Invasion of the Blatnicks

by Neil S. Plakcy

  With the machine safely past, everyone rushed over to Estelle. Her khaki top was stained with dirt and grass, and her arms were full of tiny cuts where the sawgrass had slashed her. The hair on one side of her head was flat while the hair on the other side stood up straight. She was sobbing softly as Joe and Steve lifted her out of the ditch.

  “It’s all right, pookums,” Joe said, crooning. “Hunky-doo is here. It’s all right now.”

  “You realize there’s a lawsuit here,” Morty said. “This kind of commercial negotiation isn’t really the law I usually practice. My specialty is personal injury and criminal negligence.”

  Miranda was all in a dither. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “This is just a fluke. Of course, there’s an implicit waiver of liability when you agree to be taken on a tour of the site.”

  “Don’t talk about implicit waivers to me, sweetheart,” Morty said. He waved his hand at Estelle. “Look at this woman. Are you going to deny her fair compensation for her suffering?”

  “Let’s just go back to the trailer,” Steve said. “We’ll get everybody cleaned up, we’ll all have some nice cold drinks, and we can discuss this more rationally.” Steve and Joe held Estelle as she limped back to the car with the heel on one shoe dangling off. Morty walked ahead with Miranda, arguing liability.

  An hour later, Estelle was cleaned up, and Celeste had repaired her heel with super-glue. Joe had finally told Morty to shut up already with the liability, and they’d talked on a preliminary basis about the lease terms. Morty gave Steve a bunch of his cards in case any other tenants needed lawyers.

  When they were gone, Miranda and Steve collapsed in her office. Her hair was a mess and there were dark circles under her arms. She had runs in both stockings and her lipstick was smeared. “What a family,” Miranda said. “I almost hope we don’t make a deal with them.”

  “And I thought you’d make a deal with anyone.” Steve had found Morty, Estelle and Joe comparable to his own family, particularly to the Blatnicks, so they didn’t seem too outrageous.

  “They made me walk around outside, in the heat,” Miranda said. “If they think I’m caving in on anything during negotiations, they’re crazy.” She picked up her purse and her broad white picture hat. “I’m getting out of here. Tell Celeste I have a migraine.”

  “I’m sorry,” Steve said. “They’re a bitch.”

  “I don’t really have a migraine,” she said. ”But I look awful. I can’t stay here any more.” She got up and walked out.

  Steve stayed in Miranda’s office for a few minutes, idly flipping through the catalogs Joe had left behind, thinking about how he, Estelle and Morty were so close to the Blatnicks. Maybe they were distantly related.

  Then he had a horrible thought. Suppose the Blatnicks ever decided to become tenants at the Everglades Galleria? He had no idea what they would sell, but he was sure that they would be terrible to work with during construction of their store. The kind of shady deals that characterized the Blatnicks-- substitution of materials, cash payoffs in brown paper bags, contracts given out as favors-- would only heap more trouble upon him.

  He went back to his own office, feeling grateful that Morty’s was the only goofy family he had to worry about at the site

  10 – Calling Steve

  Rita called Steve nearly every day. Celeste grew to recognize her voice, and they often had long conversations about traffic conditions, the chance of a hurricane, and what a nice boy Steve was. Just before Steve left for home that Friday, Rita called to see what his plans were for the weekend.

  “When I lived in New York, you didn’t need to know my movements every minute of the day,” Steve said. “What’s the difference whether I’m in New York or Miami?”

  “I think of you more, knowing you’re here, that’s all,” Rita said. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding on your precious privacy.”

  “No more than three calls a week, Mom,” Steve said. “Unless you have something specific to say. All right? People are starting to notice how much you call here. And you don’t want me to get in trouble, do you?”

  “Of course not, Stevie,” Rita said. “Why don’t you come over here for dinner tonight?”

  “I can’t, Mom. I’m exhausted. I’m just going to go home and collapse into bed.” Steve sat back in his chair and looked out the window. At the entrance to the site a crane was jockeying a slab of granite into place. Steve knew that the brass letters that belonged on the granite were already two weeks late. It was another item he had to follow up. He made a note.

  “That’s too bad,” Rita said. “I have something I wanted to talk over with you.”

  “So tell me now.” Steve pushed the note pad away. “This is one of your three calls a week. You don’t want to waste it.”

  “Well, I thought it would be better to discuss this in person, but... your cousin Richie is coming to Miami next week.”

  “Oh, Mom,” Steve said. “I don’t want to have to do stuff with him. I don’t like him. I like him even less than I like Sheryl and you know I don’t like her.”

  “It’s not a question of liking, Steven,” Rita said. “Richie is family and we stick together.”

  “So how long is he staying? Not long, I hope.”

  “Well, he’s thinking of moving down here. He may get a job and settle here for a while. Things haven’t worked out for him in New Jersey.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Steve said. “Things have a way of not working out for Richie Fenstersheib. It’s not like he has a lot of useful skills, after all.” He looked out the window. The crane was still jockeying the granite, trying to get it perfectly positioned on the concrete foundation. Steve turned back to the phone. “What kind of a job does he think he could get in Miami?”

  Then Steve knew what Rita wanted. “No!” he said.

  “No what?” Rita asked. “I haven’t said anything.”

  “You want me to get Richie a job on the site,” Steve said. “I know you, Mother. That’s what you’re aiming for.”

  “What a good idea,” Rita said. “There must be something on that big construction site Richie could do. Of course, since I’ve never seen it, I couldn’t really say. But I’m sure you would do whatever you could to help Richie, wouldn’t you?”

  “If he were planning to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge I could give him a leg up.”

  “Steven,” Rita said. “I’m not asking you to make any great sacrifice here. Just find your cousin a job. You must have a lot of contacts there.”

  “Why, Mother? Why should I do anything to help Richie?”

  “Because you don’t want me to call you more than three times a week,” Rita said. “And because he’s your cousin and he hasn’t been as lucky as you have.”

  “He’s the one with the trust fund,” Steve said. “I call that pretty damn lucky.” Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw that the granite was in place and the crane arm was retracting.

  “I could call you tomorrow morning and we could talk about this some more.”

  “I’ll think about it. But you have to promise to keep your end of the bargain.”

  “Only three calls a week,” Rita said. “I promise.”

  “Yeah, right,” Steve said as he hung up. “Like I believe you.”

  When he got home, Steve scarfed down a quick supper and collapsed into bed. He was exhausted and he didn’t want to think about the Everglades Galleria or Richie Fenstersheib. He was glad to fall into his new king-sized bed, luxuriating in the fluffy pillows and crisp sheets.

  He had adjusted easily to life at Mangrove Manor. His apartment was twice as large as his New York studio, and had so many closets and storage places that he lost something in one of them nearly every day. Days later, he’d be searching for something else, and find what he thought he had lost, and had then replaced. He dozed for a while and then the phone rang. When he looked at the clock it was almost midnight. “Hello?” he said.

  “Hi.” The voice sounded sad and sluggish to him, like Eeyore th
e donkey on an acid trip.

  “Who’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s your cousin, stupid.”

  “I don’t have a Cousin Stupid,” Steve said. “Although I have lots of stupid cousins. Which one is this?”

  “It’s Sheryl.” She even slurred her name, so that it sounded like “Shurl.”

  “Listen, Sheryl, it’s late,” Steve said. “I had a rough day. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “You think you had a rough day. Wait ‘til you hear about mine.”

  “Look, Sheryl, I’m hanging up. I’ll call you tomorrow at the hotel.”

  “Don’t hang up!” she screamed. “Stevie, please!”

  Steve sat bolt upright in bed. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is everything all right? Your grandmother?”

  “Oh, she’s OK, I guess,” Sheryl said. “It’s more her car that’s in trouble.”

  “Could you try and spell this out for me, Sheryl?”

  “I had an accident, all right? Since you’re so eager to know.”

  “Did you call your grandmother?”

  “Are you kidding? Grandma? She’d cut me out of her will for breathing loud.”

  “How about your uncles?”

  “They’re bogus,” she said. “I figured you, you’re a solid citizen type. You could help me out.”

  “I can’t do a thing for you until you tell me what’s going on,” Steve said. “You had an accident?”

  “I hit a tree,” she said, with a there, now I’ve told you kind of tone in her voice. “I mean, I wasn’t aiming for it or anything. I was just driving along and there it was, so I hit it.” There was a pause on the phone. “The police came and said I’d been drinking. Well, sure, but I know how much I can drink. I have this little card in my wallet they gave me in driver ed. So the police brought me down here to the jail and they let me make a phone call. I called you.”

  “Jesus, Sheryl. You need a lawyer, not a cousin.”

  “Right now I need somebody to bail me out. But maybe you could get one of your yuppie lawyer friends to come along, too.”

  “My yuppie lawyer friends?”

  “Don’t all you yuppie types hang out in packs?” she asked.

  “I’m not the one with the trust fund, Sheryl,” Steve said. “And all my lawyer friends live in New York.”

  “But you can come and bail me out, can’t you, Stevie?” she asked.

  In the background on her end Steve heard a woman’s voice. “Just because you get a phone call doesn’t mean you can talk until the cows come home, honey. Get your business done and hang up.”

  “All right, Sheryl. Tell me where you are.”

  She gave Steve the address and hung up. Steve tried to think of a lawyer for Sheryl, but he didn’t know anyone who knew a thing about Florida law.

  Then he remembered Morty Fleischmann. Sheryl deserved a lawyer like him. He found Morty’s card in his wallet and called his service, leaving a message that it was urgent.

  Just as Steve finished pulling his clothes on the phone rang again, and it was Morty. Steve told him about Sheryl and her situation. “You don’t have to worry about getting paid, at least,” he said. “She’s got a rich grandma and a trust fund.”

  “Hmm,” Morty said. “All right, I’ll meet you at the jail.”

  Sheryl had hit a tree on Collins Avenue, a few miles north of the Neuschwanstein Palace, so she was being held at the Miami Beach jail, a new facility in the Deco District that looked like the headquarters for the glass block manufacturers’ association. By the time Steve got down there, Morty was already in the waiting room, wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans.

  “I talked to your cousin,” he said. “I think we’ve got a really strong case here. False arrest, mistaken liability. We may be able to sue the rental car company.”

  “Forget the bullshit, Morty,” Steve said. “Let’s just get Sheryl out of here and you can snow her and her grandmother later.”

  Morty looked chastened. He did know how to spring a person from jail, though, and even in his off-duty clothes Steve could tell he was a lawyer who had been around a few times. “You don’t get many glamorous cases when you’re just starting out,” he said when Steve complimented him. “My aunt and uncle are my only clients without rap sheets.”

  Under ordinary circumstances, Steve knew he would not be a good person to call for an emergency loan, like bail money. Years of living in New York, even on MBA wages, had left his bank account as empty as a room reserved for intelligent Blatnicks. But he had charged all his moving expenses, including the plane fare and the actual moving bill, and Thornton had written him a check. He had put the check in his account to gain interest until the bills were due.

  So Sheryl struck it rich. Steve knew old Mrs. Blatnick would pay him back as soon as all the sordid details were known, but he couldn’t blame Sheryl for not wanting to call Grandma at midnight to bail her out. He pulled his checkbook out of his pocket and made his contribution to the Radio Free Sheryl Fund.

  Sheryl was dead sober by the time the matron brought her out. She had been charged with driving while under the influence of alcohol, though the breathalizer reading was borderline. The officer had taken into consideration that Sheryl was confused and unable to speak in complete sentences. Steve understood that, because he often found Sheryl the same way.

  The police had impounded the rental car, which was in her grandmother’s name, and Morty started the proceedings to get it released. Morty had entered a plea of not guilty for Sheryl, and he said they’d get a trial date soon.

  Steve was determined not to let Sheryl out of his sight until he saw her delivered safely back to the Neuschwanstein Palace, but his adrenaline was flowing from the late hour and the brush with the law. When Morty suggested they go out for something to eat, Steve agreed.

  They walked a few blocks to a 24-hour Cuban coffee shop, and sat at a window table. The restaurant was crowded and noisy. At the next table a big-breasted Cuban girl in her late twenties, wearing a tight black t-shirt and a black skirt, sat smoking a cigarette. Her hair was dark and lustrous under the fluorescent lights.

  Morty ordered them all cafe con leche, big steaming cups of Cuban coffee liberally dosed with milk and sugar, and a plate of Cuban pastries filled with guava and cheese. Steve took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Hey, Sheryl,” he said. “Doesn’t this remind you of when we were growing up, and you’d get in trouble and I’d talk your way out of it?”

  “The way I remember it, we both got in trouble and you talked yourself out,” Sheryl said.

  Sheryl’s father worked in the rag trade in New York City, and she and Richie had grown up in North Jersey, in a series of bigger houses and better neighborhoods. The house Steve remembered best was in a suburb just outside Newark, where the Bermans used to go a lot when Rita and Jerry’s mother was still alive. She lived with Jerry and Mimi for a while, just before she died, and Rita used to drive up to see her nearly every week.

  Sheryl and Steve used to play out in the back yard together. Richie was still too little, so he stayed in the house with their grandmother while they climbed trees and dug up worms, and practiced seeing who could spit the farthest, and with the best aim. “Come on,” Steve said. “Remember when we hid your uncle Sheldon’s toupee and I convinced your mom that he lost it himself?”

  The waitress brought the hot coffee and the pastries. “Yeah, I guess I remember that,” Sheryl said. Steve took a bite of a thick, flaky guava pastry and picked up his coffee to wash it down.

  A red-headed Latin woman wearing satiny hot pants, low-cut blouses and high-heeled shoes stalked up to the black-haired woman at the next table and started to curse at her. They pulled each other’s hair and yelled curses at each other until the cook came out from behind the counter and dragged them both to the door. The redhead stood in the doorway for a moment and called a curse out at the cook, who was walking back to the counter.

  “I really have to learn to speak Spanish,” Steve said.r />
  “She said she might be a whore, but the cook was the son of a whore and a pimp,” Morty said. Steve’s eyes opened wide and Morty said, “You learn a little Spanish hanging around the jail.”

  “I’m thinking of learning some Spanish,” Sheryl said. “Me and my mother might go to the island of Acapulco sometime.”

  “The island of Acapulco?” Steve asked.

  “Yeah,” Sheryl nodded. “It’s an island, off the coast of the island of Mexico.”

  Steve looked at Morty, but Morty was smiling at Sheryl. “I hear it’s nice in Acapulco,” he said.

  Steve gave up and sat back in his chair while Sheryl and Morty talked about Mexico. After a while, Sheryl said, “So, you guys want to go for a walk along the beach?”

  “You’re going back to the hotel,” Steve said. “And in the morning, you and your grandma are going to have a little talk.”

  “Jesus, were you born thirty years old? Lighten up.”

  “I’ll take Sheryl back to her hotel,” Morty said. “Maybe we can go for a little walk before we head up there.”

  “Yeah,” Sheryl said. “That would be nice.”

  Steve walked as far as Ocean Drive with them. Morty shook hands with Steve, and said he’d call him and let him know how things went with old Mrs. Blatnick. Then he put his arm around Sheryl’s shoulder and they crossed the street toward the beach.

  Ocean Drive was being widened, and there were earth-movers and ditches and sawhorses everywhere. Steve stood on the corner watching them for a minute. Morty stumbled over an open trench and went down, taking Sheryl with him. Steve was about to run across the street and help them up when he heard them laughing. Morty stood, helped Sheryl up, and then the two of them brushed themselves off. They joined hands and walked toward the broad sandy beach.

  In the distance a reggae band played softly, the twang of the steel drum mixing with the sound of the surf. There was still a residue of coconut tanning lotion in the air, and the palm trees cast long shadows under the streetlights. Steve put his hands in his pockets and turned back toward his car.