Reboot Read online

  REBOOT

  Alan Mulak

  Contents

  Copyright

  Part I

  Part II

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Alan Mulak

  Discussion Questions

  Copyright © 2019 Alan Mulak

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  Published by BUOY MEDIA LLC

  https://www.buoy-media.com/

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

  Cover design by Juan Villar Padron,

  https://www.juanjpadron.com

  Special thanks to my editor Janell Parque

  http://janellparque.blogspot.com/

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  I dedicate this book to all those people listed in the Acknowledgments who patiently listened to my ideas, offered advice and input, and edited my writings. Collectively, you folks made this possible. Thank you!

  Part I

  1

  Black Tuesday. January, 2011

  “Your wife is having an affair with my lover.”

  Roberto ‘Rob’ Santos looked up into the smooth face of a tall, thin black man. “Excuse me?”

  The man pulled up the mink collar of his full-length black leather coat. “I said your wife Nicole is having an affair with my lover, William. And it’s been going on for more than a year.”

  Rob studied the man standing in front of him outside Boston’s Finest Coffee shop on Newbury Street. It was snowing lightly, and the sidewalk was crowded with bundled-up people going to work on this typical January Tuesday morning. The man had huge brown eyes, impressive diamond earrings, and gold wire-rimmed glasses. He was much taller than Rob, who was an even six feet, but he appeared to be thin and slight of build. His leather coat hung off his shoulders as if attached to a stick figure. Snowflakes alighted on his perfectly coiffed hair, pausing before melting.

  As was his habit, Rob Santos began each day by ducking into Boston’s Finest for a coffee and a Wall Street Journal, which were always waiting for him by the time he reached the counter. The routine is always the same: Karen, the ageless owner, flashes her disarming, ice-melting smile - hands Rob his paper and coffee - he hands her a ten dollar bill - she pushes the change his way - he points at the Jimmy Fund jar - she says “God bless you,” - and he leaves.

  What made this not a typical January Tuesday morning was the tall, pretty, black man standing in his path.

  Rob Santos continued to gape up. “Wha…What did you say?”

  The black man’s eyes filled. “My William has taken his love elsewhere. You may know him as your wife’s personal trainer. I know him as my reason for living. And now…” Tears flowed down the man’s smooth cheeks. Then, without another word, he turned and swiftly strode away.

  The black man’s words kept replaying in Rob’s head as he sat in his downtown office. Like all seeds planted in fertile soil, the idea of Nicole having an affair began to sprout. Yes, she did have a personal trainer named William, and yes, she had been training under his instruction for what? At least two years now. And sex with his wife of sixteen years had steadily fallen off from very infrequent to extremely infrequent. And when it did happen, it was not exactly wild and crazy. Still, there was nothing unusual about that. Most of his friends complained about the same thing. And yes, his wife spent one weekend a month at a health spa. Was this a cover for a weekend with her lover? Until this very moment, he had never doubted any part of her story. How could he check up on her without being too obvious? Then an idea popped into his head: call the spa in the Berkshires to verify first, that it exists, and second, that Nicole actually goes there. Rob scrolled through his Outlook emails, and bingo…there it was. Contact information for the spa in case he needed to reach her when she was away. He dialed the number.

  “Good morning. This is the Berkshire Beauty Retreat.”

  Rob sighed in relief. It did exist. He said, “Hello, my name is Rob Santos. My wife, Nicole Santos, spent the weekend of December sixteenth at your spa. She has misplaced her wallet, and we were wondering if, by any chance, she left it there?"

  “This is the answering service for the Berkshire Beauty Resort. The facility is closed for the season. It will reopen in April. Shall I get a message to the owner?”

  “Closed? When did it close?”

  “Right after Columbus Day weekend, sir.”

  "You mean it was not open, let's see…" he scrolled backward, through the Outlook calendar.” You mean it was not open November 17 and 18, or on October 15 and 16?"

  The woman was silent for a moment. Then, with a definite note of apology to her tone, she said, “I’m sorry sir, but no. They are closed for the winter.”

  Rob closed his door for the lunch hour and stared out the window at the Boston skyline. One advantage of being a Senior Vice President with a corner office is that you can close the door for privacy without raising suspicion. The door remained closed until, at two-thirty, a loud knock brought Rob back from his desolation.

  He sat up, straightened his tie, and shouted, “Come in.”

  The door opened cautiously and in stepped Manuela, his staff assistant. She closed the door behind her. Manuela Gonzalez was very pregnant and looked decidedly uncomfortable. A striking woman with coal black hair and eyes to match, perhaps thirty, she was due to go out on maternity leave in three weeks. There were whispers around the office wondering if she would make it that long. Waddling across the office, she took the guest chair in front of Rob's desk. She had a file folder in her hand. She peered at her boss, tilting her head slightly, a puzzled look on her face. “Que pasa, boss?”

  “Having a bad day.”

  “You missed the staff meeting.”

  Rob put his head into his hands and moaned. “Oh shit.”


  “No worries,” Manuela said. “I covered for you. Got a minute?”

  “What am I going to do without you?”

  Manuela stared at her plump fingers. “That’s why I wanted to talk with you.”

  Rob adjusted his glasses. “Okay…shoot.”

  She handed the folder she’d been holding to Rob. “In today’s meeting, the budget summaries were passed out. Take a look.”

  Distractedly, Rob flipped through the folder. He shrugged.

  Manuela stood and rubbed her lower back. “Look at the bottom of page two.”

  Rob did. “JESUS CHRIST!”

  “Exactly!” Manuela replied, wincing with pain. “What do you think’s going on?”

  Rob adjusted his glasses again and studied the page. "Our expense account is frozen. What's this all about?"

  Manuela plopped herself back into the chair. "I asked the same question and was told: ‘irregularities, violation of company policies, just cause for an internal investigation,' a bunch of vague garbage."

  Rob removed his glasses. “That’s bullshit. I review all the expense charges when they come in. My guys are straight shooters. Whose account are they looking at? Any specifics?”

  "Confidential, confidential," Manuela said. “It’s the ole’ let’s hide it in the cloak of confidentiality trick. How convenient.”

  Rob was coming alive. “We can’t do our job unless our lobbyists can wine and dine the politicians at the state house.”

  “Exactly,” she said again. After a pause, she said, “Now, let me ask you a question. And don’t take this personally. I’m a short timer so I can be bold. Plus this kid in my belly is a really big pain right now, so I’m a little short on patience and diplomacy.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Who do you think is behind this - and why?”

  Rob shrugged. “My guess would be one of those nerds in internal auditing.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But maybe not.” She stared at Rob for a beat then asked, “How old are you?”

  “What? What does that have to do with…?”

  “No really. How old are you? And how many years have you worked here?”

  Rob sighed. “Let’s see, I’m forty-six and have been here for…” he looked at the ceiling for a moment, “twenty-two years. Why?”

  “Because,” Manuela said, with some heat, “you’re pretty damn naïve. By now, if you haven’t figured out how the wind blows in this place, you’re hopeless. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never met a more considerate man, and as a boss, you’re the best. But Goddammit, can’t you see what’s going on?”

  Rob opened his hands and said, “What are you…?”

  Manuela leaned back in the chair. “Come around here and help me put my feet up.”

  Rob did as he was told. He removed her shoes and lifted her swollen feet up to the desk. “Better?”

  She nodded. “Haven’t you wondered why you got this promotion last year?”

  “Because I’m the best there is at corporate tax code?”

  “That had nothing to do with it.” Manuela was rubbing her bulbous belly. “Think, Amigo, think. You’re married to the former CEO’s beautiful daughter. Life is good for you. You’re gorgeous, with a great bod. All the women dream of jumping in the sack with you. You’re the golden boy. Then the old man croaks, and pronto, you get promoted to Senior Vice President. But the project you’re given, influencing politicians to simplify the tax code, is impossible. The Democrats in Boston will never simplify anything and let's face it; they own this state. Then, out of the blue, your discretionary expense funds are frozen. Now, you can’t do your job. You can’t possibly succeed. You’ve been set up to fail!”

  Rob got up and walked to the window, staring out, but seeing nothing. He massaged the back of his neck; a habit left-over from a rear end collision a dozen years prior which caused stiffness and pain when stress level shot up. After a while, in a quiet voice, he asked, “Okay, let’s assume you are right, and I have to admit, what you say makes sense. But why?”

  Manuela continued rubbing her belly. “Because our new president, known around the water cooler as Cleavage Claire, hated your father-in-law.”

  Rob turned around. “What?”

  “Your father-in-law was a pompous, self-absorbed pig, and you know it. He promoted Clair Anderson to President so he could keep a close watch on her tits. He thought he was getting some kind of 1950’s secretary with high heels and red lipstick. But Claire had other ideas. She wanted to be God. So, both parties were disappointed. Claire refused to be poked and prodded, and your father-in-law wouldn’t take no for an answer. The results? They fought incessantly and despised each other. If he hadn’t dropped dead, he certainly would have trumped up a reason to fire her skinny ass. You didn’t know this?”

  Rob shook his head. “How do you know it?”

  She shrugged. “How do you not know it? And now, guess what? She’s going to take out her revenge on you because you are the old man’s boy.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  Rob shook his head. “I had no idea.” He went back to staring at the Boston skyline. “How long do you think I have?”

  Manuela lowered her feet from the desk, and slowly stood up. “I have to pee. I’d bet you’ll be fired at the end of the second quarter. You got less than six months. Maybe less.”

  Later on that fateful Tuesday, a beleaguered and browbeaten Rob Santos went home early to his lavish home in Carlisle and was surprised to find his two daughters at home. They should have been in their dormitory at Philips Andover.

  “What are you guys doing home?”

  Danielle, the sixteen-year-old, shrugged and said, "Mom will tell you." Then she and her sister left the kitchen and headed upstairs to their rooms.

  Rob saw the message button glowing on the house phone. It was the Dean of Students from Philips.

  “Hello, Dean Mason? This is Rob Santos returning your call.”

  At the conclusion of the call, he ran up the stairs, two at a time, and pushed open his daughters’ bedroom door.

  "Can't you knock?" Amy, the fifteen-year-old snapped.

  “You’ve been expelled!” Rob said, trying to keep the rising anger out of his voice. “You both have! For bullying.”

  “Whatever,” Danielle said dismissively.

  “WHATEVER?” Rob yelled. “This is serious. The Dean told me the school is considering involving the police. Who is Carol Murrow and what the hell have you two been doing?”

  "Listen, Roberto,” Amy began.

  "Roberto? Whatever happened to Dad?” He paused, breathing hard, trying to regain his composure. “The dean says you two have seriously hurt some of your classmates.”

  Amy muttered, “Dweebs.”

  Danielle, without taking her eyes off her iPhone, said, "Mom said you'd take their side."

  “THEIR SIDE? WHAT THE…” He stopped, paused, took a few steadying deep breaths, and then asked, “She knows about this?”

  Amy said, “Well, yeah.”

  Rob again paused, and then asked, “Where is your mother?”

  Danielle, who was texting, ignored her father. Amy, also involved with her iPhone, mumbled, "At the gym, of course."

  Rob thought about going on a rampage and smashing their iPhones, computers, and all the rest of the expensive shit they lived within. Then he thought about smashing the empty skulls of those two insolent, spoiled, brats…but regained control. That was when he realized he despised them both, his own children. He had been excluded from their lives a long time ago. And now, it was painfully true: these two young women were evil.

  Without another word, he stepped into the hallway and quietly closed their bedroom door.

  2

  Cruel Daughters

  Earlier that day, John Mason, Dean of Students at Philips Andover Academy, took a seat at the polished oak table in the boardroom. For a historic academic institution dating back to 1778, the boardroom was unconventional. Absent were the bo
ok-lined walls, darkly stained wood paneling, and massive yellowing oil portraits of past school presidents. In fact, other than the oak table and matching chairs, there was almost no wood anywhere in the room. Two walls were floor to ceiling glass overlooking the campus and making the room open, spacious, and bright. The décor elsewhere in the expansive boardroom was hanging tapestries, depicting scenes from the New England countryside.

  As was his habit, the more important the meeting, the earlier he was. Today, he was very early. He opened and turned on his tablet, pulled a file folder from his briefcase, glanced at the contents, and then closed it again. Then he got up and nervously paced around the room.

  John Mason resembled a scarecrow: tall, gangly, painfully thin, with a mop of unruly straw-colored hair, and usually, a wide toothy grin. There was no grin today, and his permanently rumpled blue suit seemed to be even more disheveled.

  The door opened and in walked Ellen Fox, Resident Legal Counsel for the academy. She closed the door behind her. Ellen was short, plump, and sour. She wore a nondescript brown cable knit sweater and black slacks. Tossing her briefcase on the table, she said evenly, “Good morning, John.”

  “Good morning? Not so good,” John replied. “Not so good.”

  “Oh, come on,” Ellen snorted. “We’ve got a job to do, so let’s get it done. Besides, the school will be better off without those miscreants.”

  John stopped his pacing. “Already found guilty, sentenced, and hanged I take it.”