Indecent Proposal

by Jack Engelhard

  I was as flat as she was. I did not feel like going to the beach either, or the pool, and I did not feel like gambling. Suddenly there was nothing to do.

  The waitress brought over our eggs and toast.

  “I ordered an English muffin,” Joan told the waitress, in a tone void of her usual charm.

  The waitress apologized, scooped up the plate with the toast and said she’d be back with the English muffin. But by the time she came back, the eggs were cold. She then offered to take back the eggs, but then the English muffin would be cold.

  The situation seemed hopeless--about the way we were feeling about everything this morning.

  “Never mind,” said Joan. “I’ll just eat this the way it is.”

  But she didn’t. She only sipped coffee.

  “I’m on a diet anyhow,” she said.

  I stared out the window to hide from her cheerlessness--and from what had gone on between us last night.

  Something told me that Joan had grown up overnight. She had avoided adulthood until now, and now it had rushed up on her.

  “I feel that I’ve lost you,” she finally said.

  “Never.”

  “Just listen. Don’t talk. I feel that I’ve lost you. But I’ll win you back. Let’s just get over this vacation without further damage. Okay? That’s what we have to do. Survive this vacation. You don’t trust me. I know. You never did. But I will win your trust. It will take time. Years. But I’ll win your trust as I once won your love. One thing at a time.”

  She had forbidden me to talk, so I said nothing. I stared out the window.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “In that Biblical mind of yours you imagine God cooking up all kinds of mischief to get even with us. Because we’d been unfaithful ourselves. Well we’re not unfaithful now and we’re never going to be and if your God is not a God of forgiveness, then he is not my God. My God is loving and forgiving. We’re good people, Josh. Don’t be waiting for retribution. We’re good people.”

  Yes we are, I thought. We’re good people. Except are there any people out there who think they’re bad?

  “Let’s forget about it,” she said by way of reminding me and bringing back all the quivers of last night.

  “It’s forgotten.”

  “Good,” she said.

  Silence. We took turns avoiding glances.

  “Totally forgotten,” I said.

  “So let’s not talk anymore.”

  “Talk about what? I’ve forgotten.”

  She smiled and the magic was back, almost.

  “You’re such a...”

  “Such a what?”

  “Such a guy.”

  “You were flirting, you know.”

  I couldn’t help it, just came out.

  “Flirting?” she said. “Flirting? Flirting? I was flirting?”

  “Flirting. You were flirting.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this, Josh.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “I never flirt...except with you.”

  “Maybe I’m wrong.”

  “Dead wrong.”

  “Aha.”

  She said, “I was wrong on one thing. When I said you’re the best at what you do. That was stupid. But he was disparaging you. The way he tried to degrade you...I couldn’t just sit there and say nothing.”

  “Didn’t bother me.”

  “Well it bothered me. I’m so proud of what you do, and you are the best speechwriter in the world, and nobody knows it, not even you. I don’t know how you do it, write speeches for these big executives, and never get a word of recognition.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You do all the work and they get all the credit. They should say, ‘This speech was written by Joshua Kane.’”

  Couldn’t help but laugh.

  Once, the CEO of a Fortune 500 company had given an inspired talk to the chamber of commerce on the topic of “We’re Part of World Economy.” He was interrupted twelve times by applause, and in the end they gave him a standing ovation.

  I was there, in the back, and so was Joan. I had made the mistake of bringing her along.

  She said, “Isn’t he going to mention you?”

  “Of course, not.”

  “Those were all your words.”

  “Shh.”

  “Is it always like this?”

  “It’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “This is a crime.”

  Now I said, “So I’m modest. What’s wrong with modesty?”

  “Aren’t you the one who says everything in moderation?”

  “Even moderation,” I said.

  “That’s my point.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Too much modesty,” she said, “is a form of conceit.”

  “That’s a hell of a statement.”

  “You have nothing to show for anything you’ve ever done, Josh. Do you realize that?”

  “I have you.”

  “Sweet, Josh. But I know you won a batting title in college. Hit .400, didn’t you?”

  “Hit .406, like Ted Williams. How did you know?”

  “Because they’re still sending you letters to pick up your trophy.”

  “College baseball doesn’t count.”

  “Yes it does count,” she said. “Everything counts. Didn’t you win something like the Medal of Honor for those wars in Israel?”

  “I’ve got medals. You even complain about them.”

  “No I don’t. But anyway, where’s the big one?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “You’re making a statement, Josh.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yes, this is what you’re saying...”

  “I don’t want to hear.”

  “You’re saying, ‘I am nobody!’”

  “To the contrary, my dear. I need no medals to verify me.”

  “You’re like your father. Very strong when it comes to standing up for other people.”

  “Isn’t that good?”

  “Yes, but you’ve never learned to stand up for yourself. I’ll tell you why. It’s the immigrant in you.”

  “I’m as American as you.”

  “You don’t think you belong. You’re afraid to be noticed--they’ll deport you or something. You’re afraid to own things because you’ll only have to leave them behind. Yes, Josh, it’s true, and for the same reason you were jealous of...of that Arab.”

  No more arguments from me, I thought--at least for now--against this lady’s powers of deductive reasoning. Straight from the school of Aristotle, her favorite Greek.

  Moments like these we were mind to mind, heart for heart, soul for soul, and it was so obvious that we were meant for each other that it was strange to think that other people fell in love, too.

  She was probably right about everything. This gift of perception, it was a delight. Knowing the truth, even the hidden truth of things, and saying the right things at the right time. She knew the moment and timing. She lit bells inside the brain as when she said everything counts. Profound. To me, profound. On our wedding night, that toast--“May we continue to enrich each other’s lives.”

  We were still doing that--but no doubt about it, she had been flirting.

  Chapter 9

  SY’S OFFICE was on the fifth floor of the Galaxy--part of an executive and administrative complex set off from the casino below and the hotel rooms above. Sy’s place was the business hub.

  When I walked in Sy was on the phone, as usual. He was telling someone that back-rubs were not part of her contract, and besides, the masseur was out sick.

  A famous comedian was already in Sy’s office, and when Sy hung up the man said: “I just can’t do it, Sy.”

  “It took all the pull I had to get you on that show. I thought you wanted the publicity.”

  “I don’t need fucking publicity. You calling me a has-been?”

  “I’m not calling you a thing. We need the publicity, okay?”

 
“I don’t need this dump, you know. I can work Vegas for twice the money.”

  “Hey, there’s no need for this.”

  “Yeah, you said it,” said the famous comedian and stomped out.

  “Funny man,” I said.

  “Laugh a minute. Welcome to the end of the world, old buddy. Enjoying yourself? Joan looks great. You, you don’t look so good. We taking good care of you? If not, just let me know. I just can’t get you a back-rub, that’s all, and I can’t get you on Good Morning America. Did you see that guy? Our star attraction this weekend. Begging me to get him on Good Morning America. So I get him on--and it isn’t easy, he is a has-been, you know--and what does he do? Finks out on me.

  “He’s not a has-been for nothing. The smaller they are, I say, the smaller they are. The girl, his co-star, she wants a back-rub. Can’t go on without a back-rub. Ever seen such babies? They’re all babies. Everything’s an emergency with them. Around here every minute it’s the end of the world. But you know that already. So what can I do for you?”

  “This man Ibrahim,” I said, “do you know him?”

  A woman in a serious business suit stepped in and said, “The tee-shirt ad ran with the wrong dates.”

  “Can’t you run a new ad?”

  “We’ll get a make-good but meanwhile we’ll need something, a news release if you get one out.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “ASAP,” she said on her way out.

  “Tee-shirts,” said Sy. “Yes?”

  His secretary was at the door.

  “Lady here says she was assaulted by one of our drivers.”

  Sy shook his head.

  “That’s a security problem. Take her to security.”

  “She’s very upset.”

  “You mean she wants a comp. Give her a buffet. But first take her to security.” Again, the two of us alone, Sy said, “So what can I do for you?”

  The phone rang. “You say your name is what?” Sy asked the caller. “And you’re from what paper? I see. Well send us your request by mail, on New York Times stationery, and we’ll give it our consideration. Frankly, no, I never heard of you. But then, there are many people I never heard of. Same to you.” He hung up and said, “Another reporter from the Times. Wants comped room and meals for a week. He’s from the Times like I’m from the Times. So what can I do for you?”

  “This man Ibrahim, do you know him?”

  “Of course I know him. I know all the high-rollers. That’s my job. Very rich man. By last count he was worth three billion, I said billion dollars. He’s a sultan of some sort. Runs his own country, where it rains oil. Mahareen, I think it’s called, somewhere outside of Iraq. Population about eighty thousand. They’re all cousins. His father was even more wealthy than Ibrahim. Killed in a coup, his father. The coup, between you and me, might have been Ibrahim. Tough man...but educated in all the best European schools. Learned flawless American English in Texas. Spent two years there in military training. Top secret. He lost an eye in a war. Could you tell?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Don’t ask me what war. They’re always having wars, as you know. Holy wars, no less. That woman with him is his wife. I hear he has more back home. Riva is Spanish. Spanish girl. Never says a word, as you’ve noticed. Beautiful but dumb, and I mean dumb in the literal sense. But that’s how they train their women out there in the Middle East. We should only have it so good, know what I mean?”

  “I’d go crazy with a woman like that,” I said.

  “I guess you’re right. I’d go crazy too. So does he, in fact. He’s got a roving eye. Like Freud, American women turn him on. Loves blondes. Aren’t too many blondes out there in the desert. But I’ve never known him to make a real play.”

  I have, I thought.

  Sy gave me a suspicious look when he said that. Or maybe I just thought he did.

  “He collects antique cars,” Sy continued. “Champion polo player. Plays chess. Very good, I understand. Also plays bridge, enters the tournaments. Your basic all-Mahareen billionaire, you know? Comes here once a year for the delights of our town. A Moslem…but drinks when he’s here. Very active in Arab causes but doesn’t hate Jews. Why?”

  “Well you know we got acquainted,” I said.

  “The whole town knows. Everybody knows about the scene at the Versailles. Did he at least give you pocket money for your troubles? Like maybe fifty, and I mean thousand?”

  “No, but of course we had dinner. I introduced you and you acted like strangers.”

  “That was etiquette. It’s presumptuous to know a sultan. What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He’s no phony, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s been known to drop three million in a single night--and walk away as if nothing happened. Why not? While he’s taking a piss his oil wells are recouping that loot. We’ve been trying to get him here for years but he refuses to play at our tables. If he and his cousins brought their business here we wouldn’t be chasing after the tee-shirt trade. Know what I mean?”

  “He’s never been here?” I asked.

  Sy did not like the question.

  “He was here once.”

  “When?”

  “Couple of days ago, in fact. Walked in, looked around, walked out. Didn’t like the feel of the place, I guess. Gamblers go by feel, especially high-rollers, and this man is a high-roller, the highest of the high. Ever have so much money that you can’t lose? Even when you lose you win?”

  “No, Sy. I never had that kind of money.”

  “That’s the thing about this guy. Even when he loses he wins. Is life fair?”

  “For him it is.”

  “Yeah, but not altogether. No man has everything, as we all know. He’s a diabetic. Takes insulin. A doctor travels with him wherever he goes. Part of a very large retinue. You never see them but don’t kid yourself, they’re there. Tell you the truth, Josh, I was surprised, I mean about you and him getting together. I know you fought against them in sixty-seven. I remember how you rushed off to Israel. You’re a flaming Zionist, Joshua.”

  “I don’t hate Arabs, Sy. I only hate them when they hate me.”

  “Spoken like a true Christian. Anything else?”

  No, I thought. Nothing else. Though I still knew nothing about the man Ibrahim. Except for some bio information. There was more to him than that, and less, for sure.

  He was not invincible. He had all the money in the world but only one eye, and for all his power and good looks he had diabetes. So he was not perfect, and in that case I had a chance.

  I had to know that so that I could subdue him, in some way diminish him in Joan’s eyes. Despite her protests, Ibrahim, the romance of Ibrahim, would remain with her even if the man himself departed. Unless I could find the means to rout him. No, Ibrahim would not simply vanish, and I could not allow him to disappear into the Arabian desert carrying Joan’s heart. I had to deal with him here, while he was still reality--and before he could escape and become fantasy.

  I asked Sy how important it was to the Galaxy to have a man like Ibrahim play at its tables.

  “Very important,” he said. “Very, very important. That’s what it’s all about.”

  I asked him what the Galaxy would do to snare a man like Ibrahim.

  “Anything--you name it,” he said.

  I did not know what to name, but I could think of a few things.

  Sy explained that the Galaxy had never been a place for high-rollers. The Versailles, Caesar’s, Resorts, Trump’s--those were the places. But plans were in the works to draw “quality players” to the Galaxy.

  To the Galaxy’s new top man, Roy Stavros, that was priority number one. Architects were already designing separate quarters for hundred-dollar-minimum tables--red drapes, chandeliers, dealers in tuxedos and a hostess for every single player, whatever his whim might be.

  Yes, anything--anything and everything for the high roller.

  What would Sy--my friend Sy--what would he
do to snare the high-rollers? I didn’t ask.

  But he seemed to have heard the unasked question.

  “We’re all prostitutes, Josh. You know that. You weren’t born yesterday.”

  Sy had always been fair with me. When I quit newspapering for the more lucrative speechwriting, he had been there, years ago, to remind me that it was all right--I had not sold out. His way of saying that I had.

  Survival, he had said, that’s what it’s all about. We’ll do anything to survive. Flesh will eat flesh to survive.

  On that I never agreed with him. We’ll do our utmost to survive--but not anything.

  Now I said, “Oh come on Sy. We’re not prostitutes, not all of us. Not even most of us.”

  Sy laughed.

  “Such innocence,” he said. “In this age! From an ex-news guy yet! Don’t you know what goes on? I guess not. In this business at least, we buy people every day. We bring them in by bus, by limo, by plane. We house them. We feed them. We booze them. We baby them. What we’re doing, Josh--what we’re doing is buying them. People are vulnerable, Josh, and I’ll tell you why. They’re vulnerable, because everybody wants something better. You hear that? Everybody wants something better out of life. Nobody, nobody is happy with what he’s got. That’s why we prosper here in this business. We cater to that, to that weakness, to that weakness in everybody--even the Ibrahims of the world.”

  He was giving me the speech he could never write for his own boss, sharing the inner truths that a company PR guy had to swallow, though it was not altogether certain whether he was speaking from rage or from pride or a mixture of both, and he continued: “That’s right, Josh. Everybody thinks he’s been cheated by life. You know that, Josh. You’re no kid. We all think we’ve been gypped. Nobody’s happy with his lot in life, and you know the saying, ‘Who is rich? He who is happy with what he’s got.’ Is anybody?

  “You know and I know that nobody but nobody is happy with what he’s got. It’s never enough. Even people who have it all don’t have enough, and let’s face it, most people really do have nothing. Nothing is a big word but you know what I mean.

  “So, it’s a beautiful situation, don’t you see? I mean for those of us in this business. We’ll never go broke and if a particular casino does go in the red it’s strictly mismanagement because the people are out there, all of them seeking this elusive thing, which, like I said, is a better life.