One Final Step. Stephanie Doyle

      Michael finally pushed away from the computer, tired of reading the sordid details of Madeleine’s past. Somehow he doubted the affair was quite as dirty as the press made it out to be. One article mentioned toys, another the president’s need to be dominated, of all things.

      He could see Madeleine wielding a whip. He couldn’t imagine her doing something as silly as smacking a man’s bare ass with it.

      No, if Madeleine was going to take out a whip she would have a much more useful purpose. Michael smiled as he shut down his computer. After a moment he got up and started pacing again.

      Right, then left. Right, then left.

      CHAPTER THREE

      “HOWAREthings going with the new girl?”

      Michael handed down a crescent wrench to Archie. Instantly an image of Madeleine appeared in his mind, but Archie didn’t know anything about Madeleine. No one did.

      She was like the Wizard of Oz behind the curtain secretly pulling all the strings. Any consulting was done either by phone or occasionally after hours in his office. Mostly she coached him on answers to questions that might be put to him when a microphone was shoved in his face. And of course she was always plotting ways to get him to those places where the microphones might be.

      He’d asked her to visit his home in Grosse Pointe. He thought she could stay in one of his guest rooms, which would be more comfortable than a sterile hotel suite. She’d stiffened and told him in no uncertain terms that there was not a single reason for her to see his personal residence.

      No stepping out of bounds for his girl.

      Not his girl.

      She wasn’t even remotely his girl. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. A condition that was becoming as problematic as it was annoying.

      “Which new girl?”

      “The one you went to that fancy shindig with. The actress. What’s her name. You know, she was in that movie with that fancy guy.”

      “Charlene Merritt. She was in a movie with George Clooney.”

      “Yeah, that guy. He’s sharp. No Cary Grant, but then who is today?”

      “Really, Archie? You’re that old you remember Cary Grant?”

      The dolly slid out from under the car. A small, thin white-haired old man with bifocals squinted up at him. “North by Northwest, Charade, Psycho…now those were real movies.”

      “I’m pretty sure Cary Grant wasn’t in Psycho.”

      Archie waved him off. “Oh, what do you know.”

      Michael pulled out his smartphone to check, but then tucked it away. No reason to upstage the man.

      “So you like this girl or what?”

      “Charlene is very beautiful.”

      “You’ve been with her to two things now. You never see a girl two times in a row. I think you like this one.”

      Michael had flown Charlene in for the Solarcomp charity event. Then he’d taken her to dinner at The Whitney where they had been photographed together. Madeleine had been pleased.

      “I like her all right.”

      “But do you like her like her? You’re not getting any younger, kid. It’s time you start thinking about settling down and getting yourself some kids.”

      The concept was so far removed from Michael’s reality there was no point in even refuting it. Instead he said, “My focus is on getting this electric car off the ground. Not getting married. Charlene is hanging around. She likes to be wined and dined. There is nothing serious there.”

      Archie offered his hand and Michael pulled on it until the man was sitting and then on his feet. Archie took a rag out of his pocket, wiped his hands more out of habit than need and shuffled his feet a few times.

      “I’ve known you a long time, Mickey.”

      Twenty years. They’d met back when he’d been Mickey Lang because someone along the way thought the name Langdon was too fancy for 8 Mile.

      “You’re not about to lecture me, are you, Archie?”

      “I’m saying you’ve come through a lot. And now you’re on top of the world. You’re like that guy…what’s that fellow…the one on the boat. You can hold your arms up and say you’re the king. But still I look at you and I don’t see a happy guy. I think maybe a wife, kids…a family. This would make you happy.”

      “You’re my family, Archie.”

      “Ah, kid, don’t get all sentimental on me. I’m not dying yet. I’ll let you know when I am and then you can come cry over my bed and say nice things to me. I’m saying a man reaches an age when the money isn’t enough.”

      “What happened to you, then? What woman wouldn’t have wanted all this?” Michael looked around the run-down mechanic’s shop. Through rose-colored glasses Archie saw it as a thriving business when in fact it was a dump. Michael had offered Archie all the money in the world to take on more help, to fix the place up nice.

      The old man would have none of it. After all, if he actually brought on full-time help, where would the ex-cons go to find honest work when they got out?

      “I’m an ex-con, Mickey. I didn’t have much of a choice. You come clean with a lady about that and she’s likely to run the other way.”

      “I’m an ex-con,” Michael reminded him.

      “Yeah, but you washed all the stink right off. Hell, they talk about you being in prison like you were out on a picnic. You’re like a reformed version of…who was that guy in the movies, the one with the funny voice. James Cagney, yeah, like him. Bad boy makes good. I read the magazines. I know.”

      “Prison wasn’t a picnic,” Michael said thickly as a surge of shame and disgust rose up in his throat. This, he thought, this is why I will never have a family. I can never leave it behind.

      The irritating part was that he’d accepted that fact years ago, but now when he thought about Madeleine things started resurfacing. Wishes and desires he thought he’d squashed forever. With them came regret and loss. It was why in some ways being around her was pure hell.

      “Well, you do what you want. Are you going to see what’s-her-face again?”

      “Charlene?”

      “Yeah, that one.”

      “One more time. She’s accompanying me to the Detroit Revival event.”

      Archie laughed. “If I had a nickel every time they said Detroit was making a comeback I wouldn’t need to play the lottery every day, that’s for sure.”

      “Maybe this time they’re right. A new type of car, manufacturing on the rise. Hell, even the Lions are winning. Who knows what’s possible?”

      Archie shook his head.

      Michael reached into his back pocket. “Speaking of the lottery. I almost forgot. These are for you.”

      “Kid, why do you keep doing this?”

      “They’re scratch offs. I buy them for me and I get tired of scratching.”

      Archie took the five cardboard pieces. “You got a dime? Or a quarter? A nickel won’t work on these.”

      Michael jangled some of the loose change in his pocket. He pulled out a quarter and watched as the man leaned against the old Chevy to carefully scratch each square.

      One of these days he would hit. Michael was sure of it.

      “Hey, look at this! Two bucks. I’m on a roll.”

      The rest of them proved worthless, but now Archie