The Ladies' Man by Elinor Lipman Page A

the woman you’re currently … on hiatus with?”
    â€œCorrect.”
    â€œHe says he doesn’t flirt with them when he serves them,” says Lois. “But there’s no other explanation for why they call.”
    Richard raises his eyebrows. “No other explanation?”
    Lois turns to Nash. “Would you ever think of calling up someone who served you papers, or notified you that there was a bench warrant for your arrest—”
    â€œWrong,” says Richard. “I’ve never called or dated anyone I’ve served a bench warrant to.”
    â€œThey call
him
,” says Lois.
    â€œI serve dozens every day. Most are debtors and lowlifes. Once in a great while I ring someone’s doorbell, and they answer it, and we have a nice conversation, and I get a sense of what her situation is, and maybe she’ll ask for my card.”
    Nash now recasts Richard’s life as that of a dashing door-to-door salesman calling on housewives who are naked and perfumed under their dressing gowns. “Deputy sheriff,” Nash muses. “I wouldn’t have thought …”
    â€œRichard could have gone to law school,” says Lois. “He was accepted at Suffolk University.”
    â€œNights,” says Richard.
    â€œYou obviously like your work,” says Nash, messy eyes shining over the imagined perks.
    â€œIt’s interesting. And no two days are the same.”
    â€œCan you arrest people?”
    â€œI can.”
    â€œHe can get beeped in the middle of the night,” says Lois.
    House call, Nash thinks. Housewife. Housecoat. “For what?” he asks.
    â€œLast time it was a custody case. I got a call from Florida—”
    â€œWhen was this?” asks Lois.
    Richard answers in shorthand: Florida Highway Patrol called Suffolk County. The father had custody. The mother took off for Boston with the kid. We got him back. Four years old.
    â€œWow,” says Nash.
    Lois asks if she can get anything. Peanuts? Crackers and cheese? Chips and dip?
    â€œNot a thing,” says Nash.
    â€œAll of the above,” says Richard.
    â€œSo you had to find the kid and return him to Florida?” asks Nash.
    â€œThe father followed them up to the grandmother’s, so we turned the kid over to him.”
    Lois smiles, and asks, “Do you visit Boston on a regular basis?”
    â€œUnfortunately, I don’t.”
    â€œNot since your folks died?”
    â€œLonger than that. They’d come out to escape the winters.”
For a week in January
.
    â€œI’m certainly not going to spend many more winters here,” says Lois.
    â€œSince when?” asks Richard.
    She turns to Nash. “Are you still writing for the movies?”
    â€œMusic,” he says. “But more for television these days.”
    â€œThat must be so interesting. And creative—to be surrounded by music all day.”
    â€œThat part’s true,” says Nash.
    â€œI love music,” says Lois. “I don’t know if you remember, but we all had piano lessons.”
    Nash says, “I noticed the Chickering. I wondered which one of you played.”
    â€œI’m the only one who stuck with it past junior high school. I’m not very good, but I love it.”
    â€œWhich is the most important thing,” says Nash.
    Richard says, “Where are we eating?”
    â€œDining room,” says Lois. “We’ll need bowls and soup spoons.”
    â€œDo we have chopsticks?” he asks.
    â€œNo we don’t,” says Lois, as if it’s further evidence of his annoying lifestyle. She turns to Nash. “Maybe you’ll play for us later.”
    â€œHow about now?” says Richard. “Unless you think you’ve been sidelined by Kathleen.”
    â€œThat reminds me of a joke,” says Nash. “A man asks his doctor—”
    â€œCloth napkins, please, Richard,” says Lois. She turns