by Ian Bull
Marjorie eyes Kath from head to toe as if she were a lousy painting she had to sell, then waves her hand at Sam. “It’s an open bar, but no tip jar. That’s tacky. And add plenty of ice,” Marjorie says, then exhales smoke in his face, spins on her heel, and stalks off.
Kath’s Italian blood goes from cold to a hot simmer as she watches the older woman walk away. She then glares at Sam, wanting to punch him.
“You’ll get the last laugh,” Sam says.
Ten minutes later, Sam is behind the bar with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, slinging drinks for the dozens of people who are coming into the party. He’s making the hard drinks while Kath carries a tray of wine glasses through the party.
Sam hands a gin and tonic with a twist of lime to a puffy man in a velvet tuxedo jacket. “Here you go, sir, enjoy your evening,” Sam says. The man sips as if Sam were invisible.
Kath returns with a tray full of empty wine glasses, then moves behind the bar and stacks them in the sink while Sam fills clean glasses with Cabernet. “I can’t believe I put on a five-hundred-dollar dress to be a cocktail waitress,” she says.
“It'll be worth it, trust me," Sam says, as he slides the last full glass onto her tray. Kath sighs with disdain, then picks up the tray and walks away. As she goes, Sam stops to sigh with admiration, watching how good Kath looks from behind in the expensive dress he bought for her.
Kath offers a glass of wine to a woman in a pink pantsuit chatting with two friends as they admire a bronze statue. She takes the glass from Kath’s tray without a glance at her.
Marjorie stands with two women and their husbands admiring the painting of the purple woman with the green nipples giving birth to the rainbow-colored baby. Kath offers them wine, which they all take without acknowledging her either.
Kath likes this anonymity. Being so close and yet so invisible allows her to stare at the women’s jewelry and the men’s wrist watches without suspicion. She wonders what Sam has planned. There’s plenty of money in this room.
Marjorie pinches Kath on the arm, making her jump. Marjorie raises her eyebrows at her and nods at four men laughing two paintings down.
“Make sure you serve them, I’ll go talk to them in a few minutes,” Marjorie says, then turns her back on her.
Kath assesses the four men before walking over. Three of them are young men in their late twenties, wearing the preppy uniform that is becoming popular in 1980 – penny loafers with no socks, LL Bean pants, and Brooks Brothers button down shirts under blue blazers. An older preppy man with tortoiseshell glasses and thinning blond hair holds court over the three younger men. They are all similar except the older man can't button his blazer over his paunch. Kath reaches the group as the older man finishes his story.
“…and he asked me, ‘Julian Schnabel? Isn’t he a tailor on Montgomery Street?”
The three sycophants all laugh on cue. Kath holds out the tray to them all.
“What about you, darling? Do you have an opinion about the newcomer, Mr. Schnabel?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Kath says, and holds out the tray. All four men take a glass, leaving her tray empty.
“Of course, you wouldn’t. What about this painting? Any opinion?” the aging preppy asks, and gestures to the painting behind him, an abstract painting that is different streaks of red from top to bottom, in one big block.
“It’s very red,” Kath says, deciding to state the obvious.
“A stunning critique, my dear. You should write it up for Idiot Savant Art Review. I’m sure they’d publish it,” the man says, and his three courtiers laugh.
“Why are you making fun of me?” Kath asks.
“Darling, I’d never make fun of you! Do you like Monet?” he asks.
“Money?” Kath asks back. “Are you asking me if I like money?”
All four men start laughing and the paunchy man with the thinning hair laughs the loudest. “Darling, your face is as red as the painting. What’s the matter?” he asks.
Kath smiles, turns, and walks back to the bar and plops her empty tray in front of Sam. “Whatever you have planned better happen soon, or I’m going to kill somebody.”
“Robbing them will make you feel a lot better,” Sam says.
As Sam loads more wine onto Kath’s tray, Marjorie sweeps back to the bar and lifts a glass and sips. “I just sold a worthless piece of shit, thank you very much!” she says.
“We are running out of champagne,” Sam says.
“That’s impossible,” Marjorie coughs.
“People are drinking, just like you asked,” Sam says. “There’s a liquor store four blocks down. People are drunk enough that I could just buy some Korbel at this point.”
“You can’t leave,” Marjorie says.
“You promised me a ten-minute break every hour,” Sam says.
“Then go get some and hurry back, I must tend to my sheep.” Marjorie says, then walks over to the four preppy men and gestures at the red painting behind them.
Sam takes two still full champagne bottles and empties them into the sink.
“It’s happening soon,” Sam says. “And when it does, it will happen fast.”
Kath hears him, but she's also watching Marjorie working the four preps, especially the older one who likes to humiliate people. Marjorie keeps gesturing at the big red painting, hoping for a sale, but the older guy just shrugs. But then he whispers in her ear, and Marjorie laughs, and they both look back at Kath and the prep points at her.
Kath knows what’s up. For Marjorie to close him, Kath must be part of the deal.
When she turns back to Sam to complain that the evening is about to become a lot more complicated, Sam finishes filling ten glasses of champagne and puts out a card: Gone to get more champagne, back in ten minutes.
“You can’t leave now,” Kath says.
“I won’t be gone long. In five minutes, go to the bedroom in the back corner of the loft, and open the window to the fire escape. I’ll be outside waiting,” Sam says. He wipes down every counter and every glass and everything either of them touched.
“Then what?” Kath asks.
“I stay busy in the locked bedroom, while you come back out here. Just make sure to keep Marjorie and all the guests tanked up and away from that back bedroom. When I'm finished, I'll come back up here with a few more bottles of champagne, as I promised, then grab you and we leave," Sam says. "She won't notice that we're gone for thirty minutes and won't think to go into her bedroom for an hour. By then we'll be long gone. Got it?"
Before Kath can express her worry about Marjorie and the rude preppy guy, Sam darts down the stairs and is gone. Kath looks at her watch, and then at Mr. Prep, who is still eyeing her. She hopes she can dodge him for five minutes.
Sam runs over to the blue dumpster in the alley and pushes it under the fire escape below Marjorie's loft. Sam opens the dumpster top and pulls out the black canvas duffel bag that Cliff and Dozer gave him, puts it on like a backpack and vaults onto the dumpster. He jumps and reaches the bottom ladder of the fire escape, yanks it down, and climbs to the second-floor landing outside the bedroom window, then pulls up the ladder behind him.
He catches his breath, pulls his favorite yellow dishwashing gloves out of the black canvas bag, pulls them on, wipes down all the metal railings he touched, then glances at his watch. No one saw him and he’s outside the window with a minute to spare…and he waits.
Kath eases through the party, avoiding Marjorie who is closing a sale with a small group of Japanese businessmen. She passes the open bathroom door, then finds the bedroom six yards down a dark hallway. She slips inside and moves toward the window –
and the light pops on. It’s the old preppy with the paunch and the thin blond hair standing by the light switch.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he says.
“Barbara. I didn’t catch yours,” she says.
“Fredrick Constantine Hauser,” he says. “Marjorie would be livid if she knew you were in her
bedroom, Barbara.”
“I was looking for the bathroom,” Kath says.
“You passed the open bathroom door as you came in here,” Frederick says, and then lies down on Marjorie’s white ash bed with the black silk comforter. “This is not a good situation for you, Barbara, but I want to help you. I like finding solutions to problems that benefit everyone.”
Kath doesn’t dare glance at the window.
Outside, Sam hears voices inside the bedroom, but a curtain blocks his view.
Frederick leans back against the headboard in just the perfect spot so that the track lighting illuminates the red bald spot on the top of his skull. “See if you can follow this, Barbara. Marjorie wants to sell me a painting. I want to buy it. You say you like money, and I want to give you some of mine. Marjorie and I have already talked, and she agrees that the serving wench would be a wonderful add-on to close this deal. So, can we all help each other?” he asks, then leans back and unzips his pants and undoes his belt buckle.
Kath stares at this big balding bag of dog poo stuffed into tight clothes. Why doesn’t he wear socks? It’s not like his pasty ankles with gross tiny black hairs is somehow more attractive than black cotton.
He raises his eyebrows at her, which makes Kath feel like she just drank spoiled milk. Why are some men such pigs? And why do the worst pigs seek her out? There was the endless parade of slimeballs who disappointed her mother. Then she caught the same slimeball bug, it seems, and she ended up with a jerk like Paul. And now this clown is making his power move on her. What makes them pick her to be their play toy to abuse? Is it the way she dresses? The way she walks? The way she smells? All she wants to do is run away.
“You can take off that silly outfit for a start. What do you say?” Frederick asks.
Except Kath is stunning in this dress, and she knows it; in fact, that's why Frederick is insulting her outfit, so he can make her doubt her confidence. Sam bought her the dress precisely because she looked so good in it. In fact, Sam is the only guy she can remember who didn't try to make her feel bad about herself. He teases her sometimes, but she also can tell he's got a real crush on her, and not some weird macho desire to dominate her.
“Hello, Barbara? What’s the delay here?” Frederick asks.
Kath smiles. In one instant, she sees a beautiful solution to her problem with Frederick, which will also give her and Sam the time they need to accomplish whatever Sam has planned. She gets on the bed, crawls up to Frederick and kisses him on the lips.
“Do you like martinis, Frederick?” she asks in a whisper.
“I love them,” he says, but blinks, betraying his nervousness at her new boldness.
“Get comfortable while I get us two ice cold ones, with one olive each, shaken, not stirred," she says, making sure she slides her hand across his crotch as she gets off the bed. "We can discuss price over drinks."
Kath blows a kiss and closes the door behind her, then heads into the party. She spots Marjorie, still with the Japanese businessmen. Kath steps behind the counter and starts making a martini. Marjorie walks over.
“Refill those men's drinks, they're having whiskey straight," Marjorie tells her.
“I want the money you owe us now,” Kath says as she grabs the martini shaker and fills it with ice.
“I beg your pardon? How dare you even speak to me like that,” Marjorie says, glaring as she chews on her cigarette holder.
Kath pours the gin into the shaker, then adds a spoonful of vermouth to the top.
"Let me break it down for you, just like Frederick did for me. You want him to buy that shitty red painting, which costs ten thousand dollars. I saw the price when that paunchy prick was humiliating me," Kath says, and starts shaking the shaker. "Frederick told you that he'd buy it, but he wants me to be part of the sale, and you agreed. So, if you want to sell him the painting, you'll pay me the money owed for both the bar service and for servicing Frederick, then leave me alone in that bedroom for one hour," Kath says.
“Frederick should pay you for your professional services, not me,” Marjorie says, eyeing her up and down like she has a disease.
Kath wags her finger. “Sorry, boss lady. You must pay what’s due. Let’s say one thousand, all in. Otherwise, I go back into that bedroom and bite his dick off.” Kath puts the martini shaker and two glasses onto a tray, and drops an olive into each glass, then smiles at Marjorie and rubs her hands together. “Just think of that ten thousand,” Kath says, and holds out her palm.
A tiny smile bends up Marjorie’s razor straight lips – a begrudging respect for a worthy adversary. Marjorie’s small gold purse hangs from a long chain over her shoulder, and she snaps it open and pulls out ten hundred-dollar bills and lays them in Kath’s hand. “You have an hour, and if I don’t get that sale, I get this money back,” Marjorie says.
Kath slides the cash into a small pocket on the side of her dress, picks up the tray with the martinis and heads back towards the bedroom.
She just bought herself an hour. She hopes that’s enough time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
S am sits on the fire escape outside Marjorie's bedroom window and stares at his watch. He's supposed to be halfway through this job by now, and he's not even through the window. He can hear someone in the bedroom. It sounds like a man humming.
He wishes he had a way to communicate with Kath. He imagines a pager-like device, like a phone, but one that allowed you just to write a short message. The numbers on a phone also have letters, which means you could write a short amount of text and send it. It could even have a visible screen, like the ones he and Kath just stole the other night, but smaller. He could write a short note, and then send her that message, just like you would to a pager, and she could read it and then write something back. No conversation, just some info about what’s going on. That would be perfect for this situation. The technology couldn’t be that complicated, he thinks. It could even go with a portable phone. Maybe he should find an engineer to help him work on it.
He looks at his watch. He’ll give this job another five minutes – and then he hears Kath’s muffled voice from inside the bedroom. He can’t understand what she’s saying, but he knows it’s her.
Kath pushes the door open with her foot. “Hello, Professor,” she sings.
“Professor? I like that,” Frederick says as he sits up. Kath slides the tray onto the sheets, and then climbs onto the bed and straddles him. He inhales and grabs Kath’s bum cheeks as Kath gives the martinis another long shake.
“I think a martini is perfect foreplay, don't you?" she says, shaking her torso as much as the shaker. She opens the martini top and pours two martinis into the two glasses sitting on the nightstand. She brings a cold glass close to his lips.
“Doctor wants you to open up, Professor,” she coos. He does, and she slowly pours the whole cold biting cocktail into his mouth, filling it until it overflows down his cheeks. “Swallow, swallow, swallow if you want me,” she whispers, and he gulps the drink down, and she follows one martini right away with the other.
Frederick can’t keep up with the swallowing as the second drink spills out the sides of his mouth. He fights to sit up. “Slow down, hang on,” he sputters.
Kath yanks hard on his unfastened belt, pulling out the leather strap from his pant loops so fast that it cracks like a whip. Frederick's eyes bug open, and he grabs his chest.
“That's right, baby, you're in over your head," Kath whispers and pushes him back down so hard his body bounces an inch off the mattress. Kath kisses him hard, jamming her tongue down his throat. She then reaches between her legs and into his pants and squeezes his erection. Frederick groans and his eyes roll back inside his head. Then, faster and smoother than a Las Vegas dealer shuffling a deck of cards, Kath loops his belt through the wood slats of the headboard, grabs his wrists, jams them together and pushes them into the belt loop and pulls the leather taut. As Frederick opens his mouth to speak, Kath jams the napkin inside.
"Be go
od now, and the doctor will make you feel better. Okay, Professor?" she asks.
Frederick shakes his head and tries to spit out the napkin, but it's jammed too far down his throat. Kath jumps off the bed and smooths her dress flat. Sam was right, she needs a dress she could move around in, and this one is doing the trick. She pulls aside the curtain and undoes the latch and lifts the window.
Sam hands her the black duffel bag, steps through the window into the room and sees Frederick with his wrists tied to the headboard, fighting for air on the bed. He’s kicking his legs in the air and thrashing from side to side, trying to get free. His face turns from red to purple.
“What the hell did you do to him?” Sam asks.
“I kissed him. He couldn’t handle it.”
Sam opens the black duffel bag and pulls out a long white cord. Kath stands on the bed and steps on Frederick’s shins, drawing from him a long, muffled scream. Sam ties his feet together and then ties the other end of the cord through the wood at the base of the bed, stretching him out flat. Sam checks the belt loop holding his wrists to the headboard and decides that Kath did a good enough job. Frederick can’t slip out.
Sam stares at Frederick’s inflated purple face. “I’ve never seen a face that color before.”
Frederick gurgles and gestures with his eyes towards his jacket. Kath searches his inside breast pocket and finds a bottle of pills. She shakes the bottle in his face. “You need these, Professor?” she asks, and he nods vigorously.
Kath pops open the top, pulls the napkin out of his mouth, places two pills onto his tongue and slowly pours the watery remnants from the shaker into his mouth. He groans his gratitude as his eyes roll back. Kath and Sam step back and trade nervous glances.
The pills must work fast because his skin color turns from purple to pink within two minutes. His eyes pop open, and anger floods his face again.
“Help!" he shouts, but Kath dives on top of him and gets the napkin back across his open mouth before he can get the second word out.
