CHAPTER TWELVE
Class Act All the Way
"Suppositories. Now that was a line to be in. Guaranteed income. No lack of sales. The market never bottomed out. Then came the sexual revolution. End of the game. All of a sudden, you got your enema experts, your colon cleaners, basically siphoning off a huge slice of the pie from the suppository salesman. Hard to believe, but true as I speak it."
I wrenched in my seat -- Row 49, middle bucket -- as the obese pharmaceutical sales representative leaned further into me, under the impression I actually cared about his worldview, his marriage, his livelihood and his mid-Atlantic coast Congregationalist upbringing. His sweat-infused button down shirt adhered itself to everything it touched, including the mutual armrest we shared. It was evident, too, the man had not employed a single inch of dental floss in over a decade.
"I don't know," he began in the whiny voice first introduced to me when we were seated while waiting at the gate. Forty-five minutes into the flight, his pitch had not altered a note. "The wife or was it the kids? I don't recall, but someone got me a snow blower. For Father's Day, I think, or it could have been my birthday, I really don't remember. So, here it is in the middle of summer and I got this snow blower sitting in the driveway, because of the wife or kids getting it for me. As a gift, it was either Father's Day or my birthday, does it matter? There it sat all summer. In the driveway."
"Would you mind, sir? I'm consumed at the moment on some rather personal concerns and I'm finding it extremely difficult to focus upon them with your endless suppurating over issues I would not find of interest under any circumstances, no matter how dire or bizarre."
"Is that right?" He looked as if he sampled a choice selection of his own wares. "Did I ever tell you about the rude son of a bitch who sat in front of me on a flight home from San Juan one time? Oh, I wanted to kill that bastard, I surely did. Him and his two punk kids and tight ass little wife sitting across the aisle from him. I don't know, I had the impulse but not the follow through, you know? The kids, my kids, they always said that about me, okay? Dad, you're not going to get that finished today because you'll end up drinking beer in a while and we all know the lawnmower doesn't run itself. This from a group that buys me a snow blower in June. Or was it July? I don't know, really, but it was somewhere during the summer around my birthday or Father's Day ..."
Realizing I was unable to access any immediate form of suicide prevention assistance, I harkened back to the Pranayama breathing exercises taught at a yoga series held in the Faithful Hill Arts Recital Theatre hall two winters ago. Though I never advanced beyond the Ghata stage in accord with instructor Yogini Mary's standards, I did indeed find the practice effective for relieving all major symptoms of the common cold and ingrown toenails. To a lesser degree, I found myself attaining elevated levels of concentration hitherto obfuscated by the routine rituals of daily life. That state of higher awareness was about to come into play, sparing Death a visit to this particular flight.
"... Cher performing at the Wells Fargo Center. Cher! Class act all the way, I tell ya, class act all the way. The kids or the wife, I don't know, they got us the tickets for our anniversary or Arbor Day, I really don't remember ...".
I quelled my severe misgivings about leaving the USA and, as much as I avoided admitting it, there loomed a concern over Sondheim's actions. He insisted I travel out of country without confirming our target's departure. Indeed, Sondheim indicated he orchestrated delays for the entire Bridgework party, culminating in the billionaire being unable to use his own fleet of private aircraft for international travel.
Again, why wasn't the takedown of Bridgework in Newark made active?
Then, almost as an afterthought, Sondheim mentioned Ethelene's splintering from the crowd in Chicago and winging it solo in my direction. How was it he knew of Ethelene's departure and destination, but failed to mention the travel and intention of the three gorilla-cum-Holsteins? His brash advisement, too, that eliminating Bridgework while overseas was now an option put into play.
Wouldn't such an action, both illegal and immoral, quickly destabilize global financial markets? What was Sondheim thinking?
All of his bluster with no mention of Angel's disposition. And his feigned surprise to learn that Oz Moeziz had volunteered for the Bridgework camp where his intelligence apparatus would have instantly pegged Moeziz's hawkish profile. Finally, I knew for an absolute fact that Sondheim himself could not stomach the delightful and savory contrast of good Mandarin cooking, whether dining out or taking away. Despite his best arithmetic rhetoric, Sondheim's words simply did not add up.
"... It appeared out of nowhere, I don't know. The grandkids found it in her top dresser drawer or somewhere, who knows? So the dog now has the thing in his mouth, running around the dining room table in front of all the relatives just as the turkey is about to be served. Can you imagine a Christmas like that? I know I couldn't until it happened. I don't know, our dog is usually a class act like all Golden Retrievers are, but this one took the cupcake, I tell ya ...".
Golden Retriever? Pat Aundybach!
Why I had not considered him before was credited to my profound haste in getting underway. I fumbled for my cell phone and promptly rang through to the Aundybach farmhouse on the outskirts of Wicklow. "Pat!"
"Is Pat junior, yes?"
"Pat, is your dad home?"
"He's out at pub. Dart night. Would you like to speak with mum?"
"Why certainly, young man." I checked my watch. The flight was scheduled to land in Dublin seven hours from now, enough time for my European cohort and friend to pull himself together.
"Mum! For you!"
"Hello, Pat here."
"Pat! Baron von dek Horn phoning."
"Baron, you old culchie! When do you need him and where?"
"Dublin Airport. In about," I checked the itinerary prepared by Mia, "make it seven hundred hours your time. Slipstream Green flight number forty four."
"He'll be ready for work. And sober."
"That's a bonus. Thank you, Pat."
"Just have him back in a reasonable amount of days. The Wicklow Dart Tournament opens the first weekend of July. It's all he's talked about for months now. You be sure to stop in soon for a bowl of stew and some Vitamin G, right?"
"Long overdue, dear woman, long overdue."
I gingerly closed the phone, digit extended beyond its hinge this time, and smiled. Pat Aundybach was a trusted colleague, my assistant for European business when such a need arose. Athletic and handsome, he was oft mistaken for an Irish country lad by those unaware his roots were sown and grown on the mean streets of Yakima, Washington.
Orphaned as an infant, Aundybach was adopted and raised by an older couple recently retired from the CIA. Enamored with World War II history during his formative years, Pat was a standout two-way high school football star for the Yakima Valley Yaks, before receiving his Bachelor degree from the Australian College of Theology. Upon graduating, he headed south to Hobart, Tasmania for a spell -- never explained why -- and back over to Australia again, where he hooked on as part of a security detail for the Pogues while the band toured the great Oz. With the band, Pat found his niche and his religion. There was no cause to look elsewhere. He eventually met Pat and married, settling in Wicklow as an expat before the birth of their son, Pat.
My association with Pat Aundybach began one rainy November evening during a chance meeting backstage during a Mescaleros concert at the Olympia in Dublin. The moment is recorded in a manuscript -- Argent de Rébellion -- I have yet to formally publish. Joe Strummer, surely entertaining in the heavens now, blessed Pat with the sobriquet "Golden Retriever", due to the lad's thick flowing blond locks, toothy grin and good nature. At the time Pat was helpful in providing me some much needed information and, from that night forward, we continued two steady relationships -- business and social -- each proving mutually beneficial. Typically our collaborations were prearranged, enough so I felt somewhat badly about this improvised contact. Regardless,
I was certain he would understand.
" ... I don't know. So I said to him, sure I didn't drink the entire bottle of barium. The dog ran off with it like it was a toy or something, but go ahead, stick the thing in me and let's see what's what ...".
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 38
