A California Closing

by Robert Wintner

  “What?”

  “Did you really come over here thinking you’d get creamed?”

  “Creamed? You brought it up. Not me.”

  “I didn’t bring it up. But I got a better idea. You give me three-seventy-five—that’s seventy-five for the massage and three hundred to forget the sexual harassment.”

  “Sexual harassment?” He sits up. “I got a better idea—”

  “Please. I had a long day already. Okay? Lie down.” But the hand is shown—she’s desperate. “Okay, you give me … uh, three hundred dollars and I’ll …”

  “You’ll what? That’s blackmail. What about the art forgery? That’s federal! And a felony.” She proceeds to the stomach, where she changes the subject to flowers, rutabagas, and chard.

  Mulroney wants to get up and pay up—seventy-five bucks, full stop, thank you very much—and hit the road, where a guy on two wheels can think about things without someone hammering him for a handout. Man, gentrification can ruin a nice neighborhood. Next thing you know, the local rattlesnakes are a lesser hazard. But Rosa seems back in the groove, moving deftly, easing tension at will. “You really respond well,” she says.

  “Yeah, thanks. Try to keep me calm, huh.”

  “I admire a person who’s successful in business.”

  Mulroney moans, “Do I know him?”

  “It’s you,” she chortles, changing pace to country gal who slides sideways like butter down a flapjack to where resistance melts. And she murmurs, “All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel …” Of course, it’s a test, and failure will mean hazard and consequence in his life of days, make that month, until … waaiit … !

  “Pop! Goes the weasel … My God. You must have needed that.”

  “I’ve been harassed.”

  “Yeah, right. Feel better?”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Why did I do that? I did that for the same reason the kitchen crew slides a cheeseburger and fries out the window and yells, ‘Order up!’ It’s what you wanted. That’ll be three hundred seventy-five dollars, please. I’ll be out here washing your bicycle while you … clean yourself and get dressed.” And out she saunters, Miss High and Mighty, as if …

  It is not a fine state of affairs. Twenty minutes left on the meter, and she walks out. Should Mulroney keep the sheet? But how can he carry a load of rooster cacka home in a sheet on his bicycle? He’ll just hose it off. What’s she going to do, take it up to a DNA lab in the city? Then again, these whacky women can fool you, especially if you show them a juicy target. God, life gets complicated.

  And burdensome. Mulroney is living right and looking good, and a man so engaged in personal improvement and muscle definition must be irresistible to women. But he’s been sexually objectified and financially exploited. He’s not so much in the pink and magnetic to women as he’s overwhelmed and abused. Bad luck runs in threes. He’s been whipping boy to a lonely old woman and victim to a gold-digging desperado. Feeling used and exploited, he wipes massage oil and man yolk from the scene of the crime and thinks it’s not just the women who ruin life’s simple pleasures with need and greed and petty bullshit. It’s the same with those talking magpies, Phillip and Steffen, who pull up outside, profiling like number three on the hit parade. Look at them, stopping to chat with Rosa like it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. They’re sociable to anyone willing to watch their highbrow superiority. They’re asking Rosa why she’s wiping down Mulroney’s bicycle as he exits her shack carrying a sheet. “Hi, guys! How’s it hanging?”

  “In ’n out lube and bike wash?” Steffen yells.

  “Kinda,” Mulroney yells back. “I got a massage—you know, with the happy ending. I just want to rinse out this sheet to destroy the evidence.” Unspoken but clearly comprehended is Mulroney’s follow-up sentiment: Fuckers. Go ahead and wag. You don’t shake your mugs when you’re gumming the bratwurst, do you? See if you ever make it to cocktails at Casa Mulroney.

  So the odd couple rolls away for the second good riddance in a single day. Avoiding those two might be best for all …

  What the …

  Rosa Berry pulls a digital recorder from her fanny pack—Fuck! A seasoned veteran of the closing room should have seen that. Playback makes the hills alive with a muffled voice in a steamer trunk; it’s unmistakable Mulroney calling out: I got a massage—you know, with the happy ending. I just want to rinse out this sheet to destroy the evidence.

  “Why did you do that?”

  Rosa shrugs. “It kind of makes us even.”

  “Even? For what?”

  She shrugs. “Whatever.”

  He tosses the sheet on the ground, walks over, and takes the hose from her to soak it down. “I’m with county vice, Ma’m. You’re running a whorehouse here. You’re under arrest.”

  “Right. And you’re prepping this sheet as Exhibit A, your Honor?”

  Mulroney hoses. “Why do we have to fight like this?”

  “We’re not fighting. We’re jockeying.”

  “You mean for position?”

  “Sure.”

  “No, we’re not. We’re done.” Looking past her, he cries, “Oh, shit!” When she turns to see, he snatches the digital recorder from her hand and tosses it onto the sheet to hose it down and end its miserable life.

  “You fucker!”

  “Hey. My hose slipped. Okay? Don’t worry. I’ll buy you a new tape recorder. You want to play hardball; you’re gonna get some fast pitches.”

  “I expect my money.”

  “You think I ride around with cash?”

  “You think I work for free?”

  “Here. Here’s seventy-five.”

  “That’s not what we agreed on.”

  “No? Tell me. What did we agree on?”

  “Three seventy-five.”

  “For what?”

  “Okay. Three hundred.”

  “For what?”

  Rosa Berry, on the threshold of a man’s world, defaults to tears. “You promised!”

  “What did I promise, Rosa.”

  “You said you’d give me money if I …”

  “Yes … ?”

  “Oh, forget it. Just give me a hundred … seventy-five.”

  “Rosa. I’ll give you a hundred seventy-five, because, in my humble opinion, you earned it. I’m fair. I won’t even talk about poor service after the sale. What is it with you? Tape recorders, blackmail. Jesus. Are you that desperate to make a buck?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you don’t need to be. Here’s seventy-five. It’s all I brought. I’ll swing by tomorrow or the next day and drop off another hun. Okay? Or maybe this afternoon, so we can get this over with.”

  “You didn’t even plan on tipping me?”

  “I had no idea you’d be so wonderful.”

  “You can come this afternoon?”

  “No promises.” He throws a leg over. She whimpers tentatively into a soft sob, marking the scene as where he came in, kind of.

  When he smiles halfway, she asks, “Why don’t I need to be desperate?”

  “You got skills.”

  “Oh, great. I can really flog a donkey.”

  “Not that. Sales skills. You got it. Trust me. I’m in the business. I can tell.”

  “You mean … I could sell cars?”

  “No, no, no, no, no … I’m not saying you can’t sell cars. I thought you were asking for a job.”

  “I am.”

  “That wouldn’t work out for me.”

  “Why not. I’ll never give you hand jobs and never say a word about it. Or … I mean … I could … But I thought …”

  “Let it rest. Okay?”

  She sobs, and they part as they found each other an hour before, with Mulroney in spandex pedaling along and Rosa in tears in her barren front lot and woeful life, calling meekly, “What am I supposed to sell?”

  The aftermath is laden with remorse, perhaps the greatest toll of the aging process and poorly judged stimulati
on. Time was, innocent fun was just that. Those were the days. But the cross was not Mulroney’s to bear alone. Like many sorry situations, this one also boiled down to blame. Of course, it goes both ways, with a big lug humping it up the road on one hand—a rich guy who takes the needs and sensitivities of others as part and parcel in his own superior service. On the other hand: look at her, wiping her eyes like a little girl—a little girl with incredible hands, seething need and no inhibition. Mulroney would be a regular if she weren’t such a whack job. No pun intended. At least Mulroney knows the score—knows the difference between denial and delusional. Sure, he’s a misogynistic fuck—or they’d call him one in the editorial section of the Happy Daze—but he’s not meanspirited. He only profiles affluent, and she grabbed his pecker. Full stop—well, after a few minutes. Maybe he could have stopped her sooner. He didn’t. So what? He’ll throw her a C-note and be done with her, because life is thick enough without a needy nutter standing by.

  She could tear up a sales floor, but no way. Next thing you know Big M OK Motors might score a vintage Mark IV, a real plush guzzler worth about eleven cents on the dollar on account of the hundred dollar fill-ups and nine miles to the gallon, but a collector car, a car that’ll go for eighteen to twenty-seven grand, depending on the buyer, and here comes the Big M vintage ace salesgirl, Rosa, whacking off some Arab to squeeze another three grand out of the deal—oh, he’s seen it. No way. Then again, an open mind sets fear aside for a more accurate assessment of risk. Because risk is what the system rewards, any system. She looks pitiful, but isn’t that how it goes with your rare bird who can work the front end and bring it home? So pathetically, tragically sad, and then they grow teeth down to their knees. Mulroney wishes the kid and dog would show up, because nothing would keep her mind off her miserable life like a kid and a dog. They could give her perspective on what’s important. Then again, the kid and dog probably wised up and went home.

  Feeling better, all told, back on the open road and sorting thoughts in the clean, rational air, Mulroney chuckles; a whack like that say two, three times a week would be nice, say between lunch and nappy poo. And no old lady up the road to worry about, with her animal torture and crazy social stuff—and no loans or grants.

  It wouldn’t work. Besides, old Betty Burnham will be scheduled as necessary until grant fulfillment. Betty’s nice, but she gets so thick and syrupy. Things get weird when it’s one-sided. She seems okay with that, but she won’t be for long, same as any deal. And until it’s closed, it ain’t closed.

  Allison wouldn’t mind, in the practical sense. No need to drag her through the wallow, but if she knew the score and prospects for a remedy and how that might help her move to a warmer place, she’d be okay. Why not? You got to love her. Really.

  Mulroney suspects that he could be a candidate for psychiatric care, but a self-made man knows he’ll be better off with self-correction. And besides, what self-made man or woman ever fit the profile they call normal?

  Ha! Show me that guy or gal, and I’ll show you a real nut case.

  Besides, a shrink would recommend a few hobbies or a social cause, like tending to sick kids or volunteering at the dog pound. Mulroney would be open to either, except for the financial problem still at hand …

  Aw, shit. It’s the good-time boys again. He should have waited a few more minutes. Looks like a flat tire and no spare. “What, no spare?” Phillip shakes his head like an old man punched in the gut, like he might pass out. Mulroney pulls over and digs into his seat pouch for his spare tube and offers it. “Don’t worry about it. I got plenty.” But they ignore him. What? Do they expect him to fix it?

  “Wait a minute!” Steffen says. “Phillip fell.” Sure enough, the old speed demon was showing his stuff down Nacho Grande, because downhill abandon is what the old guys can still show. Accelerated to forty-five as a seasoned wheelman can do, he could not stop for a sapling fallen across the road, and he went down.

  Steffen holds his cell phone in the air and says his battery is dead. He can’t leave Phillip alone, so Mulroney will have to go.

  Mulroney nods. “Go where?”

  “To a telephone!”

  “Who should I call? The wife?”

  “The hospital.”

  “You think so?” Mulroney moves in for a closer look. Phillip is shaken, but not too badly.

  “No. I’m fine. Let me try to ride easy.”

  So the trio sets out for home, knowing that the route arrives first at Casa Mulroney, where ice packs and reefer might be shared among friends, or maybe ice packs and ibuprofen would fill the bill. “We can stop at my place,” Mulroney offers. “Get some ice on the sore parts.”

  Steffen juts his chin sideways, as if to question stopping you-know-where for anything. But Phillip trumps with old-guy wisdom. “Yeah. Ice would be good. I’m definitely swelling up.”

  “Best not call the wife,” Mulroney says like a veteran straight man.

  Steffen and Phillip share a coy smile, as if Mulroney can be subtle after all.

  XV

  Oops.

  The odd trio plods homeward. Phillip groans on the ascents, moans downhill, and carries on like a child where a man would be mum. Mulroney could break away to prep the ice packs, the drinks, and reefer. But the slow pace feels right, and he’s slow to service or cocktails with these two chipmunks—and he doubts they drink beer. They’d prefer a nice Gewürztraminer or something sweet and pink, what they won’t get at Mulroney’s. Best to ice the bruises and get them on their way.

  Yet alas, in the hundred yards before the last curve into the homestretch is Betty Burnham’s, where the front garden is enjoying a horticultural manicure at the hands of herself, in a bikini top, baggy Bermudas, and a floppy hat recycled from the original wagon train. Oh, God; Mulroney winces at the sizzling effect Betty Burnham’s billion dollar celebrity has on the good-time boys.

  “Oh, my!” she titters from thirty yards.

  “Betty Burnham!” Steffen’s hoarse whisper is rife with urgency, fulfilling his post as social administrator for Phillip, keeping Phillip en scene. Like now, providing thumbnail curriculum vitae for the elder’s edification. “Burnham’s. Highborough! Billions.”

  But of course, Phillip knows the coordinates, having visited only last night. He moans up the two-percent grade. “But does she have ibuprofen?”

  “Michael! How are you? Staying fit, I see. Can I offer you and your friends something to drink? Iced tea or lemonade?”

  “No, thanks, Betty. My elderly friend here took a fall and has to get some ice on his injuries.”

  “Oh, God. Did you say lemonade?” asks Phillip with slippery ingratiation.

  “Yes!” Betty replies. “You men wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  “You’re an angel,” calls Phillip.

  “Hardly!” Betty insists.

  “Friend of yours?” Steffen pries.

  “No. Never met,” Mulroney says, as Steffen and Phillip smirk. “Yes, we’re friends. Nice lady.”

  “Does she know?” Steffen asks.

  But Mulroney is fluent in bullshit. “Does she ever,” Mulroney assures. “You guys would never guess what I come here for. Well, maybe you could.”

  “My God, Michael. What makes you that way?” Phillip asks sincerely, for the good of society.

  “What way?”

  “Forget it,” Steffen says.

  “Here we are,” Betty announces with a tray, a pitcher, tumblers with ice, and a little bottle of pain pills.

  Phillip takes them and says, “Thank you. You’ll have to forgive our absent-minded friend here. I’m Phillip.”

  “Enchanté, I’m sure. I’m Betty.”

  “Oh, I didn’t forget. They know who you are, Betty, and you’ll find out soon enough about them. I mean who they are.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” Betty says, happy to gloss the apparently rough surface. “I’m new here, you know, and I do like to make friends.”

  “Too bad you got mixed up with
the riff raff,” Steffen says, jutting his chin sideways and forcing a laugh to show humorous intent. Mulroney makes bottoms up in a glug, glug, glug, down to the cube slurp and the grand finale sigh. And a belch.

  “Pardon me. Ready, boys?” But they’re not ready. They’re sipping cool, delicious lemonade with genteel aplomb in the presence of a billionairess. They linger in the mists of heady numbers. They savor the growing potential for osmosis, after all, until interrupted by the Big M yet again. “See you, Betty. Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.” He clicks into one pedal and rolls, aware that the talking magpies might stay back for some high end, high level schmoozing. Who cares? Not him. In fact, this could get him off the hook from another tedious round.

  “Uh, Michael,” Betty calls. So he stops and waits for her to catch up. She speaks softly, in confidence. Stern as a God-fearing citizen she says, “It’s really quite none of my business, but I was over at your house a short while ago …”

  “Wha?”

  “What wha? Don’t give me wha. I wanted to say hello to your wife. It is a neighborhood, so I wanted to introduce myself and …”

  “Isn’t that pressing the issue a bit? I mean, how many other neighbors have you walked down the street to meet?”

  “A few. But not your wife. Not yet. I saw her. She is quite pretty, but you know that. She seems painfully shy. Hardly a match for you, but then again she seems perfect. You’re so … forward. At any rate, I thought it would be the nice thing to do.”

  “Thank you for that, Betty. You are very nice, I’m sure.” Mulroney squints for the ulterior. Betty B feels the jaundiced eye.

  “I was going to knock on the door and, I don’t know, borrow a cup of sugar or a hand hoe or something … I didn’t mean to interfere, meaning that I wouldn’t want to change our special friendship. I mean, you know, what happened between you and me. I did enjoy that, and I hope we can do it again. Sometime. Maybe. Soon.”

  Mulroney does not go blindly where few men dare to go, nor does he fear risk, rather he goes boldly, after applying his gift of calculation. He weighs and measures then trusts his instincts to speak with reason—and forges ahead. This aging but game woman’s revelation is blurred, nonspecific, and troublesome. A man who thought himself done with practical need might well be in for a life of resignation—a life reduced to base fulfillment and/or consequence. That could be the case here, but what can a man do? Allison is charming and lovable, which was never in question, and the world is intriguing, with its demands and options where least expected. But the current path is off course. “And so?”