by Stan Hayes
“The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Proper,” Moses replied. “This is a most impressive- I hesitate to say clubhouse-”
With a quick chuckle, Proper said, “It’s just been ‘the club’ to us ever since anyone can remember. The Bisque Elks of our grandfathers’ generation bought it, and three acres of property, from the Butler estate right after the First Waw. It’s been altered quite a bit inside, and extended in the back, but the exterior of the house has been preserved as it was in its heyday, after Mr. Butler built it on the foundation of the old house, which burned in ’64, but not by Sherman’s bunch.”
“That’s enough history before cocktails, Roger,” interjected Goode. “Let’s get Mr. Kubielski acquainted with George; he’s a master martini builder, if that’s your pleasure.”
“Never turn down a good martini,” said Moses, smiling in his turn. And please, call me Mose.”
As George produced martinis, Proper introduced him to the others at the bar. David Browne, the owner of Browne & Browne, Bisque’s leading women’s clothing store; Ted Foster, bookkeeper and son of the owner of Bisque Buick, and Barry Edwards, the general manager of Hopkins Mills, one of the larger, noted Proper, of Bisque’s textile mills.
“Roger was telling us,” Browne said, “about your buying the Ritz. And about your having come here from New York City. That’s a hell of a change of scenery. It certainly would be for me, making that move in reverse.”
“Actually, I came here from Baltimore, but a big change was exactly what I had in mind when I left New York. Sounds like you’ve been there.”
“I have to go at least twice a year to buy for the store,” said Browne. “I’ve been doing it for twenty years, and I’ve never gotten used to it.”
“I think you have to be born into it to be truly used to it,” Moses observed. “If the average New Yorker knew much about the alternatives that are out here, a lot more of them would leave. Then there’s the problem of making a living; most of them would have to make a drastic change in how they do that, and that’s very scary to a lot of people.”
“They don’t have an exclusive on that state of mind,” observed Roger Proper. We’d rather that not too much changed around here; not too fast, anyway.”
“But change obviously doesn’t scare you,” said Barry Edwards, cool-blue-eyed, heavyset, an obvious ex-athlete who had retained the habit of grading every introduction in terms of a level of confrontation. “Were you born in New York?”
“Yes. And the thought of living anywhere else did scare me. It still does.”
“Well, human beings are incredibly adaptable,” Ted Foster put in. “And tough. When you think about how some of the Jews in the death camps held on and lived in spite of what was done to them.”
Moses looked closely at the younger man. “Yes,” he said. “makes you wonder where conscious thought leaves off and some unconscious will to live takes over.”
Bruce Goode, seething inside, hastened to turn the conversation in a safer direction. He’d told them that Kubielski was Jewish. What an incredible gaffe! Of course, Serena hadn’t bothered to tell him until yesterday. “Now that you’ve had all of seventy-two hours to think about it, Mose, any ideas about what it’s going to take to put the good old Ritz into the black?”
Moses delayed his response for a couple of seconds, then said “Well, I think things’ll be fine as long as people remember that, dollar for dollar, they can have more fun at the movies than anywhere else.”
“With their clothes on, anyway,” dead-panned Barry Edwards, drawing an immediate guffaw from Roger Proper, which grew into a general ripple of relieved laughter as Moses joined in.
“Mose and I should go ahead and get some lunch,” said Goode. “I promised him a little sightseeing afterwards. “Anyone else?”
“I’m afraid I feel the need for another martini first,” said Edwards.
“Yeah, and since we got Ted out here to do a little Elks business, I’d like to get that out of the way before we eat. Ted’s the club’s business manager,” Roger Proper said, looking at Moses.
“OK, at least you’ll get the club’s business out of the way in a reasonably sober state,” Goode replied. We’ll see you all later.” With handshakes, nods and smiles all around, He and Moses walked into the dining room.
Franklin, the waiter whom they’d seen in the foyer, was immediately at their elbow. “Will anybody be joinin’ you gemmuns, Mistah Goode?”
“No, Franklin, it’ll just be two. How about putting us over by the big window?” They sat down across from each other at a table for four, which was covered by a heavy, bright-white tablecloth. Franklin began to remove two of the four silver place-settings. “How about another martini, Mose,” Goode said. “Everything’s cooked to order, so we’ve got plenty of time.”
“That’s an easy sale, Bruce,” Mose told him. “George definitely knows his business.”
“Two more, please, Franklin,” said Goode, relief apparent in the relaxation of both his face and body. He leaned forward, his eyes seeking Moses’. “I hope you enjoyed meeting my friends,” he said. “I hadn’t expected anyone other than Roger and Barry to be here. Ted has to work the club’s business into his schedule whenever he can, so the introduction to Roger and Barry that I’d planned was unavoidably expanded. At least you had a chance to bat the breeze with a couple more of the people who get things done in Bisque.”
“It was my pleasure; most kind of you to suggest that we come here. I appreciate the opportunity of getting to know these gentlemen.”
“It was the least I could do; you’ve made a significant commitment to Bisque, and I wanted you to understand that it’s appreciated by what you might call the city’s leadership. I must apologize to you, though, for Ted’s remark about…”
Moses raised his hand to interrupt. “Please, Bruce. I took no offense. Quite the contrary; it’s no insult to hear testimony to the toughness of the Jewish people.”
“I’m glad that’s how you feel. I just thought…”
“That I might be sensitive about being Jewish? Nope. I’ve been this way for quite awhile.”
Goode laughed. “Forgive me. I just have had very little experience with your people, and it’s painfully obvious.”
“Well, it’s also obvious that you’re getting experienced in a hurry by having me as a client. Fortunately, I’ve had considerable experience with your people.”
Goode’s hearty laugh was fading away as Franklin arrived with the drinks. “What’s the special today?” He asked him.
“Stewed chicken with rice, Mr. Goode.”
“It’s very good, but a little too much for me at lunch,” Goode said to Moses. There are several good choices on the regular menu, but if you like steak, let me recommend the steak sandwich. It’s a particular favorite of mine.”
“Good enough; medium rare for me, please.”
As they drank, Goode said, “Barry Edwards is a particularly good contact for you. Besides being the general manager of Hopkins Mills, he’s a director of the First National Bank.”
“And also a client of your firm?”
“Yes. We handle the mill’s, the bank’s and his personal business.”
“A solid citizen, all right. Sounds like I could do worse than to do my banking with First National.”
“No doubt about it,” said Goode. “Just drop by anytime and ask for Fred Malcolm. He’s the bank manager. And of course, use the firm as your reference.”
“Good. They can handle the transfer of funds from my bank in Baltimore. I’d like to close the Ritz deal with a check from a local bank. Just for luck.”
“That’s a great idea.” Goode paused for the last sip of his drink, put the glass down, and shot Moses a smile made quizzical by a quick up-down of eyebrows. “I’m still amazed that you made up your mind so quickly. Not just about the Ritz, but about committing yourself to living in Bisque.”
“Bruce, did you ever see something thatcha just had to have?” asked Moses. “Seems like I re
member some wise man saying something like ‘Passion is its own explanation.’ I was dumbstruck by what Walton had done to make that theatre a first-rate house. It makes the one I managed in Baltimore look like it oughta be condemned. Once I found out it was on th’ market, and for how much, I wouldn’ta given a damn if it’da been in Calcutta.”
“Well, Mose,” observed Goode with a grin, “You are a passionate man, if I’m any judge. I hope you come to like our town as much as you do the Ritz, and vice versa.”
“On short acquaintance,” said Moses with a thoughtful nod, “I’d say that there’s a very good chance that’ll happen.”
Hamm Foods, Goode’s promised first stop on the drive back into Bisque, was larger than Moses had imagined. Goode stopped the car at the crest of a rise west of the site. The plant, a red brick structure surrounded by a collection of long, one-story wood frame buildings, was enclosed by a high chain-link fence. Loaded dump trucks, the yellow-green juice dripping from their tailgates just as it had from the ones they’d seen driving out of town,, jerked and farted their way into line at the main gate. Others, emptied, bounced up the outgoing ramp, kicking up clouds of red dust as they pulled out onto the unpaved road to meet them.
“Looks pretty old,” shouted Moses over the trucks’ racket.
“Yeh-baw-ey,” said Goode. “Hamm Foods was here before the first cotton mill. It was started back in the eighteen-eighties, and it’s still doing a big job at what it started out to do, which is can these pimiento peppers.”
“I’ve never thought that much about the market for pimiento peppers, but it must be pretty good-sized.”
“Big enough to have made Hamm one of the county’s major employers. They have as many folks working here as either of the big textile mills. Seen enough? Let’s get out of this dust.”
Through the dust, he saw a line of ramshackle houses on the opposite side of the road. A Coca-Cola sign proclaimed an equally battered shack at the end of the line to be “Brandon Grocery.” A Negro boy of five or six stood on the porch of the house next door to the grocery. He looked at them from under a large once-white cowboy hat. As they drew even with them, he shot them both with his thumb-and-forefinger pistol. Moses, laughing, shot back with his own. “Ornery critters in these parts,” he said.
“Oh, yeah, this is bandit territory,” Goode replied. “We’d better head for the fort.”
As they drove back onto paved road, the scene changed in no time from factory raunch to manicured greenery. “Since it’s so close,” Goode said, “Let’s swing through City Park. They kept it going on a shoestring during the waw (where the hell did they get “waw?” Moses thought), but the golf course is looking quite nice again. The clubhouse is coming up on the right.”
They had just passed some tennis courts on the left as he spoke. The clubhouse, its porch crowded with golfers, sat on a hill overlooking the parking lot, which was nearly full. Goode tapped the horn, and the golfers waved as the car went by. “When does anybody get any work done around here?” Moses asked him. “I’m all for leisure time, but between the crowd here and the one at the Elks club, half the town’s making whoopee on a weekday.”
Chuckling his well-to-do chuckle, Goode said, “It’s Wednesday. The town, except for the mills, pretty much closes down on Wednesday afternoon. Makes up for the long day on Saturday, when all the stores stay open late.”
“Good idea,” said Moses. “I’ll keep that in mind. The Ritz could do well then, with a special Wednesday matinee.”
“Could be,” said Goode. What a Jew, he thought. Squeeze out a nickel anywhere you can. “You’ll have to compete for that audience, though, and not just with golf and tennis. Half the county goes fishing on Wednesday afternoon.” They had driven past the swimming pool entrance, the golf course’s number three green and a softball field, all in heavy use, as they talked. “What’s your particular vice, Mose?”
“Until further notice, the Ritz, soon to be the Winston, Theatre. Then maybe I’ll see about a little fishing,” said Mose. The better to avoid you and your bunch, he thought.
“You’re not a golfer, then.”
“Nope.”
“Oh well. It is a time-eater. But addictive, once you start.”
Headed back into Bisque, they rode in silence for awhile, the afternoon sun hot on their faces. I’ll probably get a goddamn sunburn, thought Moses. Back at the law office, Moses read the final draft of the purchase contract for the Ritz and approved it. “I’ll set up an appointment for the closing,” Goode told him, “and call you. Ready to go back to the hotel?”
“Thanks, Bruce. I’ll walk back. Still getting the feel of the town. Thanks for a great afternoon; I’ll see you at the closing.”
“OK, if you’re sure. Be glad to drop you.”
“No, no. See you later.”
He’d walked leisurely back to the hotel down Lee Street, letting the experiences of the day soak into his brain, cataloging, classifying, prioritizing. He’d dropped anchor in strange waters before, but these people had the potential to bore him silly. But it seemed safe enough for now, and he did love movies. Now he had one of his own. And there was Serena.
Jack, dressed for bed, answered Moses’ knock at the door of the apartment.
“Hi, Jack.”
“Hi, Mose. How ya doin’?”
“Just fine, pal. How about you?”
“OK. Just finished my homework.”
“I just wanted to tell your Mom something. Is she in?”
“Nope. She’s up on the roof.”
“She is? What’s she doing up there?”
“That’s where she does her sculpture. She’s working on a bust of my Aunt Cordelia.”
“I see. Do you think she’d mind if I went up for just a minute?”
“I guess not. Knock real hard on the roof door; she locks it when she’s up there. Go back down the hall past the elevator and turn right. You’ll see a stairway just a little way down on the left. Just go up the stairs to the door and knock.”
He rapped on the heavy metal door. After a few seconds, he rapped again. “Who is it?” she asked, so abruptly that he wished he hadn’t disturbed her.
“Moses Kubielski. I’m sorry to bother you; just wanted to tell you how my lunch with Bruce went today. It’ll wait ‘til tomorrow if you’re busy.”
“Wait.” He felt a rush of air at his back as the door opened with a scrape. She looked down at him, smiling. “Actually, I need a break,” she said. “The last moments with a piece like this are hard for me; just can’t say ‘That’s it, you’re done.’ Come up and take a look.”
She closed the door behind them, sliding a large metal bolt through its brackets as she did. Three aluminum-shaded floodlights made a bright yellow pool at a spot near the front of the hotel. They made deep shadows in the folds of her denim jumper, which fit her loosely in the manner of an artist’s smock. “This is my way of staying sane; people know by now that they’d better have a damn good reason for knocking on that door. There isn’t much privacy in a hotel, so I’ve made a little world for myself up here.”
“Another little piece of New York,” said Moses. “The rooftop retreat.”
“You know, I hadn’t thought about that. Now I’ll enjoy it even more. Maybe I should put a couple of potted plants and a chaise lounge up here. Up to now it’s just been me and whatever I happen to be working on.”
“Jack told me what you were working on right now; Aunt-?”
“Cordelia. My sister-in-law. It’s an anniversary gift. They’ll have been married five years this October.”
“Your brother’s wife? If she’s anything like your impression of her, I’d say that he’s a lucky man.”
She looked at him for a long moment before saying, “Well, Buster’s had plenty of luck, but by no means all good. I’d say the jury’s still out on him and Cordelia, but I guess you could say that about most marriages.”
“I guess so.”
“I’m having some sherry. Would you like so
me?”
“Yes, I would,” Moses said.
“Most of the sherry that you can get around here’s undrinkable, except by drunks. This is a Sandeman, medium dry.” She poured another glass and handed it to him, lifting her own as she did. “Confusion to our enemies,” she said.
Moses laughed. “One of the great toasts of all time.” He drank, pausing to feel the smooth taste expand to a warm glow. “Must be from Shakespeare.”
“Sounds Falstaffian, doesn’t it? Damned if I know.”
“Timely in all ages, anyway. This is excellent sherry. You’re an amazing woman.”
She looked up at him, her eyes, caught in a shaft of yellow light, a deeper green than he’d ever seen them. “I’ve heard Jack call you Mose. He said you asked him to. May I call you Mose?”
“Yes, please do.”
“Well then, Mose,” she said, draining her glass and setting it down, “Give us a kiss.”
They leaned against the brick wall, his arm around her shoulders, her scent filling him. He put two fingers under her chin, lifting her lips to his. He kissed them lightly. They were soft, opening to the first light probe of his tongue. He explored her mouth gently, thoroughly, giving her the opportunity to respond, which she did, her tongue delicately reciprocating his own. He pulled his head back to look into her eyes, his fingers extended comblike into her hair, cupping her head in his palm.
