An Indecent Proposal by Barry Rachin (i like reading .txt) 📖

A squat man with bristly red hair sauntered directly to the bar at the Marriot Hotel lounge. "Gimme a boilermaker, Freddy." The fellow, who spoke with a thick Scottish brogue, wore a tuxedo, five onyx studs decorating the front off his pleated shirt below a shiny black bowtie. A strong chin complimented fair-skinned, boyish features. The bartender went off to fix his drink. "Chevis Regals.. not that rotgut you pass off on regular customers," he called after him.

The dapper man turned to the man seated at his right. "What are you drinking?"

Ralph Tucker lifted a glass with a watery brownish liquid. Half the ice had already melted away. "Coke, that's all. I'm trying to keep a clear head."

The Scotsman eye's him curiously. "Woman troubles?" Ralph nodded once but held his tongue. The bartender a lanky, middle-age fellow with sagging jowls and a doleful expression returned with the drink. "I'm with the band," the fellow explained. "Paddy Macgregor." The two men shook hands. "We're doing a wedding in the next room over." Having said that, he reached for the shot glass, threw the liquor down his throat then followed up with a stiff swig of beer.

"Isn't it a bit early to be hitting the sauce, if you got to work all night?"

The man's pale blue eyes sparkled as he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. "My family hails from Black Isle in the Scottish Highlands. Unlike the stumblebum Irish, who can't hold their liquor, women, paychecks, land or much of anything else, we Scotsmen have no such problem. Look here." The man extended his right hand, palm down over the bar. The stubby fingers never trembled. Reaching into his rear pocket he removed a pair of metal brushes and began tapping out a percussive drum rhythm at breakneck speed on the mahogany surface of the bar. After a few fancy flourishes he returned the brushes to his pocket, polished off what was left of the beer and ordered another whiskey with a beer chaser.

"Our friend's got woman problems," Paddy announced when the sallow-faced bartender returned.

"Don't we all."

"No, it's not like that," Ralph insisted. "Years back, this woman threw me over for a guy with a six-figure income. This past June her husband got caught embezzling funds at the investment firm where he worked. A week after the indictment, the chump drops dead of a heart attack, leaving behind massive debts and an mortgage stretching six months in arrears."

"Aw shit!" Paddy sipped judiciously at the neat whiskey and ran a tongue over his lips. "When's the last time you seen this crummy, two-timing bitch?"

"Twenty years ago," Ralph replied meekly, "back in my college days."

The bartender's bushy eyes brows heaved in disbelief. "Twenty years you carried a torch for some worthless female?"

"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 so, at least, for the few shitty years we were together, we shared a common interest." Even though the man behind the bar was a good ten years older than the drummer, his wearisome manner and dreary horse face made him seem considerably older.

Ralph shrugged philosophically. "No, we didn't have a thing in common. Sometimes you just love a woman for no apparent reason, the romance defies logic." He sliced the air with the flat of his hand trying to make coherent sense out of his fractured thoughts. "This woman … 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 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. "Between alimony and shared assets, my spouse cleaned me out in the divorce settlement." He bent over the counter assuming a confidential tone. "I don't need no money-grubbing bitch 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. "Don't take it personal. I'm just trying to school you in the ways of the flesh."

Ralph first heard about Becky Steinberg's troubles from a mutual friend, Sid Bentley. "Becky's down on her luck like that pathetic character in Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth," the fellow, who was as much an insatiable gossipmonger as avid reader, observed acidly. When no comment was forthcoming, he added, "You know, the novel about the New York socialite who plummets into abject poverty."

"Never read the book," Ralph replied.

"Under the circumstances," his friend added, "maybe you should keep it that way."
It was Sid who told him about the indictment and Becky's precipitous fall from grace. The news caught him like a sucker punch in the solar plexus.

Paddy Macgregor slid off his stool and grabbed the beer. "I 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 a genuine crocodile leather belt?"

"Yeah," the bartender replied. "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 crocodile belt?"


* * * * *

"This is why I can't marry you, Ralphy." They were standing in the women's department of of Ann Taylor at the Chestnut Hill Mall in Newton, Massachusetts. Big boned with prominent cheeks that sloped precipitously to a narrow jaw, Becky Steinberg was the sort of girl most men wouldn't give a second look. She was too klutzy - a regular Amazon. She walked flatfooted with her wide shoulders thrown back and weight of her body resting on the heel 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 his nose. The Orvis genuine hornback crocodile retailed for five hundred ninety-eight dollars.

Six hundred smackers! That was more money than he would earn as a college graduate at an entry-level salary! And it 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 strap to the rack. "I already have one that I picked up at Bergdorf Goodman when I was in New York last month. I'm just trying to make a point."

I already have one that I picked 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. He didn't care how often daddy's-little-girl 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 had to arrive at the altar with a healthy investment portfolio because, once the marriage was consecrated, Mr. Steinberg's American Express credit card became defunct.

"I’m addicted to fancy-schmancy clothes, jewelry, gourmet restaurants and the like." Becky ran her fingertips over the stippled surface of the Orvis original one last time, caressing the elegant hide. "When I'm back home in New York, a trip to the posh boutiques on Madison Avenue is like a pilgrimage to Mecca."

Ralph was going 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?"

"No and, for the hundredth time, stop asking." She leaned over and kissed him playfully on the side of the mouth. How many times had they had this conversation in the last six month? Becky, who never agreed to an exclusive relationship, was seeing other men and probably sleeping with them as well. She went to facial salons and booked regular appointments with a masseuse. Over the February vacation she joined her family at a ski resort in Vale, Colorado - all this on a part-time job and her father's American Express Platinum card. "I love to spend money. It's part of my genetic makeup."

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."

"As soon as you find Mr. Moneybags," Ralph ignored the invitation, "You're gonna give me the bum's rush."

The saxophonist finished the melody and now the pianist was negotiating the circle of fourths pattern that composed the bridge of the lightening fast, bebop tune. "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. He didn't seem quite so steady on his legs anymore, and his eyes were coated with a glossy film. "Hit me again, Freddy."
"So what' s the decision?" the drummer pressed.

"I’m considering options."

The drummer 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. "She cheated on you."

"We never had an exclusive relationship," Ralph qualified.

"Likeguysed," the drummer was beginning to garble his words together in a verbal salad, "the slutty bitch donyadirdy."

"Tell you what I'd do," the bartended sniggered. "I'd go over to her place on the pretext of offering condolences. I'd 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 fuck 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.