She broke into a fit of laughter.
“But you’re old friends, aren’t you? He said you were.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, then, you should know that he wouldn’t hurt a fly. No one with eyes like his could be dangerous.”
“Maybe not. But I am being serious.”
He took in the elegant curve of her lips in her tight jeans, and the way her shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a glimpse of her breasts.
“I usually know what I’m doing, Mr. Lipp.”
“I guess you do,” he said. “I hope so.”
“I will be careful,” she said over her shoulder, as she turned to walk away.
* * * *
The work on the showroom continued, and after a while, Phil started coming by to check its progress, first every two or three days, and then daily as the opening of his new outlet approached. He was, in Seymour’s eyes, overstuffed, overly pleased with himself, and arrogant, although his manners were perfectly friendly. Emily introduced him to Seymour as “Mr. Levine”, and Phil smiled in satisfaction, as though he expected Seymour to recognize him as the Phil Levine, king of the discount fur business. He dressed in expertly tailored suits that could not quite conceal his substantial paunch, and when he offered his hand to Seymour it was warm but soft. It was clear to Seymour that Phil viewed his wife as an elegant accessory. Emily treated him with a superficial warmth beneath which Seymour detected a tinge of contempt.
For some reason, Seymour asked if they had children. He expected them to say yes, but he or she was at boarding school in Boston. But they looked at each other for a moment, and the space between them seemed charged with antipathy. Phil recovered first.
“No,” he laughed. “Maybe some time soon. I guess we’ve been too busy to think of that.”
Emily smiled tensely. “Yes, too busy. Phil is so concerned about his business, you know. And I’m in no hurry. Children are such a responsibility. Of course, Daddy would so like to have a grandson to leave all his things to.”
It seemed to him, at that moment at least, that Emily had no intention of burdening herself with any more of oleaginous Phil than she already had.
* * * *
Junior had largely receded into his responsibilities. He would stop by to see Seymour occasionally, but as the election approached, with O’Riley the clear favorite, they both recognized that this arrangement would soon terminate. Seymour had expected Junior to chafe under the bondage of his job, but instead he appeared to be happy.
One day in late October, a couple of weeks before the election, Seymour looked up from the pile of papers he was reviewing on his desk to find Junior silent and still, leaning on his broom, in the doorway to his office.
“You might knock, or something,” Seymour said.
“I was about to, counselor, but I didn’t want to disturb you right away. How’s business? Picking up?”
Seymour looked down at his papers.
“Some. I’m working on a case that might interest you. It involves a landlord who wants to evict a tenant for nonpayment of rent, but the tenant claims that certain repairs to his sink have to be made under the lease.”
“Don’t sound too interesting to me,” Junior said. “Why the fuck should I care about somebody’s sink?”
“No reason. Only,” Seymour paused, “the landlord’s name is Goode.”
Junior did not respond.
“Well,” Seymour continued, “I guess you are not so intimate with Mrs. Levine as to know her maiden name.”
Junior’s face broke into a grin.
“Not a likely subject of conversation,” he said. “But I know where you are in the case. You’re on the side of the sucker with the sink, right?”
Seymour smiled. “Of course. Isn’t that how I wound up with you?”
Junior leaned his broom against the door jamb and walked over to Seymour’s desk. His dark eyes brooded for a moment.
“Anyway,” he said, “what’s going on between you and my sister?”
“Are you playing big brother, now?”
His intensity surprised Seymour.
“I don’t play when it comes to family.” But the serious mood disappeared as suddenly as it had come. “Naw,” he smiled, “she don’t need my help. But, I’m like, interested in love stories.” His smile broadened into a smirk. “You and her gettin’ it on?” he insisted.
Seymour stood up behind his desk and leaned forward as though to force Junior back.
“We’ve had lunch a few times, maybe a couple of movies, nothing heavy.”
“That’s too bad. She’s a great girl. And you, I mean, you’re my best friend.”
The words flashed at Seymour as though they had danced off the sharp edge of Junior’s knife.
“How’s Lois and the baby doing?” he asked.
Junior frowned. “Great, just great, I guess. But you know that baby has changed things. Lois, she’s so concerned about that kid that sometimes she seems to forget she’s got me to take care of. You know when that happens a man starts to look around. I mean if I was looking there’s plenty, even right here in this building.” He smirked again. “I seen the way you checked out Emily. Now there’s a woman can make a man think things.”
“She’s out of your league,” Seymour retorted. “High-class goods.”
Junior laughed from deep in his belly.
“They don’t teach you much in them schools do they. A fox like her always wants somebody like me, you know. Let me tell you she wouldn’t be the first Park Avenue bitch I’ve had.”
Seymour watched Junior’s body as he spoke, and he could see the energy in muscularity, the invitation of the smile, and the mocking confidence in the eyes, and yes, maybe Emily, too, could have fallen under Junior’s sway. Rather than anger, however, Seymour felt amusement. Soon none of this would be his concern or his problem.
“Just cool it until after the election when I can petition the court for your release from my guardianship. Okay?”
“Sure,” Junior smiled. “But some things, especially good ones, just can’t wait.”
“Try to see that this one does. And watch out for her husband. He looks like a jerk, but he has money, and anyone with money is dangerous. That’s my bit of wisdom for the day.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Junior smiled, “but remember this, there are some things I can give a woman like Emily she can’t get no place else.” He retrieved his broom and headed down the hallway.
* * * *
“Tough day in court?”
Emily Levine smiled at Seymour as they met in the entrance to his building. As usual she was dressed elegantly, and provocatively, in a red and white flowered blouse that opened between her breasts, a matching scarf around her neck, and a flowing skirt slit above the knees in front. Although the day was gray, she was wearing dark sunglasses.
“Score another one for the bad guys. It’s frustrating—” Seymour caught himself.
“You were about to say?” she encouraged.
“I could say a lot about what goes on.” He smiled. “But in this case, the guy wearing the black hat was your father.”
Her face darkened for a moment, but then she offered a practiced smile, such as she might wear in dealing with any of life’s unpleasantries.
“Daddy has a lot of interests. Buildings he owns, and so many other things. I’m sure if you had had a chance to talk with him, you would have found him more than reasonable.”
Her tone bordered on condescension, but Seymour detected as well an insincerity. He held her eyes until she turned away.
“I’m sure your father is a reasonable man, at least according to his lights. It may be a different story, viewed from my client’s perspective.”
“What I just said,” she conceded, “is what we in the family always say. My father is very concerned with the family presenting a united front to the world. And since he pays the bills, all of them and quite generously, I usually toe the line.”
“But?” he asked.
“Not always, and not with people I like. I am not always so reasonable as Daddy would like. And there are certain things Daddy doesn’t understand, so he just won’t pay.”
He made the connection, but he wanted to be sure.
“And then what do you do?”
“I have my ways. I mean what’s a girl to do when the merchant doesn’t take plastic.”
“Is your life, then, so tough? I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Tough has nothing to do with it.” She adjusted her scarf and Seymour thought he saw a red welt or scratch on her neck, but then she smoothed the fabric over her skin.
“Sometimes,” he said, “Daddy might be right.”
She measured him.
“You mean generally? Or that I should watch my step with your buddy.”
“Both.”
She laughed and then brought her face closer to his.
“Jealous.”
“Sure, if that’ll make you think about what you’re doing.”
She raised her hand again to the scarf as if to make sure it still covered her neck.
“Well, like they say, no pain, no gain.”
“Meaning?”
She brought her finger to her chin as though pondering a question she had never before considered.
“Well, I guess it’s like opposites explain each other, you know, something like my father holding on to what he has now because of where he started.”
“But you?”
“Yes, that is a problem. I have to create my own opposites.”
“I can understand that, to a point,” he said slowly.
She was ahead of him.
“But, you want to say, maybe Junior is too much.”
“That, and certainly the other.”
Her face hardened.
“As for your friend, I can handle him, and my other friend is the one I can always count on. Anyway, why are you so damned interested?”
He had heard enough, for the moment.
“Junior likes to say that I’m always on the side of the underdog.”
She threw back her head and laughed.
“And that’s what you see in me?”
“Maybe so.”
A gust of wind lifted her skirt for a moment, revealing her trim thighs. She waited a moment before patting it down, and then she ran her palms over her belly. When she saw his eyes follow her hands, she stopped in midmotion and turned to leave. Her whole body was lean and fit, except her rounded stomach.
“I’ve been so busy,” she said over her shoulder, “that I just haven’t had time to get to the gym like I usually do.” She took a step away, and then turned back to him once more, lowering her glasses so she could focus on him better. “Thanks for the discretion,” she said. “And people think chivalry is dead.”
* * * *
The next day Seymour arrived at his office early and found Junior in the basement in front of the custodian’s closet. He was sitting on an overturned bucket, a cigarette in one hand, a beer can in the other.
“I think it’s time we talked about your future,” Seymour said. “Have you thought about getting another job?”
“Yeah,” Junior answered, “they’re gonna look at my record, and then show me the door.” He smiled. “Maybe, I should just hold onto a good thing while I got it.”
Seymour frowned. “I’m not sure that’s such a terrific idea. We both know that you hate pushing a broom.”
“I don’t push it all that much.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Anyway. There’s the fringe benefits to consider.”
“If you’re talking about Emily,” Seymour replied, “that’s not going to last forever.”
“No, it won’t,” Junior said slowly, and Seymour saw that his usually mocking eyes were dark. He considered for a moment and then took the plunge.
“You’re dealing her drugs, aren’t you?”
“Bitch tell you that?” Junior leaped to his feet and grabbed his broom as though it were a club.
“No, not exactly,” Seymour said, “but she’s obviously doing something.”
Junior seemed to relax, though he still squeezed the handle of his broom.
“You got that one right, but then it don’t take no rocket scientist to figure that.”
“If you are her dealer, just cut it, that’s all.”
“Hey, man, have you ever seen her straight? It’s not a pretty sight, I mean the fox can turn positively ugly.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Seymour snapped. “In any sense.”
“No, you haven’t, my man, and that’s the word, pleasure.” He leaned his weight on his broom as though it were a fence over which he intended to share a piece of gossip.
“And one thing more.” He shook his head as though in disbelief. “The lady likes to play rough. You know what I mean?”
Seymour nodded, and Junior straightened up in surprise.
“What’d she say to you?” he asked.
“She didn’t say anything,” Seymour said softly. “I just took a close look at her.”
“Yeah, well, I can tell you she’s into some pretty weird shit.”
The image of the puff of wind lifting Emily’s skirt away from her belly forced the question.
“Is that all?”
Junior fixed his eyes on him and stared hard.
“Ain’t that enough?” he demanded.
“It had better be,” Seymour said. “It had just better be.”
Just then Eddie Gomez, the night custodian, emerged from the closet. He was about fifty, but his face looked ravaged, and he had a habit of cocking it to one side before he spoke. He cackled and then spat onto the floor.
“Fuckin’ place,” he said, rubbing the spit into the floor with the toe of his shoe. “Eddie keep it clean.” He looked at Seymour and Junior, cackled again, and then shuffled off to the door to the stairway.
Junior’s eyes followed Eddie’s back.
“That’s one sick dude,” he said. “I don’t know if he’s deaf or what. But when you speak to him, he answers like what he just said. Laughs and spits, that’s all he’s good for. He don’t clean nothin’ while he’s here. I find the place just the same way I left it each day.”
“I heard something about him from the landlord,” Seymour said, “something about an institution.”
Junior laughed a knowing laugh.
“Institution, hell. Yeah, same place I spent some time once. I thought they’d throw the key away on that one. But I’ll tell you something, you can’t blame the poor fucker. The one time I saw him he had a broken bottle shoved up his ass. He’s lucky he’s alive, or maybe, seein’ how he came out of it, maybe he’d be better off dead.”
“Story I heard was he raped some little girl, and they put him away for a long time. He just got out.”
Junior nodded.
“I didn’t have to hear none of that. I knew he had short eyes. There’s only one kind of guy gets treated like he did. Ain’t that somethin’, he winds up here, sharing a broom with me.”
Seymour frowned.
“Yeah, ain’t it.”
Junior laughed.
“Well, maybe, you know, you’ve become the patron saint of lost causes.”
“Well, let’s forget him. You’re the one on the other end of the rope around my waist, and you’re gettin’ too damned heavy to pull up the hill.”
Junior began to steer his broom down the corridor.
“I hear you, man, but don’t push me. Maybe I gotta cut myself free first.” He shook his head as though wrestling with a problem he could not share.
“You mean,” Seymour said, “Emily.”
Junior waved his hand over his shoulder, then looked back at Seymour.
“You know,” he said, “I also feel the rope. But in my case there are two of them.”
* * * *
Seymour untwisted the wire cage that covered the cork in the champagne bottle. He pressed his th
umbs against the cork and pushed slowly. When the cork gave against the pressure, he pushed harder and it popped. He put the bottle on the coffee table and caught the bubbling foam in his fingers.
“Tomorrow is liberation day,” he said, “but I just couldn’t wait.” He licked the foam from his fingers and poured out two glasses.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“About your brother?”
She glanced toward the television set where the numbers of the latest poll showed O’Riley with a clear margin.
“Of course, we already know about the other one.”
“As sure as we can be. I got the idea that he’s got a problem with Emily.”
“I could have told him that.”
Seymour shook his head.
“Not quite that way. I think your brother might feel overmatched.”
“He didn’t say that, did he?”
“Of course not. He wouldn’t admit any such thing.”
“I want this over. Now.”
Seymour pulled her to him.
“And I want you. All the time.”
She turned to him, her eyes bright but covered with a fine mist. She settled her body next to his.
“Let’s drink our toast now,” she said. “To Mr. O’Riley,” she paused, “and my brother. A happy exit from our lives.”
They clinked their glasses together, and she brushed her lips against his.
“And later, we’ll toast again, to us,” she whispered. Seymour leaned over and switched the television off. They sipped their drinks.
She put her glass down.
“But now it is the night before.” She stretched in the languid motion of a cat rising from a nap and clicked off the lamp next to the sofa. The room darkened, but he could still see the outlines of her face, the firm but delicate jut of her chin, and the way her hair swept behind her ear. He found her and drew her down next to him.
* * * *
Later, he could remember no detail. It was like a dream from which the images had been erased, leaving only the feeling, and that was so strong in its sweetness that he did not want to move for fear of losing it. He lay next to her, his mind racing back over the years they had missed. He closed the space between them, feeling her legs against his, her head tucked against his shoulder, and then he closed his eyes.
The Monkey Rope Page 7
