Sylvia Selfman - Rushmore Oshansky 01 - Murder Never Retires

by Sylvia Selfman

  “Sam ended up in the hospital,” Marv explained. “Atrial fibrillation. Almost died. We can’t afford that. Before you know it, the club would be sued. So we changed the name to the Men’s Self-Help Group. Gives us a chance to discuss any personal issues that are bothering us.”

  “I’d like to say something about Harry,” Sam, bandbox fresh in a mint green LLBean sport shirt and polished loafers that didn’t quite reach the floor, interjected. His voice, in contrast to his slight build, carried the ring of authority, of someone used to being listened to. He slipped from his chair, paused and nodded to the men assembled before him.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve had a lot of time to think about Harry in these six months since he died. I feel we did him a disservice by not noticing he was ill.

  “It’s what I said to my wife the other day.” Sam stopped, pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Like I said to my wife,” he continued, “how could we have missed the signs of Harry Hermann’s heart giving out. I guess we assumed, wrongly, that nothing like that could happen to someone as active as Harry. Someone who never complained about a damn thing.”

  “Just goes to show how life can change in an instant.” Marv nodded. “There’s not one of us who doesn’t miss Harry, may he rest in peace. He was one of a kind. A prince.”

  Alvin Katz paused in picking the lint off his dark blue sweater to nod in agreement. “A mensch of the first order.”

  “I’m talking now,” Sam scowled. He turned to Oshansky. “Harry was president of our condo association for eight years,” he explained. “And for eight years he ran it with an iron fist but with consideration to all. He was, what you call, popular plus. Right, gentlemen?”

  A chorus of ‘amens’ rang out.

  “Then out of the blue,” Sam shook his head in disbelief, “Harry just dropped dead. Sure, he had the usual ailments, high blood pressure, some arthritis, minor prostate problems but not enough to hinder him in any way.”

  “Especially in the sex department,” Alvin piped up.

  Marv rapped on the table. “Let’s have some respect for the dead, please. The truth is, Harry, may he rest in peace, seemed perfectly fine and then he just faded.”

  “Like an old soldier,” Alvin called out.

  Sam’s face turned bright red. “Harry was never in the army, Alvin, and you know that.”

  “Chill, Sam,” Alvin shrugged, “It was just a figure of speech.”

  “And I’m telling you, Harry never served.” Sam again pulled the handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his forehead, his diamond pinkie ring flashing a warning that another medical emergency might be in the offing.

  “What’d the doctor say Harry died of?” Oshansky was always curious to hear what men his age died of.

  “Sudden heart attack,” Frank Johnson volunteered. “But I ask you, why didn’t the doctors see it coming? I’ll tell you why. All doctors know is to charge too much. Believe me, as a litigation lawyer, I know about that first hand.” Frank nodded ominously. “Hell, the doctors even missed my silent heart attack. It’s lucky I’m still here. But of course those doctors didn’t know who they were dealing with.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Frank,” Joe Marzouli, a past campaign organizer for the Republican Party, chimed in. “My son’s a doctor and he’s married to a really nice girl. Beautiful too. Lives in a big house and people come from all over for his expertise.”

  “Don’t get so defensive, Joe. Frank didn’t mean all doctors.” Marv said. “I hope, Oshansky, this shows you how much we care. We care about our condo. We care about taking care of it, keeping the greens green, the plants watered, the roofs fixed, the roads paved and,” Marv paused, “and above all, Oshansky, we care about our members.”

  “Hey, Marv, tell Rushmore about those sexy pink letters Harry Hermann was getting before he died,” Sal Malpiedi, called out. “I heard that Harry confided in Myra Pfefeneuger about those letters. Oshansky’s a detective. Maybe he can figure out who Harry’s secret lover was. I’d sure like to know.” Sal, in an exaggerated motion smoothed back his head of thick black hair. “Maybe she’s in need of a little nookie now that Harry’s no longer around.”

  “Detective,shmective. Who cares who the notes were from. Harry’s dead. Let Harry and his secret lover rest in peace. Let’s give him that modicum of respect,” Marv scolded. “Those letters were just more evidence that Harry was one of a kind. Loved by all.”

  “Especially the ladies,” Al chimed in. “What a lover. ‘Harry, I once asked him, what’s your secret? Viagra? Cialis?’”

  Vern Higgins, a small, skinny man who’d been asleep during most of the meeting was suddenly wide awake, “What’d Harry say?” he asked

  “He’d give his usual smile. Always a smile for everyone. He’d say the ladies just loved him and he didn’t know why,” Al explained. “Harry was a very modest guy, amensch. Didn’t miss one Friday night service at the temple. Gave to charity from the heart. Not because he had to. From the heart he gave.”

  “Yeah,” Sal nodded, “always gave from the heart and then his heart turned on him. Go figure.”

  “Too much sex,” Vern nodded sagely. “At our age too much sex will do it every time.”

  Could Vern be right? Was there such a thing as too much sex? The thought had crossed Oshansky’s mind ever since his ‘encounter’ with Francine. But then again ‘dying in the saddle’ probably wasn’t the worst way to go. After all, if it was good enough for John Garfield and Rockefeller, and who knew how many other luminaries…

  “I don’t think we should make light of Harry’s passing, Vern.” Marv admonished.

  “Who’s making light. I meant it. That man, may he rest in peace,shtupped day and night. The women wouldn’t leave him alone. Could kill even a younger man.”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Marv pounded the table, “we don’t have all day. Enough about Harry, may he rest in peace. Let’s move on.” He checked his notes, “Oh, just a reminder. Our belated memorial service for poor Harry is next week. By then most of the folks who knew him should be back in the desert.” Marv turned to Oshansky, “You didn’t know Harry, but it’d be a nice gesture on your part if you came to the service.”

  “Sure. Why not,” Oshansky replied. “I’m game.”

  The bang of the gavel signaled the end of Rushmore Oshansky’s first meeting of the Palm Springs Sun Villas Men’s Self-Help group.

  *****************

  Driving back to his condo, Oshansky mulled over his decision to move to a retirement community.

  He recalled a National Geographic show he’d seen about old elephants going off to some isolated place to die. Did condo living serve a similar purpose? Was Sun Villas to be his elephant burial ground? The place to spend one’s last years playing and arguing over minutiae before heading into the next life.

  Of course, there was always sex. And plenty of it, it seemed. No elephant in its burial ground had it so good.

  Chapter 9

  The staccato notes of Beethoven’s Fifth that signaled victory in World War Two alerted Oshansky to an incoming call.

  “Pick up, Oshansky,” Francine ordered. “Where the hell are you this early? All right then, call me back when you get this.”

  He hit delete.

  Slowly and painfully he crawled out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. Messaging his shoulder, he wondered if Francine’s ropes might have inflicted permanent damage. It had been a while since she’d tied him up but at his age body parts took a long time to heal––if at all.

  He pulled out the carton of orange juice and shut the refrigerator. His eye fell on the magnet stuck to the door: a bikini clad, well-endowed woman lying beneath a green palm tree. Printed in hot pink across the magnet’s sandy bottom were the words,Hot for You. A leftover from Harry Hermann’s life. It seems Miss Hot for You, however, wasn’t so hot for Harry, that she’d managed to accompany him into the next life. More evidence of the fickleness of women, Oshansky thought. />
  Oshansky checked the flyer Hot for You was holding to the refrigerator door. Prime Rib Wednesday in the club’s Regency dining room. Just what the doctor ordered, he figured, since the cans of tuna and fava beans that Harry Hermann had left behind were playing havoc with his digestion.

  How Harry had managed to escape the curse of middle-age digestive troubles was a mystery to him. Though he must have had other health problems or he’d still be around. Just another example of life’s ironies: Harry’s expiration date had arrived before that of his tuna and fava bean cans.

  And his expiration date? What was his own expiration date? No sense wasting time worrying about it, Oshansky decided. When the time comes, it comes. And there’s not much you can do about it.

  He raised the carton of orange juice to Miss Hot for You. “L’chaim. To the good life in Palm Springs.”

  Was it his imagination or did Miss Hot for You wink back?

  Chapter 10

  Rushmore waited a few seconds to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark anteroom of the Regency Dining Room.

  “Do you have a reservation, sir?” The maître d’s pale head, appeared disembodied as it floated high above the reservation book.

  “No, actually I didn’t know I needed one.” Oshansky stared at the reservation book illuminated by a tiny light. An ancient tome holding the power to deny Oshansky access to the Regency’s inner sanctum with its promise of a fine prime rib dinner.

  “Sir,” the thin lips curled in a smug smile, “this is prime rib night. Reservations are mandatory.” The maître d’s eyes traveled slowly down Oshansky’s torso, “as is the dress code,” he sniffed. “Long pants are mandatory. As are socks and a jacket. And you,” he paused dramatically, “miss out on all counts.”

  “Listen, I’m new to condo living.” Oshansky forced a smile hoping it wouldn’t be mistaken for a grimace. “I’m a quick learner though. In fact I learned to read at a young age. Five, to be exact. You see, my wife left me, and I haven’t had a good meal since. Make an exception this once and I promise it won’t happen again.”

  Oshansky waited for what seemed an interminable length of time as his fate was being decided. Too bad he hadn’t thought to bring along a five or tenner. Though he wondered if that would work in Palm Springs. Hell, it’d work anywhere.

  “Follow me,” the maître d finally barked out.

  Undoubtedly trained by the Wehrmacht, Oshansky thought. Snapping his heels together Oshansky followed in lock step behind him, resisting the urge to extend his right arm in a stiff salute.

  The table was in the farthest corner of the dining room. A couple more inches to the right and he’d be eating in the kitchen with the help. Figures. They never give up. Ship the Jew to the Siberian hinterlands.

  “Oshansky, you are such a shmuck. Always pulling that Jew stuff. When it’s you! You! Why can’t you behave in public. Always embarrassing me when we go out. No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

  “Bugger off, Marsha. Go harass your Fur King Mermelstein.”

  “Did you say something, sir?”

  Oshansky wondered how long the waiter had been standing there. Tall, well-built with a head of thick dark brown hair, he had the looks that were good-looking to an excess. “Talking to myself I guess.”

  “Happens. Not an uncommon occurrence around here.” The waiter smiled warmly, “A drink might help calm your nerves.”

  “You’re right. A bottle of red, the cheapest.” Oshansky paused. “No, wait.” It was time to live it up. “On second thought, make that the next to the cheapest. And a double scotch.” The latter would be the perfect antidote to the dining room’s polar temperature which undoubtedly accounted for the latest increase in condo fees.

  Oshansky leaned back and checked his surroundings. A woman a few tables to his right nodded, possibly at him. Then putting her finger in her mouth, she slowly started sucking it. As Oshansky was trying to determine what if anything she meant by the gesture, an attractive brunette in a one shoulder white dress sitting nearby caught his attention. She locked eyes with him, then rolled her tongue slowly and suggestively over her full red lips.

  Oshansky was confused. Were the ladies of Sun Villas passionately enjoying their food or were they perhaps hinting at something of a more sexual nature?

  His ruminations were interrupted by the reappearance of the waiter, pad and pencil at the ready.

  “I’ll have the prime rib. Rare. Very rare. With bone.” Oshansky announced.

  “My, my, aren’t we the macho man.”

  Oshansky looked up in surprise. “What did you say?”

  “I said I’ll find you a really good piece of meat.”

  “Is this seat taken?” Azoftig woman of sixty or thereabouts, average height, short bright red hair stood before him. “Name’s Brenda. Brenda Glickman. Mind if I sit down?” she asked sitting down.

  “Why ask? Seems you already are.”

  “You are obviously a man with a sense of humor. I like that,” Brenda Glickman said. “I didn’t quite get your name.”

  Her smile displayed what Oshansky was beginning to realize was Palm Springsde rigueur, overly whitened teeth. The better to eat you with, my dear.

  “Rushmore. Rushmore Oshansky. Hold the apostrophe.”

  “Rushmore Oshansky. You bought Harry Hermann’s place. Rush-more. Rush-more O-shan-sky,” she repeated slowly, drawing out each syllable. “An interesting name. Jewish? Irish, perhaps?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Brenda shrugged. “Depends. Circumcised, you need some protection. Non-circumcised, you need more protection. Just kidding.”

  “I think it’s somewhat premature to be discussing my privates.” Oshansky said.

  “We’re grown-ups, Rushmore,” Brenda scolded, reminding him of his arithmetic teacher back in first grade. “You should know by now that it’s never premature for such conversation. And being grown-ups, we also know where this is heading. So let’s not waste time pretending.”

  “Pretending?” he asked.

  “Let me clarify it for you. See all these people?” She nodded toward the other tables. “Some are married, some are living in sin, some barely living.” Brenda paused. “So tell me, Oshansky, where do you fit in?”

  Without waiting for his answer, she continued, “I’ll tell you where you fit in. One, no wedding band. You’re not married. Two, you’re not that old and you look fairly healthy. That eliminates the barely living aspect. Three, that leaves living in sin. So tell me, are you?” she asked.

  “That depends on the definition of sin,” he answered, wondering how he’d gotten involved in a conversation of sex and sin with a Brenda Glickman, a woman he’d just met. When all he wanted to do was enjoy his prime rib dinner in peace.

  “Assuming you mean in the biblical sense of the word, no, I’m not living in sin.” Then as an afterthought, added, “Unfortunately.”

  “Then I’ll sum it up for you, Rushmore. These folks here have only one thing on their minds. Actually two, now that I think about it.”

  “And those two are…”

  “Sex.”

  “That’s one.”

  “And their stock portfolios. Actually their stock portfolios and sex.”

  “Very interesting. How would you know all that, Brenda Glick…

  “Just Brenda is okay. Live here a while, Oshansky, and you’ll find out there’s more bed-hopping going on than in a colony of bedbugs.”

  “You’re from New York.” Oshansky said.

  She reached for his glass of scotch and finished it off. “Not the worst scotch I’ve had,” she said with a nod of approval. “How did you know?”

  “Bed bugs.”

  “Very funny,” Brenda said.

  “Actually I was serious.”

  “Whatever. As I was saying, Oshansky, it’s all a facade. These folks only appear to be deep in conversation, discussing the latest movies, books, golf, you name it. It’s all pretense. The men only care about their stock portfolios. And
sex. To be more explicit, whether their stocks are up or down and whether their privates are up or down. As for the women, they care only about snaring one of the men, hoping everything is on the up—privates and portfolios.”

  Oshansky caught the eye of a passing waiter and motioned for another scotch. “Is there anything else I should know about condo living, Brenda?”

  “I can see you have a lot to learn. I can teach you, Rushmore. I was an elementary school principal in my other life.”

  “Oh great.”

  “I assume that wasn’t meant to be sarcastic. I don’t like sarcastic men. I find they use it as a substitute for brains. However I sense you’re more intelligent than you appear.”

  Brenda relaxed back in her chair and looked him over. “Come to my condo when you’re finished eating,” she finally said. “As I said, you have a great deal to learn. I’m not bragging but I’m the perfect person to teach you the ropes.”

  Oshansky flinched at the mention of ropes.

  “Something wrong, Oshansky?”

  “Nothing I care to discuss.”

  “Well go easy on the scotch then. Causes gas. But I’ll let you eat in peace.” Brenda pushed back her chair. “Don’t forget to stop by, Oshansky. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  She reached in her bag and pulled out a card. “I’m easy to find,” she said, handing him her card. “I live four doors down from you. That’s my condo with the heart shaped wreath on the door. A leftover from my husband’s—may he rest in peace—funeral.” She paused. “Just kidding. It’s actually from a friend’s husband’s funeral. Usually they give those things to nursing homes but I figured why give a funeral wreath to a nursing home. It’ll only depress the old folks more. So I took one. I don’t believe in letting anything good go to waste. That includes men.”

  Brenda pushed back her chair and stood up. “Oh, and don’t eat too much, Oshansky. Ask the waiter for a doggy bag. It’ll be good for tomorrow’s lunch. You’ll have dessert at my place. Bon appetit.”