A California Closing

by Robert Wintner

  “That’s not fair.”

  “No, it’s not fair. I’m sorry I put it that way, but there’s hardly any subtler way to put it. It doesn’t even matter because my little plan wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

  Allison stares in the direction of the most fabulous view of the biggest ocean in the world, trying to sort one view from another. She shrugs, her demeanor a mix of resentment and encouragement. “It looked to me like it’s working.”

  Mulroney agrees: on the one hand, few impromptu defenses have ever worked so well, and on the other hand, he senses growing support for his grant application to Betty Burnham’s Fund for Developing Californians. Yet the indictments stand, coming and going. Allison is no fool and neither is Mulroney. The silence deafens—till a tired engine wheezes and sputters, and the dented, tired van blows smoke in great billows until gears jam in a sickening clatter, tires squeal and alas comes the impact of a bumper crunching into a tastefully low retaining wall lining the drive. The bumper falls off, so the camera guy gets out, flings his back doors open once more with a vengeance. The back doors do not fall off but spring back on the recoil in an apparent assault and battery attempt. The camera guy weaves well and avoids the strike, then hoists his bumper inside with a grunt and slams the doors that won’t close. His repair costs will be minimal—some baling wire to hold things in place and some Bondo to minimize rattling. Mulroney’s repair costs will come in under ten grand, or, as they say in the neighborhood, also minimal. Come on. What’s ten grand to Big M Mulroney? On his way back to the driver’s seat, the camera guy presents the one-finger salute and calls out, “So sue me!”

  Of singular value is the dilution of the prior impact; material damages are more convenient to dwell on than character impugnment, infidelity, or insolvency.

  But the material echo fades, leaving Mulroney live and on the air. He ponders the age-old response of men caught red-handed: an offer—nay, an insistence—that he and the wife walk down the road to affirm innocence, to ask Betty Burnham whether the relations at hand were actually, shall we say, inappropriate. It feels weak, like a bluff that may be gratuitous if she believes the insolvency part, and he believes she does. The gratuitous bluff feels convenient but transparent, with a risk-benefit ratio that may taunt the gods of random chance. Betty B has only to blush at such an affront to good taste and discretion, not to mention morality, community standards, and the family values we hold dear, on absolution of all parties. But Betty B seems hazardously primed for romance, suburban style, with mad dashes to divorce court and the altar, or some whacko shit.

  So accusations remain unresolved, with guilt presumed until proven otherwise. Allison looks sad—as sad as he’s seen her in years. While any person looks best with a smile, Allison’s sadness endears her. Her robe falls open. She cries.

  Some days.

  Mulroney shags a beer, because the situation is grim, and he flat doesn’t care about the health hazards of re-hydrating with beer, which is both carbonated and high calorie. Because he needs a beer to buff the views most fabulously available to him and his one and only.

  The phone rings. It’s J. Cuntworth Layne III announcing that her clients, Ms. and Ms. Danyte, have decided not to pursue a purchase of the Mulroney property based on their deeply feminine intuition that Michael Mulroney is criminally chauvinistic and abusive to women.

  Mulroney takes the few seconds to guzzle what’s left of his first beer and reach for another. “You called to tell me you don’t have an offer? The fuck is that? And you call yourself a salesperson? I mean salesbitch? You think you can score some political points and put those points in your pocket and take those points down to the supermarket and spend them on groceries? You stink, lady. Don’t come back. And tell those two crackpots to stay outta the neighborhood. Do you hear me?”

  Alas, Judith Elizabeth Cranston Layne with Coldwell Banker Clifton Baines did not hear, because you can’t hear once you’ve hung up, which she did somewhere between the fuck and salesbitch, but Mulroney is reasonably confident that she caught his drift. And he feels better, telling himself how good that felt, maybe.

  Good riddance is what he feels. Though a man reaches a cumulative point of negative reaction to his no-frills sense of right and wrong, where he begins to doubt. Would he be way ahead of the game if he could bend a little, in adaptation to local needs? After all, it is their market. Maybe he should take a lesson from George Bush Junior, who got to be “President,” who said, When in Rome, do like the Romanians. After all, did he want to sell this dump and split to Sanityville or fuck around with political points of his own?

  Fuck. Maybe he should call her back. After all, a slice of humble pie goes down well with a tumbler of full-pop offer.

  Of course, he should call her back, especially when one little thumb press gets him a dial back to the last caller. “Hello. This is Judith Elizabeth Cranston Layne …”

  Yadda yadda, Mulroney thinks; she goes through that whole schpiel for each caller, killing the chance that anyone with half a wit would wait around to leave a message. But Mulroney will because he’s turning over a new leaf, as they say in the rest of the world. So he waits for the name and genealogy and professional history to run their course and nearly says, Look, Judith, but then he thinks best to kiss her ass in the grandest style, in undiluted deference to her tastes with flourish—with, Look, Judith Elizabeth (Cramden?) … But the message comes to life in real time with a voice asking, “How may I help you?”

  “Look, Judith. I … Tell your clients that I regret any bad impressions. I’m in therapy, and I need their help too. I’m trying to change. In the meantime, let’s not allow our petty differences—my petty deficiencies to get in the way here.”

  “Mr. Mulroney. My clients hardly view your deficiencies as petty. They think you’re pathological. They think you need far more than therapy. I’m sure they’re being facetious when they suggest forty thousand volts for starters, but they—”

  “I’m afraid I have to ask for an extra ounce of forgiveness while I get rid of this other call. I’ll be right back. Hold that thought.”

  And with modern technology’s relentless wonders, another little button gets Marylyn Moutard, out of breath to the point of climax, proclaiming, “We have an offer!” Which proves that the Brady Bunch wanted the place all along and was not only willing to budge but had the dough and could spend it, given ample guidance. The heavy breathing suggests an image of Marylyn extracting the Moutard. But this is hardly the place or time. But maybe … later … on principle, once the moolah is in the Moutard’s mitts …

  “Yeah, yeah. We had an offer. We had several offers. Do we have a number with a pulse?”

  “How does two point seven sound?”

  It sounds like we have a deal, though a man has to wonder, especially a professional in sales, if the fifty large below asking could come back to the table with a little calmness in this, the moment of crunch, where millions are made or lost every hour of every day of man’s existence on earth. And now women too. “It sounds like a place to start. Marylyn, if you could excuse me for just a minute. I got a … uh … some business on the other line. Can I call you back in a few?”

  “Business on the other line? What do you call this? Michael, I had to browbeat these poor people till they cried. The wives cried anyway. They’re emotionally distraught, but they really, really, really want that place. Now tell me we have a deal. I know who’s on the other line, Michael, and I know what she’s got.”

  Really, really, really want. That’s what’s wrong with America. Isn’t it? Is Mulroney reasonable here? And practical? Wrong and sick is what they’ve made themselves, and for what, a vacation house? Or maybe the emotional stuff is a ruse, so they can beat him out of fifty grand at the finish line—so they can throw a Cracker Jack and soda pop party and harmonize in a great yodel that it’s on the Big M? Yeah, the used car guy with all those plastic flags …

  “Yeah, tell your needy clients to take a few barbiturates and have some
drinks. I’ll get right back at you. Frankly, Marylyn, I think if they’re emotionally distraught, you’re to be congratulated. It’s a milestone. It’s where your better salespersons relax and bring it on in with a soft touch. Call me in twenty minutes.”

  Which brings Mulroney to the hairpin, where one press disengages the second call and reengages the first call, but if it’s done wrong, out of synch or with imperfect timing, all calls end, leaving the caller with the burden—make that the psychological disadvantage—of calling back. But it works. “Um. Okay, Judith Layne. Where were we?”

  “We were nowhere, Mr. Mulroney. We were merely eschewing your evil temperament.”

  Mulroney waits for more, but there is no more. The rub is in the interface, where Judith Layne also waits and will continue waiting till lifestyles freeze over. She’s a modern woman in day heels who drives a luxury SUV in Ivory Coast Chiffon and in a sundress to match. The lifestyle ensemble is obviously in the buck and a quarter range plus, plus for fabulous accessories to die for, like the solid gold gossamer chain and diamond teardrop earrings, the Lady Montague watch and the double diamond ring that proves her hubby’s love. And she will still subvert the stylish lifestyle standard as necessary to get more moolah, like in the very moment, as fiduciary dominatrix with a whip and a chair: she will curb the beast onto its tiny perch, as she curbs the eighty-two five commish into her pocket. Mulroney realizes some itches cannot be scratched, and Judy Layne the bane of sane men may be one of those itches. Oh, he could scratch to his heart’s content and draw blood and leave a scar. He could advise Judy Lame to … to … tell those carpet munchers to …

  But what the hell; they’re just a couple of dull, nervous women who didn’t hurt anybody, except for their offensive waste of space and time. And oxygen. Make that their offensive essence, beginning and ending with their no-punches-pulled indictment of a hardworking man trying to provide for his family. But he merely wants away from them and does not hate them, so maybe things are looking up. Maybe Judith Vagina Baines will close them on this deal when the Brady Bunch falls out. “Well, Judy. I can’t do more than apologize and try to change. I hope they’ll make an offer if they like the place. Tell them to please remember: Allison is a woman too, and she’s a seller. If it would make you and them more comfortable, you can deal directly with her.”

  Judith Oliver Cromwell Baines with Coldwell Inquisition Brimstone Lane is still mum, but this can hardly be called waiting. Dumbstruck at the magnitude of the new leaf—make that fig leaf, which is all Michael Mulroney needs to cover his little bitty gonads and pencil thin peepee—she finally concedes, “I must say, Mr. Mulroney, I find your comments conciliatory. I’m surprised, pleasantly so, and I will pass these things on to my clients.”

  “Why, thank you, Judith.”

  Next come two presses, which seem excessive at this point, though the message could not be more concise. “Hi, Marylyn. Here’s the deal: You snooze, you lose. We got another offer coming in. I already told them they’d need to beat two point seven fifty.”

  “You mean two point seven, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I mean. And I mean they have to beat it. Not you. You win either way. Am I right? I mean, a steak tartar gal like yourself won’t walk away casual from a double-ender, but three points beats a kick in the ass, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  “Yeah. Whatever, like they say here in Box o’ Screws.”

  “I think you mean Canna Screws.”

  “Yeah. Like I said. What. Ever.”

  XVII

  Back Down the Road

  A man may wake up knowing the end is nigh, or he might ease into the clubhouse turn on a casual lope one sunny afternoon, leaning to the inside, rounding to the stretch. He may finish in the lead or back by a nose or back in the pack, and it won’t matter. So why worry in the meantime? He’ll give what he’s got and be done, tired and relieved. Or maybe just done.

  Mulroney can’t pinpoint the beginning of old age, but some days are better than others, and better days aren’t as frequent as they used to be. At least a bicycle ride is a great excuse for feeling tired. It’s a better workout than showing the house, where all a guy gets is a great excuse for feeling miserable, no extra charge for the tedium and niggling bullshit. But a day beginning with a thirty-five miler and ending on tragi-comedy at sundown and still no sale could be a toxic combo. Who knew? Mulroney didn’t know.

  But he learns, shuffling down a dim hallway to the sunroom as shadows lengthen, and the fabulous view of the biggest ocean in the world fades to black. Mulroney suspects he’s in better condition than ninety-five percent of his peers, but distinction feels pitiful, like a turd who knows he doesn’t stink so bad. He plops down for a TV and beer soak, sinking in with a vengeance before circumstance and considerations thereof can sink into him.

  By chance and timing, as if he’s due, he tunes in to two hail-fellows sincerely beating snot out of each other on whatever-the-night fights. Boxers and punchers, bangers and bleeders; they seem a right compensation for the head-butting, nose-banging, jaw-clubbing, bloodletting carnage at Casa Mulroney on that woeful afternoon. The knockout punch comes somewhere in the later rounds, as Mulroney drifts from ringside into the ether and out. His corner man throws in the towel, and they drift …

  Until the bell rings to end the round—and rings and rings. Wait! That’s the phone! Groveling in response to human operant conditioning, Mulroney struggles up from the depths and the sofa to reach the phone. Why? Might this be the Voice of Redemption, calling with good news and money? No, it won’t be that, because it never has, never will. Yet he lunges, because hope springs eternal no matter what we know is true, because humanity fears that something might be missed. Well, humanity except for Michael Mulroney, who is apart from that song and dance most of the time. So maybe this lunge is another wasted effort. But he’s there, so he picks up with a groan.

  A man on the line speaks with a Vuh-ginia-affectation that Mulroney takes for a prank—it’s probably one of his goofy friends. But scanning the file in mere seconds, he can’t put a name on the caller … because he has no friends, not real friends, not old, trusted, adventure-sharing friends. Whatever, the affected fellow goes on about Big M Mulroney’s reputation up and down the coast and to the far side of Nevada too. Maybe the guy is from LA and couldn’t quite get traction on the English accent. But he knows the score: that Big M is the OK car specialist who won’t bullshit you with pre-owned, or worse yet, certified pre-owned, as if a guy in a white robe with a clipboard and a stethoscope can look up a car’s tailpipe and call it something other than a used car.

  “Ha! Am I right?” It’s a used car no matter how many miles or who sat behind the wheel or the make—“Am I right?” The guy asks and pauses, like he expects the Big M, himself, to say yes, you are correct. But Mulroney says nothing and comfortably so, awakened as he was from the deep sleep of the deeply depressed. “I take it this is the Big M, Mr. Michael Mulroney?”

  “Himself.” Mulroney waits for the pitch, ready to set the phone back in the cradle.

  “Right on, man. Precisely. Good. Yes. Now …” And so in the vein of the severely-over-compensating-for-failure-to-be-hip, tediously-superior class, the caller from Vuh-ginia via LA proceeds, “A few of us were talking, you know, and we all share acquaintance with our particular friend Mister Lombard Cienega. Perhaps you’ve heard of Mr. Cienega. It just so happens that our great good friend Lombard will be celebrating his eightieth birthday next week, and we do so want to pitch in on a little something. We thought it might be fun to surprise him with a toy—that is, a real toy with maximum wow, if you get my drift. We want to make a big impression. What do you think?”

  The fuck? Mulroney doesn’t think in the middle of the night, well, at nearly midnight anyway, and he wouldn’t share if he did. Yes, he’s heard of Lombard Cienega, just like he’d heard of Betty Burnham; peas in a pod—that’s what the society page called them, profiling them as forces
of nature, which doesn’t sound like peas but has a certain satisfactory ring, since few things are more forceful than nature. Peas may lead to carrots and onward, to rhubarb, rhubarb, mumbo jumbo. The guy prattles over greatness and reverence, as if Betty B and Lombard Cienega are any different than the Big fricken’ M. Some people have more moolah than most, and some are a tad short. That’s all. Mulroney gives it a moment because he doesn’t know his top-drawer inventory or availability by heart. He’ll need to check the inventory files, and that won’t happen till tomorrow morning, not tonight, up and out of a deep sleep. The man on the line waits for a reasonable answer, after all, as if midnight is just after brunch. Maybe he derives further superiority by staying mum, waiting a direct response. Mulroney enjoys the silence, wondering how long the whole wide world could stay so mum. But then a little buzz drifts between his ears, as he recalls an amusing item that made an impression in recent weeks, and he demonstrates a move—a cool move made to look easy but a move nonetheless reserved for the seasoned pro of global caliber. “I … have a … Let’s see here. It’s a 1937 Duesenberg Model J cabriolet in canary yellow in a condition we call Concours d’Elegance. Perhaps you’ve heard of Concours d’Elegance.”

  The ’37 Doozy came on a month ago and was likely still on the blocks at three point eight, factoring about a third over as premium for actual mileage of a hundred ten—that would be one hundred ten miles. Priced a tad high, the car would be more desirable for being more expensive. The higher the price, the smaller the market and the greater the exclusivity, desirability and envy factor, all of which strove for perfection. As an ultimate car it could be seen as a toy and perfectly so by the rare owner who would not store it hermetically as “an investment.” Ugh. How utterly bourgeois. The rare owner would in fact call it a driver, as the car was designed and built to be, albeit eons ago. The rare driver would treat it like his father’s Oldsmobile, even though his father would be a hundred forty and long dead, like Oldsmobile, or Duesenberg. The profile seemed ideal for local tastes and values and right in the crosshairs for the likes of Lombard Cienega. And to have it known as a gift, as appreciation for the wise application of the elder gentleman’s money and power would make the transaction flow with magnanimity, generosity, love, and reverence. Now there was service after the sale and another force of nature.