Collected Short Stories: Volume IV
Page 25
When he reached home Morty went into the study and pulled out his Webster’s New World College Dictionary.
Smite from the Old English smitan akin to Ger schmeissen to throw IE base smē-, to smear, smear on, stroke on 1 a) to hit or strike hard b) to bring into a specified condition by or as by a powerful blow c) to defeat, punish, destroy or kill d)…… 3 to affect strongly or suddenly with some feeling [smitten with dread] 4 to disquiet mentally, distress [smitten by conscience] 5 to strike or impress favorably; inspire with love [smitten with her charms]
A horny male might easily be ’smitten’ by Louisa Morales’ stunning good looks while she smote the libidinous loser into a state of rigor mortis with her barbed tongue. The word held multiple dissimilar meanings each of which could be used to good advantage. Catelli versus Lefkowitz: Suddenly the improbable seemed slightly more manageable.
The following Thursday at precisely ten forty-five in the morning, the senior partner at Garret, Myers and Morales buzzed Louisa Morales on the intercom.
“We have a situation developing in the lobby. You might want to take a look.”
“Could you be a bit more specific?”
After an inordinately long pause, Frederick Garret replied, “No, I don’t think so. You can either call the police or get your ass out front in a hurry.”
In the lobby close to a hundred Hispanics were milling about—senior citizen , young parents with toddlers and a smattering of middle age professionals. Over by the copier machine, a frail elderly woman was leaning on an aluminum walker with neon yellow tennis balls attached to the rear legs. In the conference room, a woman with a diaper bag was sitting alone discretely nursing an infant. Mrs. Lopez and her granddaughter were marching about the foyer with hand painted signs that read: Louisa Morales: Shame! Shame! Shame! And ‘Boycott Garret, Meyers and Morales!’
“What the hell is going on here?”
Morty Goldfarb stepped forward. “We need to talk.”
Louisa Morales grabbed the receptionist’s phone. “I’m calling the police.”
“Could be the best thing to do under the circumstances,” Morty spoke amiably, “or the worse mistake of your life.”
The attorney’s manicured finger was arched over the keypad. “What do you want, Mr. Goldfarb?”
“Five minutes of your precious time. Gratis.”
She ushered them into the conference room. The woman with the baby looked up and smiled before settling back to the maternal business at hand. “With the exception of the young children, most of these fine people all have two things in common,” Morty said. “They were tutored by my uncle over at the literacy center and,” he paused for dramatic effect, “they all attend Our Lady of Guadalupe Church.”
“So what?”
“Mrs. Sanchez,” he pointed in the direction of a middle age Hispanic carrying a small American flag on a stick, “just got her US citizenship. She claims that without my uncle’s help, she’d still be stuck in cultural limbo.” Mrs. Sanchez glowered at the attorney and waved her flag proudly.
“Now Mr. Cordoba,” he pointed to an older man with a pencil moustache and gold tooth, “is a member of the Chamber of Commerce along with your father. They’ve known each other for years. He came to this country from Algeciras in Southern Spain. It’s a tiny seaport town on the Straits of Gibraltar. He arrived here thirteen years ago not speaking a word of English. Who do you think tutored him when Carlos showed up one day over at the Brandenberg Literacy Center?”
Louisa Morales shifted uncomfortably in her leather chair. Outside in the foyer, the front door opened and several new Hispanic families flooded into the office. “At last count, five hundred forty-three parishioners attend the first mass at Our Lady of Guadalupe, and that’s not including your parents or visitors not formally registered with the rectory. If you proceed forward with this frivolous law suit, these fine Catholics will tell half a thousand people what you did to my uncle, and they’ll probably tell all their relatives, friends and neighbors. After they’ve dragged your family’s good name through the mud, you may want to change religions or move back to your native country of origin.”
The commotion mushroomed in the hallway. With no place to stand, more people stormed into the law firm, forcing those who had arrived earlier to retreat further down the hallway. Morty Goldfarb leaned across the table so close that his lips actually brushed against the attorney’s lovely ear. “A little voice in my heart-of-hearts tells me Louisa Morales has seen the error of her ways and will do the honorable thing. Tell me if I’m wrong.”
Later that afternoon, Maria Escobar stopped by the hardware store. “That went well, don’t you think?”
“God works in mysterious ways.”
“That’s a worn-out cliché.” Maria shot back. “A man with a Master’s degree in comparative literature from Brown ought to choose his words more carefully.”
“A hackneyed phrase, to be sure,” Morty agreed as a customer, who had been browsing through the bargain bin, went out the door. He picked up a banana-yellow, twenty-five foot Stanley tape measure and lofted it back and forth between his hands. “There’s an Iranian foreign film playing over at the Avon Cinema this weekend and I was wondering …”
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