Jerry about Morgan and the crazy bus ride. He just laughed. Yep, he sure wasn't worried about good ol' reliable, faithful, un-thin Linda. Of course, when he turned me over and laid one of his best romantic lead kisses on me, I wasn't worried either.

~~~

## Chapter Two: Out of the Frying Pan... Into the Inferno

It was a Thursday, the first week of May, 1985. I sat at my desk at work, unable to concentrate on finding a 75 year old skateboarding Grandma for a candy bar commercial.

My relationship with Jerry was coming to an end. Shortly after our vacation, just as I got real comfortable, Jerry began withdrawing. Space, he said. That's what he needed. Sure, I said. No problem, stuffing down my rage and disappointment with a couple dozen cookies and a milk chaser. He did, however, continue to profess his "very strong affection" for me, as he so kindly put it. But, as Winter melted into Spring, I saw the writing on the wall ... and very little of my beau.

When the phone rang, I was surprised to hear Jerry's voice after a two week hiatus. Five minutes of the usual useless small talk was all I could bear. I wearily whispered into the phone, "Maybe we shouldn't see each other for a while," I said, hoping it would come off as an ultimatum, one that would make him see the error of his ways. But when he responded, "Yes, I think we ought to break up," I knew that my worst fear had come true — in his own annoyingly quiet way, Jerry was finally running screaming in the other direction.

We politely decided he should remove the last of his belongings from my apartment. I was glad the agency provided me with a drawer full of chewy, gooey samples for my upcoming audition.

While unwrapping the fourth candy bar in as many minutes, I was interrupted by my secretary, who buzzed to tell me there had been a call while I was on the phone with Jerry. "Las Vegas, some guy named Morgan. Said he'd call back."

Morgan Phillips. It took only a moment for me to recall the man who so amused and disturbed me on that bus ride back to New York from the Poconos five months earlier. Though we hadn't spoken since, I remembered that trip and my aching tooth as if it were yesterday. What a coincidence that he called just as Jerry and I broke up. Was it Fate, I wondered?

Morgan called back two hours later. My secretary pulled me out of the casting room, where a 76 year old woman with a walker was trying her darndest to convince me that she was a Skateboarding Mama.

"Listen, Linda," Morgan said, "I'm coming back on Sunday. I really want to see you. But the reason I'm calling right now is that I need your social security number. I'm sending you a present." What kind of present needs a social security number? "What do you want it for, Morgan? What are you trying to sell me?"

I must admit that after so many months of being virtually alone, I was definitely ready for some passion in my life. But after hearing Morgan's request, my hopes for torrid sex quickly sank.

"Really," he said patiently, "I'm sending you something." The something turned out to be 10,000 shares of stock in a company he was promoting. "Look," he said, "this stock is powerful. It's really moving. I had some extra shares and when I went through my address book to see who I could give them to, I came across your name. Linda, I've never forgotten you."

"This is going to be big," he continued feverishly. I could visualize his beady eyes gleaming. "You'll walk away with thirty grand, no strings attached." He paused. "And you'll only have to give me back my initial $10,000 investment."

Now, why would a virtual stranger give me a $20,000 present? On the other hand, Morgan Phillips wasn't your typical stranger. Hearing stone cold silence on my end of the phone, Morgan cooed, "I like you. I want to do something nice for you. I've thought about you a lot, and I want you to see I mean business about getting to know you."

Though money was always welcome at my door, I certainly wasn't about to give him my social security number. "Listen, Morgan, I'm not interested in the stock, but I can't wait to see you," I said, hoping that his sincerity was genuine. "What time is your flight arriving?"

"I'll be back at 7 p.m. on Sunday. I'll pick you up." With that, the phone went dead.

By Sunday at three, I was a basket case. The weekend was a blur of fantasies about Morgan and I living happily ever after, of lust and passion finally satisfied after such a long, long time. It was too much for me to bear. I made a quick food run to Dunkin' Donuts.

There was a message on my answering machine when I got home. "I'm stuck in Vegas. Taking a later flight. I'll call you." Yeah, sure. There was an old line with a new twist. I was glad I had my supplies by my side. I fell asleep, in a sugar stupor, at 6:30.

To my surprise, the phone woke me at precisely 9 p.m.. "Hi, I'm in Dallas," Morgan twinkled, "I'll be there by midnight. We'll go to the Hard Rock Cafe."

By this point, my enthusiasm had waned considerably, not to mention my nerve. It was one thing to fantasize about sex with a stranger, quite another to go through with it. Besides, I'd downed about 10 donuts and felt like Porky Pig. "Listen," I sighed, "Let's just make it another time."

"Linda, I really want to see you tonight, but if you're sure, I can take a flight to Washington instead." I couldn't make up my mind. "Gotta go," he said abruptly, "flight's boarding." Click. Was he coming or not? I didn't have a clue, but I decided to prepare, just in case. On with the makeup. In with the diaphragm.

The doorman buzzed me just after midnight. I traveled down the 16 flights on the elevator yearning to get off at every floor and run back up to the safety of my apartment. But when I got to the lobby, I was relieved to discover that Morgan looked a lot better than I remembered. Once again, he was wearing a suit and his hair was perfectly coifed.

After we got to the Hard Rock Cafe, amidst the blaring lights and unrelenting noise, Morgan harped on the stock. "I can't have my name involved," he confided, "but your total profit will probably be $50,000." Wasn't it $20,000 just two days ago? He showed me the prospectus. It was glossy and quite impressive, but I had no intention of getting involved.

Despite the fact that Morgan looked better than I remembered, I was beginning to experience waves of nausea at the thought of sleeping with him, a possibility that was fast approaching. I thought, with a pang of sadness, about Jerry, who was refined and sensitive. Morgan was burly, sharp, and impulsive. I had to use every ounce of energy to keep up with him.

On the other hand, Jerry was so cautious in word and action that he usually needed a kick in the butt just to get dressed in the morning. And even before the breakup, the emptiness I felt during our last few months together made my heart hurt. Right now, I was sitting across from a man so passionate about life that he threw off sparks as he talked. And when Morgan Phillips looked at me, I saw a hunger in his eyes that made me feel alive again. Though I wasn't physically attracted to him, I loved the fact that he wanted me so much and I decided that I was going through with this no matter what.

When we got back to my apartment, Morgan tried to remove my coat. I stood there frozen. This just didn't feel right, it was all going too fast. Warning lights flashed in my brain. But for some reason, I just didn't want him to leave. I told him how confused I was, yet I did nothing to stop him.

Morgan saw my confusion as indecision and continued his courtship. When he finally realized the futility of attempting to separate me from my suit of armor, he began caressing my body through a thick layer of black wool. He kissed my neck, my hands, everything but my mouth, which didn't shut up long enough. "Morgan, I don't know about this. I think maybe we should take things a little slower." I was protesting weakly but steadily as I let him maneuver me from the living room of my studio apartment to the alcove that housed my bed.

I clutched my coat ever tighter. Morgan removed his shirt. Between the donuts, two wine spritzers, and the thought of actually doing what I had fantasized about so joyously all weekend, I was sick to my stomach. The last thing I wanted right now was to see an exposed Morgan Phillips on my bed. But I still couldn't bring myself to throw him out. I was torn between a desperate need to erase the memory of those last few months with Jerry or following the gut-wrenching feeling in the pit of my stomach that I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

As he removed his socks and shoes, Morgan said gently, "Linda, listen, I know that you feel the closeness I do, but you're just scared. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable. We don't have to make love tonight. Let's just get close. I know this is difficult for you, but you're going to see that I'll make you happier than you can ever imagine. Linda ... I love you."

Those three little words touched my aching heart, and though I wished I felt the same burning attraction for Morgan that he did for me, I decided it didn't matter. It was enough that this man wanted me, had wanted me from the moment he met me. And since he seemed so certain that I wanted him too, I figured he must be right.

A vague uneasiness came over me, but when I looked at this naked man on my bed, so terribly vulnerable, I felt sorry for him because for the last few hours I had behaved like a lunatic and still he wanted to stay. After all that, I figured he deserved to stay.

I walked over and sat next to Morgan. Still wearing my coat, I gently kissed his chest. What little hair he had there curled up in one clump over his breastbone. I ran my hands across his tiny, hard nipples and tried not to think about Jerry. Taking a deep breath, I leaned over and kissed him. He reached inside my coat, searching for my breasts, but I immediately put his hands by his side.

I softly caressed his mouth with my tongue as I moved my hand down his smooth, white body to what I hoped was the key to his happiness. Morgan's breath came faster and faster as I flicked his nipples with my tongue. I moved my head down, planting moist kisses in a zigzag across his body. When I reached his navel, he arched his back slightly, grunting and moaning. I was hopeful that he had had an orgasm, but when I reached my destination, I knew there was still a lot of work ahead of me. His penis swayed in joyful anticipation, reaching up to greet me.

Swallowing hard, I took it in my mouth, and moved my mouth up and down on it in the way that Jerry had once loved. I tried not to think anymore and concentrated on giving this man all the pleasure I wished I could feel, enveloping him in the softest, most sensual caress possible. Morgan exploded a few moments later, calling my name and pulling me even closer to him.

Afterwards, still wearing my coat, I let him hold me. I could see the stains from my red lipstick marking a trail from his neck down to his happy, sleeping penis. A few minutes later, I got up from the bed and began to pace. Sex with a perfect stranger was not the way I lived my life. And though I had done this of my own free will, I was now overcome with guilt and shame. I was on the verge of tears, but I tried to be cheerful. What I wanted more than anything was for Morgan Phillips to leave.

"It's really late, Morgan. I think you ought to go." When he didn't move from the bed, I burst into tears. The sobs were humiliating, but the pain I felt had no other exit. After a few moments, Morgan quietly said, "It's ok. I'm not going anywhere. Why don't you tell me about Jerry." Pacing in circles, I poured out my deepest feelings to Morgan Phillips as he laid on my bed. By six am, I felt as if I had known him all my life and I shakily removed my coat and crawled into bed next to him.

Jerry's call woke us at eight am. He wanted to know how I was. He wanted to talk. Worse, he wanted to come over. I told him I felt sick to my stomach, which was certainly true, and said I would call him later. This was a new one on me. One man in bed, one on the phone. Why wasn't I enjoying it?

~~~

## Chapter Three: 'Tis Woman's Whole Existence (Lord Byron, _Don Juan)_

"Linda, something just doesn't seem right."

"Rhonda, you don't understand. This one is really different. I feel so attached, so connected to Morgan. And the sex just keeps getting better. It's UNBELIEVABLE!" I was giving Rhonda, my best friend since high school, a blow by blow description of the past two weeks, but she was not impressed.

"Linda, you're letting him take over your life and you barely know the guy. This is just what you did with Darren, and remember how surprised you were to find out that he had a wife who was six months pregnant? With their third child? And Lou, that nut who you swore was your soul mate, have you forgotten him?" Though Rhonda paused, there was no need for me to answer. I knew all too well what was coming next. "Linda, I love you, but when it comes to men, you've got the instincts of hound dog with a cold."

"Hey, I depend on you to tell me the truth, too," she continued, "no matter how much it hurts. Remember Kirk?" How could I forget the guy who re-enlisted in the Marines after Rhonda give him an ultimatum about marrying her. "He's still in Venezuela. But you never even said 'I told you so,' and you were right there to help me pick up the pieces.

Rhonda was emphatic. "So you can get as pissed at me as you want, but I'm telling you, this business stuff Morgan's into sounds weird, if not downright illegal. And I really have a problem with your having to tell him every detail of where you go and who you see."

I didn't like what I heard at all. Morgan and I had been inseparable since our first date. A few hours after Jerry's phone call, I finally opened my heart to Morgan and let him make love to me. I closed my eyes while he took his turn zigzagging down my body and pressed his lips into me in a way I'd never felt before, until I came so hard I nearly threw him off the bed. And then he slowly guided himself inside of me and we moved in perfect unison while he brought me to another excruciating climax at the exact moment his own melted into mine.

I was in love.

It was no wonder that I didn't want to think about what Rhonda told me. I was floating on a cloud. I knew I could get used to this real fast. And I did, three and four times a day. Morgan could come and come again. By the end of my relationship with Jerry, we hadn't had sex in three months. Oh, once in a while, I'd help him jerk off, but even then, he needed a good porn movie to get him in the mood.

Unfortunately, after a week with Morgan, I began to get worn out. For a few days, I was so sore, it got so even a glimpse of Morgan's flexing penis sent me running to the bathroom to hide. This was a useless exercise because Morgan just followed me in there, which brings me to what Rhonda was talking about.

I couldn't pee. Well, of course, I COULD pee. It's just that I couldn't pee in peace. Truthfully, I could no longer do anything in peace. If I went to the bathroom, Morgan had to trot right along. If I wanted to go out alone, I had to give him a good reason and an exact time when I would return. When I was at work, he called every 20 minutes checking up on me. Morgan wanted to possess me, body and soul. But after being with Jerry and feeling invisible for so long, I gloried in Morgan's passion. I thought it meant that he truly loved me and I thought I loved being possessed.

By the time Jerry came to pick up his stuff, Morgan's few belongings were firmly in place. Jerry expressed his shock that I had moved on so quickly. He thought this was only a temporary separation, which was certainly news to me. But there was no turning back now. My relationship with Jerry felt like a comma in my life and already, Morgan's whirlwind courtship was an exclamation point. I didn't think about how strange it was that the new love of my life had no home of his own.

Night after night, we went out to expensive restaurants and exclusive bars. Morgan appeared to have limitless funds. He took me to Bloomingdales and Saks Fifth Avenue, insisting on buying me whatever I wanted, telling me that the sky was the limit. But I was so used to paying my own way that I just couldn't bring myself to let him buy anything, although I did come close to getting a $200 pair of sunglasses one afternoon.

It just didn't feel right, this extravagance. I wasn't with Morgan for his money but I got the nagging feeling that he thought he had to do this in order to make me love him. I was overwhelmed with the attention and affection he poured out day after day, and I tried to let him know that that was more important to me than anything he could buy.

When we did stay home, we'd curl up in bed and watch old movies in-between making love. Afterwards, Morgan never rolled over and went to sleep. Instead, he tickled my back for hours while we snuggled, and I would lay there soaking up the outpouring of affection I had searched for all my life. It was a dream come true.

Still, there were some disturbing signs, things that I didn't want to tell Rhonda because I didn't want to admit them to myself. I was already enmeshed in this relationship, so infatuated, that, even at this early stage, I would have done anything to keep the budding relationship that we had going.

Morgan drank quite a bit of scotch with dinner. And once in a while, he would skip dinner and just have the scotch. I also noticed that wherever we went, the bartenders knew Morgan by name. They were most solicitous and often gave him free drinks.

After a few weeks, Morgan became more and more critical of me. It was just in little ways and I tried to ignore it, but it took me by surprise. One evening, I put on a small pair of earrings that I had had for years. They were no bigger than a dime, but they were gold and I loved them.

"Don't wear those earrings," Morgan said. "They make you look terrible. They're the wrong shape for your face." It didn't matter that I liked them, because he didn't, so I put the earrings away and never wore them again. A fleeting memory of my father came to mind. I laughed, thinking of how you always marry a man like your father, and I was comforted when I remembered how loyal and honest my dad was.

As the weeks wore on, I discovered a few more chinks in my knight's shining armor. For one thing, there was his hair. Morgan wouldn't leave my apartment without each strand perfectly plastered in place. Among his few belongings were a tube of mousse, a can of styling spray, two brands of hair spray, and three hair brushes. He'd spend at least 20 minutes every morning brushing his hair and viewing it from all angles before stepping foot outside.

I, on the other hand, preferred the natural look. Lucky for me, these were the times when a tousled mess was considered chic. I didn't even own a brush, just shook my hair out after washing it.

The strangest quirk I discovered about the man of my dreams in those first few weeks was that he believed himself above the common man. Mundane tasks such as washing his underwear were outrageously beneath him, which explained Morgan's lack of luggage when he first came to my apartment from the airport. He wore the same pair of underwear beneath his designer suits for weeks at a time. Eventually, he'd chuck the old pairs and buy new ones. I found this little glitch in his character extremely endearing and set about the task of keeping Morgan's unmentionables mentionable.

A month after our first date, Morgan didn't come home. He said he'd be there by nine and it was now two am. I thought about calling the police when the phone rang. Morgan sounded terrified and extremely drunk. I calmed him down and finally figured out that he didn't know where he was. Eventually, he arrived home in a cab, trembling and frightened. He admitted to me that he had a drinking problem. Over and over, he insisted that he was going to stop, and that it was because of my love that he would have the strength to do so.

This new information was quite a shock to me. Yes, Morgan did seem to drink a fair amount, but he never got sloppy or passed out. From the little I knew about alcoholism, Morgan hardly seemed the typical wino. By that point, it wouldn't have mattered if he was, because I was completely captivated by him. Never before had I felt so important to a man, so necessary to his very survival.

Morgan insisted we get married on Labor Day, which was about two months away. When I tried to convince him that this was pushing things, even for me, he cried and said that he couldn't bear the thought of our not making a permanent commitment. He said that if I wasn't prepared to do that, then maybe we'd better part right now, because the feelings of rejection were just too painful for him.

I panicked. I wasn't at all sure I was ready to marry this man, even though getting married had always been my highest priority. But I would have done anything to keep from losing what I found with Morgan Phillips, so I convinced myself he must be right.

It also became obvious that Morgan's other great passion was gambling. He'd bet on any and every sporting event imaginable, hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars, and watch each agonizing minute on television. It was his money and I felt that I had no right to tell him what to do with it. And since he spent the whole time making love and tickling me, only watching the games out of the corner of his eye, I decided this was one flaw I could certainly overlook.

One Sunday afternoon, we had just finished making love when his bookie called from New Jersey with a grand idea. Since he'd made so much money off of Morgan, he wanted to help him recoup some of it. Therefore, he appointed Morgan a junior bookie. Morgan would recruit new gamblers and get a cut of "the action." He assigned Morgan a code name — "Marshmallow."

For the next two days, whenever we tried to make love, we thought about some tough guy whispering into the receiver, "Hey, Marshmallow, put 50 on the Eagles," and Morgan's penis would wilt as we collapsed with laughter. I began calling him Mello, short for Marshmallow, and I cherished the intimacy that grew stronger each day.

***

Six weeks after our first date, Morgan tried to draw me into his business dealings once again. He was still working on Magical Notes, Inc., the company he'd told me about at The Hard Rock Cafe. All I could figure out about it was that musicians were the company's product. An interested party, gambling that a particular artist's next song would be a hit would buy stock in the musician. In effect, the recording artist is an asset of a public company. Of course, if the song died, so did your investment. But Morgan insisted they were recruiting some big name rock stars and I thought the idea was ingenious.

He kept bugging me to go to New Jersey to cash stock certificates, like the ones he'd wanted my social security number for. Now he told me that I could make $20 30,000 a week. Though I knew less than nothing about stocks and bonds, something just didn't seem right about this, so I always said no. And every time I did, Morgan looked astonished, his eyes welling up with tears, and he'd tell me how much he loved my purity. Of course, two days later, he'd ask me to go to New Jersey again.

For some reason, I had no problem delivering money for Morgan to various offices around the city or running to Western Union to wire the president of Magical Notes, Inc. some cash. I told myself that was different.

I was now so consumed with Morgan that I couldn't care less about singing pizzas or perky poodles. I called in sick more and more frequently and I'd spend the day watching Morgan work.

He talked on the phone faster than the speed of light to stockbrokers telling them to up the price of Magical Notes, Inc. stock when people called to buy it. "Ok, it's 2 and 3/4 right now. Ok, ok, at 4:15, it's 3. Yeah, yeah, well, if they won't buy it, call back at 4:30 and say it went back down to 2 and 5/8." Morgan was incredibly driven and I was mesmerized by the power he exuded. In between calls, he would come over and fiercely made love to me.

I had no idea that wasn't how the price of a stock rises.

Drawing Morgan's attention away from the work that was like a rival lover was an incredible turn-on. I knew now that he was obsessed with money and power. He admitted that he always lived on the edge and that he was clawing his way up from the bottom for the umpteenth time. Morgan also told me that failure set his penis on fire. He couldn't get enough sex when he was down, but, he warned, when he was on top of the heap, sex was the furthest thing from his mind.

I didn't take this too seriously. With the chemistry between us, Morgan's fierce devotion, and my loyalty, there was no way we could ever be able to keep our hands off each other and I was determined to be the woman who helped him get back on top of the heap for good.

***

Morgan didn't have an office. Sometimes, the phone booth on the corner was his executive suite. I got a kick out of his calling brokers and giving them the number to call back. Far from being suspicious, I admired Morgan for the lengths to which he went to reestablish himself in business. He was always upbeat and hopeful, never depressed, and I believed in him with every fiber of my being.

Still, despite my efforts to paint a picture of domestic bliss, somewhere inside, those little concerns I was trying to ignore were working their way out. I dealt with the intensity of all that was happening by numbing myself with food. When my co workers couldn't walk into my office without stumbling over cookie and candy wrappers, along with half-eaten donuts and empty ice cream cartons, they had a strong hunch I had a problem. Unfortunately, I didn't want to listen to their assessment of the situation, so they shrugged their shoulders and went away, but not before my boss told me to, at least, throw away the half-eaten donuts — we weren't casting flies that week.

Eating was my coping mechanism and boy was I coping to the hilt. Six weeks into my relationship with Morgan, I weighed in at 20 pounds more than I'd started. Yes, it seemed that he and I were a perfect match, two compulsive people fitting like a lock and key in a chain made for us.

~~~

## Chapter Four: Pain is a Many Splendored Thing

Morgan began disappearing more and more frequently. Two and three times a week, I tortured myself wondering where he was, who he was with, when he would finally arrive. He'd stumble in anywhere between midnight and 6 am, so drunk he would barely make it to the bed before passing out.

And then there came a time when he didn't show up at all. I stayed home from work, sitting by the phone, praying it would ring. By 5 p.m., nearly 24 hours after he was supposed to meet me for dinner, I heard the door open. Morgan was completely disheveled, his hair flopping down over his right eye. "I'm sorry," he said. That was all he could manage as he melted into the sofa and sobbed so hard he shook. He seemed so very frail, like a small child. I held and rocked him while he cried and cried, and I whispered that I would always take care of him.

I now found out that when Morgan disappeared, he usually ended up at a friend's house. Sidney Wasserman was more than an attorney, he was like a father to Morgan, who idolized him. Sidney had an elegant home in Long Island and a place in the City that he rarely used. Before we met, Morgan often stayed in Sidney's Manhattan apartment when he was in New York. In fact, he even occasionally conducted business there. From this point on, whenever Morgan disappeared, I could usually find him at Sidney's. Now, when he didn't show up for dinner, I would make the long trek down the East Side of Manhattan to the apartment which was a few blocks from Wall Street.

The door was never locked and I inevitably found Morgan sprawled across some piece of furniture, bags of deli sandwiches strewn around him. If he was conscious, he would tell me to get the hell out, that he never wanted to see me again. I'd feel so sick inside at the thought of losing him and of the pain he must be in that I'd rush over and hold him until he'd weep and beg my forgiveness. And then, we'd go to bed and somehow, despite all the alcohol he'd consumed, Morgan would become rock hard, and our embrace would be so wild and desperate that I was sure I would explode from the love and desire I felt for this man.

I was astonished by the tears that inevitably flowed from me after we reached the peak of our passion, always together. Never in my life had I imagined feelings such as these. Never in my life had I met anyone like Morgan Phillips.

Morgan told me that Sidney was a powerful securities attorney about whom numerous newspaper articles extolling his virtues had been written. Sidney had bailed Morgan out of trouble on more than one occasion, but despite his success as an attorney, Sidney had been bitten by the show biz bug and he wanted to leave law entirely. He had had the good fortune of becoming the manager of a Rhythm and Blues artist who was burning up the charts. Morgan was sure we'd have lot in common.

One evening, Morgan called me, slightly tipsy, from Sidney's apartment and insisted I speak with him. The conversation started out pleasantly enough. We soon discovered we had a mutual acquaintance, another casting director, one who cast adult movies. Sidney roared with laughter as he told me about the first time he met her. "She sat in her chair with her legs spread wide apart. I got a great look at her twat!" Perhaps my expectations were too high. I figured on a semi-respectable conversation with a member of a reputable profession. Instead, I got Sidney. For a moment, I was disappointed in Morgan. Why couldn't he see what a creep this guy was?

"Yeah, ok, Sidney, I'll catch you later. Can I talk to Morgan now?" Morgan was annoyed that I blew Sidney off and hung up abruptly. Two weeks later, he demanded that I fix Sidney up with a friend of mine to double date. I expressed my surprise, as Sidney was happily married with three grown children. Morgan snidely said that I was narrow-minded, and since what was important to me was pleasing Morgan, I finally agreed to call my one really open-minded, artsy friend, Desiree Morgenstern.

I knew better than to call Rhonda. We were drifting further and further apart as I became less and less willing to share my life with her. It seemed that whenever we talked lately, all we did was argue about Morgan, and I didn't want to hear what she had to say.

Desiree was more like an acquaintance than a friend. She was an actress, though she never seemed to work and was always unavailable when I found her jobs as an extra. She was funny and exciting, wore great clothes, and lived in a gorgeous apartment. We rarely discussed our personal lives, though I knew that her apartment belonged to her "friend," who was married. She insisted he was going to get a divorce very soon, though she'd been seeing him for 11 years. Still, she seemed happy with her life and I figured she was well-qualified to handle this situation.

Dinner, at a Chinese restaurant, was not altogether unpleasant and, after a fight with Morgan about his late arrival, we made love in the restroom. Ironically, despite the fact that my own occasional tardiness was unacceptable to him, Morgan was never less than 45 minutes late.

Making love in a restaurant restroom was pretty exciting until afterwards. Lest you think you've missed out on one of the great taboos of life, let me tell you it wasn't all it's cut out to be. In fact, it stank. Not the sex - the restroom. And really, how much fun is it to make love next to a toilet. But I digress.

Surprisingly, Sidney was a perfect gentleman. We went back to his apartment, where we sat and talked about nothing in particular. Morgan and I left soon afterwards. According to Desiree, after we left, Sidney did nothing but talk about his family and take her home. Oh, and he did offer to make her a star.

Morgan confided that Sidney had a bad pill-popping habit along with a propensity toward multi-colored, multi-paired prostitutes, and a full video library of his adventures. Throughout the summer, Morgan and I spent a lot of time in Sidney's apartment and he always wanted to show me the films. I'll admit that my curiosity got the best of me one night, but after five minutes of watching Sidney's flabby butt, I'd seen enough.

During one of our less and less frequent conversations, Rhonda commented that I was like someone in the process of being brainwashed. Hearing that stung so badly that I didn't speak with her for weeks. Now I can look back and see that Morgan constantly scrambled my brain, never giving me a chance to regroup, but in July of 1985, our life together seemed the most normal thing in the world.

Two months after our first date, whenever I tried to stand up to Morgan or demand some time to myself, he assaulted me with a barrage of verbal abuse, followed me around, pounded me with brutal criticisms and cruel accusations of betrayal in an effort to prove that I was clearly in the wrong. It wasn't easy to convince myself that the sky was green when it hung over me looking as blue as Paul Newman's eyes, but I did it. I had to do it, because when I didn't oppose Morgan, when I kept my objections to myself, the love that I now craved, the love that I now had to have like an addict needs her fix, washed over me like a blanket of warmth from him. So, like the rat who learns to do whatever it takes to get that manna at the end of the maze, I tried to be all that Morgan Phillips wanted me to be.

~~~

## Chapter Five: How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Check My Bank Balance

For the past two months, I affectionately called Morgan by his pet name of "Mello" (short for "Marshmallow," his gambling alias) when we were alone and feeling close. But, right now, Morgan stood in front of me insisting that I come up with a new pet name for him, one that was more dignified, more in keeping with how he saw himself. I laughingly suggested that perhaps he thought he was the "Master of the Universe." Morgan's eyes lit up. You've got to be kidding, I thought. He wasn't.

"All right," I said, "But I'll abbreviate it — How's MOTU? On second thought, Morgan, I don't actually believe that you're the Master of the entire universe. However, I must concede that you seem to be the Master of My Universe, so how's MOMU?" He beamed from ear to ear. Despite my attempt to make light of the situation, the truth was that Morgan's control over me was nearly complete. Though my nameplate still sat on my desk at work, it seemed a lifetime ago that I was a Casting Director; a lifetime ago, I had a mind of my own; a lifetime ago, I made my own decisions.

Morgan's deal had fallen apart and he was now completely broke. I was the breadwinner and Morgan's lifestyle chewed up a lot of dough. Right before the bottom fell out, he insisted I buy new clothes. Morgan hated the sweat suits I lived in when I wasn't working and said I'd need a more fashionable wardrobe for this fabulous lifestyle we'd be living. I was helpless when it came to style, so I called Desiree. Before we left for this shopping spree, Morgan instructed me to write a check for my purchases, assuring me he'd bring home plenty of money that evening. "Buy whatever you want, my love, money is no object." I was overwhelmed by Morgan's generosity, and raced for the elevator, giggling with excitement.

I spent over $3500 in less than four hours. Desiree took me to tiny, little boutiques searching for clothes to fit my ever-expanding body. She convinced me to buy $625 in lingerie and told me that wearing it would make me feel sexier. I told her if I felt any sexier, they'd have to hospitalize me for nervous exhaustion.

When I tried on a hot-pink corset, Desiree's eyes widened and she exploded with delight. "It's you," she cried, oohing and aahing along with the saleslady. "Linda," said Desiree, "I promise that I if you wear this under your clothes, you'll be amazed at how you'll feel." Gasping for air, I was unable to tell her that what I felt was sharp pain in the area of my liver, but when I looked in the mirror and saw that I, at last, had a waist again, I knew she was right and I bought one in every color.

When I arrived home with a taxi full of bags and boxes, Morgan's smile was not as bright as I'd hoped. He told me I'd have to wait until morning for the money. And the next evening, when the checks still weren't covered, I panicked.

Thank goodness for Desiree, who said she was delighted to see me looking so terrific and certainly didn't want me to return the clothes after she worked so hard to find them for me. She wrote me a check for $3500 with no strings attached. When I protested, she winked and told me there was plenty more where that came from, but I could consider it a loan if I wanted to. Though I felt humiliated and furious, I knew a confrontation with Morgan was futile.

Morgan was now embarking on a new endeavor, and the book he wrote two years before was an integral part of the plan. "You CAN Put Your Company on the Stock Exchange in Six Weeks" included forms and step-by-step instructions to accomplish what the title promised. However, the last chapter informed the eager reader that if you did need some help, there was a toll-free number for assistance, the phone number for Capital Analysis, Inc. Quite impressive, I thought. Just one problem. There was no Capital Analysis, Inc.

"That's my idea," said Morgan. "I'm going to redo the book and make Capital Analysis, Inc. a reality. Linda, I want you to put the book together for me, redesign it, the works."

"Well, Morgan, let me think about this. Between work and all the errands you send me on, I already feel like I'm going in five million directions at once." While I talked, Morgan ran to the closet and pulled out an overstuffed briefcase bulging with papers. He fished through it and pulled out a large book.

I looked at it. "Morgan, how come the author's name is Maxwell Perry?"

"Well, at the time I wrote it, I had just received an injunction from the SEC. I guess I was afraid of getting into more trouble, but I'm not afraid anymore. This book is for real and it's the best thing I've ever done. That's why I want you to help me. I know we can make it work. I've already got a partner. This has to happen fast ... like yesterday. I need to go to LA and Florida right away." Florida? LA? And where would I be?

"Linda, I want you to go with me on this trip. Can you get some time off work?" Could I?! "Oh, and Linda, I need one other favor. Can you get me some credit cards in your name? Don't worry, I'll be responsible for the payments, but I need those cards. Get all you can."

I didn't like the sound of this one bit. "Morgan, why can't you get your own cards? Suppose this deal falls through like the last one. Then what? Look what just happened with the clothes I bought."

Morgan was annoyed. "Linda, what the hell's wrong with you? I love you. We're going to be married for Christ's sake. I've trusted you to deliver money all over the city and never once thought you might steal it. You know I've had some credit problems in the past. If you don't trust me, then maybe we shouldn't be together."

The next morning, I sent in applications for American Express cards (Gold and Green), Diner's Club, and a couple of Mastercards and Visas. Though I was still uncomfortable, feeling badly about getting the credit cards was less painful than feeling as though I had betrayed the man whom I was about to marry.

Morgan's book was a mess — the grammar, the spelling, the design. As for the content, he assured me that there was nothing illegal about it. The forms looked legal anyway and that was good enough for me.

That night, we had a long talk about Morgan's past. He told me that he was born in Santa Barbara, but he and his father left after his mother died when he was four years old. They moved to Cuba, where his dad ended up owning a sugar plantation. When his father remarried a 16 year old Cuban girl, they returned to the States, leaving Morgan on his own. He was 14. Eventually, he made his way back to California and was reunited with his family.

At 18, Morgan enlisted in the Marines. The evening before he was going to ship out to Vietnam, his father revealed the truth about his mother's death. Until then, Morgan thought she died in a car accident, but the truth was that she had killed herself, sliced her wrists open in the bathtub. The note she left, which his father now showed him, expressed her torment at being unable to give her son the love he deserved because of a depression that haunted her from the moment of his birth, a depression that was finally too much to bear.

Morgan didn't like the Marines one bit and he went AWOL twice. The second time, after serving two years in Vietnam, well, they didn't take too kindly to it. He was dishonorably discharged, and when his father found out (through the local newspaper), Morgan was summarily disowned. He hadn't seen his father since he was 24 years old. I figured out that Morgan was younger than I first thought, only about 42.

I didn't know what to say to Morgan after hearing all this, so I just quietly stroked his hair, as he continued telling me about the man with whom I was going to spend the rest of my life. All I heard so far made me want to protect this misunderstood little boy who had grown up so alone. I felt closer to him than ever, which is why I was completely unprepared for what came next.

"Linda, I don't know how to tell you this ... but I've been married before." The room was now filled with a silence so thick, you could choke on it. We had been together for two months and I had no idea that Morgan had an ex-wife. I no longer stroked his hair. I just sat there, waiting for the other shoe to drop, because in that stifling quiet, his face had turned a funny shade of orange.

When he began again, he had tears in his eyes. It took him ten minutes to tell me that not only had he been married before, he had been married more than once. But the most horrifying part of this admission was that Morgan Phillips, the love of my life, the man to whom I had given my heart, soul, and cash, was a bigamist. I sat in stunned silence, part of me wanting to scream and cover my ears, but the rest of me needing to hear every gory detail, like someone watching a horror movie through two fingers.

First there was the 18 year old German girl, Ilsa, whom Morgan met and married when he went AWOL the second time. Six months later, caught and discharged by the Marines, Morgan returned to the States. Unfortunately for Ilsa, he forgot to take her with him. He also forgot to get a divorce. I hope she didn't keep the strudel warm.

Sometime later, back in California, he met Rita, who was game for anything and delighted in Morgan's offbeat ideas. When they got married, he forgot to tell Rita about the wife he left behind but, as luck would have it, she found out about this little glitch in their relationship. Rita was no dummy and she followed Morgan to Reno to be certain he filed the divorce papers, and she made sure that Morgan married her all over again when the divorce decree was granted.

The happy couple lived in wedded bliss for awhile, but Morgan sheepishly confessed to me that his drinking flared up and he had a series of affairs. Rita put up with it ... for eight years. And then, I found out about Daisy, Morgan's four year old daughter. He assured me that since their divorce two years ago, he'd hardly seen Daisy. That's when Morgan pulled out a picture of Rita holding a sweet little child who had dimples, true-blue blonde hair, and green eyes.

Rita was big. Tall. Amazonian. The streaks of blonde in her hair mixed with the black roots reminded me of Rocky Road ice cream. I was comforted to see that she had Jumbo hips, whereas mine were only Xtra Large. But I found the fact that Morgan hardly saw Daisy disturbing, more disturbing than even the existence of Daisy.

I felt as if all the blood had drained out of my body, and suddenly, I was shaking. I'd never felt so cold in my life. Morgan pulled me close to him. I lay with my head pressed against his chest, listening to the sound of his heart and to the rhythmic breathing that was so very soothing. I guess I was in shock because my mind was a blank and, other than the shivering cold, I felt numb inside.

Morgan's voice was quiet now, but the tone was nearly pleading. "Linda," he said, "I had to tell you all this. I had to tell you the truth. It's been killing me, keeping this from you, but I was so afraid you would leave me, that you wouldn't understand. You have to believe that it's different with us. You're the woman I'm going to share my life with until the day I die. You have to understand that these mistakes are in the past. Please, Linda, try to understand. Tell me you won't leave me. God, I just couldn't make it without you."

I began to feel again, and what I felt was relief, and a tremendous bond between Morgan and myself. Of course it was different with us. By sharing these deep and painful secrets that he swore he'd never told anyone else, he had made himself completely vulnerable. I let him know that, as long as he was truthful with me, there was nothing he could do that I couldn't forgive.

"Soon, we'll have our own children," were Morgan's next words. "Linda, I want to have a baby with you ... right away." What!? My stomach jumped into my throat. I knew that my biological clock was ticking along, but I was only 30, and I was determined to be thin at least one more time before my body went to the dogs.

"Morgan, we're not even married yet." I was desperately trying to find a way out of this, but I knew the look on his face all too well. It was the look that said I didn't have a chance in Hell of changing his mind.

"Linda, we're going to be married on Labor Day." I could hear the determination in his voice, and I knew I was lost. "Let's start trying to have a child now." Oh my God. No. No. No. "Morgan, let's just think about this for a while." Morgan pulled me close and gave me one of his soft kisses, the kind that melted in my mouth. I wasn't wearing my diaphragm. Pretty soon, I wasn't wearing anything else.

While we consumed each other in the frenzied meshing of our bodies, as Morgan seduced me with talk of undying love and the child who would bring us eternally together, the idea didn't seem all that bad. But as soon as I shook the bed with the orgasm that vibrated to my core, I got nervous. Real nervous. Morgan pressed on, oblivious, now, to anything but the urgency of his own release. I panicked.

"Morgan, you have to pull out. Please Morgan, don't do this." But my protests made no difference because soon, I felt his violent spasms and the warm juices swimming upstream. It seemed like millions of babies were running loose inside of my body. I was scared.

"Morgan, how could you do this to me?!" I screamed. "I can't be pregnant! No. No. No. I don't want to be pregnant!" The tears rained down my face. Morgan never looked happier. "I know you're going to have my baby," he said. "I can feel it. And if not this time, we'll keep on trying until we do."

Morgan went into the bathroom and I heard him singing in the shower. I was nauseous. Morning sickness already? I prayed to God to keep me from getting pregnant and swore I would wear my diaphragm 24 hours a day from then on.

The morning after Morgan gleefully pumped me full of baby-juice, I asked my boss for the time off to go away with him. Lindsey gave me a lecture about responsibility and told me that when I got back, I would have to make a decision about the direction I was heading at work. "Sure, sure," I said, skipping out the door.

That Friday, Morgan and I left for our first trip together. On the way to the airport, he told me we'd have to make a stop in Las Vegas. Oh? Morgan had a little problem. He had to go to court. Something about his ex-wife, Rita, and his ex-lawyer Carl Whitman.

According to Morgan, three years ago, while he was off on one of his escapades, Rita called to tell him she'd found the perfect home for them. Could he please wire her $7,500 right away for a down payment? Morgan, who was in the financial pink at that moment, sent her the cash and faithfully waited for word on their dream home. One week later, he returned to find Rita gone with both the money and Mr. Whitman. Though he admitted he'd had it coming, at the time he was enraged, and arranged for someone to break into the attorney's office and steal God-knows-what files. Morgan wouldn't tell me anything else, except that nothing was actually taken.

Now he confided the reason that he wasn't concerned. "I have a guardian angel," Morgan said, "I've never been convicted of anything. And the most amazing part about it is that whenever I've gotten into any trouble, the courts always lose my file or a witness changes his mind about testifying at the last minute." He was laughing now. "Linda, my record is completely clean. So you don't have to worry. Everything is going to turn out fine."

Morgan threw in a quick curve-ball. "Oh, and there's just one other thing. I'm not quite divorced from Joell. I need to meet with her while we're in Vegas to resolve the situation." Oh yes, there was a wife number three. And, yes, he married her before getting a divorce from Rita. Morgan must have been on one hell of a bender when they met, because at seven p.m. on a summer's night two years before, Joell was counting money in the cage of the casino and the next morning, voila, Mrs. Phillips number three. Joell was in her mid-40s, with three grown children. Technically, the marriage only lasted a few months.

I was getting used to the endless revelations to which I was now privy; nearly numb, in fact. Far from being concerned about all I heard, I felt confident that Morgan's trust meant that we were cementing our relationship, and that this was the one that was meant to be. So when he told me on the flight about wife number four, a New York society matron named Inga who'd been widowed three times before, I just nodded and said, "Tell me more."

Morgan said they were married in the Mayor's office because the Mayor had been a close personal friend of Inga's third husband before said hubby keeled over from a heart attack. After marrying the woman whom Morgan kindly described as "overabundant," he had all the money he could ever want, but she and her society friends were dull, dull, dull. He finally got an annulment after boredom nearly drove him to leap from the bedroom of their penthouse suite. Morgan told me that the most excitement he ever had with Inga was in the shower when she was lathering his ass and somehow the soap got lost, if you get my drift.

We arrived in Las Vegas late that night. Our first stop was the bar and I had one drink and two dozen pigs in a blanket. Morgan had two dozen drinks and one pig. In the morning, he woke up refreshed and raring to go. I, on the other hand, felt like the pig they'd killed before they put him in the blanket. Morgan told me to hang around the room, he would call if he needed me.

Four hours later, the phone rang. It was Joell, looking for Morgan. "Morgan was supposed to meet me this afternoon and he hasn't shown up. He owes me money. You tell him if he wants his belongings, he'll pay me back. And Linda, watch your own back ... I wish I had." I assured her I would pass along the message. After we hung up, I wondered how she knew about me and tried to ignore her warning. What a poor lonely woman, I thought, feeling sorry for her.

Morgan arrived two hours later. He was none too pleased that I'd spoken with Joell and he grilled me for an hour about our conversation. Finally, he seemed satisfied that I'd said nothing to incriminate him and I felt a now familiar wave of relief wash over me.

Morgan told me his case got a continuance but he was fed up with it. This was the third time he'd flown out here and the next time, he wasn't sure he'd show up. "The whole thing's ridiculous," he said, "because nothing actually got taken." I still couldn't put the pieces of this story together, so I just took his word for it.

He called Joell back and arranged to meet her at 5. Though I wanted to get a look at wife number, well, whatever number she was, instead, I got dinner in the room and strict instructions not to leave. About three hours later, Morgan toddled in on shaky legs shouting about what a bitch Joell was. I was just glad that he wasn't shouting about what a bitch I was. He never made it to the bed. Nope, he passed out right on the floor. I looked with sadness at the man I loved, and prayed that Morgan would stop drinking, because I believed with all my heart that that would cure what ailed him.

I gave Morgan all my cash before leaving for this trip and my credit cards were quickly approaching their limit. We were running out of money, so Morgan wanted me to cash a check. We ended up at a place where they looked me over like a piece of prime cattle and asked a lot of questions about my family. It was a Sunday so they couldn't confirm my banking information. I knew I didn't have the money to cover the check, but Morgan swore he wouldn't let me down this time. He was going to meet with some other potential partners in LA and he'd have money by Tuesday. Despite myself, I was haunted by the infamous words of Wimpy, "Could you kindly buy me a burger today for which I will gladly pay you back on Tuesday."

I turned on every bit of innocent charm I could muster and they cashed the check. They also warned me my life wouldn't be too pleasant if the check bounced. Morgan was quite pleased with my accomplishment. His praise dimmed the fear that swelled in my head of wearing cement overshoes and, again, he insisted I had nothing to worry about because he would take care of everything.

That evening, I told Morgan I wanted to quit my job. After eight years, I'd had enough of searching for the perfect coffee-drinker, the perfect beer-drinker, the perfect soda-drinker. Taking care of Morgan was job enough for me and now that he was going to be in the money again, the timing seemed perfect.

Morgan didn't quite see things my way. He ranted and raved for an hour about wanting me to be financially independent, but I stood firm about making his book a bestseller and needing to put all my energy into it. Of course, there was also my assurance that the credit cards I'd ordered would be here any day. "You know," he laughed, "I guess I could use a full-time gofer." I laughed right along with him and dreamed, that night, of our wedding.

The next morning, I called my boss and told her I was leaving. She expressed a great deal of sadness, but didn't try to talk me out of it because she knew the time had passed for reasoning with me. We agreed I would work three more weeks.

Tuesday morning, I left for New York. I was crying. Morgan looked at his watch. He had a meeting and my departure was holding him up. But his kiss said it all. I took myself to the airport, too upset to be annoyed. Already, I missed my man and I was certain my man missed me. I knew our story would have a happy ending.

By Wednesday, I was frantic. Morgan hadn't come through with the money. When I called him early that morning, he tried to calm me down. "Don't worry, I'll take care of this as soon as I get back. I'll have the money for you. Hey, we're on our way." I had no idea when Morgan was coming back, and that thought did little to ease the heartburn steadily churning up my throat.

"Look, Linda, I have more important things to worry about than this." His voice was no longer soothing. "I told you I'd take care of it. Now stop getting so worked up over nothing. Gotta go." He left me churning on the bed, waiting for guys with no noses to come and get me.

I finally called the people Las Vegas and pleaded for mercy. Lord knows why, but they agreed to a payment schedule. Luckily, they gave me two weeks to make my first payment. Morgan harrumphed and grumped over what I'd done, but he sent the money for the first payment.

One morning, my mailbox was chock full of goodies. Four credit cards were smiling at me from their happy little envelopes. A fifth card entitling me to rent the car of my choice looked particularly inviting. There was also a letter telling me that my credit was so good they'd arranged for me to have an additional $5,000 line of credit.

Again I felt concern that maybe getting Morgan credit cards on my account wasn't such a good idea, but then I thought of how I'd feel if the situation were reversed and I reminded myself of the importance of trust in a relationship. After all, he was making good on the debt we'd incurred. So off I went to the various credit card offices vouching for the character of my fiancé, explaining that he simply had to have a card immediately. Bureaucrat after bureaucrat snipped through red tape to help me out. Morgan, still in Los Angeles, was delighted with my success.

Meanwhile, the last weeks of work were excruciating. First, I had to find a certified high school geometry teacher who could do cartwheels for a life insurance commercial. She had to be Hungarian. Thankfully, after three days and no luck, they canned the commercial.

Following that delightful expedition, I took up the unenviable job of finding a blond-haired, blue-eyed, four-year-old boy with perfect teeth who could memorize a 60 second script about fried chicken, which included words like "delectable," "cholesterol," and "poly-unsaturated." Though I must have seen 300 four-year-old boys, I had to rule out 250 because they couldn't pronounce "poly-unsaturated." Fifteen actors told me they were four, but the beard stubble gave them away. Thirteen boys were missing at least two teeth. Five boys were black. Two were Asian. Eight carrot-tops showed up. Five girls managed to find their way in. And one child was too fat to sit in the waiting room chair.

At last, I found the perfect child. A moppet with the sweetest expression you could imagine. When his mother ushered him into the room, I was delirious and when the lines from the script fell out of Matthew's mouth like pearls from an oyster, I thought I died and went to heaven. Though I was ready to call the client to tell them we had a winner, I knew I still had to film him eating chicken. I happily handed him a drumstick, which he took with a slight grimace, and then he just stood there. "Ok," I coaxed. "Now Matthew, let's see you eat the chicken."

Matthew looked at me as if I'd asked him to swallow a tarantula. "What's wrong, Matthew, it's ummmmmmmmy yummy. Ok, c'mon, take a nice, big bite now. The camera's on, Matthew."

He began to cry. "I hate chicken." Fat, gloppy tears slowly traveled down Matthew's perfect face. I felt like it was time for a few fat, gloppy tears of my own. "But, Matthew, your mother said you LOVE chicken."

"I hate chicken. I like pizza." Matthew was only four years old, but I was starting to loathe him.

"Matthew, won't you just try some of this yummy, ummmmmmy chicken, just once? It's really ooody, oody, good!" I hoped to convince him to take just one teeny bite, just enough to get him on tape, but instead, he stomped his left foot on the floor and threw the chicken leg at me. "I hate chicken!"

Trying hard not to strangle him, I led Matthew out of the room and took his mother aside. "Mrs. Matthew," I said, "it seems your son is less than fond of chicken. Now, I just wonder why you wasted my time and yours bringing your child in to eat CHICKEN when he doesn't like CHICKEN." My voice was quite controlled.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, innocently furrowing her brow. "Matthew LOVES chicken, DON'T YOU MATTHEW??" He eats it all the time, DON'T YOU MATTHEW?" Matthew looked like a demon child. "I HATE CHICKEN!" Stomp, stomp. Mrs. Matthew's teeth gritted together so hard, she looked as if she had lockjaw, but she wasn't a bit embarrassed. This commercial would net somebody a LOT of money and every stage mother within 50 miles was absolutely certain that her child had what it took to be the star of the commercial.

They ended up hiring a 7 year old Asian girl with a front tooth missing. I couldn't wait for this job to end.

In between auditions, I worked on Morgan's book. I arranged with a young man in the graphics department of the agency to help me design a layout for the cover. Timmy was young and ambitious. He was also missing the forefinger on his left hand, the one he drew with. Watching this talented artist use a pencil stuck between his other two fingers to draw the most intricate designs was fascinating. He was the wunderkind of the agency and his supervisor had no problem with his working for me on the side. His supervisor even gave me the name of a printer, whose prices were reasonable, to bind the book.

At night, I edited spelling mistakes and typographical errors. I took a long lunch one day and picked up a splendid photograph from the New York Stock Exchange for the front cover. Timmy designed an amazingly life-like eagle for the United States Seal to emblazon the back cover.

Morgan returned to New York two days after my last day of work. He was bubbling over about his new offices on Sunset Blvd and in Ft. Lauderdale. Though I only got snippets of the story, I understood he'd hooked up with a young Arab from a wealthy family, a broker doing well as a trader in gold and silver. Morgan made him president of the newly formed company. "This kid's on the ball, good, clean." Morgan paced as he told me this. "He's never been in any trouble. The kid's ambitious ... he wants it bad. Linda, this time, I'm going straight to the top." Of what, I couldn't help wondering, but decided to keep my mouth shut.

Then Morgan told me he planned to take a car dealership public as his first project. When I questioned him further about it, he just waved his hand and said not to worry about it.

"I'm going to be living in Florida for awhile, but as soon as things take off, I'll be back for good. In fact," he added, "Let's find an apartment and start fixing it up." Hearing those words pepped me up. If Morgan was happy, I was happy, and I quelled the queasy feelings that unsettled my stomach more and more frequently.

"By the way, Linda, where are those credit cards?" Oh, God, the time had come. I handed the cards over, emphatic about my expectation that Morgan be responsible with them. He gleefully grabbed them like a kid handed a double cotton candy and kept repeating, "Of course, of course, of course."

***

"Rhonda, Morgan and I are getting an apartment together." I was bursting with the news and thought that this would finally convince her that Morgan was serious about me.

It was quiet for so long that I thought we had gotten disconnected, but she finally responded. "Please, Linda, just take a step back from all this and think about what you're doing." I had become so good at carefully wording whatever I told anyone about my relationship with Morgan that I was surprised at her reaction. She was the last of my friends with whom I kept in touch and I could feel us drifting further and further apart. That's the way Morgan liked it.

He was an incredibly private person, which made his trust even more special to me, and he was obsessed with my keeping anything he told me in the strictest confidence. It was getting so I didn't even want to return the infrequent calls left by my family on the answering machine. Slowly, I was losing all connection with my past. That way, it was a lot easier to accept the person I had become.

When I first showed him the ad for the apartment, I was only kidding. A $1500 duplex, with skylights and a river view. A joke, that's all it was. Instead, Morgan said, "Let's take it!"

The funny thing was, the first time we looked at it, we were disappointed. For $1500/month, I expected gold nuggets imbedded in the floor, but when we went back for a second look, we fell in love with the place. Were we deluded ... or desperate? I don't know, but the fact that it sat high above a bar might have influenced Morgan just a tad.

We signed the lease as Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, at Morgan's insistence. Once we did, he was desperate to fix up the place. Over the next few weeks, he hired (and paid) painters, floor sanders, and carpenters to fix up his new "home."

Since I was no longer working, I was financially dependent on Morgan, but he barely gave me enough to survive. Whenever I needed money, he just didn't seem to have any to give me, but the rent on my own apartment did get paid that first month, even if it was two weeks late. Though it was a struggle, I kept telling myself that it was more important than ever to show Morgan that I wasn't with him for the money, and I tried to be the understanding partner he expected. Morgan told me not to give my notice yet. He said it would be good to keep my apartment as an office for him.

I was progressing with the book, spending hours with the printers picking out paper, cover sheets, typefaces. It was exhilarating. I felt needed, creative, fulfilled, but something was happening between Morgan and me. Or, I should say, wasn't happening.

Sex was slowing down, grinding to a halt. Morgan just wasn't interested. He reminded me about Success having a deleterious effect on his libido. Though he kissed me passionately and told me that I was the love of his life, he left for Florida without our making love. I tried my best not to take it seriously, but this was the part I had never expected and I felt devastated despite my best efforts. Since I didn't have a clue when Morgan might return, I cried myself to sleep that night, mourning the loss that I already felt so acutely. For a moment, lost in the pain of my own emptiness and the fear of what the future would bring, I wished we had succeeded in making a child together.

~~~

## Chapter Six: 'Til Death Do Us Part

Ah, sunny Ft. Lauderdale. Despite the August heat, I was delighted that Morgan insisted I come visit him, telling me that his heart ached from the lonely nights without me. And when he introduced me to everyone as his fiancée, I was filled with love and pride. Morgan's young partner Al was a real hunk, complete with dimples, wavy black hair, and bedroom eyes. His name was actually Ahmed, but Morgan fixed that. Al couldn't have been more than 23 years old.

Clarissa, his new American wife, was cute and pudgy. She was visiting Al from LA for a few weeks and we really hit it off. They had only been married for six months, and three days after my arrival, Clarissa confided her fears that Morgan was determined to keep her from spending time with her new husband, and she added that he was now drinking entirely too much, thanks to Morgan.

How could I respond? I was afraid to say much of anything for fear it would get back to Morgan. Things had been going so well between us that I didn't want to risk upsetting him. So, although I felt badly for Clarissa, I told her not to worry because it would all work out and they would make lots of money together.

One afternoon, while Clarissa and I were at lunch, she leaned across the table. "Linda, I don't want to tell you this, but I have to. You've been so nice to me and I really like you. Ahmey would kill me if he knew I told you, but I'd want to know if it were me." I couldn't imagine what Clarissa was about to say, but I had a sneaking suspicion that I'd need more than a chef salad to get through it.

"Ahmey said that Morgan told him he wants to break up with you, that he wishes he could find a way to get you out of here. He said Morgan's been telling him that all week, ever since you got here. I'm sorry, Linda, I just thought you had a right to know what he's been saying." I felt like I swallowed a dozen bricks. "Linda, are you all right?" I hadn't said a word.

"Yeah, this is just..." I closed my eyes, trying to regain my composure. Since I didn't want to fall apart in public, I didn't say anything else, just got up and went to the hotel room.

Two bags of cookies later, when Morgan walked in, I was ready to confront him. Morgan hardly let me get a word out before he blew his stack. "What the hell are you doing talking to that bitch?! This is ridiculous, just ridiculous. Linda, why are you here if I don't want you? Can't you see that she's just jealous? Man, how can you get so worked up about what some little bimbo said? Ok, I'll just have to tell you this. Al doesn't love her, Linda, he just married her to get his fucking green card. Jesus, he's already got a fucking girlfriend down here. Man, if I find out that you told her any of this, you'll really be sorry. Because it'll fuck up my deal big time. I need Al to be happy and you just better not ruin this for me."

Ok, so I was relieved. Hey, I didn't owe Clarissa anything. What was important to me was ensuring that my relationship stayed intact. So from then on, I kept my distance.

Morgan's sex drive suddenly made a guest appearance and we made love morning, noon, and night for the next two days. I had to get back to New York to take care of the book and the apartment, but I left with a song in my heart and memories of Morgan's lovemaking in my mind. Clarissa's confession now seemed a pathetic attempt to spread her own misery around and I pitied her.

By early August, I hadn't seen Morgan for a month. During our daily phone calls, we'd invariably fight about the book. Morgan believed in sacrificing quality for speed, but I couldn't work that way. Though I ended up getting my way, Morgan succeeded in making me feel inadequate each time.

Though we had been separated for weeks, it was as if an invisible rope bound us through the miles. I spent my days at the printers, working on the book, and my evenings at home, waiting by the phone for the call that would give me the emotional fix I so desperately craved. Night after night, I fell asleep yearning for the man I loved to come home to me, certain that all the sacrifices I'd made would pay off in the end.

And then, I starting receiving credit card bills. Eight thousand dollars on one card. Twelve thousand dollars on another. Car rentals in Florida and California. Hotel receipts for thousands of dollars. I thought I would have a stroke ... but not before committing homicide.

As always, Morgan had a great explanation. "I have to look like I have lots of money, Linda. That's exactly why I needed the cards in the first place. What the hell are you worried about? I told you I'd be responsible for them. I have to pay for these guys who come to town to work with me. Jesus, you can't expect them to pay their own way. Besides, I can't let them know I'm starting with nothing."

By Friday, Morgan made payments to the credit card companies of $15,000. Yes, there was still a balance of over $8,000, but I was overjoyed that he kept his word, and my faith in him, and our relationship, was restored.

I begged Morgan to let me visit him again, but he said I just had to be patient. He was simply too busy getting his business off the ground to deal with any distractions. "And," he laughed, "you are one handful of distraction."

Morgan's book was nearing completion, but he hadn't made a payment to the printer for weeks and they just couldn't release the book without receiving more money. I was running out of excuses and felt terrible holding them up like this. Morgan still owed them $18,000. I felt awful for Morgan because $18,000 was keeping him from his dream. And I felt pretty awful for myself because now that my part in the book was nearly finished, my loneliness seemed unbearable. Even though Morgan wasn't willing to be there for me, I just didn't want to search elsewhere for a pale imitation of what we had. But I could feel myself becoming more and more desperate for the nurturing that I craved.

One evening, when I went into our favorite video store to rent some movies, I talked to Randall, the mildly attractive salesman who always advised Morgan and myself on which movies to select. Two hours later, I sat in a booth at the local deli crying my eyes out. Poor Randall, who had accompanied me, didn't know what to make of it. On the one hand, I'm sure he figured he could get me into bed, which was why he leaned over and kissed me. On the other hand, he must have realized it just wasn't worth it, so a tissue and a brotherly ear were next. Before calling it a night, he did ask if I wanted to go back to his place, but I'm sure it was more to save face for me than anything else. Since I lived around the corner, I bid him a sloppy farewell and went home alone. On the way, I stopped for a few dozen donuts. They were comforting companions.

The next day, I was racked with guilt for what I hadn't done but had considered and I told Morgan, which was a BIG MISTAKE. He went wild, accusing me of lying about the extent of my adventure. He screamed in my ear that he always suspected I wouldn't be faithful and told me how despicable I was. When he hissed that he'd been faithful since we'd been together, I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. Morgan told me he'd have to think hard about whether or not he could ever forgive me. At that point, I wasn't sure I could forgive myself.

Three days later, I heard from Morgan. It was one a.m. and he was drunk. "I love you," he sobbed, "Linda I can forgive you for what you did, but I'm not sure I can ever forget it. It doesn't matter though," he whispered into the phone, "I can't live without you." But when I pressed him about our seeing each other, he became evasive and said he just wasn't ready. He needed more time to heal from this devastating blow. Two weeks later, I was becoming really worried about Morgan, who sounded less and less coherent each time I spoke with him.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not to put any calls through to his room." The operator sounded annoyed. Ok, so it was five a.m. and I'd been calling Morgan's room every 15 minutes since three am. I finally dozed off for a couple of hours and when I woke up at seven, I got right back on the horn. No luck. But at 7:45, instead of the usual, "I'm sorry but Mr. Phillips still isn't taking calls," I heard his phone ringing. Imagine my surprise when a young, VERY young woman answered.

"Hello." That was her.

"Is Morgan there?" That was me.

"Uh, uh, uh" guess who?

"Morgan, Morgan Phillips," me through gritted teeth, "is he there!?"

"Uh, uh, no, no, oh, uh, you have the wrong room."

I wanted to believe her. "Are you sure this isn't his room? Room 305?"

"No, no, sorry, you have the wrong room."

Just to be sure, I called back. I was told Mr. Phillips wasn't taking any calls.

At 9 am, I reached Morgan's office. The receptionist answered. Denise, middle-aged and happily married, was perky as usual.

"Linda, there's a message here for you." Oh? "Yes, here it is — it's from Christine — 'Linda called and I told her it was the wrong room ... '" There was a long pause. "Oh no, oh gosh. I guess this isn't for you after all. " Good guess, Sherlock. "Oh gee, Linda, now I wouldn't get upset, I'm sure there's a good explanation for this. You know, Morgan always tells me how much he loves you. I just know he's faithful to you, Linda. Oh, please don't tell him I gave you this message. Oh, gosh, he'll be so upset."

Okey-dokey. "Denise, you can't expect me not to discuss this with Morgan." I paused, trying to collect my thoughts. "When is he coming in? Never mind. Just make sure, when he does, he calls me instantly and I mean instantly!"

I paced for the next two hours and screamed at an imaginary Morgan about what a damned hypocrite he was. I was devastated. The girl in his room sounded no older than 16. Maybe 15. What's worse, she had that blonde aura and, no doubt, was a size 2 petite. So Morgan, success ruins your sex drive. Let's see what a polo mallet and a little rubber cement would do.

BRRRRNNNG. The phone. I jumped on it. "Yes," I answered coldly, hoping it was Morgan. Of course, by this point in our relationship, Morgan was just about the only person to call me anyway.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing being so rude to my secretary?!" Morgan seethed, giving me no chance to respond. "She was so upset at how you spoke to her. What the fuck is the problem? Christine happens to be Al's girlfriend. We're sharing a suite so we have one phone. She knows how close you are with Clarissa and she was terrified that you'd figure things out."

What could I say to that? I didn't know what to think, not that it mattered anymore because I let Morgan think for me more and more of the time. My gut was wrenched and my brain was scrambled. "I'm sorry," I said.

Morgan didn't miss a beat. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Linda. After what you just did with that video store guy. I've told you over and over that I'm not interested in anyone else. Why don't you believe me? Dammit, Linda, I miss you desperately and want to be with you all the time. I can't believe how you mangle the love I've given you."

Oh, God, did I feel guilty. The worst part was how fast Morgan could zap me, so fast I didn't have time to weed out the fog from the shit. "Linda, I think you owe Denise an apology. And don't you ever treat her that way again. I'll talk to you later." The end.

I was reminded of a scene in a film I'd recently watched. The husband was packing for a trip when his wife came in, visibly distressed. He was always leaving without giving her a clue where he was going. She sat on the bed crying, begging him to tell her what's going on. He put his hand on her shoulder and solemnly said, "All right, honey, I'll tell you. I've tried so hard to keep this from you but you deserve to know the truth." Long pause. "I'm a hit man and I have to go do a job." She looked up at him, eyes full of love, and said, "Oh, thank God. I thought you were having an affair." Touché.

~~~

## Chapter Seven: There's No Room at the Inn

"Please, Morgan" I sobbed, "we need to see each other. I need to touch you. We haven't made love in so long."

"No," he said, or to be more precise, slurred. "Ahm not ready fryou ... need to work. Be with you soon... "

"Morgan, I'm begging you! You have to see me. We can't go on like this."

Suddenly, he sobered up and bellowed, "No! This is how it is. I don't want you and your big mouth around the people I'm working with. I told you, when this deal is finished we'll be together. Look, I'm sick of this. You just wait for me!" I heard a click and the persistent drone of a dead telephone.

I called back. Busy. Busy again. And again. I sat for a while and cried my eyes out. Then I ate a large pizza. It didn't help. Now I had two problems. Morgan and the wad of cheese wedging a hole in my spleen. It was 2:00 p.m..

Pizza makes one desperate. I decided there was nothing to do but save Morgan from himself. Obviously he was deluded, isolating from me, but I was certain he really wanted me to save him, just like always. Once again, I threw some clothes into a bag and raced out of the house. When the cab driver let me off, I ran in, only to discover I was in the wrong terminal! My flight was at 4:30 and there was no way I could sprint the two city blocks in my heels.

Instead of Fort Lauderdale, I got into Palm Beach ... at about 8:15 that evening. I rented a car, bought a map, and got directions to the Galaxy Hotel in Boca Raton. When I arrived, I couldn't believe what lay before me. Morgan was living in the Florida version of San Simeon, a palace complete with front gate and a security guard who bore a striking resemblance to Goebbels (Joseph, not George).

Okay, I told myself, just act as if you belong here. I figured Morgan was at the bar or passed out by this point. "Hi," I said, oozing with warmth, "My husband is expecting me, but he's out right now. Morgan Phillips. He had to go to Miami at the last minute and I just got in from New York. Boy, am I exhausted. Can't wait to lie down. Here's some ID." I pulled out two credit cards I just received. American Express. Green and Gold. The name Morgan Phillips emblazoned on the bottom. These cards would replace the first temporary ones I had gotten for him. Thank God, I thought, I have these.

"Listen, Lady, I can't just let you up. Let me call my manager." Of course "just let you up" was certainly inaccurate, as the security gate was so far from the hotel I thought I'd have to refill my gas tank to get there.

Five minutes later, Mr. Wilson, typical zombie manager walked over. Greasy black hair and no face. "What seems to be the problem here, Rudy?" Rudy, good security guard that he was ("I was only following orders, Herr Manager... ") told him my story, while I stood there feeling like the day-old bread of the universe. Mr. Wilson called Morgan's room. "Oh God, please don't let him answer," I prayed, pleading with the "Man Upstairs". "He" wouldn't let me down. "He" was on my side.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Phillips." So much for prayer. "There's a woman here claiming to be your wife. Linda. Linda, Mr. Phillips. Uh huh ... uh huh ... I understand Mr. Phillips. Here," sneered Mr. Wilson, whose no face I wanted to punch a hole through, "He wants to speak to you."

"What the fuck are you doing here," Morgan hissed, "How dare you humiliate me like this? I told you to stay put in New York. Well I can't see you right now. I told the manager we're having marital troubles. Now look, there's a motor lodge nearby. You get a room there and call me."

"Wait a minute, darling" (After all, Deutschland's answer to Abbot and Costello were leering just two feet away), "You don't mean I can't come up. You wouldn't do this to me, would you, dear. I came here to patch things up between us. Now, sweetheart, you really must let me in." I smiled endearingly into the phone.

***

The motor lodge was much more depressing after getting a load of the Galaxy Hotel, even from a distance. I was miserable. Morgan answered the phone right away. "I have to go to a meeting right now. I'll come and talk to you in the morning. Wait for me." His tone increased in nastiness as it decreased in drunkenness. I finally fell asleep after making one more call at two a.m. to Morgan's room. The operator said he wasn't taking any calls.

Morning. As bleak as the night before. Ten a.m. came and went. At last, I got through to Morgan. "I've got a meeting this morning," he informed me. "Stay there. Wait for me, and when I'm done I'll be there."

"Listen," I'd finally had enough, "Why don't I just go home. I'm not going to sit around here all day on the off chance you might show up. Like I've said a million times, if you don't want me anymore, just tell me and get it over with already."

Morgan sounded pretty testy now. "You're the one who came here without my permission, now you just wait there. I want to talk to you, when I'm ready. I'll be there in half an hour."

"All right. If you're not here by 11:30, I'm going to the airport."

"Make it an hour then."

At 12:03, just as I was thinking about leaving, I opened the door and saw a very gaunt Morgan sheepishly grinning at me. "Hi, Linda," he said shyly, "Can I come in?" Now, was I mistaken or was this the same person who refused to see me the night before? I kept my arms folded across my chest and my body as far away from his as I could, trying to protect myself from the pent-up lust that was making me feel like a hand grenade with the pin taken out. We both moved around the room like two caged animals who hadn't eaten in three weeks.

"Linda, you just caught me off guard last night and you know how stubborn I am. I just couldn't give in to you even though I really did want to let you in, my love. Please Linda, just be patient. I love you so much but this deal is taking everything I've got. Why can't you understand that and be patient and wait for me?" Morgan's tone dripped with poignant sincerity.

I countered, "Morgan, I love you, but I have to get on with my life. I can't keep living for a future that ... well, I don't know what to think anymore. I just know I'm so lonely I could die. Maybe we should start seeing other people."

"NO! If you see anyone else ... that's it. I could never forgive you." Good grief.

"Well what the hell do you want me to do? I can't go on with no sex, no affection, not seeing you. I can't keep my life on hold forever. You have to make a decision. Either I come and live with you or we separate and see what happens."

It never once occurred to me that I could make the decision.

Morgan never actually addressed my ultimatum. Instead, he told me how ill he felt, how he longed for me, how he knew if I were around he wouldn't be able to concentrate. Despite my best intentions, my heart began to thaw. When he sounded so sincere, to be suffering so greatly, my own needs drifted out the window. Neither of us sat down this entire time. We continued waltzing around each other. Slowly we started coming together. "I need a hug," I said. Some primeval instinct told me this was my chance to seduce him.

"I'm not interested in sex so don't get any ideas," he said, but I was undaunted. It sure felt good to hold him in my arms. He had lost a great deal of weight. His diet now consisted of scotch, ice, and water.

I caressed his body and realized I kind of missed the burly bear he used to be. He didn't resist ... too much. When he gingerly put his arms around me, I thought I would explode. Though he felt like a stranger, his body was so different now, I didn't care. I knew I had to be careful. If I moved too quickly I would blow it.

Slowly I touched him beneath his shirt. His skin felt so smooth. Lightly, I slid my hands down to the top of his pants. I was overwhelmed with desire for him and I lightly rubbed my body against his. I could feel his erection building. Still, I was all too aware that with Morgan, one slightly off beat word or action could destroy the mood for him and, at that moment, I wanted him more than ever before. He kissed me. The touch of his mouth on mine was exciting beyond belief. I was frantic with desire, but I wanted to make it last. We were still standing. It was as if we had to pretend we weren't doing this in order to do it.

We never actually got our clothes all the way off. Our shirts were pretty well intact and Morgan's pants were somewhere around his ankles, but it didn't matter. He was on top pumping me intensely, feverishly. I was insane with passion and couldn't get him deep enough inside of me. We were panting and grunting in desperate unison. And for the first time since that morning early in May, Morgan exploded with a thunderous orgasm ... and left me hanging. After he came, he pulled out and started to get dressed. I felt as if I'd been punched in the face. "Morgan, please let me stay. I won't get in your way." My body still throbbed in hopeful anticipation of an orgasm.

"No," Morgan said. "I promise we'll be together next weekend. Please go home. I'll meet you in Atlantic City on Friday night. We'll spend the whole weekend. I love you, my darling, but I have to go now. I have a 1:30 meeting and I'm late as it is. You forced me into this," he laughed, "but I really needed it. Please my love. Soon, very soon, we'll be together forever. You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Morgan, do you know what next weekend is?"

"No, my love."

"It's Labor Day. Remember? The day we're supposed to get married." I could feel my heart pounding, waiting for his response.

Morgan's tone changed ever so slightly. "I I uh, gee, I had no idea, uh, it was so soon. Well Linda, I'm not ready to make that kind of decision yet. You know I have so much on my mind. We're going to be together. I just have to get this deal going."

I was surprised to admit that my disappointment was mixed with relief. "Can't you even go with me to lunch?" I pleaded.

"I'm sorry, I just can't. You make the arrangements and we'll be together this weekend." With that, he blew me a kiss and walked out the door. My trip to Florida to save my man lasted less than 19 hours.

***

It seemed there wasn't a hotel room to be had in Atlantic City because everyone and their uncle Mo planned a Labor Day weekend there. Finally, I was able to reserve a suite in a condominium called the Empire. When I walked through the door of the suite on Friday afternoon, I was greeted by a black inset Jacuzzi and a king-sized bed. That's all I needed. Well, there was one other thing, but he was on his way.

I began calling his room in Florida at 7 p.m.. 7:05. 7:07. Finally, at 3:45 am, I woke Al. "Al, I'm sorry to wake you, but I wondered if Morgan was dead because he was supposed to meet me in Atlantic City tonight and he isn't here and he doesn't seem to be there. Perhaps you might have some idea where he is, hmmmmmmmmm?"

"Hey, Linda, were outanight, got back atwo ... " It wasn't too hard to figure out they'd been drinking. I wanted to reach through the phone and grab this asshole's throat.

"Well, could you knock on his door and tell him to pick up the phone?"

"Call back lata, sure he'll ansa ... " And he was gone. Morgan's room was next door.

I let the phone ring about 20 times. Finally, Morgan answered, "Ya ... "

"Why aren't you here?! Goddammit, I've been waiting for you all night! If you didn't want to come here this weekend, why didn't you just tell me?! "

"Got tied up. Meeting. Be there innamornin' ... "

"Morgan, what is your problem? ... Morgan ... Morgan!!!" I heard snoring. Morgan apparently passed out, holding the receiver in his hand.

After an hour's fitful sleep, I woke up at 6:30 a.m. I decided I had to do something or I would surely have a nervous breakdown, so I took a bicycle ride on the boardwalk. The weather was breezy and beautiful. My stomach was doing flip-flops. At 10:30 a.m. on Saturday, I finally reached Morgan. "I I ju just can't do it. Whu why doncha comere." Morgan sounded like he'd already been drinking. "I'm s so scared, Linda. Donow whaz happening to me. Pu please comere an takareuhme ... " Once again, despite myself, my heart broke for this man. For all his coldness and cruelty, he seemed to be suffering so badly.

"Morgan. You need to get out of there." I was in a phone booth in the Atlantic City mall. "I'll get a pre paid ticket for you. All you have to do is fall into a taxi and get to the plane. I'll take care of everything."

"Y you would do that?! Oh, Linda, I need taseeya so mu much. Y yes, call when you have the ticka ... "

The travel agency was just closing. There were no more flights into the Atlantic City airport, but there was one into Newark, which was about 2 hours away. Though you usually needed a few hours notice to get a pre paid ticket, they made an exception for the lunatic woman who practically got down on her knees and begged. Then I called Morgan, who had sobered up, and wanted me to get him $3,000 from our rapidly diminishing line of credit.

Morgan insisted I pick him up at the airport in a limousine, but I was to take a bus to get there. Not this time, I thought. A black and silver stretch limo pulled up to the condo. I was pleased. Under my shimmering blue silk dress, I wore the expensive lace lingerie that had been sitting in my drawer unused for so long. There was a vcr and a refrigerator in the limo. I was ready.

The driver was about 26. He wanted to be a model, so we had a lot to talk about. Going to the airport, I watched a movie called "Against All Odds."

We got there in plenty of time. I was wearing spiked heels. I didn't plan on walking far. The driver waited in the parking lot while I went into the terminal. The plane was landing!! People started coming off the plane. A lot of them. In fact, I think the entire population of Florida deplaned ... except one.

Morgan was nowhere to be found. It sounded so simple, but it was unfathomable to me. Frantic phone calls from the airport. "No, Miss Golden, that ticket was never picked up. I'm sorry." No answer in Morgan's room. Finally, I reached Clarissa. I could barely hear her. I was calling from a phone booth in the parking lot. It was getting windy and my filmy blue dress was flying around leaving less and less to the imagination. "Clarissa, WHERE IS MORGAN?!?! I'm waiting at the airport."

"Morgan never mentioned going to see you. I saw him at the bar around 3:30 drinking by himself. I'm really sorry. Is there anything you want me to tell him?" Trying hard to muffle my sobs, I told her not to worry about it and hung up.

The driver felt rotten for me. I climbed into the back seat, watched some stupid movie, and stuffed my face with all the junk food in the refrigerator. A few dozen pretzels later, I felt no better. The airport was 30 minutes from my apartment, but my clothes were 2 hours away in Atlantic City.

~~~

## Chapter Eight: Now You See Him, Now You Don't

She stared intently at the cards on the table. "I see you have a man in your life. He is a big man. Tall. Oh, I see this man has a wife." HAD, lady, had.

I was back in Atlantic City, home of the gambling yentas. Having eaten my way along the Boardwalk, I finally decided that I might as well try to enjoy myself since I'd already paid for the room.

Smack dab in the middle of the Atlantic City Mall, I stumbled into a tarot card concession. There were three counselors and I was the only client. When their eyes glittered as they saw me coming, I figured they must have been psychic, or else they noticed me fingering my Diner's Club card from a mile away.

The counselor who dealt the cards wore a large flowered caftan. When she sat down behind the rectangular table, her lap looked like a tablecloth that missed. But Ruth had beautiful green eyes and dark lashes thick with mascara. Her gleaming red lipstick was perfectly framed by crimson lip liner.

The other two counselors tsk-tsked over her shoulder as she laid out the cards on the table. Her long oval nails were ruby-red, perfect exclamation points for her delicate hands, hands which were surely mismatched with her body.

I had a great time until the wife comment. "Well, yes, Ruth, my boyfriend has had a wife or two, but he's divorced." I knew Morgan received his annulment from Joell because I opened the confirmation letter when it arrived at my apartment.

"No, no, my dear. The cards never lie. This man is married. You'd better talk to him. He is married." This I didn't want to hear. I was torn between thinking the whole thing was a bunch of hooey and taking her with me to Florida to confront Morgan.

"He's living somewhere warm. There are bad men around him. And drugs." Drugs? No way, Morgan doesn't do drugs. Just alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. "No, Ruth, no drugs."

"I'm sorry, Linda, I see drugs. Maybe even selling them." Oh, come on, now. This woman doesn't know Morgan. I'm not going to let her make me even more paranoid than I'd already become. "Ok, Ruth, enough about him. What's the deal with me?"

Three long minutes passed with a great deal of tsk-tsking and groaning from the peanut gallery. "Ruth, what is it? Am I about to suffer a tragic death? What's the problem? An accident? Oh, God, I knew it. Those guys in Vegas, they're coming after me."

"No, no Linda, your path is not so clear. You will have choices to make. I see lots of money around you, but it will pass right through your fingers. Listen to me ... though it will often seem as if there are only bad forces surrounding you, know in your heart that you will be protected and the good inside of you will not be destroyed. I am afraid, my friend, that all you ever believed in will soon no longer be true, but I promise that you will survive. Eventually, you will find a power within yourself that will be unlike any you could have imagined.

"Most importantly, Linda, you must try hard to follow your conscience." She looked up at me, her emerald eyes searching my own as if to impart that inner power she spoke of. "I have no more to tell you."

I was shaken by her reading, but by the time I left, I bought a crystal ball, a tiny pewter sculpture of a woman with the body I've always wanted, and a brass candlestick. I trudged back to the condo feeling a little better, and wiped my mind clean of all Ruth had told me. But there were many moments in the next few months when her message came back to haunt me, and I wondered what ever happened to that power she was so sure I would find.

After I got back to New York, Morgan called, begging my forgiveness, saying it wouldn't be long before he'd come home to me. Though he needed help with his uncontrollable drinking and he hinted at some unnamed terror stalking him in Florida, he told me there was just too much at stake to give it up now. I didn't press him for details because I was too wrapped up in my own pain and I sat silently while he pleaded with me to be patient.

Credit card bills poured in, and a notice from Diner's Club canceling my card for non-payment of $3500. A lawsuit would be forthcoming. All told, the bills came to over $26,000. Hotel rooms, car rentals, gas, more gas, lingerie, shoes, and restaurants galore. There were signatures on the receipts that I didn't recognize, but there was one that jumped right off the page at me. Christine Connolly. Instantly, I remembered that this was the name of the girl who answered the phone in Morgan's room in Florida. My head was spinning.

This was too much, really too much and I just couldn't handle it alone. Even though I hadn't talked to her in weeks, I called Rhonda because I didn't know who else to turn to. "Linda, cancel the damned credit cards already, would you? What's it going to take for you to see what a shmuck this guy is? What's it going to take? Just cancel the cards."

It felt so good to tell the truth to Rhonda, to tell the truth to somebody. As soon as I hung up, I felt guilty, but I forced myself to think about what she had said, and I finally got angry. Rhonda was right. What kind of a jerk did Morgan think I was? I'd show him. I'd put a stop to this once and for all ... but first, I decided to call Morgan to tell him off, which was the strategic equivalent of putting a firecracker in my shoe.

"First of all," said Morgan, snidely, "I just made a large payment on those cards. Check for yourself. Seven and ten thousand dollars. Second, I had to lend some of the cards to the people I was working with. Obviously, Al must have given the card to his girlfriend. I TOLD you, Christine is Al's girlfriend. They were short of cash and needed a credit card. They'll pay us back. Jesus Christ, Linda, every time I think we're a team, you fuck it up with this bullshit. I'm getting sick of it. It's going to have to stop."

"As far as Diner's Club, you tell them you're incensed that they stopped your card. You tell them you won't pay a penny unless they reinstate you. You hear me? They have to give you back the card."

"But Morgan, they've threatened to take me to court. It's my name on the card. And you promised to pay your bills."

"Linda, these people are full of hot air. They won't do shit. You tell them we'll make a payment of $1200 as soon as they reinstate the card. Linda, you put a stop to the cards now, when I really need them, and it'll prove that you don't care about me."

Now, instead of the righteous rage I began with, I was covered with guilt, dripping with guilt, drowning in guilt. Jesus, the guy just paid $17,000 towards his debt.

I forgot, for a moment, about the enormous outstanding balance, not to mention the fact that Christine Connolly spent about $700 of my credit on lingerie. Since when did lingerie become a necessity? Later that day, when I spoke with the lady from Diner's Club, she just laughed at my pitiful demand. What puzzled me most of all was how the hell I had gotten a credit limit where the sky's the limit.

By mid-September, if I got through to Morgan at all, he'd quickly say that he was on his way out to a meeting and he'd get back to me. Every few days, he'd call me in the middle of the night crying, telling me how frightened he was and how he wished I was there. But this was an old record and I was afraid to chance coming down to see him.

One morning, in desperation, I called Sidney Wasserman, Morgan's friendly pill-popping attorney. We actually had a civil conversation. Sidney was surprised to hear from me because Morgan told him we hadn't seen each other in two months. Well, that was true, but Sidney's impression was that we weren't seeing each other at all. He knew about Morgan's waterfront apartment that had never been lived in. What he didn't know was that we planned on living there together when Morgan returned to New York.

I set Sidney straight about our relationship and asked if he'd talked to Morgan lately. Sidney told me how worried he was about him because Morgan had hooked up with some "major league scum" who wouldn't hesitate to get someone "wiped off the map" if they even suspected they were being screwed over. Sidney warned Morgan that he was in way over his head this time, but Morgan wouldn't listen, and Sidney said I should do all I could to bring Morgan home. He was certain that Morgan would end up getting hurt ... or worse. This was all I needed to hear.

Florence Nightingale to the rescue with her own brand of chicken soup.

So what did I do? Naturally, I got my butt over to the airport. When I arrived in Florida, I bought Morgan a teddy bear and a dozen roses. Now I was glad I hadn't stopped the credit cards because, at this point, I was living off them and my hopes that Morgan would make a million dollars and give me a few.

At the hotel where Morgan was now staying in Ft. Lauderdale, I was relieved to see there were no guards or gates, just a front desk. But 15 minutes later, I handed my presents over to a bell boy to take up to Morgan's room. No, they couldn't let me up and they were sorry, but they couldn't give me his room number.

As my credit was quickly reaching its limit, I decided to stay in less luxurious accommodations. Once in my room at Neptune's Trine Motor Lodge, I realized the name was misleading. The closest thing to King Neptune was a picture of some ugly fish on the wall, but at $27.50 a night, ugly fish were better than no fish at all. There was, however, a view of the ocean that made things seem just a bit brighter than before. I watched the waves roll over the glistening beach, cleansing everything in its path and I yearned to stand under one of those suckers myself. Unfortunately, bathing suits and I didn't see eye to eye, so I settled for a warm shower and a long, lingering look at the waves instead. I figured I had plenty of time to dip my toes into the water. The way things were going, I had a feeling I'd be keeping company with King Neptune for quite a while.

A week later, the ugly fish were beginning to grow on me ... like algae. I figured I might as well be miserable looking at the ocean as sitting on the sixteenth floor of an urban high-rise, so I stayed.

I hadn't heard from Morgan since the one time I actually got him on the phone and he told me to sit tight and wait. He'd never done this before and I was terribly worried. I called his office four times a day, even showed up unannounced, but he was never there. Denise was very sympathetic. She'd relay messages from Morgan that he loved me and would get some money to me real soon. I'd call his room night after night. The operators insisted that he wasn't taking any calls. I didn't leave my room much, I was too afraid I'd miss his call. Neptune's Trine didn't have room service, so I'd dash down to the restaurant and bring up the cheapest house special.

Ten days had passed since the fish and I became acquainted. It was 4:30 p.m. and the phone rang in Morgan's office. When Denise answered, I knew something was wrong. For one thing, she simply said, "Hello," instead of her usual "Capital Analysis, Inc., may I help you?"

"Denise, it's Linda." There was a long pause. "Denise, what's wrong? What is it, you've got to tell me."

"He's gone."

"What do you mean gone? If you mean out of his mind, yes, I know. If you mean gone for the day, what else is new?"

"No Linda, he left this afternoon. The company is closed. Morgan went to California. He didn't leave me any number, just told me to clean out my desk and make sure the door was locked on my way out."

I couldn't speak. "Linda, Linda, are you there? I'm really sorry to tell you. Morgan loves you, really he does. I'm sure he'll be in touch with you very soon." That was the last thing I needed to hear. I wished she'd said he hated my guts and hoped I'd get run over by a bus. Then I could move on. This way, I didn't know what to do.

I mumbled something about hoping Denise had a good life and hung up, devastated and shell-shocked. No, no, this just couldn't be happening. I called Rhonda. "Linda, I can't deal with this anymore. Face it, honey, you're going the wrong way down a one way street. It's over. You've been dumped. Now go home and get on with your life."

Why didn't Rhonda understand? Morgan was the love of my life. All right, so I didn't actually like him much, so what? I was committed to him. Yeah yeah, I know, Rhonda thought that I should be committed all right, but not to Morgan.

When I told Rhonda I was sure Morgan was in trouble and needed my help, she laughed so hard I thought she'd pass out. "Linda, the guy's no good. I hate to say this, but I'll bet he's got some girl stashed down there and that's why he wouldn't see you. What kind of man would leave you destitute and not even tell you he's going?" No, no. Rhonda just didn't understand. And I was afraid that I would have to let go of her as I had my other friends and family. I felt totally abandoned, and I was terrified because, except for my now nearly useless credit cards, I had no money and no prospects for employment.

I thought about eating myself into a stupor, but I felt lonelier than a cupcake could fix, so I went out to the one bar within walking distance. It didn't matter that I hated the taste of alcohol and what it did to Morgan. In my present state of mind, it was the best revenge I could come up with.

The only patron was a strange-looking fellow with a cowlick á la Dennis the Menace. All I really wanted was to pour out my sad, sad story to somebody who wouldn't tell me I was looney-tunes. It was a safe bet that a complete stranger would be too polite to insult me.

I demanded a scotch and water. Good God, the stuff was wicked, but I figured if Morgan could do it, so could I. I was bent on self-destruction. Yes indeed, an hour later, mid-way through that first drink, I was beginning to see double. Definitely time to go home, I told myself, but it was raining so hard I decided to stay until the downpour let up.

An hour later, I was sobbing into my third scotch and water while the strange looking fellow named Drake nodded sympathetically as he placed his hand on my knee. The harder I sobbed, the higher Drake moved his hand.

The next thing I remembered was sunshine pouring into my room. I was on my bed stark naked, covered with the familiar flowered bedspread. When I tried lifting my head, a thousand mallets descended on my temples, pounding harder and harder until I put my head back down, ever so gently. Moving my pinkie generated somewhat less pain, but I decided to lie still for a good year or two, just in case. Two hours later, I rolled over and pummeled the pillow, burrowing as deeply as possible to blot out the pain.

Another hour passed this way. I looked around the room. I was alone (thank God). Memories of the night before seeped into my brain. Drinking that disgusting scotch and crying to Drake. Yes, I remembered that funny fellow and his clammy hand squeezing my knee. Oh, God, was I embarrassed. I must have made a real fool of myself. Hard as I tried, I just couldn't remember how I got back here.

And then I saw it. Lying on the chair, folded neatly as could be, were my clothes. And I knew — I had done it with Drake. There was no doubt about it, because even in my right mind, I never folded my clothes. Surely if I were blotto and alone, I'd still be in them. For all I knew, an entire marine squadron might have spent the night.

I crawled out of bed, wobbling on rubber legs and managed to make it to the bathroom before I puked up what felt like a truckload of scotch. Rhonda. I had to call Rhonda. Screw my resolve to go it alone. I just hoped she would talk to me.

Thankfully, she found the situation rather amusing. "Linda, I'm sure if you did something, you'd remember. I mean, well, are you walking like John Wayne this morning?" Nope. Although actual walking still seemed to loom in the future. I certainly didn't feel violated. Of course, I didn't feel much of anything besides a pulsating pain in my head. "But Rhonda, my clothes were folded ... neatly, yet. That can only mean one thing."

"Linda, if you don't remember, it didn't happen. Like a tree falling in the forest and nobody's around. It didn't make a noise, if you know what I mean."

Leave it to Rhonda to make me laugh even in my most tortured moment. I thanked God for giving me such a good friend and silently asked Rhonda's forgiveness for thinking that I wanted her out of my life. I spent the day recovering and by seven p.m., I felt well enough to feel miserable about Morgan again. By 11 p.m., I settled in with a box of cookies and the movie Casablanca on TV. At 12:15 a.m., the phone rang. Oh my God, could it be Morgan? I sat with my hand poised over the phone waiting for the third ring (for luck).

"Hello, Linda?" Not Morgan, definitely not Morgan. "Hi, it's Drake, from last night." Drake. Oh shit. "Linda, well, I wondered if you might like some company." Company, at midnight? This wasn't a good sign.

"Uh, Drake, did you and I, well, I mean, did we, uh, Drake, did we do it last night?"

"Linda, don't you remember? It was wonderful. You were a wild woman. You came like a cat in heat and passed right out. I thought you might like some rest, but I'm sure you're rarin' to go now, aren't you, tiger?" A tree in the forest, Rhonda? Well, what happens when the woodsman wanders by to chop it up? Does it make a noise then?

Still trying to be polite, I attempted to soothe his feelings. "Oh, yes, Drake, of course I remember. You were one hot potato. Yeah, you wore me out and no, I haven't recovered yet. Boy, Drake, nobody ever did it to me like you did. I'll never forget it, but, well, let me get your number and I'll call you back when I limber up." Drake said he'd get back to me, and after we hung up, I thanked my lucky stars for getting out of this alive. And I vowed never to touch another drop of scotch as long as I lived.

Two days later, I felt better physically, but boy, was I depressed. I decided to stay in Florida until the weekend. I knew it was just about time to give up on Morgan, but I wanted a few more days to wallow in my misery. I really missed him but I didn't have a clue why. Too little time had passed for my brain to unclutter, but as I let myself bask in the sweet sound of the ocean waves, I became more willing to acknowledge the unhealthy nature of our relationship. Despite the pain that still tore at me like an open wound, I decided that maybe it was all for the best. And when I thought about the unhealthy level of debt into which I had gotten myself with Morgan's help, I chose not to panic until my "vacation" was over. I spent the rest of my time in Florida gazing at the ocean, giving myself permission to heal.

On Saturday, the day before I was scheduled to leave, I called my answering machine, a ritual I had performed twice a day since Morgan's disappearance, but there were never any messages. This time, however, the machine picked up on the third ring. A message. Probably the exterminator telling me it's time for my annual pest-out.

"Linda, it's Morgan. I'm so sorry about everything. Please call me. I had to leave Florida and I've been in jail for the past few days. They wanted to kill me. Please call me. I have so much to tell you. I miss you so much. Oh God, Linda, just hearing your voice on the machine is so beautiful. I don't know if you can ever forgive me. Please, please call me right away."

Now what? I could erase the message, tear up the phone number I had just written down, and go home to start a new life, one that might actually bring me some happiness and peace. Or I could call Morgan. The choice was clear. I picked up the phone and began to dial.

~~~

## Chapter Nine: Just How Dumb Do You Think I Am?

"Oooh, ooooh, oh-oh-oh, oh Morgan, oh my God, oh God, oh Morgan, oh Morgan, oh ... my ... God!"

Our reunion was going well, I thought. For a week, we stayed in bed, getting up only to answer the door for the food that we ordered. It's a good thing we lived in a city that thrives on home food delivery, because, for a few days, there was no way I could make it past the front door.

Two weeks had passed since I dialed Morgan's number from my fishy room in Florida. When he picked up the phone, it was apparent that he was none too sober, but he brightened up considerably when he realized it was me, here to save the day once again. He wept as he begged my forgiveness, swearing that he would make it up to me and that we would finally live a normal life.

Morgan told me to go back to New York and wait for him and, by the way, could I please get him a ticket home right away. One week later, a very frail Morgan showed up at my door. He had been on a bender of epic proportions due, he said, to his shame at being a failure.

In between making love, Morgan told me all about what had happened to him. It turned out that he'd had a second partner. According to Morgan, Derek was a cocaine freak who took over the show and ran Morgan and Al ragged with nightly meetings at 2 and 3 am. But Morgan overlooked this because Derek had pulled off quite a few million dollar scams in the past and he had connections with people who had a lot of money, which was exactly what Morgan needed. I realized this must have been the "scum of the earth" to whom Sidney referred in our recent conversation.

They managed to make over a million dollars (which Morgan insisted they came by legitimately through taking companies public), but Morgan said that Derek wanted it all. Derek convinced the young Arab, Al, and just about everyone else that Morgan was trying to con them and that he was going to make off with the profits. "Imagine that," he said, looking appalled.

When Morgan heard tell that his life was about to be cut as short as a newly mown lawn, he decided to exit stage left. As soon as he did, Derek made off with the cash and Morgan later found out that he was generous enough to share some with Al, which pleased him even less.

Once he got to California, things progressed from bad to worse. Morgan, obviously trying to drown his miseries, was arrested for drunk driving shortly after his arrival, no doubt using a car rented with my credit card. I tried not to think about that, concentrating instead, on the exhilarating emotions that enveloped me now that Morgan and I were together for good.

What does a nice Jewish girl know from con men and scams? The only scam I'd ever been involved in was paying $4.99 for a pound of designer cookies from a vendor on East 58th street. One bite and I knew they were really supermarket brand. So I just took him at his word that they'd come by their money honestly, and let my ignorance keep me in the dark about what Morgan had really been involved in during the summer of 1985.

What was important to me was the fact that my poor honey was now very poor indeed. Just the way I liked him, penniless and wanting me. As far as I was concerned, I'd be glad to go back to work and support Morgan forever.

***

Unfortunately, Morgan needed more money than I could earn, and surprisingly, he didn't want me to go back to work. He said I could help him with his business. The book was still sitting at the printers, waiting like a puppy at the pound for someone to take it home, and Morgan believed it was his ticket out of financial ruin. "But," he said, "we have to face the fact that I'm going to have to do whatever it takes to raise the money to get my book out." I didn't like the sound of that, but Morgan brushed my lips with his fingers and worked his way down as he told me not to worry about anything because he'd always take care of me.

A month later, Morgan was a different person ... the one I didn't like ... the one who didn't need me. He was back to criticizing everything I did, back to disappearing for a day or two, lost in drink. And, once again, he was driven to make money. I don't know why I stuck by him, except that I believed that the person whom I loved was helplessly imprisoned in the agony of his alcoholism. And I wanted to show him, as I promised so many months before, that I was in this for the long haul.

There were lots of people in his life now, like Gary, an old friend from Las Vegas whom Morgan brought to Florida to help him recruit companies for Capital Analysis to take public. Morgan insisted he needed Gary's emotional support now, so he brought him to New York for a few weeks. But it didn't take long for me to realize that what Gary did best was to drink with Morgan, and I saw him as just another parasite riding on Morgan's coattails, dragging him down.

Roger was a former trader in futures, like pork bellies and lima beans. He was a real go-getter, who also worked with Morgan in Florida, but left when he saw what a loon Derek was. Roger thought Morgan was brilliant but misguided, so he came to New York to give him a nudge in the right direction.

Morgan's new partner was a guy named Johnny Colorusso. This big lug thought himself a big cheese. He owned an electronics company in Connecticut which Morgan excitedly told me he was going to take public. Morgan set up an office in New York, and he was working with Roger to get things going again in Los Angeles.

He insisted that Capital Analysis, Inc. was his idea alone and that Derek wasn't going to keep him down. As his determination increased, his fear of facing an untimely death disappeared. As the weeks went by without incident, though I was relieved to see that Morgan seemed to be truly out of danger, for the most part, I now paid little attention to his business chatter. All I cared about was keeping my man happy at home.

Roger stayed in our phantom apartment by the water, the one no one ever lived in but into which we poured thousands of dollars for renovations. By this time, Morgan lost his taste for it, but he kept it temporarily as a good place to store business associates who came into town.

Roger was a fitness nut, about to enter a triathlon. He spent hours giving me pep talks about diet and exercise, then we'd meet Morgan and go eat. A few times, I actually did a jumping jack or two. I insisted that two was my limit, but when Roger just smiled and said "cellulite," I'd lay on the floor and pretend to pedal my bike.

Between the two of us, Roger was convinced that we could make Morgan shine like the Milky Way. When he excitedly told me about the remarkable idea they had come up with, to buy stock in an Olympic hopeful, I was sadly reminded of Magical Notes, Inc., the failed idea Morgan had when I met him, but I chose not to burst Roger's happy, little bubble.

Roger was in charge of the LA office and he had to get back, but he needed the money Morgan had promised him because he'd laid out a lot of his own to come East. Morgan was leaving for LA the day before Roger was scheduled to go. Morgan was waiting for money Johnny Colorusso promised him.

Morgan told me to cash a check on my line of credit and assured me that Johnny would pay me back. He told Roger that he was sorry, but he needed every penny of it himself since he was leaving the day before Roger, and that as soon as I got the money from Johnny, I would give Roger as much as he needed.

My line of credit was fast becoming a line of creditors, but though I tried, I couldn't say no to Morgan after he coldly told me I was standing in the way of our making a fortune. And though Morgan wanted everyone to think he had money stashed away, it was getting harder and harder to keep up this illusion, especially when people were waiting in line for money he owed them.

Morgan grabbed the $1,500, the last of my line of credit, out of my hand and took off for the airport. He was late, no time for kisses. He said he was going to see his daughter Daisy and his ex-wife, Rita. He'd probably stay at their house and, he added cruelly, Rita had only one bed. But don't worry, he said cheerfully, he'd sleep with Daisy between them. I was a basket case. Rita had been the furthest thing from my mind and now, with all I had to worry about, Morgan's mean streak dealt a particularly savage blow. But I had to pull myself together, because, at the moment, trying to recoup the $1,500 was my first priority.

Roger went with me to see Johnny. We picked up a check at his office made out to me and went straight to the bank. Roger could sense how upset I was, but my paranoia kept me from sharing the truth. The teller took the check, saying she'd return shortly. Fifteen minutes later, the manager appeared. "I'm sorry, but this check needs two signatures to be good. As you can see, there's only one here."

"Look," Roger stood firm, "I have to make a flight and we need to cash this check. Can't you call these guys and get authorization?"

"No, sir, I'm afraid only a signature will do."

Off we went, back to Johnny's office. On the way, I started crying and told Roger we were broke and desperate for money. I begged him not to tell Morgan. Roger said he'd figured this out weeks ago, but he knew how proud Morgan was and assured me he'd keep my confidence.

When we got to the office, Roger stormed in and demanded to see Johnny, who was nowhere to be found. When the secretary told him no one there could countersign the check, Roger went berserk. He roared at the secretary to get Johnny on the phone, and when she did, Roger yelled at him, insisting he'd better make good on that check because I had no money to live on until Morgan got back.

I could hear Johnny saying, "Calm the fuck down, it's just a mistake." He told Roger we should go back to the bank and he'd take care of everything, so back we went.

Johnny never called the bank, and even if he had, the Manager was simply not authorized to cash any checks for that account without two signatures. Roger had to get to the airport, so he couldn't argue anymore. Lucky for him, his ticket was prepaid.

On the way, we stopped at a bank and Roger got some cash off his own credit card. He insisted I take 20 bucks and told me to go back to Johnny's office and not leave until they gave me my money. After I deposited Roger at the airport, I returned to Johnny's office in the rental car I had gotten for Morgan.

My stomach was doing flip-flops to beat the band. I didn't want to do this, begging for money was not my style (even though I had gotten so good at it), but I really needed more than $20 to get me through.

When I walked in, the secretary immediately buzzed Johnny and he ran out like a rabid dog. He screamed in my face that Roger had no respect and that maybe he needed to be taught a lesson. Oh God, I sure didn't want Roger losing the use of his limbs on my account. I feverishly explained that he was only concerned about my welfare. Finally, Johnny calmed down a bit and told me that Morgan was on the phone talking with one of his associates and that he wanted to talk to me afterwards.

"What the FUCK are you doing?" Morgan hollered in my ear. This was all I needed, but I was too afraid to cry. "Linda, don't you fuck this up for me. What do you mean having Roger storm into Johnny's office yelling like a lunatic? I'm going to have a severe talk with that guy. Linda, you watch your mouth with Johnny and it just better not be fucked up for me."

Johnny didn't even offer me five bucks out of his own pocket. All he said was, he'd issue another check next week when the partner who needed to sign came back from vacation. And I knew that I might as well wave goodbye to the last of my line of credit. I hurt so badly inside and out, but instead of blaming Morgan, I blamed myself for fucking things up for Morgan.

The phone was ringing when I walked into my apartment. It was the car rental company. Weeks before, after I convinced the LA branch of the company to let Morgan rent a car on my account, he'd neglected to give the car back, and now they were wondering just where their vehicle might be. At this point, they were a wee bit suspicious they might never see it again and they were contemplating reporting it stolen. "Don't do that," I pleaded. "Let me talk to my boyfriend, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for this."

Since Morgan was nowhere to be found, I finally reached Gary, who was back in Las Vegas. The nice thing about Gary was that it was so easy to get information out of him. "Yeah, yeah, ok, don't tell Morgan I'm telling you this." Of course not, I lied. Gary began to spill it. "Well, he rented the car and he had to go back to Florida suddenly. He didn't have time to return it." What do you mean? "Well, ok, ok, he knew he'd be back so he kind of parked it somewhere. He was definitely going to get it back to them, though." Where is it now? "Gee, I don't really know. I guess he wasn't driving it when he got arrested for drunk driving. Gee, I ... I just don't know."

Later, when I reached Morgan, I demanded he return the car today or there'd be a warrant out for his arrest. Surprisingly, Morgan didn't argue. In fact, he couldn't have been sweeter. I guess the word arrest had a funny ring to it. Though Morgan was 99% sure I wouldn't go through with it, there must have been just that 1% doubt, because, by that afternoon, the car was returned, safely and in one piece. But somehow, he convinced the company to let him rent another car and bill us for the time on the missing one. Morgan called me back afterwards, delighted with his victory.

With this situation resolved, I had time to brood about everything else that was wrong with my life. Morgan had promised to wire me money that afternoon, but I knew it might or might not be forthcoming. Worse, I couldn't get the thought of Morgan, Rita, and Daisy having a jolly old time, out of my head. I was trying, really I was, to maintain the level of trust Morgan expected from me. But I felt like a punch drunk fighter who lays there taking blow after blow, meanwhile contemplating next week's fight.

The phone rang again, startling me out of my dank, dark reverie. "Hello," I said tentatively. Lately, I was always prepared for the worst.

"Yes, is this Linda Golden?" asked the crisp, clear voice on the other end of the phone.

I don't know anymore, lady. "Yes, this is she."

"This is American Express calling." Oh, God. "I have Mays Department Store on the line. There's a young lady here with your boyfriend's charge card. She's claiming to be his wife, but the card is on your account. She wants to make quite a large purchase and we would like to verify this information."

"Why don't you let me speak to her." I was squeezing the receiver so hard I thought it would crack in two, but I knew now was the moment to keep calm (or at least, sane). There was a long pause while I listened to happy Muzak on the line. They were playing a Carpenter's song about birds suddenly appearing whenever you are near. Bird poop, maybe.

"Ms. Golden, it seems the young lady ran out of the store."

"Could you please tell me her name." Another minute of happy Musak drifted by.

"Ms. Golden, all we got was the first name — Christine. Would you like me to stop the card and report it stolen?"

"YES, YES, stop the damn card! Kill the damn girl! And shoot me too, why don't you?" The voice on the other end laughed nervously. "Thank you Ms. Golden, we're sorry to have disturbed you. We'll take care of this right away." Click.

Sure, leave me here to stew in my own misery. I knew I wouldn't be able to reach Morgan until the morning. I was ready to throw whatever paltry belongings he had out the window with a big sign on his underwear telling the world his dirty, little secret. But when I finally reached Morgan, his response surprised me.

"Linda, that's awful. Of course you should have canceled the card. That son-of-a-bitch Al. That mother-fucker. He's setting me up. Linda, I'm so sorry. I know it's because of my drinking that I gave him the card and I'm just so sorry. I'll get that mother-fucker if it's the last thing I do! Oh God, Linda, I need help, I can't stop drinking and I want to. I know I have to. Linda, when I get back, please help me stop." What could I say to that? I couldn't actually blame Morgan for his actions when he was drunk, now could I?

"Linda, I have to go to Las Vegas to finish up this bullshit case. I love you and I can't wait to come home to you." He hung up before I could ask him about Rita and Daisy. Nothing must have happened, I told myself. After all, he said he loved me. But still, I wanted to puke.

Morgan arrived home three days later. He was sallow and more bloated than ever. His eyes looked so sad, but he cheered up when he told me his case got thrown out of court. He didn't say why and I was too concerned about his health to press him about it. "Linda, I feel so ill. I just want to sleep in your arms for the next two days." I didn't want to bring up the subject of Rita, not now, while he needed so much comforting. At least, that's what I told myself.

Morgan didn't leave the bedroom for three days. This time, there was no sex, just a weak and dried out Morgan. He complained about pain in his kidneys, but he wouldn't see a doctor. Morgan told me to lie to anyone who called about where he was. He didn't want them to know he was ill. I had no idea who all these people calling were, but each one of them was angry and demanded money Morgan owed them.

Eventually, Morgan had to go out to meet with some people. I could see the pain in his face as he limped around, but I also knew that when he made up his mind to do something, nothing could stop him.

The phone rang.

"Is Morgan there?" Now what?

"This is urgent, I have to find Morgan Phillips right away." This voice wasn't familiar, but it had that young blonde ring to it.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"Uh, uh, this is a friend of his."

"Do you have a name?" I didn't like the sound of this one bit.

"Well, my name is Janine. I'm Christine Connolly's sister. We really need to find Morgan. See, my sister, like she bailed him out of jail a while back and she wants her money. And now, like, she's pregnant with his baby and she's had like a nervous breakdown and she's in a place and like she really needs to talk to Morgan." I could hear giggling in the background. I thought my head would explode.

"Who the Hell is this? DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call here again." But I sat frozen with the receiver to my ear. I just couldn't hang up.

"Look, we really need to find him. Christine needs him right now. She doesn't know what to do [titters in the background]."

"Well," I said coldly, mustering up the little self-respect I had left, "she should have thought about that before she had sex. I'm sorry for her, but Morgan isn't here and I don't know when he'll return. He wants to be left alone and he doesn't want anything to do with your 'sister.'" I hung up. And burst into tears.

Four hours later, I was crying into my container of ice cream when the phone rang again. I didn't want to answer it, but morbid curiosity got the best of me.

I was tempted to answer 'What the hell do you want?,' but there was a good chance it was someone looking for Morgan whom I wouldn't want to offend, if you know what I mean. "Yes?" was all I could handle.

"Linda, this is Morgan's wife, Rita." Oh great, just what I needed. Was this some kind of cosmic joke? Was somebody up there getting their yuks putting salt into my wounds? "I realize we've never spoken, but I just got a very disturbing phone call and I thought you should know about it. Some girl named Christine called looking for Morgan. I told her he was with you and she laughed. She said she's been using your credit card for months and she's managed to spend at least $2,500. I thought you should know this, Linda. I'm really sorry. Believe me, I know how you must feel. After so many years with Morgan, I've been through it all." I was beyond words. In fact, I thought I was having an out-of-body experience. "Linda, Linda, are you there?"

"Uh, yes, Rita, believe me I'm not going anywhere."

"Look, Linda, you're not the first one he's been with. Tell you the truth, I've never liked any of them, but you seem different. Morgan talked about you a lot when I saw him. You really seem to be good for him. In fact, he told me he loves you and he cares about you more than any of the others."

"Others, what do you mean, 'others'? Morgan isn't seeing anyone else."

"Linda, he did say he's seeing some other women and then there's this Christine. I've broken up more than a few of Morgan's affairs. But since we've been separated, he's never been as serious with anyone as with you."

My brain was in overload, so I just tried to deal with one crushing blow at a time. "Divorced, Rita, you mean divorced, don't you?"

"Divorced? Linda, we're not divorced. Did Morgan tell you that? No, he doesn't want a divorce, told me not to file, that he'd fight it. In fact, when he comes home for Thanksgiving, we're going to talk about it." Thanksgiving? With Rita? What the hell was going on? "By the way, Linda, Morgan told me you were worried about him visiting us. Well, everything was platonic. As far as I'm concerned, it really is over between us."

I'd heard enough. I needed to process this whole day. Probably the best idea was to shut the phone off and go hide under the bed for the rest of my life. I thanked Rita for her concern and shakily hung up the phone. My whole world was crashing down around me. I sat on the bed, without moving, for nearly three hours.

Morgan's anger reached rare heights when I told him all that had happened while he was out. I didn't care because there was no way he'd be able to explain this. I was going to have to face the ugly truth and move on. But ... leave it to Morgan to change all that.

"Linda, what did you fucking tell them? Why did you talk to them at all? Why didn't you just hang up? I don't want you talking to Rita. She can be really evil. I don't trust her and you shouldn't either. I told you what she did to me, how she stole my money ... not to mention my lawyer. Man, Linda, when are you going to learn to keep your big, fucking mouth shut? And when are you going to start trusting ME instead of everyone else?"

After he calmed down, he said, "Derek, I'm going to kill that Derek. Look, Linda, I didn't tell you about this before because I didn't want to worry you, but when I went to Las Vegas, I found out that Derek had even got to Gary and turned him against me. Gary, my best friend. He paid him off to set me up for a hit. The whole thing with this Christine is part of it. And this fucking bullshit about me seeing other women. Man, I barely have time for you, when the hell would I fit anybody else into my life? I can't take this much longer. They're trying to destroy me and everything that's important to me. Don't you see, they want to turn you against me too. But you can't let them." This was the best story ever. I guess that's why I always believed him. His explanations were so terribly complex and detailed, so utterly spontaneous, it seemed they had to be true. Or maybe I was just that gullible. But there was still one question left unanswered.

"Morgan, are you still married to Rita?" Without missing a beat, he insisted they weren't married and that Rita was trying to break up our relationship because she wanted him back and that's why she called me. But something didn't feel right. I told Morgan that I would check the records in Las Vegas and I wouldn't give up until I found proof that they were still married or divorced.

Morgan looked very embarrassed as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Linda, ok, ok ... we're still married. But we're separated and I'm getting a divorce. It's over between Rita and me, Linda. I love you. I wanted to tell you, but on the bus when I met you, you said you would never go out with a married man and I fell in love with you that night."

"What about Thanksgiving, Morgan?"

"Of course I'm going to spend Thanksgiving with you. I thought I might have to be in LA, but no, I want to spend it with you." We went to bed and Morgan fell asleep immediately. I, on the other hand, mulled over the stories I had heard today, looking for holes in the cheese. But when you wear rose-colored glasses, the cheese looks as solid as cheddar.

The next morning, Morgan left for a meeting and I didn't hear from him again until he stumbled in at two a.m. "I love her, Linna, and I love you too. Donnow wha ta do, donnow wha ta do, donnow wha ta do." With that, he passed out right before my eyes. Dragging a 250 pound, 6'2" man to bed is not easy, especially when he's dead weight, but, a passed out drunk just didn't go with my decor, so I undressed him and tucked him into bed. I sat on the rocking chair next to him, wondering why I was here. I looked at this broken down man, so full of genius, and I felt incredibly sorry for him. And then, I felt incredibly sorry for myself.

After Morgan slept off his quart of scotch, he talked about the confusion that tore at his heart. Yes, he thought it was over with Rita, but now it really hit him just how hard it was going to be to let go of that much of his past, his youth, his innocence. After hearing all this, I decided that since I couldn't control anything else in my life, well, if Morgan was going to choose Rita, then it was meant to be.

And I felt a huge sense of relief.

***

Thanksgiving was approaching. I received another call from American Express. This time, they wondered where their payment was. I explained that we were having a difficult time (gulp) and a check would be forthcoming. I told the lady how upset I was about all the charges made by people I didn't know. The representative sounded sincere when she told me she felt badly for me because the debts were in excess of $25,000 and, as far as she could tell, I'd only signed for about $1,000 of the bills. She said they'd try to work with me, but they really needed a payment. After Morgan's last trip out west, I made him hand the cards over. Two were missing. He couldn't remember what happened to them. But there was no need for me to put a stop to them. They were useless now.

The day after I spoke with American Express, more bills piled in. Among them was a receipt for a dinner show ... in Las Vegas ... in Morgan's hotel during his last stay ... signed by Christine Connolly. But Morgan stuck by his story about a setup and angrily said this was the last time he was going to repeat it. He didn't want to hear about this Christine bitch anymore, she had nothing to do with him.

To make matters worse, Morgan continued vacillating between me and Rita, coming in night after night wailing and whining about his inability to make a decision. Finally, I told Morgan to make up his mind because I was sick and tired of hearing about how he was torn apart by love for me and love for Rita. And then I told him to put a sock in it and get the hell out of my life, after which I stormed out. When I got back, Morgan was gone. Two days later, Rita called me, desperately worried about Morgan. He had phoned her, drunk and raving, terrified that I was going to leave him.

She was afraid that Morgan might harm himself and she told me details about the horror story she lived with him, including the other marriages he'd entered into while still with her. Rita told me that she was going to file for a divorce on Monday, and swore me to secrecy because she didn't want Morgan to try and stop her.

"Linda, I love him, but we're just no good together. I can't run around the country anymore, changing names, living a lie. Morgan is a sociopath, he doesn't care what the rules are, he just goes by his own. Now that I have Daisy, I can't live that kind of life. I need to think about her. And I can't put up with the infidelity, but the thing is, I know I'll never find anyone like Morgan. I'll never stop loving him, Linda, but it really is over between us. I'm seeing someone else now. He's older, boring, but wealthy. Linda, you're good for him; you can't leave Morgan now. He needs you. Don't give up on him." Rita's voice was trembling. By the time we hung up, we felt like the best of friends. It was a strange camaraderie, but we certainly had a lot in common.

Morgan showed up later that night, loaded to the gills. He staggered in, burst into tears, and managed to make it to a chair before collapsing. He didn't pass out, just went on and on about how he needed me to survive.

I told him about the phone call I received. "Rita, you talked to Rita?" Morgan was more wistful than wigged out about it. "How is she? Oh, Linda," Morgan's fat, bloppy tears rolled down his fat, red cheeks, "I want to talk to her. I want to talk to Rita. I love her, Linda, I love her." Now, didn't he just tell me not two minutes ago that he couldn't live without me?

Again, I stepped outside my body and watched the scene before me unfold. "Linda, call her, get her on the phone for me. I have to talk to her, tell her I love her." My body went to the phone and dialed the number. Rita was surprised to hear from me so soon. Morgan yanked the receiver out of my hand and lightened up. "Rita, is that you? Hi. Hi. How is Daisy?" After a few minutes, they began reminiscing about their lives together.

Suddenly, Morgan burst into tears again and said, "Rita, I love Linda. I love her so much... " He couldn't go on, he was overcome with emotion ... fat, bloppy ones charged down his face. He handed me the receiver. I could hear Rita crying, too.

"Linda, I miss him so much, but you're so good for him. Oh, Linda, I know I'll never find anyone like him, no one as wonderful, as charming, as exciting... "

This was ridiculous. These two nuts belonged together. They deserved each other. "Rita, Morgan, look, I think you two should get back together and try to work things out." At this point, I just wanted to get it over with. If Morgan and Rita rode off into the sunset, then I would be free, and he would be her problem again. Never before had I dared to entertain such radical thoughts regarding the "love of my life."

But sitting there, privy to all this nonsense, I had the powerful realization that if this was as wonderful as it gets, I'd opt for the monastic life. If Rita wanted him all that badly, then more power to her. I just didn't want to fight about it anymore. Now Morgan was moaning about loving Rita again, so I handed the receiver to him and sat back to watch the show. Forty minutes and a box of tissues later, it was over. Morgan was staying with me.

Drats, I thought, embarrassed by my lack of enthusiasm. But my ego got the better of me and I talked myself into believing, once again, that this was the relationship that was meant to be, and I just needed to work even harder to bring the magic back.

***

Thanksgiving was here. Actually, the turkey would rear its ugly head in 24 hours. I was determined to make a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner for Morgan, who had gone off to Long Island. Earlier that week, he had run into Frankie Russo at Johnny's office. Frankie, Morgan said, was a good guy, someone he'd worked with briefly many years back. It occurred to me that Morgan's partners were starting to sound like the cast of "The Godfather." But Frankie had given us money to get through the holidays.

Today, Morgan was meeting him at his long Island home to work out a deal to rescue his books from storage, so I didn't make a fuss. He promised to be back by two the next day and then we'd celebrate Thanksgiving together. I knew that this holiday meant the world to Morgan, who had lived most of his life with no sense of family.

I didn't have a clue how to cook a Thanksgiving dinner. Oh, sure, I could burn a burger with the best of them, but a turkey? And besides the turkey, there was cranberry sauce and stuffing to consider. Rhonda. Rhonda knew everything.

"Linda, it's easy. Just get one of those turkeys with the little pop-up thing-y in it. It'll tell you when it's done." She gave me her recipe for stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pecan pie. Make a pie? As far as I was concerned, meat came pre-wrapped and dessert sat in a tin on the supermarket shelf. But I was determined to do this ... or die trying.

Off I went to buy a turkey and all the fixin's. I lugged home three bags of groceries and dragged my poor turkey in a plastic bag behind me. I laid the ingredients on the table and stood before them, as though before an alter. As I began to work on the cranberry sauce, I had a disturbing thought. What if the recipes have an error in them? What if the turkey thing-y is defective? I didn't want to deal with Morgan's wrath if this dinner was less than perfect. And then, as in a vision, I knew what I had to do. I put the food in the refrigerator and went to the place where I should have gone all along, the place that would solve all my Thanksgiving problems.

Zabars. The best deli on the face of the earth. It was mobbed, mostly by young women who clearly knew they'd be in trouble without the magic of Zabars. One cooked turkey, two pounds of stuffing, a quart of cranberry sauce, and two pecan pies later, I was home free. I slept the sleep of the blessed that night and couldn't wait for tomorrow afternoon.

I gave my frozen turkey to a neighbor, a nice lady who always wore an apron in the middle of the day. This, I thought, is a person who deserves a frozen turkey. I set the table and warmed up the food I would call my own with a heart full of joy. Morgan would never know that my little hands hadn't washed each cranberry that went into the sauce.

By six p.m., the dinner was wilting. I should have seen it coming, but I hoped beyond hope that he'd show up after making such a big deal about this holiday. Good thing I bought two pies, I thought, as I scooped out the remains of pie number one.

At ten p.m., I heard the key in the lock. I'd long since put the food away and gone to bed, but there was no way I could sleep.

Morgan could barely walk. He mumbled, "where's the turkey?" and tripped over the rocking chair. He laid still where he fell for a moment, long enough for me to wonder if he was badly hurt, and then he moaned and rolled onto his back. The next sound I heard was a deep, reverberating snore coming from the pathetic heap on the floor. I went to the refrigerator and finished off pie number two.

~~~

# PART II: The Scam

~~~

## Chapter Ten: A Gun is a Terrible Thing to Waste

Morgan recovered from his Thanksgiving bender and I recovered from the pecan pies. A week after our holiday fiasco, he came home sober and elated. "Linda, Linda, I love you! I love you! This is it! This is truly it, the one that's going to send me straight to the top." The words sent a chill right through me. Still, seeing Morgan sober was a special treat, and I wanted to relish it.

"What do you think of the name Force Technology? Huh? Huh? Force Technology, Linda. What do you think?" I just nodded and waited for Morgan to tell me about his newest venture.

Morgan found a company that wanted to go public, a company that manufactured weapons for the government, a company that truly existed. Lehigh-Kupper's main office was in Rhode Island. Morgan assured me that I could check them out if I wanted to. Jack Berenson, President of Lehigh-Kupper, was duly impressed with Morgan. Yes, Lehigh-Kupper was going places and Jack Berenson was sure that Morgan was the man to help them get there.

"There's just one problem," Morgan said. Run for the hills was my first instinct as those four little words popped out of my man's mouth. "It's no big deal, but I really need your help." And those ten words made me want to take a plane to get there.

"Berenson wants to see something I've done, some company that I've successfully taken public. I've gotta move fast, gotta get something going. I have this idea. There's this company. Well, it's not exactly a company. It's a shell..." Morgan was talking so fast, I could hardly keep up with him. "A shell is a company that does no business, but you buy out the stockholders ... and you can make it be anything you want!"

Huh?

Consolidated Technical, Inc. had no employees, no product, no earnings. But it existed, somewhere in the ozone. Now how on earth can you have stockholders if the company doesn't produce anything? It didn't make a whit of sense to me, but then, what the hell did I know about making money? All I seemed able to do anymore was watch it slide through my fingertips.

"Linda, my love, this time, you gotta help me. I can't do this without you. Look, you want me to go straight, right? Well, I need your help to do it. Please, please, type some forms for me. This isn't like going to New Jersey to cash stock certificates. This is different. We're going to make it with this one. You just have to do this one thing. I gotta go now. I have a meeting with Jake. I'll have the stuff for you to type in a couple of days. Linda, I love you and I want you with me forever!"

Jake Friedman was an out of work stockbroker, a slime ball whom Morgan had recently taken up with, one who could drink even Morgan under the table. When Jake called, usually early in the morning, I'd wash my ear off as soon as we hung up, that's how repulsive he sounded. The gravelly, slurred monotone was both difficult to understand, and surprising at 10 am. Whenever Morgan went off to a meeting with Jake, he'd return at least 24 hours later, full of remorse and promises.

Morgan's face looked more and more like a fat skull and crossbones to me. After these outings, he'd stay in bed for at least another 24 hours to recuperate, unless some crisis arose. Then he'd jump out of bed with a burst of strength and get where he had to go, which was usually to meet Frankie Russo, the guy who had given us money to live on these past few weeks. But one morning, while Morgan was at one of his extended meetings with Jake, I got an enraged call from Frankie.

"Where is that Mother-fucker?! I've had it with him!" Frankie, I suspected, was not a person you wanted angry with you. "I'm sorry Frankie, but I don't know where he is. Did you have a meeting?" I put on my best, polite, young lady voice.

"Yeah, this morning and the past two weeks. I'm trying to help him and he's fucking things up for himself. I got these guys from Lehigh-Kupper and they want him, but they're gonna stop wanting him if he doesn't fucking get his fucking act together. He's fucking drinking himself out of business here. He'd better get rid of that Jake. Dump him ... and fast. That guy's a fucking asshole. I'm tellin' ya', Morgan better do what I tell him. He better not make trouble for me, do you hear?"

Since Frankie obviously knew about Morgan's alcoholism, I thought that perhaps I could appeal to his compassionate side. "Frankie, you know that Morgan has a problem, a severe drinking problem. I do understand how you feel, but he just can't help himself. He wants to get help, but he's just too ... "

Frankie interrupted me, "I don't give a shit what the fuck his problem is. You just tell him he better get his shit together or else. That's all. Or else." Slam. So much for the sympathetic approach.

Morgan wobbled in at about 5 p.m.. He was pretty lucid for someone who'd been drinking all day and he yelled at me for talking to Frankie. There was no damned meeting this morning, he insisted. Naturally, it was Frankie's mistake, but when Morgan got him on the phone, all I heard from our end was, "I'm sorry, Frankie, I'm sorry," and Morgan left shortly thereafter to meet him.

It seemed that wherever I was, Morgan wasn't. Now, he waxed poetic about Long Island, where he was going to make his "permanent home." The waterfront apartment was taken away from us when Morgan decided to simply stop paying the rent. I didn't get that I could be in Morgan's back pocket and he'd find a way to switch pants without telling me, and I was still determined to make a normal life for us, which included living in the same place at the same time for more than three days. I told Morgan I wanted to move to Long Island, too.

My rent-controlled apartment was about to go co-op, which meant that tenants had the first right to grab up their apartment (for about six times what it would be worth in a sane society). Outsiders would be charged nearly twice what the current tenants would pay. I was in a pretty good position. All I had to do was find somebody to buy my overpriced piece of Manhattan. Within one week of spreading the word, I had a buyer for my apartment.

"It's a Merry, Merry Christmas, it's the best time of the year..." The cheery song rang out as I traveled the 10 flights down the elevator. By the second week of December, I had that tax-free $10,000 check in my hand. I floated down the elevator from the lawyer's office who handled the transaction for some nameless, faceless, Japanese businessmen.

So here I was, wealthier, but surely not wiser, because I told Morgan about my financial windfall. Where were we going to live, I wondered? I knew we'd move out to the Island, but when? And where would we live in the meantime? We had one week to vacate the premises.

We moved into the Smythe House, an apartment hotel three blocks from my former home. Despite its ritzy name, our room was blue and depressing. Moving was even more depressing. Since Morgan couldn't deal with such "mundane details" and he suddenly had to fly to LA, I was left to pick up the pieces for a change. What I couldn't carry, I gave away or put into storage. The rest, I lugged over piece by piece or in a taxi. Christmas was approaching, but now, instead of feeling joyous, I was frazzled and lonely.

By December 17, I was settled in, if you can call living in a dank hotel room settled in. Our room had one round, white Formica table and three grayish-green, pitted vinyl chairs. The sofa was a lovely shade of pea, which contrasted ever so nicely with the peeling blue paint, all of which made my old apartment seem as spacious and elegant as the Taj Mahal.

Morgan conveniently came back the day after I moved into this $500 a week palace. Of course, when I asked him for the first month's rent, he brought out the old stand by that he just couldn't part with any of his money right now.

Once again, I waved bye-bye to my money and wished it a good life.

A few days later, Morgan burst into the room and jammed a stack of papers into my hands. "Ok, Linda, I have the stuff for you to type. I need you to put this whole thing together for me."

"Lehigh-Kupper is ready to go into escrow. You gotta get this done by tomorrow night, no, no, by tomorrow morning at the latest. This stuff has to get to the SEC by Thursday. Look, I gotta go, I gotta go. Ok, all you have to do is retype these forms. Just make sure you change Consolidated Technical to Force Technology. I wrote in the names of the Board of Directors. Just put 'em in there. You're great at this stuff, just put it together. I promise I'll be back by 8 tonight. Don't worry about doing this. It's just to show the guys at Lehigh-Kupper. Just remember that. There's nothing wrong with your doing this, Linda. You believe in me, don't you? Well, I gotta prove to these guys that I have a track record. I'll call to see how it's going. Gotta run now." Morgan whooshed out the door before I'd said one word.

I sat on the bed and looked at the work ahead of me. All I cared about was the legibility of the changes, the number of pages, the document setup. I glanced at the forms and saw that Force Technology, Inc. had merged with Consolidated Technical, Inc. Force Technology was submitting information about its Board of Directors and assets so it would be eligible to trade on the Stock Exchange. It would go on the "Pink Sheets," an area for small or "penny" stocks — companies just starting to trade.

According to these forms, Force Technology was a new company which manufactured state-of-the-art weapons for the government. Its Board of Directors included President Lawrence Johnson, Vice President Grant Buchner, and Secretary/Treasurer Alvin Abramowitz. Force Technology's assets exceeded $400,000 and these assets were spelled out in explicit detail in the report.

Unfortunately, I didn't give the content much thought. If I had, I would have realized that Morgan was sending information to the Securities and Exchange Commission about a company that didn't exist except on the paper I was about to type up. Not only didn't I see the forest for the trees, but I couldn't even see the trees for the one leaf that had me mesmerized.

At 2:30 that afternoon, I turned on my sturdy, little computer and began typing. At two a.m., I was still typing, though my bleary eyes were aching to close. I didn't want to disappoint Morgan, who hadn't shown up yet. When he arrived at three a.m., he barely made it to the bed before passing out. At four am, I finished typing the last of the forms and crawled into bed next to him. Lucky for him I didn't have any Superglue on hand that night or he might have had his family jewels permanently attached to his thigh.

"This is terrific! You did a great job, but we still have a lot of work to do." Morgan was particularly chipper for someone sleeping off two bottles of scotch. I, on the other hand, placed the pillow over my head and scrunched my eyes shut trying to recapture that blissful sleeping state. Unfortunately, it was 9 am and Morgan was on a schedule.

I proofed the forms over and over for typographical errors. I had typed them exactly as Morgan told me to. "Linda, we have to tape this label on the top of the form. Get me a scissors." The label was the Seal of the State of Delaware confirming that Force Technology was an incorporated company. Something wasn't quite right here.

"Morgan, this seems illegal." The light bulb began to shine, dim though it was. "You can't do this, Morgan. You'll get caught."

"No I won't, Linda. I told you, I've always been lucky. Anyway, we're going to merge with Lehigh-Kupper and this will all go away. It's just to show them, I told you. The only way they'll believe me is if Force is actually trading stock. Don't you get it. Jesus Christ, Linda, I'm so close to making it. I just need this chance."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Lehigh-Kupper doesn't exist, but you think it's going to be confirmed for trading. What if somebody wants to see a gun?"

"No, no, that won't happen. Anyway, Linda, maybe we will produce weapons. Who knows how big this will get. Hey there are some big companies who started out just like this. Yeah, they had an idea and a company but no product. Then, poof, they developed their product. It's not illegal, Linda. It's the American Way. Hey if this merges with Lehigh, it'll become real, very real, I promise you. And, I told you, once I take these guys public, Force Technology will just disappear."

"Well, who are these guys on the Board of Directors? Are they real?" I was too confused.

"Well, they can be. It doesn't matter. Linda, stop asking so many questions. Just help me finish this. Get over here and help me tape this on." He was cutting off the seal from his original Consolidated Technical form.

"Morgan, don't you think somebody will see that you taped the seal on?"

"No, of course not. I'm going to copy it first before I send it."

"I can't believe this. Morgan, do you really think you can fool the government?" Apparently, he did, because, with my help, he put the finishing touches on the documents and took off for the post office. I felt like there was a basketball in my stomach, but as usual, I ignored it. I'm not in any trouble, I told myself, I'm just along for the ride. Anyway, this thing will explode the minute somebody in authority takes a look at it ... I hope.

Christmas was now three days away. Morgan was anxious because a week had passed since he sent his tour de force to the SEC and he'd heard nothing. But he finally became infected with the Christmas spirit and his good humor made me want to ho-ho-ho too.

We went shopping at FAO Schwartz to find just the right present for Daisy. When we walked in, we were greeted by a talking, singing bear, and Morgan knew this was the toy for him ... I mean Daisy. He sent the bear overnight express to his daughter and we took one home with us. That night and for weeks afterwards, Morgan insisted on hearing the lilting tones of Harry, the fuzzy brown bear with the orange bowtie, as he drifted off to sleep.

The next day, Morgan heard from the SEC. He was jubilant when he called to tell me that they passed Force Technology through for trading. Though I didn't yet understand the implications, I did know that things weren't going the way I'd hoped. Morgan reassured me that he still planned to abandon this ruse once Lehigh-Kupper signed on the dotted line.

"Ok Linda, now we have to put together a shareholders' report." Wait a minute, this didn't sound like abandonment to me. "I'm almost home with Lehigh, but they need to see a report. What kind of company operates without a shareholders' report? Can you get that graphic artist, what was his name? Timmy? The guy who did the book stuff. Can you get him to work on it?"

Like an addict who needed her fix, I felt compelled to continue with this madness, compelled to make the best shareholders' report possible, compelled to convince myself I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was just helping Morgan go straight, right?

We set out in search of pictures for the shareholders' report. Guns, weapons of any kind were on our hit list. We scoured magazine after magazine and found several suitable weapons, but Morgan wanted more. He wanted a gun that would blow away anything conventional. So off we went again, in search of the perfect weapon.

I dragged him into a bookstore on Third Avenue which had a huge collection of paperbacks. After 15 minutes, Morgan's eyes lit up. "That's it! There's our gun!" He burst out laughing and pointed to a book on the bottom shelf. On the cover was the most outlandish drawing of a space gun I'd ever seen. I tried to reason with him, but he insisted this was the gun. And so, the "LX30-Ringfoil," an anti-terrorist, state-of-the-art weapon, was born. According to the, as yet non-existent, Shareholders' Report, 100,000 units had already been commissioned by the government, even though the product was still in the design stage (which would explain why a drawing was presented instead of a photograph).

As we walked home hand in hand, I laughed along with Morgan. This was truly the most outlandish situation I'd ever been in. I believed the man beside me was a creative genius, who only needed my help to funnel his talents in the right direction.

Force Technology was too ridiculous to take seriously. I was sure it was only a matter of moments before someone saw that the Emperor was naked. Yes, only a matter of moments. And then, Morgan would be touted as a brilliant advertising artiste and he would open his own advertising agency. Well, that's what I hoped for anyway.

On the way home, we noticed some photographs in the hallway of a photography studio whose front door was ajar. Impressive portraits of serious-looking CEO types. "Man, these are just what I need for the shareholders' report. I have to have pictures of the Board of Directors." I was nervous. "No, Morgan, you cannot steal the pictures off this man's wall."

"Jesus, Linda, where the hell am I going to find pictures? You have to see Timmy tomorrow and give him everything. It's gotta be done by early next week because they have to have it by New Years.

Before I knew it, I heard myself saying, "Morgan, I can get you pictures. There's a book at the agency that has photos of every leading man in the country."

"Linda, really? Would you do that for me?" Suddenly, it felt as though that basketball wedged into my belly even tighter.

"No, no Morgan, you aren't serious. No, I can't do that, really. I was just kidding. Most of these actors work. Someone will recognize them."

"I told you I'd always protect you, Linda. No one will ever know you did this, I swear. Oh Linda, you gotta do this for me. C'mon. I told you, nobody's going to see this but the guys at Lehigh-Kupper. I told you nothing's going to happen. They'll look at it and that'll be the end of it. I promise."

In a funny way, it was my old profession that convinced me Morgan had a point; that there was nothing wrong with the momentous step I was about to take. After eight years in advertising, the line between reality and fiction was far too blurry. How many times had I cast a commercial for a product I believed was harmful to people? How many times had I cast a person in a commercial whom I knew lied to get the role? Like when I had to find a licensed real estate agent for a floor wax ad.

It may come as no surprise that there are few actors who are real estate professionals, although the reverse may often be true. After weeks of auditioning one pathetic performer after another, we were desperate. The client demanded we find someone acceptable immediately. The next morning, we found an actress whose third cousin was a real estate agent and, miracle of miracles, they shared the same name. The actress had taken some real estate classes, but never actually got her own license. Good enough, we said, after seeing her brilliant performance. The commercial ran for three years.

I can't count the number of times I've hired actors to play company presidents with a cold, bankers with bad backs, stockbrokers sipping seltzer. These people all pretended to be who they weren't in order to sell something. Sure, the product is real, but there are many people across this great country who believe they are buying the cold remedy recommended by a CEO. After all, if that weren't the case, why would they bother hiring an actor to play the part in the first place?

Sometimes, the agency, for legal reasons, had to place a disclaimer that the person portraying the doctor [lawyer, carpenter, baseball player] was really an actor, but the disclaimer was usually the size of a bread crumb, stuck on the bottom left of the screen, and appeared for something like three seconds. Yes, I'd been helping to con the public for eight years... and it was perfectly legal.

Of course, I wanted out of the business because of my belief that, for example, telling kids to drink beverages that contained more chemicals than a pharmacy was wrong. But at that moment, standing in front of those portraits with Morgan, the blurry line stayed blurry for me and I convinced myself that what Morgan asked me to do was really no different than what I had done for the past eight years.

The next morning, two days before Christmas, I went to my old place of employment and did what I had done so many times before. I took the book that was filled with actors' pictures to find someone to play a part.

***

Timmy was glad to see me. And why not? Morgan paid him well for his work on the book. No one was around. Christmas time in an advertising agency is like a bakery in a diet club. I gave Timmy the mountain of material Morgan wanted translated into an Interim Shareholders' Report. While Timmy perused the papers, I scoured the book for pictures of the Board of Directors. There were hundreds to choose from because even the most successful performers knew they needed constant exposure to ensure that next job. Consequently, there were pictures of household names next to complete unknowns.

I needed to match a face to a name. Lawrence Johnson, President. Grant Buchner, Vice President. Alvin Abramowitz, Treasurer. After two hours, I found my Board of Directors. The man who would be Alvin was no longer in the acting profession. He now owned a computer marketing firm. He looked like a Jewish accountant, the kind my mother wanted me to marry.

Lawrence Johnson was a bit tougher. The one person who fit him to a tee still worked, but he was getting on in age, so I figured his bid for stardom and instant recognition was past, unless one of the guys at Lehigh-Kupper happened to live next door to him.

Grant Buchner, V.P. This one, sad to say, was pretty easy. The person whom I chose for that role was no longer among the living. A promising leading man in his forties, he'd died of a heart attack just a year ago, right after the current volume hit the presses.

I needed to create the best shareholders' report I could so Morgan would see how talented I was. And then maybe I could stir up those juices inside of him so we could make love again. The way things were going, I certainly didn't have to worry about getting pregnant any longer.

"Linda, phone call. It's Morgan."

"Yeah, Morgan, what is it. I'm working." I could afford to be snitty. Now, he needed me.

"Ok, ok, Linda, look. There's a problem. You gotta get one of the guys there to sign as Abramowitz. That's the one signature I forgot to get."

"Uh, Morgan, what am I supposed to say to get someone to do that? It will seem strange, don't you think?" Timmy was standing next to me while I spoke to Morgan.

"Linda, fuckin' tell them anything. I don't care, just get it done." He hung up in a fury.

"Look, Timmy, uh, uh, we sort of have this problem. As you know, this is just a prototype document and well, that darned Morgan, he forgot to get a signature for the Treasurer. Can you, uh, you know, get someone to sign it?" Luckily, Timmy was only concerned about the quality of his work, and his paycheck, of course. "Sure, Linda, no problem." His tone suggested a wink. Like I said, in advertising, the lines become real blurred. I left Timmy with plenty of work to do and he promised I could pick up the finished product in the morning.

The report was gorgeous, magnificent, thoroughly professional ... frighteningly real. The description of Force Technology's full product line was taken straight out of the pages of the gun magazines we bought. Morgan included a picture of Lehigh-Kupper's executive offices, along with a press release about their upcoming merger with Force Technology. Lawrence Johnson, Force Technology's president, was quite pleased with his seven million dollar acquisition, the amount it would take to buy out Lehigh-Kupper.

Of course, no Shareholder's Report would be complete without a balance sheet of assets and liabilities, which were provided in meticulous detail. It wasn't until much, much later, I discovered those figures, thrown together so haphazardly, hadn't been calculated by anyone ... including the Securities and Exchange Commission. Force Technology's assets were off by $98,232. Their liabilities and equity were miscalculated by $345,888.

***

Christmas Eve morning, I picked up the Shareholders' Report from Timmy at 10 am. There were a couple of other guys around and Timmy laughingly pointed out one as the person who signed the Treasurer's signature. Yes, we all had a good yuk over that.

I had to rush because Morgan needed to get the report to the printers by noon. He was delirious about my choice of the Board of Directors and delighted with the finished report. I was quite pleased, myself. It seemed so real that I forgot, for just a moment, that Force Technology had no product, no assets, no Board of Directors. "Gotta go, early day, so I'll be home by 4, I promise." Morgan raced out the door clutching his treasure trove.

Long about midnight, he waddled in, sloshed with the Christmas spirit ... make that spirits. But he had a present ... for me. It was a wool coat with checkerboard squares. A big, sloppy wool coat. I loved it. He told me he picked it out with his ol' buddy, Jake. They saw it in the window of a store in Queens. When Jake commented, "That's sure a messy thing," Morgan said he knew it was meant for me. After telling me this, he ran out of steam and crumpled, along with my new coat, in a pile on the floor. My muscles were getting quite a workout swooping up all this dead weight. After I tucked him into bed, I tried on my wool coat and cried with joy.

We had a wonderful Christmas. Morgan stayed home the whole day. He read the paper while I put together the toys I'd bought him. These were lively monster models, expensive little trinkets from a specialty shop called The Status Quo, which had all manner of gadgets, from electronic robots to automated fly swatters. It was Morgan's favorite store.

That afternoon Morgan told me Jake had a friend who worked in the Jewelry District. "I promise, Linda," he said, "that as soon as money starts coming in, I'll get you a gorgeous ring." Later that day, Jake called to wish Morgan a Merry Christmas and he put me on the phone.

"Hi, Jake," (ycch).

"Hey, Linda, Merry Christmas. Listen, did Morgan tell you about the ring he wants to get you?"

"Yeah, Jake, how convenient of you to mention it."

"No, Linda, really, my friend has some great stuff. Morgan's gonna give him some stock just as soon as the certificates are ready." That gave me pause.

As the week proceeded, I realized that I was almost getting used to doing without sex, and I relished those evenings when we'd snuggle and tickle each other's backs, that ol' singing bear by our side. Morgan came home drunk night after night, but I was glad he came home. He felt sick as a dog, his kidneys ached so badly he could hardly walk until 10 the next morning, but he just wasn't willing to give up the drug that was poisoning him.

It was the morning of New Year's Eve. Somewhere around October, I began telling Morgan how much this holiday meant to me. It's the one holiday for couples only, and any year I was a couple, I wanted to make darned sure I got my money's worth. My idea of the perfect New Years' was renting a movie, staying in, making love, and falling asleep around 11. Watching a ball drop really wasn't the point.

"Linda, I know how important this is to you. Please believe me, I'll be there for you." Jake had invited us to his house in Brooklyn for a party, but Morgan was adamant that he wanted to stay in with me. There was even a hint of sex in the atmosphere.

Morgan left around 10 with those familiar words, "It's a short day, I'll be home by 3 and we'll have the whole night together. I won't disappoint you."

I decided to have a positive attitude. So I shopped all morning for the perfect negligee and settled for a lacy, pink, flowing number that hid all my figure faults and emphasized my maternal breasts, which were two of my best points. But 4 p.m. came and went with no word from Morgan. By 5, I had consumed a large number of cream-filled donuts. At 9:30, I received a call from Brooklyn.

"Linda, it's me. Come on down. The party's great. I want you to come down right away. I miss you, my love." KABOOM! "You promised, Morgan, you promised you wouldn't ruin this day for me and you aren't here. I'm sick of believing your lies. I hate your guts. I'm all alone on the one day I care about."

"Linda, please my darling, come down here." I could hear glasses clinking and people laughing in the background, which explained Morgan's persistent good humor in the face of my rage.

"Darling, get into a cab and come down here. I know I said I'd be home, but we got tied up and, well, I'm calling you now. Please come down." Suddenly, I heard a familiar, slimy voice, "Linda, this is Jake. Morgan really wants you to be with him tonight. We'll have some fun. Come on."

Brooklyn was an hour away. I looked out the window. Rain plunked down, soaking the windowsill. Good luck finding a cab, I thought, but I swallowed my rage because Morgan did call. Still, I wanted to strangle Jake for derailing my man from our planned evening.

When Morgan got back on the phone, I was much calmer. "Morgan, I don't want to be with you if you're going to drink yourself silly because you won't pay any attention to me. I'll have an awful time. Besides, the last person I want to see is that skeevy Jake."

"Linda, if you want, I'll come home right now, but I think if you give Jake a chance, you'll like him. I promise I won't drink too much tonight." But I could already hear traces of the whining slur that characterized Morgan's drinking sprees. Still, because I wanted so much for him to want me, I tried to be a good sport and told him I'd get a cab right away.

After I quickly redid my makeup, it was 10:45. When I walked outside in my four inch heels, I knew it was hopeless to try to find a cab as I stood on the street at 11 p.m. on New Year's Eve, soaking up the raindrops.

At 11:20, my mascara swam the distance from my eyes to my chin and I looked like a clown in mourning. The rain hadn't let up, but it was my tears that created the path for my makeup. I ran into my apartment on wobbly legs and called Morgan back. I could barely stop crying long enough to be understood. "Morgan, I, I ... there's no cab and I ... " I couldn't go on. "Linda, I'm sending a limo for you. Just wait there." Morgan sounded surprisingly sober considering it was nearly midnight, but as far as I was concerned, it was just too late.

A new voice came on the line. "Linda, you don't know me, my name is Robert. Morgan really wants you to get over here. We're going to call the limo company right now."

"Look, buddy, I don't know who you are, but I'm not coming. I just don't want to, this isn't right, this isn't right." I kept on crying.

Morgan came back on the phone and I lost it. "Morgan, if you'd kept your word, I wouldn't be alone right now. I hate you for this, for this humiliation. These people must think I'm some kind of bitch, but it's you, you're treating me like shit. No, no, I'm not coming down." All the pain of the past welled up inside of me.

"Linda, you are really ungrateful. I said I wanted you to be with me tonight. I even sent a fucking limo for you. Listen to yourself, what a fucking bitch you are. It's going to cost me a hundred bucks whether you take it or not. You've got a big problem, baby." Click.

I washed off the makeup that was beginning to solidify on my face, and I heard the shouts and horns outside my window that signified the beginning of 1986. And so passed another New Years' Eve in the life of Linda Golden.

~~~

## Chapter Eleven: Wealth Maketh Many Friends (Proverbs)

"Mr. Phillips, if you don't curb your drinking, you're going to be dead in short order." The doctor was quite serious as he grimly looked at Morgan. Morgan was staring down at his hands, which were tightly clenched in his lap. I sat next to him. "Mr. Phillips, your spleen is swollen and from the symptoms you've described, your condition is deteriorating fast." I had forced Morgan to see the doctor and came along to be sure he told him everything he needed to know. For the past three weeks, Morgan had been on a non-stop bender.

His ill health kept me from focusing on an area of more immediate concern to my own well-being. Force Technology, far from going into the circular file, was now actively trading on the stock exchange. This I found out from Frankie Russo, in between threats to wreak havoc on Morgan's person.

To make matters worse, Morgan wanted me to get the stock certificates printed up. "You don't understand," Morgan said, "this thing has taken off. I didn't plan it, but it's rolling and we're making money. In fact, lots of people will make money from Force Technology. As long as people keep buying and selling it, hey, there's no limit to how high the stock can go. I can't stop now, don't you see? Linda, it's real. Force Technology is very, very real."

"But, Morgan, you don't have a product. Where is the LX30-Ringfoil?"

"It's still in the development stage." Morgan giggled, delighted with his clever answer. "Look, if we make enough money, I promise that we'll make this company a reality. Right now, though, what's important is to keep it alive. I need those certificates. People are anxious to buy and we can't move it along without them."

What the hell did I know about stock certificates? Of course, if I bothered to give it some thought, it might have occurred to me that they don't just appear — poof — like a rabbit out of a hat. Instead, I didn't think, just did what Morgan told me to do. So I toddled down to Wall Street to, what I supposed was, a stock certificate store, where I bought bundles of blank stock certificates that were clearly yearning to have their blank spaces filled in.

I convinced myself that if what he said was true, there was no reason he couldn't eventually sell the guns he advertised, except, of course, for the LX30 Ringfoil, which didn't exist in any form except on paper.

It became more and more difficult for Morgan to recover from his drinking sprees. I begged him to stop seeing Jake, which would go a long way in lessening the strain on him, not to mention the positive effect it would have on his relationship with Frankie.

One morning, Morgan simply couldn't get out of bed. He was doubled over with pain each time he tried to stand up, and he swore that he would never touch another drop of alcohol again. Unfortunately, he didn't change his choice of companions as well, so after seven days on the wagon, he returned from a meeting and called me every nasty name possible (and a few that seemed impossible), blaming me for ruining his reputation by "forcing" him to drink club soda. In one short week, he forgot the excruciating pain shooting through his kidneys, the twisting and burning in his belly, the mental anguish he suffered, and most importantly, the death threats from Frankie if he didn't get himself together. When I reminded him of all that, he lashed out even harder, telling me what a controlling bitch I was and how he could handle his liquor. The next day, Morgan was back at the bottle again.

"Morgan, I can't watch you killing yourself with alcohol. If you don't do something to help yourself, I really am going to leave." I was one to talk. Maybe I couldn't keep up with Morgan as far as drinking, but I defied anyone to challenge me when it came to food. Whatever Morgan ate, I ate twice as much of it. Mayonnaise sandwiches and all the deli and junk food I could ingest. I had gained close to 30 pounds and Morgan was as bloated as the Goodyear Blimp. What a pair.

"Linda, I told you, I can't go to AA. I just can't tell strangers about myself." I searched for alternatives, but all the places I found utilized the one program Morgan refused to be a part of. Finally, he said he would consider a celebrity clinic in California where Rita's father had dried out for good.

One morning, he couldn't get out of bed, again. A searing band of pain circled his lower back. Morgan was terrified, so terrified he had me cancel an appointment with Frankie, who was none too pleased. "I'm getting fuckin' fed up with this bullshit, Linda. His time is running out." Lovely. I did not relay the message to Morgan.

He finally agreed to see Dr. Wagner. And now here we were, being told that Morgan's days were numbered if he didn't change his lifestyle. "Mr. Phillips, you are only 42 years old, but your body is way ahead of you. You've been lucky, but I've got to tell you, your luck is running out." He gave Morgan a back brace to wear to ease the pain and insisted he stay off his feet for at least a week.

By the time we got home, Morgan was crying. There was no doubt that the pain on his face was real. "Linda, I can't stop. I can't stop. I don't want to die, but I can't stop. Please help me." Again we discussed going to a clinic, but Morgan couldn't take the time away from his work right now. After two days, he refused to wear the girdle ("it's unmanly," he grunted) and said he couldn't stay in bed any longer. Too much was happening. I knew I wouldn't follow through on my threat while Morgan was so sick, so I tried to be understanding as he continued to zigzag through the roller coaster he called his life.

This was not easy to take on an empty stomach, and my way of coping with his unrelenting cruelty during this painful period of self-destruction was to eat. I chose my own brand of tranquilizer, and being less a gourmet than a gourmand, anything would do. But I was terrified that, for the first time in my life, there was a real possibility that the number 200 and I would finally come face to face. Not today, not tomorrow, but at this rate, by next New Year's Eve, I would be a couple all by myself.

Morgan always started the day out sober, and during one of those brief, lucid moments, he finally convinced Frankie to give him the money to get his long-awaited books out of the printers. He charmed that man into believing he was actually getting his act together, and we moved the books to a storage center while Morgan planned his strategy.

***

Lehigh-Kupper was highly impressed with the Shareholders' Report. In fact, they wanted the prototype of the LX30-Ringfoil. Even more shocking, a share of Force Technology's stock moved up from a penny to 50 cents in a matter of weeks. I was astonished that no one saw through this sham.

Money started coming in from Force Technology, but instead of going toward the escrow agreement with Lehigh-Kupper, Morgan reinvested in stock. I begged him to do the right thing, to invest his earnings in Lehigh and leave Force far behind. In fact, I was quite high and mighty when I proclaimed how wrong this deception was, how appalling Morgan's attitude was, and how reprehensible he was for not doing something about it. Of course, I never looked in the mirror during my diatribes.

Morgan's modus operandi was the antithesis of who I was, but I was cursed with an inappropriate sense of loyalty, somewhat akin to the dog who loves the master who kicks him. And through this misplaced loyalty, I allowed myself to bend my morals and ethics entirely out of shape. But the change in me was so subtle, so gradual, I never even noticed. So it was easy for me to ignore the fact that it was I who helped turn Morgan's idea into reality, and I was still convinced that if I stuck by Morgan long enough, I could change him.

Capital Analysis, Inc. had long since closed its doors. I hadn't heard from Roger, my fitness guru, for months because he finally threw in the towel when he couldn't pay his own rent.

Morgan hadn't mentioned Johnny Colorusso, the cheap electronics magnate, for six weeks. But Frankie Russo called more and more frequently and he sounded less and less happy. I also heard daily from various executives over at Lehigh-Kupper who wanted money from Morgan. I never understood why anybody figured I'd know where their stupid money was ... or even where Morgan was for that matter.

We needed to do something about our living situation. My precious $10,000 dwindled faster than sand in an hourglass and the Smythe House had worn as thin as the rattan rug on the floor. Morgan was going to have to shell out some cash or we'd be out on the street within two weeks.

About two hours away, in Setauket, New York, we found the home of our dreams. Nestled among three tree-filled acres, the wooden castle overlooked the Long Island Sound, a palace compared to our dinky closet at the Smythe House.

The house was advertised as a rental with the option to buy. Nina and Ross Paoli had lived there for five years. Two years ago, they'd built a house less than 10 miles away and though they loved both places, the upkeep was more than they could handle. Nina reminded me of a twittering bird. She was a thin, nervous sort, constantly wrapping her fingers around each other. Ross had bright red hair and a doughy face. He pretty much kept quiet.

The rent was $1,500, but the handcrafting on the wooden banisters and the breathtaking view of the Sound made our mouths water. This house represented the peace and serenity I'd longed for. I don't have a clue what it meant to Morgan except another thing to own. Morgan insisted that nobody, including my friends and relatives, was to know where we lived.

As far as the Paoli's knew, we were Mr. and Mrs. Morgan Golden. Naturally, Nina wanted references. When Morgan gave her Frankie's name, I nearly passed out and wondered why Morgan would want Frankie, who'd threatened him every day for the past two months, to know about our secret home. Silly me, who else would put up the money for the first and last month's rent?

We could move in by the end of January if all went well. Of course, things being what they were, all didn't go well. Nina called me day after day, wondering when the check was going to arrive. "Oh, Nina, gee, the guy who was to deliver it got sick today, but I'm sure he'll be better tomorrow. Yes, the check will definitely be there tomorrow." How's that for an interesting variation of "The Check is In the Mail?" I wasn't sure if I was more worried that Frankie would firebomb the house or screw us over with the money. And though I hated lying to Nina, I had to admit that lying was becoming second nature to me.

Morgan handed me a bag. "Linda, these are for you. What do you think?" When I opened it, I saw the ugliest shoes I had ever seen. Lime green plastic pumps. Sickly orange loafers. I continued searching through the bag, hoping to find the ring he'd promised at Christmas. "Well, Morgan, I don't know what to say ... yes, yes I do. These are the most disgusting shoes I've ever seen. Thanks for nothing."

"You're a fucking ungrateful bitch. These shoes are from Chic Feet, a company I might take public. They were a present from the owner, Lenny Tartello, so you might try to like them." Luckily, Morgan had no clue of my shoe size, so not one pair fit. I have no idea where those shoes are today. Probably on the feet of some tasteless, color-blind person.

That night, Morgan got a call from Frankie at nine p.m. and he raced out to meet him. About two in the morning, he returned, sober as I'd ever seen him. His face was devoid of any blood.

"What happened?" I'd been sound asleep, but when I looked at Morgan, I woke up real fast.

"He was going to kill me."

"What?" Good grief, was there ever a moment's peace with this man?

"Frankie. When I got to the place to meet him, he told me to get into his limo. I got in and there was this guy I know, a hit man."

"Backup, backup. You know a hit man?" Why was I surprised?

"Yeah, Lonny, I don't know his last name. He's ok, he's not really a hit man, but he has been known to rough people up. Anyway, he had a gun. A fucking gun, Linda. And he was pointing it at my head. I was in the backseat, with Frankie on one side and Lonny on the other. Frankie was drunk and screaming about how I was fuckin' him over and he wanted his money. Lonny just kept apologizing to me, that he was sorry he had to treat me like this, but I should understand ... it was business."

This was like my own private showing of "Goodfellas, Part 2." "Well how did you get out of it, what did you tell them?" I was embarrassed to admit that I was completely entertained by Morgan's misfortune.

"We were on the FDR Drive. I thought about jumping out of the car, but Joey, the guy driving, was going about 70 and I didn't think it would be a good idea." Morgan laughed nervously. "So I told Frankie I'd have the money he wants by next week. I just said what he wanted to hear. Finally, he kind of passed out and Lonny laughed and put away his gun. Linda, I gotta get rid of this guy. Gotta get him out of my life. They're all sucking me dry. I'm the one who does all the fuckin' work and they want all the money. Jake, too. You were right, Linda. Sucking me dry, all of 'em."

I thought back to what Morgan told me the week before. He opened brokerage accounts in different names, which would ensure, as he put it, his getting a fair share of the profits. So it was no surprise that when Frankie and the gang saw the stock moving upwards but they received only a tiny chunk of change, there was some (gasp!) suspicion on everyone's part about where the money was going. "Hey, Linda," Morgan said this with complete sincerity, "I'm not cutting them out, just cutting myself in a little bit more."

The next day, I heard from Nina Paoli. "Linda, I still haven't gotten your check and Frankie Russo called twice today. He's asking about buying the house himself and wants to know when you're moving in. I'm a bit confused. Didn't you say he was sending the check for the first and last month's rent? Linda, we really need a check by tomorrow or we'll have to start showing the house again." Thank goodness she was a little slow on the uptake. After a quick, "I'll get right back to you, Nina," I frantically called Morgan and told him the check had to arrive NOW.

I was scared. Scared that Frankie was going to send some thug after me to teach Morgan a lesson. I started having second thoughts about living in that big old house, spending my days, and nights, inevitably, alone, isolated, perfect prey for some lunatic to come and get me.

Nina called back around 4. She had a check in her hand, but it wasn't from Frankie. "It's signed by a man named Lenny Tartello. My husband isn't sure we should accept a third party check like this. I just don't know, Linda. Maybe we should sit down again." Panic. This was worse than fear of Frankie. Now, I had second thoughts about my second thoughts, and there was no doubt about the fact that I sure didn't want to spend another day in the Smythe House if I didn't have to. No indeed, I would rather face the terrors in a big, beautiful house overlooking the Long Island Sound than stare at the tacky, blue floral print on the wall. "Just hang on, Nina, I'll get right back to you."

Morgan pulled out all the stops and charmed Nina, not only into accepting the check, but into taking stock certificates to pay for the next six months' rent. The Paoli's were thrilled with the $15,000 they had in their hands by the next week, which was far more than they were owed. Of course, when they saw the stock rise even higher after they cashed it in, they were upset that they hadn't let it ride a little longer.

I told Morgan how uncomfortable I was with the entire arrangement, especially about pretending to be married. He insisted it wouldn't look right if we weren't married, that maybe they wouldn't even have rented to us. I felt a twinge of sadness that he didn't suggest we go out and do the deed, but I convinced myself that this was a step in the right direction.

And so, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan Golden were happy renters of a luxurious waterfront home. Funny thing, the word "alias" never entered my mind.

~~~

## Chapter Twelve: One's Too Many and a Million Bucks is Not Enough

Morgan dissolved his partnership with Frankie by paying him a large, lump sum. Jake disappeared off the face of the earth. And poor Lenny Tartello and his shoes slip-slided away. Morgan was on his own, and he had to scramble.

He seemed hell-bent on self-destruction, but I think he realized, on some level, that time was running out for him. While we were still living at the Smythe House, I got the name of an addictions counselor and went to see her.

Dorothy Renee was about 6 foot tall, with a face that looked dry and hard, like plaster, but she reeked of sophistication. I could picture her with a long, lean cigar in her long, lean fingers. Though we began by talking about my problems with Morgan (the edited version, of course), we moved quickly into my desperate struggle with food. Dorothy shared that she had been an alcoholic and with the help of a support group, she was able to recover and begin this practice. Though she came highly recommended by the crisis hotline I called, Dorothy had no formal training.

She was emphatic about my getting into some kind of support program, but I wasn't ready to give up my only protection against the pain I felt. So, instead, I went to a couple of AA meetings. Though I was testing the waters, I wasn't sure how I could be rigorously honest and cover up for Morgan at the same time. And when the recovering alcoholic told her audience, with solemn horror, how she ate half a cake instead of picking up a drink, I wanted to pipe in, "honey, that's just an appetizer for me."

Morgan had one private session with Dorothy. I know this because I ushered him into the room and sat outside waiting. I have no idea what happened in there, but later events made me a tad suspicious that good ol' Dorothy might not have taken her Hippocratic oath too seriously. After that first session, Morgan made two more appointments to see Dorothy, but he never showed up.

I saw her one more time before we moved. She wanted to help me break my "unhealthy dependence" on Morgan and needed our new address and phone number to do so. When I refused to tell her (orders from Morgan, of course), she got pretty testy.

Morgan and I had a post office box in the city and all our mail was forwarded there. The post office box was something of a blessing for me, because it gave me a respite from the barrage of threatening letters I received daily from my creditors. By picking up the mail as infrequently as possible, it was a case of "out of sight, out of mind."

When we moved to Long Island, Morgan was in LA. Luckily, my Dad had a beat up old Datsun I could use. When I went to Delaware to pick it up, my father and I had a strained meeting. Though he knew my life had taken a bad turn, he chose to ignore the entire situation, which was easy to do since I didn't give him a clue about the truth. This was definitely preferable to the alternative, because I sure wasn't up to my father's usual third degree and scathing commentary. So I was relieved that he lent me the car and even more grateful that he didn't ask any questions. My Mom, who I missed terribly, died a horribly painful death from Cancer in 1981. She was my best friend, and, seeing my father reminded me that, with my Mother gone, there was truly no one in the world who could save me from myself.

Once ensconced in our new home, I found myself surrounded by cathedral ceilings, parquet floors, and enormous bare bay windows. Without curtains, I felt even more vulnerable. That first night, I cried as I looked out at the sparkling Long Island Sound from the second floor master bedroom suite. My heart was aching and empty. When I woke up still crying, I called Morgan and begged him to let me get a dog for company. Strangely enough, he barely gave me an argument.

Later that day, I stood before the front desk of the Humane Society, about to adopt the homeliest little muskrat of a dog I ever saw. When they brought out the nine week old mutt, she slunk over to the corner and pressed her ears back as hard as she could. She looked like a large rat, but she was the only puppy they had and I was desperate for the company.

After that, Tara ("Frankly, Morgan, I don't give a damn") and I were inseparable. She skulked around for two weeks with her ears plastered back, but slowly released them as she realized I needed her more than she needed me.

My birthday came ... and went. Now that I had cut off my friends and family, I had no one to share it with. I was too afraid to call Rhonda, because I knew I wouldn't be able to keep from giving her my phone number. Morgan, still in LA, sent flowers, but he was too busy to call until the next day.

Eventually, I phoned Dorothy Renee, who kindly agreed to talk to me ... for a fee, and coerced me into giving her our address, just in case something happened to me, she said. During our second phone session, Dorothy expressed her annoyance that Morgan hadn't paid for his missed sessions and she demanded that he get in touch with her RIGHT AWAY to straighten it out. Though she previously assured me that she'd never use our address once I gave it to her, she now threatened collection and a lawsuit.

Why, I wondered, was this woman so worked up over $150 when I had already paid about $600 for my own sessions? Finally, she snidely told me that I had a nerve to call her when this bill was outstanding. Though I tried to reason with her, she repeated her insistence that Morgan get in touch with her and pressed me for a number to reach him. Eventually, I managed to scrape together the money to send her, but thereafter, a sneaking suspicion nagged at me that Dorothy's relationship with Morgan might have been just a touch more therapeutic than ours had been. Since I knew I'd never be able to prove it, I decided to let it go.

One good thing came out of the experience. I finally got into a support group that fit me like a glove and I began to blossom among people who didn't judge me, people who convinced me it was all right to talk about my life with Morgan because it would never leave the room and get back to him. I felt a taste of freedom for the first time in ten months. But I was still too terrified to tell more than a slightly less edited version of the truth.

The woman who became my sponsor (someone I called daily to help me face my life) gave me questions to think about, questions about my spiritual fitness, my history with food, my need to have people like me. Though I still wasn't ready to come to grips with all that had happened these past ten months, little by little, I became willing to experience life without a blanket of food protecting me, and slowly, my food obsession drifted away.

In early February, Morgan came home, and the most remarkable thing happened soon afterwards. He stopped drinking, saying that it was my success with the support group that gave him the strength to do it. Though that may have been part of it, I think it was more likely that when he realized he'd be left with zippo if he didn't get it together, his greed took an upper hand.

Morgan's last bender brought him face to face with the police. At 11:30 p.m. one Friday night, the doorbell rang. Imagine my surprise when Bernice the Super Cop stood at my door with a very ruffled Morgan.

"Hi, Linna," The grin on his face was sheepish, at best.

"Ma'am," the police officer said, "Mr. Phillips says he lives here. Is that true?"

I nodded.

"He was driving while very much under the influence. We just gave him a reprimand, but next time, we're taking him in."

You jerk, I wanted to holler at her, how could you let him go? Maybe next time, it'll be a kid crossing the street who gets in his way. Maybe it'll be a mother and her baby whose car he'll hit. How does anyone benefit by letting him go? But instead, I said, "Thank you for bringing him home." And right after that, Morgan stopped drinking. I thanked God for the lives of the innocent people who would be spared because there was now one less active alcoholic on the road.

Morgan seemed even odder than usual after a few weeks off the stuff. He lost some weight, which did him good, but his eyes, they looked strange, and all he consumed now was chicken and apples, if he ate at all. "Morgan, you aren't taking drugs, are you?" I felt terrible looking this gift horse in the mouth, but something seemed out of kilter. "What kind of stupid, fucking comment is that?" Morgan countered. I felt ashamed of my cynicism in the face of this grade-A miracle.

For two weeks, I lived in the house with nothing but a futon on the floor for furniture, but once Morgan returned, he insisted we get the place furnished immediately. Our first stop was a discount furniture store. I was surprised that Morgan would consider a discount anything, but $2,500 later, he seemed satisfied. We left a $500 deposit and they told us our furniture would be delivered within the week.

On our way home, we passed a store that specialized in brass and imported furniture. When we drove by, he made me slow down so he could look in the window. As soon as Morgan saw the delicate, carved lamps, the majestic bedposts, the pastel oriental rugs, he catapulted himself inside.

No one was there but the owners, Jenny and Michael Salvatore. Michael was balding and chubby, cute like a teddy bear. Jenny was plain and serious looking. She reminded me of my fifth grade math teacher, Miss Hawkins, who made you solve 12 extra problems if you didn't come in with your homework completed. I shuddered at the memory and tried to overlook the resemblance.

The four of us hit it off and we ended up staying until they closed that evening at eight. While I talked with the Salvatores, Morgan raced around the store, giddy with the selection at his fingertips.

Michael was an importer. Saks Fifth Avenue was one of his biggest clients. In fact, his furniture had been featured on the cover of their last catalogue. He told me that he was raised on the streets of Brooklyn and that he'd been one of the lucky ones. Lucky, because his best friend was stabbed to death at 14 and Michael decided there was a better way to live. With hard work and determination, he overcame his background and made a highly successful career for himself. The store was for his wife, who wanted something to do. This was his second marriage and they had five children together. A sixth son, from his first marriage, worked for him part-time.

About 7 p.m., Morgan was ready to deal. "Hey, Michael, this stuff is great, really great. How about this, how about I send you partial payment next week and you deliver the stuff." Morgan never beat around the bush, just hid behind it.

"Gee, I don't know." Michael was looking at the list of furniture and accessories Morgan had selected. I glanced at the five sheets and knew the bill would come to at least $30,000. I could see that Michael was excited but nervous. "Morgan, nothing personal, but, well, you know, I just don't want to get stiffed." He laughed.

"Ok, ok, I understand, but I have to have this stuff right away. How about I get you a cashier's check tomorrow for 10 grand? That'll show good faith. Hey, Michael, if I'm good for $10,000, I'll be good for the rest. And maybe you can even skim some off for me. I have a feeling we'll be around here a lot." Oh God, I thought, my gut beginning to feel familiarly wrenched.

Morgan walked away to look at yet another lamp. Michael turned to me. "I don't know what it is, but I really like you people. Linda, tell me the truth, is he good for the money?" Yes, Michael, you asked the $64,000 question. Unfortunately, I have to give you the $1.99 answer. "Of course, Michael, I promise he'll pay."

"You know, Linda, I never do this, but there's something about you, you have honest eyes, and if you say he's good for it, I believe you." Shmuck, I wanted to scream, use your own damned judgment, don't trust me. But instead, I smiled and looked as trustworthy as possible. I guess Morgan really wanted the furniture, because that check was in Michael's hands the next afternoon.

We arranged for Michael to deliver the furniture on Saturday. He arrived with his son, Jimmy, the one from the first marriage. Jimmy had a round, apple-cheeked baby face. He was 19, blond-haired, and beefy. Clearly, he thought himself Mr. Muscle as he flexed his fat.

Michael and Jimmy spent the day with us. They hauled in two loads of furniture and hung three cut-glass mirrors. The majority of items were coming from Italy and it would be at least eight weeks until the shipment, which included Travertine marble end tables and an intricate hand-made brass headboard, arrived. Most of the stuff they brought with them was accessories, but the house seemed a lot less empty, and at least we had a couple of chairs to sit on.

We talked for hours. Michael already seemed like an old friend, but I didn't like Jimmy much. There was something thuggish about him, but Morgan took to him right away. They were off in a corner talking for a good hour. Michael was thrilled. "Jimmy," he told me, "needs some direction. He can't seem to hold down a job. Doesn't have any goals. Maybe Morgan can do something for him." When they left, Michael told Morgan to wait until the rest of the furniture arrived before paying him anymore.

Over the next few weeks, I hung out at the store a lot. Michael and Jenny, it turned out, were Born-Again Christians. Though they never proselytized, they clearly lived by their beliefs. It felt good to be around them, and the more I knew Jenny, the less she reminded me of old Miss Hawkins.

Morgan was cruising back and forth between Manhattan and Long Island in a limo he had leased. While I rattled around in my little brown Datsun, Morgan enjoyed chicken and apples in the back seat of a long, long, stretch limo. Not that I wanted what he had, because the revolting red velvet interior of his car reminded me of a pimp-mobile I had seen in a movie.

Of course, now that I was in Long Island, Morgan just HAD to be in Manhattan most of the time. "It's just too long a ride, darling," he would tell me, "I have to stay in town tonight, see you tomorrow." A night here and there quickly degenerated into my seeing Morgan only on the weekends.

One Sunday, Morgan said he was getting suspicious of his limo driver. He thought the guy asked too many questions and worried that he was spilling Morgan's secrets. He needed a new driver fast.

The next day, "Linda, hi, it's Michael. Morgan wants to hire Jimmy to drive for him, says he'll be Morgan's right-hand man. What do you think?"

What do you say when the mouse has its foot in the trap? "Oh, I think it's a great idea. It'll teach Jimmy responsibility.

"Listen, there's something else. Morgan wants me to take stock certificates for the rest of the furniture. I don't know about this, Linda. I've always lost money playing the market, but he says it's a sure thing. Can't lose. What do you think?" Run, you fool, run the other way as fast as you can.

"Um, well, I know the stock is going up. And I'm sure if Morgan says you can't lose, he'll make sure you won't lose." I prayed that Morgan felt some shred of loyalty to his new friend. "I think you should go for it, Michael. Morgan's making an awful lot of money with Force Technology." Why did I feel like I'd sold my soul to the devil?

When Morgan came home that weekend, we had work to do. "Linda, we have to organize these stock certificates, separate them by brokerage firm and name." The stack of certificates was at least 5 inches thick. Together, we put them in order. I assumed the stock was registered somewhere; it just had to be. There couldn't be this many certificates from this many legitimate firms without it being tracked somewhere. I didn't realize until much, much later, that all these certificates, in all these different names, actually belonged to Morgan. He had set up accounts under approximately 15 aliases at over 10 different brokerage firms... big ones.

Four hours later, we were done. "Oh, Linda, one more thing, can you type up these certificates for me?" I faithfully stuck three certificates into the typewriter and made out the correct number of shares to be paid to Michael Salvatore, or, to be more accurate, to Michael Salvatore's corporation.

That night, we held each other close. I tickled Morgan's back until he fell asleep. I watched him for hours, checking his little pecker every once in a while to see if he was getting erections. I don't know if I was relieved or worried when he didn't.

The next morning, we snuggled for an hour. I hoped that if I wiggled around enough, maybe Morgan would get aroused despite himself. After all, I had lost over 20 pounds and felt pretty good about myself. Morgan, on the other hand, had continued losing weight and he looked terrible. I was losing weight slowly and when he told me I was just jealous of his weekly five to seven pound losses, I figured he must be right. Those donuts found a place on my thighs real fast, but peeled off like glue.

Back in bed, I wriggled and wiggled and finally, I brushed against Morgan's groin lightly. Yes, my friends, we have a winner! An erection was definitely brewing. I pretended not to notice, knowing how sensitive Morgan was to sex when it wasn't his idea. I was getting really revved up, but kept my libido under control, and I wondered whatever happened to the man who so desperately wanted me to have his baby just six months before?

Morgan let me kiss him on the neck and slide my tongue down to his chest. I felt his breath quicken. Yes, yes, it's going to happen. "My darling, I'll be right back." Morgan gently rolled me off him and headed for the bathroom.

Oh God, I wanted to come right then, but I wanted to make love to Morgan even more. I savored the thought of our bodies joining and riding out our passion together. It had been so long, but I wanted to wait, needed to wait. Soon, very soon, I thought.

Five minutes later, Morgan came back. He put his shirt on. "What are you doing, Morgan?"

"Getting dressed. I've got to meet some guys this morning."

I looked and saw the stain on his black silk underwear. Morgan had jerked off in the bathroom. I hurt so badly, I couldn't even cry. He was annoyed and he snidely told me that he just wasn't in the mood to make love and that he could jerk off whenever he wanted to. It gave me small comfort to know that Mr. Above-it-All didn't even have the decency to change his underwear.

***

The next week, Michael called. "Linda, I have a problem. These certificates are no good." Oh my God, he knows. "There's no transfer agent's signature. Nobody can cash these without a transfer agent's signature." After I breathed a sigh of relief, I realized that I didn't know what the hell a transfer agent was. I told him I'd call Morgan right away.

Morgan had Michael send the certificates back to me. After I received them, Morgan called to tell me to sign as the transfer agent. "Sign?! I can't sign these. I'm not a transfer agent. I don't even know what a transfer agent is."

"Linda, you have to fucking sign. I don't have time to deal with this. It's no big deal. Nobody pays any attention to it. Just scribble a signature on there. Any name. It doesn't matter, make it illegible. No one will know. Just fucking do it, Linda."

And for the first time, I knew, without a doubt, deep down inside and right on the surface, that by signing as the transfer agent I was committing a crime. But when I told Morgan I would never do that again, I assumed that my self-righteous declaration absolved me of responsibility for my actions.

~~~

## Chapter Thirteen: When Hell Freezes Over, the Devil Won't Need a Refrigerator

" ... And presto," he said, "the can instantly gets chilled." Morgan snapped his fingers with a flourish as he described the plan that was going to keep Force Technology from gurgling down the drain. I had a hard time mustering up any enthusiasm. Morgan's visits home were less and less frequent. Like a child of divorce, this was the "on" weekend for me. I was becoming more and more resentful as the time between visits stretched to two and then three weeks. Though I was lonely for what little intimacy we had left, most of my emotional needs were filled by caring for Tara, my dog, who never rejected me and was always ready to give me a slurp on the nose.

I also attended five or six meetings a week of my support group and maintained constant contact with my sponsor. Though the chains of my own making still bound me to Morgan, I noticed their hold was easing up ever so slightly and I began to believe that life could go on without Morgan Phillips in it.

It was the end of February and the Long Island chill had settled in. Though there was now more furniture, there still wasn't enough to bring warmth to the cavernous house. Most of the items we'd ordered were still on a slow boat from Italy.

For the past few weeks, Morgan had frantically tried to save Force Technology, which rose dramatically the first month of trading from a penny to $1 per share.

One dollar for stock worth less than the paper it was printed on. But now, Morgan, for all his charm and conniving, couldn't make that sucker go a penny past a buck. The people counting on Morgan to make them rich were getting antsy. He had to find new people to buy the stock as well as to keep the ones who already had stock from selling. Though he was beginning to panic, he didn't pick up a drink.

Anyone meeting Morgan for the first time wouldn't have believed he was the same man who passed out in his own vomit not three months before; the same man who blacked out in the flower bed of a hotel until the security guard helped him to his room. Though Morgan retained the charming habit of never arriving on time, if at all, his demeanor now suggested power and discipline. The charisma which smoldered on a low flame through the past three seasons, now burst out of him like a shooting star. Morgan was riding high and he wasn't taking it well. No, he was taking it for granted, taking it to the limit, and refusing to share his success with the woman who helped him get there.

Unlike his past endeavors, where he bailed out as soon as the going got rough, this time he was determined to stay in for the duration. Morgan was still convinced that Force Technology would be the catalyst to catapult him to the power and respect he so desperately desired. Of course, Lehigh-Kupper had long ago broken off contact with him. It wasn't hard to guess why. I'm sure they were tired of empty promises and no money.

"The Kwick Kold Kan" was the idea that was going to keep Force Technology from biting the dust. Yes, Force Technology was branching out, at the forefront of developing this revolutionary new idea. "The Kwick Kold Kan" was a regular old aluminum can with a cylinder inside of it. When you flipped open the top, CO2 was released, thereby chilling the can. Or something like that. At any rate, refrigerators for storing soda in mini marts would be a thing of the past. "Just think," he exclaimed, "of the financial and ecological savings this product will bring." Yeah, Morgan, you're a real environmentalist.

"There's just one slight glitch, Linda," Morgan said.

"Isn't there always?" I responded.

Morgan pretended he didn't hear my question and went on to tell me that there wasn't exactly a can yet, which didn't surprise me one bit, but there was something different about this can thing. Maybe it was the fact that there might actually be a product, and since Morgan needed my help to design the new Stockholders' Report, he did everything but cartwheels to convince me this was true. He insisted there were other companies working on the technology. I don't know why, but I felt compelled to recommend he actually hire a scientist to develop the can.

Soon after the new, improved Force Technology Stockholders' Report hit the presses, Morgan had another stroke of genius. He was going to place an ad in the Wall Street Journal. Not just an ad, but a half- page layout which would cost close to a half million dollars. Morgan proudly puffed up his chest like a peacock when he let that bit of news fall off his tongue. Who cares, I wanted to say, though I wondered how Morgan came to have that kind of money, since just last week he was worried about being destitute again. My time with Morgan taught me that money really, truly doesn't buy happiness. Well, not for me, at any rate, though I hadn't actually gotten a hold of any for long time.

This half-page newspaper layout was intended to promote the can and the promise of a soon-to-come demonstration. There was an 800 number you could call to get further information on the can ... and investing in the company, of course.

Morgan, once again, had an entourage of people working for him, who all seemed to idolize their mentor. I wanted to puke each time Jimmy Salvatore called, with unmistakable adulation in his voice, asking for "Mr." Phillips. Whenever we spoke, he went on and on about how wonderful Morgan was and how grateful he was to be learning from him. I wondered just what Morgan was teaching him and whether Jimmy's father would appreciate it.

Morgan joined forces, once again, with his old partner, Johnny Colorusso. How well I remembered tight-fisted Johnny, who wouldn't make good on a check not six months before. Now, when Morgan was home, he'd spend hours on the phone with Johnny, giggling and plotting their course. They loved to rehash every single second of their day together, just like two high school girls.

Force Technology's stock ended trading one Friday in early March at $1.50. The

Wall Street Journal ad was scheduled to appear Monday. "Don't you think a high profile right now is a big risk? You don't have a can, yet, Morgan." Notice how I nicely interjected that "yet."

"I know, isn't it great?! I just love it." Morgan was gleeful, almost giddy. "It's going to be the best. Don't worry, Linda, I told you, I'm going to have a can. When the time comes, there'll be a can, I promise." I was torn between not wanting to hearing any more about it, as if that would clear me of any wrongdoing, and morbid fascination with every detail I could get out of him.

After Morgan's ad, the stock began to fly. By the end of March, one share of Force Technology sold for $3. I was astounded that no one had ever figured out that the Emperor was stark, staring naked. At the least, I was sure the Wall Street Journal would have checked out a half page ad before printing it. And to think this newspaper was the cornerstone of up-to-the-minute information on the stock market. It was a frightening thought.

One weekend, Morgan announced, "Let's go shopping." He was in a particularly good mood and surprisingly, he wanted to share it with me. We went tom The Sharper Image, the store with all the electronic gadgets. Morgan bought "us" a $2,500 chair. Mind you, the recliner had a built-in tape deck and massaged you from top to bottom, but it was still a chair. I would have preferred a kitchen table, or even a card table for that matter. I was tired of eating off my lap, although Tara, my puppy, loved it.

We stopped in the mall on the way back and wrote a check for a white Baby Grand piano, on sale for $4,000. "Morgan, do you play?" I asked. "Well, no, but it'll look great in the living room." A desk for the office would have been nice. I was using a piece of wood over two sawhorses to house my computer.

The next time Morgan came home, he carried in a telescope. Three days later, two men showed up and installed a satellite dish. Soon afterwards, Morgan brought home state-of-the-art stereo equipment, a giant-screen television, and a CD player. I thought it would have been nice to have a sofa. But I consoled myself with the thought that this is a good sign he's planning to hang around for a while.

With Morgan spending money right and left, I thought it was the perfect opportunity to suggest we resolve my credit problem. Though I rarely read my mail anymore when I picked it up from the post office box, I knew I was in trouble. The word "Judgment" and "Lawsuit" glared at me from 2/3 of my mail. I wanted to talk with a lawyer, but I was struck by the absurdity of going bankrupt with a brand new baby grand piano sitting in my living room.

"Linda, Linda, I told you I'm not going to let you down. No, no, I won't hear of your going bankrupt. I have a lawyer who will negotiate with the creditors. His name is Adam Kent. I'm sure we can arrange to pay, say, 10 cents on the dollar. It's a write-off for the companies anyway."

"Morgan, these are debts you incurred. You bought things and you have the money to pay for them. Why would you have Adam Kent do that? And why should the companies agree to it?" I knew this was a useless debate.

"Linda, just leave it to me. Be patient, your debts will be taken care of." Of course, I didn't ask him when. Instead, I used the limited funds Morgan provided me with to keep our house in order and pay bills, but $50 here and $30 there wasn't going to cut a $70,000 debt, and I let my fear keep me stuck in the quick sand, slowly sinking.

"Morgan, I really need some clothes. You have to give me money to buy some clothes." I hated begging, but my wardrobe was now two sizes too large. Morgan, since losing so much weight, wasted no time buying himself a new wardrobe. Each time I saw him, he wore another piece of clothing with someone else's name on the pocket. I felt like a frump. "Sure, Linda, here's $300." I grabbed it eagerly, ignoring the fact that $300 was less than he spent on his shoes, and far less than the recliner in our living room. But I was thrilled to have any money for myself and decided that, no matter what, I wouldn't use this money to pay bills. "Morgan, this won't get me too far. Can't you give me a little more?" Morgan looked annoyed. "Boy, are you greedy. I don't have any more to give you right now. Can't you ever be satisfied with what you get?" I skulked off to the bedroom, feeling ashamed of myself.

The next time Morgan came home, he announced that he had a present for me. I would have passed out from the shock, but I was too curious to see what he had bought. "It's a watch, Linda." A watch! That's almost jewelry. I looked at the box. It was from The Sharper Image. Hmmm. I wondered what amazing electronic feat this watch could perform.

I opened the box. The watch was small, very small, and the band, which was leather, was beige, very beige. There were no numbers around the face, just lines. I reminded myself that it's the thought that counts as I put it on. I went to hug Morgan and as his hand extended from his new leather jacket, I saw his wrist. It was encased in, what had to be, part of the Liberace collection.

"What's this, Morgan?"

"Oh, nothing, that's just my watch."

"Morgan, it's gold."

"Yes, I know."

"Morgan, there are diamond's around the face. All the way around. Big diamonds."

"Yes, I know. Isn't it gorgeous? I got a great deal on it. Man, this watch is worth at least ... " He paused, "Uh, uh, $2,500, but I got it for a lot less. A lot less." That "uh, uh" before the price and another glance at the gem on his wrist told me that Morgan's timepiece was worth a lot more than he let on. "Believe me, Linda, I looked all over the jewelry store, but I couldn't find a watch that was right for you. Not one. I swear. That's why I went to The Sharper Image. I know you love their stuff." This story was half-baked, even for Morgan. I blew up and Morgan blew up even more. He stormed out, screaming as he left that he was sorry he bought me anything. I got a call from him on Tuesday. He was sweet as a peach. Said he was so sorry I didn't like the present he picked out, but he'd make it up to me.

The next week, I spent a day at the Salvatore's store. They were worried about me and becoming suspicious of Morgan's business.

"Linda, we're concerned that Morgan is spending so little time with you. It doesn't seem right. It's pretty rotten for him to leave you alone so much." Michael and I sat in the back of the store while Jenny waited on a customer. "And," he continued, "I'm nervous about what's going on. Don't get me wrong, Morgan came through for me and I made plenty on the stock, but something's not right. Jimmy's driving around in a Porsche, every week he's got new clothes, and he's throwing money around like crazy." What could I say? I simply assured him that Morgan came to see me when he could and Michael's son was in good hands.

The reason Jimmy had a shiny black Porsche was because Morgan was now the proud "owner" of a leased Jaguar, Mercedes Sports car, the black Porsche, and, of course, the stretch limo. Morgan leased them in other people's names, letting them use the cars when he wasn't driving them. Of course, he told me that since I still had my trusty old Datsun, I certainly didn't need another car.

Jenny came back. "Linda, can I show you something?" She pulled out photos of two similar lamps. "Morgan told me he wanted one of these for the living room in the apartment, but I didn't write down which one." Apartment? I tried to remain calm. "The apartment in Manhattan." Jenny must have read the shock on my face.

"See, Michael, I don't like this. Linda, Morgan said he's getting an apartment in Manhattan and we're furnishing it. Do you mean he hasn't told you?" Michael piped in, "Linda we've received over $90,000 for furniture, most of which he hasn't even picked out yet." Jenny gave her husband a glare that could have wiped out a nation. The image of my old math teacher came back to me. I was stunned, but not surprised. There was always an explanation, I thought, feeling sickened, nonetheless.

True to form, when next we spoke, Morgan insisted that the $90,000 was to furnish his office, and if he did get an apartment in Manhattan, it was to make life easier for him when he had to stay overnight. Didn't I know that the house in Long Island was his home?

That weekend, he came home. Though we didn't make love, we spent the whole time wrapped up in each other, being close, sharing our feelings. I fell head over heels in love again. Morgan reassured me that once the situation with Force Technology was settled, we would be able to get on with our lives together.

He held me close and gently whispered in my ear, "Thank you, Linda, for being there for me. I could never get through this without you. Look, don't you think I realize how hard I've been on you? But the pressure on me is enormous. I'll try, really I will, to let up. You're the most important person in the world to me. And don't you think I know that most women would have given up by now? But that's why I love you so much, you're not like most women. You're special. Just hang on a little longer, my love. As soon as I can get away, we'll get married. I promise."

The next week, a couple of articles appeared in the paper. The first was about two companies developing technology for a can that chills itself. I felt a chill myself when I read about the work Force Technology was doing to bring this modern marvel to fruition. The other was a short promotional piece about Force Technology. Morgan was pleased as punch with the positive press he was getting. He told me how the reporter started out highly skeptical but by the end of the interview, wanted to buy stock.

And then, the letter came. A letter from the man who originated the idea of a self chilling can. Eight years ago, George Lawson sold his patent for a pittance to Force Technology's competitor and now, he wanted to work with Force Technology to get back what he felt he'd been cheated out of.

"That's great, Morgan, great news!" I felt a shred of hope. "Morgan, you finally have a chance to do the right thing. Let this guy help you. Wouldn't it be astonishing if you had a can that worked, that really worked? Morgan, you're making plenty of money now, do it. DO IT. Get this guy out here as soon as you can."

So Morgan made one attempt to reach George... but his line was busy. That was good enough for Morgan, who never called him back.

At around the same time, a reporter from Forbes Magazine, wanted to interview Morgan. They pursued him for two weeks, but Morgan wasn't sure he should talk to them. "I've got the feeling something's starting to come down, Linda. They're pressing me for a can. They want to see a can. And they want to meet Lawrence, Grant, and Alvin."

Ah yes, the Board of Directors. Well, the shit was finally hitting the "Kan." The Securities and Exchange Commission, due to all the press of late, wanted to see a Can demonstration. So did the media. And everyone wanted to have a talk with Mr. Lawrence Johnson, President of Force Technology, presumably to tell him what a splendid job he was doing.

Morgan now had an office on Wall Street, which consisted of a room filled with telephones. A few people worked with him there calling prospective buyers and keeping up with the brokerage firms. Whenever anyone called to talk to the Board of Directors, either Morgan or Johnny Colorusso took the call. These two geniuses thought themselves pretty shrewd. Johnny was always the President, Morgan the Vice President, and Alvin Abramowitz, the Treasurer, was perpetually out to lunch.

"Linda, I gotta move fast, be ready. They came around the other day, but I outsmarted them. They were looking for me and I was standing right there! They didn't even recognize me." He burst out laughing. "And then, I nearly lost it when they asked one of the guys to have Mr. Johnson give him a call as soon as possible." Boy, I thought, were these guys from the SEC dumb. Maybe I should have looked in a mirror.

~~~

# Part III: The Unraveling

~~~

## Chapter Fourteen: Take Cover and Watch Your Assets

"What the hell are you doing?" I said as I walked in to find Morgan frantically throwing clothes into two of my large, mushy-type suitcases. "Gotta go pick up money." When he finished, less than one third of one of the suitcases was filled. "It's happening," he said. "The SEC is going after everything. They want to take it all away from me. They've already frozen some accounts. Linda, I don't have time to talk now. I'll be back on Friday." This was Wednesday. "Where are you going?" I asked. Not that I expected a straight answer, it was just a reflex. "All over the place. Denver, Chicago, maybe L.A."

Morgan didn't want me to take him to the airport. That was fine by me. Lately, the less we saw of each other, the better we got along. It seemed like my mere presence gave him gas. As far as Morgan was concerned, I couldn't do anything right. He gave me a peck on the cheek, which was the closest we'd come to sex in longer than I could remember, and zipped out the door.

By this point, our relationship was held together by a gossamer thread. I hated to admit it, but most of the time, I couldn't stand him either. Sometimes I was sure that I was ready to let go, but when I thought about my $70,000 debt, I felt like I had no choice but to stay because I honestly believed that Morgan, or rather, Morgan's money, was the only solution to my problem, a problem I had allowed him to create.

On Friday, Morgan returned with those same suitcases now bursting at the seams. As soon as he saw me, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. He looked happier to see me than he had in five months. I figured something was fishy. This was definitely out of character for my man. He stood there not saying a word. Definitely strange for Morgan. Finally, I asked, "Ok, what's in the suitcases?"

He still said nothing, just leant over and unzipped them. I wondered if there might not be half a person in each bag, based on their odd shape. He lifted both flaps of the suitcases at the same time.

Money. The bags were packed with money. FILLED with money. EXPLODING with money. There were hundreds and twenties and fifties, all bundled up in neat little piles. Morgan folded his arms across his chest, looking triumphant.

"Yeah, so?" was my response, which was clearly the wrong thing to say. He deflated like a popped balloon. "There's half a million dollars in those two bags," he said puffing himself up again. "Great," I replied, "NOW can I have the money to get out of the mess you got me into????"

Morgan was livid. "All you can think about is yourself Can't you be happy that I was able to get this money out? They're freezing my Goddamned assets and I was lucky to get this much."

I changed into supportive mode because I was actually pretty curious about all this and knew this was the best way to find out what had happened. "So how did you do it? Did they try to stop you?"

Morgan brightened up. This was what he loved about me, what he'd been waiting for. "Yeah, it was pretty close there for a while. I was in Chicago, at the Bradbury Bank, and I wrote a withdrawal slip for $249,000. When I gave it to the girl, she called the manager over. He looked me over real good and said he would have to check this out before he could give me the money. It's MY MONEY and this shmuck is questioning me. He made me fuckin' wait 20 minutes. When he came back, he was pretty embarrassed and fell all over himself tryin' to help me out." Morgan giggled like a delighted schoolgirl while he recounted the story. "The guy wanted to give me a cashier's check, but I told him I wanted cash. He looked annoyed, but he fuckin' bit his lip and called me "Sir." Told me to please sit in his office and they'd get right on it."

"The thing is, his boss, Mark, I'm sure that's who he called, made out real good on Force. That guy bought a shit-load of stock and I made sure to tell him when to sell. Jesus, I nearly fucked him over once because I almost waited too long. Anyway, Mark comes down afterwards to thank me for doing business with them. And here's the kicker. The name I used on the account was Jack Lehrman." I wondered briefly about how he came up with that name, but I now knew that aliases were an integral part of who Morgan Phillips was.

Another question seemed obvious. "Where are your clothes?" I asked.

"Oh," he answered without missing a beat, "I left them in the hotel. There wasn't enough room in the bags. Hey, I'll just get more."

"Linda, my love, here's what I need you to do." Oh Jesus, now what? "You have to find a place to store the money. We can't just leave it here. First thing Monday morning, you have to put it somewhere."

Oh sure, I'm supposed to lug around $500,000 in cash and drop it off without anyone noticing. "Morgan, where do you propose I put this money? It's not like I can stick it in a sock or open a checking account."

"Linda," He began that now-repulsive purring. "You always figure these things out. I don't know, for now call a bank or something. Then find a safer place."

"Yeah, ok, Morgan, but I can't lift these bags. You're going to have to go with me to the bank." Morgan looked annoyed, as he always did when faced with what he considered menial tasks. He answered, with a biting tone, "I have more important things to do than go to the fucking bank with you. I have a meeting first thing in the morning." I glared at him and said, "If you want me to hide your money, then you will help me carry it."

Monday morning, Morgan followed me to the bank. He was still fuming, but I didn't care. Hey, try lifting half a million dollars in cash. It's not as easy as you think. I went in and filled out the forms. I used the name Lorraine Douglas. Morgan signed as Mitchell Douglas. I got the biggest safe deposit boxes I could and noticed the peculiar looks the tellers passed each other as we lugged in two suitcases whose zippers nearly bursting.

Morgan left me doing my best to squash the bags into the safe deposit boxes. Dear God, I prayed, don't let them break open. Luckily, my heavy duty mushy-type suitcases performed as advertised. Virtually indestructible. Little did the designers know they'd be tested this way.

When I called Morgan that afternoon, he was insistent. "Hey, Linda, you gotta get that money out and fast. The Feds are going to find it there, I just know it."

"Morgan, now that you have all this money, I'm going to ask you again, when are you going to pay my debts? I'm warning you, I'll just go in and take it if you don't give it to me." Big threat. Morgan knew me well enough to know that I'd never touch his money without his permission.

"Look Linda, first of all, let's get the money into a safe place. I gotta have some cash to put back into the business and now is just not the time I can part with seventy grand. Soon, we'll have millions and there'll be plenty of money for you. I told you, my love, I'll always take care of you. Just be patient a little while longer. You know I'll pay those debts off."

Morgan was like the guy who punches his wife in the face, then gets down on his hands and knees weeping, apologizing profusely. I was like the wife who forgives him and the next day, gets kicked in the kidney by the husband, who then gets down on his hands and knees weeping, apologizing profusely. But I must admit that now, the forgiveness had a tinge of green. Now, I was determined to stay until he made good on his promise to repay his debt to me. Now, I knew I would leave as soon as he did.

***

Monday afternoon found me scrounging through the Yellow Pages searching for a safe place to store Morgan's money. I looked under "safes," "vaults," "banks," and "security," which is finally where I found an ad for "The Swiss Repository — Safe as a Swiss Bank." Oh yeah, that was the ticket.

When I called, I was put through to a woman named Mona. Mona sounded like a cross between Tallulah Bankhead and Mo, the truck driver. I explained that I had my mother's crystal and other assorted items to store, and it was vital that they be in a very, very safe place. She repeated the company's motto and told me to come on down. She was sure she could take care of me.

Tuesday morning at 10 am, I stood in front of a glass and chrome building in Port Washington, Long Island. There must have been 25 steps, immaculately cleaned and polished marble, leading to the front door. This was Morgan's kind of place all right.

The front door opened to a gleaming showplace. The dome ceiling was Tiffany glass and crystal chandeliers cascaded down. The walls were tastefully decorated with classical paintings and there were exotic plants everywhere.

Hovering over me was a guard in a spotless uniform. I told him Mona was expecting me. He smiled with perfect pearly whites and told me to wait one moment.

Mona came out all floral and coifed. She dressed the part, but something didn't quite fit. Then it hit me. She seemed like someone who'd be more comfortable in a bowling alley than a boardroom. Mona looked like a fifty year old who didn't want to let go of thirty. She was tall and thick, with wisps of red hair escaping from her turbaned head. She sounded much more like Mo than Tallulah in person, and when she coughed so hard I thought she'd spit up a fur ball, I knew she had a heavy nicotine habit.

Mona led me into her lush office and we sat down to talk. Her oak desk was laced with intricate carvings. There was no paper cluttering her work space. The back wall was glass allowing easy viewing of the lobby we had just come from.

"So you have some antiques to store." Mona smiled at me and I noticed the tiniest bit of lettuce stuck to her left upper molar. Who the heck eats lettuce for breakfast? "As I told you," she continued, "there is nowhere safer to store valuables in the United States than the Swiss Repository. We pride ourselves on our security."

"That's great," I said. "Security is just what I need. It's a long story, but with the family quarreling over Mom's stuff, and, well, she did leave it all to me ... you understand."

"Of course, Ms. Golden. Now, how big a vault did you need?" How the hell do I describe two suitcases full of money? "Big. I need a very large vault." Mona gave me a wilting look. "Ms. Golden, some of our clients store paintings, sculpture, large items of incomparable value. Surely you don't have anything that large to store." I wondered just who these clients were and had I seen any of them on the wall of the post office recently. But I decided it was in my best interest to remain polite.

"No, of course not," I replied lightly. "Let's just say I need a vault somewhat bigger than a bread box and smaller than a casket." Mona laughed a twittering bird laugh. That piece of lettuce still clung to her tooth. She suggested showing me some boxes.

The security was awesome. We entered a cubicle with gates on either side, both of which locked so you could privately enter your top-secret code into a keypad on the wall. I suppose if you goofed, the gates wouldn't reopen until one of the perfectly attired guards arrived with gun in hand. Mona assured me that no one, not even she, would know my code.

Mona plugged in her code and the left gate opened into an area of endless rooms with sterile, gray walls, some of which housed vaults large enough to hold a Mercedes ... or a Botticelli. Yet I still had the feeling that most patron's of this establishment weren't from old money.

We stopped in front of a vault about the size of two mushy-type suitcases filled with money. Mona stood watching me. What was there to say about an empty vault? "It's nice. Lovely." I just wanted to get this whole thing over with.

Back in Mona's office, she opened a drawer and pulled out a mountain of paperwork. "All right, Ms. Golden, when would you like the vault?"

"Well, Mona, first I'd like to know the price." When she said $3,000 per year, the little piece of lettuce landed on her gold watch, as if to say, "Ha, ha, we've got you."

"Rather pricey for a safe deposit box," I said. "I'll have to talk to my lawyer about it first. I'll get back to you later this week." Mona quickly escorted me to the front door. I was delighted to see that her watch still sported a lettuce jacket. Her handshake convinced me. Definitely Ten Pin material.

Morgan flipped his lid when he heard the price of the vault. Eventually, though, he realized there was no price too great to ensure the safety of his precious cache, but I really think it was the idea of having his money in a "Swiss Bank" that was the clincher.

The next morning, I dragged the suitcases out of our safe deposit boxes, stuffed them into my little Datsun, and took off for Port Washington. Mona was delighted to see me back so soon. I was delighted to see the run in Mona's stocking.

We sat down in her office. Today, Mona wore perfume. Eau de Pee-You, I think. I leaned far back in my chair. My eyes began to water, but barring a clothes pin on my nose, there was nothing to be done about it. The mountain of paperwork was neatly stacked on her desk.

"So, Ms. Golden, do you have the payment for your vault?" Mona didn't waste any time. "You do want the vault I showed you yesterday?"

"Yes, Mona, I'm sure you won't mind cash." Her face brightened and she flashed a gleaming smile. No lettuce today. I pulled out the wad of fifty dollar bills I had stuffed into my purse. Though there was still a rubber band around them, they'd gotten all scrunched up on the long trip. I felt a little embarrassed, but I reminded myself that I wasn't the one with a run in my stocking.

Mona removed the rubber band and slowly counted the money, straightening out each bill as she went along. When she finished, there were six neat little rows of $500. She placed the money in her desk.

"Now then, Ms. Golden, shall we proceed?" Mona removed the first sheet of what seemed an endless stack of forms. "In whose name shall we place this account?" That was a good question. How was I going to explain using a name other than my own? Luckily, I didn't have to.

"I realize you have a situation in your 'family,' Ms. Golden." Mona stressed the word "family," and I waited for her to wink at me. "And what I would recommend is using an alternative name for the account. As you know, the Repository is as safe as a Swiss Bank and we pride ourselves on maintaining the security of all of our clients' belongings. Now, we suggest your using an alternate name because if, by some misfortune, the police should come looking for your 'Mother's antiques' [wink, wink], well, we can safely assure the police that we have no account issued to Linda Golden."

I couldn't believe this woman was telling me to use an alias, but since I didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, I followed her lead "Gee, Mona, I'm not sure I feel comfortable about this, but if you say so, I guess it'll be ok." I signed the papers as Lorraine Douglas and told her I would get my deputy (this would be Morgan) to sign the card. Meanwhile, I was ready to input my code. We sauntered over to the cubicle and Mona told me to decide on one code to enter the premises after hours and a different code to enter the vault. I waited, but she didn't leave the cubicle. Though she stood with her back to me, sort of, I had the odd feeling she had exceptional peripheral vision. I jokingly said that this place wasn't big enough for the two of us, but Mona just chuckled and didn't move an inch. When I still hesitated, Mona assured me that no one would know my code.

I didn't want to make a scene, so I proceeded to input "HELLO" for our vault entry code and "TARA," which was my dog's name, for our after-hours code. As I input the codes a second time, I felt better about things, but when Mona said "all done?" just as I pressed the last digit, I became nervous again.

When we finished, I left Mona in her office. There was a separate entrance for vault entry on the side of the building and I drove my car over to the door. I was relieved that Mona wouldn't see me lugging two suitcases into the vault. Of course, when I looked up and saw a video camera in every corner, I realized that she was probably sitting back in her chair enjoying the show. The vault was plenty big for my suitcases, with room to spare for a couple million dollars more. God, I was glad this was over.

Morgan called from Manhattan at around nine that evening. When I told him what happened with Mona, he let into me with a fury. "How could you be so stupid to let her stay in the cubicle with you? What kind of an idiot are you?" I sat with the receiver pressed against my ear, hating Morgan for the venom he spewed at me and hating myself for this moronic blunder.

"Get the fuck back there NOW and fix it. This woman is going to take my money, Goddamit. I don't give a shit how late it is. Do it!" I got into my Datsun and made the long trek back to the Swiss Repository. It was one a.m. when I arrived. Luckily, "TARA" worked fine. The guard was friendly, but when I told him I needed to change my code, the smile faded from his face. "No way" was the bottom line. I firmly told him that I didn't want to get anyone in trouble, but some redheaded person, who shall remain nameless, stood in the cubicle while I entered my codes and I was concerned. VERY CONCERNED.

"Gee, Ms. Douglas [WHO? Oh yeah, that's me], I really can't authorize this. It's one a.m. and, well, the only thing I can do is wake the manager and ask him and you wouldn't want me to do that, would you?" Ten minutes later, the poor guard hung up the phone with a pissed-off manager and I changed the code to "SUCCESS."

The thought entered my mind that here was the perfect opportunity to take the money Morgan owed me, but I could just hear him raging about how I betrayed his trust, and my guilt got the better of me. I had no choice but to keep my fingers crossed that Morgan meant what he said when he promised to take care of me. I drove home exhausted, a poor, but victorious schlemiel.

~~~

## Chapter Fifteen: If this is the Greatest Show on Earth, Where are the Elephants?

After I resolved the situation with our safe deposit box, I felt like a permanent fixture there. Morgan had me drag in boxes and boxes of Force Technology's paperwork. Once in a while, he sent me in to get some money for him, $20,000 here, 15,000 there. And even though $70,000 was still a drop in a half million dollar bucket, I never took one penny for my debts, because though I was sure he'd never find out, I couldn't trust myself not to tell him.

Articles appeared in some newspapers, including the Wall Street Journal, about the possibility that Force Technology wasn't all it was cracked up to be. I wondered who the brilliant whiz was who finally put two and two together and got 3.99999.

In a typical Morgan Phillips move, he decided that this was the perfect moment to promote his book. Yes, "You Can Put Your Company on the Stock Exchange" was finally coming out of the closet. Just days after an article appeared in the Wall Street Journal insisting that Force Technology was, indeed, a scam, Morgan placed a small ad for his book in that very same paper.

"Commercials, Linda, I want you to produce two commercials for the book. We're going to put them on cable. Run 'em like wild. Linda, we're finally going to get the book going." Morgan didn't seem at all concerned that his baby, Force Technology, was crumbling before his eyes. He behaved as if he was going to pull a rabbit out of a hat. "Linda, you gotta get this done by Friday."

"Oh, right, Morgan. I'll just line up a production company, write two commercials, hire actors, scout locations, shoot the things, and give you a finished product in 72 hours. Sure, I can do that." But deep down, I was thrilled that I had a project of this magnitude, and relieved because it meant that I could put off making a decision about what I would do with my life.

We had a serious talk about splitting up and Morgan promised to pay my debts and give me $15,000 ("and not a penny more") if it came to that, though he was certain it never would. One evening, I calculated how much money I'd laid out during this relationship. Including the amount due on the credit cards, which accrued interest each day, $100,000 was an understatement.

"Ok, ok, we need a helicopter and a guy getting out of it. He should look real rich." Morgan was on the phone to me, describing his commercial concept. Since he only wanted to spend about $3,000 for the entire shoot, I advised him that he was dreaming, despite the fact that I found a small production company who had a lot of time on their hands.

Lance and Jeffrey were partners. Jeffrey was the producer. Lance, who was the director, was awfully cute. It had been a long time since I felt a fluttering in my heart for a man and even longer since I felt it for anyone other than Morgan.

I had a blast with these guys. I felt alive again. Over the speaker phone, Morgan read us copy he wrote and we'd wince at each other, groaning silently. We finally convinced him to let us write the scripts. I did everything possible to make these legitimate union shoots. In a splendid stroke of good fortune, I managed to hire an actor who was the spokesman for, who else, the Wall Street Journal. As this was a cable-only spot, I assured his agent it wouldn't conflict with his Wall Street Journal spots. Nope, no conflict there, unless you count the fraud that had been perpetrated by the author of the book.

I found a struggling actor, a complete unknown, for the other commercial, and he had no problem telling the world how much our book had helped him take his fledgling company public. Yep, no trouble after he receive his $1,500 check, anyway. Of course, two days before the shoot, when he discovered how much our other spokesman was being paid, he demanded equal salary or he would quit. Though we figured he wouldn't walk out on the only acting job he'd ever had, we compromised and threw in another $1,500.

***

After looking at five mansions in Connecticut, we decided on an elegant stone home with a circular driveway for our set. Perfect for a long shot of Morgan's limo. The other commercial, featuring that Wall Street Journal spokesman, would be filmed at a nearby school, which we could use for a small fee.

Morgan and Johnny Colorusso showed up at the mansion in Connecticut on the day of the shoot. They were joined by Joey and Carol, two new "partners" of Morgan's. Joey was tall and lanky, his bony face covered with rawhide-colored skin. Carol looked like a big circle, her frizzy hair the shade of a ripe eggplant, and her loose breasts hung out of a tight, scoop-necked tee-shirt.

"Hi, hi," Carol was all smiles as she scurried around, jiggling her breasts at every turn. I got the feeling she thought she was hot stuff. Apparently, Joey thought so too, because I could see the adoration in his eyes when he looked at Carol, and I felt a twinge of sadness that the only look in Morgan's eyes was a dollar sign.

After Morgan and Johnny complained that they hated our mansion and despised our actor, they drove Jeffrey and I to see Carol and Joey's house. "Wait till you see this place," they raved, "you won't believe it." They were right about that. Jeffrey kindly explained that the orange statue of the nude sunbather on the front lawn would make filming more than a little difficult.

We returned to the set and they hung around for another hour before deciding that our actor wasn't so bad after all. Though I was relieved when they left, I was disappointed that I didn't even receive the standard peck on the cheek from Morgan.

I was delighted with how things went on both shoots, and the guys from the production company told me they'd hire me in a second to do freelance work for them. When I told them I wasn't getting paid for my time on this project (which exceeded 15 hours a day) they were shocked I explained that the work was payment enough, but they looked at me like I was crazy.

We began the editing process, which was more time-consuming than all that lead up to it. One must build commercials frame by frame from different takes, putting the pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle, until you have a complete picture. We hired the best editing house around and I didn't tell Morgan about the costs, which were already far more than he had anticipated, and growing by the day. I hoped that he wouldn't care when he saw the final product.

During this time, I stayed in a hotel in Manhattan. My dog, Tara, was holed up in a kennel. I called every evening to be sure she was surviving without me. "Yes," they told me night after night, "she's happy as a clam. Doesn't seem to notice you're gone." Oh great, even my dog didn't need me.

Then, one morning, "I've had it, Morgan. That's it. You can finish editing these stupid commercials yourself." I had just received a notice from American Express informing me they were initiating a lawsuit against me. Never before had I walked out on a project, and though I felt rotten about it, I was sure this would force Morgan, rather than risk losing my creative expertise, to finally come through for me.

But Morgan had more on his mind than my credit problems. He was hiding out. Not from me for a change. The FBI had finally joined forces with the SEC to uncover Morgan the Mastermind's devious plot, but Morgan had a tremendous ability to slip out from the jaws of fate just as they were closing. At this point, I didn't give a hoot about his problems. I just wanted my good name restored.

"Linda, the fuckin' tiger's just about on my back, you know what I mean. I can't deal with this. No, no, don't fuckin' leave me in a lurch like this. Give me till one. I'll get something done by one today." It was 10:15. I had called the production company to tell them I wouldn't be in until some personal problems were resolved.

The phone rang at 1:20. "Here, call this guy. His name is Mike Lehrer. He's going to take care of everything. Call him. And then, will you please get the fuck back to work?" Slam! I wondered what happened to the other lawyer whom Morgan said would take care of everything.

Mike Lehrer took my call immediately. "Yes, Ms. Golden. I hear you have some credit problems and Mr. Phillips is going to help you out." Yeah, mister, and I wonder what other bill of goods he sold you. Just don't buy any Force Technology stock.

"No, Mr. Lehrer, it's not exactly like that." I proceeded to describe, in explicit detail, why I was having credit problems. When I was done, there was silence on the other end for a good 15 seconds.

"Well, Ms. Golden, I'll have to get back to you. Yes, I'm sure everything will be just fine. Mr. Phillips has asked me to contact the companies in question. Please send me a list of the creditors and the amounts owed as soon as possible." It felt great to tell this guy how Morgan had screwed up my credit.

Ok, I thought as I headed into the editing house, now we're cookin'. I've got Morgan right where I want him. My euphoria was interrupted by Jeffrey, who was waiting near the front door and raced over as soon as he saw me. "Linda, I'm glad you're here. Morgan sent this guy over to work with us. Man, Linda, he's a goof. His name is Ron something or other." I thought for a minute and remembered having heard Morgan mention the name of this particular "right-hand man," Ron Williams. Morgan had the ability to make people feel they were invaluable to him. Only you came to learn that on a whim you could instantly lose your standing.

I followed Jeffrey into the editing room. Ron sat back, legs crossed, looking like the king of the heap. He had blond, thinning hair, and a face full of scars from the acne that must have embarrassed him dreadfully as a teenager. As I walked in, I heard him say to the engineer, "No, no, no, we simply can't use that shot. No way." My blood was already boiling. Morgan didn't even wait until the body was cold before replacing me.

"Hello, Ron, I'm Linda." Ron didn't bother getting up. "Oh, hi. Listen, Jefferoo, this shot is just not what we want. I'm not happy so far." I had a tremendous urge to grab the ashtray next to him, which was filled with his cigarette butts, and dump it on his head.

The next hour was a living hell. Each time I opened my mouth to make a suggestion or a decision, I was shot down by Ron. He behaved as though I was some airhead and that he had come to save the day. I decided to set this bozo straight. "Ron, can I have a word with you in private?" We stepped into another office.

I told him that I didn't like his attitude one bit and explained that this was my project. "Linda, you walked away. Morgan sent me in because he knows I would never leave a project hanging. He told me that I'm to pull this thing together and that my say is final. I have experience with video," he said, patronizingly, "I know what I'm doing."

"Ron, did you know that I've been a casting director for the past eight years? Did you know that I have vast experience producing projects such as this? And did you realize that I was the one who organized this whole thing."

Ron looked at me silently, but I could see the surprise on his face. "No," he finally said, "I, I, uh, no, no, I didn't. Morgan didn't tell me that." I was afraid to ask what Morgan did tell him. "Ok, Ron, let's get this straight. This is my project. You can go home now."

But Ron wanted to stay. "Linda, Morgan wants me to have final business say. Hey, I know we can work this out."

I called Morgan. "Why did you send this guy down here? He's making everyone crazy. And what the hell did you tell him about me, Morgan? He thinks I'm a jerk. I'm going to tell him the truth about why I left."

"No, no, Linda, for Christ's sake don't do that. Look, he's harmless. And anyway, I do want him to have final say on the business stuff. But, of course, you have the creative say. Let me talk to him." I gave the phone to Ron, who didn't say much, just "yes-ed" for five minutes and looked over at me once or twice.

Ron and I developed an uneasy truce and continued working together for the next two days. Eventually, I had to admit that some of his ideas were ok and we let him have his way once or twice. At the end of the second day, he told us that he wouldn't be able to join us on day three (what a shame).

The next morning, when I got in at 9:30, Lance told me that Morgan had been trying to reach me for half an hour. He handed me a piece of paper with a Connecticut phone number.

"Hi, Morgan, it's me." I deliberately didn't say Linda because I was curious if he'd know who "me" was anymore.

"Linda, Linda, great, great. Listen, you gotta help me out here. Everything's happening right now, today. The press conference. We're going to do it." Morgan was racing at top speed. "Everybody's going to be here. You gotta get the guys down to film it. We're gonna be at the World Trade Center at noon."

Morgan finally agreed to produce a can for the public, the media, the SEC, and the FBI to see. He had mentioned it during one of our few fleeting conversations recently, but I didn't give it much thought. After all, Force Technology had little to do with "my" project.

His hopes were high that this would be front page news and he'd contacted every media outlet around. He also had high hopes that this would get the FBI off his tail and shut up the SEC.

"Yeah, I got that crazy Russian to be President. The guy who threatened to slice off my fingers if he didn't get the money I owed him a few months ago. I know he's nuts, he could snap at any moment, but I have him under control, really, I do. Hey, I paid him 10 grand to do this and he got the other guys for us and paid them, himself. Yeah," he laughed, "a new Board of Directors. Boris won't fuck me over. No way, he's got too much invested in this now. It's great, really great, but you gotta get somebody down there. We need a tape 'cause like, you know, Johnny and I can't actually be there, right? But we gotta see it, Linda."

"But, Morgan," why did I always have to be the voice of reason, "I'll have to tell these guys about Force Technology. Doesn't that make you nervous? I mean, these guys see you around. And when did you come up with a can that works?"

"Ok, ok, ok. Tell them, but just what you have to. It doesn't matter now. Everything's gonna be great, perfect. I have it under control. It's ok to tell them about it. Anyway, sure we have a can. I got a guy to sort of put one together. They don't care how good it works. They just want to see that it exists." The fist in my belly was back.

After we hung up, I pulled Jeffrey aside and explained things ... sort of. Jeffrey was a tough kid from the Bronx. He read between the lines and understood more than I'd hoped, but I was relieved that he seemed to get a kick out of it. The problem was, on such short notice, he'd have to scramble for a cameraman because Lance was needed in the office. He took off and said he'd do the best he could.

Around two p.m., he walked in the door, shaking his head and laughing. "Unbelievable. Oh, man, this was something else. We missed the first 20 minutes, but it doesn't matter. This is definitely the most bizarre thing I've ever seen." He proceeded to play the tape of the Force Technology press conference.

It was worse than I ever imagined. The tape began with Boris Ivanek, the crazy Russian Morgan mentioned, explaining how he came to be President of Force Technology. After all, the audience was expecting Mr. Lawrence Johnson, typical WASP, but it turned out that Mr. Johnson recently retired, but before he left for his indefinite stay in the Caribbean, he selected Mr. Ivanek to be acting President.

This, Boris said with a straight face and a heavy Russian accent. Boris was a serious man, rather fat, with a large nose that glowed like W.C. Fields'. From what Morgan told me in the past, this was not a person you'd like to meet in a dark alley ... or even a lit restaurant. Boris had a short fuse. Though they had cleaned him up, this was a clear case of being unable to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

The press conference went from bad to worse. The only saving grace was that few media people showed up. Boris became indignant when it was suggested that the president of a public company can't just pick whomever he wants to take over. At that moment, the acting president had a temper tantrum on-camera.

The questioners now turned, probably in self-defense, to the other two new board members, who looked a lot more believable than Boorish Boris ... until they opened their mouths. Naturally, their stories were similar to Boris'. When one of these two fine young gentlemen was asked where he attended school, he proudly answered, "I went to a four year college."

"Where?" Asked the curious reporter. "In California," was his response. There were no more questions from the audience. I suppose they realized there was as little to be gained from this line of inquiry as from agitating Boris.

It was time to unveil the can. Amidst tremendous fanfare, the scientist who developed this work of art passed the unopened can around for everyone to feel it's warmth (see, ladies and gentlemen, nothing up my sleeve). The man then lifted the can high in the air, swung around in a circle, put his forefinger in the ring, and pulled.

A mild pop emanated from the barely fizzling soda can. "Let me see it" and "I want to feel it" was heard as people grabbed for the can. Then I heard mutterings of, "This thing's barely cool," and "yeah, buddy, I've got a bridge to sell you," along with a great deal of snickering.

There was one final question for the Board of Directors. "Where is Morgan Phillips, the guy who made all this happen?" Of course, no one had a clue. I shut off the tape nauseated by what I had just witnessed. And it crossed my mind that I was the one who had created the original Board of Directors.

~~~

## Chapter Sixteen: It was Never like this in the Movies

Morgan was delighted with the press conference. When he exclaimed, "Boris was terrific!" and then asked me what I thought of him, I bit my tongue so hard it nearly bled, in an effort to contain myself. When I didn't answer, Morgan said, "Fuck it, who gives a shit what you think?" Apparently, his voice was the singular positive one, because Morgan was now officially on the lam.

Did this make me a gangster's moll, I wondered? Ok, so Cagney stuffed a grapefruit in his girlfriend's face, but at least they ate breakfast together. I hadn't seen Morgan for weeks, except for a few brief moments like when he picked up the videotape of the commercials or gave me money to pay the production company. Yes, Morgan made good on his contract for the commercials. The final bill came to nearly $25,000, which Morgan handed me in cash, grumbling. Unfortunately, the commercials never aired anywhere but in our tape machine because everything happened at breakneck speed after that.

Morgan had one other meeting with Jeffrey, where he asked him to sign a paper stating that Carol, the fat eggplant-headed lady, was the person with whom he'd done business on these commercials. This maneuver effectively erased all my hard work and gave the credit to Carol. A few weeks before this, Morgan showed me contracts stating that Joey and Carol owned Capital Analysis, Inc. and were publishing his book. I didn't care that Morgan was in BIG, BIG trouble and was scrambling to get out of it. All that mattered to me was that the only thing that gave me any self-worth in the past six months had just been taken away.

***

I was back in the big, empty house overlooking the Long Island Sound again. Morgan was certain the phone was tapped. Whenever he called now, I had to call him back from a hospital pay phone a few miles down the road. "Alright, now, you got it? Each number is off by one and the area code is off by 3." I would have to decipher the phone number, race to the hospital, and call him from there.

I was sure that I was being watched and terrified that someone would come barging in and do God knows what to me. Though I was worried about the authorities, I was more concerned about, oh, say, Boris, or some other nut who was disenchanted with the Magical Morgan.

Though I knew he was somewhere in Connecticut, I wouldn't have been able to lead anyone to him even if they tarred and feathered me. Though I looked to Tara for protection, the worst she would have done is swat the intruder with her tail in her lust to lick him.

Morgan did sneak home one night. Though he checked the doors and windows every 15 minutes for two hours when he first got there to see if anyone was watching, we did manage to have a few hours of snuggling and giggling, just like old times. He left at 4 am, saying that he didn't want to risk getting caught by staying until daylight.

I hadn't noticed that Spring had arrived. All I worried about was getting my next call from Morgan and getting through the night. I wasn't even going to my support group any longer. I was afraid to go anywhere.

With the warm weather came a few new surprises. Termites and rats, both of whom arrived at the same time. Morgan insisted that I not call Nina Paoli, owner of the house. But one morning, I walked downstairs and saw a dead rat floating in my glass teakettle and when I turned around, I watched a box of cereal do the two-step. It was time to leave this place for good.

"Linda, don't panic ... "

"Morgan, I'd like to see you live with rats. And I don't mean the human kind." I was determined to get out of there immediately. "Give me two days, Linda. Our stuff will be out and we'll be together, I promise. This will pass over, it's just tough right now. Linda, we're so close to finally being together as a family. And God, I'm starting to want to make love to you again. Last night, I just couldn't sleep, all I could think about was holding you in my arms.

"I know we almost didn't make it. And I also know that it's all my fault. You don't like me very much right now and that really hurts. But when I think about all I've put you through, I just can't blame you. When this is all over, I swear that I'm going to make it up to you. Linda, no matter what I've said or done in the past, I'm telling you now that I don't want you to leave me ... ever." Despite myself, I felt confused. As soon as I had finally accepted the fact that we were finished for good, Morgan managed to lure me back in. So I just wasn't ready to break that thin, thin thread that still connected us.

The next afternoon, Jimmy Salvatore came by, along with some guys in a truck. I was drained from the past weeks and could only watch as they stuffed everything into boxes, dragging our expensive toys out as fast as they could. When they were done, Jimmy winked at me, puffed up his chubby chest, and said, "This is a piece of cake, Linda, they ain't gonna get us." With that, they took off.

I sat in the empty house, but I wasn't alone. No indeed. I had my trusty Tara and all the termites and rats one could ever want for companions. 20 minutes later, the phone rang. It was Jimmy.

"Ix-nay on the eeting-may with organ-may." Good grief, this jerk was speaking pig latin. "Jimmy, just come out with it."

"We were nearly caught. I almost shit my pants. Linda, they're all over, all around you. They've been watching. I was following the truck down the street. A gardener and a repairman started toward us. Suddenly, I saw three police cars. The truck got out ok, but they stopped me. I was so scared." Jimmy was laughing now. "Yeah, they saw the telescope in the car, that's just about all I had, and they asked me if I was Morgan. I said, 'Who?' like I never heard of him. They asked for id and wanted to know what I was doing with the telescope. I told 'em I seen an ad in the newspaper and some girl back there sold it to me. I can't believe it, but they let me go. They're so fuckin' stupid, but Linda, you can't go to Morgan now. You can't, 'cause they're watchin' and they'll follow you."

I hung up, devastated. I wasn't concerned that I was assisting a fugitive to escape from justice. No, I was stuck on the fact that I wouldn't get to be with Morgan, clearly a cosmic conspiracy to keep me from having sex. And I was still crazy enough to believe that it mattered any more.

I raced to the hospital, looking in my back mirror every few seconds. There was something so dramatic about this, something terribly cinematic. But this was real life, and I was beginning to get scared.

When I couldn't find Morgan, I talked to a guy at Johnny's office and begged him to track Morgan down and have him call me right away. I waited by the phone. About 45 minutes later, Morgan gave me his code and hung up after 30 seconds. Our paranoia was limitless.

"Linda, you can't come tonight. I'm sorry. Just stay there or go to a hotel if you have to, but no, you can't come here tonight. We'll talk about it tomorrow." I just couldn't face another evening in that empty torture chamber, though I knew it wouldn't really matter where I went because my torment went far beyond the rodents in my living quarters. What I wouldn't have given for a restful night's sleep, just one night where I wasn't plagued by guilt or fear or panic.

Later that day, I packed up the rest of my belongings and piled them and Tara into my car. We headed for the faithful old motor lodge, where we were both welcomed with open arms.

A few days later, I was ecstatic when Morgan told me I could finally join him. I brushed off all the trouble he was in, believing it would pass like a puff of smoke. And I was convinced that his problems were far removed from me. After all, I had had virtually nothing to do with Force Technology for months.

By the middle of May, we had spent two miserable weeks together moving from hotel to hotel, and I was ready to throw in the towel. I didn't mind moving every few days. What bothered me was Morgan's verbal abuse. If I said blue, Morgan said green and added that blue was a stupid answer and I was an idiot for saying it. We passed our one year anniversary fighting like cats and dogs. I wondered when the time would come for him to make it all up to me like he promised?

One afternoon, Morgan drove me out to an isolated area and showed me a house surrounded by woods with a small, separate guest house. He stood with me in front of it, put his arm around me, and whispered, "This, Linda, this is our dream house, the house that will be our permanent home." I don't remember when I had such a good laugh. Unfortunately, Morgan didn't appreciate the humor of the situation, which precipitated another angry skirmish.

It was Friday morning. We were going to meet for dinner and renegotiate our relationship. Morgan said he wanted to talk about getting married. I kept my fingers crossed that we'd, at least, get through dinner still speaking to each other.

When I came back to the room at 4 p.m., there was a note on the table. "Darling, I had to leave for Utah. My brokerage firm is in trouble. It's an emergency. I love you desperately. As soon as I get back, we'll work things out. Don't worry about the hotel bill, it's been paid through Monday. And I left you $2000 for the weekend. I love you."

I was livid and there was no one on whom to vent my rage. I stormed around the room screaming obscenities at an invisible Morgan. Poor Tara slunk off to the corner, her ears virtually turned inside out. She never saw me like this before and she didn't like it one bit.

The phone rang. It was Morgan. He was at the airport. I let him say his piece, but I geared up to let him have it for the last time, money be damned. "Linda, I'm terribly sorry. Sweetheart, you know I have this brokerage firm, Jennifer Securities. There's a big problem there. You know I wouldn't leave today if there was any other way. I promise..." That did it.

"Your promises mean nothing to me, you louse. I never want to see you again. You're a grade-A jerk, nothing but a two bit con artist ... "

"Linda, calm down. I understand why you're so angry, but ... "

"Morgan, I don't give a shit what you have to say. I never, ever want to see you again. You don't care about my feelings. You don't care about anything but your own damned self. I hate your guts." And I slammed down the phone. One thing puzzled me. Why had he let me go on this way without retaliating? It wasn't like Morgan to take it.

Although I desperately needed the $15,000 in cash that Morgan promised me (not to mention the $70,000 for the debts), I figured the $2,000 I had in my hand was better than nothing. And I sure wasn't going to hold my breath waiting for the other $13,000. I sat for hours trying to organize my thoughts and my life, but I was scared and confused. It seemed like ten years since Morgan Phillips took over my thoughts, but in reality, scarcely a year had passed. For the first time in my life, I got down on my knees and prayed for some guidance. I decided to go back to the Sylvan Retreat, because I longed for some spiritual solace. More than anything, I wanted to stop being so angry and hating myself.

It was midnight before I got the courage to go back to the Swiss Repository and take the money for my credit card debts and the $13,000 Morgan still owed me. I felt as though I were betraying Morgan, stealing from him, but I overrode those thoughts with the image of going to debtor's prison.

Tara and I made the two and a half hour trip in an hour and fifty minutes. I left her in the car and told her to bite first and ask questions later. My heart was beating double-time. I was scared, but I'm not sure why. Relief washed over me when there was no problem with my night entry code.

The guard at the front desk didn't know me. It had been at least a month since I'd been by. He searched the cards for at least three minutes before looking up and saying, "I'm sorry, miss, but there's no card here with your name on it."

"No, that's impossible." I informed him that mine was the principal name on the account. It had to be there. He looked again, and shook his head. "Sorry, it's not here. If you'd like to come in during the day and talk to someone about it ... "

"No, look, is there anyone else here?" I wasn't going to leave without my money. He called the other guard over, who recognized me right away. "Yeah, sure. Ms. Douglas, right? Oh, I'm sure the card is in here. Must have gotten mixed up. Let me take a look." Thank God, a rational voice.

He looked puzzled as he went through the cards a second time, muttering, "Nope, nope..." Finally, he stopped at a card and pulled it out.

"Ms. Douglas, I'm sorry but, well, it looks like the card has been changed. Looks like your things have been moved to a bigger vault, and, well, your name isn't on here," he said as he showed me the card, "just the deputy ... Billy the Kid." Yeah, Morgan just loved to view himself as a folk hero. I looked again at the card. Same deputy, same night entry code, but no "Lorraine Douglas."

I was beside myself. How could a deputy override a principal on an account? I was the one who paid Mona; I was the one who brought in my belongings, which I told her were my mother's antiques. And then I remembered, Mona is a woman. And Morgan is a worm. He probably took her bowling and let her win.

Clearly, I'd lost this battle. The guard looked sorry for me, but there was nothing he could do. There was no point in causing a scene. Safe as a Swiss Bank, huh? More like a pound of swiss cheese.

Back in the car, I was livid. By the time we returned to the hotel, I was steaming and Tara raced under the bed. I paced the floor for another hour and finally fell asleep, exhausted from rage.

At eight a.m., I was awakened by the phone. "Hello, this is the front desk. Can you please come down?" When I got there, they informed me that Mr. Carlisle owed $500 on his bill. Who the hell was Mr. Carlisle? They showed me the credit card and explained that though he had been paying cash, he left his card to keep a tab. He was now $500 over the limit and a payment was due. It didn't take me long to figure out that Morgan was using a stolen credit card.

Today was Saturday. I told the clerk that Mr. Carlisle would return tomorrow morning and he would certainly make good on the outstanding debt. They were most accommodating and told me to have a nice day.

Revenge. I wanted revenge. I had no idea when or if Morgan would return to the hotel, but I sure as hell wasn't bailing him out of trouble this time. Tara and I had to escape. I felt sickened by what I was about to do. There was an empty luggage cart in the hallway. I grabbed it and proceeded to pile my belongings on.

I stuffed Morgan's clothing into a suitcase, vowing to dump them right on the road. As I cleared out our room, I came across the answer to the question I asked myself about why Morgan hadn't gone off the deep end on the phone. Lying on the bureau was his watch, the one with the diamonds around the face and the solid gold band. I knew I hit the jackpot. And now, I had a bargaining chip.

It took two trips to remove our stuff. What if they saw me? Would they arrest me? I didn't think so. Hell, I wasn't Mr. Carlisle. Jesus, I wasn't even Mrs. Carlisle. On the other hand, neither was Morgan. I removed our belongings in the middle of a sunny Saturday afternoon. Afterwards, Tara and I slowly strolled out the side door and left. We never looked back.

I called Jimmy from my room at the Motor Lodge. "Jimmy, you tell that asshole I want the money he owes me or he'll never see his watch again. You got that?" Now I was the tough guy. And I remembered a conversation in Las Vegas with an ex-wife named Joell.

"Linda, I'm sure there's just a misunderstanding here. I talked to Morgan and he said he's going to work everything out with you. Just don't do anything. He'll be back Monday." Jimmy gave me the old hard sell but I was tired of waiting. I told him that if I didn't hear from Morgan by Monday, I was going to take off and sell his watch.

Monday at 10 am the phone rang. "Linda, I'll be back by four. Meet me tonight at the Ambassador Hotel." Morgan gave me directions and told me to meet him there at six p.m. I told him that he'd better have my $13,000 if he wanted to see his watch again. They were calling his flight, he said, and hung up.

Jimmy was waiting for me at six. "I know you want to see Morgan. He'll be here. He just had some business to settle first. He asked me to get his watch from you." Oh no you don't, Morgan, you weasel. "Gee, Jimmy, I didn't bring it with me." Actually, it was in the front pocket of my jeans, stuffed way down at the bottom. I was tempted to wear it in my back pocket, but I knew the fleeting pleasure of sitting on it would soon turn to disappointment at being unable to sell a broken watch.

Morgan showed up at 6:45 and rushed me down to the lower level lounge. "I can't stay long, my love. I have a meeting. Why don't you wait for me here and we'll have dinner afterwards? I'll only be 15 minutes."

I couldn't believe this guy. He couldn't take time out of his busy schedule for me, "the love of his life." On the other hand, he was being chased by the F.B.I., so I gave him the slightest benefit of the doubt. "Ok, Morgan, I'll wait, but I'd like my money now, just in case you get tied up."

"Linda, is that really necessary? Come on, we're going to talk this out over dinner. By the way, where's my watch? And my clothes?"

"Morgan, give me my money and I'll give you your stupid watch, ok? Your clothes are in the car."

"Linda, I couldn't get $13,000. I could only get $10,000. I just don't have money right now. I'm tapped out. This whole thing has drained me of every penny. I've got zip again."

"Fine," I said, "I'll take it." His eagerness to exchange the money for his watch again gave me pause about its actual worth, but I decided I'd rather have cash than try to sell a watch that was probably stolen to begin with. And though I was horribly worried about the $70,000 debt, I knew it was hopeless to try to get that kind of money from Morgan tonight.

We exchanged goods and I told Morgan I'd get his clothing out of my car. Luckily, it was a balmy spring day, so Tara was doing just fine hanging out in the back seat. I brought her a glass of water and sat with her a while, absorbing her unconditional love.

Morgan returned about eight. I was pretty peeved, but I was also hungry. "Linda, I hate to do this, but I have to make a call before we go. Can you just stay here a few minutes longer?" I stormed out without answering. Morgan followed while he tried to calm me down. "Linda, please, Linda, listen to me. Come on. I'll only be a few minutes." I watched him out of my rearview mirror as I sped out of the hotel garage.

I drove around the block three times because I still wasn't ready to leave. It just didn't feel finished yet. I pulled back into the garage and went to the front desk.

"Excuse me," I said, "Can you give me the room number for Morgan Phillips." Naturally, no one by that name was registered. I went through every alias I ever heard Morgan use. This is ridiculous. This time, Morgan wanted to see me.

I knew he was driving the black Porsche and I described it to the bellboy standing nearby. "Miss, does that car have a big dent in the side?" Bingo. The car had been in an accident, Morgan told me, a few weeks before. Yeah, this guy sure remembered Morgan. And so did the desk clerk when he described him to her.

"Oh, that gentleman. Ah, um, the room is registered under the name of Rita Jenkins." The clerk looked a bit embarrassed as she told me this. I put on my most charming smile, as my teeth ground through my jaw. "Oh, really. Yes, that's a business associate of my friend. Great. He's expecting me and, as I told you, I forgot the room number. Now, what room is that?" The clerk looked relieved when she saw my response. Since she figured I wasn't going to become violent and I clearly knew all the parties involved, she told me it was room 802. I was relieved that this wasn't a repeat of all those wasted trips to Florida.

I knocked on the door for four minutes and pounded it with my foot for another five. Nothing. Not a peep. I was about to camp out on the floor when I heard his footsteps. When he opened the door. Morgan didn't look surprised to see me, but he told me I'd have to wait a few minutes; he was still on the phone. I didn't care and began to scream at him about Rita, about dinner, about hurting me. I couldn't stop screaming. He pushed me down on the bed and told me to shut up until he was off the phone. I decided it was in my best interest to calm down.

Morgan was talking to Joey and Carol. Then I heard him speak with Sidney, his lawyer buddy from way back. Sidney, Joey, and Carol were scheduled to appear the next morning in front of the SEC to discuss Capital Analysis, Inc ... and Morgan's book. I heard Morgan telling them to lie to the authorities and just how to do it. They all laughed at how they were going to pull the wool over the government's eyes. And Sidney, upholder of the law, laughed right along with them.

Morgan talked to Sidney about money the attorney received in retainers for being Morgan's counsel. Morgan made it clear, in between spasms of laughter, that this was Sidney's way of making big bucks off Morgan's deals. I listened as they coordinated their script for the next morning. Morgan then talked to each of them separately, explaining how worried he was about the other two and that it was up to each of them to keep it together and get the story straight.

I looked over to my right and saw a copy of Forbes Magazine. It was open to page 23, where there were two pages about the man who could "sell ice cubes to Eskimos." I listened to Morgan's continuing conversation with half an ear as I perused the story. The above quote was from one of Morgan's ex-wives, who chose to remain nameless, which was probably a wise decision as, that way, there'd certainly be no way to figure out which one she was. The article chronicled Morgan's life and career, what little they could piece together. There were a few photos of the Mastermind. Police mug shots, actually.

I read on. The article discussed his multiple marriages, his only child, his business dealings, Force Technology. Wait a minute, I thought, I'm not in here. Not one word about the current woman in his life. Not a sentence about the woman who stood by him and helped him become the man he was today. Ok, so maybe no one liked the man he was today. But that did nothing to soothe my damaged ego.

I remembered that Morgan had signed Capital Analysis, Inc. over to Carol and Joey. He had told me that, as far as the world was concerned, it was she who put together the book and the commercials, which effectively made me the invisible woman.

By the time Morgan hung up, I didn't know where to begin. As always, he had a great excuse for the room being registered in Rita's name. "It was just a convenient alias, one I hadn't used for a while." He swore he hadn't seen her in months. Despite myself, and my resolve to leave Morgan, I breathed a sigh of relief. And then, I brought up the Swiss Repository. Morgan exploded. "I can't believe you were going to steal that money from me."

He said he had a feeling something like this might happen because he didn't trust anyone anymore, but, of course, when things calmed down, he was going to go back in and change it. I never got an answer as to how he managed to erase the name of the person who paid for the vault to begin with. Maybe I didn't really want to know.

As far as the magazine article, Morgan said, "Well, of course they didn't write about you, Linda, I never talked to them, remember. Anyway, it's better that you're not involved with any of this."

Before we went to dinner, I made sure Tara did her duty and brought her up to the room. I felt lucky that we'd never had a problem staying anywhere and that Tara was always the perfect lady. I filled her bowls with food and water, and Morgan and I went down to eat.

Dinner was miserable. Morgan complained about my hair, my makeup, the way I ate my soup. I wanted to leave right then. I told him that I was going to the Sylvan Retreat in the morning. He agreed that it would be best for the time being until all this blows over. I sat crying because it really was ending, and for all the pain, I hated to let go. Morgan just kept insisting that it wasn't over at all, that this was just a temporary separation.

Back in the room, Morgan demanded that I tickle him until he fell asleep. He turned his back to me with a brush of his lips on my cheek and fell asleep within minutes. I sat there rubbing his back, feeling lonelier than I ever had in all my life. And again I knew, that if he had said just one kind word, I would have melted into his arms and never left.

In the morning, we stood in the room facing each other. Morgan kissed me on the forehead. I held Tara by her leash. I couldn't stop crying. "Linda, things are going to work out between us. I promise that. Don't be sad. With some time and space between us, we'll be able to sort things out." He certainly didn't seem too worked up about my leaving. "I'll call you soon, my love. Jimmy's waiting downstairs to help you put your things in storage."

The time had come to say goodbye. Why was it so painful? I knew, despite Morgan's cheery see-you-soon speech, that I had finally decided to jump off the cliff. Though a tiger chased me to the edge, I felt no relief, because when I looked below, all I saw was emptiness.

***

I followed Jimmy to the storage place as Morgan instructed, and put most of my belongings into one of our two storage lockers, which held the contents of the Long Island house. I wouldn't need much where I was going. The rooms at the retreat were small, at best. Anyway, I wanted to be as unencumbered as possible while I tried to heal my heart and soul.

Two weeks later, my wounds actually developed some scabs and Tara and I were having a grand old time at the Sylvan Retreat. We took long walks and looked at trees. Well, I looked at trees; Tara peed on them. I contemplated my navel a lot and talked to Bill and Debbie, the owners of the retreat, about the meaning of life. Bill was already in his late 70's and he was full of the wisdom that comes from simply being around that many years. I felt nurtured for the first time in a long while.

One morning at seven a.m., there was a phone call for me at the front desk. I couldn't imagine who'd be calling, since I gave no one the number. I hadn't yet gotten in touch with anyone, not even Rhonda, because I was too embarrassed at the mess I had made of my life. I just couldn't bear to hear a rousing chorus of "I told you so," repeated by each one.

When I picked up the phone, I heard, "Hi, my darling." I was stunned ... and speechless. "Linda, I miss you so much. I want you back with me." Oh, really? "How are you doing? Linda? Linda?"

I finally got my voice back. "Morgan, what do you want?" Despite my cold greeting, I felt hopeful.

"I miss you, that's all. I think you should come back." Wow, sometimes miracles do happen. And after the pause, "Linda, by the way, you weren't thinking of going to the F.B.I. were you?" Morgan giggled nervously. "I mean, you wouldn't do something like that to me, would you my love?" My miracle got squashed like a bug.

"No, Morgan, I just want to get on with my life. I have no interest in hurting you. But if you do want me back, you're going to have to change. You have to be nice to me. That's first. No more berating me. And you'll have to make love to me. And you have to make good on the debts. Those are my conditions." There was a pause before he answered. "Ok, Linda, I have to think about all this." What the hell was there to think about? "I'll get back to you, gotta go." With that, he was gone, and so were my hopes of reconciling with Morgan Phillips. I cried myself to sleep that night. The next day, I resolved to work even harder to get back in touch with my own soul.

Six weeks passed. The summer was coming to an end and I finally felt a measure of peace within myself. I decided that it was time to move on from the Sylvan Retreat. Though I loved Bill and Debbie, living in one room and sharing a bathroom with strangers was beginning to get on my nerves. I started looking for an apartment.

A week of searching left me feeling depressed again. After living in such spacious quarters in Long Island, I had difficulty accepting any of the homely places I saw. I needed to stretch out my money for as long as possible, so I was caught in a seemingly irresolvable quandary. When I found a basement apartment in the country not far from Scranton, surrounded by miles and miles of farmland for Tara to run around in, I took it. I figured at least one of us should be happy.

When I went to my storage locker, the one I followed Jimmy to, I discovered that my key no longer fit the lock. Stay calm, I told myself, this is clearly an error. "I'm sorry, Ms. Golden, that lock's been changed." The man at the front desk tried to be kind about it. "I sort of remember what happened. Some guys were here just last month. Yeah, they took some stuff out of there and moved it to another locker. I remember now. Then they put a different lock on it and said we weren't to let anybody in but them."

"Let me talk to the manager." I was seething. He jumped up with real fear in his eyes. "Yes, Ms. Golden, right away."

"Can I help you." The manager was a young woman, about 23 years old. "Yes, you can help me. My name is Linda Golden and I want to get into my locker. Those are my things and the gentlemen who went in had no business doing so. Here is my receipt. As you can see, my name and my name alone is on here. If you don't let me in right now, I will sue the pants off this company."

Her face turned green as she looked at the receipt I refused to let go of. "Ms. Golden, obviously, there's been a terrible mistake. Certainly, you can get into your locker." She called the maintenance man to come down and remove the lock.

The locker was still pretty full. It was impossible to tell what had been taken at first glance. I packed up a few things and bought a new lock to put on it. "If I find out that anyone other than me has gone into this locker after today, you will regret it." It sure felt good to assert myself ... and win.

The next day, I returned with two guys from the "The Earth Moved" moving company. I removed every last item out of that cursed locker and I made sure to take my lock with me. I still wasn't certain what was taken, but I knew that my Chinese teacup with the inscription, "Seven Times Down, Eight Times Up" on it and a quilt used by my mother during the last year of her life were gone. I didn't have a clue why Morgan would want my mementos.

I was obsessed with finding Morgan to tell him what I thought of him. First, I called Sidney, who said he had talked to Morgan just the day before. No, he didn't know where he was now, but he'd be sure to let him know I was looking for him. Sidney wished me well and expressed his profound sorrow at how things had come down between Morgan and myself. He said that I should keep in touch and that if I ever needed him, he'd be right there for me. Yeah, right there in my panties, I bet.

It took another two weeks for this last sting to wear off and the realization to sink in that maybe I'd never see Morgan Phillips again. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that our relationship wasn't quite over.

Every Sunday morning, I took myself to the local diner, Rick's Place, a dinky dive with the best greasy hash browns you'd ever want to guzzle. Though I still worked hard to keep food in its proper perspective, an occasional indulgence hit the spot. I usually brought the local paper with me, but today, I left it on my bureau. While waiting to enter cholesterol heaven, I noticed two newspapers on the table next to mine. One was the Daily News. The other, the Wall Street Journal. I hadn't been back to New York since I left Morgan. Though I had no desire to return to my old haunts, I still missed the city in a sad kind of way. I picked up the Daily News.

As I glanced through the pages, I noticed a phrase that stopped me cold. "Phillips Arrested in Force Technology Scam." Oh my God. I devoured the article. Morgan was caught, sitting in jail awaiting arraignment. I started laughing. Think of it, Morgan the Magnificent sitting in a cell like a common criminal. His guardian angel must have finally taken a hike, probably on a well-needed vacation.

I felt kind of sorry for Morgan. After all, the man who needed gel, mousse, and hair spray before leaving the house was going to be hard-pressed to stay well-coifed in prison. I felt a twinge of concern for myself, but I shoved it aside. Morgan was the one they wanted. He deserves what he gets.

Now, I greedily read the Wall Street Journal. If the Daily News had an article about Morgan, the Wall Street Journal was bound to be gloating about the capture of the man who faked them out. Yep, right there on page three was an article entitled, "Twelve arrested in Can Scam." Twelve? What twelve? I didn't know anything about twelve people.

The F.B.I. arrested Sidney Wasserman. They also arrested Carol and Joey. And of course, Johnny Colorusso, no indictment would be complete without him. Oh yeah, that jerky Ron Williams, too, along with good old Jimmy Salvatore. Looks like his dad was right about him. Well, well, it's good to know that Boris Ivanek is going to get his! I continued reading and saw a few more names I knew, and some I didn't, most of them stockbrokers. I didn't see the names of any of the people who were in on the scheme in the beginning, people like Frankie Russo or Jake Friedman. I guess they got lucky.

Boy, this is really something, I thought, as I dug into my scrambled eggs. I'd love to be a fly on the wall during the trial. Already, I felt separate from these people who were paying a price for their greed. I continued reading and came to the last paragraph. The F.B.I. was still searching for three people. They only described one of them, a young woman who used her connections in advertising to steal pictures of actors to portray the board of directors of Force Technology.

~~~

## Chapter Seventeen: It Ain't Over Till the Fat Lady Sings (Dan Cook, _TV Sportscaster_ )

Please, God, I prayed, don't let them handcuff me. I was in New Haven, Connecticut, about to turn myself in to the F.B.I. Life was most confusing at this moment.

Back at the diner, after I stopped choking on the egg which congealed in my mouth as I read there was a warrant out for my arrest, I knew I was in big trouble and better do something about it fast.

I was a fugitive from justice. Little did anyone realize that I ran to escape Morgan, not the authorities. As far as I knew, the only living being who cared if I was dead or alive was my dog.

Oh God, there was only one thing to do, and I dreaded it. I had to call my brother. After all, Barry spent most of his psychiatric career working with lawyers to convince a jury that a client was looney-tunes. So what that I would no longer be able to escape his scathing criticism of my lifestyle. I had no choice. I called Delaware.

"Hi, Barry, it's your sister." A pregnant pause ensued before I heard, "Oh, hi, Linda." I explained my situation. Barry wasn't the calmest person on the face of the earth, but he might have been the most paranoid, a classic case study for someone like himself to salivate over. "Does this guy know where we live? Jesus Christ, Linda, he might send some gangsters over to kill my kids! Shit, how could you do this to us?" Leave it to Barry to turn my personal problem into his Greek Tragedy.

"Nice of you to be so concerned about my welfare, Barry. Look, I'm sure Morgan has more on his mind than obliterating my two nieces. I don't know what to do. I'm really scared. I called you because I figured you'd know a lawyer for me to call. Can you put a lid on your obsessive-compulsive behavior for a moment and help me out?" Barry was only six years older than I, but it seemed like five generations separated us. I was ready to hang up, but I remembered I had no choice ... and very little money left.

My dad, it turned out, was on a plane, bound for a week-long European vacation. Just as well, I wasn't ready to deal with his raging indictment. My father had never given me the benefit of the doubt when I was right. This time, I was afraid I wouldn't survive the storm.

Barry told me to call Louis Birnbaum, who was a close friend of his. They had gone to college together and Barry worked with him over the years. He said that Louis was the best criminal attorney around. We decided it was best not to call my father because there wasn't anything he could do anyway. I told Barry I didn't have much money. He said not to worry, just to call Louis.

The only thing Louis said after I told him my story was, "Get your butt down here today. Don't call anyone, don't do anything. Just get here. You are in one serious mess, young lady." I should have suspected, when I heard the term "young lady," that there was the potential for conflict between us, but I was too scared to care at the moment. I just wanted someone to fix this, and I hoped Louis was up to the job.

While I packed my bags, the phone rang. I picked up and heard the static that told me this was very, very long distance. It was my father. "Linda, are you alright?"

"What do you mean, dad?"

"We're in Paris. I saw a copy of the Daily News on our flight. They arrested Morgan. Are you in any trouble?" Now, if I say yes, I'll ruin his vacation and my life. If I say no, he'll go off and have fun (assuming he doesn't see the Wall Street Journal), and I can delay the part that's going to be worse than turning myself in. "No, no, Dad, of course not. I haven't even seen him for months. Look, I'll come down and see you when you get back."

***

I was in Louis' office four hours later. Louis was short and wiry, with the requisite gold-rimmed glasses that go with your standard Jewish Lawyer look. I could see the word "GUILTY" flashing from his lenses. "Linda, you're in one shit-load of trouble. You're being indicted as a co-conspirator in a major stock fraud case. Over three million dollars, they're saying." He paused for effect, took off his glasses, and cleaned them with his tie before he said, "That's a felony." I burst out laughing. "You better get the fuck off your euphoric, little cloud and knock that smile right off your face." My laughter died out, but I couldn't stop smiling because I was afraid the silent scream that rang out in my brain would become very vocal if I changed my expression. I couldn't believe it. After all that asshole, Morgan, put me through, this was ludicrous.

"Now tell me everything from the beginning." God, how good it felt to pour out the truth to someone, the whole truth, not the edited version. I talked non-stop for three hours. When I finished, I was drained and limp. Louis didn't say anything for two minutes. When he finally spoke, what he said was, "Do you really expect me to believe that you didn't know this guy was scamming the public? How stupid do you think I am, Linda? You're a smart girl. Come on, Linda, you had to know what was going on." Here was my lawyer, my defender, telling me that my truth was bullshit, that he didn't believe me. I was more frightened than ever.

Louis made it clear that, not only didn't he believe my story, but he thought that I was repugnant. What was left of my fragile ego crumbled into pieces with. More than anything, I wanted another lawyer, but I was in no condition to find one. I bit my tongue to keep from telling Louis that he was short.

My brother went with us to Connecticut. All the way up to New Haven, Louis talked about how rough it could get. "They may put you in handcuffs, Linda, and they'll probably lock you in a cell while you're waiting. I talked to the prosecutor. Her name is Hope Greenblatt. I called a buddy of mine who works up there. He said she's a shark. The toughest there is. A bitch on wheels. She doesn't give anybody the benefit of the doubt. Yeah, it's going to be tough." Gee thanks Louis, thanks for cheering me up and giving me hope. Yeah, you gave me Hope all right. This is great, just great.

Despite my fear, I was fascinated by what was about to happen. Me, Linda Golden, a key player in a major stock fraud. It shook the foundation of who I believed I was. At that moment, I remembered, with a jolt, the words of the Tarot Card lady in the Atlantic City Mall. Dear Lord, I thought, she was right. As terrifying as that was, I also remembered her looking deeply into my eyes as she spoke about the power I would eventually find within myself, which would be the key to my resurrection. And I prayed for that power to come out now.

"Aren't you going to cuff her?" asked Louis, my staunch ally. "No, Mr. Birnbaum, that won't be necessary," said the policeman. "Ms. Golden, would you please sit over here?" So far, everyone I met went out of their way to be nice to me. Nicer than my own lawyer, I might add.

I was shaking. Fear does that to me. Makes me feel as if there's a dozen ice cubes down my blouse. A young guy in jeans came up to me and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Nick Savitch, F.B.I. I gotta tell you, we've all been wondering about you. The 'Mystery Woman.' You're not what we expected." And why not? "Frankly, you look like a kid. It just doesn't make sense. How the hell did you ever get messed up in this?" Before I could answer, Louis came over. "Linda, we should go talk to Ms. Greenblatt."

It was time to come face to face with the Barracuda, the Shark, the woman who was going to eat me alive. "Linda, Hi, I'm Hope." Before me I saw a pretty, chubby woman, with very little makeup and wide open brown eyes. I looked into those eyes and knew that this woman was not the enemy. A strong sensation struck me that her name, Hope, embodied who she was, and a wave of relief swept over me. Though she talked in a clear, no-nonsense fashion, I was no longer afraid of what was to come. "Linda, we've arranged for you to have your bail hearing first, so you won't have to sit in a cell."

I stood before the Magistrate while she determined what to do with me until my arraignment. I was released on my own recognizance, but my brother would have to sign a paper stating that he'd be responsible for the $10,000 bond if I disappeared.

"We have set severe travel restrictions for the others in this case, Ms. Golden, but I see no necessity to do that for you." I wanted to kiss the Magistrate for her kindness. "Your Honor," Louis piped in, "the defendant will be moving back to Delaware to stay with her father. I request that her travel be limited to Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Connecticut for the time being." I looked at Louis, astonished at his gall. He never bothered to ask my opinion on the matter. Some lawyer, I thought. I've been sentenced to a fate worse than prison. I have to live with my father.

Two F.B.I. guys took me to get fingerprinted and have my picture taken. They joked around with me and the photographer even let me choose which mug shots to use. I was getting a kick out of this royal treatment until we walked by a cell and I saw the desperation in the occupant's eyes.

Another F.B.I. agent, a young guy, sat with me in the courtroom afterwards, while I waited for Louis to finish doing whatever Louis does in these situations. The agent's name was Dave. After he asked me such probing questions as whether or not I lived alone, he told me how they caught the Uncatchable Morgan. "We surrounded Carol and Joey's house. When we went in, they all scrambled, but there was no way they could escape. Morgan ran upstairs, but he came right back down. The thing was, none of us had ever seen him, just a picture, so we went right by him when we raced upstairs with our guns. After we came back down, one of the other guys walked up to him and asked if he'd seen Morgan. He answered, 'Nope, can't say that I have,' but then I recognized him. I sat with him in the van coming in. We had a good talk. Interesting guy." Chalk another one up for the Psycho of Wall Street. Dave excused himself and said he'd be right back.

I wondered where my brother had gone. Then I saw him. He stood in the corner, crying, as he signed the bond papers. I watched Hope walk over to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and say, "You know, we aren't people eaters." Jesus Christ, I'm the one in trouble and he's getting the sympathy. Honest to God, if I got a hangnail, Barry's finger would hurt. I wondered about the insane people who were crazy enough to put their lives into Barry's hands.

Dave returned and kept me company for another 15 minutes. "Ok, Linda, let's go." Louis was ready and when Louis was ready, you had to jump. As I left, Dave took my hand and said, "We'll have to save our lunch date for next time." I kept waiting for someone to tell me I was on "Candid Camera."

Louis told me we had to return in three weeks for the arraignment. "Boy, is that place strange. No metal detectors anywhere. And that Hope is one bitch," Louis said. "She's going to be hard to crack. One of the guys said she's got just about the highest conviction rate of all the U.S. Attorneys in the state." I didn't care what Louis said. I liked her. And I couldn't stand him.

Barry sat and sniffled all the way home. "I just know," he sobbed, "that if that lunatic gets out on bail, he'll go after Lisa and Jenny." I rolled my eyes at the thought of the seven year old twins. Most people wanted to stay as far as possible from the obnoxious duo. Despite their freckles and toothy grins, the two were a couple of terrors. Barry and his wife, Leslie, came home once to find their 60 year old baby-sitter bound with one of Barry's ties and gagged with the can of peas she was going to prepare for dinner. I'm sure Morgan would have to stand in line if he wanted to do away with those two.

I only had $2500 left of the money Morgan gave me. Between hotels, rent, furniture, paying some of my smaller debts, and keeping myself and Tara fed, the money dwindled quickly. The court gave me one week to get myself down to Delaware.

My father was coming back three days before my deadline. I begged Barry to talk to him first. After he did, my Dad called right away and told me not to worry about anything. I was amazed. This wasn't like my father. Had a pod taken over his body while no one was watching?

By the time I paid for the movers and storage space for my belongings, I had $600 left. I didn't know what I was going to do. I certainly wasn't in any condition to go job hunting. Besides, what would I say about having to return to Connecticut? "Oh, excuse me, but I have to go to an arraignment for the felony charge that's pending against me tomorrow, so I won't be in."

I moved back home, grateful for the kindness and understanding my dad had shown me. I hoped it would last. But three days later, Mr. Vesuvius was about to erupt. Daddy dearest wasn't pleased with his darling daughter. In fact, he could barely manage a civil "good morning." On the fourth day of my homecoming, when I walked into the kitchen to make myself some breakfast and cheerfully said, "Hi, Dad, how are you?" he turned to me and bellowed, "What the hell kind of person are you to do such a thing?" Rather than pursue this line of questioning, I high-tailed it out of there.

Since I was now living in his house, right in front of his face, he could no longer pretend that everything was fine ... and that pissed him off. Now, my lawyer, my brother, AND my father had me convicted. It seemed like my side of the story didn't matter one bit.

From that point on, whenever my dad saw me, I saw steam come out of his ears. Nikki, his wife, wasn't much help. "You have to understand what a shock this has been to him, Linda," she soothed. It seemed like everybody had someone on their side, except me.

I finally got the nerve to call Rhonda. Though I hadn't spoken to her in months, I knew that she was the only person who might actually have any sympathy for me. After the initial apologies and a few uncomfortable moments, I felt as if we had just spoken yesterday. I told her the truth and waited for her to tell me she was late for a shampoo. Instead, she said, "I'm so sorry about this. Look, Linda, there's no way you're a criminal, unless stupidity is a felony. Jesus, you may be the dumbest woman on the planet, but I don't think they put you in jail for that." I laughed for the first time in months. "Linda, I'm glad you're back." Thank you, God.

I was now about 15 pounds thinner than I had been before meeting Morgan and my clothes were way too big, not to mention I had nothing suitable to wear to court. It was embarrassing, but I had to ask my father for money to buy a suit for my arraignment, which was two days away. He stormed out of the room, but my stepmother took $300 out of an envelope in the credenza. "Here," she said, "Go to Geoffrey's Clothes Closet. They have great sales."

Apparently, she told my father about the money she gave me, because when I returned, she wanted to see what I bought and he stayed put. When I tried on the steel-blue suit with the white silk blouse, Nikki applauded. My father grunted and asked how much I spent. When I said "$295," he went nuts. Before he departed from sight, though, he roared that that was the last penny I'd ever see from him. Nikki shrugged her shoulders and said, "You have to understand what a shock this is to him, Linda." I wanted to remind her that it was she who sent me to the most expensive store around to find a bargain.

Back I went to New Haven with Louis. We barely spoke the whole way. When we arrived, Hope rushed up to us. "Listen, I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do about this. Morgan is going to be here this morning for his arraignment. They're all going to be here. We tried to have you separated, but it just didn't work out. Are you going to be ok?" Ok? I was thrilled to have them all see me looking thin and wearing my $295 suit. I was also more than a little curious to see Morgan after all this time. It had been nearly four months since we were together.

"Keep your mouth shut," Louis advised me. "I don't care who comes up to you, don't say a fucking thing, do you hear me?" Would I ever escape a world full of men who behaved like South American dictators?

I was dying to talk to everybody, but I knew, deep down, that Louis was right for once. It was in my best interest to stay aloof. There was Carol all gussied up in her three-sizes-too-small best. And Jimmy Salvatore. And the rest of the gang. Then, they brought Morgan in. He was handcuffed and his feet were in chains. I was shocked at how thin he looked, and astonished, because his hair was a mess. My, I thought, how the mighty have fallen. I gave a fleeting thought to Morgan's underwear and remembered that they probably give you a clean pair every day in the slammer.

Morgan sat at a table in the front of the courtroom. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. It was strange to see him after all this time, and even stranger not to be able to talk to him. He sat hunched over the table, looking so very vulnerable, so very sad. Suddenly, I felt my heart soften up. Despite all my efforts, feelings of tenderness welled up inside of me. Memories of the man with whom I'd been more intimate than anyone else washed over me and I was powerless over my feelings toward Morgan Phillips once again. As I tried with all my might to cleanse my mind of those images, he turned right around in his chair, smiled, and blew a kiss at me. I melted in his glance. "Oh, brother," said Louis, who was sitting next to me, "I think I'm going to be sick."

I wanted so badly to tell Hope my story because I was convinced that if the U.S. Attorneys knew me, they would understand. But those old tapes about not wanting to betray Morgan came on real strong, and I was more confused than ever about what to do.

I looked up to see Morgan's lawyer walking over. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Louis, "but Morgan must speak with Ms. Golden. He really loves her and desperately needs to talk with her. Can we please arrange a meeting? There's so much he wants to tell her."

Louis' reply was brief. "Buzz off, buddy." And he turned his back on the messenger. Oh, how I yearned to talk to Morgan. Obviously, there was still an undeniable connection between us, one that withstood the test of all we had been through. But still, I didn't challenge Louis' decision.

Carol came up to me when Louis went to speak with Hope for a moment. "Linda, hi, how's it going? Listen, Morgan told me to tell you he misses you. You're his woman and he really, really needs to talk to you. Please, Linda, go talk to him." My heart was humming, but my gut was wrenching. For once, I followed my gut. "Sorry, Carol, not now. Maybe after this is all over." Her smile disappeared and she said she had to use the john. A conversation flashed through my mind about Morgan telling Carol to lie to the SEC, and I remembered that I knew who really owned Capital Analysis, Inc.

Everyone pleaded not guilty. Morgan's lawyer sought bail for his client, but the judge just laughed. The U.S. Attorneys showed clear cause for believing Morgan would leave the country in less time than it would take to change a light bulb. After my turn, I told Louis that I wanted to talk to Hope. When he refused, I told him to go jump in a lake. It was my life, I reminded him, and it was my belief that this was clearly in my best interest.

Naturally, Hope was thrilled with my decision. We went into the conference room and sat around a long wooden table. There was a state trooper present, as well as two F.B.I. men. The state trooper took notes. Louis scowled.

I began, fearlessly, at the beginning. But when I got to the part about Force Technology, I couldn't go on. I sat there dumbfounded with the realization that I still loved Morgan Phillips and, no matter what happened to me, I just couldn't incriminate him. I told Hope about what had occurred in the courtroom just an hour earlier.

She looked at me with a great deal of compassion. "Linda, I shouldn't tell you this, but I can't stand to watch what you're putting yourself through. You aren't the only woman Morgan is pledging undying love for. He's giving this same line of crap to other women. Linda, he gave Rita the key to the storage locker. And why wouldn't he? She paid the $2000 back rent. Linda, you have to wake up and see what a jerk this guy is."

I sat there in shock, confusion putting my mind into overload. I didn't know what to believe, but it didn't matter, because I had given my word to Morgan that I would never betray him. And, anyway, maybe it wasn't even true. Maybe Hope was just trying to break us apart to get me to testify. I looked down at the wooden conference table. There was a glass stain on it. I ran my finger around it and didn't say a word.

Hope sighed and excused herself for a moment. When she returned, she was holding a large, gray book. "This is one of many books with transcribed phone conversations Morgan had with a cast of thousands. Read this." I looked to where she was pointing. It was a conversation between Morgan and Mike Lehrer, the lawyer who was supposed to negotiate with my creditors. I noticed the date. It was the day I walked off the project I was working on for Morgan's book. He had promised to fix everything that day. I began to read where she had pointed.

"Hey, Mike," said Morgan, "Can you do this for me, do me this favor? I got this sliver in my finger, you know what I mean, this sliver in my finger. And I want it out. So, can you talk to this bitch and take care of it?" I felt like I just drank a cup of Drano.

Then she turned to the date of our last weekend together, which she marked with a teaspoon. The Friday night Morgan had to leave so urgently, the night I left with his watch. Morgan never went to Utah that weekend. He did go to the airport, but it was to pick up Rita and Daisy. They spent the weekend in a hotel two miles from where I was staying with him. While my heart was ripped to shreds and I was sneaking out of the hotel instead of paying Morgan's bill, he was snuggling with Rita and Daisy.

Right on the pages in front of me were three conversations between Morgan and Rita the next week, where they reminisced, in detail, about their loving reunion and the passionate lovemaking they enjoyed while Daisy slept in the bedroom of their hotel suite. They talked about the house in the woods, the one Morgan showed me saying it would be ours. Rita told him how much she loved their dream home and couldn't wait till they lived there.

"Linda," Hope said, "I'm sorry, but you have to stop thinking of the two of you as the Great American Love story. Please, for your own sanity, let go of it."

The pain washed over my body and soul in waves, endless, crashing waves of sorrow and despair. All that I believed in was gone now. Who was Linda Golden? What had I done with my life? And for what? Morgan never loved me. I thought back to the beginning and for the first time, I saw the truth each step of the way, starting with a man who wanted to give me a present of some stock. Despite the hopelessness which filled me, I was determined to survive this. I knew a part of me was dead and I prayed that the part that was left would learn from this sad, sad lesson.

For the first time since knowing Morgan, I had confirmation of my worst fears. I felt like daggers plunged into my heart. At the same time, I wanted to hug Hope for putting a chink in the armor with which I surrounded myself, the armor that kept me a prisoner of Morgan Phillips. It was at that precise moment that I began to sing like a songbird. The state trooper couldn't write fast enough to keep up with me.

Over the next few months, painful realizations came like thunderbolts one after the other. The week after my arraignment, Louis came to my father's house to discuss the fee arrangement. I was forbidden from being present during the meeting, but of course, Nikki's input was desperately needed. Here I was, a 30 year old woman in very grown-up trouble, and I was not allowed to be present when the fee for my attorney's services was being discussed. I didn't have the strength to fight at the time, but later, when Nikki told me that my father was angry that he had paid Louis $15,000 for his legal services and that I should pay him back, I told her it was too bad. If they'd asked my opinion to begin with, I would have opted for a public defender. Slowly, I began to understand where my problems with men really started.

Two weeks after my arraignment, my father kicked me out of the house. After too many pain-filled evenings, we both said unforgivable things. After he told me he hoped I'd go to prison, I told him to drop dead. "Get out," he seethed. And I did.

Tara and I ended up living with a single mother and her son in a tenement in a poor, depressing ghetto. At $150 per month, I couldn't ask for more. Besides, Carla had a dog that would be a good playmate for Tara. Unfortunately, the dog was a Doberman who ended up terrorizing her, instead.

Luckily, my father didn't remove the Datsun from my possession, so I had a car for three months, until it caught fire one sunny afternoon. I had no money to fix it so public transportation became my way of life.

I tried my hand at all kinds of jobs. For a while, I sold cars, until my boss noticed that I didn't know the difference between an engine and a muffler. Being a disk jockey looked like it was going to work out, until my boss realized I didn't know the difference between Janis Joplin and Carly Simon. Secretarial work seemed to be going well, until my boss found out I couldn't wear high heels because of my bunions. Fortunately, I somehow made enough money to get by.

Louis wanted me to have a psychiatric evaluation to determine whether or not I had had criminal intent. He sent me to Dr. Rudolph Lippman, a well-respected psychiatrist. After two sessions with him, Dr. Lippman wanted me to see the psychologist for some testing. The good Doctor never cracked a smile in our few short hours together and I couldn't get a feel for his thoughts.

Dr. Fleischman fit her name. She had mounds of flesh rolling in waves under her tight-fitting suit. Her bright orange lipstick made her tiny blue eyes sink further back into her fat face. Oh, yeah, this was the person I wanted assessing my credibility.

I tried to be friendly as I told her my story, but I noticed that each time I mentioned my problems with food, she leaned back in her chair. And every time I mentioned the term "compulsive eater," she folded her arms and pressed herself so far back, I thought she would tip over.

Dr. Fleischman asked me to retell my story in the third person. "Yes, Linda, as if you were telling someone else's story." Later that day, I took a battery of tests, answering such questions as, "What is the best advice your mother ever gave you?" "Keep it zipped," was my answer.

Naturally, we did a Rorschach test. I looked over at her as I interpreted the pictures in front of me. "A bunch of frogs with their legs missing." "Two turtles playing cards." "A salamander eating a pizza." I definitely didn't like the look on her face. Her only comment was, "My, my, we do see a lot of animals."

"Draw a picture of a woman," she instructed. I penciled in a ballerina with her arms upraised. Unfortunately, my prima donna was too large for the paper, so I didn't have room for her hands. Besides, who wanted to go into that much detail? A circle for a face was about the extent of my artistic talent.

Finally, I had to take some I.Q. tests. The moment of truth. After five hours with Dr. Fleshpot, my head was swirling.

Dr. Lippman's assessment was that I had no criminal intent in this matter. "In other words," he told Louis, who told me, "She's guilty of stupidity, which is not a punishable offense ... but it should be." Gee, Louis should have had Rhonda write an opinion. It would have cost $3,000 less and been just as accurate.

Louis also told me the results of my I.Q. test. "Well, you did ok on the English, but Linda, you're borderline retarded when it comes to math," he snickered. "Your I.Q. was about a 30." Big deal, I thought, that's what they have calculators for, shrimp.

Later, when Hope read the Doctor's opinion, she told me they already knew I had no criminal intent. In fact, had I come to them right after leaving Morgan, there would have been no charges filed against me at all. Why didn't somebody tell me, I asked her? They couldn't tell anybody, was her answer, I should have just known what to do.

My life continued to go downhill, what with living in a slum, no car, pathetic work, little income, and a lawyer who got off on berating the client he was supposed to defend. I was pretty depressed. In fact, the only time I perked up was when I made my weekly visits to New Haven to help the government prepare their case against Morgan and the others who were going to trial. They gave me free run of the place, put me up in a hotel, and paid for my transportation and meals. Besides that, they treated me like a queen.

Soon after the arraignment, Louis decided it was in my best interest to plea bargain. He said a trial would be very expensive for my family and why bother since I was guilty anyway. So we exchanged my guilty plea and cooperation for assurances that I would not go to jail and that no future charges would ever be brought against me, but I was told that this was informal, that no promises were made about what would happen to me. I could still, theoretically, be sent up that cold, cold river for five long years.

The day I went up to sign the agreement, there was a slight delay because they lost my papers. I thought, with a sad irony, about Morgan's court case in Las Vegas. "Would you mind," Hope asked, "waiting until we draw up new ones?" Of course not. "Would you like us to change the wording from mail fraud to securities fraud? It doesn't matter to us, but mail fraud sounds like you sold baldness remedies. Securities Fraud has a more sophisticated ring to it." Yes, I certainly preferred people thinking I was an upscale felon.

From that point on, Louis was out of the picture. Hope and the other prosecutor, Ralph Parker, spent hours going over my story, detail by detail. Ralph was tall, lean, and mean, but he gradually softened up. And the more I told them, the more they shared with me about Morgan.

Nick Savitch, the F.B.I. agent assigned to my case, took me to his office. He and Ralph wanted to go over some physical evidence. When I opened Morgan's briefcase, a briefcase I had bought him, I didn't even cry when I saw a plane ticket to Las Vegas with Christine Connolly's name on it. The truth was that the girl whom Morgan said was his partner's girlfriend was in reality the girl with whom Morgan lived in Florida using my credit cards to show her a good time. All I felt was astonishment at the lengths to which Morgan went to keep me from knowing the truth, and puzzlement as to why he wanted me in his life that badly. "I think," Hope said when I asked her opinion, "that Morgan wanted you around because you were his friend. No matter what, you were there for him, a security blanket in some sick way."

When I dug into one of the briefcase pockets and pulled out what Nick assured me was a "coke spoon," I wasn't even surprised ... and I didn't question it, because I now knew that the last of the predictions made by the Tarot Card lady in Atlantic City had finally come to pass.

***

Four months into our sessions, Hope told me they wanted to use me as a witness in the trial. "I have to tell you your attorney thinks it's a big mistake. He says you're a flake and you'll fall apart on the stand. I don't believe it, Linda. I think you're a strong woman and that he's all wet." Testify? I wanted to testify, wanted it with all my heart, if for no other reason than to prove to Louis and my father and Morgan and to all those men in my life who I'd let push me around that I was no wimp.

We proceeded to work on my testimony. The prosecutors never once told me what to say on the stand. In fact, Ralph gave me some advice which I still turn to in dire moments. "Linda, just remember four things when you're on that witness stand. Always go back to the core of your direct testimony. Only answer the question that is asked. Count to four before answering. And, most importantly, always tell the truth."

Ralph and Hope told me over and over how tough the defendants' lawyers would be on me, that they would do all they could to tear me down, but "if you just follow my advice, you'll be fine," said Ralph.

On one of my trips, the money got screwed up. It was a Friday afternoon and the U.S. Attorneys kept me over an extra day, so I had to use the money to pay for the hotel. When I went to cash in my voucher to take the train home, I was told there was no one around to sign for it. It sounded suspiciously like that day with Johnny Colorusso and the check that needed two signatures, but this time, it was the government I was dealing with, so I knew it was hopeless.

I went back to Hope's office. By then, I was crying my eyes out. At this point, I wasn't earning enough to maintain a balance in a checking account and I had less than a dollar of my own. Hope felt terrible for me, but there was nothing she could do. It was against the law for her to lend me the money and she couldn't take a chance of jeopardizing her job or her case. She calmed me down and convinced me, against my better judgment, to call my brother. Though I told her it would only make things worse, she insisted that nobody could turn away a family member in such need. I went into an empty office and dialed his number.

"Jesus Christ, Linda, I have to meet with my accountant. What the hell, calling on this short notice. I'll try to get you a ticket. That's all I can say, I'll try. I'll get there if I can, but I'm not promising anything." His office was one block from the train station. "You have great timing, Linda." Now, where had I heard that before? I took a deep breath and realized that I didn't have to take this shit anymore. "Barry, go flush yourself down the toilet." I hung up. Then I called Rhonda, who was more than happy to prepay a ticket for me. I paid her back Monday morning, after I got my meager paycheck from the temporary secretarial job I'd done the week before.

The trial was approaching. I meditated and prayed twice a day. No more theatrics, back to basics. I went to visit Bill and Debbie, owners of the Sylvan Retreat, one weekend. I told Bill that I didn't understand how this had happened to me.

"After all," I said, "I meditate and pray. I work so hard on my spirituality." Bill looked at me and said, "Linda, before you can be spiritual, first you must be good." What a profound concept. Why the hell hadn't I thought of that? Yeah, I guess if you meditate and pray for 22 hours a day but rob a bank during the remaining two, it kind of negates all the progress you've made. That really took a lot of pressure off of me. I could start with the simple things, like not helping someone commit a felony. Yes, I could handle that.

A week before the trial, Hope took me into her office. "We have a little problem, Linda. The defense wants a copy of the psychiatric records from your sessions with Dr. Lippman and Dr. Fleischman. They want to work on an instability angle. We're doing all we can to keep this from being entered into evidence, but I wanted to tell you. Could you handle this information being in open court?" After all the humiliation I'd been through, this would be nothing. What was one more utterly degrading experience?

Hope called Louis. After she explained the situation, I saw her roll her eyes as he talked. She tried to interrupt, but he went right on. "Ok, Louis, just fax me that stuff. Here's Linda." She handed me the phone. "Linda," he said, "I don't know about filing a motion to stop that report. I think they have a right to see it." Whose side was this asshole on? I told him to do whatever he had to and hung up.

I got lucky. The Judge ruled that an evaluation of my criminal intent was irrelevant to the proceedings. Hope showed me the detailed analysis of my case. I found Dr. Lippman's conclusion that I was a stupid dupe, sad but accurate. However, I couldn't believe what Dr. Fleischman had to say.

Referring to my drawing of the ballerina, the psychologist commented that I clearly felt powerless, as though I had no hands. Besides, she wrote, look how tiny the ballerina's head is. Surely this means Ms. Golden doesn't give much credence to her brain. She went on to say how odd she found the fact that I told her my story in the third person, as though I were detached from all that had happened. She forgot to mention that it was she who requested I do so.

I didn't know who was going to plead out and who was going to be at the trial. I did know it wasn't likely that Morgan would be there. One of the F.B.I. agents told me that Morgan had recently tried to escape and was now in solitary confinement. The criminal mastermind worked out a plan to exchange clothes with a visitor, and he expected to simply walk out of the jailhouse. It might have worked, except that the fellow with whom Morgan exchanged clothing was about six inches shorter, 30 pounds heavier, and 20 years older than Morgan. He never made it past the cellblock.

I worked very hard to keep from reverting to food to soothe my pain, and it helped that I was now a size nine, where I would be happy to remain for the rest of my life. Rhonda lent me a gray suit for the trial, because even the one I bought for the arraignment was way too big now. I got a haircut and did away with the long, stringy mop that I could never figure out how to handle.

The U.S. attorneys wanted me in New Haven on the first day of the trial, although they said that I might not be called in right away. When Hope and Ralph saw me walk in, their jaws dropped. "Linda, you look fantastic!" they said. She and Ralph smiled at each other. I wasn't going to let them, or myself, down.

I walked down the hall and saw Timmy, the graphic artist who had done all the shareholders' reports and the ads for Force Technology. I wanted to run, but I knew dealing with what was ahead of me was part of my healing. Besides, he had already spotted me. "Hi, Timmy," I said, and burst into tears. "I'm so terribly sorry about this. So sorry I got you involved."

"It's ok," he said, "Really. I'm not in any trouble. I'm going to testify today, Linda. I just feel badly for you." One down, how many more thousands to go?

It turned out that Sidney, Joey, Carol, Boris, and one of the stockbrokers was going to trial. Everyone else pled guilty and was hoping for a measure of mercy in exchange for what they knew.

I saw Carol in the bathroom. "Hi, honey," she said, upbeat as a drum roll. "How are you doing?" Though it was nice that someone was concerned with my welfare, I muttered "fine" and hightailed it out of there. This was not the time to become bosom buddies with one of my "alleged" co-conspirators. I waited all day outside the courtroom, sitting on a bench in the hallway, and was told to come back in the morning.

I was geared up like an athlete before the big game. I slept very little and woke full of anxiety. I meditated, and then I got down on my knees and prayed for the courage to tell the truth. Suddenly, all the fear drained out of me and I knew that I wasn't alone. I had the strangest feeling that my own guardian angel was perched right on my shoulder, and way down in my gut, I knew that everything was going to be ok.

At 10:30 on Tuesday morning, they called me in. I was on the stand for the rest of that day and the entire next day. All five of the defendant's attorneys, who happened to be men, did everything in their power to intimidate me, to unnerve me, to defeat me, but, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I was invincible. There was no doubt that the power about which the Tarot Card lady spoke had finally blossomed within me like a rose.

I remembered Ralph's advice and counted to four before answering the attorneys' questions, despite the fact that they fired their questions faster and faster in the hopes of throwing me off guard.

No matter which door they opened, I managed to close it in their faces. Carol's lawyer tried a different tactic. "Ms. Golden, is it true that you met Mr. Phillips on a bus." I counted to four. "Yes, sir."

"And isn't it true that you were dazzled by Mr. Phillips' charm." One, two, three, four. "No sir."

"Well, Ms. Golden, isn't it true that you were taken with Mr. Phillips' handsome appearance; people have said he looks like the actor George Hamilton." One, two, three. "Oh, Lord no." The lawyer actually looked puzzled. He glanced over at his client. Clearly, he was given incorrect information, but now, he was curious.

"Well, then, Ms. Golden, will you tell the court what drew you to Mr. Phillips on that fateful trip." I didn't have to count to answer that one. I looked at the jury and said, "I was tormented by a toothache and talking to Morgan was the only way to dull the pain on the long ride home."

I thought the judge would clear the courtroom. Unwittingly, I had tickled the funny bone of everyone there, including all twelve jurors who were prepared for a long, dull trial. The judge tried to control the proceedings, but he continued to cackle, himself, as he cracked his gavel at least three times.

I had heard about Judge Robert C. Maynard from Louis. Clean-cut, he looked no more than 40. This was his biggest trial yet, which was not saying much, as he'd only been a judge for two years. Louis said they called him Dudley Do-Right, because he was on a mission to rid the world of white collar criminals.

Sidney's lawyer tried embarrassing me by bringing up Morgan's and my sex life. But having gone without it for so long, even talking about sex was better than nothing. "Ms. Golden, do you remember an incident with a neighbor banging on your door when you were staying at his attorney's apartment?" I knew just what he was talking about. "Yes, sir."

"And do you remember the circumstances surrounding this incident?" I wanted to blow this guy right out of the water. "Do you mean the part about Morgan answering the door stark naked, or the part about the neighbor complaining that we were making love too loudly?"

"Uh, no more questions at this time." And, again, I got a great laugh from the peanut gallery.

After two days of interrogation, the defense rested as far as I was concerned. Over and over, the lawyers tried to coerce me into saying that Morgan was a Svengali, that I was the innocent, brain-washed victim with no mind of my own. In some sense, that was true, but what was more true was the fact that I wanted Morgan's approval more than I wanted to be honest.

I am not stupid and I am not amoral. I could have walked away a million times, but I chose to ignore the fire raging in front of me, telling myself that there was an extinguisher in the kitchen if it got really bad. The truth is, lust is no different than greed if one goes beyond the boundary of the law to satisfy that need.

The judge ordered a recess until nine a.m. the next morning. As I left, Hope came over and thanked me. She told me that my courage would make a big difference in this case. She said they would have had a much harder time without me. "By the way," she said, "Two of the defense lawyers came up to me today to tell me how impressed they were with you. They said you were the finest witness they had ever come across. You dazzled everyone these past two days. It's time for you to stop undermining yourself. I believe in you, Linda ... and you should too. I have to go now. Take care of yourself." With that, Hope hugged me and went back into the courtroom.

While I waited for the elevator, Sidney's lawyer came up to me. "You may not believe this after all we put you through, but every one of us is rooting for you, Linda. You're a very special person." He shook my hand. "Good luck. You deserve it."

I got off the elevator and thought about the woman I had been just a few months ago. I didn't have a clue who that person was or where she went, but I knew exactly who I was today. Yes, I was the Fat Lady, singing my heart out, and I walked out of the courthouse, triumphant.

~~~

# Epilogue

More than 30 years have has passed since that season of my life. I've lived another lifetime since then. But on that sweltering day in the spring of 1987, when I stood before Judge Robert C. Maynard, I ended up sentenced to three years probation, restitution amounting to $5,000, and so much community service I barely had time to hold down a job. I took my dog, Tara, to nursing homes, showcased boa constrictors at the Science Museum, and sat around the Red Cross staring at containers full of blood to fulfill my commitment.

I've been married and divorced and have a son who is the love of my life. For today, I am no longer a slave to men or chocolate, and I live within my means... all due to the Grace of a Higher Power. I live one day at a time, reveling in the joy when it's there, dealing with the angst when it's not. My life revolves around my son, my work, and my spiritual path. I do the best I can to live true to my heart, no longer ignoring those screaming sirens and flashing red lights when faced with them. Of course, I'm convinced that my little boy, who is now nearly 25, is both the policeman and the angel, come to keep me on that straight and narrow path... and to show me what true bliss is.

Am I sorry for all that happened during the winter of 1985? I surely regret causing people to lose their money. I'm sorry for the havoc I wrought on innocent people. And I'm heartbroken about my lack of moral fiber when it really counted.

But there is no question that this was one of those rare, defining moments in my life. Meeting Morgan Phillips brought me to a place where I stood at a crossroads. Living or dying, that's what it really was about for me in the end. I got lucky. I got to live.

As for Morgan, he got 12 years in prison, but only served about four. Then, they let him out because he volunteered to "squeal" on the big Mafia boys he supposedly knew. I did hear vague grumblings that, at least one of the prosecutors knew it was malarkey. But once again, Morgan and his slick shtick slid on by.

It didn't matter though because, shortly thereafter, he ended up back in prison for his plot to defraud the nation's largest pension fund. I quite liked when the newspaper reported, "Despite the decorated Vietnam War veteran's cooperation with authorities, a judge rejected the government's recommendation for a lighter sentence." I chuckled when I remembered Morgan's sober revelation that he had been dishonorably discharged from the army for going AWOL one too many times.

Judge "Dudley Do-Right" presided over the case once again.

Morgan got six more years in prison.

It's good to know that sometimes, Justice prevails. And sometimes, she isn't blind at all.

###

