Philanthropist

by Larry Hill

  “What’s the job?”

  “I’m not really sure. All I can say is that it involves beef – he must think that since I work at Beef and I speak Spanish I’d be just right for it.”

  “Did he ask for a resume or for references? Did he talk to your boss? How does he know anything about you based on your serving him a steak?”

  “Damned if I know. He can’t know anything about me. I guess he thought I looked pretty good and seemed smart. He didn’t even ask me where I was from. I did tell him about the shipping job that I used to have and that seemed to turn him on a little.”

  “Does it mean you’d be moving?” she asked with a dollop of anxiety.

  “I don’t think so. He said I’d be flying in business class and staying in five star hotels. That sounds like I’d be here most of the time. Who knows, I might even keep waiting tables. But he did say he’d pay me a lot more than I’m making now.”

  “This whole thing sounds really weird to me, love. Pretty strange HR procedures for the boss to offer big money and flights to South America to a waiter he just happens to meet in a restaurant.”

  “So, you think I should just forget about it?”

  “What do you want? It’s your call.”

  “Yeah, it’s weird, but pretty exciting. I’m tired of serving meat to rich gringos. Being told I should convince the customers to order creamed spinach and dessert isn’t what I dreamed about doing forever. I think I’ll see where it goes. Or, do you think I’m nuts?”

  “What’s the worst that can happen? I guess the guy could be a crook and is looking for you to run drugs or endangered species. I hope that the country isn’t Colombia or Bolivia.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. But no it’s not one of those countries. You know, I’m going to call the guy and say yes. I can always back out. But first let me show you my bedroom.” He took her hand. Both suppressed any disinclinations.

  Compared to the house’s one bedroom, the living room was kempt. The double bed was unmade, the polyester comforter laying on the floor and the sheets more off than on the unpadded mattress. Three pairs of shoes, all black, and three pairs of socks were scattered randomly over the floor that was covered in the same disgusting green shag. A 42-inch flat screen was mounted on one wall. Unlike the living room, there was a book in the bedroom – a travel guide to South America. A rickety recliner was strewn with work pants, lounge pants, underpants, and shirts of varied types and colors. Two of the four dresser drawers were open. On the top were another pair of socks, two empty Pepsi bottles, an old Philco clock radio, and a framed photograph of a beautiful Latina. Jen’s long time supposition that her paramour was not monogamous seemed confirmed. But she was surprised that he hadn’t hidden the picture before bringing her in for love. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s my sister, Carmen. You haven’t met her have you? You’ve got to meet her someday. She works in somebody’s house in your part of town.”

  “That’s good. Let’s get to it.” Jen’s clothes were off in less than a minute after which she turned her attention to her lover’s outfit, throwing the shoes, socks, pants, shirt and underwear with their mates on the recliner and the floor. She always supplied the condom as he claimed he was too embarrassed to purchase them himself; she had forgotten to bring one, but no worry, her period had finished just a few days earlier. She had not made love since the week before the hit and run. Neither she nor her husband had raised the subject. In spite of the extreme disorder of her lover’s bed and its surroundings, it felt just right.

  After showering in the disarray of the apartment’s only bathroom, she returned to the bedroom to recover her clothing. Ernesto was finishing a phone call in the living room. “Yes, please tell Mr. Spencer that I will take the job.” Jennifer prayed that the surname she just heard was merely a coincidence.

  Word was getting around that Fred Klein was improving. Among the earliest recipients of the news were his poker-playing friends. As he had been a founding member of the game and a totally predictable participant, a little thing like a vehicular manslaughter charge would not be considered a reason for his being tossed from the list of contestants. Lawyer Schofield, personally closest to Klein, suggested to the others that Fred be invited to the next Friday night game. Recognizing that their friend would probably not be fully himself, Schofield suggested two major one-time changes. First, they would play only the simplest of games, five-card draw. Their usual evenings of dealer’s choice involved a panoply of other forms of poker – Texas Hold-em, seven card high-low stud, Omaha and anaconda to name the most often chosen. They reckoned that Fred needed to have as few review subjects as possible. Secondly, for similar reasons, they limited the number of players to four. Six or seven were typical. Less than six players generally led to postponement of the game, but again Art and colleagues agreed that a full table might be more than Fred could handle. The elected players in addition to Lawyer Schofield were Optometrist Gettleman and Accountant Ross. Ross of Russian Hill offered to host the match.

  Jennifer had been reluctant to give her imprimatur to Fred’s venture outside the house without her at his side, but after discussing it with Art, she decided that the upsides of Fred’s returning to normalcy were worth the risks. Art would be vigilant and call a halt if his friend became confused. Plus, it would be Jennifer’s first evening without her spouse since his return from SF General. She’d hang out at home and read without distraction. She was titillated by the idea of a tête-à-tête with Ernesto, but dismissed it as too early and too risky – her husband might return much earlier than expected. Gettleman and Ross were OK with the plan, recognizing that it might be a very short night.

  Schofield showed up at Fred’s house half an hour before game time. Fred was dressed in his usual poker togs – black wool pants, white dress shirt, wing tips, and a black beret. He always reckoned that the dashing Fred was more likely to win big than the casual/slovenly one. He had no statistics to back up the premise. He was clearly nervous, knowing that he hadn’t played in months and that his skills were likely to have waned. It wasn’t the fear of losing significant cash. Theirs was not a high-stakes game. He had never lost $150 in his years of poker with the boys – nobody else had either. A big win or big loss was $75. But he was frightened of setting a precedent. “Art, promise to pull me out of there if I’m losing big, OK?”

  “Sure, will do.” It was going to take less than a losing streak for Schofield to bring his charge home early.

  “Hurry, we got to stop at the 7-Eleven. I always bring Doritos and dip.” Jennifer and Art looked straight at each other, conveying shared certainty that there was nothing to be gained by referencing the events of the last time the Klein family had anything to do with the convenience store on California St.

  Fred was not going to drive to the poker game. He probably wasn’t going to drive ever again. He disagreed with that, saying that he’d be back behind the wheel “pretty soon.” He accepted the explanation that a temporary moratorium on driving was necessary according to both his cardiologist, keeper of the pacemaker, and his neurologist, the brain maven. The moratorium was also a good legal-political move. The most minor of fender-benders could stir the hornets’ nest should it be reported on the news.

  The two friends made the stop at the 7-Eleven. They went in together, chose their chips and dip, and paid the Indian lady at the register. “Nice to see you, Mr. Klein. We’ve missed you here. Hurry back.”

  They reached Ross’ penthouse pad just before seven. Gettleman was already there. The stage was set in the game room of the 3000 square foot apartment with views in all directions – the full moon-dominated night was as clear as a freshly cleaned aquarium. The circular Chinese table was covered in brown chintz. There were no ashtrays. Smoking, even of cigars, had been outlawed by the players a decade before. Beer, usually exotic brews, always before a staple of the game, was nowhere to be seen. Four stacks of chips were laid out around the circle at 12, 3, 6, and 9, each made up of a bunch of white q
uarters, a smaller number of red halves and five blue dollars. As per tradition in the game, each player tossed four fresh ten dollar bills into a cherry wood bowl to pay for the initial chip buy-in of forty dollars. Ross was especially proud of his four matching black desk chairs, ergonomically engineered to gently support the backs of old men.

  “High card deals,” announced Ross after he did a Vegas-like demonstration of the two new decks of Bicycles, showing a full complement of 52 reds and 52 blues, no jokers. Gettleman’s king outranked the others and he declared that the first hand would be five card draw, jacks or better to open. Each wealthy man tossed in twenty-five cents as an ante. The dealer distributed five cards to each, having shuffled the red deck while Ross did the same to the blues. Klein picked up his cards one at a time, being careful not to divulge their identity to his neighbors. He was the first bidder and he threw in fifty cents. Schofield matched the bet as did Ross. The dealer folded.

  “How many cards do you want, Fred?” asked Gettleman.

  “Huh?”

  “Cards, Fred. How many?”

  “Oh, yeah, cards. Give me two…no, three.”

  “Three says Klein.” Dealer pulled three cards off the top and held them, waiting to give them to his friend. “Fred, you gotta give me three before I can give you these.”

  “Oh, yeah. Here.” He took three cards from his hand and tossed them in the middle, face up. Usually, house rules would call for a miss-deal if discards were identified, but on this occasion Gettleman merely turned them over before handing Fred his replacements. Schofield took three also. Ross asked for four.

  “You’re the opener, Fred. Your bet.”

  “I’ll bet a buck.” He threw in a blue chip.

  “Call,” said Schofield, in turn.

  “I’m out,” said Ross who knew he couldn’t beat a pair of jacks, the minimum for opening.

  “It’s just the two of us, Fred-baby. Whatcha got?”

  “I’ve got a pair of eights.”

  “Huh-uh. I’ve got a pair of kings. My pot. But Fred, you have to have a pair of jacks or queens or more to have bet first. You didn’t – you weren’t allowed to open.”

  “Oh, yeah. I blew that one didn’t I? Sorry.”

  “No problem. You didn’t lose much, you rich SOB.”

  Three hands later, Klein having folded his cards in the previous two, opened the bidding once again, this time with five blue chips.

  “Fred – you can’t do that. You can’t bet more than a dollar on the first round. Five is OK after the draw.”

  “Shoot, I knew that. You’d think I’d never played this game before.” He withdrew all five of the blues and threw in a white one. The others all put in their quarters.

  “How many cards, Fred?”

  “None.” Ross took one, Gettleman four, and Schofield three.

  “I’m the opener. That’ll be five dollars gentlemen.” The opponents all tossed in their cards simultaneously.

  “Show us your openers, winner.” Fred turned over his cards. Five, nine, king, jack, jack.

  “What’s that all about, Fred?”

  “I had a pair of jacks.”

  “So, why didn’t you take any cards? Were you bluffing?”

  “Hell no. Didn’t think I needed to.” He raked in his first legitimate pot of his post-pacemaker life.

  “Let’s eat,” said Ross. Tradition had it that food was brought out at 10 PM. It was only 7:45. The Doritos, dip, popcorn and mixed nuts joined hot ‘n spicy chicken wings on the sideboard. Klein ate a plateful. The dietary recommendations of Dr. Jameson were long forgotten.

  Fred’s three buddies communicated silently. Gettleman said, “My daughter and her family are flying in from Chicago this evening. I think I better be there to greet ‘em. Sorry for finking out on you, but I should go.”

  “No sense in playing with only three guys. Fred, you and I should go home, too.”

  They redistributed the cash. Fred pocketed forty dollars and fifty cents. He had won half a dollar. In the car on the way home Art, keeping his eye on the road, not on his passenger said, “Fred, I think we tried this a little earlier than we should have. You weren’t the Klein we know and love. Let’s wait a few months ‘til that Fred comes back.”

  Fred nodded slowly but said nothing. His first words were uttered as he came in the house, “Honey, I’m a winner.

  THE PHILANTHROPIST

  Dear Mr. Klein,

  ………………………………….donation…………..whatever you feel you can afford…………………..children………………….

  Sincerely,

  Adrienne C

  Children of the Planet

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Klein,

  …………………..money………..beyond our present resources....

  ……………hunger…………..generous…………………………

  Regards,

  Ricardo M

  Food Bank of California

  Hello Frederick Klein

  …………….drought………………………worsening poverty…………. microfinance…………….help us………………….

  Yours in Christ,

  Amadou K

  Africa Famine Relief

  Averaging one or more per day, the pleas for donated funds came in. Fred’s new status as alleged criminal seemed to have no influence one way or the other on their volume. Prior to his hematoma, he would make quick trash of the letters. After, he was a sitting duck for the appeals. Not one to trust electronic transfers of money, he’d write out checks, lick them into the enclosed envelopes and attach stamps, often those commemorative issues he had collected in his childhood, and which had experienced no meaningful increase in value; a decades-old five cent Eleanor Roosevelt was now worth a nickel. His checks were never written for less than $25 - never for more than $100. A little more if the appeals came from Jewish causes, sometimes zero if they included such comments as “Yours in Christ.” He would always obey the request for personal information, including to the great displeasure of his wife, their phone number. He’d ask her what the number was each time until she decided to put a plasticized card on his desk with large, bold numerals, including the 415 area code. The potential downside of inclusion of phone numbers was, of course, an uptick in the number of phone calls from electronic voices and strangers seeking money. Fred did not see that as a downside. He loved to talk on the phone as long as one of his favorite shows wasn’t on. He hadn’t been able to get comfortable with the ons and offs of TiVo, although his sons had purchased it for him as a coming-home gift. While Jennifer would react with pique when the Firemen’s Benevolent folks or the Committee to Save Endangered Reptiles called, and insist that their name be removed from the cold call list, Fred would spend at minimum a quarter hour chatting up his new friends, who would almost invariably come away with survey data or with a small pledge. Fred was, with his new-born impairment, no longer one of those seniors who give away big chunks of their fortune. Twenty-five, fifty, one hundred – those were his increments for most, although some, like Girl Scouts or the high school band would usually get five or ten.

  You don’t gain fame as a philanthropist by giving away money in lots of a hundred dollars or less. Frederick was a noted philanthropist. He garnered that status after selling his TV station and hitting it richer with wise stock purchases and even wiser stock sales. He was never hurt by a bursting bubble. Fred knew when to fold ‘em. His net worth, while not close to a billion, was well into the nine figure range.

  His first big charitable gift went to the Jewish Federation Council. Klein did not know if he believed in God. He hadn’t given it enough thought to put himself in either the agnostic or atheist box. Heaven and hell, not an issue of major concern to Jews, never entered his mind. He had been Bar Mitzvahed so knew some of the prayers, which he could recite fairly accurately in Hebrew. At one point, he knew what the Hebrew meant but that knowledge had long been lost. He had never felt that there was any
thing beneficial that might come to him by praying, so he, like his parents and children, never prayed for real. He’d read, or occasionally recited from memory the standard prayers at the Seder table, but to him they meant little more than a chapter in a novel or the listing in TV Guide. He didn’t belong to a temple, although there were many in San Francisco who would gladly accept a request for inclusion in their congregation. He assumed that he’d be buried Jewish, marking one of only two moments (Bar Mitzvah and Death) in his existence, both sentient and non-sentient, where religion would play a part.

  So, why the Jewish Federation Council? Like so many of those co-religionists with whom he was familiar, Fred was a non-religious Jew. A Jew, in his own mind, no less Jewish than one that went to synagogue every Friday night AND Saturday morning and donned the tallit and the phylacteries. He cared about the history of his people. He knew of and was emotional about the plight of the Jewish tribes of yore and the victims of twentieth-century horror. He cared about Israel. When a missile from Gaza hit a school near the Sea of Galilee, or a suicide bomber blew himself up in a bus in Jerusalem, it was as if the strike was directly on Pacific Heights. When a Jewish person anywhere in the world, be she from San Francisco, Brooklyn, Moscow, or Addis Ababa, was in trouble, Fred was there to help. Therefore, his and Barbara’s first big charitable check was written to the Federation Council. He also gave to the Jewish Community Center not far from his home. Money went to Mt. Zion Hospital, even though it was now part of the University of California system. He was a major supporter of the Jewish Film Festival and the new downtown Contemporary Jewish Museum. His name, and that of his wife at the time, were etched into all the right walls.