Summer Accommodations: A Novel

by Sidney Hart

  After dinner I went to the bar in the lounge where Julie the bartender made me a Tom Collins. He joked with me about coming alone and ordering a drink. “Alcohol won’t get you laid if you don’t have a girl drinking with you. Ha, ha. Ha, ha.” I felt worse after the first Tom Collins. The bar filled up slowly when Talent Night ended, Ben’s mid-week effort at killing time before the weekend performers started trooping through. My presence raised the eyebrows of some and the hopes of others, the latter being the anxious parents of what I would politely call unprepossessing daughters. The carbonation had evacuated my second Tom Collins by that time and the wedge of fresh lime that Julie had perched on the lip of the glass now lay in a lifeless heap at the bottom of the drink. My head spun.

  “Let me buy you a fresh drink,” I heard someone say as my glass was sailed across the bar in Julie’s direction.

  “Thank you, but I really don’t want another drink,” I said, not looking at the man who had seated himself beside me at the bar.

  “It’s not polite to refuse a generous offer, Melvin. Even if you don’t drink it be gracious and watch the bubbles fizz in the glass.” He punctuated his advice with a squeeze of my shoulder which made me look up to see who this sport was. The man had a sharp featured face and a crew cut, was probably around forty years old with a trim and youthful physique. He was wearing a loose fitting sport coat, smoking a long, unfiltered cigarette and he had the coldest blue eyes I’d ever seen, cold as dry ice.

  “My name is Joe,” he said, extending his hand, “Joe,” he repeated as if it were a hard name to learn. I shook his hand but didn’t speak; he already knew my name.

  “Having a good season? They say you can’t find a room to rent in the Catskills anymore this summer because they’re all booked.”

  “It’s been all right,” I said unenthusiastically. Who knew who this guy could be, maybe an IRS agent looking for tax cheats.

  “You’re a pretty quiet fella, Mel, doesn’t that hurt your tips?” I thought I’d say something sarcastic, like ‘let me give you a tip, pal,’ but not knowing who he was, and daunted by those cold, icy eyes I said,

  “It isn’t personal, but I don’t know you and I would prefer to be left alone tonight. I’ve got some things on my mind and I’m not good company.” He rolled the tip of his cigarette around the base of the ashtray leaving a gray trail of ash then stared at me through narrowed eyes as he lifted the butt to his mouth and took a deep drag. The smoke came out through his nose slowly surrounding his face as if in a mist.

  “Let me be clear with you, Melvin, you and I are going to do some talking tonight. You and I are having this conversation because Ben Braverman has arranged for us to meet on his behalf.” My stomach flipped and then sank quickly. This was about the trap for Harlan Ben had talked to me about that afternoon. He said someone would get in touch with me. Joe was the someone. “Have I made myself clear to you?” I nodded. “Good. Let me explain to you that I am here very willingly, eagerly you might say, because this Harlan Hawthorne character is bad news, a rotten apple, a parasite, a scum bag, do I make myself clear?”

  “Clear as day,” I said, falling back on cliche to keep the clear word in play. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and then relaxed.

  “Look, Melvin, I understand that you’re very close to this boy but you don’t know him you only think that you know him. This guy is nothing but a grifter, a gigolo and a user, a cheap crook who steals money and jewelry from the women that he beds.”

  “You can prove this?”

  “You know, it’s the damnedest thing, women never want to press charges against him. He must have something special, some move or some …”

  “He listens.”

  “He listens?! What the hell does that mean?” He was as confused as a gorilla that has just been handed a plastic banana.

  “Women adore Harlan because he understands and cares about them, maybe too many of them, but he’s not mean, and he’s not a thief.”

  “Oh boy,” Joe said, wiping his brow, “we’ve got a lot of talking to do, you and me, a lot of talking.”

  “If you don’t mind I’d rather that we do that some other time.” I started to leave but Joe grabbed my shoulder and held me in place despite my demurrals.

  “Mr. Braverman wants this Harlan character out of his hotel, out of his daughter’s life, out of town and, if necessary, out cold but under any circumstances, o-u-t, out! You cannot walk away just now, you can’t because I don’t want you to, because I’m not through with you, because if you walk I’ll call the police and Ben B will say you were at his house in the middle of the night looking for something to steal. Up here that’s all Ben has to do to get you put in jail, clear?” That word again. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into my shoulder with a surprisingly fierce strength. “I’m asking you if I’ve made myself clear!” His nostrils flared and his index finger located a nerve in my left shoulder that when pressed hurt so it caused my knees to buckle. “Yes!” I said in a shaky voice, “clear as day.”

  “Good.” He took another king size cigarette from the packet in his shirt and lit it with the ember of the one he had been smoking. After it was afire he took a deep breath and then seemed to blow the smoke out of every portal in his head. I even thought I saw his ears participate in the venting of the smoke. “Let me tell you about your buddy Harlan. First of all, his name is not Harlan Hawthorne but it’s the name he uses up here. He takes people by surprise that way, disarms them, yeah that’s what he does, he disarms people by using that name. Isn’t that what happened to you?”

  “It isn’t his name it’s his style and the fact that he is very smart. And I wouldn’t say that I’ve been disarmed,” hearing the defensiveness in my voice I shifted my tone, “it’s more like I’ve been charmed, flattered by his willingness to teach me about things.” I would not tell him that I no longer idolized Harlan and it was interesting hearing this portrayal of him, one closer in every way to Sarah’s perception of Harlan.

  “Teach you about things,” he repeated, nodding his head. “Has he taught you how to slip a ring off a woman’s finger so gently she doesn’t even feel it disappear, or where to step on a woman’s instep at exactly the same time you slide her bracelet off her wrist so that she is distracted by the pain and more focused on the prospect of podiatry than on her jewelry, has he taught you how he does that? Or has he shown you how to peel a twenty off a roll of bills, examine it very prominently and then quickly switch a two dollar bill for it so that if he’s caught it can be passed off as an honest mistake, you know, confusion over the number two. And there’s more, there’s always more, like the name. You give that name to a person in the Catskills and it disarms them, throws them off their pace, you know what I mean?” I didn’t and I told him so. “Everybody has a rhythm, a pace, a way that he operates in new situations. It’s as identifiable as a signature, a fingerprint, always the same. Just the name, Harlan Hawthorne, derails people. This gives him the chance to see its effect; does it make people wary or eager to know him, intimidated or friendly to a fault. Then he can set his traps, lay his nets, snare his marks.” Joe had smoked his cigarette down to his fingers while he was talking to me and again he lit another from the ember of the shrunken butt.

  “I don’t think we’re talking about the same guy. Maybe the guy you’re talking about heard the real Harlan’s name and decided to use it for himself.” Joe did not burst out laughing but I knew he thought my proposition was ludicrous by the gape-jawed, wide-eyed look he gave me.

  “Are you stupid Melvin? Do you think for a minute that I’m stupid or something? Because if you do you’re in for a big surprise. No, there is only one Harlan Hawthorne and this is him.” Even though I had refused it, I took a sip of the Tom Collins on the bar. My head had the fuzzy feeling it usually got after a few drinks and I knew that to go farther would certainly make me sick to my stomach and if I got sick enough he’d have to let me leave. “Let me have a scotch on the rocks, Julie. Make it a double. So let�
��s talk about Ben’s plan.” Julie brought him his drink and shifting around in his seat Joe took the drink in his hand and smiled a friendly smile at the glass before swigging a large gulp of it. “You understand that any business that deals with a lot of cash is an opportunity to skim bucks out of the register and directly into your pocket. It’s a good way to keep your silent partner, Uncle Sam, silent. This is the case in bars, restaurants and gas stations, and in resort hotels. People either pay you in cash or they write you a check. If you are careful and not too greedy you can skim a few thousand dollars a summer and no one is any the wiser. That’s a lot of money, a year’s salary for your average clerk or secretary, the kind of people who come here for a summer vacation. But you don’t deposit that cash in a bank, no, no. That would leave a record of the money for the taxman who knows very well about cash skimming, he just can’t prove it most of the time. You stash the cash somewhere until you want to spend it, take a trip, buy a fur coat or a car, you know, some kind of luxury. Now,” he took his scotch in hand again, finished it in a swallow and sailed the glass down the bar to Julie who nodded and reached for the scotch bottle behind him. “More ice this time please, Jules. So usually the owner of this cash business has a safe or some kind of strongbox hidden away in or near his house. This is where you come in.” I took another sip of my Tom Collins. The gin taste came through the lime and my nausea increased but I sipped the drink some more. While I might recently have become disenchanted with Harlan I was not going to listen to my part in this scheme to trap him if I could avoid it. I’d sooner get what we called “the whirlies” and throw up on Joe’s shoes. “Are you all right? You’re turning green and sweating, uh oh, you’re gonna be sick!” And he jumped up and moved away from the bar taking his suede shoes out of harm’s way. I took a deep breath and put my head between my knees.

  “I’ll be okay, don’t worry. I told you I had a lot on my mind.” His face darkened as he stared at me.

  “If I have to I’ll stick my finger down your throat and get the sick over with because we are going to discuss the plan and your part in it and we’re going to do that tonight.” He turned to Julie. “Get that goddamn drink out of here,” he said, motioning to the Tom Collins with his head. I sat up, and despite the throbbing in my head and the sickening, nauseated feeling that gripped my entire body, I tried to look focused.

  “Could you give me a drink of ice water please, Julie?” Warily, Joe approached the bar. I started to giggle. The extra alcohol made him now seem less imposing and the memory of him lurching away from his stool to protect his suede shoes made his vanity appear totally absurd. My giggling abruptly plunged out of control into unstoppable laughter and this behavior was clearly irritating to him. I don’t remember if it was the alcohol or the fear, hysterics or hysteria, I just couldn’t stop. Julie brought the ice water down to our end of the bar but when I reached for it Joe grabbed my wrist.

  “Don’t make me hurt you, son.” It was said in a low, cold tone as icy as his eyes and it stopped my laughter as abruptly as if it had been freeze dried. “All you have to do is tell Harlan about a sack that you saw Ben put down a chute near the storm cellar doors at the back of the house, that’s all. I guarantee you that he will be very interested, full of questions and changes of plans. Suddenly he’ll be the one to search the grounds near the Braverman’s house, not you. I’m telling you to tell him what I told you to. There’s no ‘please’, no ‘okay?’ this is something you have no choice in, something that you must do.” Though my infatuation with Harlan, I can think of no other word to describe my feelings for him, had ended before this encounter, and with Sarah’s surprise announcement at work in me like a poison, I still could not think of being Ben’s agent. The bar had filled up with people and the nervous laughter of women was all around me. I looked at Joe for a full, soundless minute and then pitched forward and vomited. Seeing what was coming Joe skipped aside to protect his suede shoes. Then he poured the ice water over my head.

  “Yeah, turning on your buddy is a disgusting thing to do, but you’ll do it if you know what’s good for you, Melvin.”

  “I’m sick.”

  “Bring me some coffee, Jules,” he called out. “Hear me? You’ll do what you’re told. Now drink some coffee, it’ll sober you up.”

  2

  There is a quality of exhaustion that sets in towards the third week of August for those working in a resort hotel. The very name of the month seems to echo this state of enervation: August— exhaust. I even made jokes about it with Sammy. “Boy, I’m Augusted” or “I feel like I’m in a state of Augustian.” Almost every employee has been working the entire summer without relief, no days off, two months of servicing the wants and needs of the guests assigned, the gracious and the gruff, the generous and the greedy, regardless of their nature they must be served. And by that point in the summer season everyone has a good idea of how much money will be taken away when Labor Day, the finish line in the annual summer gold rush, is reached. For me, money had ceased to be an issue after Sammy guaranteed I would never go unrewarded and my ambitions had been focused on romance and friendship, ambitions that had collided with stunning surprise when Sarah exposed Harlan’s repeated betrayals of Heidi, and then what I took to be her own as well: the Hank revelation.

  I was expecting Sarah’s return from her meeting with Hank on Saturday afternoon. The feelings of jealousy and fear that had seized me on Thursday had not relented and the anticipation of our reunion only served to add dread to the mix. I had tried and failed to deceive myself with the bravado of detachment. I didn’t want to lose her and though everything had been unalterably changed by the revelation that there was someone else in the few days she was gone I had already accepted that reality and was willing to hold on even if it meant a less than perfect love. At eighteen, in our earnestness, we imagine love to be forever.

  The luncheon special that Friday was cold borscht followed by cheese blintzes both served with fresh sour cream and my guests were so happy with the meal they ate themselves into a state of torpor bordering on inebriation.

  “Such a meal!” Mrs. Zuckerman announced to Sammy, her hands, as if in prayer, clasped against her large bosom, “I could plotz.” But she did not collapse, even after finishing all of her own and the remains of her husband’s blintzes. Seeing her wobble like a toy in the rear window well of an automobile, Sammy saw to it that she left the dining room with the assistance of one of the bell hops who, with one arm supporting her bloat, steered her clear of the lobby furniture as he led her back to her room. Mr. Zuckerman, whose constipation was spoken of as if his evacuative travails were epic in scale, had felt an urge, an interior rumbling of unusual but promising proportions, and had excitedly fled the dining room for his porcelain throne. It was basically the usual doings of a usual day.

  “Sarah should be getting back by now shouldn’t she.” Ron knew she had gone to New York. He did not know about Hank and thought my moroseness was nothing more than pathetic longing.

  “No, she should be back before dinner tomorrow.”

  “Don’t sound so overjoyed. Mel, she’ll think somebody died while she was away.” I frowned and turned my back on him. I didn’t see how it would be possible for me to welcome her back without seeming either wary or remote.

  “How’ re you doing?” Harlan had sat down at the table where I was folding the napkins for dinner. I greeted him with a nod. “You’re not sure how to react to Sarah are you. Let me help you out with this.” He crossed his legs, lit up a cigarette and started to blow smoke rings which I found profoundly irritating. It was as though he might next start performing card tricks while advising me on how to approach Sarah, the legerdemain infinitely more interesting to him than the counsel. “Do not seem delighted, do not be happy to see her, but don’t be morose or sulky. Let her feel your strength and your dignity, like a … like a prince! Cordial but aloof, gracious yet remote, elusive.” He smiled a satisfied smile and exhaled columns of smoke through his nose. “Think you can
handle that?”

  “That doesn’t sound like me.” It didn’t sound like him either, not the “him” I had constructed in my admiring fantasy. It did, however, sound like the manipulative, exploitative operator that Sarah had been insisting was the real Harlan.

  “Nothing sounds like anybody, Jack. You have to learn different situations call for different styles. Remember when you asked me about what I do to get women to pay attention? I told you to listen to them and by listening you learn what they want. Then you either give them that or, when you really get comfortable, you figure out how to turn that upside down, startle and disarm them, sometimes sweep them away with the unexpected.” He crushed his Lucky and quickly lit another. “Sarah is probably expecting you to be either very happy to see her or very guarded and grim. By being a prince you transcend her expectations; you’ll be a new Mel, a real Jack, someone she won’t want to lose. Even if she’s already made up her mind to stay with that Hank fellow she’ll have to retreat, rethink the choice. You’ll see.” He sat back, clasped his hands behind his neck, smiled, and puffed on the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked enormously self-satisfied and I hated him for proving Sarah so right. “You don’t have very much to say today do you?”

  “I don’t think you’d want to hear what I have to say.”