by Jose Latour
…
At a quarter past 6:00 P.M. on June 7, inside IMLATINEX’s glassed-in cubicle, Samuel Plotzher was checking off items on a list atop his clipboard and Elliot Steil was revising specifications in a contract when the Jew did a big stretch, stole a look at his watch, and addressed Steil.
“Hey, Elliot, would you give me a lift? My car’s in the garage, tune-up.”
“Sure thing,” Elliot said, who immediately began closing folders and plastic binders to mask his astonishment. First time in eight years that Plotzher had asked him for a favor.
They got into Elliot’s recently acquired charcoal gray ’98 Saab 9000 two minutes later. Less than twenty seconds after leaving the warehouse things got even weirder.
“Pretty hot, isn’t it? What do you say we go to South Beach, have a drink, and watch pretty asses and tits?” Plotzher asked.
Steil wondered whether he had heard well. Sam Plotzher wanted to ogle naked young women? “It’s not a bad idea,” the Cuban said, rather noncommittally, “let’s do it.” He then took a left onto North Miami Beach Boulevard.
Considering Sam a member of the strong, silent type, Steil concentrated on driving and nothing more was said during the thirty-five-minute ride. The Saab was cruising by the Delano Hotel, at Collins Avenue, when Sam spoke again.
“Park anywhere you like, Elliot. Let’s take a stroll along the beach.”
Elliot found an empty spot at Collins and Twelfth, at Lummus Park. Both men got out and, burning with curiosity, Steil locked the car. Plotzher ambled over to the seashore, leaving deep imprints on the hot, ivory-colored sand. His Cuban associate tagged along. The fading cloudless afternoon promised a splendid sunset to onlookers. Surprisingly, none of the few people in the vicinity were buck naked. However, a six-foot-tall topless brunette in a skimpy bikini bottom caught Elliot’s eye. With muscles rippling under the skin of her thighs with each step, she ambled due south over docile wavelets that broke and died at her bare feet. The soft breeze lovingly swayed her ponytail, pulled out the back of a khaki cap. Her left hand rested over the cap’s visor, the better to squint at several sailboats that seemed to be taking part in a race. A body that deserved to be worshipped, Elliot thought. Hairball, a Cuban he knew, always said the same thing when confronted with a woman like this: He’d start licking the bed’s legs.
“The real reason I asked you to bring me here, Elliot,” began Plotzher, his gaze scanning the eastern horizon while still ten or so yards from the shore and seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, “is that electronics advances by leaps and bounds. You can never be sure nobody is overhearing you, and I want to lessen the odds on someone getting on tape what I have to say to you.”
Elliot took his eyes off the brunette and caught up with Plotzher. He was the dirty old man, not Sam. He braced himself for something truly important.
“Maybe these guys from OFAC planted a bug in the office. See if we let on something about Trans-Caribbean. Let’s deal with that first. Chances are they might suspect we’ve been sidestepping this stupid embargo law, but they won’t be able to prove it and won’t take us to court. The way things are changing with all these authorized sales of poultry, cereals, and stuff to Cuba, we’ll probably be given a warning and that’ll be it. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Okay.”
Plotzher came to a halt by the shoreline. With eyes fixed in the distance, he checked what he would say next. Elliot stole a look at the retreating brunette. Only one word could define her figure: perfect.
“Before changing the subject, I want to tell you that I appreciate your telling me about what happened to you in Cuba and later here in Miami. You did it after everything was over, though. Your private life is your concern, but if it affects the company, it is my concern, too. You were dragged into the whole thing because you manage IMLATINEX and because Trans-Caribbean sells to XEMIC. You should have told me the day you flew back. That’s water under the bridge now, but next time I need to know. The sooner the better. To plan ahead, maybe help you out. We clear on this?”
Elliot nodded his agreement. “I didn’t want to trouble you, Sam.”
“Well, I appreciate that. But in the future, you let me know, okay?”
“Okay.”
Sam took a deep breath and looked around. “This coming December I’ll be sixty-nine. Started making a living when I was eight, shining shoes, selling papers, running errands. I’ve been dreaming about retiring at seventy since my sixtieth birthday. After Ruben died, Maria said to me the same thing she said to you: that she didn’t want to sell IMLATINEX. I thought in a year or two, you could get the hang of a few tricks you haven’t mastered yet, and we could have instructed Maria on the fundamentals of the company. She didn’t know shit about trading, but as a responsible adult she would watch over the company just to make sure she, her daughter, and a conceivable grandson or granddaughter would live comfortably all their lives.”
Plotzher turned to face Steil. “But now I don’t think I will retire anytime soon. Maria is dead and it’s a twenty-five-year-old fashion model who owns 79 percent of IMLATINEX. This kid thinks types of fabric, colors, the length of the skirt, the shoes, the camera, and the lights. She doesn’t know the difference between a ball bearing and a bolt, between a chain saw and a lawn mower, between an invoice and a bill of lading … You think it’s funny?”
Steil shook his head and stopped chuckling. “It’s the way you put it, Sam.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“It’s not funny because her father built this company from scratch, because I’ve devoted almost twenty-seven years of my life to it, because I don’t want to see it sold to a drug dealer that will use it as a front for money laundering and/or to smuggle coke and heroin. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I think I do.”
“I had a talk with Jenny a few days ago. She swore she won’t sell the firm and will try to learn trading. But that’s just words, and you know what words are.”
“Cheap.”
“Exactly. So, I want to trap her into something and I want you to help me do it.”
Steil knitted his brow. “Trap her into what, Sam?”
“Trap her into loving the firm, trading, and doing business.”
Steil clicked his tongue and shook his head. “And how do you think you can pull that off?”
“She’s got Ruben’s genes, or part of them, so maybe she inherited his business acumen as well. She’ll turn into a businesswoman if we make trading attractive to her. What are you shaking your head at?”
From the sand, Steil raised his eyes heavenward. “Oh. C’mon, Sam. Genes have nothing to do with vocation. Henry Ford’s parents were farmers; Tchaikovsky was the son of a mine inspector; Stephen Hawking’s father was a doctor and wanted his son to study medicine; millions of cases prove that. You just said it: All she thinks about are photo shoots, keeping her nice tan, and sipping the drink in vogue at the ‘in’ bar with guys from the fashion crowd. If she drops that for contracts and invoices, I’ll cut off my balls and throw them to the dogs.”
Plotzher smiled briefly, then grew serious again. “She won’t drop fashion, fashion will drop her.”
Elliot cast Sam an intrigued look. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“In modeling, people are old at thirty, geriatric at thirty-five. She knows that. She’s twenty-five. It’s just a matter of time. Eventually she’ll realize that her well-being depends on IMLATINEX, not on modeling.”
Elliot gazed reflectively at the horizon. Maybe. “And how can we make trading attractive to a woman like her?” he asked.
“You tell me. You are the teacher.”
Elliot pretended to guffaw with delight. “Me? Are you serious? C’mon, Sam, get real.”
“Listen. I saw her grow up. I’m like an uncle to her. She loves me, but seldom do people learn from those they love. When I try to explain something to her, she only pretends to pay attention. She interrupts, makes j
okes, laughs, hugs me, kisses my cheek. She won’t do that to you. She’ll respect you. You are a trained teacher, better educated, you handle the company’s managerial side. Younger than me, too, so the generation gap is narrower between you two. If anyone can make trading attractive to her, it is you. I’m asking this as a favor. Will you do it for me?”
Elliot raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips in concentration. Two favors in eight years, both on the same day. Mission impossible, he thought. Such a radical change was doomed. It would be akin to teaching mechanics to a poet, or sexual mores to the pope. But he couldn’t refuse.
“Tell me, Elliot, eight years ago, could you have foreseen that you’d learn so much and be so effective that you’d end up as the firm’s manager?”
Plotzher had a point, Elliot conceded, looking at the toecap of his shoes. But it was different. For him, everything was at stake. For Jenny, nothing was at stake.
“No, Sam, I couldn’t. But in Jenny’s case I think you are wrong. Nothing in her past indicates that she’ll take an interest in trading, much less master the business. Now I love the business, but eight years ago I had no alternative. Jenny has alternatives. She can sell the firm and with the proceeds live the rest of her life comfortably. But I’ll give it my best shot. As a favor to you. What happens if she decides to sell the company?”
Sam Plotzher gave Elliot a wide smile. “You buy her out.”
“WHAT?”
“You buy her out. I know it seems impossible. How can you pay for the firm? Perhaps a bank loan. But discussing that possibility is premature. Here comes the brunette again. Quite a woman, ain’t she?”
Without breaking stride, Ms. Perfect noticed the old man who was eyeing her knowingly and the slack-jawed, middle-aged goof who was staring at her with intense concentration. She looked daggers at the jackass. What was the matter with him? Never seen a woman before? She took her eyes off him in disgust and kept puttering along. There was no way she could divine that the expression on the schmuck’s face had nothing to do with her body. When she crossed his line of vision, Elliot Steil had been wondering whether Sam Plotzher had gone gaga or if, once again, fate was conspiring to make him a victim of circumstance.
“Now take me home, Elliot,” Plotzher said, then turned around. “I don’t feel like getting a glow while you guzzle Seven-Ups one after the other. Let’s go.”
