by Ric Klass
The urgency and the danger to Ally can’t be clearer to Dan. “Have you met Ally, Laura? She’s a very good friend of mine here,” and puts his hand meaningfully on Ally’s shoulder.
Laura sees Dan’s worried expression and the tears forming in Ally’s eyes. “We’ve met. Well, glad to see you, Dan. I’ve got to be going. Just want to say hi to dad and then I must leave. Nice to meet you, Ally. Maybe we can be friends, too.” Laura takes comfort in the triumph on Ally’s face and knows she did the right thing. She turns and slowly walks away.
Ally’s right eyebrow rises in involuntary skepticism of the truce offer. She puts on a fake smile for Dan, blinks back the tears, takes a deep breath, and watches Laura disappear to be certain the enemy has retreated. Ally also notes that Dan has closely followed the sway of Laura’s rear in leaving. I can walk like that, too. Just need practice, and unconsciously wiggles her behind. She knows she must watch her Daniel more carefully now.
As for Dan, the thought, I’m going to lose my mind, makes him shiver in the bright June sun.
The Red Pills
on the Counter
whisper to Danny every night before he goes to sleep – take me or die. The Dandy Man keeps a secret stash for himself. Doc wouldn’t budge again on the rules for this lozenge. Nurse Linda must witness that he take the little red watch guard. But he’s been through the drill often enough to know how to hide them under his tongue while he’s watched. If he’s desperate for a drink, he won’t let this nuthouse kill him – he doesn’t need the tablets’ help. So far he’s listened to their siren call and taken one every day since his latest trip to LFOD. Without their wails of warning he already would have found a way to quench the thirst for coke and liquor.
Bernstein’s threat of hospital incarceration for noncompliance looms over him as well. Dan’s carefully watched by Linda when he gives his urine sample. No chance to switch vials in the loo. That Valkyrie practicality strip-searches me before I go in. Missing the opportunity to commune with Laura pool-side has dampened his mood into hopelessness. Tonight’s Brucie’s weekly Saturnalia celebration. The Dandy Man knows he hasn’t a vodka-on-the-rocks chance in Hades to abstain in the midst of the licentious East Hampton pagans.
On his way out of the cabaña, headed for the bash, Dan considers that either way he’s a goner. If he doesn’t take the pill he will either jump off Bruce’s roof or get locked up by the good doctor. And if he takes it, the physical pain will make him wish he were dead. Do I deserve the pain? In it goes. Sinking deep into his gut, the red demon spreads through the stomach lining into his veins and waits to do its job. Danny sneaks out into the night toward the beach again – but this time he doesn’t go unnoticed.
A Gothic Bacchanal with
Platinum Twin Concubines
fits the bill exactly, Brucie told Pirot – his talent booker – as he thinks of the unusual pimp and drug pusher. What a fabulous suggestion. Tiffin and Adelle arrived from Holland in the late afternoon. It cost the young host a pretty penny for Pirot to convince the Amsterdam owner to agree to cancel their immensely successful weekend show at the Blue Bell Nightclub on the Thorbeckeplein, famous for its revelry. Pirot knows Bruce has too much refinement – and too much dough – to inquire what his take is on the deal. Just the sort of client he tries to cultivate these days.
Contrary to what might guide common sense, Dandy Man’s near fatal collapse au naturel last Saturday only enhanced Langford II’s reputation as a delightfully depraved host. For the past week, dozens of neighbors, friends, and friends of friends have hounded him for tonight’s invitation. Bruce won’t let his public down – the lucky ones, that is. He tells security to open the gate to the partygoers starting at 10 PM. Unfortunately, Ronnie, the fourth member of the dissolute preppy confederacy, begged off. Too bad. Said he had a date, of all things, and wouldn’t say with whom. How strange, Bruce thinks.
Bruce informed Pirot that The Dandy Man would likely surface from behind the shrubs again and had him train klieg lights on the likely bush. Dan arrives on schedule at midnight through the gooseberry boughs and faces the spotlight and applause of the already drunken assemblage with aplomb but a weary heart.
Maybe I’ve had enough of this nonsense, he thinks as Pirot leads him upstairs, followed by Brucie and the guests who can still walk to the mansion’s largest bedroom.
Pirot throws open the door for all to see the room flamboyantly decked out just for tonight’s festivities as a medieval torture chamber – chains and all. Danny, the willing puppet so far for tonight’s amusement, balks however. Tiffin, one of the magnificently endowed silver-blond twins (triplets in truth, but the third sister found a sugar daddy) hangs naked – save for fishnet stockings and a gold lamé Harlequin mask – loosely tied by satin bindings to a puffy silken pillory. Adelle, somewhat more modestly adorned with only a transparent bra and lace panties, starts to undress Danny, who tries to pull away without making a spectacle of himself and seeming a spoilsport.
Bruce waves two oversized martini glasses – nothing but the “perfect” mix of Gordon’s gin, equal parts of Noilly Prat dry cum sweet vermouth, and a dash of water for Brucie’s invitees – in front of now shirtless Dan and braless Adelle. She caresses Dandy Man’s chest with apparent real lust just as Bertrand the butler escorts two new guests though the padded bedroom door.
“Charlotte! Laura!” Brucie too warmly welcomes them with a phony oh-my-goodness-gracious in his voice. The Chipster takes a shine to the more demure blonde. Just his type. Maybe Brucie will introduce them. Laura grasps both the danger to Dan and an opportunity to write the first page of her memoir. She proceeds to heighten the risqué merriment with an impromptu burlesque of her own.
“Take Out the Trash,
honey, before you leave. It’s pickup day,” Dolores calls to Jon from the bedroom as he shaves, “and I need to ask a wittle favor from my big strong lawyer husband.” With that cue, the Toplers’ closest friends gird their verbal loins for the approaching domestic skirmish. Harriet’s call to Dolores the day before has the bosom crony worried. She can’t put off fulfilling the promise to help.
“What the hell’s the matter with LaVerne? Got a broken leg?” He tries to change the subject, but he knows what’s coming.
“She doesn’t do trash. She’s an inside maid,” says Dolores coming into the “his” bathroom. She let him choose the colors for the tile and Kohler fixtures only in this one not-so-tiny corner of their 14,000-square-foot home. Brown, brown, brown, and brown. Men are so hopeless. Dolores avoids entering his sanctum sanctorum so that she won’t have to endure the infantile color coordination of Jon’s john (except when she enters to pinch the emery boards that he hides in his doppkit). But her best friend’s dire situation demands a woman’s persuasion.
“Do tell. Well, I’m an outside employer. If she doesn’t like it, she can find another job outside of the Schwartz house.”
Now’s the time to mention her name. “We should be grateful to even have La Verne work for us. Harriet keeps telling me how hard it is to keep help.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s no Goddamn wonder. Ronnie calls me yesterday to say that he knows for a fact Harriet waits for the maid at the door and drags her to the marble foyer floor if she’s late. Takes pictures of it, too. No kidding, Dolly.”
It’s hard to believe that a real company like Viacom would hire my little boy when he’s such an idiot, Dolores thinks, but instead says, “It’s wonderful to have an imagination like our Ronald.” Changing the subject, “Jonnie,” stroking his arm, “seriously, dear, do you have any ideas who Harriet might call for her own personal legal matters?”
Like all long-married couples, Jonathan and Dolores speak to each other in their own private code. Ignoring the signal flare, “Yeah, sure. Ben Friedman,” as he sprays his underarms with Right Guard – the Classic scent he’s used since high school. “One of the best estate attorneys in the business. It’s about time for them to plan what happens when she and Al wake up dead someday.
The kids could get socked for millions if they don’t set up the bowling pins now.” Stall for time before it hits the fan, Jon figures, as he dresses as fast as he can for a possible getaway. He takes a last glance at his thinning hair. Maybe I should get a transplant fleetingly worms into his precise legal mind.
No more lovey-dovey, “OK. So I’m stupid now. Giving me the business, huh? You know, and I know you know. Just look at your red nose. Whose side are you on? Certainly not that cheater’s. I bet you hear all the dirty little details.”
Dolores can get worked up in a hurry, but Jon can pull his pants on even faster. “OK. All right. I’ll do it,” he disingenuously agrees. A temporarily pleased Dolores foolishly steps away from blocking the bathroom door. “I will take out the trash,” Jon yells to her as he runs down the stairs and out the door to freedom.
“You sure the hell better have,” Dolores calls downstairs to the slammed front door. But he didn’t.
“Maybe We Can
Get A Twofer Price
from Bleeder’s firm,” Jon lamely jests. He’s not laughing.
“You think so? He quoted me $750 per hour, wants a fifty grand retainer, and the big shot can’t see me until next week,” whines Albert. Like most truly wealthy men, Al doesn’t care a whit about blowing ten thou at a casino, but wasting money on attorneys practically constitutes a sin worthy of an eleventh commandment prohibition.
“No, I don’t think so. Movie stars use him, for crissakes. Raoul Bleeder and Associates is the best, Al. Protect yourself. And you’ve really put me in a difficult position, old golf partner. Dolores reads me like a book. She claims my nose grows longer and redder when I lie to her.” Jonathan checks the mirror of his chocolate-brown Lexus with coffee-dyed leather interior on the way to his office to see if his schnoz has regained its normal size and complexion. “I’ll be lucky if she talks to me for the next week. I didn’t suggest an attorney for Harriet, but that won’t stop her for long.
“What should I tell. . . .”
“Please, Al. Don’t reveal anything about you and what’s-her-face. Harriet will squeeze it out of me like a lemon into her boiling tea.” Jon pulls into the midtown Manhattan garage and his assigned parking space (only for partners). “Talk to you later.” Jon hangs up and remembers that he forgot to take out the trash, adding more tension to his morning. And a hangnail on his right-hand index finger bothers him. He couldn’t find his emery boards. I’ll bet that snoop LaVerne told Dolores where I hide them, he fumes, nearly spoiling the fun of escaping Dolores’ crafty machinations for him this morning.
Jon didn’t help him much. Idling humming the Whiffen-poof Song, Albert sits sadly in his comfortable but unpretentious Universal Recycling office surrounded by family pictures. He carefully considers his next move. Should he call her? Jon said not to and he hasn’t yet spoken to the divorce attorney. He hated moving his clothes out of his house. Everything had worked so well for so long. Why did it have to suddenly end? It’s lonely at the club, and the lack of pampering at home or from Elaine elsewhere doesn’t suit him at all. He’s a homebody at heart and eating out, no matter how haute the cuisine, can’t beat flank steak, iceberg lettuce salad with Thousand Island dressing, and a baked potato for the down-to-earth entrepreneur. Albert picks up the phone. “Darling?”
Elaine’s innate self-control over her eating and exercise habits extends to her temperament as well. She’d like to say, “Where the hell have you been for the past three days?” but demurs. “Darling, I’ve been so concerned about you. What’s happened?” As if she didn’t know.
After his long-winded explanation and pledge to call her every day no matter what some high-priced mouthpiece says, she lays out her plan. They’ll meet tonight at the White Plains Marriott in Westchester County across the Whitestone Bridge, where neither of them knows many people – definitely not in Manhattan. Elaine knows she’s taking a risk and that Jon’s admonition to Al not to see her sounds prudent. But a whopping, newly available fish-out-of-water like lonely Albert with gold-digger female sharks all around needs her protection. She’s got a crucial investment to safeguard, and investors have to take risks now and then. She also makes a conscious decision not to tell Al the conversation she overheard between his Coco and some salivating twenty-something boy at the motel. She might need that info for herself sometime when it could come in handy. Elaine left not long after they arrived and doesn’t know the young man’s name but feels it safe to assume it isn’t “Deeper, Deeper,” the words Coco screamed at the top of her lungs in the adjacent room.
“I Don’t Need
This Just Now,”
Jacob Bernstein says to himself as he stares out his LFOD office window. Tears come to his eyes as he watches his daughter pull out of the parking lot. There’s only one reason why she came here and didn’t see me. He sits down. The surgery will be in a few weeks. The pain from his tumors has been growing worse, and now other quandaries grip him. Laura has no mother. If I die and she takes up with that troubled boy, then what? I can’t threaten or bring up the subject. She’ll assume I’m spying on her. She’s never been around an alcohol and drug addict like him. At least I don’t think so. No. No.
I know she hasn’t. He should be incarcerated. Locked up somewhere else. No. That’s not best for him. Perhaps they’ll talk to me about it. Come to me for consultation. Why not? They should. I’m her father and his doctor.
Jacob’s drenched with perspiration and doesn’t have another patient for an hour. He lies down on the couch usually reserved for clients and falls into a troubled sleep. When he awakens, the nap has provided no respite from his fears.
“No Half-Dead Lady
Will Steal My Boyfriend
if I’ve got anything to say about it,” Ally sleepily jabbers aloud to herself. But jeez if the mosquitoes don’t bite like all get out. Why don’t they spray or somethin’ around here?
Ally’s nightly vigil hiding in the bushes outside Daniel’s cabaña so far has kept her reassured he’s not cheating on her with another girlfriend. If she sees Laura again with him she’s prepared to scratch that she-devil’s eyes out – at least that’s what she heard she’s supposed to do from her friend Suzie who ought to know since she’s eight months older.
“What have we here, precious?” wakes Ally whose thin legs stick out from under the shrubbery in the moonlight. Since last week when Helen found Dan’s bed empty and luckily called an ambulance for him, she does a little night checking herself to make sure he’s there. It’s nearly midnight and she knows this hour on Saturdays lures Dan from his warren as lemmings are drawn to the sea – and with much the same result.
“My doctor said it was OK to sleep here, Helen. Please let me stay.”
“Your doctor said no such thing, young lady, and you know it. Take my hand and I’ll walk you to your room.” The two leave without the distracted Helen checking Danny’s now-empty bed. This time the emergency response team won’t save him.
Off Comes Her Blouse,
shocking Dan, Bruce, and Charlie, but not the other crocked guests who assume Laura’s part of the performance. Chipster’s so taken with Laura, the reticent twenty-six-year-old who normally won’t try to kiss a girl before the third date fantasizes he’s Dan and takes off his own shirt. The attar-of-roses scent permeating the candle-lit room augments the crowd’s gaiety. The surprise addition to the Dutch twins’ performance takes the two filled-to-the-brim humongous goblets of perfect martinis from Bruce’s hand, downs one herself in a gulp, vigorously rubs her breasts against Dan’s shirtless chest while giving him a long-tongued French kiss that could be seen from a spy satellite, then throws the other glass all over the front of his pants, drenching him.
“Jesus Christ! What did you do that for, Laura?” The Dandy Man protests.
“Catch a ride home, Charlie,” Laura tells her stupefied Stanford friend as she drags Danny by his belt out of the room.
Brucie can’t be more pleased with himself as he delights in Charlotte’s lost
expression. Pirot, on the other hand, worries that Langford might have found another society pimp to replace him.
“That Was a Close Call,”
Dan whispers to Laura as he kisses her ear while they tiptoe to his room. They spent the last hour petting in her car, parked in a secluded sector of the LFOD lot. Both instantly grasp the precarious circumstances as they watch Helen lead Ally away from the front of Dan’s cabaña. Neither wants to be separated again just now.
“She really likes you, Dan.”
“I know. It scares me. Shall we go into my chamber of doom to discuss it? And by the way, did I thank you for saving my life? Your dad says the little bitty red ones can sometimes be fatal with alcohol.”
“It cost me my favorite blouse,” the still tipsy writer responds.
“And now your bra and undies, I fear,” as Dan opens his lockless door.
“Is It OK to See Sonny Boy
now, Doctor?” asks Albert bright and early the next morning. Al’s feeling rested and calm after his drive back from the Marriott. Elaine couldn’t have been a better tonic for him. Have to see how number-one son’s getting along, he thinks while he sings, “Bulldog, bulldog bow wow wow,” on his way to LFOD. When he arrives, he peeks into Dr. Bernstein’s office and is pleasantly surprised to see him already at work.
“He’s making much better progress than I hoped for, Mr. Topler,” not truly hiding the irony in his response as he leads Albert to the door of his Danny Boy’s plush cabaña.
“I see what you mean, Doctor,” grinning broadly at the sight of his naked son lying asleep next to an equally unclad, very cute what Al-assumes-to-be a because-she-has-what-looks-like-naturally-blonde-hair shiksa. “Is this part of the treatment?” Albert asks Bernstein altogether in earnest. Who knows what these shrinks do nowadays.