A Father's Kisses

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  Whatever the case, I cannot tell you how upset and disappointed I was by this new development. It was one thing to go after some uncaring Ivy Leaguer who was enriching himself at the expense of the little fellow—and quite another to deal with a helpless fat guy in a wheelchair. It brought down the whole experience, and I was pissed off at Peabody to say the least. Surely with the resources at his command, he had been updated on Dickie Moué’s plight; yet he had callously sent me after him all the same. All of this so disturbed me that I paid for my drink and took off. There was no way I was going to keep up my end of the deal. If it meant I would have to return my advance, so be it.

  I’d find some other way for me and Lettie to get by.

  Oddly enough, now that I had changed direction and was relatively innocent of mind and heart, several of the security guards eyed me suspiciously as I approached the front door of the hotel.

  One of them stepped out in front of me and stood there, arms folded, legs spread apart—a position he had no doubt paid a lot of money to learn in some fly-by-night security school.

  “May I help you, signor?” he asked.

  “Not just now,” I said with a friendly smile.

  He looked me over for what seemed like an hour and a half during which time it crossed my mind that Dickie Moué had been tipped off to my arrival and the purpose of my visit. But even if Peabody (and who else could it be?) had been capable of such treachery—which I seriously doubted—what good would it do either of us?

  Fortunately, my suspicions proved to be unfounded.

  “Forgive me, signor,” said the guard. “We’re looking for a certain type.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said. (The guard then stepped aside, allowing me to return to my condo/hotel without further incident.)

  The first thing I did was to put a call through to Peabody. I was determined to read him the riot act. But the clerk at his hotel said he had checked out.

  “Did he leave a forwarding number?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Words cannot describe how shaken I was when I hung up. Let me amend that. Words can describe anything if you know how to use them properly—which I was too upset to do. Why would Peabody disappear on me like that? I felt hurt and abandoned, much the same as I had when my mother took off with one of her lending-library browsers. There is probably a connection between the two desertions if you buy into the whole psychological mindset, which I admit I do now and then.

  Had Peabody set me up? Let’s say I had gone ahead with the transaction and gotten caught. And after excruciating pressure had been brought to bear on me, I buckled and told the authorities I had been innocently drawn into the plot by a certain Valentine Peabody. (I would have resisted strongly, of course, but who among us can define exactly what our breaking point is?) Still, what if I had been forced to tell them about Valentine Peabody and there was no such person to be found? What if he had cleared out his office, leaving no evidence that there ever was a Valentine Peabody? Ed Bivens could vouch for his existence, but with that detached style of his, you never knew which way he would turn.

  It’s true I had the advance, but I had done nothing to earn it and did not feel it was rightfully mine. There is no record of thievery in my past (one of the reasons, no doubt, that Peabody had picked me out). Knowing my nature, I would probably try to figure out a way to return the money. Unless I went ahead and killed Dickie Moué on my own, a course I had already abandoned.

  Seduced and betrayed. Those are the words that fit my situation. And then the phone rang and who should the caller be but none other than Valentine Peabody.

  “Hello, Binny. Peabody here. I understand you’ve been trying to reach me.”

  “I certainly have.” I said, marveling at how quickly he had heard about my call.

  Was nothing beyond the reach of these global people!

  “I’m here in Karachi. There was no point in hanging about while you were working, so I thought I’d pop over here for a bit. My daughter, Millie, is appearing in Guys and Dolls and she was anxious for me to see her perform.”

  “They do Guys and Dolls in Karachi?” I said, caught off stride for the moment.

  “Oh, yes. It’s performed in Urdu, but quite surprisingly, a good deal of the flavor comes through. She’s playing Nathan Detroit. I’m sure you remember the role.”

  As if to refresh my memory, he began to sing the celebrated verse about Good Old Reliable Nathan, belting it out in a raucous British music-hall style and enjoying every second of it.

  “My daughter likes Guys and Dolls,” I shouted, cutting him off, and aware that I was still, obviously, sidetracked.

  “That’s lovely. Perhaps she and Millie can perform a duet. How’s it coming along?”

  “Not that great. You didn’t tell me what kind of shape the poor man was in.”

  “Dickie? Oh, yes, I suppose I should have mentioned that and you have my apologies. But you musn’t let it throw you off. I’ve been through this before—you’re new at it, you must remember—and there’s always something that doesn’t go quite right, generally when you’re halfway along. The tendency is to throw up one’s hands and be done with it—and I can assure you, it’s a mistake. The trick is to keep your eye on the ultimate goal.”

  “How am I supposed to kill a helpless fellow in a wheelchair?”

  “He’s still a pig, isn’t he? And besides, he’s much closer to his maker now than ever. You’d be doing the bastard a favor. Now be a good fellow—I know it’s hard—but grit your teeth and go back to work. You’ll feel much better in the end. And God knows, you don’t want to return all that lovely money. Lettie is going to want things.

  “Believe me, I have experience with my own daughters.”

  “She wants things already,” I conceded.

  “Then there you are. And it’s only going to get worse, trust me on that. Just this morning, I had to lay out five thousand dollars for a computer workstation, and I’m sure it’s just one of Millie’s whims. I insisted that she contribute a thousand out of her trust fund, but all the same … Now off you go, Binny.”

  “I’m not sure I can pull this off.”

  “Nonsense. I have every confidence that you can. And it will be well worth it. Oh … one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I miss you.”

  “Me too,” I said automatically.

  And then we both hung up.

  The oddest thing is that I did miss the fucker. The silky voice, the suave confidence, the English accent with a little Karachi thrown in. Ed Bivens had been right on the money when he said I needed a Continental individual in my life. Not to speak of a brand-new friend. And what a friend he was! If it was true that we had entered the global decade, Valentine Peabody represented my last chance to get on-line.

  I had missed him and now I had him back.

  To top it all off, he had made some sense. What difference did it make that Dickie Moué wasn’t feeling that hot? Wasn’t he the same sonofabitch he had always been? For all I knew, he was ordering factory layoffs from his wheelchair. Had Adolf Hitler, the very personification of evil in our time, undergone a transformation during his last days in the bunker?

  As Lettie would say: hardly!

  And he was right about my daughter, too. It made me uncomfortable each time he worked her into the equation—as if he was an old family friend—but God knows, she was after me for material possessions every twenty minutes; and I was not the type of father who could say forget it, go do the dishes.

  I shuddered to think what would happen when she entered her crazy teens.

  So I decided to honor my commitment after all—to return to the Bancroft and see if I could get Dickie Moué alone somehow. Then do the deed quickly, drive back home and put the whole episode behind me.

  There were times when I wished I was one of those ice-cold killers who acts without remorse. But to a great extent, I remained a caring individual and would have to work with what I had.

/>   Now that I had become a familiar face (and was back on a deadly track), several of the security guards greeted me with a friendly nod, one of them flashing a toothy Latino grin.

  Where do they find these people!

  The concierge hailed my arrival as if I was the hotel’s favorite visitor.

  “Good morning, Mr. Morning,” he said, “so nice to see you again. I hope you don’t mind my putting the two “Mornings” together. Many of our guests enjoy a little pleasanterie as a relief from the harsh realities of the workaday world.”

  “I know what they mean,” I said, marveling at what five bucks could get you at the Bancroft.

  “Mr. Dickie Moué and his lovely wife have retired to their suite. Shall I ring them and tell them you are on the premises?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m just going to take a little stroll around.”

  “Excellent. Is there some way that I can be of service?”

  “Not just now.”

  “Very well then,” he said, quickly dropping his eyes and shuffling some papers.

  He had obviously been looking for another five, but I didn’t want to get into the habit of laying one on him every time I passed his desk.

  I walked to the end of the lobby and stopped at a guest directory, which was fastened to the wall. It had each of the tenants’ names listed on a separate brass plaque—like a war memorial. At the end of a long strip of German and Japanese names, I found one for D. Moué, on the fourteenth floor.

  In keeping with the hotel’s Old World style, the elevator had a lot of grandeur to it, but the ride upstairs was slow and shaky. I finally reached the fourteenth floor and stepped out into the corridor, which was carpeted and quiet as a tomb. As I strolled past Dickie Moué’s suite, I noticed that although the service entrance door was closed, the one at the main entrance was open a few inches.

  In my boldest move thus far, I pushed it open a bit more and caught a glimpse of Moué sitting on the terrace. (If they caught me, I was prepared to say that I was thinking of renting a similar suite on the floor below, and must have gotten mixed up. And they would probably drop it at that.) Dickie wore a smoking jacket and was puffing on a thin cigar, staring out at the sea. It occurred to me that I could just slip in there, lift the wheeler and tip him over the railing. When I first broke into poultry, I had been assigned to the assembly and servicing of incubators, a task that had resulted in my developing powerful arms. I am also the one who splits logs for our home heating. So it would not have been difficult for me to lift him up and over and send him on his way. It would appear to be a suicide, and one with obvious cause, considering the sorry shape he was in. But the plan would only work if he was alone, which I soon saw that he wasn’t.

  Ilyana came into view, wearing only high heels, lacy black panties and a bra. She stopped at the terrace entrance and called out to him.

  “Oh, Dickie. Time for your treat.”

  When he turned his head toward her, she put one hand behind her head, another on her crotch, licked her lips and did a little hip-swinging hootchie-cooch dance.

  Who would ever have suspected that the cool and elegant woman I had seen on the porch was capable of such shenanigans. You just never knew.

  “I love it,” said Dickie.

  It came as a relief for me to learn that Dickie could still speak, even if it was only in short bursts.

  “It’s great, isn’t it,” said Ilyana, who seemed to be enjoying her performance as much as Dickie did.

  As I looked on, the thought crossed my mind that the door had been left open deliberately—and that’s how the Moué’s got their jollies, letting other guests peep in on them.

  But I felt I had been there long enough and taken enough chances.

  So I tiptoed down the hall and returned to the tastefully decorated sitting area that had been provided for the guests while they waited for the sluggish elevator to make its tortuous way up to their floor. Taking a seat in an overstuffed chair, I picked up one of the magazines that had been thoughtfully supplied by the management. As luck would have it, the feature article dealt with the unpredictability of the prostate gland, and after reading a few paragraphs, I saw that it tied in nicely with my theory of the role of the prostate gland in historical decision-making. Such leaders as the French general Joseph Gallieni and our own Ulysses S. Grant, for example, had suffered from this painful malady and often made questionable decisions because it had kicked up on them. Had the top British naval commander in the Revolutionary War—I forget his name—not had to be shipped back to London for treatment of his prostate woes, we might still be a colony today—and not a mighty nation. The author of the article did not have the advantage of knowing about any of that, but he did have a breezy style, and I was enjoying the article thoroughly when I became aware that the Moués had joined me on the landing.

  Ilyana wore another one of her cool and elegant dresses, and you would never have guessed that only a short while before she had been parading around in her undies doing scorching hot dances for her unfortunate husband. She pressed the down button, saw that the elevator had settled in on the seventh floor and sighed.

  “They said they would fix this at the meeting.”

  “They say a lot of things, Yannie.”

  The elevator arrived some five minutes later, carrying a single passenger, a tiny, well-dressed woman wearing a broad-brimmed flowered hat. She had an outsized bosom and skinny little legs, but she surprised me by giving me a flirty look as I held the door for the Moués and then got in behind them.

  “Ready for the long journey, everyone?” she said. “I hope you’ve packed a lunch.”

  Then she gave me another one of her flirty looks, which I felt more than compensated for her advanced age and skinny little legs.

  “If they don’t computerize,” said Ilyana huffily, “Dickie and I are out of here.”

  The elevator descended slowly, almost stopped a few times, sped up erratically and then came to a complete halt just as we passed the second floor.

  The door opened, leaving a crawl space about two feet high.

  “Shit,” said Ilyana, stamping her foot. “I knew this would happen.”

  “Amazing we got this far,” said the little old lady. “I’m really impressed.”

  In an effort to be helpful, I rang the emergency buzzer. Soon after, several of the security guards appeared on the landing just above us.

  One of them got down on his belly and reached his arms into the elevator.

  “Grab ahold and I’ll get you out.”

  “I’ll be the guinea pig,” said the little old lady, turning toward me.

  I liked her attitude. If I ever took an ocean voyage, she is the type of person I would like to have along. And who cares what the other passengers might think about the dramatic difference in our ages.

  I put my arms around her, lifting her up toward the fellow’s arms, then took hold of her legs in order to shove her up there.

  “Ummmm … nice,” she said, as I hoisted her onto the landing.

  What a rascal she must have been as a young girl—and still was, for my money.

  Ilyana was next. She looked at me warily and with some reluctance, allowed me to help her. She was a bit heavier, and I had to first get a good grip on her thighs and then push my face against her soft perfumed butt in order to lift her properly.

  “Stop that,” she said, slapping back at me.

  “I’m just trying to help,” I said.

  “I’m sure you are,” she said sarcastically as the security man pulled her free.

  It was Dickie Moué’s turn next, and he was more of a challenge, due to all the weight he had put on. Still, I got under his huge rich-guy butt and did the best I could. It crossed my mind that if the elevator began to move upward, it would solve my problem. He would be squooshed, and I would be home free. But I had no such luck and with one last heave I was able to get him out of there.

  The security guard yanked me through the open pass
age, thus signaling the end of the episode.

  At that point, I had to remind myself to be patient and not just charge up to Dickie Moué in public—like some political nut—just to get it over with. All that would do is get me seized by the authorities. I have a tendency to act impulsively; as an illustration, I once wrecked a hatchery when I learned that it did not, as promised, accurately duplicate the natural conditions produced by a sitting hen. I paid for the damage out of my own wages, but felt I had made my point.

  Of course I was a much younger man then and have since learned to keep my emotions in check.

  It was important to bide my time and see if I could get Dickie Moué when he was off by himself. He did a lot of hopeless staring out at the sea. With luck, he would want to do some of that alone, and I would have my chance.

  I had had my fill of the elevator’s Old World charm and took the long spiral staircase to the lobby. The concierge greeted me with a thin-lipped smile, making me feel it might have been a mistake not to have given him the other five, even though he had done absolutely nothing to earn it. I gave him a little nod as I walked past his desk and continued along until I came to a glassed-in bulletin board that posted the day’s events. It listed a conference for visiting urologists, another one for Christian Coalition Florists and a third that was of special interest to me.

  FRIENDS OF DICKIE MOUÉ

  COCKTAIL RECEPTION

  6 P.M. ABRACADABRA ROOM

  Obviously, I was no friend of Dickie Moué, but I decided to pop in all the same, get lost in the crowd and see what developed. At some point in the proceedings, he might feel a need to get away from all the fawning types and wheel himself outside for some fresh air.

  That would afford me a chance to take care of business and be on my way.

  Clearly it was important that I be dressed in the proper attire. With that in mind, I looked for a clothing store and found a promising one nearby that featured items in the window for both sexes.

  There was only one salesperson for the whole store, a young bald girl who wore a black leather halter and matching pants that were so tight you could see the outlines of her vagina, whether you wanted to or not. I have had enough experience in life to know that an outfit like that does not necessarily connote sexiness. Very often, it is quite the opposite, and it is the quiet ones who do not wear pants showing the outlines of their vaginas who are secretly hot. When I described the type of cocktail party I had been invited to, she pulled a pink madras jacket off the rack and handed it to me with two fingers as if she was doing me a favor. I wondered why the owners would want to have such a snotty salesperson in their store, unless, of course, it was difficult to get good help in Miami Beach. Or who knows, maybe most of the customers were snotty themselves and felt more comfortable having a snotty salesperson wait on them.