The Holiday Toast Duo

by Nya Rawlyns

  “Ted likes it nice, ya know?” She waved to a passing motorist, then continued, “Thing is … it’s been kinda hard lately.” After adjusting her scarf to fit more snuggly around her neck, the woman swiped the snow brush across the bumper, sending a cascade of icy pellets onto Alan’s loafers.

  Alan sidestepped to avoid getting his feet any wetter than they already were and asked, “Hard, how? Um, Miz…?”

  “Maude, dear.” She patted his arm and stayed close, as if what she wanted to say was for his ears only. “It’s… Well, you know. The economy.” There was a pause, the icy air filtering between them. Then she lowered her voice more, almost to a whisper. “I see things. They ignore me. Being the only woman and all.”

  Helping her along when a pause grew awkward, he said, “Things.” The odd conversation was sending a tingle up his spine, the kind of edgy twittering along his nerve endings when the numbers didn’t add up. “What kinds of things, Maude?”

  She shrugged and backed away, her lined face creased with worry. She clearly had second thoughts about opening what might be a can of worms. Even though he’d known the woman for all of maybe fifteen minutes, Maude didn’t strike him as the kind of person prone to gossip. She look concerned, in the sense that she had a feeling that something wasn’t quite right but didn’t know how to put it into words.

  Before she bolted for the showroom, Alan spoke softly. “I can look at the books, Maude. Would that help?”

  “Might do.” And with that she was gone, leaving him wondering what the heck had just happened.

  Ted swung by, herding the staff ahead of him. His face was florid from the cold. Alan was about to be swept into the surge, when Ted stopped and said, “Marie’s doing dinner. Seven.” He glared at Alan, making him feel small although only an inch or so separated them in height. “You got a laptop, son?”

  Son?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring it.” Taking Alan’s arm he propelled him into the showroom, releasing him at the hallway leading to the cubicle he now called home.

  Alan sank into the cheap leather desk chair and swung aimlessly side-to-side, deep in thought. There had to be a reason for bringing him on board and not the one implied: a favor to Marie’s brother and his live in boyfriend. He was well aware that Jack had done a few days of desk duty at the dealership before snagging his teaching gigs at the community college. His lover hadn’t really talked about it much, other than to complain about Ted-the-homophobe. Certainly, as far as the management side of things, he hadn’t flagged anything being out of order.

  But then, Jack’s forte was the restaurant business, with an emphasis on the cooking end, not the business of managing financials and day-to-day details. If something was amiss, it was unlikely Jack would have noticed.

  Maude had made first contact. Why him? He tried to recall how Ted had introduced him to the group. It had been short and sweet.

  This here’s Alan Liebowitz, he’s taking over until Saul’s back.

  Saul was the sales account manager: the man who consulted the crystal ball and made the sign of the cross on Have I Got a Deal for You. He also kept track of inventory and special orders, doing the swaps with other dealers when the customer wasn’t able to find the exact match on the lot to his desired package of options.

  He also secured financing at usurious rates for the less well-qualified. None of that was particularly difficult to figure out from the programming package. The trick was in knowing shortcuts through the maze of banking and dealer options. Decisions had to be made mostly on the spot. The key was keeping the customer glued to the chair, stripped clean of his driver’s license and insurance card, and held hostage until the shop manager assessed the trade-in and gobble-di-gook spewed onto a page with an affordable monthly payment circled in red ink.

  The one thing he prayed he wouldn’t have to do was ask, “Can you afford this?” with the keys to the kingdom dangling from his fingers.

  Ted popped in again, barking, “We close at four,” and left in a rush. Alan glanced at his wrist watch. He had a few minutes left to peruse the help files. Nothing jumped out at him, but the sense of unease continued. Hopefully, the following week, he’d have time to become familiar enough with the protocols that he could devote a portion of his day to doing what he did best: streamlining procedures and saving the company money.

  He’d been fine with Ted’s offer, but when he woke up that morning, it was with a sense of foreboding. Irrationally, he’d been terrified that he would let Jack and Marie and the kids down. And if Jack was right about his brother-in-law, he was going to have to watch his mouth and control his temper. There was too much riding on this job for him to allow a few insensitive remarks to derail his plans.

  He needn’t have worried. Ted had been abrupt, certainly, but no more so than with his other employees, all of whom took it without batting an eye. Even Maude, with her hints and concerns, made it pretty clear she was concerned about both the business and her boss. In other words, she cared.

  In his experience, bosses who mistreated their employees didn’t rate that kind of loyalty or consideration. Clearly there was more to Ted than met the eye. And the offer of employment carried a subtext that was hard to miss. Alan had a sneaking suspicion the big man was going to open the door for him to poke around—ergo, telling him to bring his laptop to the house.

  The odds were good the evening was going to end up with dinner … and a show and tell.

  ****

  Alan swallowed a lump in his throat. This was his first official visit to Ted and Marie’s house. The few times he’d been there, he’d slipped in and out of the kitchen via the back door, dropping off or picking up this and that. But never as a guest. A dinner guest.

  Jack opened the door. “Cripes, sorry, man. I didn’t mean to dump all this on you at the last minute.”

  Alan handed over the hors d'oeuvres platter and shifted the laptop carrier onto his shoulder while balancing the shopping bag with two bottles of wine. Jack led the way from the foyer into a cozy living area that looked well-used, messy with games and books and electronics scattered on every surface. It looked and felt like home. He took a deep breath, trying to relax.

  Grinning, Jack said, “It’ll be fine. It’s not an execution.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  Before Jack could respond, the twins came bounding down the stairs.

  “Hey, Uncle Jack.” Mandy reached for the platter and took a peek. “Oh yum, did you make this?”

  Her brother came up behind her and sniffed appreciatively. “Shrimp. Sushi.” He lifted the foil higher. “Shit. Where’s the cheese I ordered?”

  “Right here, champ.” Jack held up a plastic bag.

  Mandy waggled her eyebrows at her brother. “Mark?”

  “Oh yeah, sorry.” He held out a hand. “Thanks for picking this up, Mr. Liebowitz.” Mandy snorted and whispered something in his ear. “Uh, um… Uncle Alan?”

  “Just Alan is fine, Mark. And it was no problem.”

  Mandy chirped, “Best be formal or uncle. Dad’ll shit a blue brick otherwise.”

  Biting his bottom lip, Alan glanced at Jack for help, but his lover had disappeared into the kitchen. He thought about it for a second, then said, “How about “uncle”? Less mess to clean up.”

  Mark grinned and pumped his hand enthusiastically. “Uncle Alan it is.” He reached for the shoulder strap and relieved Alan of his burden. “Dad says he wants a word in the den. Lemme show you where it is.”

  Gut churning with nerves, Alan wanted nothing more than to collapse in Jack’s arms, but the lord of the manor had summoned him for a meeting. Chewing his lover’s face off because they’d been apart for an entire day wasn’t going to wash as an excuse to dally. He followed Mark up the stairs to the landing, his brain finally registering how much the kid towered over him.

  “Did you grow some more?” He didn’t mean it disrespectfully, but if was going to be Uncle Alan, then stupid questions like that were allowed.
At least, that was how it worked in his dysfunctional family.

  The kid slouched, curling his shoulders. He mumbled, “A full inch,” saying it as if he had contracted an STD and was found out.

  Confused, Alan asked, “That’s good, isn’t it? I mean, for playing basketball?”

  Alan didn’t have a clue about sports so that was a shot in the dark. Mark made a face he couldn’t interpret and led the way down the hall to the last room on the right. Knocking, he called out, “Dad? Your company’s here.”

  Ted yelled for them to come in. Mark handed Alan his laptop bag, opened the door and stepped aside for him to enter the room. Without a word, the teen turned and hot-footed it down the hall. Alan wasn’t so far removed from his own awkward teen years not to recognize he’d made a major faux pas, though how he’d managed that was a mystery.

  Ted looked up from his computer station. “I see he’s still pissed at me.” He pointed to a folding chair propped against a bookcase. Unlike at the dealership, where everything was lock-stepped into regimental orderliness, Ted’s office was controlled chaos. Stacks of file folders, manuals, brochures and ad galleys littered every flat surface. The man made a spot on the desk where Alan could set his laptop.

  When he was settled, the computer booted and waiting his command, Ted picked up a DVD. “This has the most recent backup on both systems. I assume your toy has enough juice to handle it?”

  “Two terabytes, sir, but…”

  Ted interrupted, “That’ll do. Load this. And don’t worry, it’s virus free.”

  “Sir, I don’t understand. What am I doing?”

  “Finding out why I’m losing money and where the fuck it’s going.” He held the disk out. “I watched you today. You saw shit I couldn’t. Don’t ask me how I could tell, I just did.”

  Nodding agreement, Alan inserted the disk and started the download. They were quiet for a few minutes, watching the process. Curious, Alan asked, “Why me?”

  The man shrugged and shoved his chair away from the desk. He spun it around so he could face Alan, arms crossed and legs extended. When he spoke, his voice held quiet authority. Alan sat up and paid attention.

  “A few months ago, I noticed some changes.” Ted scrubbed at his thinning hair. “I run my own numbers monthly.” He reached over and tapped the keys on his own computer. A spreadsheet appeared. “It’s rough but it gives me an idea of trends, independent of my sales and service manager reports. I didn’t like what I was seeing.”

  It didn’t take Alan long to figure out where Ted was going, so he asked, “Would I be too far off to assume your peers were not in the same boat?”

  “Last year was fair to middling. Everybody has ups and downs. It’s part of the business cycle. You learn to deal with it.” He clicked through several graphs. “As you can see, if this keeps up, I’ll be in shit so deep I’ll never dig my way out. It’s already impacted my credit rating with two of the local banks.”

  Grimacing, Alan turned to face his new boss. Mirroring the man’s posture, he crossed his arms and asked again, “The question remains, sir. Why me? What you need is a CPA, somebody familiar with these systems and the business. I’m just an amateur.” He held up a finger to stay Ted’s reply. “I’ll be honest with you. Yes, I can probably spot irregularities. In point of fact, that was my job for nearly ten years. But that doesn’t mean I can tell you who, what or why. For that you need an expert.”

  Ted sat up and put his hands on his knees. He leaned forward, his expression almost menacing. Alan wanted to push his chair back, but that would have meant losing face. Pitching his voice so that only Alan would hear him, Ted said, “This valley’s the fastest growing in the state. It’s closing in on nine hundred thou population.”

  Alan made uh-huh noises, still not clear on the point Ted was trying to make.

  The man took a breath and picked at imaginary lint on his trousers. He continued, “But despite that, this city, Bethlehem… Well, it’s got a small town mentality. People are close and it’s not so easy to keep secrets. I bring in a CPA firm to check stuff out, the word gets around. I’m having trouble. Ted Mayer’s Automotive and Service Center isn’t a good place to do business anymore.” He leaned closer. “You with me, boy?”

  “Yes, sir.” Alan was more than with him. Reputation was everything. It was hard to earn and easy to lose. All someone had to do was spread the word there was a problem, and it wouldn’t matter if there was truth to it or not. The end result, if enough people believed, could be catastrophic. For Ted and for all his employees.

  “So. Will you give it a go? If you can’t figure something out, no harm, no foul.”

  The man stood and Alan followed suit. They eyed each other warily. Alan wasn’t sure why the answer to his question was important, but he asked again, “Sir, you still didn’t answer the question. Why me?”

  Ted picked a spot over Alan’s left shoulder to stare at, inhaled, and on the exhale said, “Because you’re my wife’s brother’s…”

  He stalled on the word so Alan spoke up, “…boyfriend?” He was going to say “lover” but decided not to press his luck.

  The man looked like he’d swallowed acid, his face turning an unhealthy shade of puce. After a moment, he rallied and sputtered, “Let’s just say you’re family.”

  “Family.”

  Alan felt the laughter bubbling somewhere in his throat. Ted Mayer was in a world of discomfort. That alone was worth the price of admission. He made an effort to recover his composure and nodded his head in agreement.

  “So, everybody at the dealership thinks you gave me the job because Marie pushed you into helping me out?”

  Unwilling to commit, the man murmured, “Well…”

  “A little like a pity fuck.”

  Ted ducked his head so Alan couldn’t see his face, but the man’s shoulders shook with laughter. He mumbled, “Something like that.” After composing himself, Ted waved Alan toward the door. “We’d better get downstairs. If Marie burns the roast holding it in the oven for us, it won’t be rainbows she’s shitting.”

  As they approached the stairs, Alan said, “About Jack. Can I tell him?”

  Ted looked like he expected the question. “Jack’s already seen the set-up. Maybe between the two of you, you’ll see something. But it goes no further. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s Ted.” He gave Alan a pointed glare. “And just for the record … I don’t shit blue bricks.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Burnt Offerings

  Jack looked at his notes in despair. The competition had heated up to such a degree that the local news station was sending a team over to film the final class. He had until the next day to throw down the gauntlet, challenging both his seniors and the gawky, wet-around-the-gills wannabe chefs to bring their A-game to the table.

  That meant a dual test of creativity. The one, with simple ingredients and definite curb appeal, was dessert. While he gazed critically at his version of the classic recipe, Alan leaned over his shoulder and nuzzled his ear.

  “Crème brulee? Really?” Alan chuckled softly. “Are you sure you want to let them loose in the studio again with flammable ingredients?”

  Cringing, Jack muttered, “Crap. I knew I should have stuck with the one pot shit instead of insisting on enlarging their repertoire with a bananas flambé to…” he crooked his fingers and sneered, “…kick it up a notch.”

  “I think you managed more than a notch. Don’t know if you watched the morning news…” Alan nudged Jack aside and contemplated the choices scribbled on scattered scraps of paper. Tapping a finger on his full lips, he arranged the options, considering the possibilities. As an afterthought he said, “You’re lucky Miz Samuelson was standing there.”

  “She damn near gave the kid a concussion, beating him with her purse. Hope he learned a lesson.”

  Alan asked, “And that is?”

  “No long hair. Period. End of discussion.”

  “But, that’s why
God made hairnets. And scrunchies.”

  Jack folded his arms across his chest. He’d been on the opposite side of the food prep counter, frantically grabbing for towels and water when the spritely older lady started whaling on the kid with the smoldering dreads. The brat had been goofing around, snorting fumes, when his teammate torched the alcohol and his buddy’s ’do at the same time.

  It would have been funny except for the horrified expression on Dean Morris’ face. One glance told Jack he might have sealed his slide to permanent obscurity, except for the phone call the next day from the TV channel. The department head had mentioned the senior/teen crockpot challenge and suddenly he, Jacques Lambert, was flavor of the month.

  Whether or not it was just a slow news day didn’t matter. The PR gurus did a quick calendar check and cleared a spot to air the finals with just a twenty-four hour delay. They’d follow up with the last class which was turning into an awards program and a media circus.

  Alan was muttering something under his breath. When he poked him, his lover said, “If it was me, I’d give them a choice.” He slid the notes on preparing crème brulee to the right and tapped the recipe card next to it. “That. Or the cheesecake.”

  “Yeah, I like that, too. Problem is … it’s a four hour process. We need something that’ll cook within the two-hour time frame.”

  “Crap. What time is it?” He glanced at the clock on the stove. “Hang on.” Pulling his cell from his jeans pocket he hit speed dial and held up a finger. “Hey, Mom. Yeah, uh-huh. Really. Okay, text me his room number and I’ll send balloons or something.” He listened, made a few humming noises and then started the lengthy process of signing off. It sounded a lot like Jack’s conversions with his own parents down in Tampa. “Okay, yeah, will do. Bye— Oh wait, I forgot. What’s that thing you make in the crock pot? With the cherries?” Nodding enthusiastically, he said, “Yeah, that’s the one. Can you email or Face Book me?” He looked at Jack and stuck his tongue out. “No, Mom. Nothing special. Say hi to Grams. Love you.”