The Girls of Cincinnati

by Jack Engelhard

  “Everything you say is true, Fat Jack. You’re correct on all counts.”

  He wasn’t poking me in the chest or twisting my tie. He was truly upset.

  “You know I can’t let you do this,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “It isn’t fair to the COMPANY, you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  He stared at me. I stared at him.

  “But if I know you, Eli, you are going to DEFY me.”

  “I think so.”

  “Of course,” he said. “You’re in charge upstairs. I don’t HAVE to know what’s going on. Catch my drift?”

  “Aha.”

  “I mean if you keep calling Covington, I don’t have to know that, so long as nobody tells me.”

  “Who’s to tell?”

  He grabbed me by the shoulders. He whispered, “One week. I give you one week.”

  * * *

  Mona said Lou had called while I was downstairs. He sounded very bad.

  “Wanted to talk to you in a hurry,” she said. “He’ll be calling back any minute.”

  Had he finally run somebody over? Without a license?

  “He was out of breath.”

  “But he’s always out of breath.”

  “Not like this, Eli.”

  She shook her head.

  I shook my head.

  She sighed.

  I sighed.

  “Lou, Lou, Lou,” I said.

  “I know what you mean,” Mona said.

  I waited for his phone call. Finally it came. This was the story: He was out in that Northwood development, some 20 miles from Harry’s Carpet City, and he couldn’t move. He had been measuring this new house. The first floor went okay, but then, walking up the steps, he had collapsed. He crawled back down and made it to the phone.

  “I’m dizzy,” he said. “Can you come get me? I’m afraid to drive.”

  Was it another stroke? I asked. Another heart attack?

  “Dizzy,” he said. “Very dizzy. Please come get me.”

  “Can you give me directions?”

  He tried, but he was all mixed up.

  I said I’d call an ambulance.

  “Please don’t. I’ll be finished. Fat Jack’ll never let me go out again. You know he won’t. Don’t do this to me, pal. Just pick me up, is all I ask. I’ll be all right. I just need to rest. Are we pals?”

  He did manage to give me the address.

  “Please hurry.”

  I ran down two steps at a time. Fat Jack was busy with a customer, which was good.

  I dashed to the parking lot where my car was and as I was about to put my key into the ignition a hand hit my shoulder.

  “Where’s the fire?”

  I tried to lie but Fat Jack knew all the lies. He was a salesman. So I told the truth.

  He slipped in on the shotgun side.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Good thing, too, that he was coming along, because I really had no idea where this place was, me and my terrible sense of direction, which had earned me the nickname Magellan.

  “You’d have been heading SOUTH without me,” Fat Jack said.

  “I know where I’m going.”

  He took that philosophically. “Where the hell ARE we going, Eli? Here’s a guy who may be dead by now on account of a CARPET sale.” I’d never heard Fat Jack disparage carpet. You never knocked the product. “Here I am,” he continued in a reflective vein, “married, and I was paying a hundred bucks a week for a piece of strange pussy. Where the hell am I going? Where the hell are YOU going, Eli?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Fat Jack.”

  “You’re a boiler room flunky! That’s all you are! Ever think about it in those terms? You’re not an ACTOR. You’re not on BROADWAY. You’re on VINE STREET. You’re not married to Stephanie Eaton. You don’t even know where she is! You’ll end up marrying on of those two-bit Covington broads. Worse, NEWPORT! You’ll have a house-full of LINOLEUM! You’ll go BOWLING Saturday nights. That’s where you’re going. You had your chance. You’re a fucking failure.”

  “Are you a success, Fat Jack?”

  “Yeah I’m a success. I’m manager of Harry’s Carpet City. I make one hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year, plus commission. I got a house in the suburbs. My wife golfs in the CLUB. My kids go to private school. I have a gardener.”

  “And you’ve been paying for strange pussy.”

  “Well – YOU tell me what that means?”

  “It means you’re a bigger loser than I am.”

  “You’re probably right, Eli. You’re probably right.”

  “Harry Monocle,” I said. “He’s a success.”

  “Oh yeah? He stays late in his office upstairs, sometimes till midnight. You want to know why? Because he hates going home. He hates his wife. His wife hates him. Their daughter hates them both. He hasn’t talked to Sasha in five years. SIX years. He despises his wimp son-in-law. For all his millions, Harry DOESN’T EVEN HAVE A HOME!”

  It wasn’t often that we talked like this.

  “Harry’s whole life has been carpet,” Fat Jack said, “and making money, and look where it’s got him! Where’s HE going? I don’t think he’s got a friend in the world. Carpet, carpet, carpet. Sell, sell, sell. So our wives can walk around in mink coats – and then you die. Like Old Lou, that poor son of a bitch. What the hell does HE live for?”

  “Carpet, carpet, carpet. Sell, sell, sell.”

  “I think, between you and me, he wanted to kill himself. That’s what I think, Eli.”

  “He ain’t dead yet.”

  “He knew he was driving himself into the ground. Measuring a house a day. In HIS condition. Now you tell me!”

  “I think somebody was trying to kill him.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. How did he get hold of that Quality list anyway?”

  “How did you know he had it?” I asked.

  “Eli – I know EVERYTHING. Everything.”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Well, we’ll find out. That’s who killed him.”

  “Why do you keep saying he’s dead?”

  “My instincts say he is. Did you know he was once our top salesman?”

  “So you’ve told me.”

  “You know what we used to call him? Iron Man. He could go out on seven calls a day. He was one mean HUNGRY son of a bitch. Did you know he had a wife? A son? He’ll never talk about them and no one knows what happened. Man works his balls off all his life to come to THIS?”

  Which was exactly what the preacher said, if not in so many words. Only a few salesmen attended the funeral service. Morris Silver was there; the Big Three couldn’t make it, they were out on calls. Mona was there and so was Harry Himself, and that would have made Lou proud. Fat Jack was there, of course.

  The preacher said that we should not think of Lou Emmett as he had been the last few years. Forget THIS man, he said, pointing to the casket. Try to remember THAT man, the earlier, the younger, the vibrant Lou Emmett. Forget the man who had been broken by illness. Think back…

  Later, outside, I asked the preacher what he was talking about. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but Lou HAD been vibrant. Even if not, I still want to remember Lou as he was in the end. There was NOTHING WRONG with him. A heart attack and a stroke crippled him? So what? Did that make him less of a man than you or me? What was wrong with him in the end that would make you say we should forget him?”

  “You misunderstand me.”

  “There was nothing wrong with Lou.”

  “You misunderstand me.”

  “You insulted him.”

  “You misunderstand me.”

  Fat Jack stepped in and pried me away.

  As we drove back to Harry’s Carpet City, Fat Jack said, “You misunderstood this guy.”

  “He didn’t even know Lou. Lou never went to church. He never got close to a preacher, unless it was to measure his living room. He had no right talking about
Lou the way he did. I kept worrying he’d call him by some other name. The guy probably does a funeral a week. You think he really knows who’s in the box? You think he really cares? To the rest of us it’s a funeral. To him, you know what it is? It’s another SALE!”

  Fat Jack cracked up laughing. He was close to tears.

  Maybe he wasn’t laughing.

  Chapter 28

  I paid a visit to Stone Kiley of Seats Galore, the recliner king, the guy who had developed the Quality list Lou had borrowed or found or stolen. Stone Kiley reminded me of a pool sharp, slicked back hair, mustache, raspy voice, wise-guy slouch, not at all your basic Cincinnatian – and that name, Stone Kiley, and that death-hold handshake, and that room-full of hunting trophies, and that hustler friendliness. Some guy.

  He offered me a tour of his boiler room but I declined. I knew what a boiler room looked like. He said he had 30 girls working for him pitching everything from recliners to insurance to siding. He was very proud of his operation. He had a very fancy office. His air conditioning worked. I asked him if he knew about Lou.

  Yes he did and he was so sorry. “Lou used to be the best.”

  He asked how Mona was. He knew Mona. Her mother-in-law worked for him.

  “Some day I’ll steal her from you,” he joked about Mona.

  “Did Lou steal those leads from you?” I caught him off guard.

  “What’s the difference?” He shrugged. “Lou’s dead.”

  I suggested murder.

  “Oh?” He chuckled. “And who made you a cop?”

  “Just nosy,” I said.

  “Man ought to watch where he sticks his nose. Hey, I’m a busy man. What do you want?”

  “I notice you’re on the board of directors of Northwood Development Corporation.”

  “You NOTICE? How do you NOTICE?”

  It was really quite simple. Even after Lou’s funeral I couldn’t bury him, in my mind. I knew he had been murdered…this business of giving him all those houses to measure…what was that? Maybe not in the strictest sense of the word, and maybe not in the eyes of the law, but it was murder. One phone call clinched it; routine request to the public relations office of Northwood Development Corporation for its annual report on the pretense that I was interested in buying a house and wanted to know more about the company. I knew I’d find the name there, and there it was all right, Stone Kiley.

  “You have evidence?” he said.

  “You were going to get even with Lou for stealing that list from you so you fixed it that he got that Northwood deal. You had a cripple on your hands. A stroke victim. So you were going to work him to death…give him all those homes to measure…ONE A DAY.”

  “That’s evidence? I never touched the guy.”

  “No, you had the manager of Northwood, that guy Cliff Roberts, make him the deal. But it was YOU.”

  “Maybe it was. I was doing Lou a FAVOR. Maybe I LIKED Lou. I told you I liked Lou. So I was gonna do him a favor. Gave him all the business. A salesman’s DREAM. You gonna have the cops arrest me for giving a salesman TOO MUCH business? Tell that to a judge! Tell it to a jury!”

  “But we both know that you killed him.”

  “Suppose you’re right? Sue me. Take me to court. Now get the fuck out of here.”

  He got up. I got up.

  I clenched my fists.

  “You can’t touch me,” he said.

  “Maybe I can take you to court…”

  “I said you can’t touch me – and you know what I’m talking about.”

  No I didn’t, unless he knew about that other thing. Logically that was impossible. But you had to account for this mysterious business of people knowing things about you that they weren’t supposed to know. There were no secrets.

  “Now get the fuck out of here before I call the cops.”

  I counted my choices and came up with zero.

  Chapter 29

  When I got back to the boiler room Mona said she had a lead on Sonja. Mona had called this number and the woman on the other end began to laugh and then finished the spiel, even using the word SUPERLATIVE. Then she hung up. Mona couldn’t say for sure that it was Sonja’s voice because, truth be told, she said, she and the other girls had lost their sense of voice-detection, as drink and food tasters eventually lose their sense of taste from overindulgence.

  I dialed the number and the voice said: “Very clever, Eli.”

  “Sonja?”

  “Have you been looking for me?”

  “I’ve been looking for Stephanie.”

  “I know. Wayne told me.”

  “Where is she?”

  “How would I know, Eli. You fired me, remember?”

  “Weren’t you with her?”

  “Yes I was. We had a long talk. She’s some girl, Eli. Too bad.”

  “What’s too bad?”

  “Oh you don’t know. Stephanie had an accident.”

  I gulped without saliva.

  “Did you hurt her?”

  “I can’t hear you, Eli. You’ll have to speak up. Have you lost your voice?”

  “Did you hurt her?”

  “Nobody hurts anybody. Everything’s preordained. How many times have I told you that? It’s destiny.”

  “Where is she?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She’s home. She’s been home. I think you should see her, Eli – the real Stephanie.”

  * * *

  I called Stephanie’s house. The same story. Her mother assured me that Stephanie was staying at a friend’s.

  I didn’t believe her, of course.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” I said.

  “We’re talking,” her mother said.

  “I’d like to come over.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I know Stephanie is there, Mrs. Eaton.

  She hung up.

  Chapter 30

  That night Maishe phoned from a sorority house.

  “Let’s talk,” he said.

  “Can it wait?”

  “We have to talk.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Meet you in half an hour.”

  We arranged to meet at Maxy’s. There was a strange urgency in his voice, over the phone, strange for Maishe, who was never urgent about anything, never even had a phone for that reason. He’d argue that nobody ever really needed a telephone, nothing was ever really that important, except maybe once in a lifetime. This sounded like that once-in-a-lifetime.

  As I walked over to Maxy’s a half hour later I realized that this was the first time I dreaded seeing Maishe. He obviously had information. The streets of Mount Adams were quiet and it was an impossibly hot, muggy day. So much had changed over the past few years, ever since the PCs, the Politically Correct moved in and took over and mowed the lawns and manicured the dogs, their neat BMW’s parked in front of the slopes. I also wore tennis shoes but mine were REALLY torn. You live in a place too long and soon YOU become the stranger.

  I walked very slowly because nobody is in a hurry to hear unpleasant news. As long as you don’t know a person is dead, that person is still alive.

  I needed to keep Stephanie alive.

  “Have a drink,” said Maishe.

  “I don’t want a drink.”

  “Have a drink.”

  I ordered a screwdriver. Maishe was losing his hair, I noticed more and more. Maishe was aging. I looked at Maishe, I saw myself. He still had his looks, but time was running out. One thing was sure gone, that cockiness. Even that casualness was getting a bit studied. Was he getting stocky? I didn’t know. You see a person so often you can’t tell the changes so readily. But he seemed to be getting husky.

  He asked me if I believed that bit of wisdom which insists that everything is for the best.

  Even the greatest tragedy.

  I was quick with that one. I said a real sign of maturity was when you no longer believed everything was for the best.

  “T
hen I have very bad news for you,” he said.

  Wrinkles on his brow. Crows feet under his eyes.

  “Stephanie is dead,” I said.

  “No,” he said. He lit a cigarette but without the usual flair. He used to have a way with a cigarette.

  “Then what can be so bad – and how come you know things that I don’t?”

  “Stephanie’s mother called me.”

  “Why you and not me?”

  “Let me finish. She didn’t want to talk to you because…”

  “Because she hates my guts.”

  “LET ME FINISH, for fuck’s sake.” Maishe never swore. That was one of his charms. “Because she knows you’re in love with Stephanie and I’m just a friend. So she confided in me, as a friend. All right?”

  “Confided what?”

  “Eli, you’re not going to take this well. I know you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Stephanie’s been disfigured.”

  I nodded. I felt nothing. I felt stiff and hard and cold.

  Disfigured. What did that mean? What the hell did that mean?

  “Did you hear me?”

  I nodded. I heard the roar of a motorcycle outside. Made me wince. I hated noise. Too much noise in this world lately. What are we trying to drown out?

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Disfigured. Yeah. I heard you.”

  “Snap out of it, Eli. You have to take this.”

  “How bad?”

  “Eli…”

  “How bad?”

  “Give me a CHANCE, Eli! You think I like this? I’ve been living with it for days. I had to tell you today because her mother said she couldn’t put you off any longer. So that’s why it had to be today. But I’ve known about it…”

  “How bad?”

  “Permanent.”

  “There’s surgery,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’ll help some, and you know she’ll get the best treatment. But she won’t be the same. Not even close.”

  I knew better. I knew there was surgery. They did miracles these days.