Them Hustlers

by Jeffrey Manber

  Herb could do for these women what no doctor thought possible and that was to cure the underlying symptom. That was the power of the tarot and of having a good ear. But a wounded guy.... he’d have to handle this a bit differently.

  That was typical about Herb. Without any thought he had just taken Phil in as a special client. A friend trying to solve what was happening to Phil that others just couldn't see.

  “Tanya,” and here Phil hesitated, but the weariness made him more candid than usual to a stranger, “Tanya is connected to some pretty powerful people.”

  Herb nodded, sure of himself now. “Like who?"

  Without a moment's pause Phil rattled off the long list of congressmen, lobbyists, contractors, reporters, and the senators that were the ingredients of Tanya's world. He began with Tommy Tucker and finished up with Bob Livingston. There were also the outside circle of judges, campaign donors, mistresses and the like. Herb could tell that the names didn't mean that much per se to Phil, it seemed more of a memorized list because that's exactly what it was. Each name had been written down over the past six months on the sheets of papers kept hidden from view. To be studied. Broken down into their numbers. Analyzed for patterns.

  In terms of the political world Phil had dropped into, he was no different than a young mistress, too young to know what the fuss happening all around her was all about. Why the men was so kind.

  Unlike Phil, Herb read the papers every morning. He knew how tantalizingly close Bob Livingstone was to grabbing the brass ring of power. And his entourage was led by no other than the 'business at any price' Tommy Tucker. With his baritone southern drawl and perfect hair, he was the caricature of the down home politician. And Tanya was none other than Tucker's infamous right hand 'man,' part-time money handler. He had heard about Tucker from the local politicians (filled with praise for Tucker) and from the Nation, the left-wing journal (filled with scorn for Tucker) he had subscribed to for the past ten years. And from some of his clients immersed in the Washington scene.

  Phil’s sin was now clear. It was like getting ready to marry into a mafia family and uh, changing your mind at the last minute. 'Thanks, enjoyed meeting all of you, don't worry, don't mean anything to me, you have nothing to worry about. I'll never cash in on what I know and I really think you are all a great bunch.'

  Yeah, sure.

  Herb noticed Ronnie Brewster, the rotund Maryland state senator, settling into his usual seat at the counter.

  Maybe this was a way to get across to Phil the crowd he was moving with.

  "Hey Ronnie, come over for a moment, would 'ya?"

  The amiable politician, never one to turn down a handshake and hear a new story from the fortune teller, came over.

  Herb figured he had nothing to lose. Either Phil would understand what was about to happen or not.

  Herb did the introductions. "Ronnie, this here's Phil, a new friend. Thought you two should meet seeing how Phil's a close friend of Bob Livingston, you know, the Republican from Louisiana....you know, the one everyone's talking about being speaker..."

  Ronnie's reaction was instantaneous. "Man!" Oh man!” Ronnie gasped like a fish out of water, while madly thinking of a local angle. It didn't take long.

  "Phil, I'm working a deal out here in eastern Maryland, just past Kent Island, have you been? We are working to create uh, economic incentives" (big wink followed by a stage whisper) "tax breaks for the uninitiated for land to be kept unused so it’s ideal for duck shooting...and seeing how Congressman Livingston..." And State Senator Ronnie Brewster went on for a five full minutes while standing in the narrow deli aisle about the value of the deal and how great it would be if Phil would bring up the subject to Livingston and maybe just maybe invite him out this way…..

  Ronnie would never have stopped except that Judy finally came over and asked whether the empty seat was owned by him and not for any of the waiting customers. Herb led Ronnie back with a promise that Phil would arrange an introduction.

  Returning to the table, McDermott rammed the point home. "You could probably now get three grand from Ronnie's backers--the guys who own the land--just because of this conversation. Probably double that for a sit-down with the congressman’s key staffer. Hell Phil," Herb chuckled, "I could get me a thou’ from Ronnie by midweek just because I know you."

  Herb finished off the point. "And that's from a stranger my friend. Imagine what Tanya has been up to. Or Tommy. That's what you left behind. That's who is going to be awfully worried now that you walked out. You know stuff, right? Maybe you could sink the good ship Livingston--make a lot of powerful politicians awfully angry. This is how the system works, you know that of course." Herb looked at Phil's confused expression. "You do understand, right?"

  Phil ignored Herb’s question. What interested him more was how, just before returning to his counter stool, Ronnie had shouted a question to the fortune teller. ‘You accepting the Annapolis council invitation I hope?’

  Phil wondered what Ronnie was talking about though in truth it was none of his business. Was Herb joining the local government, becoming a politician? The fortune teller was obliging with an answer. Turns out the local town council had invited Herb to fill an open seat. The store owner, liked by everyone, was deemed a perfect choice. But Herb, as he curtly explained to Phil, was having none of the offer.

  Phil pushed more. This was politics he could touch and feel not like all the Washington goings-on. “You got skeletons in your closet?”

  “Well, yes. Yes, I do.”

  “And who would care?”

  Herb decided to answer Phil truthfully. This was a subject he had thought through long and hard. “Look, it’s like this. I had a friend once in Oyster Bay, Long Island. Owned the local fish store. Was a good Republican. Served on the local council. Just like they want me to do here in Annapolis. Soon he was being asked to run for Congress - imagine that, a guy who owns a fish store in the U.S. Congress-- but he wouldn’t have none of it. Everyone asked him, even the national bigwigs. Wouldn’t budge. He told me why when I asked, just like you here of me. Never forgot what he said: ‘personal damnation step by step.’ That’s what he said. Just like that. What the hell did he mean?”

  Phil was becoming sorry he had asked. What was the fortune teller’s point?

  “Some time later I got what he was saying. No one cares about you when you’re a council member. Member of Congress? Umm, probably not. But when you go to grab the brass ring of power the shit hits the fan. Remember Gary Hart?”

  “Sure, I remember, got caught up with that cute looking girl - on the boat.”

  Herb laughed. Of course this guy would remember any incident involving a pretty girl. “What did Hart say to the national press while he was running in New Hampshire and there were all these rumors of him having an extramarital affair? The presidential contender egged them reporters on, remember? That’s what he did. ‘Follow me.’ “Why taunt the national press?” ‘Follow me around, you’ll be bored.’ “Hubris. If you got something to hide my friend, don’t start up hunting for more power. It’s just not healthy. That’s the Gary Hart syndrome. The belief that the rules of the game just don’t apply to you.” And here Herb pounded his fist on the deli table.

  “So it always starts innocently - if any affair can be innocent-- and ends with your wife standing by your side at the press conference.” Herb stopped, thinking it through for the hundredth time. “I’m fine not taking the first step. I’m a fortune teller. That’s all.”

  Herb threw one back at Phil. “I got a question for you. This Bill Livingston had better be squeaky clean, you know? If not, he could bring down the entire show.” Herb waited. “You gonna give me an answer? Is Livingston clean?”

  Phil couldn’t find his voice and that was fine with him.

  * * *

  Phil left with a promise to meet for breakfast the next morning. Leaving the deli, he got into his Jeep Cherokee and drove north out of town. The gorgeous fall day helped clear his mind. Herb was a gua
rdian angel. Shame he wasn't a good looking woman. No, no, this was all good. The way Phil figured, Herb had known this moment was coming. And he cared enough to make it all clear.

  What else did Herb know?

  Day one of his new life was going well. Tanya didn't have someone like Herb looking out for her. And he was definitely not getting married to the lobbyist. And he had all his limbs. And the warehouse was amply protected. And all his bank accounts being used by Tanya would be closed on Monday.

  What else?

  He needed a place to live. If the plan in his head worked he'd have a place to stay plus protection from Tanya. He could always crash with Rachel. But he wanted to avoid the reporter, afraid that his friendship with her was one of the reasons Tanya was so worried. Last night, in the car, he realized the mistake of having Rachel come over to the Mardi Gras birthday celebration. The look on Tucker’s face when he saw Rachel was like a hunter closing in on a kill.

  Anyway, he wanted his own place and he knew, he hoped, just where to find one.

  * * *

  *

  Phil headed east on Route 50 towards Kent Island. From memory, he got off at Baydale and drove carefully for a mile down a winding road with massive old trees and million dollar homes. He saw the sign for Stonington and kept going. It was the sort of neighborhood that if you drove slow, a woman working in the garden or a jogger would wave, assuming that you were a neighbor. After turning down first one dead end and then a second and a few more, Phil finally found what he was looking for. It was the dark brown bungalow, the one owned by the creepy motorcycle cop. The crumpled “For Rent” sign was still on the water-starved brown lawn. Good. The motorcycle was in the driveway. Also good.

  Without hesitation Phil marched up to the front door and loudly knocked. After the normal delay the door opened. There he was, still again in the boxer shorts and dirty t-shirt. But no beer. His ruddy, pig-like face registered a flicker of surprise.

  “Well, well. You come alone?”

  Phil felt a huge lump in his throat. “Yeah, sure did.”

  The cop stuck his round face past Phil. “What happened to her?”

  “We had a fight.”

  The cop approvingly patted Phil on the shoulder.

  They stood together, in the doorway. Phil was unable to speak, that old problem of his. The cop didn’t bother to wait. “You want the place, I guess. Why the hell should I rent to you?”

  “I got enough money for the first month. I don’t have the money for any deposit,” Phil blurted. “But you and I know that if I screw up the rent you’ll kill me.”

  Over a beer in the kitchen a deal was reached. The cop went by the name of Big B, which was entirely appropriate. Big B was in the midst of a drawn out divorce. For the past three months he had been refusing to either give up the house or sell it, and the cop was open for helping out another guy in need. So rather than renting it out completely, they would be roommates.

  The rent for October Phil could pay on Monday. He had the money in the warehouse for November. Then it depended on his situation. The cop would keep his stuff in one of the bedrooms, and would continue to sleep there from time to time. This is exactly what Phil wanted. He wanted that police motorcycle in the driveway as often as possible. He wanted any Louisiana scouts for Tanya or Tucker to report back that Phil was living with that woman hating cop.

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter 16

  Thanks to the fortune teller of Annapolis, Phil had entered his own personal Garden of Eden.

  The idea was hatched right at Chick and Ruth’s.

  “Listen, remember Kathy, that woman who was real nice to you, the one flirting in the shop? She gave you some chocolate?”

  “Oh yeah. I remember lucky numbers and pretty women. And it was taffy, not chocolate.”

  “What the hell. Look, why don’t I hook the two of you together?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Herb knew Phil didn’t get it. “I know everything about her. I know her fears. I know she is afraid of being let down by another man. I know she likes it rough…”

  That had caught Phil's attention. “Likes what rough?”

  “Sex. She likes it rough.” Herb smiled. “She needs a little spanking now and then.”

  Phil was sure listening now. “How the hell do you know that, is there a tarot card for spanking?”

  “I know more about her than her mother knows.” Herb absently wiped off the clean table. “Or last two lovers, both of whom left her ‘cause they couldn’t handle her physically. She was too much for them.”

  By that offer, two men at different points in their lives were drawn together by the indefinable attraction of sex. Herb didn’t say it to Phil, but once upon a time, when he was a sailor, those six months on shore were six months to catch up for lost time. This was before, and sometimes after, he married. Herb still thought a lot about women. He liked their perfume, their hair, their skin their sexuality. More and more he wished he could take the insight gathered from the women sitting across his tarot table and use that knowledge to have some fun, but that time had come and gone. Herb was like a batting instructor in search of a willing student, and maybe that was Phil.

  Phil didn’t say to Herb, not then at breakfast nor ever, but he understood how Herb was feeling about sex. The experience with Tanya had started him thinking of how it would all be ending soon. The "it" being chasing women. Sometime in the last few years the bar was no longer the place for him to pick up women. And, scary enough, now he started thinking about finding the right woman for the rest of his life.

  At first Phil had thought it was a change in society, that women no longer hung out in bars, or went home with a guy three drunkin' hours after meeting. That’s what it was, he assured himself, after five good looking women had turned him down over seven weeks.

  One afternoon he sat in an empty bar and figured it out. His historical success rate was about 1:15. Every eight or so women would agree to a date. Then it would take about 7 dates for him to score. Later he found out that this same ratio was a mark of a Hall of Fame slugger. The best players hit a home run about every 14 times up at the plate. That made Phil feel good. He was Hall of Fame material for getting laid.

  But that was in his prime, in his 20s and 30s. By the 40s it slipped to 1 in 25 and then 1 in 40 and finally he stopped keeping score. It was the world that had changed he reasoned. This self-delusion, the same sort of delusion that afflicts all men at a certain time in their lives, came abruptly to an end a year ago while Phil was waiting at an ATM machine. In front of him were two kids, scrawny with straggly long hair and extra-large t-shirts.

  “Man, I'm tired." Started up the first to his buddy.

  “From what?” Asked the friend.

  “Damn drunken girls at the Third Edition," was the answer, naming the watering hole in Georgetown where Phil would cruise into at least once a week. "By midnight you know, you’re fair game and I can’t do that scene anymore. Two times a week, sure it's fun, but you know, more than twice a week…I got a real job now and no one pays me to get laid.”

  His friend laughed. “Ya gettin' old, buddy.”

  That was the epiphany. Phil didn’t even stay to pull out cash.

  Shell-shocked he finally accepted the reality. The Republican girls of Old Town and the weekenders of Annapolis, and the European tourists in Georgetown and the liberal girls of Dupont Circle had not changed. After some drinks and being chatted up just right, all were ready to have some fun.

  No, what had changed was him. His skin was looking pale; lines were appearing under his eyes. Six months ago he had flown to Tokyo on a moment’s notice to save his only good client. He flew in on a Monday and left on Wednesday, not wanting to spend money on the hotel. When he returned he was dead tired and noticed a small ring under each eye. In six months the rings had grown heavier, the first thing he saw each morning.

  Phil was afraid for all that it meant. And here was a fortune teller of Annapolis, offering him a lifeline
, a reprieve from thinking about growing old. Phil had a dim sense as to what being able to peer inside the minds of the women would mean. If Herb was on the level Phil would have the edge, like changing the house odds at the crap table, or playing with one deck while counting the cards at blackjack.

  Phil kept his cool, but inside his heart was pounding. Push back the unthinkable; that’s what was on the table at Chick and Ruth’s.

  * * *

  *

  Their plan began with Kathy, the taffy gift-giving mid-30s client who enjoyed nothing more than a strong man and a rough tumble in the sack. On the phone Kathy suggested a local wine bar for dinner. When Phil expressed uncertainty, the woman agreed to drive to the house to pick him up. Phil was still unsure of the restaurants surrounding Annapolis, the sort where the locals hung out. His date came up about seven on a Tuesday evening, and Phil invited her in for a quick drink. The roommate cop had disappeared lately because of a new girlfriend, and Phil more times than not had the run of the house.

  Following Herb’s instructions, Phil began strong and forceful, not polite. Kathy was eager to find a man strong enough to stay with her jabs. She felt that she needed to suppress the desire for strong physical give and take with men, afraid that in so doing she would appear too forward. She had scared off boyfriends when she sought to take control of social situations, as well as in the bed.

  Over a simple martini, (though he carefully poured double the vodka for her drink,) they sparred on women in the job market, the infidelities of men and the difficulty of being a woman in the Washington social scene. Kathy was smart, quick, and full of life. Just what Phil needed to close the chapter on Tanya. What also helped was how her physique was the opposite of Tanya. Kathy's body was filled with all sorts of mysterious curves.

  It was a flirtatious conversation over the martinis, laced with words Phil hoped would serendipitously turn her on. ‘I’d be stronger than that,’ he replied over and over. ‘If I saw a woman in that situation, I’d let her take control.’ ‘I’m secure enough to like a strong woman,’ and so on and so on.