The Last Bastion

by Peter C. Wensberg

  “Fourth, as a matter of fact. I just might want to come in and talk to you, Seymour. I could use a job. Things have rather,” he searched for the word, “surprised me lately.”

  “Well, don’t come in to talk. Be ready to start. There is a new desktop publishing something or other I want you to look at. Come by on Monday. We are at 95 Milk Street. I own the building myself. I do a little real estate on the side.” He beamed with simple joy at the notion of real estate on the side and bounced out the door.

  The couple returned to their choice of enamel. Owen watched as Seymour squeezed gingerly past Tasha and trotted up Mt. Vernon Street, brass in hand, remarkably agile as always despite his bulk. Paying for the rat poison, the thumbtacks and the tube of sealant, Owen untied his dog and headed home through the Saturday crowd of tourists, sleepy students, and ancient Boston dames. He felt a little lightheaded. He wasn’t sure what venture capital was all about. He should have asked.

  As he tied his necktie in the medicine cabinet mirror Owen frowned. He didn’t exactly save my life, he thought, but he changed it. He made it workable again. “Workable is not quite the same as tolerable,” said Owen aloud. Tasha nudged his knee with her nose, reminding him that she was due six blocks on the Mall before he left for Gland, Hollings Ventures, Incorporated. Owen sighed, remembering he was out of coffee. “Can I make a cup of hot water?” he asked the dog. The answer was clearly no. Owen snapped the leash on the ring of her choke chain and let her pull him through the front door, up the short flight of cement steps into the bright cacophony of the fall morning. It didn’t occur to him to wonder if conversations with his dog were a symptom of something.

  Chapter 5

  Leslie lowered her husky voice so that, in the luncheon clamor of the Dartmouth Street Restaurant, Ann Dormant had to lean forward to hear. “So, he smiles this sort of nice-nasty smile and says, ‘You are one bright little Back Bay bitch.’ Can you believe it? I go, whuh-oa! I do not need this. No sale is this important. There are plenty more where this one came from. Who does he think he is? Or,” she said louder, the rhetorical emphasis lifting her voice to its usual baritone, incongruous from the slender throat and diminutive frame, “more important, who does he think I am?”

  “The Great American Questions,” said Ann, sipping her second glass of house white.

  “I’ll accept the ‘little’ part. God knows I’ve worked hard enough on it.”

  “You look fantastic.”

  “Well, I got down from a ten to a six. It took almost a year of starving myself and drinking nothing but water. And there’s this great class at the BCAE. It concentrates on your behind. That’s the problem area for me. It didn’t do anything for me for the longest time, then it just peeled the pounds off. I’m buying my good things from Albert Fiandaca now. I’ve decided if I work this hard I’m going to make at least one investment a year, maybe two if I hit a big one, and they’re going to be sixes so I can’t backslide.”

  “On your backside.”

  “Right. With that kind of money you take a serious view. I bought a little suit from him the other day. Just very classic tailoring with some nonsense,” she waved her long red nails in the vicinity of her throat, “around the lapels. Beautiful wool and silk in a taupey, grayish, greenie sort of shade with gold buttons. Fifteen hundred. But it’s worth it. I’ll wear it forever.”

  “It sounds adorable.” Ann buttered her second slice of French bread. The noise of the Dartmouth Street echoed around them as Boston’s advertising community tore into the most nouvelle of menus. “Did he apologize?”

  “I should say not. He told me he was giving me a special price because it looked so perfect on me. He said he had me in mind when he designed it. Now that’s not true, because this was only the third or fourth time I had been in there, but I think he meant that my figure and my coloring …”

  “I mean the client. The one that called you a bimbo.”

  “Not a bimbo. I wouldn’t stand still for that either. I’m no bimbo. I’m a very serious person and I am good at what I do. I handled almost three million in residential, well mostly residential, product last year. I think I’d resent bimbo more than the other. Bimbo means dumb in my book.”

  “What does bitch mean in your book?” asked Ann with a smile. Their salads arrived and she dropped her half-gnawed crust of bread on the little plate.

  “I’m not that sure.” Leslie looked up with a question in her dark eyes at her friend, half a head taller and possessed of more than half a college education.

  “A bitch is a female dog. It doesn’t mean dumb, but it is quite demeaning when a man says it.”

  “Does it mean sexy?”

  “When a man says it to you, it probably does.”

  “Fresh ground pepper?” The waiter wrung a cylinder smaller than a baseball bat above their plates.

  “When a woman says it, it means she hates you,” said Leslie with conviction.

  “Quite likely, but this wasn’t a woman.”

  “Damn straight. He’s a hunk. An Italian hunk.”

  “That’s the hunkiest kind, I suppose.”

  “I’m not talking North End here. I’m talking New York. And London. And, you know, Italy.”

  “No guarantee of manners,” said Ann, glancing at the man sitting on the banquette beside her attempting a very hot pizzetta with his fingers and making a poor job of it.

  “Well, his manners were lovely. He just had a rotten mouth. Anyway, I froze him with a look.”

  “Good thinking: Probably more effective than anything you could have said. Then what happened?”

  “Well he was so pleased with the deal. He loves the space. It’s more than two thousand square feet. A penthouse on the water side of Beacon. He said you couldn’t duplicate it in Manhattan for a million. And he is getting it for six twenty, down from six forty-five. With a great river view and an assigned parking space. So he just tried to, like, gloss it over. He was super polite to me after that.”

  “Are you going out with him?”

  “Of course not. What makes you think he asked?”

  “Just a wild guess.”

  “He did suggest dinner. At the Charles Club of all places.”

  “Is he a member?”

  “No. He has guest privileges from some club in New York. A friend of his, Avery Coupon, just joined the Charles. They, the Coupons, moved here from New York about five months ago. I showed them some things around here, but they wound up going to Hamilton. It did start me thinking, though.”

  “About the Italian hunk with the mouth?”

  “No, about the Charles Club. I think I should join.”

  Ann put down her fork and stared across the table, her eyebrows arched in unaccustomed interest. The advertising noise had risen beyond the threshold of communication to levels more suited to self-congratulation and recrimination. “Leslie Sample, what an original idea!”

  “I thought so. It would be good for business.”

  “You know, of course, they do not admit women members.”

  “I suppose not. I really don’t know much about it. I went once last spring for lunch. There were other women there. I went to the ‘Ladies’ Entrance on Hereford.”

  “How did you like the food?”

  “All right. Sort of French, I guess.”

  “You know, of course, that they are being pressured by the MLB?”

  “What’s the MLB?”

  “The Mass. Licensing Board. To admit women.”

  “No, I didn’t. There, you see? I think I’ll apply.”

  “No, my child. You have to get someone to put you up. You can’t just apply. It’s not like the Diner’s Club. But let us consider this more carefully. You know that the Charles Club is populated by one of the prize collections of old farts on the eastern seaboard?”

  “I don’t know any of this, Ann, I told you. Are they all old?”

  “Well, actually not. There are one or two rather choice specimens, now that I think about it. I know of on
e in particular who is just divorced. Then there is a singularly dashing trial lawyer, not young exactly, but not oldish or fartish.”

  “How young is not young?”

  “Young enough to deserve consideration in my humble opinion. So, perhaps your interests are not entirely confined to business?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

  “You’d find a far better selection in any decent health club.”

  “I don’t like to talk when I’m sweaty, do you? I don’t even like sweaty men.”

  “I have not perspired since I left Northampton.”

  “Well, I was thinking basically of meeting people for business, not pleasure.”

  “But we must accept whatever pleasure is placed in our path.”

  “How you talk sometimes.”

  “Yes. Well, you are the one who came up with the idea. How many times have you been married, Leslie?”

  “What has that got to do with anything? Once. Well, not counting the first time when I was still in school.”

  “Why don’t you count that?”

  “Because I don’t. He was just a kid.”

  “What were you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Pregnant, if you must know.”

  “Why was that a problem?”

  “Because I was going to St. Michael’s at the time. I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  Ann Dormant applied herself once more to the remnants of her salad. There was a silence between them, if such a state could be said to exist at the Dartmouth Street. “You could be famous,” she said thoughtfully.

  “I am famous. My picture was on the second page of the Boston Real Estate Journal last week. The rest of the office was livid.”

  “I mean famous beyond your wildest dreams. Famous beyond real estate. Famous beyond Andy Warhol.”

  “He was very famous. The Sphere had his picture on the front page when he died.”

  “I don’t mean as famous as Andy Warhol, I mean famous for more than fifteen minutes. Forget it. I mean famous enough to get your picture in the Sphere without dying.”

  “How?” asked Leslie checking her make-up in a small gold mirror.

  “Fame will be thrust upon the first woman member of the Charles Club.”

  “Well, that’s not why I thought of joining, to get my picture in the Sphere.”

  “Even if you’re wearing the Fiandaca suit?”

  “Well, it’s not the basic reason. Do you want coffee? No? Then let’s go.” As they were retrieving their wraps, a pair of account executives squeezed by. One of them paused to help Leslie slide into her coat. “Love your perfume,” he murmured. Leslie froze him with a look.

  On the sunswept brick sidewalk, as she was about to say goodbye to Ann, Leslie paused and looked at her questioningly. “What are you thinking?”

  “There’s not a feminist bone in your body, is there?” said Ann, hands deep in pockets, staring at her friend.

  “I stick up for my rights. I compete with men,” said Leslie.

  “I know you do. Very successfully, too. The Italian was right. You’d be perfect.”

  “Perfect for what?”

  “Perfect to make history. Don’t worry about it, leave everything to me. I’ll find you a sponsor, an agent provocateur within their ranks. I’m sure I know one, perhaps more than one. Then, when the sands of time have run out for the Charles Club, you will be there to upend the hourglass.”

  “How you talk sometimes.”

  “Yes, don’t I.”

  The two women leaned toward each other, almost touched cheeks and then parted; one bent on business, one pleasure.

  Chapter 6

  Tall, deep-chested, wearing a jacket with ridiculously wide shoulders that hung almost to the hem of her short skirt, blonde straight hair unashamed of dark roots. As he approached her Owen was conscious of ticking off the features of the woman who stood under the big chandelier in the lobby of the Parker House: cheekbones, beautiful legs, a nose. He could not seem to interrupt the inventory. “Excuse me, but are you Demetria Constantine?” She smiled. White teeth—more than the usual complement, Owen thought. He felt himself squinting as into a source of illumination. A wide jaw that makes you more conscious of those cheekbones. He studied the planes of her face, sanded by some master carver in a light smooth wood like birch. He was not sure of the color of her eyes. She looks less like my wife than almost any woman I’ve ever met, said Owen to himself, speaking as it were for the record. He had forgotten that he once thought of his wife—petite, dark, soft—as very beautiful. “I beg your pardon?” he said since he had not heard her reply.

  “Yes,” she repeated in the voice people use for the hearing impaired, “I. Am. She,” her eyes darting a quick glance at the Tremont exit. The opulent lobby was not crowded. An Aer Lingus flight crew chatted quietly as they waited for transportation to Logan, otherwise escape from this cretin would be unimpeded.

  “Have you got the plans?” Owen asked in a strangled voice.

  “What is the password?” They looked at each other for a moment then burst into laughter

  “Martini?”

  “No.”

  “Scotch and soda?”

  “No. If you do not have the password, I cannot give you the plans.” She tightened her grip on a manila file folder tied at the mouth with string.

  “White wine? Margarita? Some kind of stupid water with a stupid lime?”

  “No, no, no.” She started toward the revolving door.

  “Manhattan? Sidecar? Screwdriver? Wine spritzer? Light beer? Dark beer?”

  “None of the above. Only pregnant women drink dark beer.”

  “I’m glad you’re not pregnant”

  “So am I.”

  “Please, may I start over?” Before she could answer he rushed on. “I am Owen Lawrence. I know you were expecting to meet Seymour Gland and deliver some plans for an office building to him. I am an associate of Seymour’s; we’re old friends actually, and he couldn’t get over here, so he asked me to pick them up for him. He said you would be the best-looking girl in the room.”

  “How nice of Seymour. And was he right?”

  Owen glanced around the lobby; except for one of the Irish stewardesses the competition was minimal. “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “He should have told me you were the best-looking girl in Boston.”

  “Oh. Girl?”

  “Could I buy you a drink?”

  “Well, perhaps, since you’re a friend of Seymour’s. But just one. I have a date.” She looked at him thoughtfully.

  “What do you drink?” he asked, as they walked up the stairs to the little bar with the low soft chairs.

  “Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.”

  “What a coincidence,” said Owen, taking her arm. Until now he had never believed much in coincidence.

  The drink had become two drinks. “I’ve really got to be going.” They listened for a moment to the good piano on the balcony over-looking the big dining room. “I told you I had a date.” Waiters were dispensing Parker House rolls to the early diners.

  “When I graduated from Harvard, I didn’t really know what I wanted to do. My father was paying the bills, but he wasn’t much help in pushing me to make up my mind. I suppose parents never are. Or, if they do try to get you to become a dentist, you decide to join the Peace Corps or start a band.”

  “It’s actually not a date, it’s a class.”

  “So, I entered MIT and decided to become an engineer. In a sense, that was my father pushing me. We never talked about it, but it suddenly seemed so obvious to me. He’s an engineer, you see. Not an electrical engineer, but a civil engineer, the kind that builds buildings, bridges, structures like that. I had no interest in civil engineering, but EE at MIT is an exciting, intriguing field. They probably have the best people in the country. Cal Tech, of course, everyone says Cal Tech and Stanford, but my guess is that MIT is actually head …” She stood up.

  “I really ha
ve to go. I’ll be late for my class as it is.”

  “You know, I haven’t even asked you what you do. That’s very Western, you know. Where I come from, the first question people ask is what do you do.”

  “In Boston, the first thing they ask is where do you live.”

  Owen paid the check and picked up their coats. “Well, what do you do, and where do you live?”

  “I’m a lawyer and I live in Brookline.”

  “You’re a lawyer and you’re still going to class?”

  “Yes, at the Boston Center for Adult Education.”

  “I know where that is. On Commonwealth. It’s just a couple of blocks from where I live. Can I drop you? We’ll grab a cab.” He knew he was babbling. She had hardly said a word, hardly been given the opportunity. He had a strong sense of playing the fool. In the cab heading up over the Hill Owen made a conscious effort to let this creature speak. “What class are you taking?”

  “Great Buns.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Great Buns. It’s an exercise class.”

  “Should be teaching it,” muttered the Irish cabbie who had watched her climb aboard.

  “I thought you said Great Books.”

  “We all have our priorities. In fact, I took that at Boston University. Right here.” The cab pulled up, double parked as she stepped out. Owen mentally agreed with the driver. “Thank you for the drink, Owen. Drinks. You’ve ruined me for aerobics tonight, I’m afraid, but I enjoyed it.”

  “I’m sorry I did all the talking. I really wanted to hear about you. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It was interesting. But you could use a workout yourself. You’re very tense.”