What Passes For Love

CHAPTER 1

The early afternoon sun blazed across the dark surface of a shiny black BMW crossing the Admiral Wilson Boulevard. At the wheel, behind heavily darkened windows was Lachlan Cage. He turned right at the second traffic light off the boulevard and disappeared into the streets of Camden near the waterfront. Lachlan turned off into a neighborhood a white man in a BMW should avoid unless he was a cop or a crazy ass motherfucker.

The streets in this part of Camden are lined with abandoned factories, vacant lots, and unoccupied buildings and houses used by crack smoking prostitutes for their unsavory street trade. People who live here don’t share their business with the neighbors. They are the faceless, nameless people; the kind you hear about on the eleven o’clock news after they are dead.

Lachlan turned down Chester Street towards #64, a two-story building with graffiti covered garage door on the ground floor, one of only four buildings left on the gutted block. The lot directly across the street was a dumping ground for old refrigerators, mattresses, scrap metal, tires and broken glass. A stray dog was licking at the remnants of a red and white Crown Fried Chicken container.

The windows on the top floors over the garage of #64 Chester Street were boarded over with plywood. What was once white paint was now mottled gray and peeling away from the window sashes like dry layers of an onion. Green tar siding covered the exterior surface clinging to some places and pulling away in others. A car repair service once operated out of the garage but had closed long ago; the only evidence of life was a rusted sign over the door and old oil stains on the broken concrete.

Lachlan reached into the glove box. He took out a small remote, activated the garage door and by the time he reached #64 it was open. The Beamer silently slipped into the interior of the garage. Lachlan quickly closed the door and felt his world fall into place. The sound of the door sliding down well-oiled tracks blocked out every stressful thing in his life. It was comforting. It was soothing. At 64 he could finally be Lachlan Cage.

Meetings with his fiancé about his upcoming wedding caused a need in Lachlan to retreat to this private space. After every discussion of the wedding he found himself receding more and more into the sublime world of 64. It was like putting on the same performance night after night when he had to spend time with wedding plans. June 19th, the date of the wedding, was a year away but it couldn’t come fast enough. He needed this wedding business to be over and wrapped up.

Lachlan got out of the car, opened the back door and retrieved a navy Armani suit jacket from the back seat. He took a set of three silver keys out of the inside pocket of the jacket. The metal felt cold in his hands. Into the nondescript plywood door on the left wall of the garage he inserted the first key; it opened revealing polished steel elevator doors. He turned the second key, the elevator doors slid open. Inside the small elevator he used the third key to activate the first of two unmarked buttons set deep into the polished steel plate. He took care to touch nothing but the key, and the elevator began its assent.

64 was Lachlan’s personal sanctuary from everyday life. It took him the better part of a year and $500,000 to complete renovations on the interior of #64. Lachlan was meticulous, indulging every decorative fantasy he ever had. The flooring, white oak, brought light into the space. There were no windows on the inside; a lot of money was spent on the technical aspects of the lighting. It could give the illusion of daylight or nightlight in the space. 64 was a labor of love and a major architectural challenge. There were times his ego wanted to tell the world about the artistic accomplishment of the space but it only lasted a moment. He knew there was no sharing his life at #64 Chester Street with the outside world.

The great room was decorated in an oriental style. An intense relationship between Lachlan and a furniture buyer for Pier One ended but it left #64 furnished in dark rattan and jewel tones of red, green, and amber. It was elegant and soothing. Large faux antique urns stood in the corners filled with willow bark, the floors were covered with expensive oriental rugs. The rugs were a gift from the owner of the East Indian Import Export Co. Lachlan smiled at the memory of the delivery of the rugs every time he looked at them.

Lachlan crossed to the kitchen area of the great room loosening his tie and opening the top buttons of his pale blue shirt. He opened one of the cabinets taking out his everyday martini shaker and matching glass. He wasn’t entertaining this afternoon so he made this concession for himself. Picking up the remote from the black marble counter top he switched on the flat screen plasma TV mounted on the wall, sat down on the soft, merlot colored velour couch and put his feet up.

Meetings with Melody about the wedding always exhausted him. She needed so much attention it was getting difficult to stay in character with her for very long. He made up his mind months ago the success he wanted and needed as a law partner at the firm of Hamilton Hitchcock was worth any price and marriage to the senior partner, Artemis Hamilton’s daughter Melody, was the ultimate price. Women were so easy he thought and Melody Hamilton was as uncomplicated as a peanut butter sandwich.