A Commodore of Errors
Page 5
“Anyway,” Mitzi said, “it’s a good thing my camera was right there.”
“It’s almost too good to be true, baby,” Mogie said. “Think about it. We’ve got a picture of Johnson in his office holding onto to his johnson.”
Mitzi nodded her head. “I think we nailed him, babe.”
Mogie got up and stalked around the room. “I’m on to something, Mitzi. I’m on to something, see what I mean?” He stopped pacing and turned to face Mitzi. “I was just thinking. The Commodore didn’t help us at all here—you got the picture all on your own—so why should we cut him in on the deal, see what I mean?”
“Who’s gonna be the admiral then if not the Commodore? He’s next in line ya know, or so he says.”
“I don’t know,” Mogie said. “I just never liked the idea of going into business with a WASP. I’d sure like to get a nice Jew in there as admiral. Someone who talks the same language.”
“There aren’t too many Jews at the academy,” Mitzi said. “Some of the professors are, a few administrators. But most of ‘em are dopey WASPs.”
“I know,” Mogie said. “I gotta think about it some more.”
“Oh my god,” Mitzi said, “look at the time. We gotta get out of here. Without those damn Martinizing machines going, Putzie’ll hear us up here.”
Mogie and Mitzi were in their “love shack,” an apartment above the Great Neck Martinizing Dry Cleaners. Mogie rented it out from the owner of the dry cleaners, Ira Paultz. They knew each other since they were kids growing up in Great Neck. In fact, Mogie was the one who gave Ira Paultz the nickname Putzie. Putzie, who also happened to be Mitzi’s husband, was a creature of habit. He Martinized every day between 10 am and 1 pm with Raymond, his Filipino helper, a man who Putzie said was the best Martinizer in all of New York. At exactly one o’clock every day, they turned off the Martinizing machines and took a lunch of cucumber sandwiches on white bread. Putzie said the cucumbers were good for his colon. They ate their lunch together, then Putzie took an hour nap on the cot in his office in the back of the cleaners and Raymond took over the cash register so Mrs. Tannenbaume, who worked the register from ten to one every day, could go home. Putzie wanted Mitzi to work the register, but Mitzi hated the goddamn dry cleaning business. It was too hot. She liked being a secretary so she could sit in air-conditioning all day during the hot summer months.
Mogie and Mitzi left by the outside fire escape, their usual route. Mitzi said it was more exciting that way. It felt more like an affair. By the time she and Mogie climbed down the fire escape, the Martinizing machines wound down with a big clankety clank.
After Putzie ate his cucumbers and went to take his nap, Raymond joined Mrs. Tannenbaume behind the counter.
The Great Neck Martinizing Dry Cleaners was in a line of stores built in the Art Deco era. Putzie told everyone who inquired that he hired Mrs. Tannenbaume because she was as Art Deco as the building and that she fit right in. Her wardrobe just kind of went with the look of the place. Putzie said her outfits were gaudy but at least they were consistently gaudy. Even her reading glasses were loud—the kind that swept up at the corners. Raymond called them “cat woman” glasses. Roz, Mrs. Tannenbaume’s closest friend, used another word to describe her: kitschy. “What can I tell you?” Roz would say. “My friend is kitschy.”
“You know,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said, “it sounds like Willie Wonka’s chocolate factory in here when the machines shut down.”
“This is a bad thing?” Raymond said.
“I didn’t spend thirty-five years in education to work in a chocolate factory in retirement. The only reason I work here a few hours a day is because I thought I could be of some help in running the business. You don’t spend thirty-five years in education and not learn a thing or two about people, and if you understand people, you’ll always have customers. The first thing people want is a clean place to shop. They come into a place that looks like Hogan’s Alley and they’ll turn around and walk right out. Of course, the product has to be good, mind you. There’s nothing more expensive than a cheap product. That’s why Putzie hired you. I said to him, ‘Putzie, you want a good worker you hire yourself a Filipino. You can teach a good Filipino how to Martinize.’ And now look at you. You’re the best Martinizer in New York.”
A customer entered the shop and cut Mrs. Tannenbaume’s monologue short. It was Mr. Goldfarb. He came in every week at this time to pick up his shirts.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Goldfarb,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tannenbaume with an E,” Mr. Goldfarb said. “Have you heard from Captain Tannenbaume lately?”
“My sonny boy is fine. He gets off his ship this October, so he’ll be home for Christmas. That’ll be nice. He makes a nice eggnog, you know.”
“Christmas at the Tannenbaumes,” Mr. Goldfarb said. “A one-of-a-kind experience I’m sure. Actually, an eggnog might be in order about now. I was just elected president of the Great Neck Garden Condos.”
“Mozel Tov! Condo president. Mrs. Goldfarb must be so proud.”
“Oh enough about me.” Mr. Goldfarb waved his hand at Mrs. Tannenbaume. “Speaking of congratulations, I understand some are in order for Captain Tannenbaume.”
“You mean his daring rescue at sea? How’d you hear about that?”
“One of my clients, Mr. Costello, is an official in Captain Tannenbaume’s union. I do his taxes. Mr. Costello told me all about it.”
“The Coast Guard gave him a commendation. They said the way he maneuvered his ship in rough seas could only be done by someone who knew his stuff. Of course they worded the plaque they gave him a little differently, but that’s what they meant, basically.”
“Costello says he’s the only one out there who practices real seamanship anymore.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Costello should know. He’s the dispatcher for the union. He tells me he gives Captain Tannenbaume all of the tough jobs. Sends him to the ships no one else wants. The old ones. The ones where you need to know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard my sonny boy mention that. ‘Tween-deckers he calls ‘em. He hates the new ones—the big container ships. Not enough time in port he says. But he’s been on the God is Able for years now.”
“So I understand.” Mr. Goldfarb tried to hide his smile. “I’ve heard a thing or two about your boy’s port visits on the God is Able.”
“Oh?”
Mr. Goldfarb could no longer hide his smile. He looked down at the floor. Mrs. Tannenbaume sensed he was embarrassed. She thought she knew why. She handed the new condo president his shirts.
“Well, Mr. Goldfarb, you’re my last customer for the day. I’ve got to sashay now.” Mrs. Tannenbaume grabbed her pocket book and left.
A minute after Mrs. Tannenbaume left, the Commodore walked in. Raymond came around from behind the counter, and together he and the Commodore sat down in the front of the store, something they did whenever the Commodore came in to pick up his shirts. The sunlight that came through the plate glass window in the middle of the day was pretty harsh, so Raymond swung the curtain partly closed. Maybe it was the curtain, or maybe it was that the Com-modore had nobody else to confide in, but something made the Commodore want to sit and talk with Raymond in the front of the store. That was the only explanation Raymond could come up with for why someone like the Commodore would want to talk with him—or talk to him, which was more like it. And more often than not—no, always—he talked about himself. But still, Raymond didn’t mind. He was flattered that someone as important as the Commodore wanted to talk to him, although he didn’t like it so much when the Commodore yelled at him.
When the Commodore told Raymond what had happened with Miss Conrad, he wasn’t surprised. He never thought Miss Conrad was the right girl for the job. She sounded like too much of a Miss-Goody-Too-Shoes to be part of a trap like the one the Commodore had set. But Raymond didn’t dare tell the Commodore what he really thought. So he just sat and liste
ned, like he always did, and tried not to upset the Commodore.
EXPERIENCE AT SEA
This time it was the chaplain who called Johnson to suggest they meet for coffee. “Trouble” was all he said before he hung up the phone.
When they settled in with their coffee down at the boathouse, the chaplain spoke first.
“You hear about the bandleader? His wife called early this morning.”
“What bandleader? The Commodore fired the poor bastard.”
The chaplain shook his head. “His wife says he’s missing. She says she thinks the Commodore must be behind it.”
“Behind what?” Johnson said.
“Behind the fact he’s missing. The police questioned him this morning. They say he was the last one to see the bandleader before he went missing.”
“Jesus Christ,” Johnson said, coming out of his chair. “You serious?”
“You don’t think the Commodore has anything—”
“What? Are you crazy?”
Johnson walked to the big window overlooking the wharf and placed his cup on the sill. The Commodore was unusual, that’s for sure, had been forever, but he was harmless, wasn’t he?
Wasn’t he?
“I want a Jew admiral,” Mogie said.
Mogie threw out this tidbit as soon as the Commodore entered his plush office in Great Neck City Hall. Mogie sat in a high-backed chair behind his desk, puffing on a cigar. Smoke swirled around his head. The desk itself was situated on a platform raised a foot off the floor. The combined effect was to make the five-foot-two-and-a-quarter-inch Mogie look more imposing than he really was. Mogie directed the Commodore to take the seat in front of his desk. The Commodore sank into the small stuffed chair and looked up at the cloud of smoke on the platform.
“I am afraid that is impossible,” the Commodore said, remaining calm in the face of this outrageous demand.
“What’s so impossible about it?”
“Because the superintendent of the United States Merchant Marine Academy needs seagoing experience as master aboard a U.S. merchant vessel. It is a requirement. It is right there in the academy by-laws.”
“That wacko Johnson was captain of a ship?”
“For six months, believe it or not,” the Commodore said. “A chemical tanker.”
“Wow,” Mogie said. “What a scary thought.”
What was scary was the way this meeting was going.
“There’s no reason to be scared,” the Commodore said. “I am perfectly capable of assuming the job of superintendent. I was master of the MV Kings Pointer, the academy training vessel, so I fully satisfy the academy’s requirements for work experience. If we stay together on this, we shall achieve our objectives. It is gut-check time, Mr. Mayor. It’s best we remain calm and live up to our prearranged agreement.”
“No,” Mogie said, his face all but invisible behind by the cigar smoke. “I want a Jew admiral, end of story.”
“I was under the distinct impression that we had a deal,” the Commodore said as evenly as he could. “You needed me to set up the meeting with Miss Conrad. After the inevitable peccadillo, Johnson would be dismissed, and I would replace him. I thought we were clear on that.”
“Yes, but the thing is, Johnson didn’t pull out his johnson on Miss Conrad. He pulled it out on Mitzi, see what I mean?”
“No. In fact I do not see what you mean.”
Mogie stood up and came out from behind the smoke. “Look, the fact is, the meeting you arranged didn’t work. Miss Conrad turned out to be a dud. Mitzi did it all on her own. I don’t need you anymore. You’re out.”
The Commodore was stunned. They had a deal! And Mogie was reneging. The Commodore needed Mogie’s help in getting rid of Johnson—he needed an outsider like Mogie to demand the resignation. Otherwise, Johnson’s cronies would sweep his shenanigans under the rug and return to business as usual. In return for Mogie’s help, the Commodore would cut Mogie in on the business of running the academy. As admiral, he would outsource nonessential services to businesses established by Mogie—landscaping, dry cleaning, plumbing, snow removal. The dry cleaning business alone would be worth millions. For years, the only thing that stood between the Commodore and the superintendent’s job was Johnson. Now, with Johnson all but removed, there was yet another obstacle in his path.
The Commodore needed time to think, time to sort out his next move. He would have to placate Mogie the best he could for the time being.
“Very well, then,” the Commodore said. “I see I’ve been bested by a superior adversary.” The Commodore extricated himself from the little chair as gracefully as he could. He stood up, clicked his heels, and bowed before Mogie’s platform.
“Good day, Mr. Mayor.”
With that, the Commodore tucked his hat under his arm and marched out of Mogie’s office.
STICKS, STEPPERS,
AND STOOLS
“Not one of them Jew boys went to sea?” Mogie asked. He was lying on the couch in the love shack above the dry cleaners with Mitzi’s head in his lap. They were both naked.
“No,” Mitzi said. “Commander katzenberg said Jewish mothers want their boys to grow up and become doctors and lawyers. He says he never heard of a Jewish mother saying, ‘If only my boy could be a seaman one day.’”
“He’s probably right. But still, we gotta somehow find ourselves a Jew captain. It’s in the by-laws.”
“We’ll keep looking, babe. But ya know, if we don’t find one, making the Commodore the admiral wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He don’t care about the gelt, ya know. All that fruitcake’s interested in is the glory.”
“That’s what scares me. He’s got no Yiddisher kop, see what I mean? No Saichel.”
“So what? You’ve got enough business sense for the both of you.”
Mogie didn’t respond. For all of his multitasking abilities, whenever a naked woman was around—not to mention one ten years his junior—he lost his train of thought. And this was especially true of Mitzi. Her flaming red hair. Her long legs—sticks, Mogie called them. He was a sucker for a great pair of sticks.
“You’re driving me foolish, Mitz.” Mogie stroked Mitzi’s long, silky thigh. “You’ve got some pair of sticks, baby. World-class.” Mogie slapped her on the side of her rump. “Come on, baby, do your stretching routine for me.”
Mitzi pushed herself up off the couch, walked over to the dining table, and standing with her back to Mogie, lifted her left foot up onto the table and pressed her nose down to her ankle.
Mogie groaned.
“Stretch, baby,” Mogie said. “Stretch yourself for Mogie.”
Mitzi switched legs and stretched some more. Then she spread her legs out wide and bent over so that she looked directly at Mogie through her legs, upside down.
“Oh, baby,” Mogie said. “You’re driving me foolish. You drive me so foolish when you stretch.” Mogie jumped up off the couch. “Hold that stretch, baby, while I get my stool.”
Mogie ran into the bedroom and grabbed what he called his “stool.” It was one of those plastic steps that Mitzi used in her aerobics class. Mogie placed it behind Mitzi and climbed on top then he grabbed hold of Mitzi’s hips and lined himself up. Mitzi liked it from behind but she just couldn’t do it on all fours—she had a bum knee from an old gymnastics injury. She’d told Mogie she wanted Putzie to handle her from behind but he was too short—with Mitzi’s sticks, he just couldn’t reach, not even on his tiptoes. It would never occur to Putzie to use a stool. Mogie, on the other hand, had the ingenuity—that’s why he was the mayor. He loved climbing up on his stool to service Mitzi, and Mitzi, bless her, didn’t seem to care that he needed her aerobic stepper to do it.
Mogie had long ago stopped trying to get Mitzi to leave Putzie because, deep down, he knew why she stayed, no matter what she said about Mogie leaving his wife first. It all had to do with her father. Mitzi’s father went broke when she was in high school. The sucker reached too far. He had made a small fortune selling life i
nsurance and then risked it all on a real estate deal. The building he built in Little Neck stood empty for years. He tried selling insurance again but he was never the same. That’s why she married Putzie. His dry cleaning business was safe. People would always need a pressed suit of clothes. Mitzi knew Putzie played it safe and that’s why she stayed with him. And that’s also why Mogie kept his ever-present money troubles to himself. If Mitzi ever found about his bad debts, she’d drop him in a New York minute. Mogie was always shooting for the moon, even though Mitzi told him he didn’t have to own the moon, he just had to take her there once in a while. Hence the stool.
Mitzi was a screamer. She and Mogie only did it when the Martinizing machines were going full bore. Otherwise, Putzie would certainly hear her from downstairs. Mogie, who prided himself on his control, made it a point to hold off as long as he was able. As soon as Mogie heard the Martinizing machines begin to wind down, he told Mitzi to get ready.
“Get ready for Mogie, baby,” Mogie said, gasping for air as he went at Mitzi like some kind of Oklahoma oil derrick. “Get ready for Mogie. Here he comes, baby. Here comes Mogie.”
Mitzi’s screams melded perfectly with the Martinizing machine, and as the machine wound down, so did Mitzi’s screams. They both ended simultaneously with a thud. Mogie took his stool back to the bedroom and placed it under the bed—he liked knowing exactly where it was at all times. When he came back into the other room, Mitzi was getting dressed. “We gotta get down the fire escape before Putzie hears us up here,” Mitzi said.
When they got to ground level, they went their separate ways, Mitzi to her car that she had parked in the alleyway, and Mogie to his car parked on Middle Neck Road. He normally parked his car to the south of the dry cleaners so that he wouldn’t have to walk in front of the store and risk running into Putzie. Today, though, he couldn’t find a spot south of the store, so he parked directly in front. Mogie ran to his car and jumped in just as the Commodore pulled up to the dry cleaners.