by Bill Orton
“So, say I want to give my driver, Ralphie, the cash he needs to buy a safe and a second refrigerator for the Lincoln,” said Larry, keying in numbers, pushing an arithmetic function key and pulling a long lever on the side of the machine, which produced a ringing sound and was followed by a narrow tape being spit out and the cash drawer opening simultaneously. Larry handed me the tape, which simply showed random numbers. “But then I just…,” said Larry, taking the tape back, signing it and handing it back to me. “And, presto!”
“Okay, Larry,” I said. “Um, this... doesn’t... really....”
“Oh,” said Larry, “it gets better,” as he pulled out an inner tape from the machine that gave a faint carbon of the original tape. “It keeps track. Cool, huh?”
“As business machines go,” I said, and suddenly, my ankle hurt. She wasn’t even here and it felt like Lori was kicking me. “As business machines go, Larry, this is attractive, and it does have some useful – if limited — functionality. If this helps you… sure, it’s fine.”
“So when I give these tapes to someone with my signature, you just have to co-sign and then pay them, so I don’t have to handle cash.”
I looked at the slip of register tape, with one printed figure and Larry’s signature. I imagined tax authorities asking about each one. The register left no date imprint. There was no way to integrate the tape into any sort of automated accounting software. There would be no way that I could do anything except throw pieces of register tape into a shoebox.
.
“Larry, this place is more disgusting than it was before you won,” said Lori, walking through his living room. “Nice old cash register.”
“That’s how I’ll pay for things,” said Larry.
“Start by paying for a maid,” said Lori. “Are you even going to keep staying here?”
“I paid two years rent when the money came through,” said Larry. “Totally bummed out Doug.”
“The weird neighbor?”
“He’s been trying to get me tossed for years.”
“But why do you want to keep living here? I know it’s your place and all.”
“It’s not my place,” said Larry. “It’s never been my place. It’s just where I lived.”
“You have no attachment to it at all?”
“W’ull, it’s safe, and... quiet, and... Calvin’s never been here once, so no one’s ever yelled at me here, so, that’s a good memory, I guess.” Larry absent-mindedly keyed numbers into the register and pulled the handle, spitting out a tape and popping open the empty cash drawer. “But I have way better memories of sleeping on you and Lawrence’s couch, in Cal Heights. Then, at least, it felt like I could maybe be happy, even if I wasn’t really…. I could be.”
“We all could’a been,” said Lori. “Too bad, huh?”
.
Six women – each short in stature, brown in skin and dressed in pink – stood next to Larry’s buried table.
I watched as Lori, speaking in Spanish and motioning with her arms, directed the women. Two of the six started clearing the table, tossing newspapers in a wide, grey trash barrel. One made her way to the kitchen. Two more down the short flight of stairs to the bedroom and another stayed next to Lori, who walked through the living room, like a sergeant keeping her troops moving.
“I got this, Lawrence,” Lori said to me. “You don’t have to stay. Just be here in four hours with the thousand dollars.”
“I can’t believe Larry’s paying a thousand bucks,” I said. “These women would easily do it for half that, or less.”
Lori looked at me. “When I was in Iraq, the State Department had lots of reconstruction money. Much of it was straight hundred dollar bills. If you had local currency in your pocket, coffee was three bucks. If all you had was U.S. dollars, coffee was a hundred.”
.
“Oh, hey sweetie,” said December, laying against Lori on the couch as Larry entered the now immaculate living room.
“Wow,” said Larry. “Did anyone want any of the books?”
“Two of the women took most of ‘em,” said Lori. “Gonna donate them to their church.”
“So what’re you gonna do with this place?” asked December.
“I don’t know,” said Larry.
“Maybe Soldier Girl and me can play house,” cooed December.
Lori chuckled.
“What?” said December. “Don’t’cha think dat would be fun? Wake up.… Go to sleep…. Make food…. Walk around all naked together…. Wouldn’t dat be fun?”
Lori smiled, but said nothing.
“Well, I t’ink it’d be fun,” said December, throwing her leg over Lori’s and climbing onto her lap, her hands gripping the couch back on either side of Lori’s shoulders. Lori placed her hands on December’s waist as the two drew in for a kiss. “See-e-e-e-e?” said December, gently planting tiny kisses across Lori’s lips, cheek, and chin before going back to her lips. December slid in tight to Lori and the hands moved from her waist to the middle of her back.
“Oh,” said Larry, “Uh, okay, I’ll be in my room.” He walked down the small, wooden stairway, to the lower bedroom. With newspapers and other debris gone, the room held only a computer workstation and a single bed, small patio table and a single chair. Larry logged on to his computer and played spider solitaire.
.
“Do you guys wanna come with me to the hospital?” Larry asked, as Ralphie stood in the doorway of the apartment.
Lori and December, entwined on the couch, shook their heads.
.
Larry sat holding Emma’s hand, watching monitors, watching nurses come and go, watching his grandmother breathe, watching time float past.
“Dude,” said Ed.
Larry stirred, heavy-headed, sitting upright in the rocking chair next to Emma’s bed. Ed took the second chair.
“Company?”
“Ed, you know, you don’t have to....”
“No worries,” said Ed, sitting, and wrapping his hands under and above Emma’s unclaimed hand. “When are they gonna bring her back around?”
Larry took out hits cell phone and looked at the screen. “Tomorrow, they say... whoa, damn, 32 missed calls. Why do I even have this thing.”
“You want me to take ‘em?” asked Ed.
Larry looked at his phone and then to Ed. He handed the phone to Ed, who reached into his pocket and produced an elegant ballpoint pen. Disengaging from hand-holding duty, Ed stood, scanned the room, and then exited, returning a moment later with a sheet of blank paper.
“Man, this thing is an antique,” said Ed, scanning the list of missed calls for the number most missed. “Hello, I am returning a call. You had called Mr. van der Bix....” Larry watched as Ed wrote a few words. Thirty seconds later, Ed called the next most-missed caller. “Is there a message you wish me to convey to Mr. van der Bix?” Ed looked around, stood up and carried the pen and paper with him to finish the call outside the room. Half-an-hour later, Ed came back into the room and handed the phone back to Larry. He looked down to a mysteriously-acquired clipboard.
“So,” said Larry, “who called?”
“Sixteen begging for money, who’re now DNA 1 through 16 on your phone....”
“DNA?”
“Do Not Answer,” said Ed. “They’ll just milk ya, so save time and just ignore future calls.”
“Anyone else?”
“Two wrong numbers, a few women who sound like they wanna do ya, and a guy named Doug complaining about the vacuum cleaner.”
“Weird neighbor,” said Larry. “And women?”
“Dude, would you go on a date with someone who calls all breathy and sweet, who you don’t know and calls cuz you’re now a millionaire?”
“W’ull, um, you know, maybe they’re nice.”
“Dude,” said Ed, firmly, “you may need a lot of work, but you’re not giving it away just cuz someone goes all breathy over the phone.”
“What? Money? I don’t care about money.”
>
“Giving away money is easy,” said Ed. “But you give away control, and let the claws dig in, and it isn’t just money tomorrow. It’s the steering wheel.”
“I don’t drive,” said Larry, “so how can I give away….”
“Look,” said Ed, “let’s take some of liquid gold and I’ll show ya’ how spreading capital works.”
Larry quickly put both hands on Emma’s, as Ed also returned to hand-holding duty.
“It doesn’t have to be at this moment,” said Ed, “but you need to learn.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Peppermint Elephant
“I will be outside, gentlemen,” said Ralphie, as Ed handed $20 to an extremely tall, muscular man in a black shirt with “SECURITY” printed in white across his chest. A second security staff, equally enormous and muscular, pulled a red, velvet rope aside and motioned for the two to enter.
Inside the Peppermint Elephant, scantily clad women plied tables, walkways and the bar; money moving hands, bodies gyrating; the smell of beer and sweat rising like a dirty fog. Three women danced on three different stages, each with a pole and a cadres of fans and lurkers. Beyond, against the far wall, were what appeared to be luxury boxes, where women led small groups of men and then closed a door, allowing only glimpses of hair and shoulder to be visible through the dark tinted windows.
“Bingo,” said Ed, guiding Larry to a table near the luxury boxes.
A woman in her 30s, holding a tray, approached, practicing a convincing smile. “Hey guys. What can I get’cha?”
“Oh, I’m just gonna…,” said Larry.
“Two drink minimum.”
“Double vodka tonic,” said Ed, “and you got any Danish beer? Tuborg or Carlsberg?”
“Don’t think so. I’ll check,” she said, walking off.
“They won’t,” said Larry. “No one ever does.”
A young, well-endowed blonde in a scanty bikini and followed by a man dressed in a referee’s uniform approached Ed and Larry. “Dance?”
“Sure, baby,” said Ed. “Do him first.” He handed the referee a hundred. “How much each?”
“Twenty,” answered the man, holding the bill up to the light as the blonde maneuvered herself to Larry and sat on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Give him three,” said Ed “and I’ll take one. The rest is tip.”
“Hi,” said the blonde, turning her head towards Ed, smiling. “I’m Misty.”
“Hi, uh, Misty,” said Larry.
A new song came on and Misty rose and danced song after song over Larry’s body, as he sat, transfixed until, after the third number, she leaned forward and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. The blonde then climbed off Larry and stood in front of Ed. She smiled broadly, put her hands on his shoulders and straddled his lap, sliding her arms around his neck. “Let’s wait for a new song.”
“Works for me, Misty,” said Ed. A vodka tonic was silently set on the table. Three minutes later, the referee, the blonde and the hundred bucks were gone, along with ten that Larry handed to Misty, who obediently handed it to the referee.
The server returned with a green bottle and a glass. “You’re in luck,” she said. “The buyer’s a frog, so we have a selection of Euro brews.”
“Aren’t you insulting his French heritage?” asked Ed, holding out a hundred, smiling. “Open a tab and tell me when this is running low, beautiful.”
At the center stage, a group of men in orange reflector vests yelled as Misty danced.
“Throwing money is an art,” said Ed. “It’s no about the dough, but, of course you gotta know when to be free-spending, when to be tight, when to reward and when to deny. The babe serving is as hot as any of the youngsters here, but no one will give her the attention Misty’s getting. Tonight, she’s gonna party with us.”
The server returned, and Ed held up his glass. He downed the remainder, handed it to her, and smiled. “Another, beautiful. And another of those bottles for Danish man, here.” The server smiled to Ed.
“It’s Carole, babe,” and turned, heading directly to the bar.
A brunette in a schoolgirl uniform barely covering herself approached Larry, who looked to Ed. “Can we go in there?” asked Ed, pointing to the luxury boxes?” The brunette smiled and she and a referee led Ed and Larry to a booth.
“Twenty-five a dance,” said the ref. “Four dance minimum.”
Ed handed three hundreds to the ref, who slid the bills into a black pouch bulging with cash. “Five dances each and fifty as a tip.”
The dancer squealed.
The ref held each bill up to the window, as the dancer sat on Ed’s lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Be sure to tell Carole we’re in here,” said Ed.
“You know her?” asked the man in the striped shirt.
“Friends,” said Ed. “That’s why we came here.” Ed smiled at the dancer. “Go ahead and start with him. Just give me the last dance.”
The dancer leaned forward and wetly kissed Ed, whispering, “Whatever you want, handsome.”
Larry sat silently as a woman a little over half his age mashed her body into his, bouncing softness against his own flabbiness. He watched as she climbed over to Ed for the final dance, pushing her chest into his face and pulling his head tightly to her body.
The door to the luxury box opened and the server stepped in, with another round.
“Wait, wait,” said Ed, as the brunette released his hold on him. “Can we have this beautiful woman join us?”
“Not allowed,” said the referee. “Beverage Control rules.”
“That’s okay,” said the server, smiling, “Yer tab’s still going strong.”
“Put twenty of it onto tip,” said Ed, his face inches from the brunette’s chest.
The server stepped out, closing the door. Several minutes later, so did Larry, Ed, the ref and dancer. Ed and Larry returned to their table. The men in orange reflector vests had taken the two closest tables and were working away on two pitchers of beer.
The brunette from earlier walked past the six men, waving to Ed and Larry. Ed smiled and Larry meekly waved back. One of the men in the pack of workers caught the ref’s attention, and as the next song began, the brunette dressed as a schoolgirl gyrated over a dark-haired giant, as the other men chanted, “Sit-KO, Sit-KO….”
The server returned. Larry abruptly lifted his bottle and looked at the contents. Ed motioned with his hand for Larry to put the bottle down. He smiled warmly. “Hope I didn’t get you in trouble back there,” said Ed.
“For what? Remembering my name?” The server bent forward and used a folded bar towel to wipe up a spot from the table, smiling up to Ed and he looked deeply into her cleavage.
“I wanna keep buying, but I am gonna just go for a soft drink next,” sail Ed.
The server smiled.
“We got Ralphie, so it’s not like...,” said Larry.
“The limo’s nice,” said Ed, not breaking his gaze from the server, “but I wanna appreciate what I’m seeing.” The server smiled. “You got a Cactus Cooler?”
“Not sure,” said the server.
“Fresca?”
“Oh, you are old school,” she said. “I like that.”
“Diet 7-Up?”
“Might, I’ll take a look,” she said, before turning to Larry. “And you?”
“Diet Coke?”
“That we’ve got,” she said, walking off, directly towards the bar.
“Like I say,” said Ed, “spreading capital is an art, whether it’s a girly club or Hollywood or frickin’ Washington, D.C.” He leaned back. “You just gotta know how to smile.”
Larry stared at Ed, expressionless.
The server returned with four cans on a tray. “Isn’t that something,” she said. “We had ‘em all.”
“We’ll take ‘em all, but only if you’ll join us for one.”
“Oh, I can’t,” said the server. “The girls can, but not the bar staff. I’m
strictly sales.” The server placed the cans on the table and announced the fifteen dollar cost. Ed handed another hundred and said to include another ten to the tip. The server smiled, took a deep breath and appeared to purr as she walked off.
Misty passed, waving. Ed smiled and Larry weakly waved. The brunette passed, blowing a kiss. A redhead in sheer lingerie approached the table with a referee, looked squarely at Ed, placing her hands on her hips, and just stared. Ed slid down in his chair, pulled a hundred from his shirt pocket, and pointed to Larry. “Two for him, two for me and the rest for you,” said Ed.
Four dances later, the redhead finished, dropping onto Ed’s lap and leaning into his body so she could give kiss his cheek. She stood, gave Larry a tiny kiss, smiled warmly, waved and walked off with the ref.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Ed.
“What?” said Larry.
Ed leaned towards Larry. “Yer thinking, ‘why’s it so easy for Ed? Is it just because he’s so goddamned self-confident and good looking?’ Well, I’ll tell you, my friend,” said Ed, “it’s because there is nothing to fucking lose.”
“Huh?” said Larry. “I’m not thinking that at all.”
“But that’s the answer,” said Ed. “If you have nothing to lose, there’s no reason to be uptight. And so you got free money and the time won’t ever come back to you. So just smile and go with it.” And that’s what Larry and Ed did, watching the goings-on of the Peppermint Elephant with a smile as they each emptied two cans of soda. As Ed drained the last of the Diet 7-Up and set the can on the table, the server approached.
‘Get’cha something else?”
“What food you got?” asked Ed.
“Burger, dog, nachos, French dip, some other stuff,” said the server.
“What’ta’u eat?” asked Ed.
“The roast beef’s good, but it’s $15 a sandwich.”
“Gimme two, with extra meat and extra juice,” said Ed, “and another Fresca. Larry?”
“I’ll have a sandwich, too.”