We can’t leave anything on the ground. As soon as we do, they run off with a roller or knock over something else. It goes on all day. Max is getting more and more frustrated. “We’re losing money every time they go by, Ruby,” he says. We have to bring everything back with us that night. “I’m gonna figure something out,” he says.
Next morning when we arrive, the dogs come running around the side of the house. Max is waiting with two brownies wrapped in tin foil. He takes one out, breaks it in two, tossing half to each dog. We sit in the truck, drinking coffee, while the dogs go off behind the garage. We find them later under a tree on their backs.
The woman comes out of the house. “What’s wrong with Gilbert and Freddy?”
“They’re just resting, ma’am.”
“On their backs?” She starts rubbing their tummies, calling them her “little boys.” The stupid things don’t even recognize her. “I’ve never seen them like this before,” she says.
“They look pretty happy,” Max says.
“You don’t think they ate paint, do you?”
“No, ma’am,” Max says. “They’d be puking all over the place. We’ve seen it before, haven’t we, Sam?”
The rest of the day is a breeze. Gilbert and Freddy barely move the whole afternoon. Towards four o’clock, Freddy makes a half-hearted attempt to stick his nose in Ruby’s crotch. It’s too much for him. He falls asleep with his ass in the koi pond.
Next morning, the dogs come galloping out of the house: tufts of grass fly, slobber is everywhere. Max doesn’t even bother getting out of the truck. He tosses the brownie, lights a cigarette, and waits for them to fall over. Ruby isn’t thrilled. Giving those dogs pot is cutting into our profits. Otis went nuts when he found out. “You’re wasting good grass on a couple of mutts, Max?”
“They’re purebreds, Otis.”
At least we’re back on track. We paint the rest of the day with Gilbert and Freddy sleeping away. The woman comes out occasionally, rubs their tummies, then goes back inside. Ruby takes Gilbert and Freddy a bowl of water. They slurp half-heartedly. “You’ve turned them into idiots, Max.”
“They’ll be okay in a few hours.”
“You sure about that?”
“Pretty sure.”
“You said the same thing about Otis.”
“That’s true.”
Chapter 81
Frank is throwing a swank party at his cottage. He’s invited the current investors and a bunch of corporate friends. We need capital for the next book. Frank figures he’ll get it with a bunch of champagne and a shrimp waterfall. “It’s your chance to shine, Sam,” he says. Muller’s been asked to cater. The menu’s being left up to him. Frank wants floral arrangements, too; a “dash of Irish”, as he puts it. He sent me an email from the airport on his way to Tokyo.
Sam,
This is an important meet and greet with the investors. They want to see the man behind Mr. Quiggles. I’ve got business in Tokyo until the fifteenth—should be back in time for the party. Any questions, talk to Iris. We still haven’t had our drink and steak dinner, have we? It’s coming. Let’s get through this first. See you when I get back into town. Give my best to Mary, et al.
Frank
I’m terrible at schmoozing. I don’t have Frank’s gift for the gab. Half the time, I just stand there staring at my shoes, then say something stupid like, “Let’s hope this does the trick.” It used to drive clients up the wall. I’d hear them talking to Frank after a meeting, saying, “What’s the deal with that writer of yours?” Frank would tell them I was a genius. “You can’t talk to geniuses; you know that, Sherman.” he’d say. Fortunately, according to Frank, the numbers will do the talking. He hired one of the top research firms in Chicago. To quote them, “The Mr. Quiggles franchise should see solid growth over the next year. These books are enjoyed by all ages and cultures, clearly the result of their simplicity and accessibility.”
I’ve been reading the full report, hoping it’ll give me something intelligent to say. There’s a lot of money involved, most of which Frank’s already committed to advertising and public relations.
Meanwhile, Muller goes over the menu in the kitchen. Cookbooks are spread out on the table, pans inspected. Iris sent over their chef, a Somali named Mustafa. The guy’s close to three hundred pounds with big white teeth and a hairline moustache. He and Muller try different recipes, throwing stuff away, starting again. Mustafa stays over one night and sleeps in the basement.
Muller’s going with a roasted chicken covered in honey, apricot and tarragon sauce. The side salad is blue cabbage with cashel blue cheese. For dessert, he’s making chocolate cake laced with cinnamon and chilies and topped with compote of maraschino cherries. The dishes themselves will be cooked up north in Iris’s big ovens. Muller and Mustafa are going up in one car, Judy and Mary in the other. Max loaned me his to take up the warming trays. It looks like a small cavalcade, complete with a grinning Mustafa, and Judy’s floral arrangements almost sticking out the side windows.
Frank’s cottage is on Lake Geneva. You go past these big homes with iron gates out front. Frank’s place isn’t hard to find. The house itself goes to a peak, then flairs out at the sides. There are levels everywhere supporting huge windows. Iris meets me at the door. She looks good with her red hair pulled up in a bun. “The troops have arrived,” she says.
There’s a fieldstone fireplace, big sofas. I follow Iris around to the living room. Through the picture windows, I can see three levels of deck and a flight of stairs zigzagging down to the water.
Judy starts hanging garlands of wisteria and local ivy everywhere. Seating for the guests has been arranged on the main deck, tablecloths luffing in the breeze. People arrive and Iris guides them through the house. Expensive cars and limousines fill the driveway. While Iris is giving them the tour, Frank calls, saying his plane’s just landed. “Frankie’s on his way,” she says.
I go check on Muller. The kitchen is a sunken room holding two ovens, gas stoves and microwaves. While Muller works away under a slick layer of sweat, Mustafa smiles like a fucking junkie.
More guests arrive, more cocktails, the balconies are full of dangling jewelry. A guy wearing an ascot grabs my hand. “You must be Sam,” he says. “You look like a writer. Well, Sam, how does it feel to be Mr. Quiggles?” I tell him it’s a pisser. His colleagues gather around. “Frank’s told us about the next project,” the guy says, “Nobody’s in the dark here. So give us some details. Who’s this woman Frank says is taking the world by storm? She used to be his accountant?”
“Margot?” I say.
“That’s her,” the guy with the ascot says. “Got a show on the Internet or something. Quite a hit, I hear. Are you taking existing quotes from her show? Or is everything new in the book?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Her advice book,” another says. “Frank says Margot really lets people have it. Give us the poop on this gal. What’re you planning?”
“Well, I guess we’ll be using her quotes.”
“Is it going to sell, Sam?”
“Let’s hope it does the trick.” I excuse myself and find Iris on the phone with Frank. The airport’s mobbed. All the highways are packed. Frank can’t even charter a plane. He’s finally found a cab driver willing to make the trip. He hangs up before I can talk to him.
Iris tells the maids to start putting the appetizers outside. Muller’s made prosciutto wrapped around figs and a smokey gruyere. Bottles of champagne are brought out in frosted ice buckets. I help Muller with some of the pots while Mustafa whistles through his big teeth and Iris stands in the living room with a drink in her hand.
Frank calls twenty minutes later to say the cab’s broken down. A tow trucks on its way. Iris puts me on the phone. “Frankie’s screaming like a banshee,” she says. “Try to calm him down.”
Frank says he’s in a ditch, kicking tiger lilies or something. “Take it easy, Frank. Everything’s going fine.”
“What are the
investor’s doing?”
“Talking about our next book.”
“Which one?”
“The one I’m supposed to be writing with Margot. When did this happen? Have you even talked to Margot?”
“Christ, no. I was blowing smoke. I had to tell the investors something. And don’t go blabbing to Margot—fuck, I just kicked my shoe into a field. Who do you know with a car?”
“I don’t know anyone, Frank.”
“I’m standing in a fucking ditch here. Find me a friggin’ car. I’ll pay whatever it takes. I’m on highway twelve, just north of ninety—” He’s swearing away. “What the fuck did I just step on? Call someone, Sam!”
I hang up and get on the phone to Max. “You feel like being a chauffeur?”
“For who?”
“Frank O’Conner. His cab broke down.”
“Where is he?”
“Highway twelve, just north of ninety.”
“What’s he paying?”
“Let’s just say you could start a college fund.”
“I’m not at home, Sam. Zack and I stole the wiener van again.”
“What the hell for?”
“To pick up shrubs. Ruby’s out in the pickup.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the west end. I can cut up to ninety, no problem.”
“Well, dump Zack, for chrissake.”
“I’m on it, Sam.”
I hang up and dial Frank’s cell. “Max is on his way.”
“Who the hell’s Max?”
“Your old security guard.”
“Did I fire him?”
“No, he took off.”
“That little fucker? Tell him hurry up. I’m standing in a bog.”
I hang up and return to the party. The guests are sitting down to dinner. Chicken bubbles in the warming trays. Dishes clatter. “How’s Frankie?” Iris asks.
“He says he’s standing in a bog.”
Twenty minutes later, Frank rings again, screaming his head off. “Where’s that little wanker?” he yells.
“Should be there any minute.”
“Jesus wept! What’s everybody doing?”
“Drinking.”
“Watch them, Sam. Half those bastards have screwed each other’s wives. I wouldn’t put anything past them right now.”
“Calm down, Frank.”
“You calm down. I’m ready to kick the shit out of this cab driver. He’s out in the field eating carrots. Watch that fucker, Harry, in particular.”
“Which one’s he?”
“Our main investor—fuck, Sam, are you talking to those guys? I told you to keep them sweet. Lay some crap on them. Tell’m Margot’s the next coming of Christ. I’m counting on—what the fuck is that?”
“What?”
“Jesus wept—is that my fucking wiener van?”
We get disconnected. I find Iris in the living room. “Max is bringing Frank up now,” I say to her.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she says with a hazy smile. “Frankie’s on his way. Have you eaten yet, Sam?”
“I’ll get something in the kitchen.”
“Tell Muller everyone loves his food.”
People are all over the balcony, food is consumed, and champagne glasses tilt. I go down in the kitchen and eat something off one of the serving plates. Muller and Mustafa keep bumping into each other.
“Iris says everyone loves your food,” I say. “Anything you need me to do?”
“We’re okay, Sam.”
I got back upstairs. Iris is swaying to the music. “You seem to be enjoying yourself,” I say to her.
“I am,” she says. “This is the best I’ve felt in years. Your Mary’s one in a million, Sammy boy. A Christian goddess.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. She’s not Christian, for one thing.”
“You be good to her, Sammy. I mean it. I was depressed as hell. Then, puff!”—snapping her fingers—“Mary lifted me up.”
“Are you sure it was Mary?”
“None of your smart-alecky stuff. Mary’s an angel. And stop looking so serious. Here,” she says, bringing a plate out from behind her back. “I had Muller bake these. Don’t tell Frankie.”
“Christ, Iris.”
“Relax,” she says. “Go take a dip. The food will be eaten, drinks will flow and the cow will jump over the moon.”
I bump into Mustafa bringing out trays of brownies. The fucker’s grinning like an old derelict. Muller’s drizzling some sauce over strawberries. “You didn’t tell me you were making brownies,” I say.
“Iris asked.”
“Frank’s got all the investors out there.”
“I think Iris knows that, Sam.”
“They’ve all shagged each other’s wives, for chrissake. Where’s Mary and Judy?”
“I don’t know.”
Iris is still swaying to the music. Mustafa’s fat head moves through the crowd on the deck. “There you are again,” Iris says to me. “Did you have your dip?”
“Is everybody eating brownies?”
“Like Dog Chow.”
I look outside. A woman’s pole dancing a light standard. “Where’s Mary?”
“Down at the dock. Relax, Sammy. Have some fun.”
It’s an ugly scene on the dock: tuxedos on the railings, ties in bushes. Someone’s naked in a canoe. Others joust with paddles. Mary’s over on some rocks with Judy. “What’s wrong, Sam?” Mary says.
“Frank says this crowd could turn ugly.”
“They’re having fun, Daddy.”
“You don’t know their idea of fun, sweetie.”
People disappear into the shallows. Bottles teeter on the dock. One of the guests starts swimming across the inlet. A woman in the water squeals, a man cannonballs to her rescue. The investor I met earlier is singing show tunes to a gold lamé gown floating by.
Up above, a long strand of icicle lights dangles from one of the trees. The other end is wrapped around a woman’s leg. She falls into a juniper bush. Something crashes on the upper deck. Probably one of the warming trays. A passing paddleboat is upended, the owner pulled to shore. He’s given mouth-to-mouth despite his protests. Mary and Judy giggle as a naked woman swims past. I keep checking my watch. “What’s wrong?” Mary says.
“I should try calling Frank.”
“Forget Frank,” Mary says. “Let’s go in the water.”
“Are you two getting naked again?” Judy asks.
“What do you mean ‘again’?” I say.
“You were naked at Riley’s party.”
“No we weren’t.”
“Just go in, Daddy.”
Mary pushes me in the water. My head goes under and I imagine Muller down there, hair going up and down, cheeks inflated. I come up sputtering. Judy does a cannonball, her white knees up to her chest. She surfaces and says, “Come on, Daddy.” Then she and Mary swim towards the neighbor’s dock. I follow and we hang from the ladder, wiggling our toes. A diving contest of sorts is taking place. Just a bunch of granny dives. We watch for a while, then I hear a backfire around the other side of the inlet. Naked bodies go up trees. Mustafa slides down the hill on his ass. “What’s that, Daddy?” Judy says.
I dress and run up the stairs. A crowd is gathering out front. Chugging up the driveway, I see the wiener van with the passenger door open. “You stupid, git,” Frank yells, jumping out. “Fucking arse almost took out my front gate!” He grabs my arm. “How’s it looking, Sam? Never mind, I’ll see for myself. Tell your little fucker friend to get that piece of crap out of my driveway. Park it in the neighbor’s yard or something.” He stomps off into the house. Max gets out.
“How’s the party?” he says.
“Iris got Muller to make grass brownies. Everyone’s stoned out of their gourds.”
“Any left?”
“Check with Muller.”
Frank is being led down to the water by two naked women. Iris is laughing. Frank’s uttering oaths, telling everyone they’re destroy
ing his property value. Then there’s a loud splash and Frank’s in the water going after Mustafa with a paddle. Mustafa makes for open water.
Chapter 82
Morning comes, streamers dangle outside my window. Confetti blows in the breeze next to the wiener van. Someone downstairs says a Supreme Court judge is still lost in the woods. I go to the back balcony and see a naked figure across the inlet. Frank stands on the dock, yelling, “You wanker!” Muller’s on the second level deck, pulling warming trays out of the hydrangea bushes. A police launch returns Mustafa. Frank helps him up on the dock and kicks his ass.
I go downstairs in Frank’s dressing gown. Iris is tending to minor scrapes and poison ivy while Mary and Judy bring in the broken crystal. A steady stream of people emerges from different nooks and crannies, stumbling outside to their cars, driving off past a man fast asleep in the junipers. Frank comes inside, pours a brandy, then Max appears with a mouse under one eye. I guess he slept in the wiener van. “What happened to you?” I say.
“Somebody hit me.”
Iris puts a cube steak on his eye while Muller brings in the last of the warming trays. He takes them to the galley and starts making scrambled eggs with artichokes. “What’s Muller charging me, anyway?” Frank says.
“Talk to Mary,” I say.
Mary’s shaking the tablecloths on the deck. Frank goes out, they talk, he pulls his hair, then comes back inside. “The woman’s a monster, Sam,” he says, holding Mary’s written estimate. “This is flat out robbery.”
“Don’t you go shortchanging them, Frankie,” Iris says. “They worked very hard. You should be grateful.”
“I know that, Iris—”
“Pay it.”
“There’s nine hundred dollars in desserts alone.”
“Worth every penny.”
“I never even got any dessert. What did we have?”
“Chocolate cake.”
“Nine hundred bucks for chocolate cake?” he yells, then spots Max on the couch. “And what do I have to pay you, you little bastard?”
“Sam says you’re sending me to college,” Max says.
“I’m what?”
“You’re sending me to college.”
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