has a plan. I mean they know what they want and they’re going for it. That’s my problem: I don’t know what I want. You never met my mother, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“A beautiful woman. I loved her so much. When she died everything fell apart. You know what I’m saying? It all went bad.”
I was trying to keep up but this conversation was becoming increasingly incomprehensible. “The family?” I ventured.
“Down the tube,” he said portentously. “Kaput. Rack and ruin.”
“Your father—” I started, but his rancid laugh cut me off.
“A puppet!” he cried. “That’s what I call him—the puppet. I hate my father.”
He said this with such despairing venom I wanted to reach out and pat his shoulder. Then, to my astonishment, his mood abruptly changed. A complete flip-flop.
He grinned at me and laughed aloud. “Hey,” he said, almost burbling, “let’s you and me go have some fun. How about Fort Liquordale or Miami? Find some action. Meet a few kindred souls, preferably female. What say?”
“Some other time,” I said with an arctic smile. “I’m on the hook for a family do this evening. Two tables of bridge. Very dull but I promised to take a hand.”
“Too bad for you,” he said with a foolish smirk. “Then I’m off to explore this great wide, wonderful world we live in.”
He jerked to his feet, gave me a floppy wave, and rushed out. I sat there, exhausted by the tension of dealing with such a disordered personality. I ate two more pretzels dipped in mustard and finished my gimlet. Priscilla came over and looked at me sympathetically.
“He’s a holy terror, isn’t he?” she said.
I nodded.
“He didn’t sign his tab.”
“I’ll pick it up.”
“Would you like something, Archy? A burger? Salad?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”
“Who wouldn’t?” she said. “I feel so sorry for the guy. He’s just out of it.”
I returned to the bar.
“How did you make out with Gottschalk?” Mr. Pettibone asked.
“Rough going.”
He nodded. “I have an old uncle—my mother’s brother. Lord, he must be pushing the century mark. He’s still got most of his marbles. Most but not all. I visit him and sometimes he says crazy things. Truly insane. I never know whether to correct him and maybe set him off, yelling and screaming, or just go along with what he says to keep him peaceable and happy in his nuttiness. It’s a problem. You know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean and it is a problem. I don’t know the answer. But Peter is a young man. Too young to give up on.”
“Maybe,” Mr. Pettibone said. “But I guess that’s not for you or me to say. If he can be fixed it’ll take more than a smile and a stroke.”
I would have liked to continue our conversation but a quartet of members came barging in, two couples dressed in tennis whites. They rushed the bar, boisterous and apparently delighted with their present and with nary a doubt of their future. I envied them. I finished my wallop while our mixologist was creating four different esoteric drinks, all of which seemed to require an inordinate amount of fresh pineapple, maraschino cherries, celery, or key limes.
I drove home in a subdued state, the meeting with Peter Gottschalk having put an effective kibosh on my temporary euphoria. The yearning for a nap returned in full force and I now saw no reason to resist it. I had a miserable night’s sleep to repair, and perhaps an hour or so of Z’s would recharge the McNally neurons and enable me to extract a few nuggets of significance from all that puzzling palaver with the junior Gottschalk.
Why on earth would a son think his father a puppet? I considered my own sire a master puppeteer.
CHAPTER 12
O N SATURDAY EVENING I ENJOYED a pleasant cocktail hour and dinner with my parents which helped restore my dilapidated esprit. It had not been my customary lollygagging weekend and I set out for the party being
“No, I didn’t.”
“A beautiful woman. I loved her so much. When she died everything fell apart. You know what I’m saying? It all went bad.”
I was trying to keep up but this conversation was becoming increasingly incomprehensible. “The family?” I ventured.
“Down the tube,” he said portentously. “Kaput. Rack and ruin.”
“Your father—” I started, but his rancid laugh cut me off.
“A puppet!” he cried. “That’s what I call him—the puppet. I hate my father.”
He said this with such despairing venom I wanted to reach out and pat his shoulder. Then, to my astonishment, his mood abruptly changed. A complete flip-flop.
He grinned at me and laughed aloud. “Hey,” he said, almost burbling, “let’s you and me go have some fun. How about Fort Liquordale or Miami? Find some action. Meet a few kindred souls, preferably female. What say?”
“Some other time,” I said with an arctic smile. “I’m on the hook for a family do this evening. Two tables of bridge. Very dull but I promised to take a hand.”
“Too bad for you,” he said with a foolish smirk. “Then I’m off to explore this great wide, wonderful world we live in.”
He jerked to his feet, gave me a floppy wave, and rushed out. I sat there, exhausted by the tension of dealing with such a disordered personality. I ate two more pretzels dipped in mustard and finished my gimlet. Priscilla came over and looked at me sympathetically.
“He’s a holy terror, isn’t he?” she said.
I nodded.
“He didn’t sign his tab.”
“I’ll pick it up.”
“Would you like something, Archy? A burger? Salad?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”
“Who wouldn’t?” she said. “I feel so sorry for the guy. He’s just out of it.”
I returned to the bar.
“How did you make out with Gottschalk?” Mr. Pettibone asked.
“Rough going.”
He nodded. “I have an old uncle—my mother’s brother. Lord, he must be pushing the century mark. He’s still got most of his marbles. Most but not all. I visit him and sometimes he says crazy things. Truly insane. I never know whether to correct him and maybe set him off, yelling and screaming, or just go along with what he says to keep him peaceable and happy in his nuttiness. It’s a problem. You know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean and it is a problem. I don’t know the answer. But Peter is a young man. Too young to give up on.”
“Maybe,” Mr. Pettibone said. “But I guess that’s not for you or me to say. If he can be fixed it’ll take more than a smile and a stroke.”
I would have liked to continue our conversation but a quartet of members came barging in, two couples dressed in tennis whites. They rushed the bar, boisterous and apparently delighted with their present and with nary a doubt of their future. I envied them. I finished my wallop while our mixologist was creating four different esoteric drinks, all of which seemed to require an inordinate amount of fresh pineapple, maraschino cherries, celery, or key limes.
I drove home in a subdued state, the meeting with Peter Gottschalk having put an effective kibosh on my temporary euphoria. The yearning for a nap returned in full force and I now saw no reason to resist it. I had a miserable night’s sleep to repair, and perhaps an hour or so of Z’s would recharge the McNally neurons and enable me to extract a few nuggets of significance from all that puzzling palaver with the junior Gottschalk.
Why on earth would a son think his father a puppet? I considered my own sire a master puppeteer.
CHAPTER 12
O N SATURDAY EVENING I ENJOYED a pleasant cocktail hour and dinner with my parents which helped restore my dilapidated esprit. It had not been my customary lollygagging weekend and I set out for the party being
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