Free Switchback by Matthew Klein Page A

match, in the afternoon sun. He pulled into the cobblestone reception circle. A valet approached the car, opened the door, and gave him a ticket stub. ‘Welcome back, Mr. Van Bender,’ the valet said.
    â€˜Thanks, John,’ Timothy said. ‘What’s the soup today?’
    â€˜Lobster bisque, Mr. Van Bender.’
    â€˜Terrific, John.’
    Timothy helped Pinky from the car. Pinky unfolded his legs,stood up, and lifted his pants belt over the bulge in his gut. He stared at the polo field. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, fiddling with his gold belt buckle. ‘You play?’
    â€˜Betting’s the only thing I do on a horse,’ Timothy said.
    â€˜Right!’ Pinky slapped him on the back. ‘Right, old boy! Imagine the two of us on horses! Now that would be a sight!’
    Timothy tried to imagine Pinky balancing precariously on a horse, his stocky frame clad in a pink shirt and green pants. Yes, that would be a sight, indeed.
    He led Pinky into the clubhouse. The building was octagonal, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides. To the north were the tennis courts, ringed with azalea bushes. To the west, the stables and the polo field. To the east was the Olympic-sized swimming pool, studded with chaise longues and white umbrellas.
    â€˜Shall we eat outside?’ Timothy asked.
    â€˜Terrific,’ Pinky said.
    They sat on the veranda overlooking the polo field, and ordered drinks just as the first polo chukka started. A whistle blew, and ponies thundered up the grass, following a red wooden ball.
    â€˜A beautiful club,’ Pinky said. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t taken me before.’
    â€˜Pinky,’ Timothy said, ‘any time you’re in town, I will take you here. I had no idea you liked horses.’
    â€˜Beautiful,’ he said again.
    On the polo field a blue player rode off a green player – galloped his horse alongside his opponent and pushed him off the path of the ball. ‘Turn it! Turn it!’ his teammates shouted. He raised his mallet high in the air and, with a thwack, sent the ball careening down the field toward the other team’s goal.
    As they watched the game, the glass door from the clubhouse slid open and another couple joined them on the veranda. It was Michael S. Stanton and Wife #2, whose name always eluded Timothy. Stanton was formerly the CEO of a high-flying medical device company which made stents used in heart surgery. The good news was that the company had reported five years of record-breaking profits. The bad news was that last October thecompany reported that those five years of profits were the result of accounting chicanery, and the profits had, chimera-like, turned into five hundred million dollars of losses. And so Michael S. Stanton went from CEO to ex-CEO. Two months later he was indicted by a federal grand jury. His trial for securities fraud was scheduled to begin in two weeks.
    â€˜Michael,’ Timothy said, ‘great to see you. How are you doing?’
    The question was vague enough to be an invitation to talk about anything Michael cared to talk about: Michael’s health, his car, his marriage – and, oh yes, maybe even the indictment that might send him to Pelican Bay for ten to fifteen.
    â€˜Timothy,’ Michael said, walking to Timothy’s table. ‘Enjoying the weather?’
    â€˜California dreamin’,’ Timothy said. They shook hands. ‘Michael, I want you to meet Pinky Dewer. Pinky and I are old friends from Yale.’
    Michael smiled. ‘From back before they had light bulbs in the dorms, right?
    â€˜Absolutely,’ Timothy said.
    â€˜Nice to meet you,’ Michael said to Pinky.
    â€˜Likewise,’ said Pinky, distracted. His vodka gimlet had just arrived, and he was more interested in the beaded tumbler than in Michael Stanton and Wife #2.
    Michael said: ‘And I’m sure you remember my wife, Susan.’
    Timothy was