Excuse Me for Living

by Ric Klass

  “Smithfield, Madam. Smithfield,” Frederick offers.

  “That Mr. Smithfield wouldn’t approve. I don’t want you to lose your job over me.”

  “There’s been some misunderstanding, I’m afraid,” Frederick says.

  “Fred’s a regular guy. This is my new friend, Karen, Fred.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  “He lets me drive his car all the time, don’t you, Freddie?”

  It’s Freddie now? “Of course, Sir . . . uh . . . Charles. Be my guest.”

  “Hop in the back, Karen, and I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Do we have gas, Fred?”

  How peculiar he asks his boss that, muses Karen.

  “Yes. Quite enough to get you where you want to go, I should imagine.” Frederick supposes it’s to her place to get shagged – or so he hopes, for Charles’ sake. Nice bum on the bird, he thinks.

  “I Never Want to

  Talk to You Again.

  Is that clear? Stop calling me.”

  “How’s your father?” Dan’s called thirty times and she’s finally picked up. Got to keep the conversation going, if possible. In his mind, she’s the lifeline that might pull away forever if he can’t redeem himself.

  “He’s awake now and asking about you.”

  “Me? He’ll be fine, Laura. I’m sure of it.”

  “He wants to make sure you’ll carry on with the meetings. I didn’t tell him what a louse you are. They’re going to operate Monday. And why aren’t you in jail? I called the police to see if I could file a complaint.”

  “No you didn’t, dreamboat. You were sorry you made me leave and wanted to bail me out. I’m at the booby hatch, but without wheels now. Come see me so we can make up. That’s when couples have the most fun.” But the current of his sad mood flowed through the telephone wires. The pretense of gaiety and charm failed.

  “You think you know everything. Well, you don’t. We’re no couple and never will be. You should be put away where you can’t do harm to anyone, including yourself.”

  End of conversation. Dan has no chance to say “Catch you later” this time. After he calls Morty, Dan gets back to work on his project, ashamed that his lying almost cost Helen her job. A few minutes later the phone interrupts him.

  “Guess what?” the deliriously happy caller asks him. “My daddy came to see me at the hospital and brought me a gigantic teddy bear. It’s kind of babyish, I know. But I love it.”

  Dan and Ally continue to catch up. “Daddy’s coming again tomorrow to bring me back.”

  “I almost went to jail.”

  “I wouldn’t feed the lousy food they serve me here to Finster.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t come to see you. The wolfman says he’ll put me in an insane asylum.”

  “If I had drowned, would I see you again someday in heaven?”

  “Laura says she’s mad as hell at me.”

  Silence on the other end for several seconds. Then, “That makes two of us,” Ally says giggling.

  When they hang up, both feel warmed by the long talk. Dan resumes where he left off.

  “Me, a Blackmailer?”

  Norman Butterworth, private investigator, asks Albert Topler at the Northeastern Shore Country Club this fine Saturday morning. The club visitor’s perspiring. It’s a mistake to beard a lion in his own den, he thinks, as the two sit over coffee in the nineteenth hole lounge. “Al, here I am doing you a favor by telling you your son’s gallivanting all over Manhattan, when by court order he’s supposed to be at that medical facility in the Hamptons. Is it a crime to think you’d want to thank me?”

  “Uh huh,” says Albert, staring the man down. Topler may be aging, fat, and sociable, but he holds firm. I didn’t become a junkyard magnate by rolling over for every nudnik with his hand out. There’s a flinty guy wound tightly underneath his gregarious skein.

  “Here. Here. Take the pictures. OK? They’re yours. See? We’re friends again,” Norman nervously hands the manila envelope with the pictures of Danny on Charlie’s terrace to Albert. It only took a few words from Al and seeing the man’s expression for Norman to realize he’s misjudged the intended mark – he tried to shake down the wrong man.

  “The negatives?”

  “Oh,” pretending to forget he had them. He reaches inside his breast pocket and hands a second packet to Albert.

  All’s well, and Al’s back to his normal friendly self. “You’re OK, Norm.”

  It’s Mr. Norman, the P.I. wants to say to him, but doesn’t. Mr. Norman hates to be called Norm. Al scans the pictures, “Who’s the broad? She’s some dish my boy’s chasing. Don’t kids put on some clothes when they’re outdoors? She could catch a cold at night even in this weather.” As a father he wouldn’t want his Coco to do such a thing, God forbid. Now that he takes another look at the half-naked woman, he knows he’s seen her somewhere but can’t put his finger on it somehow.

  “Just one of the girls that hang out at the Langford place near Georgica Pond.” Butterworth’s pix came from his Goldman Sachs assignment, so he has to watch his words.

  “I see.” Albert has long suspected that Dan gets his drugs at the infamous parties there. He likes Brucie, whom Al’s known from the boy’s childhood.. But that’s a fast crowd, and in his opinion Bruce has never been a good influence on his son. “Tell you what I’m going to do, Norm. I’ll pay you double your normal rate if you can catch Harriet. . . .” Al hesitates. Telling this stranger that she might be sleeping with another man – some wimpy art professor at that – hurts his pride. Not once has he suggested to Harriet’s face what he suspects.

  He stops before continuing his conversation and goes over it in his mind. Truth be told, I still love my wife. I never would have started with Elaine if Harriet hadn’t kept going on long trips with that Castillia character. He got depressed in the middle of one of her artistic travel thingies and checked himself in at LFOD. “Tennis anyone?” the rah-rah activities mavenette called out and knocked on his cabaña door. “Come in,” Albert said to the statuesque, radiant redhead. While admiring her curves he took on a smoldering glow of his own and their hanky-panky started then and there.

  “ . . . in the company of somebody else. You know what I mean,” he finally tells Mr. Norman. Both Al and Harriet have agreed to start mediation sessions soon, but Albert still wants to know the truth. What’s her exact relationship with Castillia? Are they lovers? Besides, if the talks break down and war breaks out, it’ll be smart to have some of his own ammo for the mud slinging sure to follow.

  Butterworth’s been in the investigative biz a long time. Jealous husbands go with the territory. A little delicacy on the subject’s often called for. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Pacing the One Room

  after her insufficiently spiteful hang-up on Dan, Laura doesn’t know what to do with herself. Alone in her studio apartment on the Lower East Side, she’s anxious for her dad, grieving over the loss of her best friend, and furious at the man she thought was “the one.” Giving that cheating rat a piece of my mind felt good. Maybe when I go to LFOD I’ll slap his face for him. Laura laughs at the thought. He wouldn’t dare hit me back would he, the brute? Getting worked up again. If he dared, I really would file a warrant for his arrest. Put the lout in prison. Imagine! Hitting a woman. Cooling down once more. He’d look kind of cute in one of those striped jailhouse outfits you see in movies. I should have known better than to tempt Charlie. She’s so proud. And fierce. She sounded terrible on the phone. She didn’t know I really liked him or she’d never have done that to me. It’s all just war games to her. Her cell phone rings five times before it breaks her reverie.

  “Can you forgive me, Laura? It was so shitty.”

  “Daddy’s in the hospital. He’s very sick, Charlie. I’m at home but going back there before I go to LFOD later this afternoon to pick up some things for him.”

  “I’m coming over right now. We’ll go together,” relieving the two women of their very worst fear �
� losing their friendship. When Charlie arrives, the two hug but say nothing. As they leave, the phone rings. Dan’s put down the papers he’s working on in his room. He tries again. He has to.

  “It’s him. Pick up for me, Charlie. I won’t ever talk to him again. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

  “You forgave me.”

  “We’re friends. I shouldn’t have challenged you. That was my fault. But he can’t be trusted. Tell him to forget me and stop calling. I’ll wait for you downstairs,” Laura says as she leaves.

  “Please pick up, Laura. You know I love you,” the answering machine says.

  “She’ll be at LFOD about four.”

  “Thanks, Charlie,” Dan says to the dial tone.

  “I Told You Not to

  Talk to Me,”

  Laura scolds Dan, who’s tapped her on the back from behind, then jumped in front of her. She’s not trying very hard to get past him to get into her car parked in the LFOD lot.

  “Then why have you been waiting here for five minutes for me to show up? I was hiding behind the bushes watching you.”

  “You are such a bastard,” and pulls her hand back to slap him.

  Dan sticks out his chin and closes his eyes, “Go ahead if it will make you happy, angel puss.” But Laura switches from an open hand to a fist and delivers a solid right jab from her shoulder to his jaw.

  “Charlotte taught me how to do that,” the proud girl says cloyingly to the man lying flat on his back.

  Rubbing his jaw. “Thank her for me, would you?” and closing his eyes in a faint. Dan suddenly grabs Laura and pulls her to him on the pavement when she leans over to see if he’s really hurt. “Also kiss her like this,” he pulls Laura close and delivers a winning smooch. “And tell her we’re all even now. World War Three is over.”

  “This doesn’t change anything between us, Danny. You’re a self-centered, unfocused, unemployed drug abuser.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Everything’s fun and games with you. I can’t disobey my father’s wishes concerning our seeing each other. Other than taking you to the meetings to make my father happy. We’re through.” She hesitates. “After tonight.”

  When they both get off the ground and brush themselves off, the two glide off hand-in-hand – but to his room this time, not to a swimming pool.

  “Just Anywhere,”

  Karen tells Chip. She’s never been in a limo, let alone a real Bentley, and doesn’t care where he takes her. What fun, and a chauffeur, too. “I’ll bet on anyplace you take me.”

  “You’re a gambling woman?”

  “Yep.”

  “OK. Off we go.” Through the Lincoln Tunnel and down the New Jersey Turnpike he takes her.

  “Hey, where’re we going, driver?” she asks.

  “You said you like to gamble.”

  “So?”

  “Harrah’s in Atlantic City is my fav,” he tells her. “I always win.” He’s telling the truth. He may not be lucky at love, but money flows to Chip like magnets stick to his restaurant-sized cast-iron oven. Though he’s a conservative man, gambling’s his passion and, lucky for him, he’s good at it.

  “You’re such a bullshitter, Chip – pardon my language. But first you’re a professional witness. Now you’re a pro gambler. Gimme me a break. Where are we really going?”

  “We could go to Caesar’s Palace if you like it better.” Chip’s excitement at both hitting the tables and hitting on Karen at the same time has given him a rise. When he turns off the Garden State Parkway onto the Atlantic City Expressway, she’s knows he’s not bluffing.

  Soon he pulls in front of Harrah’s.

  “Listen, Chip. This seems like fun, but I can’t let you lose your money on a chauffeur’s salary. Why don’t we just have lunch and take a walk along the boardwalk? I like you. OK? You don’t need to go without eating for a week to impress me.”

  “What a darling. So considerate, but you weren’t going to call me, were you?” he asks her as he hands the key to the parking lot attendant.

  “Yes, I was.” Chip looks down at her rear. “And my pants aren’t on fire either.”

  “When?”

  “Today.”

  “Really?” he asks hopefully.

  She pinches his cheek, “Really.”

  “Then let the games begin.” Chip dashes inside to the cashier, with Karen hurrying to catch up. He takes out his money clip and pays for the casino’s twenty-five coin from the cashier and puts one in one of the few one-armed bandits left in the gambling town that’s not electronic. “Put out your hands,” he tells her, indicating the payoff slot.

  “Oh broth-ther,” she says. “What are you, a magician?”

  He pulls the arm. Three cherries pop up. And three hundred dollars plops into her hands.

  “Wow, Chip. You are a lucky guy.”

  “I am now,” he replies, flashing her a wide grin.

  “Nice ass on your girlfriend, for a wimp like you.” A hefty, drunk passerby in jeans and a gold Hard Rock Café T-shirt puts a hand on Chip’s shoulder. He turns around to face a twenty-five-plus-or-minus, rooster-mulleted, muscular brute with a tattoo of a snake on his left arm. “How’d you like a big kiss, honey?” he slobbers and lurches toward Karen.

  Chip steps between them. “I ought to punch you in the nose,” The Chipster threatens him. Normally a wee timid, he’s not going to give up this woman as easily as at Brucie’s.

  Some people you don’t threaten.

  “Chip! Chip! Are you OK?” Karen asks him. She bends down and delivers a tender kiss on the lips to her prostrate defender with a bloody schnoz. Security has already dragged the inebriated assailant away.

  “Where I am?” he says her. “Who are you?” he asks, leaning his head forward closer to hers. “Kiss me again so I can remember.”

  “OK. But no more until later, my hero,” and kisses him passionately.

  “At precisely what time will that be, Miss? I need to set my watch.” He gently touches his sore nose. “Nothing broken I think.”

  “You big faker,” and she plants another.

  Three hours later and two thousand dollars richer from practically every form of gambling, they leave the casino. She has to be at the Kit Kat Club by 10 PM. “They even work you on Saturday nights?” Chip asks. “I didn’t know research could be so strenuous,” her gullible date says.

  Despite his protests, he agrees to let her off at Washington Square, near her workplace she tells him. I sure have her fooled about my line of work, he thinks with a self-satisfied grin. This time he wheedled her phone number from her. She’s the one, echoes in his thoughts.

  Did He Score

  one for the old home team? Frederick wonders Sunday morning as he serves Chip garden-variety English Breakfast Tea (thank God for small favors – no more impossible-to-find leaf imports) with a dash of cream. “Would you care for some scones, Sir?”

  “Huh?” The Chipster’s disconcerted. He can’t stop going over yesterday’s events, We did kiss, and I got her number. But neither of us mentioned a future meeting. What a dopus I am.

  “Karen seems a lovely lass. How went the spin in the Bentley?” Did they or didn’t they? the professional organizer wants to know, but of course can’t ask.

  “All right, I guess.”

  They didn’t, thinks Frederick. A pity.

  Chip’s cell rings. “Fiftieth floor of the Time Warner Tower at Columbus Circle,” he tells the caller. “Yes. It is quite a nice address for a chauffeur. It’s . . . uh . . . Mr. Smithfield’s. What’s that? Well. . . . ”

  “What is it, Sir?”

  “It’s Karen. She had to hang up. She’s on her way here.”

  “Splendid.”

  “Put on your pajamas, Frederick.”

  “Pardon me, Sir. How silly of me. I thought you told me to put on my pajamas.”

  “Yes. I’m going to serve you breakfast. And call me Chip.”

  “Your family has such a keen sense of humor,” Frederic
k replies, then sees the concern in Chip’s eyes. “Really, Sir?”

  “It’s Chip.”

  “Yes, of course. Chip, Sir.”

  “And I work for you. OK? Can you do it?”

  “I’ll certainly try. Why don’t I fix a welcoming drink for us before she comes?”

  Ten minutes later the doorbell rings. Reception permitted Karen entrance after calling first. Chip answers the door, “Come in, Madam,” and lets her in.

  Frederick, seated in his robe and pjs at the table on the Mexican-tiled terrace, calls to her, “Please join me for a mimosa and scones, Miss. I’m already on my third. I try to combine both sides of the Atlantic on Sundays.” He’s into it now.

  “Chip, you didn’t tell me you were on duty. I wouldn’t have intruded.”

  “Not a problem, Karen. You’ve met my employer. We’ll just be going,” Chip tells her, trying to push her out the door. He sees Frederick has already imbibed a bit too much of the sparkling orange libation.

  “I won’t hear of it, young man. Please join me. Karen, is it? I insist.”

  “Well, if you insist,” she says, enjoying the opportunity to take in the impressive view of the city. Today’s her only day off of the week, and she doesn’t want to spend it by herself like she usually does.

  “A mimosa for the lady, please,” Frederick tells Chip in a haughty tone. This will teach the lad a lesson. Perhaps this will put an end to tearing down the sacred wall between a gentleman and his gentleman, the butler thinks, but not all that clearly. Karen giggles and takes a seat.

  “Where can I find it?” Chip asks Frederick to Karen’s puzzlement. Frederick recently arranged to move both of them to the Time Warner Tower and won’t let him get near the kitchen.

  “In the refrigerator.” A blank expression from Chip. “To your right behind the dining room. And step on it, my barefoot boy with cheek.” Frederick winks at Karen, “Whittier, you know,” he says in an undertone.

  “Of course,” she whispers back.

  “I’m on it, Sir,” calls Dan as he hurries to fetch the potables before the conversation goes too far.