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Excuse Me for Living

Page 17

by Ric Klass


  He knocks on her door. Flying out come his jockey shorts followed by a loud slam. “Nice to see you again. Let’s have lunch,” the ejected, naked sex object shouts with mock appreciation. “Just visiting,” he smiles weakly at the peeved co-occupants of the floor waiting next to him by the elevator with their German Shepherd.

  The huge pooch licks his behind as he scrambles to put his pants and shirt on. Simultaneously, he answers his ringing cell. Still dazed, he hears, “Dan, where are you. I’m worried. Helen said you left LFOD hours ago.”

  The film buff recalls the singular, magic movie moment in Man, Woman and Child when Blythe Danner sweetly inveigles Martin Sheen to confess his infidelity to her – and the dummy does, to his regret. “Stuck in heavy traffic, Laura, but I’ll be at the hospital soon.” The aggravatingly slow elevator door finally opens and he’s off to Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital.

  The Glare Burning in Her Eyes

  tells Dan immediately who Laura’s speaking to on her father’s hospital room phone. On the other end, a lonelier-than-ever woman hangs up and sobs over her bitter victory.

  “Did I ever tell you the one about the traveling salesman with a broken-down car who knocks on a farmhouse door?”

  “Just leave,” Laura says. Bernstein lies sedated on the bed.

  “The door opens and the salesman says to the farmer, ‘I sell insurance and I need to sleep here tonight.’”

  “Get out now. I’m calling security,” she picks up the phone and does just that.

  The sick doctor tries to sit up and talk but can’t.

  “So the farmer says, ‘Would you like to sleep with my daughter or my magic pig?’”

  “Please arrest this lunatic who forced his way in here,” Laura says angrily to two orderlies in white who burst into the room.

  Dan – talking more rapidly as they manhandle him. “‘Well, it depends,’ says the salesman. ‘Which one can sign the premium checks?’” Dan’s holding on to the doorjamb, but losing his grip as he gets dragged out. Dan screeches to her, “Laura! I’d rather sleep with the doctor’s daughter than with her enchantress friend,” and out of the patient’s room he’s flung. “Just sign the check,” he shouts from the hallway – the last words she hears from Dan until she decides to try to post bail for him the next day.

  Maybe This Info

  Can Be Sold Twice?

  Norman Butterworth, or Mr. Norman – as he refers to himself in the third person – kicks around in his thoughts. This private investigator par excellence, or at least that’s what his calling card claims, regularly works both sides of a dispute. It got him fired by Harriet Topler, but that goes with the territory for investigative double agents. Mr. Norman’s planted himself across the way from the Hampshire House in Central Park where he’s spying on Charlotte. He nearly knocks over his telescopic camera when he spots the Topler son standing on that loaded gal’s apartment terrace.

  I’ll bet that boy’s breaking court orders by tooling around in the city. Won’t that Bhadra gal from Goldman Sachs be impressed with my work. Maybe a bonus. Then he follows Danny. That kid kinda looks out of it, with his hair standing on end and his shirt inside out, Mr. Norman thinks an hour later when Dan stumbles out of the apartment building. Dan leads him to a very familiar-looking two-seater, green Aston Martin DB9 Volante with the license plate BL-II. The pieces fit together. I’ve followed Davison to the Bruce Langford pond house a half-a-dozen times in the past month – close to the nuthouse for the rich nearby where the Topler kid’s supposed to be under wraps. Woowhee! Dirt turned to gold before my very eyes.

  Still Angry,

  but more with herself than with Laura, Charlotte orders her Ferrari to be pulled around to the front of her building. It’s late Friday night, and Brucie’s bash must be in full swing. She’s not done flouting her prowess over one half of the human species. Shifting her car into gear she questions, Why not go to Barry first? I lost control last night. What’s wrong with me? Her fury’s not yet spent. She wheels to SoHo where he lives in a contemporary-decorated loft bequeathed to him by his late parents, both keen commercial developers in the late 70s. She’s determined to prove herself unconquerable to him, too.

  To the intercom, “Let me in, Barry. Now.”

  “Certainly, Zoë. What a pleasant surprise even at this late hour,” slows her down a bit.

  Buzzed in, she races up the stairs of the three-story un-elevatored former meatpacking plant, now prime property. Door opens. Her eyes flashing. Body and mind prepared for battle. “We’re going to screw.”

  “What’s the matter, Zoë dear? You seem distressed.” Barry stands there huge as a sleepy mountain – an Atlas in pj’s.

  “I said get in the bedroom. We’re going to fuck. Now.”

  Barry puts his Herculean arms around her and hugs her so tight she winces and then plants a big wet kiss on her forehead. “You’re going to bed – alone.” He picks her up as though she were weightless and carries her into his bedroom. She bounces on the oversized bed. “And don’t come out until morning. I need some rest, sweet girl.” He gently closes the bedroom door behind him and stretches out in the two-story-high living room on the extra-long double-spring couch constructed especially for him. “Women,” he says to himself as he dozes off – the complaint and loving compliment given by all men to their lovers.

  “Am I Ever Glad to See You,

  Officer Franklin.” With a gleaming smile, Dan vigorously shakes the dubious cop’s hand. The two beefy interns holding Dan in custody downstairs let him loose as the policeman arrives in his patrol car.

  “What’re you doin’ here at the hospital making trouble, Mr. Topler? I thought we turned you over to some crackers holding pen.”

  Ever the smoothie, “Please call me Dan. We’re like old friends now . . .” Dan reads the man’s ID, “. . . Ben. My dear physician’s not well and I’m here to see him. I have permission from Live Free Or Die to come here.” To the men in white, “Sorry for the inconvenience, gentlemen. I was overcome at the sight of seeing Dr. Bernstein so ill. Feeling just hunky-dory and back to normal now. Thanks for the hospital-tality. I’ll be going,” but he’s blocked at the door.

  “Just a second. Let’s call the nuthouse. I want to be sure you’re not lying to me.” Franklin knows Dan’s full of tricks.

  To Dan’s relief, just the right woman answers. Please don’t tell them I’m in Africa, he prays.

  “Yes, of course he has permission to be in New York to see his doctor,” the wary policeman hears. “May I speak with him, please?” Dan picks up to Helen Clausen’s gruff, “You get your stupid butt back here before Dr. Heine comes in tomorrow at sundown or your ass is grass.” Then after a pause, “And try not to get in any more trouble, honey,” she ends sweetly as she must when talking to Dan.

  “I’m still not so sure I should let you go on your own. Tell you what, fella. Call some responsible person to come and fetch you here or I’ll have to take you in.” Franklin’s taking no chances with this troublemaker at midnight on a Friday.

  “You Have Only

  Yourself to Blame.

  I’m not leaving here – ever,” the previous night’s intruder tells Barry Saturday morning while watching him shave. The shadow of her gladiator spirit has evanesced – maybe permanently.

  “Suit yourself, Zoë. You’re committing yourself to a boring professor’s life of lectures on the lives of dead Greek poets, trips to mountain observatories in far away places, and season tickets to the Yankees.”

  “That’s it. You’re a goner now, for sure.” She goes up to him from behind and almost can reach around him as they gaze at each other in the bathroom sink mirror. “This is your last chance to bolt, professor. I’m going to call Thomas and have him bring my things here.”

  Paying no attention to her embrace – he’s not done shaving. “Ask him to be careful with the telescope,” ends Charlotte-Charlie-Zoë’s search for tranquility.

  “I Didn’t Know I Was in

  the Phone
Directory,”

  Glen Sobel tells Dan at the Red Flame Coffee Shop in midtown Manhattan at 1 AM, Saturday. Ordinarily, the workaholic tax lawyer would have blown off a request to go bail out some guy from a police altercation he didn’t know from Adam. But he was stood up tonight by a hot waitress he propositioned yesterday at La Grenouille – big tip notwithstanding – and the boy’s been attending the men’s meetings, so. . . .

  “You aren’t. Officer Franklin got it for me. I also tried Barry Blackmun, but his phone was off the hook,” he lies. “Thanks for coming to vouch for me.”

  “I’m really sad to hear Jack collapsed. He’ll probably need his operation sooner than expected. What was the commotion about anyhow at the hospital?”

  “A misunderstanding. I was mistaken for a baby snatcher by the night nurse.”

  This kid has me mistaken for one of his dumb friends. Changing the subject, “How’s it going, working for Jack? I understand you’ve got a summer job with him or something.”

  “Yes, at Live Free Or Die on Long Island. Ever hear of it?” Dan never called Barry. Glen was also on his hit list for the outing to the Big Apple.

  Glen’s antennae start to vibrate, “Yes. A clinic in the Hamptons somewhere.”

  “You should pay it a visit. There’s this wonderful teenage girl undergoing treatment I met. Suicidal.”

  “Just a moment, young man.” This sophisticated international consultant’s not putting up with impertinence from some boy.

  “She tried it again the other day and almost succeeded.”

  “She what? What is this? Some kind of setup arranged by her mother? I’m outraged by Jack’s breach of confidentiality!”

  “Ally’s in Stony Brook Hospital now begging to see her father who’s never visited her once.”

  “No one called me. When you talk to Jack, if he wakes up, tell him to call me directly instead of having some kid wet behind the ears do his dirty work for him.”

  “No one had your number, Mr. Father-of-the-Year. It’s not listed. Jack had nothing to do with this. Ally told me herself. Patient-to-patient, you know.”

  “Patient?”

  “I’m one of the crackpots there. Not a medical student.”

  Hell Warmed Over

  Dan assesses himself in the bathroom mirror of his apartment. Less than an hour ago, Glen Sobel stomped out of the coffee shop without a word to Dan’s “Catch you later.” Stuck me for the tab, too. But what the hay. The Toplers aren’t cheap. What a night. No one told me my shirt’s inside out, either. My old school headmaster would choke if he knew, he laughs. No time to waste. Can’t stop to see Ally. Helen said to be back by noon or else. After a bit of grooming and a quick shave, he grabs some papers from his desk and makes tracks for his home-away-from-home.

  Swooping into the LFOD parking lot just before noon, Dan nearly collides with a gray Lexus convertible entering at the same time. “Hello. Good to see you both,” Dan happily greets the couple.

  Elaine’s frankly not thrilled to see Al’s son right now. She didn’t bring her makeup to dinner with Morty last night – or a change of clothes. “Hello, Danny. I hope you enjoyed your tennis lessons this morning, Mr. Mavis,” giving her new beau a wink.

  “You bet, Ms. Bushkin,” he says to his last evening’s companion as she hurries off to her car. “I can’t wait to improve my overhand shot,” Morty calls to her. She climbs into her vehicle. The men watch her with appreciation as her still firm backside shimmies onto the driver’s seat.

  “Thanks for the suggestion, Dan,” Morty warmly tells him.

  “You heard, Morty? About Jack?”

  “Yes. Nothing but disaster for some of us. Did you hear about David’s wife? He thought she had disappeared, but the police found her hiding in their closet. A panic attack. The poor woman’s had agoraphobia for the past two years. Hasn’t left the house since then. Won’t see Jack for help, who’s a dear friend of hers, too.”

  “Agoraphobia? I have an idea for this Sunday’s meeting, Morty. Will you help out?”

  “Vat are you doink in your automobile, Daniel?” Dr. Heine wants to know. Even though it’s the Sabbath, he came early to LFOD. He’s been suspecting Dan has been leaving the premises against his express orders. He saw Danny in the driveway and insisted Helen join him outside for an explanation.

  “Maybe we should talk later, sport. Give me a call,” Morty says to Dan and drives off.

  “I told you, Helen, not to gif him ze keys.”

  “This isn’t my car and she didn’t give me my keys, Doctor Hiney,” as he parks Bruce’s chariot.

  “It’s pronounced ‘hein-uh’.”

  “Yes, hiney.”

  “You were forbidden to leef this clinic, my impolite young man.”

  “I was driving around the lot. Practicing for when you grant me a warden’s pardon.”

  To Dan, but glaring at Helen, “If you leef again, Daniel my boy, without my permission, it vil be in a straitjacket to Bellevue Hospital. The food is not nearly so gut zer as here, I am told. Do you both understand?”

  “No Need for Fisticuffs,

  was there?” The Chipster asks Frederick Saturday morning. While The Dandy Man didn’t exactly strike him a blow the other night, unexpectedly landing in Brucie’s pool from the second-story terrace constituted a decided breach of gentlemanly etiquette as far as this congenial young man is concerned.

  “You’re absolutely correct, Charles,” Frederick continues. “Daniel needed only to say that the young lady was spoken for and that would have been that, I’m sure.” It’s not his place to ask – not at all proper – and anyhow Frederick’s much too polite to inquire as to the exact circumstance of the disagreement between the two friends. But he wonders, That same woman again is on his mind. Was Charles trying to screw her? I certainly hope so. He doesn’t generally seem to get on with the young ladies. Frederick’s a confirmed bachelor, and since he won’t have any drooling tax deductions of his own, he thinks it a shame for the male line of Siegels to end with the agreeable though a trifle empty-headed Charles. Surprisingly for a man in his career and circumstances, Frederick likes children. Even babies. Although infants aren’t on Chip’s mind, a certain woman is.

  “Oh, well. Got to dash off. I need to pick up my laundry.”

  “I’ll get it for you, Sir. While I’m on the East Side I can take the Bentley out of the garage for a bit of a spin as well. The tires need to be rotated, and it’s good to run the engine occasionally.”

  The Chipster’s nearly forgotten that he owns the limousine. Living in Manhattan he had always simply rented a car when he needed one – whether to go to Brucie’s house or horseback riding at a friend’s spread in New Jersey. Chip would rather pick up his shirts himself. Frederick’s presence has forced him to let the butler do some of his odd jobs and it’s creating more leisure time than he’s used to. He can’t stop fantasizing about Karen – cute – smart. A real dignified lady, too. Crapola. I know she won’t call.

  “I’ll go with you, Frederick,” he says to the horror of the gentleman’s gentleman. He needs to get out of the apartment to take his mind off her.

  “I don’t know how that would look, Sir.”

  “You must at least call me Charles, if not Chip.”

  “Well, Charles, Sir, it’s really not done for the master of the house to do the chores with the . . . uh . . . household manager.”

  “Tell you what. We’ll just pretend we’re friends.”

  “I don’t know if I could be your friend, Sir. Charles, that is.” Not just in pretense. Frederick’s also not sure that he wants to pretend to be a confrere what with the mischief young people get mixed up in these days.

  “Oh, come on. We’ll take the crosstown bus and go to the Chinese laundry first.”

  “A bus, Sir?”

  They compromise on a taxi and arrive at the Eastern Chinese Hand Laundry at 39th and Lex. “Do you have a twenty you can lend me, Fred?” The manager doesn’t take plastic.

  Fred?
This familiarity has gotten out of hand. “Of course . . . Charles.” Pretty cheeky of the lad.

  When they later arrive at the parking garage at 60th and Third to pick up the limo, to Frederick’s dismay Chip insists that he wants to drive. With no small difficulty, he maneuvers the stretch vehicle out of the garage without a dent and parks in the driveway. “Hey, take a look at this!” Chip opens the back door of the Bentley and puts on Frederick’s chauffeur cap.

  * * *

  “I am looking, Mr. Siegel,” Karen says to him. It’s the last day of the handbag sale at Bloomie’s, down the block. Although she really can’t afford it, Karen has sprung for a second designer purse and it dangles gaily from her shoulder as she passes the Kinney Parking Garage. “I’m insulted that you thought you had to make up some cockamamie story about working as an expert witness. A professional driver is a perfectly respectable job.”

  Chip’s stunned and thrilled to see her again.

  “I quite agree, Miss,” the dignified Frederick tells her.

  “Oh my gosh. I’m sorry, Chip. I didn’t realize you were at work. Please excuse me, Sir,” she says to the tall man in a black suit.

  “It’s quite all right, Ma’am. You see. . . .” Frederick begins.

  “You see, I’m just getting off duty, Karen.” He can’t let her go again. He’s turned on big-time for this busty cherub. “Would you like to go for a spin?”

  “What? I’m sure your employer, Mr. . . .” the concerned woman tells The Chipster.

 

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