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Fred
coughed again and put his handkerchief away. "Well,
my friend, there's a lot of new talent in the
joint. What say we run our favorite scenario once
more, just for old time's sake?"
John
paused deep in thought as a beautiful brunette
walked past the table, stopped momentarily, then
smiled and winked at him. It had been happening
to him a lot lately. Now that he was no longer
available he was suddenly desirable to women,
even women who before had never given him the
time of day. He wondered if he had grown even
more handsome, sprouted a second sexual appendage,
or just by virtue of being engaged, of having
been selected as worthy by one of the females
of the species, now made him acceptable to the
vast herds of 20- to 30-something female homo
neuroticus americanus, their biological clocks
ticking madly and their virtues at the point of
collapse as they calculated how much wild rutting
under Midwestern skies it would take to lead to
that "walk down the aisle."
"Sure,
why not. I'm not dead yet."
Fred
smiled at John's comment and motioned to a waitress.
That's right, a real waitress, not one of those
waitress/model/actress combo platters. Remember,
this is Columbus, Ohio, not L.A.
"We'd
like two martinis. Oh, and let's run a tab."
Fred reached into his coat pocket, opened his
wallet and took from an inner compartment that
holy of holies, an object of such talismanic power
that it could part waters, raise Lazarus from
the dead…that's the New Testament guy, not
Lazarus Department Store. I know this is taking
place in Columbus, Ohio, but just try to be Biblical
for a moment…let's see, part waters, raise
Lazarus from the dead, and, oh yes, cause even
the most virtuous women to perform feats of sexual
daring-do only imaginable by Mary Lou Retton's
x-rated Doppelgänger. As Fred nonchalantly
tossed the sacred object on the waitress' serving
platter it seemed to float through the air in
slow motion, its silvery essence reflecting the
mood lighting overhead, seemingly bathed in an
aurora of serene splendor, a halo, as it were,
surrounding everything good and solid and respectable
about these United States in the 21st century.
Immediately, it seemed as though every female's
head was turned toward the downward spiral of
the latter-day holy grail as it made its final
descent, landing softly and safely on the waitress'
order pad.
"Wow,
a platinum American Express card. I don’t
think I've seen one of those before. Coooool,"
the waitress said as she sauntered off behind
the bar, showing the card to her colleagues and
giggling as she was observed trying to point to
Fred and John without being seen.
Two
statuesque blondes wearing tailored suits which
were last year's imitation knockoffs of Oscar
de la Renta's prêt-à-porter collection
walked over to Fred and John's table. They were
drinking Mogen David Blackcherry wine coolers
directly from the bottle and had unlit cigarettes
in their mouths.
"Excuse
me, do you have a light?" asked the first
blonde.
Without
pausing, John whipped out a Zippo, lit the blonde's
cigarette and took a long drink from his martini.
"Oh,
my name's Nancy, and this is my friend, Shirley.
Are these seats, like, taken?"
"Please.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jean-Paul
and this is my business associate, Raoul,"
John replied in a Pepe le Pew-inspired phony French
accent.
"Wow,
are you guys, like, French?"
"Bien
sûr, mon chère," Fred responded
as he took a Gitane cigarette from a gold case,
lit it and let it dangle from his lips in that
Devil-may-care attitude that caused Midwestern
female hearts to palpitate like a hamster's after
a 20-minute workout on a treadmill.
"Gosh,
what are two French guys doing in Columbus, Ohio?"
Shirley inquired. "I mean, we don't have
that much French stuff here. No big towers or
nothing."
"We
got cheese," Nancy responded. "Good
Amish cheese. I betcha can't get Amish cheese
in Paris."
John
looked directly into Nancy's eyes and moved his
eyebrows up and down. "Alas, no, the frommage
d'Amish is nowhere to be found in Paree."
"Wow,
I just love hearing you guys talk that French
talk. Say, what do you guys do anyway?"
"We
are, how do you say, arbitrageurs," John
said as Fred bit deeply into his cheek to keep
from bursting out laughing. "We work for
ze firm Cramer, Rothschild, Arnim and Brentano
in Paree, and we are here to help set up a twig….no,
zat ees not ze right word…a branch office
here in your fair city."
"Oh
my, it sounds so exciting," Shirley said
as she began to fan herself. "Just what exactly
is an ar..bi.."
"Arbitrageur.
Well, it ees very complicated, but what we do
is buy and sell things simultaneously in order
to take advantage of price differentials in two
different markets."
A
glazed look came over Nancy and Shirley's faces,
for as women they innately understood the concept
of "buying"; the concept of "selling,"
however, was as foreign to them as three dimensions
in a two-dimensional world. On the other hand,
they did know that arbitrageur was a French word
and that it had something to do with money, and
that in itself, held their keen interest.
Nancy
and Shirley eyed one another in the conspiratorial
manner common to single women on the prowl.
"I
bet you can't guess what we do for a living,"
Nancy purred as she snuggled up closer to John.
At the same time Shirley moved her chair so that
she was as close to Fred as legally possible in
Columbus without getting arrested by the vice
squad.
Nonchalantly
taking another sip from his martini, John replied,
"I would zay zat you two are…assistant
account executives for a realty company…"
"My
god, how did you know that?" Shirley exclaimed.
…And
you are going to take ze exam for your realtor's
license in ze next year."
"Well,
yeah, but, like, how, but, well, gosh, sure…"
Nancy muttered as she continued to link together
non-related one-word independent clauses in a
stream-of-consciousness that, when considered
in its entirety, might be mistaken for a thought.
"It
ees your hair. You have ze realtor hair."
"Realtor
hair?"
"La
coiffure d'un realtor," Fred corrected.
"Oui,
merci, mon ami. La coiffure d'un realtor. It ees
a dead giveaway."
Nancy
grabbed John by the arm and squeezed his biceps.
She placed her drink on the table and put her
newly free hand on top of John's hand.
"Tell
me more."
"Ah,
oui, you are employed by…no…wait…Glimcher
Realty Trust."
"My
god, you have looked into my soul, Jean-Paul,"
Nancy sighed as she contemplated life in the suburbs
with a French arbitrageur. "You must be a
very spiritual person."
"Oh,
you are too kind, mon petit cabbage."
Suddenly
Fred looked at his watch and exclaimed, "Zut
alors, Jean-Paul…ze time."
John
quickly glanced at his watch. "Mon Dieu,
zat ees what I get for leaving my Rolex at ze
Ritz. Ladies, eet has been a pleasure."
John
grabbed Nancy's hand, kissed it profusely and
clicked his heels together with a smartness that
was Erich von Stroheim-like in its natural grace.
Fred did likewise with Shirley, and the two imitation
French arbitrageurs proceeded to walk rapidly
towards the exit.
"Wait!"
Nancy screamed as she and her compatriot followed.
"Why are you leaving? It's so early in the
evening."
John
turned and found himself looking directly into
Nancy's plaintive face.
"Eet
ees almost time for evening Mass."
"But
it's Friday. You're going to church on Friday?"
"We
are daily communicants, mon chère,"
Fred interjected.
"Wow,
you guys really are spiritual," Shirley said.
"Well,
eet ees just zhat every time we make a million
dollars een one day, we go to church and say a
leetle prayer to St. Burnham of Drexel-Lambert."
"He
ees ze patron saint of arbitrageurs," Fred
added.
"You
guys made a million dollars today?" Nancy
and Shirley asked simultaneously.
"Well, not every day, but zees day was très
bien, right, Raoul?"
"Oui,
très bien, Jean-Paul."
John
made a slight bow and said, "And now ladies,
once again, we bid you a fond adieu."
Before
John and Fred could turn to leave, Nancy and Shirley
stuck business cards into their front suit coat
pockets.
"Call
us," Shirley implored.
"Can
I have your number?" Nancy asked.
"But
of course. 555-7729."
As
Nancy and Shirley scrambled to find something
to write down the proffered phone number, John
and Fred exited the bar with an alacrity usually
displayed by philandering husbands fleeing their
rollerpin-bearing wives. They ran down a side
street in order to avoid the realtors-in-training.
Nancy and Shirley followed in hot pursuit as they
vainly peered into every car looking for the Parisian
arbitrageurs.
"Yoo-hoo,
French millionaire guys," Nancy called out
in a drunken voice reminiscent of a contestant
in an Arkansas hog-calling contest.
"Damn,"
Shirley muttered. "I think we lost them."
"You're
right. Men…they're so afraid of commitment."
The
junior realtors slowly walked back into the bar,
despondent in the knowledge that the big ones
had gotten away and that they would have to settle
for non-French, non-arbitraging, non-millionaires.
Yet they consoled themselves with the realization
that life-long unions with Frenchmen would entail
the horrors of two- or three-hour long dinners
without benefit of White Castle hamburgers, conversations
about books, theatre, politics and philosophical
ideas, and watching the inevitable Jerry Lewis
marathon during Auteur Week on Canal Plus.
After
an interval of several minutes, John and Fred
walked back to Fred's Lexus.
"Realtor
hair? Where did you come up with that one?"
Fred inquired.
"Look
at all the photos of female realtors in the papers,"
John replied. "They all have 1980s vintage
Olivia Newton-John hairdos applied with three
gallons of hairspray. There's enough Dippity-Do
there to keep several oil refineries going for
years."
"OK,
I'll grant you that, but how did you know that
they worked for Glimcher Realty Trust?"
"It
was the first big realty firm that came to mind.
I would've gotten there eventually by process
of elimination. And that phone number I gave them.
It's the Rev. Leroy Jenkins' Prayer Hotline."
Fred chuckled as he conjured up images of the
drunken junior realtors calling up the Leroy Jenkins
Prayer Hotline in a vain effort to find "Jean-Paul"
and "Raoul." Who knows, with luck the
girls might even find themselves invited to the
Holy Hill Cathedral in Delaware, Ohio and becoming
the spiritual "wives" of the randy evangelist
whose ministry specialized in spreading the word
of God to rich elderly widows with Alzheimer's
and barely-legal big-busted unchurched bimbos.
"I'm
impressed, John. I guess that's why you're going
to make such a fine lawyer. You can really see
through people."
As
he started up the Lexus and proceeded to drive
north on High Street, he wondered to himself why
his best friend, who had such insights into the
human psyche, was unable to realize that his fiancée
(whom Fred lovingly referred to as the Buckeye
Bitch of Babylon), possessed a psyche that could
most accurately be described as Norman Bates meets
Eeyore, that is, a depressed psychopath.
"Well,
I guess we better head on over to the rehearsal
dinner….You know, Fred, I'm a lucky guy.
Barb is really a great person…once you get
to know her."
Fred
smiled weakly and reminded himself that Danton
used to say the same thing about Robespierre.
Chapter 3
Today
Toledo,
Ohio Police Headquarters
The young Policewoman gently nudged the lanky
Texas Ranger who was sleeping on an uncomfortably
low-backed chair in the Detectives' Bureau Waiting
Room.
"Ranger
Ramrod?"
"Huh?"
the startled Texas lawman growled as he shook
off the deep slumber caused by too many nights
spent on stakeouts and too many bourbons drunk
to chase away the ghosts of desperados killed
and lady loves lost.
"Oh,
musta dozed off, Ma'am. Shucks, where's my manners.
Fergot to take off my hat."
As the Ranger doffed his ten-gallon Stetson, it
occurred to the Policewoman that she had never
met a real cowboy. She saw that the Ranger was
strong, noble in bearing, polite, a man who seemed
to live by a code of honor. What did they call
it in the movies? The Code of the West.
"Please,
Ranger Ramrod, call me Officer or Miss. I'm not
married."
"Well,
shoot…Miss. I cain't hardly believe that
a right purty gal like ya'll…now don't take
this the wrong way or nothin'…but it just
don't seem possible that some feller ain't already
hog-tied you and stuck his brand on yer hide."
The
Policewoman sighed. "Ohio men, they're so
afraid of commitment."
"Well,
I cain't hardly blame 'em. My Aunt Janie had a
bad case of nerves and her son had her committed
to the funny farm in Austin. That durn place always
gave me the willies. No, what I was talkin' 'bout
was marriage."
A
look of sadness descended upon the Policewoman's
face. "Alas, no. Men are either intimidated
by the badge or want a wife who'll be content
to stay at home."
Just
then, a ray of hope seemed to emanate from the
Policewoman's eyes. "But someone like…."
"It's
probably fer the best," the Ranger interrupted.
"Marriage and police work go together like
turpentine and sasparilla. One'll clean yer paint
brush, the other'll quench yer thirst. Mix 'em
together and all you'll git is sweet-smellin'
varnish or a sore throat."
The
Policewoman's head was awash with more similes
than a Raymond Chandler novel on speed. After
pausing for a moment she opened her eyes wide
and snapped her fingers.
"I
almost forgot why I woke you. The extradition
hearing has been delayed for a day. We won't be
able to release the prisoner until tomorrow."
"Well,
guess I better rustle me up a room fer the night."
The
Policewoman thought about making an invitation
to the Ranger, but only for a moment. Ramrod was
right. Police work was a dirty business and you
couldn't help but to bring some of that dirt home
at the end of your shift. If making the mean streets
of Toledo a little less mean meant foregoing a
relationship, then so be it. Besides, there were
always her yearly three-week vacations at Hedonism
II in Jamaica filled with non-stop sex with multiple
anonymous partners.
"There's two nice motels across the street.
Either one is good."
"Thank
ya kindly….Miss. Say, any good places an
ol' cowpoke can git some grub, maybe a bourbon
and branch water?"
"Tony
Packo's is always good."
"Where
have I heard of that before?"
The
Policewoman smiled at the Ranger's partial recollection
of Toledo's most famous dining establishment.
"Oh, probably from reruns of M.A.S.H. You
know, Klinger--Jamie Farr--was always talking
about Toledo and how he missed the food at Tony
Packo's."
"Klinger?
Which one was he?
The
Policewoman laughed. "C'mon, how could you
forget Klinger? He was the clerk who always wore
women's clothing."
Ranger
Ramrod rolled his eyes and nervously cleared his
throat. "Maybe I'm not so hungry after all."
To
Be Continued---
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