Dead Man's Hand

by Otto Penzler

  I knew the answer to this question and sorely wished I didn't. The memo—which listed by title the films we'd acquired from Paramount that we planned to run as specials against our rivals' strongest shows—had been addressed to the four of us only, and Compton had intentionally made no carbons or photostats. We were each to read the memo, check off our own name, and hand it to one of the others. The last to read it was to return it personally to Compton.

  Harv Braverman's name was the only one that hadn't been checked when I'd given the memo to him, but now it was as ticked off as Compton was with us. I looked at Harv, who was peering about the office as if the identity of this incredibly careless executive was an enthralling enigma to him. I turned back to discover the others staring at me. After all, I was the new fellow on the block, a refugee from Ogilvy and Mather. The others were lifetime NBC men. Their blood ran peacock blue.

  Spitz said, correctly, that there was no way for him to know. Matty Dancer said he couldn't remember, as did the blameworthy Braverman, who then turned my way with raised eyebrows.

  I could have tried to exonerate myself but, being ridiculously new at the network, I thought it politic not to state my case at Braverman's expense. I hadn't even been assigned a secretary yet, and my office still contained the embarrassing scent of fresh paint.

  "I have to be honest," I said, which I thought was as good a way as any to begin a lie. "I've been dispatching so many memos since coming aboard that I can't recall where I was in this particular sequence of events. If it's any help, I'm strictly a Brylcreem guy."

  Our uniform dim-wittedness left Compton with nothing to tango or tangle with. "Honor among thieves. Fine. Then I'll deal with you like I'm Ali Baba. Here's our fall schedule."

  He tossed it onto his desk blotter. We hadn't expected to see it for at least two more weeks. Reflexively, Dancer reached for it, and Compton slapped at his hand. You heard me. He slapped at his hand.

  Compton transferred the memo to a lower drawer and locked it with a little key. "So here's how it works. If you want to consult the schedule, you come in this room, you ask me for the specific information you want, I will look it up and tell you. Until then, no one sees it, holds it, or gets a copy of it. Not my secretary, and not you four."

  I got the feeling we were being listed in order of trust.

  "Mighty white of you, Winslow," Braverman mumbled in the hall as he tucked neat pinches of cherry blend tobacco into his briar pipe. The stem made little clacking noises as it rolled against his side teeth. "Not everyone in your position would have kept mum. As new man here, suspicion was likely to fall on you first."

  I said something about the time I'd sent a line drive through Mr. Overmeyer's window and been finked on by Ricky Yatto, when it would have cost him nothing to cover for me.

  Braverman offered in stumbling fashion, "This Saturday. A little shindig me and the missus throw each year. Cocktails, canapés, more cocktails, sit-down barbeque. Been meaning to invite you. You're married, I've heard?"

  "Fourteen years, three months, two weeks," I joked, a stock line that I updated every now and then.

  It evoked an understanding laugh from Braverman. "Ever get time off for good behavior?"

  "Not a chance." I smiled.

  "Donna at Reception will be sad to hear that," he said.

  This statement instantly made Braverman one of the most interesting people I'd ever met. "What do you mean?" I asked, trying to sound casual about Donna at Reception, who bore a passing resemblance to starlet Joi Lansing in every department. This bears repeating. Every department.

  "Didn't you know?" he asked. "She's been waving semaphore signals at you since you started here."

  I smiled. "She'll lose her enthusiasm when she finds out I'm married."

  Braverman lowered his voice. "I already broke the news to her, buddy boy, and her reaction was 'What else is new?'"

  I couldn't help looking down the hallway, where Donna at Reception was stationed behind a low-cut reception desk. She smiled my way, then arched her back and stretched her arms above her head. I expected the Sweater Police on the scene any moment to charge her with assaulting an angora.

  "I just invited her to my party," Braverman added. "You know what she said?"

  "What?"

  "She said she'd come stag and asked if you'd be there, too."

  "Joanie," I said to my wife as she changed for the party early that Saturday evening, "if you're really feeling under the weather, I'll understand if you want to stay home."

  She was wearing a navy blue strapless cocktail dress and applying roll-on deodorant that I hoped would not glisten so much by the time we got to the party. "I didn't say I was feeling under the weather," she corrected. "I said I was exhausted from shopping. It's Saturday night. I wouldn't think of you going without me."

  Braverman was a hi-fi buff and had built himself a great rig. He was putting it through its paces with one of those stereo demonstration disks, Provocative Percussion or Persistent Percussion or something. Braverman centered me and kept pointing from the right to the left as bongos or claves would ping-pong to either speaker, while an accordion throbbed "Misirlou" straight down the middle.

  He and his wife, Linda, were serving gimlets, with the color and taste of a Charms lime lollipop but one hell of a kick. Braverman revealed himself to be some kind of barbeque nut, complete with one of those aprons that proclaimed "I'm the chef!" With his straight briar pipe clenched between his teeth, the only thing he said to anyone for an hour was "Too rare for you?"

  Donna from Reception was wearing a tight canary yellow dress that had undoubtedly brought a pleased smile to her lips when she first saw it in the changing-room mirror at Saks. Every time I looked her way, she was already looking at me. She made impatient little arcs with her eyes, urging me to step out onto Harv's patio to chat with her, for pity's sake, but Joanie intercepted one of Donna's glances and instantly asked to be introduced to my closest associates at NBC. I was sure she didn't consider Donna to be one of my closest associates, nor did I want her to.

  Harv, Shepard Spitz, and Matty Dancer couldn't have been more gracious to my wife, clearly going out of their way to make her feel accepted within the NBC community. Her merest quip regaled them, and she flushed with pleasure at their attention and approval.

  While Braverman was otherwise doubled up with laughter at what I thought was a fairly commonplace observation on Joanie's part, he managed to catch my eye and redirect my attention to the sight of Donna leaving the party. She had apparently phoned for Rye Taxi to take her back to Manhattan. As she left, she gave me the most eloquent shrug, causing her cleavage to speak volumes.

  Round about ten thirty, Harv signaled to me from the doorway of his den. It was a room I would have treasured, centered around my idea of rustic: a wide stack of hickory logs ablaze in a natural stone fireplace with an Emmy on the mantel above it.

  Braverman smoothly locked the door from the inside. Turning, I discovered that Dancer and Spitz were already seated, holding big-fisted scotches on the rocks. There was the stilled air of ceremony in the room.

  "We've been impressed with you, Dale, virtually since the moment you started," said Dancer.

  "And we've agreed to extend you an offer." Spitz used his best attorney voice. "Braverman has nominated you into the Order of the Monks of the Abbey Victoria."

  Dancer chimed in, "We think it's a whale of an idea, and we've made it unanimous."

  "I have no idea what to say," I said appropriately, since I had no idea what they were talking about. I thought it wise to add, "I'm very honored, of course."

  Harv Braverman smiled and began to fill his pipe. "You of course have never heard of our Order, and we like it that way. Membership is offered only to those who have displayed discretion and proven themselves trustworthy. One unexpected demise and another member's retirement had brought our membership down to four. Then Thissel got the boot, and we three were all that was left. Until you showed us this week that you have what it
takes."

  Dancer handed me a scotch identical to his own. "Look, we'll explain it all to you at the initiation ceremony. Can you get free and clear of your wife this coming Monday night?"

  They saw the hesitation on my face.

  "Tell her we've asked you to join our weekly poker game," Spitz advised. "You won't be lying."

  "American men still possess certain inalienable rights, even as we depart the Fabulous Fifties," asserted Dancer. "Our wives have their mah-jongg nights, bridge clubs, and canasta. In return, an unwritten law has been left on the books that married men like ourselves are allowed to play poker one night a week, excluding Friday through Sunday."

  Dancer advised, "You might let her know the stakes are penny ante. Nickel a chip."

  "Joanie, the guys want me to get together with them for their weekly poker night," I said as I hung my suit on the overnight valet in our bedroom.

  To my surprise, Joanie wasn't taken aback. "Oh, yes. Linda Spitz was telling me about it. Molly Dancer, too." She was in the bathroom, shedding her strapless cocktail dress in an efficient manner, clearly transmitting that tonight was not the night. "It's on Mondays?"

  "I'm lousy at poker," I said.

  "They might be insulted if you turn them down," Joanie cautioned. "I know you don't like playing office politics, Dale, but it's NBC, after all."

  The Abbey Victoria was that dowdy one-star Michelin hotel you'd find in Chartres or Rouen, where you were expected to leave your passport with the front desk and the restaurant would close by nine. Except that somehow this prim, bourgeois hotel had drifted off to sea and foundered upon the corner of Fifty-first and Seventh in midtown Manhattan. You'd hardly notice it alongside the gleaming Americana (which to me had always looked like the UN with a coat of whitewash). The Shabby Abbey, as some called it, was crammed full of chambers with little twin beds that had been purchased in a time when everyone was shorter and two businessmen found nothing odd about sharing a room to halve their expenses.

  A number of the Abbey's bedrooms had adjoining parlors so that they could be rented as suites. But if the Abbey wasn't full (and these days it never was), you could book the drawing room alone. Apparently, parlor room 622, situated between bedrooms 620 and 624, was regularly reserved on Monday nights by the Order of the Monks of the Abbey Victoria.

  The door swung open and Dancer greeted me. He'd changed since work into a blue turtleneck and tan chinos. He looked at his watch.

  "Seven-oh-six," he noted. Dancer had never struck me as the punctilious type, but my time of arrival seemed to please him. "You're the first—other than me, of course."

  A table from room service had been wheeled into 622, its two hinged leaves locked in the up position. A green felt cloth served as cover to the now-circular table. Presumably, ours was not the first poker game ever to have been played at the Abbey. Alongside a few red-backed Bicycle decks, still sealed, were colored plastic chips neatly nested in a circular caddy, the kind you'd see in a Sears Roebuck catalog.

  "What beer do you like?" Dancer indicated a pewter bucket filled with crushed ice and a modest supply of bottled beer. Pilsner glasses were inverted alongside the bucket. He inventoried the supply. "We have Piels, Schlitz, Knickerbocker, and Miller."

  I wasn't much for beer, but when in Rome. "Miller," I opted.

  "The Champagne of Bottled Beers," he affirmed. So far the conversation was scintillating. There was a knock at the door and he again looked at his watch. "Seven-ten, and my money says that will be Shep."

  If there was anyone who did not resemble a "Shep," it was the fellow in the doorway, attorney Shepard Spitz, still in his threepiece suit. He entered, giving no indication he might remove his jacket or loosen his tie.

  "I want you to know I turned down ringside seats at the Garden to do this," he complained without preamble. "Where's Harv?"

  "I'm here," said Braverman, entering right behind him. "Don't make it sound like such a chore, Shepard. This is a big night for Dale. For all of us."

  Spitz sat himself at the circular table. "Sorry, Winslow. Welcome to the fold."

  "And fold-wise"—Braverman used his best ad-agency parlance—"let's hope you have the decency to fold once or twice when there's a big pot, right? Who's dealing?"

  "Host is always dealer," said Dancer, sliding into a vacant chair. "You know that full well, Harv, and I note that whenever you've been host, you win more hands. Just a comment." He broke the seal of the blue tax stamp on a Bicycle deck. "The game is straight poker, brethren. No improvements, wrinkles, exceptions, or exclusions, and nothing is wild. I will now accept a five-dollar offertory from all members of the congregation in return for chips."

  We each tossed a bill his way. As he slid our chips toward us, he cautioned, "For the benefit of Brother Dale, let me remind you that the Monks of the Abbey Victoria observe a vow of silence about current work and current events, including sports, motion pictures, TV shows, and hit records. Our purpose is to shrug away the world that is too much with us, to speak only of our experiences in the past and the lessons we may have learned from these experiences. Ante up, fellow Monks."

  It seemed an odd set of restrictions on conversation. And considering that the purported reason for our get-together was to have a pleasant time, the evening passed fitfully, as if we were all fulfilling some sort of obligation. Surely life was too short to spend every Monday night this way.

  "Don't you think you've had enough?" asked Spitz as I tried to improve my spirits by reaching for a second beer.

  I looked at him in bewilderment. "I've only had the one."

  Spitz nodded at the others' glasses, from which only a few token sips had been taken. "Best to keep your wits about you. Poker requires a clear head, especially when the stakes are high."

  I took a glance at the current pot, which totaled about eighty cents and was unlikely to achieve a dollar, but the others nodded silent assent. I forsook the beer.

  "Hey, did you see the outfit Donna was wearing today?" ventured Harv.

  "Not permitted," Dancer said quietly. He seemed to take his role as chairman seriously.

  "Sorry," Harv muttered. "Can I talk about her in general?"

  Dancer raised the pot another nickel as he pondered the question. "For the moment, I'll allow some general discussion," he ruled.

  "Sometimes I could swear she's not wearing a bra."

  "Of course she wears a bra," said Spitz. "Call."

  "But today, when she was leaning over, in that peasant blouse—"

  "Not permitted," Dancer said. "Specific to time. Let's move off this general topic, anyway. It's fraught with difficulty. Anyone hungry?"

  I hadn't had dinner and said as much. The others agreed that food was in order. I walked to the phone. "I assume room service is still open? It's not even ten."

  Dancer shook his head. "We don't like the room service here, except for beer and peanuts. Food's lousy. And the kitchen's had citations from the Department of Health. Who wants Chinese?"

  There was some grousing about which Chinese restaurant in the immediate neighborhood was best. Harv was big on Bill Hong's, whereas Spitz said he'd been going to the New Bamboo Palace, a place I didn't know myself, since the night of his high-school prom in Amityville. Matty Dancer insisted Ho-Ho was the finest and Canton Village the cheapest, at least in midtown. I suggested the one I considered classiest: China Song at 54th and Broadway.

  The discussion stopped dead. "We can't go to China Song, Dale," Braverman said quietly. "That's CBS territory. If's wedged in between Studio 50 and Studio 52. They've got paintings of Garry Moore and Durward Kirby hanging over the bar, for chrissake. If Ken Compton sees any of us at China Song, he'll think we've gone over to the other side. We can't go to China Song, Dale. Even for takeout"

  Apparently, the Abbey Victoria had a policy against food deliveries from the outside, but they allowed guests to bring food in. So Spitz took down our order and volunteered to pick it up for us at the New Bamboo Palace. Braverman said he'd accompan
y him, which left Dancer and me alone.

  It was strange to find myself sitting late at night in a frilly little hotel room with Matty Dancer, a man I barely knew. "It's nice to have you for company, Dale," he commented and started to tidy up, cleaning out the four little blue glass Abbey Victoria ashtrays that rested by our packs of cigarettes and Braverman's pipe. "We alternate as hosts each week, but it seems as if every time it's my turn, the others go out for food, leaving me to mind the roost. Of course, I'm the neat one."

  I nodded slowly, hoping this was as far as Dancer was going to bare his breast to me. He was married, of course, and his wife, Molly, was lovely. Still, it's a funny world.

  "How long have you been married, Dale?" he asked, and I gave him the same stock answer I'd given Braverman, adding a few days to the total. He nodded solemnly. "These Monday nights are very important to my marriage, I have to tell you. They provide me with a much-needed ... interruption. The same way our viewers sometimes look forward to a commercial, so they can get some ice cream from the freezer, or see if the kids have turned out their lights, or take a leak. Even Shakespeare had intermissions, for God's sake. So should marriage. Any good, healthy, sound marriage. You know?"

  The phone rang, a long "hotel ring" via the switchboard, and he picked it up. "Yeah. Okay, I'll ask him." He turned to me. "It's Harv, he's calling from the New Bamboo Palace. He can't remember if you wanted almond gai ding or moo goo gai pan."

  I had opted for the former and said so.

  In theory, I agreed with the case Dancer was making for a once-weekly break from connubial "togetherness," as was the newly coined term for marital constancy. But if the offered respite was four sullen men playing dreary nickel-and-dime poker and taking little sips on ever-flattening beer while eating one from Column A, I did not see this as the ideal alternative.

  Spitz and Braverman returned with two brown-paper bags. We made no shared feast, but ate our individual orders, each from his own white cardboard box, maintaining the relative silence of those who find the food more interesting than the conversation.