The Empire Builder

He knew that they'd already floated his "disappearance" on social media. They'd done it in a way that had made it sound like he had lost his mind. They had to have figured out his destination. Maybe they even had people looking for him on every bus, train, or plane, who knew? All he knew was that he had to keep his head down and his eyes open.

*****

Ellie wrote some initial impressions. It was the usual stuff, observations about the boarding process, and the room. As the train pulled out of Milwaukee and rattled through the suburbs in the gathering dusk, Ellie was writing about the odd feeling of disconnect, looking into the lives of small-town America from a passing train window.

Ellie was packaging her first post when a porter popped his head in to ask when she wanted to schedule her slot in the dining car. That was an interesting feature, so very Hitchcockian. They were the last sleeper car on the train, so there were only late slots. Ellie just had to take advantage of it.

Ellie'd had her door closed while she worked on her piece. But the porter left it open. And, she heard him ask the same question to the guy across the way. Maybe he could use some company. She left the door open while she indulged her dirty little habit, which was trolling TMZ for mindless gossip.

It seemed like the story of the day was the mysterious disappearance of some slimy New York attorney named Bishop. It was one of those salacious pieces where the speculation was in two camps. He had either run off to a tropical island with a mistress-to-be-named-later, or he was sleeping with the fishes.

The gossip hounds gave equal credence to both options since this Bishop fellow was a bit of a player with deep ties to a number of unsavory characters. That included Tony the Tiger Mancuso. That guy was an under-capo for the bada-boom-bada-bing, made-men who did the trash hauling for the five boroughs.

A picture of the dude accompanied the article. The fellow was posed in a tuxedo standing next to a smiling Trump at some hideous NYC event. Bishop was with a knockout gorgeous trophy, who was identified as his wife. Trump was looking down the wife's cleavage. While, she was gazing intently off camera at somebody else. Bishop looked like he would rather be any place but there.

All-in-all it was the usual, forgettable ration of shit that TMZ shovels to the masses except for one eye-popping difference. The subject of the article was the man sitting across the aisle, staring pensively out the window as the sun set over northeastern Wisconsin.

Ellie had no idea why or how he'd gotten there. But he was there in all his glory. She enlarged the picture so that she could study the subject's face. She looked across the aisle to compare the two, and sure enough, it was him!!

This was what reporters from time immemorial have called a "scoop." In fact, it wasn't a scoop. It was a potential Pulitzer Prize.

Ellie thought about calling Joe and telling him what she'd stumbled on. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized this was the kind of coincidence that made a reporter's career. She didn't want her fellow ink-stained-wretches-of-the-press to get a shot at the story. Instead, she decided to play it like she didn't know who Bishop was. That is until she had nailed his hide to her barn door.

Ellie spent all the time until dinner doing deep background on everybody in this guy's social network. That's the advantage of Facebook and Intelius. Suddenly all of her first impressions made sense. At age 36, the fellow was only ten years older than she was. But he already had put a lifetime of living under his belt, most of it unsavory. Of course, that's what it takes to play in the New York City real estate game.

He'd been born and raised in Canarsie and worked his way through night school. His law degree was from NYU, and he had a reputation for being the clever sort of fellow who could get any douchebag mafioso, or low-life shyster, off the hook. The fact that he was willing to do that for a living spoke volumes about his morals and ethics.

He was richer than sin because he had married into the Loftis family. Big Bob Loftis owned a lot of expensive Manhattan real estate, valued well into the billions. No wonder Bishop and wife could get a stand-up with Trump. The old man had just kicked the bucket, and it appeared that Bishop was now running things. But there was trouble in paradise.

If the rumors in the on-line edition of the Enquirer were true, Bishop's wife, who was Big Bob Loftis's little princess, played away on him. Of course, it WAS the Enquirer. Bishop, in turn, had been connected with half the actresses on the Great White Way and any stray starlet who might be idly wandering through the Big Apple.

Ellie was in the innuendo business. And it looked like a lot of the stories about Bishop's depredations in the female population might be counter-programming on Loftis's part. Because, absolutely nothing was confirmed.

Then there was the wife's brother. He was the potential heir to the throne and also named Bob. There were rumors he was planning a coup. So, all-in-all it was clear that the Loftis family weren't the Waltons.

This had all the scandalous elements of a great story. All Ellie had to do was get it out of Bishop during the time she had him locked down across the aisle. She decided that he was about to get company at dinner. Ellie would start there, and if she had to fuck him to get the whole story, then so be it.

*****

Bishop was sitting alone at one of the last booths in the dining car when his neighbor walked in. The diner had place settings and a table cloth. But there was no fine linen, crystal, and silverware like he was used to in Europe. Still, at least it was a place to sit, eat, and watch the night roll by.

She was wearing a Kelly-green sweater that contrasted stunningly with her copper curls and showed off her spectacular girls to their maximum advantage. She prowled toward him like a hunting cat and said in a voiced that absolutely purred, "Mind if I join you?"

He looked around and could see a number of open seats. Still, he gestured to the bench across from him and said grudgingly, "Sure." She sat, picked up the menu, and looked it over and said conversationally, "It's my first time on a train. Is this like a restaurant, with real waiters?" He nodded in the direction of the guy in the surgical mask who was just approaching the table.

She looked a little flustered. Then she turned to the waiter and then said, "I'll have the salmon. Do you have anything to drink?" The waiter said, "Beer, wine, or most spirits." She said, "Can I buy it by the bottle?" The waiter said, "No, Ma'am, but we DO have a nice wine and cheese tasting tomorrow." She said decisively, "Chardonnay and keep them coming."

Looking satisfied, she turned to Bishop and said brightly, "Do you like train travel? You don't look like somebody who normally takes the train. Is it the virus? Is that why you're here? I do the weather on Fox32 Chicago, and I'm going to Portland for my sister's wedding."

Bishop had all the instincts of a top-level predator. He knew when people were lying to him. So, why had this woman just given him a fabricated story? He was intrigued. He said, "I'm a travel writer. I go on trips and then write about them. It tells people what it's like."

She looked like she didn't believe him. She said skeptically, "You're not like any media person I've ever known. Most of them are as hyperactive as Jack Russell terriers, with about half the attention span."

Bishop actually laughed. He said, "I write books. I know that somebody who's in TV would find it hard to believe that people still actually read." There was a long pause while she digested that. She said, "So, tell me, neighbor, what books have you written. Maybe I've read some of them."

Bishop gave her a couple of style points for trying to pin him down like that. Surprisingly, he saw a wicked intelligence underneath that beautiful face. Perhaps there was more to this woman than he'd initially thought. His first impression was that she was some hot-looking girly-girl marking time in life until she snagged the right sucker. She was hot enough to catch a big rich one.

He plastered on a thoughtful expression like he was trying to think of something she might have heard of. It was a standard lawyers trick when somebody throws you a curveball. He said, "They all start with 'Exploring the..." Then he added slyly, "You might have read, Exploring the French Riviera. That's the one that sells the best."

She looked disappointed and said, "No, never read that one." Her disappointment was clearly not because she hadn't read his fictitious book. It was because she hadn't cracked his story. Then she brightened again and said, "So where are you from? Are you married?" She looked momentarily embarrassed and said, "That's a standard female question."

He looked at her for a moment and said, "Durham, North Carolina, and none of your business." She nodded toward his ring and said meaningfully, "I'll take that as a yes."

He'd forgotten about the ring. He'd worn the thing for so long he hadn't thought to remove it when the whole sordid mess fell on him. This woman was sharp. He was marshaling his defenses as he shrugged and said, "It's complicated."

He had to get away for both their sakes. The Russians could be brutal. He rose and said, "I've had a long day." She jumped to her feet and said, "I'll come with you. " They made their way silently from car-to-car and up the stairs to their roomettes. The walk back featured a lot of swaying and rocking as the Empire Builder hustled through the dark night of the North Dakota prairie.

Their bunks had been made up when they got there. She gave him an impish smile, nodded toward the bathroom, and said, "You go first. We girls need a lot more time."

He brushed his teeth and changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He found her standing, waiting for him in the aisle after he'd finished. She was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. She was clearly ready for sleep herself, wearing nothing underneath her little spaghetti strap top and a minuscule pair of loose-fitting running shorts, the fullness of her gorgeous long hair was loose and flowed around her shoulders.

She had a figure to die for, big, full firm tits with natural cleavage, long waist, and powerful flanks. But her legs were the extraordinary element of what was an outstanding body. Her thighs were well-formed and muscular, and they were a little longer than average, which gave her a leggy appearance. Combined with well-developed calves, she looked like she could have been a Rockette.

She slowly brushed past him in the narrow aisle, her back to his front. She did it very carefully like she was consciously trying to avoid touching him. But her round full buns still passed across his raging hard-on. He could feel her heat.

When she had gone past him, he said with an embarrassing amount of lust in his voice, "Good night." She turned and gave him a cat that just ate the canary smile and said, "See you in the morning." He thought, "Not if I can help it," as he slid the door of his compartment closed.

*****

Ellie thought the initial contact had gone well. They had both bullshitted each other sufficiently to establish a connection, and she'd shown him the goods. The hard-on she felt as she brushed past him confirmed his interest. The only hitch was that the same contact flooded her.

Ellie was surprised at how decent and unassuming he was. The cover story he cooked up on the fly was not the sort of thing you would have expected. Most of the guys like Bishop were alpha-male types, whose only interest was in bragging about themselves.

They would have played the power and influence card right off the bat. A weather girl in a major market was something of a TV star, and if Bishop was a player, he would have used his status to try to get into her pants.

The latter part was problematic. She wasn't opposed to fucking him to get the story. It would be her pleasure, literally. He radiated the kind of strength and self-confidence that caused little flutters in her tummy, or perhaps a little lower.

Still, there was something subliminal going on underneath all that self-control. He was hurting, and she wondered what had made such a formidable person so sad. For a moment, she wanted to comfort him rather than make him into a story.

There's something soothing about night on a train. There are very few intersections once you get into the wilderness known as North Dakota. So, the horn blasts and clanging from the crossings died down, and the gentle swaying of the car lulled Ellie into a sound sleep. She awoke to the sight of the mountain landscapes of Montana right outside her window. It was gorgeous.

Ellie did her morning wakeup routine and dressed in something she hoped would keep Mr. Smith interested. Then, she waited. As soon as she heard his door slide open, she slid her own back and said happily, "Well, good morning, neighbor. I trust you slept well."

He gave her a look like she was the last person he wanted to run into. That was encouraging. She was getting to him. He said grumpily, "Couldn't sleep."

Ellie felt a surge of compassion. The man was actually suffering. she said kindly, and she meant it, "Want to talk about it over a tasty Amtrak omelet?"

The expression on her face must have communicated her genuine concern because he smiled and said in an exaggerated tone, "I need coffee." They walked down to the dining car as friends.

*****

Elizabeth Bishop was packed. The news had come from the Russians the previous day. Her husband had disappeared and then been seen in Penn Station, boarding a westbound train. Her brother and his Russian friend had been stumped for the meaning, but Beth knew immediately what the purpose of Jason's actions were.

Jason Bishop, the love of Elizabeth's life, was preparing to divorce her. He wasn't filing in New York where her legal influence and an unfair set of laws would give her the advantage that she needed to hold his company hostage. He was planning on filing in a community property state, Washington, and thereby wrest control of his company from her, her brother, and their Russian partners.

Jason was always the shrewd one when it came to corporate structure and legal strategy. He had taken the opportunity of her being stuck in France to strike, but Elizabeth wasn't having it. She was going to New York come hell or pandemic, and no Chinese virus was going to stop her.

She was going to beat her husband to the punch with the legal process. Not because she cared about the money, although that was a concern, but because he belonged to her. He was her man, and she didn't give up anything that belonged to her without a fight.

Her brother, Little Bob, was desperate about the money. "His nickname was so apt," she thought. Little brother had been scheming and planning even before their inheritance took the hit that Liz doubted it would ever recover from.

Big Bob had left them his interest in Boeing Stock and a billion in Boeing debt owed to him. The debt was already in default. When the Boeing 737 Max turned out to be a disaster, the company took a hit that would have destroyed any other, but it survived barely.

Now with the pandemic destroying the airline industry, Boeing teetered on the brink. Only a major government bailout would save them. So, Liz couldn't call her notes without the risk of forcing Boeing into bankruptcy and thereby destroying the value of her stock. It was a classic catch 22. There was a reason they called them junk bonds.

Little Bob was desperate to gain control of the Loftis & Bishop real estate empire and all the money his Russian friends could launder through it. But Beth was playing for something far more valuable than real estate or money. She wanted her family back. She had lost it for no reason that she could fathom, and now she was determined to get it back no matter the cost.

She still had her interest in the real estate. But she only had fourteen percent of Loftis & Bishop limited. That was all her father had left her. The Loftis & Bishop corporate partnership was now the chief marital asset. So, she needed to increase her share by obtaining a favorable divorce settlement.

The remaining property was their joint interest in their two homes: their marital residence in Carroll Gardens Brooklyn and her parent's house in Seattle. And her father had left that specifically to Jason, who loved to sit on the deck and watch the lake.

They had spent last summer and the Christmas holidays with the children in Seattle. After Christmas, she had left for France to work on the Claremont Pharmaceutical reverse merger with its European subsidiary. It was a brilliant deal that she had thought up to avoid any opioid liabilities in the United States.

There was always a risk that Jason would act while she was out of the country. But she had planned to fly home at the first indication he was up to something. She hadn't expected a virus outbreak to make that nearly impossible. Now, Jason had a jump on her, and she needed to catch up.

If Jason got what he wanted, she would have a minority interest in the company which he could then render worthless and a townhouse she couldn't sell without his consent probably until the kids were adults. Jason would put her on an allowance and dole out just enough to pay the kids expenses. She would be forced to live on the hundred and sixty thousand dollars a year salary she made as a junior partner. That was unacceptable to her.

Beth had been her Dad's little princess. She had led an extraordinarily privileged life. The only dark cloud had been the death of her mother when Beth was twelve. Mom had been the grounding influence in her daughter's life.

Susan Loftis was a woman of humble origins. She didn't take kindly to her husband, spoiling the children. Her Mom made Liz work for what she got. Her mother's untimely death accelerated the lavish lifestyle that Big Bob heaped on his children and, in particular, his beautiful daughter.

Beth was one of those girls that people normally describe as the girl next door. She was cute as well as pretty. She had that innocent and wholesome appearance that made every male past puberty want to protect her. They also wanted so much more from her sexually, but always seemed afraid to ask. They shouldn't have been. Liz learned about sex from an early age and discovered she liked it.

Liz arrived in New York from the West Coast as neither innocent, nor a virgin. The sexual openness and permissiveness of twenty-first-century New York suited her. The fact that her looks misled people about her sexual proclivities was an advantage that she took full benefit of. Beth was used to getting everything she wanted, and she wanted just about everything.

Jason Bishop was an unexpected development. Elizabeth Loftis, pampered rich girl, had been with a lot of interchangeable men. But she had never found any that were worth caring about. When Jay stumbled into her life, she recognized that he was something different.

If she had to describe his one predominant characteristic, she would have said that he was a real person. He wasn't trying to be somebody else or live by anyone else's standards. There was a short courtship, but a long honeymoon.

Beth knew that she had found the love of her life; however, that couldn't change her lifestyle. She was a rich woman, and money has its privileges. Women of her class always took lovers.

Of course, not at first, she waited until the kids were in school. Initially, she only played with a client or two. Maybe the odd fellow attorney in a pinch. It was not until Leroy Grey that her husband caught on, but in a way that was inevitable and precisely the point.