by Deforest Day
Mac gave her a key to the box because he needed a partner he could trust with the cash. She wanted a diesel pickup because they could write it off. Honey wanted cartoon graffiti because she was Honey.
They had just assumed she'd go to college, earn a business degree, then an MBA, and be ready to run H. Poitrine & Associates a decade down the road. The argument came to a head six weeks earlier, when her classmates were filling out applications and visiting campuses.
Mags was having none of it, telling him, “Mom went to college, and you didn’t. I rest my case.”
Honey, stung, told her college was where you met the people who matter, and Mags shot back. “Like my father?”
Mac stepped in, seeing the two headstrong gals in his life were going down the same dead-end road they'd already worn a rut in. “The Germans have a name for it. Wanderjahr. Let's give Mags one, working for us, and then we'll talk about it again.”
He transferred three more packs from the box to a First Union National Bank deposit bag, zipped it shut. Maybe she was right about skipping college. He sensed she was ready. Her mom had needed tutoring; blonde hair and blue eyes are always an asset in the male realm, but at some point you have to fish or cut bait. Mac has been teaching Mags how to fish since she was twelve. “Bring home the change.”
“You don’t know how it frosts my socks, donating to that weasel. Pro war and anti everything else. Abortion, gay rights, immigration reform; you name it, he’s agin it.”
“The only thing that matters is he brings home the bacon to our district. Congressman Varnish sits on the Appropriation Committee.”
“I know, I know, Daddy Mac. Play ball, what goes around, yadda yadda. I still hope he goes down this November. Hey, that gives me an idea. I wonder if I could find a way to give him a hummer on hidden camera?”
Mac blushed. “Let’s not go there. Comments like that can be misinterpreted.” When she was twelve he thought her double entendres were cute. At eighteen they made him uncomfortable. “The five for EMILY will do far more good, and your Mother and I are also donating to the woman running against him. Either way, the status will remain quo. Are you taking your new car?”
“No. I'm gonna invite some of my hockey teammates to go along, so I'll use some of this dough to hire a limo.” She shoved the cash in a shirt pocket, buttoned the flap, and looked down. “My boobs are lopsided.”
In spite of himself, he dropped his eyes.
Chapter Three
During the drive from the job site to the bank Honey's fevered imagination replayed scenes from her first marriage, when her husband rehabbed his knee with Kama Sutra videos. Beau said his teammates swore by it; kept the hamstrings and ligaments loose.
Mags—supple, lithe, captain of the field hockey team—would have little trouble submitting herself to the depraved contortions of a slavering pervert. That Mac was plain vanilla in bed was beside the point. Logic was not her strong suit.
Honey parked askew in front of the bank, yanked the bronze handle of the plate glass door, and charged inside. The rapid swish of nylon pantyhose was drowned out by the staccato clatter of her Manolo spikes echoing off the walls.
Heads turned as she barreled across the floor. Customers at the teller’s windows turned and watched in awe as the aging beauty stopped beneath the great bronze chandelier, and screamed, “Mac McClintock! I saw your car in the lot! Where the devil are you, you son of a biscuit?”
President Collander sequestered Honey and Mac in his office, and closed the door to muffle her diatribe.
He then sent his manager-designate, an earnest young man from Wales, and recently arrived to learn the ways of banking in rural America, to assuage the customers with free pens and calendars.
“Who is that babe?” the Welshman wondered, unaccustomed to the ways of NOW, NARAL, and EMILY's List.
“That’s Honey Poitrine, titular head of the company that bears her name.”
“And very nice titulars they are, too.”
“I’d keep that to myself, if I were you, young man. Poitrine and Associates runs several hundred grand a month through First Union. And more to come, as the redevelopment of the riverfront progresses.”
“I thought Mr. McClintock ran the company.”
“He does; that’s why you see him in here all the time, moving money around half a dozen accounts. Ms. Poitrine's the name on the letterhead, because the government loves female-owned businesses.”
Honey dropped into the bank president’s high-backed chair, soft as a feather-filled futon, and hydraulically adjustable in three directions. “I just saw Mags fly out of here in her new car. That oddball at the job site said the two of you were kissing.”
It was a second unit director who taught her to cry, when they were shooting a commercial for a funeral home, and the prop mistress couldn't find the Vicks.
Stare, don't blink, and if there's a bright light, focus on it. Your eyes get dry, the tears come. She found the morning sun shining through the window, and used it.
After a moment, she sighed, and turned to her husband, as tears streamed down her cheeks. She carefully blotted them with her designer scarf, preserving the mascara. “Give me the truth, Mac. Am I a woman scorned?”
Mac perched his hip on the edge of a walnut slab the size of a ping-pong table. A year earlier the ancient tree had been felled to accommodate the new drive-thru window. The banker, married to a local historian, and therefore sensitive to the environmental concerns of his depositors, commissioned the desk.
He flirted with you can't handle the truth, but said, “Youthful exuberance, Honey. Besides, when you give someone a fifty thousand dollar birthday gift, the least you can expect is a kiss.”
Even if it was a bit more than a friendly peck. Mags was irrepressible; had been since the day they met, when she conned him out of twenty bucks. He considered telling his wife the apple does not fall far from the tree, but he needed to get on the road to Harrisburg, and another pointless fight was something he could ill afford, with Friday looming.
The butter-soft chair had a soothing effect on Honey, and the fire in her eyes banked to smoldering embers as she realized she was over-acting.
“Well, thank the Lord you had enough sense to wait until she turned eighteen. I couldn't stand the shame of having my husband stand trial for statutory kissing.” She toyed with a letter opener on Collander's desk, an antique from an age before email.
Honey wasn't about to give up the incident without getting something in return. But first she needed to nail down her position. “Just don’t get any ideas of trading me in for a newer model. And what’s this trophy wife tale you told that weirdo?”
“That weirdo saved my hide twenty years ago, and I owe him. Spider’s on medication, and he acts a little funny, but he knows demolition. Unlike the last bozo, who thought setting up firework shows at county fairs qualified him to handle Class A explosives. A week after I hired him he blew his hand off. He thought Primacord had the same 30 seconds a foot burn rate as pyrotechnic fuse.”
“That’s all very well, and I don’t care a cat’s whisker about the nuts and bolts of the business. That’s your department. Now answer the question. What’s this trophy wife nonsense? I thought it was a young tootsie who sat around all day on her tush, painting her toenails.”
He wanted to say you go to the spa once a week, have them do the nails, and the hair, and the facial, and God knows what else. The day she came home talking about protection from free radicals he thought she was referring to some of Mag’s Code Pink pals just released on bail.
Instead he gave Honey his most infectious smile. “A term of endearment. A compliment, Honey. It’s a shorthand way of bragging to a guy like Spider.”
“I find it demeaning. And I don’t appreciate you discussing me with the employees, one way or the other.” Now that she'd put him in his place, it was time to discuss the reason she'd looked for him at the job site. “By the way, I need twenty thousand dollars.” She paused, decided the kiss
meant she was strong enough to up the ante. “I mean forty.”
“Forty thousand bucks. What is it this time?”
“We discussed it at dinner last night. I'm going to purchase two Keith Haring prints, hang them in the foyer. They’ll make a statement to our guests, a tasteful first impression.”
She moved the argument from what she wanted to what the company needed. “Remember that awful article in the Times? We have to think of the company's image, Mac. The future; after we're finished in this God-forsaken Pennsylvania backwater.”
She carved the air with the letter opener; showing him she was armed with more than feminine logic. “I can hardly hold my head up at the conventions, when people like Frank Gehry ask me what we do."
He wanted to say Gehry's buildings look a lot our piles of scrap after we're finished tearing one down, but stayed focused on two dimensional art. “Haring. That’s the book you showed me? The cartoons? Subway graffiti?”
“Oh, you’re such a philistine. Maybe you’ll understand this. The dealer assures me they'll appreciate in value, since Keith’s dead and not painting any more. Think of them as an investment.”
“Uh huh. Well, it’s not going to happen today, dear, because things are tight right now. Let’s talk about it after Friday.”
“What's Friday got to do with it?”
“That’s when the Iron Works comes down, and the Redevelopment Authority releases the two point three million bucks. And it better come down on schedule, because there’s a ninety grand penalty for every day it’s still standing. That’s why you can’t have any money for art today.”
“Yet Mags gets a car.”
“The BMW was your idea. A diesel pickup is more appropriate for the work she’s been doing as H. Poitrine’s newest Associate.”
“That’s another bone I have to pick with you. It’s not lady-like, her driving all over God’s creation, paying the contractors. She should be working with me, dealing with the people who matter.
“Can you believe she turned down a chance to meet the governor, when we did the golden shovel thing? And she refuses to let me take her shopping in New York, buy some decent clothes. All those weird T-shirts she wears. ‘I can’t even think straight’. And what’s with her latest one? ‘Let go of my ears, I know what I’m doing’?”
“I haven't a clue,” he said, anxious to change the subject. Was Honey really that out of touch? “Delivering payroll puts her in contact with the everyday aspects of the operation. If she's going to take the reins someday, then she should learn it from the ground up. There'll be plenty of opportunities for her to rub elbows with politicians.” Mac couldn’t resist a sly dig.
“Since your spa day is so important, I'm sending Mags to meet with our congressman, for some on-the-job training. Afterwards she's is going to K Street, to deliver a donation to EMILY’s List.”
“Who’s this Emily; another one of your trophies?”
“No, Honey; it’s not a who, it’s a what. Early Money Is Like Yeast. Because it helps raise the dough? They support Pro Choice candidates. Like the gal you and I are backing this November.”
“What? I didn’t realize she was pro-abortion. You know how I feel about that. Just one time Beau and I did the nasty without protection, and Magnolia was the result. When things went all to Hades after his knee injury, I could have ended the pregnancy, but Beau said he wasn't gonna pay for it, so I chose Life.”
Mistake number two; number one being Beaufort Scayles himself. He took her back to Biloxi, rehabbed his knee with beer, porn, and working weekends as a rodeo clown, explaining a thousand-pound Brahma bull was quicker ‘n’ meaner than any defensive back.
When she’d suggested trying out for NFL Europe, he countered with the argument there were too many foreigners over there, didn't speak a lick of American.
Then Beau took over the pre-owned operation at his daddy’s Toyota dealership, sent his wife out to shake her pom poms at passing cars.
And shake she did, until the baby was out of diapers, and into walking and talking. That’s when Honey decided to divorce Beau and get on with her life.
In the settlement she received a new Camry and a coupon book for oil changes and tire rotation, and Honey and Magnolia were off to Hollywood, California. In America, you keep reinventing yourself until you get it right.
As it turned out her California Dreamin' became Viva Las Vegas. Sometimes you seize the moment, she thought, eyeing Mac with mixed emotions, and sometimes the moment seizes you. Tina Turner whispered in her ear, asking what's love got to do with it? She sighed. Capitulate now, and use it as a marker for future wants. “Can I at least tell Luigi to put the Harings aside until after your Friday blast?”
Chapter Four
“So, we gonna go call on this Poitrine outfit, or what?” George Glum carefully slid the cardboard carton beneath the table, centering it between his steel-toed brogans, and settled his bulk on the chair.
His right eye winked twice, an exaggerated blink. It was a nervous tic, resulting from a drunken donnybrook with a mook over a gash.
In addition to a fractured skull, he’d drawn sixty-two months for Man One, having caused grievous and mortal injury to his rival with similar footwear. He was out now; the shoes were still in some evidence locker, gathering dust.
It turned out she wasn't worth it. The broad wasn't waiting at the prison gate when he walked out with a new pair of shoes, and a new set of skills learned from his cell mate.
The partners were seated against the wall, at a table for two, its top the size of a large pizza. The chairs were French bistro, chromed wire and pressed wood contrivances, too small for the average American behind.
Nature’s Bounty, a weeds and seeds eatery in the food court of Susquehanna Place, made its margin on volume. George's partner had already noted that volume, and had run a rough computation of the cash flow.
“Never mind readin' the menu,” George said. “We ain't here to eat, Harry. When are we gonna pay Poitrine a visit?” A chance to mix it up with burly truck drivers held more interest than this crowd of tree huggers.
“In due time,” Harry Merkle replied. He removed his suede Kangol, ran his hand across his thinning scalp, and replaced the cap. His Adam’s apple danced above a polka-dot bow tie and tattersall shirt, attire calculated to set potential clients at ease. “Haste makes waste, George. Prior planning prevents piss-poor performance.”
“If ya say so.” George left the planning to his partner. His job was carrying it out.
Harry explained, “I cased the venue this morning. Chain link security fencing, only one gate for the trucks, equipment, which bodes well for our visitation. We pull your Escalade across it, and activity comes to a halt.” Harry smiled. “A line of dump trucks, idling at a hundred dollars an hour.”
He unfolded a single sheet of paper, ran his finger down a list of the mall’s tenants. “But first we shall deal with Nature’s Bounty. As Sun Tzu wrote, ‘plunder a fertile country to supply the army with plentiful provisions’.”
George worked his way down a menu. “Yeah, well, check out these provisions. Tofu and Sprouted Alfalfa in a Whole Wheat Pita Pocket. Quishy Lorraine, Falafel Istanbul.” He turned, looked at tables filled with mall shoppers grabbing a quick lunch. “People actually eat this shit?”
A waiter materialized; white shirt, black trousers, an ankle-length apron for a Parisian touch. He quickly decided Harry would pick up the check. “My name is Bruce, and I’ll be your server. Today’s special is an Egg White omelet, with Arugula and Porcini Mushrooms.”
Harry glanced at his menu, said, “I’ll try this kwichy. And a Lapsang Infusion, whatever that might be.”
The waiter jotted Harry’s order. “The quiche. Very good, sir.” He turned to George, who’d had a rough night, couldn’t face normal food, let alone this goat fodder. A hair of the dog might take the edge off. “Just a beer. Whatever ya got on draft.”
“We don’t serve alcoholic beverages, sir.”
“A C
oke, Pepsi.”
“Sorry. We have still and sparkling spring water, green tea, iced and hot, organic lemonade with honey. And our Papaya Supreme; that’s-”
“Glass of water, couple aspirins. Tylenol, Excedrin. Anything but them stinkin’ Midols.”
As Bruce turned away Harry said, “And tell Lester Twill we’ll have a word.” After the waiter left Harry asked, “Did you pick up our coop de grace, George?”
“If you mean my little friends here, yeah, I stopped by the landfill, slipped the peckerwood a sawbuck, cleaned out his inventory.” He pointed a finger under the table. “Only three, but oughta do the trick.” He nudged the box with a toe. The box nudged back. “I don’t see why I always get stuck with the shitty part of the job.”
“Do I detect a hint of umbrage? A disgruntled compatriot? You’re not bringing your extracurricular activities to our enterprise, are you?”
“Jesus, will ya quit with the verbularity. Half the time I got no clue what yer talkin 'bout.”
“That’s because I used my time in penal servitude wisely. I exercised my mind, perusing the tomes in the library, while you were developing the latissimus dorsi, the biceps, the gluteus maximus that you so proudly display.”
“Yeah, and ya thought my latimus whatchamacallits were pretty useful, keepin’ your ass pure in there, Harry. Plus, I ain’t heard no complaints about my use of those muscles since we was released. Am I right, or am I right?”
“Yes, of course, and my pristine sphincter thanks you daily, as I go about my matinal ablutions. Speaking of morning, why the need for aspirin?”
“Ahh, I was over to my brother’s last night, watch some wrasslin', crush a few cans. And I confess I stomped on a few too many. So I gets this freakin’ headache ya wouldn’t believe.
“I goes upstairs, their bathroom, find somethin’ for it. And my-sister-in law is fartin’ around in there, puttin’ this cream on her face, makes her look like one of those whattayacallits. Mimes.