Investments. It was an intriguing conjecture.
I was still musing on the role Felix might be playing in this affair when my phone rang. I picked it up hoping Connie Garcia was calling. I needed a spell of Palm Beach tittle-tattle to provide diversion from ruminating on how financial dupery so often succeeds because of the greed of the duped.
’Twasn’t Connie, ’twas Natalie Westmore. “What a pleasant surprise!” I caroled, and feared I might be speaking with forked tongue.
“Am I disturbing you?” she inquired stiffly.
“Not at all. How are you, Nettie?”
But she scorned politesse. She abruptly said, “Walter is coming home tomorrow morning.”
“Is he? I’m sure you’ll be happy to see him.”
“Yes. I want you to meet him, Archy.”
“Of course.”
“You said we might have like a picnic in my studio. I want to do it at twelve-thirty tomorrow. I’ll have my brother there and you can meet him then.”
“Nettie, won’t he be busy? After all, he’s been gone a year and will want to spend some time with his wife and mother. Shouldn’t we wait a few days?”
“No,” she said flatly. “I want it to be tomorrow. Please don’t fight me on this.”
“Fight you?” I said, mildly outraged. “I’m merely making what I feel is a perfectly reasonable suggestion: Let your brother unpack and recover from jet lag before you ask him to meet a stranger.”
“He’ll do it for me,” she said doggedly. “Now will you do it or won’t you?”
It wasn’t, I decided, worth a tussle; she had obviously made up her mind; I added obstinacy to her resume. “Naturally, I’ll do it, Nettie. Twelve-thirty tomorrow in your studio. Let me bring the lunch. How does pizza sound? With a cold six-pack of beer.”
“All right for Walter and you. I’ll bring my own food. I didn’t tell you—I’m a vegan.”
And she hung up. I sat there a moment staring stupidly at the dead phone, wondering why it was so necessary I meet her brother on the morrow. And she was a rabid vegetarian? It explained why she hadn’t joined her mother and me at our luncheon and made her even more quirky than I had surmised. I recalled Connie’s epithet: kooky. It was beginning to seem appropriate.
I finished working on my journal, sipped a marc and smoked a final cig while I listened to a tape of Tony Bennett singing “The Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” Then I went to bed. But my dream wasn’t broken. It involved the Rockettes, me, and thirty-six hula hoops.
The following morning was peculiar. I seemed to be functioning in a daze, even more disoriented than usual. It couldn’t have been the weather, which was crisp and bracing. But I was unable to focus on anything; every time I tried, my concentration just fuzzed away. I finally decided my condition was due to the confusing telephone conversation with Natalie Westmore. I had been a Laplander trying to converse with a Bantu.
My anomie began to fade during my drive to the McNally Building. A container of black coffee and two glazed doughnuts from the company cafeteria helped. I had breakfasted at home but my stomach still seemed as vacant as my brain. The caffeine and a jolt of nicotine removed most of the cobwebs remaining and I convinced myself I would live to play the kazoo again.
Having nothing better to do before my lunch with Nettie and Walter Westmore, I found a pad of scratch paper and began to compile my Christmas list. The holiday loomed and I hadn’t even begun shopping or mailed out a single card.
I started with my parents, of course, followed by Ursi and Jamie Olson. That took care of the McNally household except for Hobo. I decided he deserved a new rawhide bone at least. Then came Connie Garcia, Binky Watrous and his Bridget, the four Pettibones at the Pelican Club, Mrs. Trelawney (my father’s secretary), Sgt. Al Rogoff, gossip columnist Lolly Spindrift, Herman Pincus (my barber), Wang Lo (stockbroker), Dr. Gussie Pearlberg, and a long roster of friends and
I was still musing on the role Felix might be playing in this affair when my phone rang. I picked it up hoping Connie Garcia was calling. I needed a spell of Palm Beach tittle-tattle to provide diversion from ruminating on how financial dupery so often succeeds because of the greed of the duped.
’Twasn’t Connie, ’twas Natalie Westmore. “What a pleasant surprise!” I caroled, and feared I might be speaking with forked tongue.
“Am I disturbing you?” she inquired stiffly.
“Not at all. How are you, Nettie?”
But she scorned politesse. She abruptly said, “Walter is coming home tomorrow morning.”
“Is he? I’m sure you’ll be happy to see him.”
“Yes. I want you to meet him, Archy.”
“Of course.”
“You said we might have like a picnic in my studio. I want to do it at twelve-thirty tomorrow. I’ll have my brother there and you can meet him then.”
“Nettie, won’t he be busy? After all, he’s been gone a year and will want to spend some time with his wife and mother. Shouldn’t we wait a few days?”
“No,” she said flatly. “I want it to be tomorrow. Please don’t fight me on this.”
“Fight you?” I said, mildly outraged. “I’m merely making what I feel is a perfectly reasonable suggestion: Let your brother unpack and recover from jet lag before you ask him to meet a stranger.”
“He’ll do it for me,” she said doggedly. “Now will you do it or won’t you?”
It wasn’t, I decided, worth a tussle; she had obviously made up her mind; I added obstinacy to her resume. “Naturally, I’ll do it, Nettie. Twelve-thirty tomorrow in your studio. Let me bring the lunch. How does pizza sound? With a cold six-pack of beer.”
“All right for Walter and you. I’ll bring my own food. I didn’t tell you—I’m a vegan.”
And she hung up. I sat there a moment staring stupidly at the dead phone, wondering why it was so necessary I meet her brother on the morrow. And she was a rabid vegetarian? It explained why she hadn’t joined her mother and me at our luncheon and made her even more quirky than I had surmised. I recalled Connie’s epithet: kooky. It was beginning to seem appropriate.
I finished working on my journal, sipped a marc and smoked a final cig while I listened to a tape of Tony Bennett singing “The Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” Then I went to bed. But my dream wasn’t broken. It involved the Rockettes, me, and thirty-six hula hoops.
The following morning was peculiar. I seemed to be functioning in a daze, even more disoriented than usual. It couldn’t have been the weather, which was crisp and bracing. But I was unable to focus on anything; every time I tried, my concentration just fuzzed away. I finally decided my condition was due to the confusing telephone conversation with Natalie Westmore. I had been a Laplander trying to converse with a Bantu.
My anomie began to fade during my drive to the McNally Building. A container of black coffee and two glazed doughnuts from the company cafeteria helped. I had breakfasted at home but my stomach still seemed as vacant as my brain. The caffeine and a jolt of nicotine removed most of the cobwebs remaining and I convinced myself I would live to play the kazoo again.
Having nothing better to do before my lunch with Nettie and Walter Westmore, I found a pad of scratch paper and began to compile my Christmas list. The holiday loomed and I hadn’t even begun shopping or mailed out a single card.
I started with my parents, of course, followed by Ursi and Jamie Olson. That took care of the McNally household except for Hobo. I decided he deserved a new rawhide bone at least. Then came Connie Garcia, Binky Watrous and his Bridget, the four Pettibones at the Pelican Club, Mrs. Trelawney (my father’s secretary), Sgt. Al Rogoff, gossip columnist Lolly Spindrift, Herman Pincus (my barber), Wang Lo (stockbroker), Dr. Gussie Pearlberg, and a long roster of friends and
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