“I’ve done all right,” I said with a modesty that was more than justified.
“I should say so,” he said with a touch of self-pity.
“Now don’t get me wrong,” he said, recovering a bit. “I’m a great fuck.”
“I never doubted it for a second,” I said, wondering at the same time what it was that placed one in that enviable category.
“Those egg whites I have each morning help me along considerably,” he said in partial answer to my unasked question.
“But I have to admit,” he added with a chuckle, “my last lover fell asleep on me.”
“It happens to the best of us,” I said, though I had no evidence, either personal or otherwise, that it did.
Peabody then looked at me as if for the first time.
“You’re a darling man, Binny,” he said. “But you mustn’t tell a soul that I’ve been here.”
“It’s not as if I’m going to leak it to ‘Hard Copy,’” I said, instantly regretting the mild sarcasm.
“No, no, I’m quite serious. If word ever gets out, it will have a devastating effect on my life.”
Before he could elaborate, Mary concluded her act by shaking her broad shoulders, whipping off her halter top, and treating the audience to a glimpse of her squared-off titties. Then she took a bow and shimmied off stage.
With barely a glance at her, Peabody looked at his watch.
“I’d better call for a cab,” he said. “People don’t realize it, but my work demands a great deal of energy.”
I wondered, of course, what kind of work it was that he did. Early on, I had formed the impression that he was involved somehow with the statehouse—but he did not seem to be the political type. Then I began to picture him as part of a computerized global enterprise with an office in our unfinished high-rise office building whose backers had been forced to halt construction when the S&L debacle hit. But it is not in my nature to ask probing questions. I assumed he would tell me what he did when and if he became ready.
Then, too, it struck me as odd that he would want to get around in a cab when it would have been an easy matter to take advantage of our highly affordable rent-a-car service. He was, of course, a fidgety kind of fellow, subject to sudden mood swings—and this was a style that would not have served him well behind the wheel. Since I had no particular interest in seeing Mary trot out for another go-round, I decided to offer him a lift back to the hotel.
“That’s tremendously kind,” said Peabody, as he carelessly tossed some money on the table. “But are you sure you don’t want to get back to your lovely daughter?”
To the best of my knowledge, I had not mentioned Lettie to Peabody and wondered how he knew about her. A simple explanation was that Ed, who thought she was a beauty, and was always patting her on the head, had passed a remark about her at the diner.
“It’s on the way,” I said, and let it go at that.
We walked out to the parking lot, and he waited for me at the entrance while I brought the Trooper round. It was immaculate both inside and out, as bright and shiny as a new penny. As my situation worsened, I had considered trading it in for a cheaper model—but it was my one indulgence and of great importance to my self-esteem. One of my pleasures was to see Lettie rise up with pride when I pulled up in the Trooper to pick her up after school. After a quick glance at her girlfriends, to make sure they were watching, she would slide into the passenger seat, as if she were a movie star. She called it our showoff car.
Peabody got in without comment, and we drove along in silence through a bleak section of town where our black citizens had erected candlelit memorials to their drug-related dead. He was hunched over, his eyes brooding and haunted, shivering a bit from a drop in the temperature. One of those droplets had formed at the tip of his sharp nose.
“I’ve been living in Karachi,” he said, blowing on his hands. “But you probably know that.”
Actually, I didn’t, although it was one of the cities I longed to visit. I do not have an official Wish List, like Lettie’s, but—my quick trip to the Republic of Czechoslovakia notwithstanding—I felt a certain sadness about not having seen hardly enough exotic places. (I have done my best to block out ’Nam.) Whenever I brought up a place like Bangkok to Little Irwin, he would punch me on the arm, then throw back his head dreamily and say: “The puss, Binny … Oh my God, all that puss.”
And I would say, “No Little Irwin, that isn’t it at all. I just want to see Bangkok.”
But now it seemed I would never get there anyway.
“I didn’t realize you were from Karachi,” I said. “How is it?”
“I didn’t say I was from there,” he said, with a sharp glance in my direction. “I’m merely living there for a bit.”
“Sorry about that,” I said, not sure what I was apologizing for.
To the best of my knowledge it was not a crime to be from Karachi.
“I have a large studio,” he said, as he calmed down and once again brought the conversation around to his own personal circumstances. “It has a small loft which I use as a bedroom. When my secretary comes over, we conduct our business in the studio area. That’s quite enough space, don’t you think?”
“I imagine it would get you by,” I said, seeing that I was not going to get much more out of him on the subject of Karachi.
“I’ve just gone through a horrible and messy divorce,” he said. “A noted film producer snatched my wife away from me. It was all over the press, reporters camping out on the doorstep, the Karachi equivalent of Charles and Lady Di, I would suppose. You probably read all about it in your own press.”
“I may have, although we don’t get much coverage of Karachi around here.”
“You don’t?” he said, sounding a little disappointed. “How surprising. In any case, you can understand that it was a relief for me to get away.”
“I can see that it would be,” I said, making a mental note to ask him at some future point why he had chosen our town of all places to get away to, rather than—as an example—the fabled and much glitzier Côte d’Azur.
“Apparently,” he continued, “they’d been carrying on their affair for six years, and I never had the slightest clue. But then it’s always that way, isn’t it.”
I said I agreed, but only in the interest of being sociable. Though I had no direct experience with infidelity, it seemed to me that in the course of an extended marriage you’d get some signs if there was any hanky-panky. Whenever I even thought about another woman—not that I did that often—Glo would be on my case in an instant, albeit good-naturedly, asking me what on God’s earth had gotten into me.
“Were there children?” I asked.
“Six,” he answered quickly. “All of them girls. All of them fucking since they were twelve.”
At that point, I found myself gripping the wheel to make sure I didn’t drive off the road. I thought of Lettie, sleeping over at the precocious Edwina’s and was sorry I hadn’t double-checked to make sure they were closely supervised. There was a rumor that Edwina had started “dating,” and I knew what that meant. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I’d heard that Edwina’s mother had a new boyfriend and that, according to Lettie, he had dirty fingernails.
I made a note to call over there the minute I got home.
“You’d better get used to the idea, old boy,” he said, apparently enjoying my consternation.
“That’ll be the day,” I said and thought of the half-serious pact I had made with Lettie, one that specified that she was not to go out with anyone until she was thirty.
How would I handle it, I wondered, if the unthinkable came to pass?
Peabody was staying at the Garfield Hotel, which is situated on Main Street in the center of town. As we approached it, he said he had brought up his unhappy domestic situation in the interest of explaining why it mustn’t be known that he had frequented Frolique.
“Bettina and I have been exchanging letters of late,” he said, “and there’s a chan
ce—only the slightest, mind you—that she might take me back. Her lover turns out to be something of a rake—he’s not quite divorced—and he has huge family expenses. But if Bettina found out I’d been to a topless bar, that would be the end of it. So you mustn’t breathe a word to a soul.”
This line of reasoning got me so exasperated that I could hardly speak. The very idea of Bettina taking Peabody back—when she was the one who had behaved adulterously—was laughable if not preposterous. Shouldn’t it be the other way around, with Peabody graciously agreeing to take Bettina back? Assuming he was foolhardy enough to do so.
But obviously they had a different way of looking at things in Karachi.
It occurred to me as well that if their reconciliation could be threatened by a single visit on Peabody’s part to a topless bar—which was just barely topless—then their future together was shaky indeed.
I decided it was time for me to stop sugarcoating my feelings and to speak to him in a forthright manner.
“Why would you want to be with a woman who’d drop you over an innocent visit to a topless joint?”
At this, Peabody virtually exploded with rage.
“Because,” he shouted, “she’s got the best bum in Karachi, that’s why.”
I held the wheel with one hand, and we glared at each other, jaw to jaw, neither of us giving ground.
Then the air went out of him.
“Who knows,” he sighed, as we pulled up to the hotel, “perhaps you’re right. You know so much about women.”
The Garfield was a once grand establishment that had long ago gone to seed. Yet it had character, and I could see why Peabody had chosen it over the more popular Spinelli Arms, a steel and glass structure that to my mind was an antiseptic monstrosity—though it did overlook the river.
Despite its general mustiness, the Garfield was known to be efficiently run and had one-of-a-kind antique furnishings in its oversized rooms. I had been inside the lobby and recalled that it featured a life-sized bust of Samuel Clemens (aka Mark Twain) at the entranceway. On a wall behind the registration desk there hung a signed photograph of Rita Moreno, the versatile dancer/actress having occupied the VIP suite on the occasion of a Lillian Gish Tribute at the convention center, or so the hotel claimed.
The doorman was a crusty and shriveled up little fellow who had been there since day one. If you asked him how he was doing, he would take off his cap, scratch his ear and give you the same answer: “I’ve seen them come and I have seen them go.”
Since I knew what he would say, I did not ask him how he was doing.
He opened the door for Peabody, who got out and seemed to notice the Trooper for the first time.
“What a lovely vehicle,” he said. “I can see that someone’s getting along nicely.”
“Not really,” I said. “I have financial problems.”
“Too much money?”
“Uh uh. Not enough.”
“Really,” he said as we shook hands in the lobby. “If that’s the case, stay in touch.
“I can make you rich.”
Chapter Four
I can assure you that Peabody’s last words to me that night did not fall on deaf ears. To the contrary, I repeated them to myself all the way back to the cottage. It was the second time in my life that someone had made such a proposal to me, and I had good reason to remember the first.
It had come from a fellow named Ted Feather who worked alongside me at the poultry distributor. It was Feather’s idea to break away from the firm and start up his own operation in Canada. Would I care to join him?
“If you do,” he said. “I will make you rich.”
He was an eager and rail-thin little pup of a fellow who was always trailing behind me, yipping at my heels—and I did not take him seriously. For one thing, he had approached me at the height of my career, a heady time during which I was carving out new routes in areas where it was thought to be impossible. This had gotten me the respect not only of my supervisor but of my enthusiastic little team of co-workers (they were called the Capons) as well. A raise had been put through for me, and there was talk of another. I thought it would never end. As if that wasn’t enough, Glo was earning plaudits for her success in rehabilitating disabled storks—and other wildlife that everyone else had given up on. It would not have been an exaggeration to describe us as a regional Power Couple.
So naturally, I declined Ted Feather’s offer.
Today, Feather sits on top of a conglomerate with far-flung interests not only in poultry but in such disparate fields as semiconductors and bakery goods as well. He thumbs his nose at the Japanese, and there has been a hint that he is behind a motion picture that is scheduled to star Patrick Swayze (assuming his people can come to terms with Swayze’s people).
Had I taken Ted Feather seriously, I might be sitting beside him up there in Winnipeg with the world at my feet and not having to scrounge out a few dollars working the timer at some tanning salon.
I was not about to make the same mistake again.
Still, it surprised me that I had been so forthcoming about my difficulties with Peabody, a man I hardly knew. I had virtually thrown my situation in his face, which was not like me. One explanation is that I had been looking for a chance to say that I had “financial difficulties,” a phrase I had picked up on CNN’s Money Line, hosted by Lou Dobbs. It put me in the company of hot new organizations that had grown too fast and were strapped for funds. And it sounded more dignified than saying you were tapped out—or had to get your hands on some money fast.
But more to the point, I had exhausted my meager savings and I was desperate.
Several years before, I had placed my small retirement fund in the hands of a gentleman named Abner Teitlebaum, whose silvery hair, soft voice and crinkly eyes made him out to be a pillar of conservatism. His gentle, soothing style on the phone only served to heighten that impression. But these characteristics proved only to be the facade of a reckless high roller. In short order, he had invested my money (and that of several other poultry workers) in a string of Filipino condos that not only failed to attract a target group of German tourists, but was soon swept away in a monsoon.
To his credit, Teitlebaum suffered a nervous breakdown and now resides in a private clinic in Costa Rica, presumably beyond the reach or interest of US authorities.
I have always had great respect for our Jewish brothers, unlike some in our community I prefer not to name. Yet I cannot help but place some responsibility for my present situation at the feet of Abner Teitlebaum. (Though I am unable to say with any certainty that he ever practiced Judaism actively or not.)
At that point in my life I had worked long and hard and played by the rules only to wind up with little or nothing. I had not lost faith in my country and prayed I never would. Try naming a better one. India? Norway? I rest my case. Yet there I was, having given over the best of my years to poultry distribution, with no future whatsoever.
Apart from the knee, I was in good health and considered myself to be an excellent piece of manpower. Certainly there should have been a place for me, but it appeared there wasn’t. Had the country let me down? I would never say such a thing, although others might.
Whatever the case, I was determined not to let opportunity slip through my fingers a second time. The first chance I got, I planned to remind my new friend of his offer—and to find out if there was any substance to it—or if he was blowing smoke.
Since there was no longer any reason to stay away from Ed’s, I showed up at the diner the next morning and found Peabody there—in a state of high agitation. He stood beside his usual stool, tapped his foot and drummed his fingers on the counter as if he could not make up his mind if he should stay or go. Clearly relieved that I had shown up, he threw his arms around me and gave me a light kiss on the cheek, which I could easily have done without.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said as we both sat down on our stools. “I’m just not comfortable when you’re not about.”
This represented a dramatic change in his attitude toward me, but I was getting used to his lightning changes of mood and chose not to remind him that he had been outraged when I first sat down beside him.
“I’m not being treated well,” he said. “Ed has totally ignored me. It’s just not the same, Binny, trust me on that.”
I looked around and saw that the diner was more crowded than usual, a considerable number of fellows from out of state having shown up for the feed show.
“It’s probably because he’s got his hands full.”
To prove my point, I signaled over to Ed, who lumbered forward to take our order in the usual manner. As Ed stood over us with his pad, Peabody looked up at him shyly, as if he was hoping for a sign of affection.
When our orders arrived, Peabody picked at his white Western omelet for a bit and then shoved it aside.
“This won’t do,” he said. “Ed is obviously annoyed at me and I haven’t the foggiest notion why. I can’t go on this way, Binny.”
I looked over at Ed again and saw that he did seem a little detached. He was always detached, but it was possible he was more detached than usual. But what difference did it make if he was detached or not? Or if he was annoyed at Peabody? With all due respect, it was not as if Ed Bivens was the mayor. I suggested as much to Peabody, who raised his voice and said, “It makes a great deal of difference. We’ve known each other for years. And I simply can’t continue on in this way, with Ed behaving so horribly.”
It came as news to me that he and Ed had a past relationship, but it did explain, though only in part, what Peabody was doing in our community.
“Maybe I’ll just go over there and bash his face in,” said Peabody.
Though I did not believe for a second that he was capable of such behavior, I put my hand on his arm in gentle restraint.
“There’s no need for that.”
I gave some thought to the situation, and it occurred to me that Peabody and I, sitting together as we were, appeared to be old friends and confidants. Was it possible that Ed felt left out of the party? Even though he was the one who had brought us together? Men are often like that. He may have heard that we’d spent the night at Frolique and been offended that we had not asked him along—not that Betty, who kept Ed on a tight rein, would countenance such an excursion.
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