by Barry Rachin
"Isn't it a bit early to be hitting the sauce, if you’re working all night?"
The man's dark eyes sparkled as he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. "My family hails from Black Isle in the Scottish Highlands.” He lowered his voice several decibels. “Unlike the stumblebum Irish, who can't hold their liquor, women, paychecks, land or much of anything else, we Scotsmen suffer no such difficulties.”
“Look here." The man extended his right hand, palm down over the bar. The stubby fingers never trembled. Reaching into his rear pocket with his free hand, he removed a pair of metal brushes and began tapping out a percussive rhythm at breakneck speed on the mahogany surface of the bar. After several fancy flourishes he returned the brushes to his pocket, polished off what was left of the beer and ordered another whiskey with beer chaser. “Paddy Macgregor,” the musician introduced himself.
"Our friend's got woman problems," Paddy announced when the sallow-faced bartender glanced up.
"No, it's not like that," Ralph insisted. "Twenty years ago a woman threw me over for a guy with a six-figure income. This past June, her husband got nabbed embezzling funds at an investment firm. Following the indictment, the chump dropped dead of a heart attack, leaving massive debts, a mortgage stretching six months in arrears and a pile of dirty underwear."
"Aw crap!" Paddy sipped judiciously at the neat whiskey and ran a tongue over his lips. "When was the last time you seen this two-timing rat?"
"Over twenty years ago," Ralph replied meekly.
The bartender's bushy eyes brows heaved in disbelief. "Two decades you carried a torch for some money-grubbing bitch?"
"It's not like that," Ralph protested.
"Maybe she was a dazzling beauty?" Paddy offered.
"Not especially. But she had a reasonably nice figure."
"My ex-wife," the bartender leaned closer, "was partial to dirty movies… mostly soft porn, not the triple X variety.” Even though the man behind the bar was a good ten years younger than the drummer, his wearisome manner and dreary horse face made him seem considerably older. “For the few lousy years we were together, we shared a common interest."
Ralph shrugged philosophically. "We didn't have much in common, but sometimes you love a woman for no apparent reason. The romance defies logic." He sliced the air with the flat of his hand trying to extract a tidbit of coherent sense from his fractured thoughts. "This woman … over the years I never properly got her out of my system."
"I ain't so particular." The drummer lifted his beer and studied the amber liquid briefly before draining the second glass. "Anyone of the bridesmaids in tonight's wedding party, with the exception of the maid of honor, could satisfy my basic needs."
"Ditto!" The bartender screwed up his face in masochistic angst. He bent over the counter assuming a confidential tone. "Between alimony and shared assets, my spouse cleaned me out in the divorce settlement.” He crooked his head to the side, addressing his remarks specifically for Ralph’s benefit. “I don't need no money-grubbing femme fatale to fill in the missing pieces or make me whole. You're problem, if you don't mind me saying so, is that you're too damn nice."
"C-H-U-M-P!" With a staccato flourish, Paddy Macgregor spelled the word out, leaning hard on each letter for dramatic effect. "Once you start indulging a dame, you lose the upper hand." Paddy threw an arm around Ralphs shoulder and pulled him close. "But don't take it personal. I'm just trying to school you in the ways of the flesh."
Ralph first learned of Becky Steinberg's domestic debacle from a mutual friend, Sid Bentley. It was Sid who told him about the indictment and Becky's precipitous fall from grace. The news caught him like a sucker punch to the gut. "The woman’s down on her luck,” Sid noted. “Like that pathetic character in Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth." When no comment was forthcoming, Sid, who was as much an insatiable reader as gossipmonger, observed acidly, "That nineteenth century novel where the New York socialite plummets into abject poverty."
"Never read the book," Ralph replied.
"Under the circumstances," his friend added, "maybe you should keep it that way."
Grabbing the half-empty beer, Paddy Macgregor slid off his stool. "Gotta finish setting up my drums."
When he was gone, the bartender pushed a plastic bowl of pretzels in front of Ralph. A minute passed in total silence. "Ever seen an alligator leather belt?"
The question was a frivolous non sequitur, but the bartender took no notice. "Yeah, they're stupid looking and cost a goddamn fortune."
Ralph reached for a pretzel but thought better of it and pulled his hand away. "Ever seen an Orvis, genuine hornback alligator belt?"
* * * * *
"No, Ralph. I can't marry you and stop pestering me. It gets tiresome." They were standing in the women's department of Ann Taylor at the Chestnut Hill Mall in Newton, Massachusetts. Big boned with prominent cheeks that sloped precipitously to a narrow, petulant jaw, Becky Steinberg – her maiden name was Shapiro - was the sort of girl most men would reward with an appreciative passing glance, nothing more. She walked flatfooted with her wide shoulders thrown back. The weight of her big-boned body rested on the heels as though a metal pole had been taped from the nape of the neck straight down to the tailbone.
Becky Steinberg dangled a skinny, emerald strand with a gold clasp under Ralph’s nose. The Orvis genuine hornback alligator retailed for five hundred ninety-eight dollars.
Six hundred smackers!
That was more money than he could earn fresh out of college at an entry-level salary! And the belt wasn't even all that attractive. Ralph swallowed hard. With her predilection towards plumpness, Becky's waist would swell beyond the outermost loop by early spring and then what? Did she try to sell the absurdly expensive designer original on EBay or through an upscale consignment shop? "You're gonna blow all that money on a stupid belt."
"No," she returned the pricey strap to the rack. "I already have one… picked it up at Bergdorf Goodman when I was in New York last month. I'm just trying to make a point."
I already have one… picked it up at Bergdorf Goodman when I was in New York last month… Becky's father owned a kosher butcher shop in Manhattan. The man had given his only daughter an American Express Platinum credit card three years earlier when she went off to college. Mr. Shapiro didn't care how often she used it. Each month he paid the balance down to nothing. The tacit agreement was that she marry well - that is to say, the prospective groom should arrive at the altar with a healthy investment portfolio because, once the marriage was consecrated, the father-in-law’s American Express credit card became defunct.
"I’m addicted to fancy-schmancy." Becky ran her fingertips over the stippled surface of the Orvis original one last time, caressing the elegant hide.
How many times had they had this conversation in the last six month? Becky had never agreed to an exclusive relationship. She dated other men regularly and probably slept with them as well. Over the February vacation she joined her family at a ski resort in Vale, Colorado. For stress reduction, she booked regular appointments with a reiki masseuse or jetted off to Club Med vacations in Cancun.
All this on a part-time job and her father's largess.
"I love to spend money,” she quipped. “It's part of my genetic makeup." “A shopping spree,” she added as an afterthought, “is like a trip to Mecca."
Ralph wanted to point out that most Moslems could only afford to make the trip once in a lifetime, but clearly that wasn't her intent. "You won't marry me?"
She leaned over and kissed him playfully on the side of the mouth. "No and, for the hundredth time, stop asking."
They were back out in the main concourse of the mall where a jazz quartet from the local high school was playing a Sonny Rollin's original, Oleo, on a makeshift bandstand. "All this shopping makes me horny. When we get back to my apartment, I'm going to do obscene and unspeakable things to your body."
The saxophonist finished the main theme and now the pianist was negotiating th
e circle of fourths pattern that composed the bridge of the lightening fast, bebop tune. Ralph ignored the lewd invitation. “As soon as you meet Mr. Moneybags," he groused, "I’ll get the bum's rush."
"That's a bit crass." She grabbed his hand, raised it to her lips and planted a mushy kiss squarely in the center of the palm before folding the fingers back on themselves. "We get along great and always have a ton of laughs." As the last eight measures of the standard wound down, the reed player launched into an angular, improvised solo - pentatonic scales and broken arpeggios that ventured away from the original tonal center before the rhythm section, which had laid out for several measures, attacked the tune with renewed fury. "I'm horny as hell," she whispered under her breath. "Let's go home and get raunchy."
* * * * *
Ten minutes later Paddy Macgregor returned to the lounge. His eyes coated with a glossy film, he seemed less steady on his legs. "Hit me again, Freddy."
"So what’s the decision?" the drummer pressed.
"Still weighing my options."
Paddy pulled the bowtie away from the collar and undid the topmost button on his tuxedo shirt. Somewhere between the bandstand and the bar, he had discarded the fancy jacket. "Yer former goilfriend… she cheated on you."
"We never had an exclusive relationship," Ralph qualified.
"Likegeysed," the drummer was beginning to garble his words in a verbal salad, "the slutty bitch donyadoity."
"What I'd do…," the bartended sniggered. "I'd visit the widow on the pretext of offering condolences… lay it on thick. Tell her what a swell gal she was and how she didn't deserve all this grief. Then I'd waltz her into the bedroom and screw her mortal brains out!"
"Count me in on plan A!" Paddy paused just long enough to upend the shot glass, emptying the contents down his gullet. The drummer slapped Ralph on the back and winked his bleary-eyed, moral support before rushing back to the bandstand.
Ralph glanced up at the bartender. "How long have you known that man?"
"Paddy's been with the house band five years now. He's an alcoholic in denial."
"Can he make it through the night?"
Freddy shook his head vehemently. "Not hardly. I'm afraid that demonstration of fancy brushwork earlier this evening may have been Paddy’s high-water mark."
The bartender threw the towel he had been polishing the countertop with down on the brass rail and lurched out from behind the bar. Freddy led the way two doors down to the Emerald Room function hall, where the band was negotiating a brisk waltz, Sunrise, Sunset. Seated behind the drums Paddy Macgregor was laying down a raggedy beat with only his right drumstick and left foot. The other hand hung limply at his side and his head slouched at a precipitous angle, the chin resting on his chest.
As they were heading back to the lounge, Ralph asked, "If you found yourself in my predicament, what would you do?"
"Aw, shit, I dunno!” Freddie spoke in the raggedy, disaffected drawl of a man who had come up on the short end of the stick more often than he cared to remember. “Life’s a crapshoot. The dame’s probably got a drawer full of hornback crocodile belts in her dresser drawer, so why lose any sleep over the selfish twit?" Freddy raised a hand in the air, indicating that he had something further to add but was struggling with his thoughts. "They got a term for women like her... hedonists. Yeah, that's it! Someone who puts their personal pleasure ahead of everyone else's." Freddy seemed particularly pleased with his appraisal. "She got what she wanted and don't deserve your sympathy."
"Hedonist," Ralph repeated. "Yes, that's true enough. She sure as hell indulged herself."
"Hedonists… they're worse than atheists," Freddy confirmed, "because they got no scruples, no morals." His droopy face convulsed with a bewildering mix of conflicted emotions. "Worst case scenario…what if you went back with this woman and she treated you same as before?"
"Wouldn't make a solitary bit of difference."
"What if squandered your money and was unfaithful as a Babylonian whore?"
"I'd forgive her on a daily basis and thank God for the privilege of a second chance at happiness."
The bartender gawked at him in disbelief. "In my capacity here at the hotel, I meet tons of unusual folk - psychopaths, weirdoes, homicidal maniacs, perverts, riffraff and assorted, eccentric whack jobs," Freddy ventured, "but I ain't never met anyone like you."
"I'll take that as a compliment." Ralph settled his tab and wandered out into the lobby. He dialed a number on his cell phone then, after a brief conversation, left the hotel and drove across town.
* * * * *
Rebecca Steinberg led Ralph into the living room, where the forty-watt bulb in a Tiffany lamp bathed the room in murky gloom. A soul in transit, all the woman’s worldly possessions were in boxes, under covers or in profound disarray. She pulled a white bed sheet off the leather sofa. "I didn't come to gloat," Ralph confessed self-consciously.
"I appreciate your candor.” She gestured to the sofa and he sat down. “What's it been… twenty years?"
"Closer to twenty-five," he confirmed.
"Seeing a friendly face is so nice,” Becky noted with a papery-thin smile. “Following the indictment, most of my former, A-list friends deleted my number from their cell phones."
Ralph glanced around the dreary, airless room. The furnishings were all high end - high end and high maintenance. A forty-inch, plasma TV with a wireless hookup to an array of quadraphonic Bose speakers hung on the wall over the fire place. The custom-built bar was trimmed with ebony and claret-colored rosewood. The exotic woods alone must have set the deceased back a small fortune - not that household expenditures concerned the former Mr. Steinberg any more. "Have you eaten?"
"Don’t have much of an appetite lately."
Ralph rose to his feet and rearranged the silk bed sheet back over the couch. The room felt more like a mausoleum. "Maybe we could go somewhere and grab a coffee. I know you’re busy, what with the foreclosure so I won't keep you."
He shouldn't have said that.
Becky had never mentioned anything about the bank. He learned that unsavory tidbit from Sid Bentley, the mutual friend. At some point in the near future, a marshal would show up at the front door to put Rebecca Steinberg out on the curb. The woman had exhausted every legal loophole. The checking account was drained dry. Having pawned all jewelry and disposable belongings, nothing remained.
"I'm going to live with my daughter in San Diego, while I get my affairs in order." There was no reply. "At this late hour, any options are fairly limited. The bank intends to change the locks and board up the windows by the middle of the month." It wasn't so much a house as a mini-mansion with kidney-shaped swimming pool, wraparound deck and two-car garage. "A week from Tuesday, I'll set the keys on the kitchen table, close the door behind me and never look back."
The sun was setting casting an even gloomier pall on the soon-to-be-abandoned property. Pulling into the driveway ten minutes earlier, Ralph noticed the lawn overgrown with crabgrass and dandelions - this in a community where a family who didn’t schedule monthly visits from ChemLawn, was considered pariah! The swanky pool had been drained, the bottom coated with a greenish scum of dead algae and rotting maple leaves. "What did you do after college?" she asked, deflecting the conversation.
"I opened a medical supply business. We sell motorized wheelchairs, hospital beds, inhalation therapy equipment."
"You've done well?" Becky seemed genuinely pleased by his success.
"We staffed a third location this past August."
"My husband, may he rest in peace, was a first-class schmuck." Her resignation was palpable.
“You mentioned coffee… give me a minute to freshen up.” Becky disappeared into the bedroom, emerging a short time later wearing a silk blouse and skirt. She had powdered her face, adding blush, where a mild case of acne back to high school left residual scarring. "Do you remember these beauties?" she quipped, placing a hand under her sagging breasts. The tone was humorous, not the
least bit salacious.
"I remember," Ralph replied soberly.
"After breastfeeding three daughters, there's been considerable wear and tear." The bluntness caught him off guard. Becky Steinberg was already pudgy when they first met, but her breasts were… Well, there were no proper words to describe God's penultimate creations.
* * * * *
At the coffee shop Ralph learned that Becky’s father passed away eight years earlier. Mr. Shapiro had mercifully been spared the humiliation of his daughter’s precipitous fall from grace. A younger brother, Joel, showed no aptitude for kosher foods, retail or much of anything else. Ralph vaguely remembered Joel as the pampered, ben ha’bachoor, Jewish first-born son, who stood to inherit the family fortunes. But as Becky explained over a cup of mocha latte cappuccino, the ben ha’bachoor proved a feckless ne’er-do-well who flitted aimlessly from one ill-suited job to the next.
So much for the Shapiro family dynasty!
“I want to show you something,” Becky announced when they arrived back at the house. The late afternoon light was fading to murky gray as she led the way to the back yard. In recent days, the November weather had turned unseasonably warm with temperatures hovering in the low sixties. Behind a stand of diminutive box elders that resembled a mishmash of shrubs rather than bona fide trees a rickety Langstroth beehive was propped up on cinder blocks.
Originally painted eggshell white, the rectangular boxes, which were peeling profusely, exuded an aura of profound neglect. A handful of bees milled about the landing strip. “Eight years ago Howie comes home from work one day and tells me that a broker at the firm is an avid beekeeper. The guy manages upwards of a hundred hives. In addition to collecting honey he rents the bees out each spring to local cranberry bog farmers, who need their crops pollinated.”
