by David Archer
“You can literally take that to the bank,” Ellsworth added, needlessly, as it turned out. The deal was done.
“I must say, Miss Gomez, we’ll be sorry to see you go,” George Harbison said when Arlene gave her notice. “You’ve been with us a long time.”
“Yes, sir, I know it’s been a long time, and, honestly, I don’t regret it, but there comes a point where it’s time to move on. I’ll be getting married this coming June, and, as soon as we can, we’ll want to start a family. Not that you have been stingy [only unfair, she thought], but we are going to want to have enough to raise our children in a nice home. I hope you can understand.”
“I see your point. Of course, we could never afford to pay what they’re offering you at The Civic Center. Must be nice to be the government. You can spend like a drunken sailor and never worry about the bottom line.”
“I expect to earn my salary, Mr. Harbison, every penny of it.” She said it to him with a pleasant lilt in her voice, but the message was clear: get off my case, Mister.
Her next exit “interview” was a good deal less cordial.
“Might of known you’d knife us in the back,” Bob Jenkins snapped at her the moment she stepped out of Harbison’s office.
“Please, spare me the crocodile tears, Mr. Jenkins. Also, if I were going to knife you, I wouldn’t stick in in your back. I’d find something a lot more creative to do with it.”
“I bet you would. You people are real handy with a blade, aren’t you?” She slapped him—not quite with the fury she had slapped Ernie Campanella when he spoiled her sister’s wedding, but hard enough so that the guy got the message.”
“Well, fuck you, lady. I hope you die in boiling oil!” Jenkins raged as he stormed back to his office.
“What’s this I hear about you leaving? Say it ain’t so, Joe,” Ed Smith said a few minutes later, as he poked his head past her office door.
“I’m afraid it is, Ed,” Arlene told him. Then, picking up on his creative use of sentimental quotes, she added, “Scarecrow, I think I’ll miss you most of all.”
Chapter 4
If things were going well for Arlene, they were going even better for her fiancé. After having “dismissed” one of Castro’s favorite assassins, “with extreme prejudice,” as they said in their vernacular, Sean Higgins’ star was on the rise. Of course, it was not the kind of deed you would get an official citation for, but there were other, more significant rewards to be had. When the deputy chief of station decided to take early retirement, Sean got the job.
It should be noted, Agent Higgins got the promotion for more than the removal of Enrique Valdivielso from Fidel Castro’s duty roster. He had come up with a scheme that seemed to be working like finely-tuned watch. Two years down the road, it would blow up in his face, but, for now, he was riding high.
Sean’s brainchild was the creation of a dummy organization known as The Fair Welfare Action Committee. While headquartered in Philadelphia, it purported to speak for all the nation’s poor and downtrodden. In reality, Higgins and his bosses meant the organization to serve as an agent provocateur. Proclaiming themselves to be far to the left of the “limousine liberals” they seemed to despise for their willingness to compromise with The Man, they attacked the people they put in that category for their supposed lack of dedication to reforming the corrupt and evil system. Respected community activist Wilson Goode was excoriated as a “jive nigger,” and popular local champion Joe Frazier was labeled “an Uncle Tom in boxing trunks.” While the attacks did little to impede the progress most of their targets hoped to make (Goode would eventually become a two-term mayor and generate a lot less respect than he did at present, even while under attack by Fair Welfare), they did succeed in bringing a number of True Believers into the fold—that is to say, a number of people the bureau would henceforth keep its eyes on. What none of the True Believers seemed to notice was that no right-wing politician or business tycoon managed to find his way into the Committee’s crosshairs.
For her part, Arlene was very busy with the process of finding her way around in her new job. Even so, she could not have been happier.
“We expect you won’t amount to a hill of beans for three or four weeks,” Bob Downing, the personnel chief, told her, “at least until you get to know the ropes.”
“I will expect to amount to a mountain of beans a good deal sooner,” Arlene was quick to correct him. And she did. Within eight days, she was making key decisions as though she had been there for a decade.
In the process of learning about her new job, Arlene learned a bit more about why HBH had lost the bid. It was because of Bob Jenkins, alright, but not for leering at the secretaries. It was something else entirely, over which, she had to admit, he had little control.
Harbison and the other partners had selected Jenkins for the team because of his political connections. In the end, it was those same connections that did them in. The greatest threat to The Civic Center, she came to realize, was not the present existence of The Spectrum, although that certainly was an issue. Of far greater menace were the plans hatched by a number of the city’s leaders to build a big, expensive, brand-spanking new convention center under quasi-private, not public control. The opportunity for sweetheart deals and bales of baksheesh made them positively giddy with anticipation. The last thing the people at the Civic Center wanted was to pose even more of an obvious threat to the politicians’ plans. What they were looking for was a firm that could keep a low profile while, at the same time, working to save their bacon. That left Harbison, Bell and Hallowell out of the running, before Arlene had said her first charming word. They had only invited the firm to participate as an empty courtesy.
Even taking all of that into consideration, Arlene was glad things had worked out the way they had. Suppose they had landed the contract and the HBH partners had been delighted with her work. At best, she would be earning $12,000 a year less than she was making now. That was an extra thousand a month. That could buy a lot of baby booties when the time came.
One of Arlene’s first successes, and certainly her biggest one that first year, was landing the business of the Mid-Atlantic Ad Council for their annual convention. There were better, newer convention centers in all the major cities within the region and several others in the good-sized towns, but none of them had a lovely and dedicated coordinator who could match the likes of Arlene Gomez.
“Arlene, I can’t begin to tell you how pleased we are with your success.” Howard Ellsworth enthused. “Uh, may I call you Arlene?”
“Certainly,” she assured him with her usual pleasant smile. “I’m no snob.” If it had been a bit presumptuous for the senior executive to address the new hire by her first name, it did not faze Arlene. Although Ellsworth was 49 and divorced—a prime candidate for a midlife crisis—Arlene, for some reason she could not quite put her finger on, never saw him as a threat. If she had, even on a subconscious level, it may have poisoned the waters during her job interview, despite the excellent first impression she had made during the presentation.
“Good, now let me get down to business,” he went on. “I am going to leave a good part of the planning to you, but I really must insist that you not run this show by remote control. We are going to want you mingling with our guests to the best extent possible. I’m not suggesting anything lascivious, mind you, but I’m still willing to bet that most of the conventioneers would rather talk to you than some boring old fart with a comb-over.” Arlene wondered if he was referring to himself. He certainly did have a comb-over, but he wasn’t all that boring.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be there from the opening gun,” she assured him.
“Okay, good. We’re making excellent progress here. Now there is one other thing. We thought we would invite, not only our public relations agency, but all the others who applied for the contract and got turned down. You know, sort of as a goodwill gesture. Give them a chance to rub elbows with the admen, maybe pick up a new client or two. Most of your b
ig companies have separate agencies for advertising and P.R., as I’m sure you know.”
“Sure, that sounds like a good idea,” she agreed.
“Only thing is, that’s going to include your former people at Harbison, Bell, Hallowell. Is that a problem for you?”
“I don’t see why it should be. I left on good terms,” she replied, forgetting for a moment her offer to castrate Bob Jenkins, then settling for a hard right to the cheek
Arlene had a week to get everything ready, and she made the most of it. Where she couldn’t figure out a logistical situation on her own, she instinctively knew who on the Center’s staff could actually help her out and who was just taking up space. A lot of the stuff she did figure out on her own. When she presented her plan to Ellsworth, on Friday morning of the week, he was very impressed.
“I wouldn’t change a thing,” he beamed. “I am looking forward to this like a six-year-old on Christmas Eve!” He was not the only one.
That Sunday, when she got together with Sadie and Frank for their usual brunch, she could hardly contain her enthusiasm. Even the fact that Sean had been called out of town on some urgent business elsewhere in the region couldn’t dampen her spirits.
“You know, for a moment, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I had made the right decision when I quit HBH. Now, I’m glad I had the courage to go through with it. Just think, a whole big convention with me in charge! Who would have thought of that when we were in school?”
“It’s true what they say,” Frank noted. “Fortune favors the brave.”
“Sadie, Dear, are you sure you don’t want to come to the banquet as my guest? I know it’s getting close to your time.”
“Are you kidding?” Sadie laughed. “Look at me, I’m as big as a house. It was all I could do to get to church and back, let alone to a big, crowded convention hall. Thank you for the kind thought, but, once again, I’ll pass.”
“You know I’ll take you there and pick you up,” Frank reminded her. “It’s not like you’d have to catch a bus.”
“Pick her up my foot,” Arlene snorted. “If we can talk my big, fat sister into getting yet even fatter on the city’s nickel, you’ll be invited too. Don’t worry, at this point, they wouldn’t refuse me anything. If you wanted, I could even seat you at the dais.”
“Enough!” Sadie happily protested. “My no is final. Still, Arlene, Sweetie, I wish you nothing but success. God forbid anything should go wrong after all this.”
“I’m sure it won’t,” Arlene told her. “I’m as sure of that as I’ve been of anything I can remember.”
Chapter 5
Dear Lambchop,
I hope all is going well in the city of brotherly lights—I mean with the art. I would be sad to hear that you had fallen in love with Paris and decided to live there full-time. I couldn’t handle the commute, even on a corporal’s pay.
Speaking of which, I have still been living at my former paygrade and, with each new check, setting aside the difference to the point where soon enough I can buy you something sparkly, expensive and important for your finger. I know you said you were in no hurry and that you didn’t need me to make an honest woman out of you, but, here’s the thing—I want to make an honest man out of me, if that makes any sense. Yes, I know this is supposed to be a love letter, and I hope you know I love you to pieces, but let me run a little fact by you. Then I’ll get back to the gooey stuff.
We cops only make an average sized paycheck, but there are a lot of benefits that go with the job, many of which apply to the cop’s family. As long as we’re single, all those golden bennies are going to waste, but as my once and forever bride, you’d have health insurance and a widow’s pension if—God forbid—I take one between the eyes. In the meanwhile, short of setting you up with a pension, can I send you a few bucks? If I only sent you half of what I used to spend on booze, you could stay at the Ritz, I’ll bet. I know you’ve always said your needs were small and I suppose the school supplies you with all the paint you can slop onto a canvas, but, you know, if you’re feeling pinched, don’t be too proud to ask me for some help. You’ve already helped me more than I can imagine by getting me sober. No, I haven’t taken “the pledge,” but, these days, a couple of glasses, every once in a while, have taken the place of a full bottle every other night.
Keep in mind, it’s not just with the drinking that I’ve been behaving myself. I have not had so much as a quickie since you’ve been gone, and I plan to keep it that way. I’m not saying it’s the easiest thing in the world, but I can manage. If I get horny, it’s only for you. These days, even the sight of a pretty woman doesn’t excite me the way it used to. You’re all the excitement I’ll ever need, but, boy, do I need some now. If we were both a couple of jet-setters, I’d think nothing of flying you home for a weekend and letting nature take its course…and maybe a few things Mother Nature never intended. You had better not be blushing. Half that stuff was your idea, remember?
Seriously, I try to put on a brave face, but I feel like there’s a hole in my heart. If the Frog professors offer you an early out, please take it. The sooner you’re back in my arms, the sooner I’ll be able to smile and actually mean it.
I miss you so much.
Oodles and oodles of noodles,
Ernie
Dear Sweetie,
I just got your latest letter this morning. Please do not think of me as the cool, detached artist, focusing only on the “slopping” of her paint, as you so graciously put it. I too am so horny I could burst, and, yes, like you, I have been behaving myself. I’ve even turned down a couple of supposedly innocent offers to model nude, not that I am overly modest—I told you I was once in a production of Hair, didn’t I? And, yes, I did take it all off in the nude scene. Once I get back home, I might do it again, if some director could imagine a 29-year-old hag as a hippie chick. It’s just that I doubted the sincerity of the gentlemen who said they wanted to paint me. Maybe I was being too judgmental, but, I figure, why take chances, right?
It was very sweet that you offered to send money, but it’s really not necessary. First of all, my fellowship was quite comprehensive, including tuition, room and board, books and supplies. Even a small stipend. Also, I probably should have told you, but I guess you know I’m not much of a bragger, I sold a couple of my student paintings before I left, so I have that to add to my allowance. I’m still living modestly, but, then that has been the story of my life, hasn’t it?
I think it’s wonderful that you’re keeping yourself pure for me. I guess it’s a lot harder for a man than a woman. Mind you, I am not some jealous harpy when it comes to trusting you. The only trouble with having sex with someone else while I’m gone is that too often, it’s not just sex, despite what guys say. Too often, complications arise, the least of which is you catch something and the worst of which is you fall for someone else. Your catching the clap would get me angry, but your falling for someone else would break my heart. I hope you know that. Tell you what, if it gets too bad, I’ll let you go to one of those so-called massage parlors, but only if you get the payoff by hand. Nil by mouth, as the doctors say.
Ugh, what an unpleasant thing to get stuck on. Move on, Evelyn. Okay, so how’s the police business? You’ve told me nothing about your work in your last two letters and only that you got promoted in the one before that. I may not be wildly interested in police work, but I am about my sweetie’s well-being. Just a quick word would be nice. Of course, if there’s something that’s bothering you on the job, you can always tell me about it in as much depth as you care to. Your pain is my pain when things go wrong. All I can do at this point is hope they only go right.
Write back soon, OK? I love you.
Evelyn
Chapter 6
“I think it’s wonderful you brought your wife and children, Mr. Payne. “So very few conventioneers do,” Arlene began her reply. “In answer to your question, I’ll bet they would really enjoy a visit to the Franklin Institute.”
�
��Yeah, I think I’ve heard of it,” Bill Payne said.
“I don’t know what you heard, but it’s a marvelous place for children. How old are they?”
“Janie’s nine and Bobby’s seven.”
“Just the right age,” Arlene told him. “The thing of it is, it’s not like what you would normally think of as a museum. There are all kinds of exhibits that the children can touch or push a button and see something happen. Plus which, if they have time, they have a planetarium inside that is top-notch.”
“We’ll have to see about that. Martha said she wanted to check out Strawbridges and Clothier while we’re here. We don’t have one in Baltimore. I really want to make this a nice trip for her. She’s been down in the dumps lately. Even went to a doctor, so, hey, if she wants to check out the store, then I think she should get a chance.”
“I can’t blame her. It’s one of my favorite stores. By the way, just so she doesn’t have any trouble finding it, it’s on Eighth and Market, and it’s actually Strawbridge and Clothier—only one bridge.” For all her naturally pleasant demeanor, Arlene Gomez was nearly giddy with joy. The convention had been going even better than she expected. Everybody seemed to be having a good time, while nobody had become rowdy in the slightest. If only all their guests could be like this.
“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind.” Bill Payne said. “Thank you very much, Miss Gomez, you’re been a world of help.” The next guest Arlene ran into was not so genial or grateful for her assistance.