Other people

by Sol Stein

  "No good?" he questioned, as if to say how can spaghetti not be good.

  "Marvelous," said George. "Check, please."

  George overtipped, and we both skipped out of the place, and once in the street, hand in hand, ran back to the house and to bed. I didn't think I could have another orgasm, but I did, I did.

  Sunday morning we were awake at dawn. It felt as if the rest of the world had disappeared. I pulled down the covers and addressed George's organ. "This," I said, "is a day of rest." All I did was tap it on the head to make my point, but I could see it stirring. "Lie still," I told it, patting it down. It wouldn't listen, thickening. "It's Sunday," I said, touching the rim of the corona, circling it as one does the rim of a martini glass. And there it was, instant yeast, the veined mast twanging up to its full height.

  "A day of rest," I said to the unmoving George, as I got up to lower myself unto him, then raised myself, then lowered again, riding him first in fun and then in fury as the shudders came and I collapsed on top of him.

  I was still lying half over him when we later woke.

  "They shoot horses, don't they?" said George, and I had to laugh, even though I hadn't seen the movie.

  I told him about the Tuesday radio show and invited him to hold my hand. "Not literally," I said, "they'll probably make you sit somewhere behind the glass, but you can watch me show off with Butterball."

  "Have you ever been on the radio?" he asked.

  "Nope."

  "Aren't you nervous?"

  "Only about us."

  "What about us?"

  "Continuing."

  His kiss caught me by surprise.

  "Sated?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "I had an idea."

  "No more."

  "No, a different idea. How would you like to get out of being the star witness at Koslak's trial?"

  "I said I would do it."

  "What if you didn't need to?"

  "I'm not going to let that bastard off."

  "Suppose I was able to guarantee a jail sentence for him without a trial?"

  "You planning a dictatorship?"

  "I want to try something."

  "Who's stopping you?"

  To me, after all those days and nights of lovemaking, he seemed unstoppable.

  Forty

  Thomassy

  To avoid getting into an Alphonse-Gaston routine, I went to see Brady in his office.

  "An honor," said Brady.

  "Sure," I said.

  I asked him if Koslak meant anything special to him.

  "A fee."

  "Period?"

  "Period."

  "What do you think Koslak will get?"

  Brady laughed. "An easier piece of ass the next time. What can I do for you, Thomassy?"

  "I'm not prosecuting the case. Lefkowitz is."

  "Too bad in a way. Some people around the courthouse might pay to see a Brady-Thomassy play-off." Brady's face suddenly lost all expression. "I've seen that punk kid work. I'll get Koslak an acquittal or probation easy."

  "Not if you have any ballsy women on that jury."

  "Look, Thomassy, you know I'm not going to have any women on that jury. I got a little something worked up that won't even use up my peremptories. You come around. You'll enjoy it."

  "I'd like to let you in on a little of my strategy."

  "Lefkowitz's."

  "Mine. Lefkowitz is going to be my Charlie McCarthy on this case."

  "Good trick if you can do it. One step out of line and I'll have you removed from the courtroom for interference. By the judge, of course."

  "I'm tutoring Lefkowitz."

  "Sure."

  He was wanting to hear but not to show it.

  "I've got an expert witness."

  "Look, Thomassy, I'm bored with all that psychiatrist shit. I'll tear him to pieces."

  "I didn't have a psychiatrist in mind. I think the jury needs to understand the difference between seduction and rape, between normal sex and abnormal sex."

  "And?"

  "My expert is Anna Banana. The subpoena will read Anna Smith. You know this expert?"

  Brady had the no-expression curtain on his face, but he couldn't immobilize the small, dancing tic near his upper lip. He picked up a paper clip and opened it into a single not very straight piece of wire. Finally, he said, "What's that to me?"

  "I'm planning to have her files subpoenaed, too. There'll be a connection."

  "You're bluffing. You'll never get her on the stand."

  "Lefkowitz has a law school classmate in the Manhattan D.A.'s office. This friend has quite a file on Anna Banana, but Lefkowitz's friend has generously arranged for the lady to continue her eccentric livelihood. It seemed an important consideration to her, which is why we expect her to testify gladly. For a fee. I'm quite convinced her expertise in what is normal is based on more professional experience than most psychiatrists have. She's got quite a bit to say about men who, say, rape instead of paying for their special requirements."

  "You finished, Thomassy?"

  "There's a second and more expensive witness. However, my client is willing to foot the bill from Amsterdam."

  I was certain Brady was thinking where he could get my arms and legs broken for a price.

  "Oh," I said, "and of course Lefkowitz will be calling Dr. Koch."

  "That son of a bitch!"

  "Why'd you say that?"

  "I heard he was a son of a bitch."

  "Could it be you heard he managed to repel an intruder?"

  Brady flinched when I touched my eye. He knew I knew.

  "Thomassy, I don't know why you're rolling in all the heavy artillery. Some twat gets laid by someone she didn't pick and you're acting like there was a million-dollar construction contract at stake."

  "I'd appreciate your characterizing my client differently."

  "I forgot you had a piece of her."

  "Anna Banana, Amsterdam, Koch. Could be an interesting array of experts."

  "What's your suggestion, Thomassy?"

  "Cop a plea for Koslak. No trial. You got your retainer. I might talk Lefkowitz into first degree assault."

  Brady bent the wire into a circle.

  "Trespass."

  "You've got to be kidding, Brady. Her father's a lawyer. He sent her to me. I can't come up with a Mickey Mouse."

  "I'll discuss second degree with my client."

  "Thank you. Oh by the way, Brady, are you acting for the superientendent?"

  "No."

  "Know who is?"

  "Nah. He said something about Legal Aid."

  "I have a feeling, Brady, that the super didn't know what Koslak was letting him in for."

  "You kidding? Koslak told me that guy bangs half the women in that block. It's better than being a milkman."

  "If he gets all that ass without much hassle, what'd he want to rape the Widmer woman for? Or was he just going along for what he thought was another free ride?"

  "What're you up to, Thomassy? You don't have to think of using him as a witness. I told you I'm talking to Koslak to cop a plea."

  "That was the last thing on my mind, Brady. I had another idea."

  Outside, I stretched my arms, pleased with myself. Francine wouldn't have to go through with the mess. And I wouldn't have to burn on the sidelines in court, watching Lefkowitz bumble. All I had to do was get Francine out of that apartment for good. The American system of justice is a lovely way to kill two birds with one stone.

  Forty-one

  Francine

  X was right. Butterball had not been told that I was substituting for X until he arrived at the studio Tuesday night. For a minute there was some confusion because Butterball thought Thomassy was the substitute guest. The host, Colin Chapman, thought Butterball was going to walk. The instant panic proved unnecessary. Butterball could not resist any opportunity to talk to the public, especially when it couldn't talk back, and he settled down to the proffered coffee and to another dose of the America
n rudeness that had put him up against a mere girl. He didn't say any of those things, but it was as clear as if he had. And it stimulated me to the best twenty minutes I have ever had out of bed. With George ensconced behind the glass next to the engineer, Colin Chapman chatted us up, then got the signal, and we were on. He introduced the subject and deferred almost immediately to Butterball, who launched into a spiel about how just two days ago he had been home for a visit and with just an eight-hour flight (first class, of course!) he had been transported from emerging Africa to New York, and since then he had talked no fewer than six times by phone to this minister and that minister back home. Colin Chapman tried to butt in a couple of times to make it a dialogue, but the only thing that worked was when I said "Mr. Ambassador" in my best stentorian contralto and put my hand over the microphone. He had to let me talk.

  In fact, that was when Butterball first took notice of me.

  "Mr. Ambassador," I repeated, "I have a very different idea of the shrinking world. We have seen," I said, "in recent decades, a proliferation of countries in the continent the Ambassador calls home, and in each new country, we have witnessed a growth of government agencies, a burgeoning of offices and duties and jobs where none existed, an unchecked growth of one of the most insidious forces in the modern world."

  I looked up at the glass booth to make sure George was wide awake and following.

  "Which is?" asked Colin Chapman brightly.

  "Bureaucracy," I said, stopping and gesturing with my palm toward Butterball.

  "The lady," said Butterball, "chooses to use a pejorative term for administration, the necessary functions of government if it is to keep things running."

  "The lady," I said, "has a name, Mr. Ambassador."

  "Francine Widmer," Colin Chapman supplied.

  "Africa," said Butterball, "has found itself."

  "What does that mean, Mr. Ambassador? Does it mean Africa has been found dividing itself into smaller and smaller constituencies, each with its own administrative offices, to the point where we will soon see a return in that shrinking world to the tribalism of yesteryear, except each tribe will have its own postage stamps?"

  Behind the glass, George was having a good time. Butterball was trying to check his anger.

  "Mr. Chapman," he said to our host, "the great leaders of emerging Africa…"

  "Amin?" I asked.

  "What did you say?"

  "Amin?"

  "I heard you."

  "Are you including General Amin among the great leaders of emerging Africa?"

  Butterball was fumbling his debits and credits. Privately he was reputed to despise Amin, but I had him boxed in.

  He decided to ignore me and addressed Chapman. "Mr. Chapman," he said, "the announced subject of this broadcast was the shrinking world, and I do not see the necessity—"

  "Of evasion," I said.

  Chapman was loving it. In his job he had to play host to a multitude of horses' asses during the course of a year, and he obviously relished this one's discomfort.

  Within five minutes I got Butterball admitting that his government actually had more government agencies than did the preceding colonialist government, that the rolls of government employees had increased by more than three hundred percent in the last two years because three semicompetents were needed to do the work of one bureaucrat who had the wrong color skin, and best of all, that he fully expected to be the subject of a forthcoming postage stamp. Behind the glass, George looked like a kid at a baseball game.

  Toward the end, Butterball was panicking. "I am surprised," he said, "that the United Nations would employ a person so divisive, so intent to reverse progress, so intolerant of the change that is revolutionizing the world."

  "Frankly," I answered, "I'm surprised, too. Perhaps I am like the Soviet dissenters, needles in a haystack, an almost invisible presence that cannot be ignored."

  "Thank you," said Colin Chapman, "thank you both, but we've run out of time."

  While Chapman was winding up, Butterball stoood, his chair making an awkward noise that went over the air. I stood and put out my hand. He had to shake it.

  As soon as Butterball was out the door. Chapman said, "Lady, if I may call you lady, you were terrific. What a pleasant surprise. Whenever we get a substitution, it's usually a downhill omen. You gave us a fine program on a dull subject. I'd love to hear you give a speech at the U.N."

  "Sorry," I said. "I'm not an ambassador. All I do is prepare some stuff for other people's speeches. They usually take the stingers out first."

  By this time, George had come around to the studio and I introduced him to Chapman, who said, "This young lady of yours ought to be in broadcasting instead of over there with the fuddy-duddies." He stopped when he saw the man in the banker-striped suit come in the studio door.

  "I agree," said the man. "My name is Straws. I'm glad I was in the building. I didn't catch all of it, but enough. You were splendid."

  Straws shook hands all around.

  "I'd like you to come and see me, if you would," he said, handing me a card. I glanced at it. He was general manager of programming.

  "Let's go," said George.

  I hadn't realized how restless he'd gotten, but the remark was rude under the circumstances.

  "You couch things well," Straws said to me, "but under the camouflage a killer instinct is clearly visible. I can think of a dozen people I'd love to see you decimate."

  Chapman wasn't happy either. Suddenly I had gone from being a good guest to potential competition.

  "I'd be delighted to come and see you," I said to Straws. "I'll call your secretary for an appointment."

  Come on, said George's eyes.

  The engineer behind the glass opened his mike. "That was a very interesting program, Miss Widmer."

  "Thank you," I said. I was ready to hand out autographs.

  "Don't pay any attention to Art," said Chapman, gesturing at the engineer, "he's always buttering up potential hosts. He loves to work talk shows."

  Straws nodded and left. "You see," said Chapman, "he didn't contradict me. I could smell his evaluation. I better look to my laurels."

  "Don't be silly," I said. "I have no experience."

  "You've just had a very successful audition, young lady," said Chapman. "It's a good thing Straws is set to give Lily Audrey the boot. He'll think of you as a replacement for her instead of me."

  He has got to be kidding, I thought. "I've only heard her once," I said. "Isn't she the one who comes on like gangbusters?"

  "You've got the right one."

  George took my arm. Not gently.

  "Glad you could come, Miss Widmer," said Colin Chapman.

  I could feel George tugging.

  We were hardly out of the building when he said, "You really fucked that poor man over, didn't you?"

  "What's got into him? "I thought you were enjoying it."

  "Sure thing. Love to see a picador jabbing spikes into a bull."

  "That poor bull is the second most powerful man in his diminutive country and is likely to be its next head of state. He deserves every opportunity to get talked back to under circumstances where he can't decapitate his adversary."

  "You do love the limelight," said George.

  "Don't be silly. When I call Straws I probably won't get by his secretary. He'll have forgotten tonight by breakfast tomorrow."

  "He won't forget."

  "Now look, George, I've never seen you in the courtroom but I did see you give Lefkowitz the works. You like stage center as much as I do, and you've had one helluva lot more experience. I'm just catching up."

  He took me by the elbow again.

  "Please don't take my arm like that," I said.

  "We only have the one car," he said.

  "You can drop me at my place."

  In the car, he said, "This is ridiculous. We've fucked ourselves silly for nearly a week and now it sounds like we're having an argument over nothing. The only reason I'm reacting to your sudden
celebrity is jealousy."

  "I'm glad you recognize that," I said. "It's a first step."

  "To what?"

  "You've probably played the lead every time you've been in a courtroom. You're used to center stage. You don't like cooling your heels in an audience. Or watching anyone else perform. Like me."

  "Oh come off it, Francine. I don't think you're about to become a female David Frost. And I'm not about to become a stage door Johnny waiting for you the way I did tonight."

  "This could be a break," I said. "Don't you want me to take advantage of it?"

  "Sure."

  "That sounded like drop dead."

  "Well, I didn't mean it to sound that way. Look, Francine, you said you liked working for X."

  "That's right. I'd like working for nobody even better. Like you."

  "I work for my clients."

  "You're fudging, George. When did you ever really think of a client as an employer? They're yours to manipulate, not vice versa. I'm not going to pass up this chance."

  "I'll bet you're not."

  Just as I'd let loose at Butterball, it came out of me once again in a torrent. "I'm glad this happened. It could have happened a year down the road, with our lives meshed. You just can't stand the idea of my finding something I can do well and enjoy more than my backstage work at united bedlam. You've got your vocation and that's enough for both of us. George, living alone all these years has made you into a self-centered, selfish, self-contained isolationist, and you've been that way too long for me or anyone else to rescue at your age."

  I guess it was "at your age" that did it.

  He didn't speak until he dropped me off at my parents' house. He didn't get out and open the door for me, the way he'd been doing all week long. He just sat glowering behind the steering wheel and said, "The good news I had for you tonight is that Brady is likely to have Koslak plead guilty to second degree assault. He'll go to jail. There won't be a trial."

  "You're talking to me as if I'm a client."

  "I am."

  "Thank you for the good news."

  "Please be sure to tell your father."

  I got out and slammed the door. He roared off.

  Forty-two

  Thomassy

  I guess it was in the early years of high school that the key thought clicked: the world's got a lot of shit to hand out in the course of your lifetime, and the idea is to learn how to take as little of it as possible.