A Commodore of Errors (16 page)

The Commodore clicked his heels and bowed at the waist. Maven blushed. She shifted in her chair behind her desk and her dress made a rustling sound. Her dress was white, short-sleeved, tight around the biceps, and covered in a profusion of bright yellow tulips from hem to neckline. She finished off her outfit with matching yellow pumps, which the Commodore noticed sticking out from under her desk.

The Commodore cupped his hand to his mouth and whispered, “I am going to steal you away from here, Maven. I am going to be superintendent of the academy soon, and the first thing I am going to do is fire the executive secretary and put you and your classy attire in her place.”

The Commodore winked at Maven. Maven looked at her hands.

The Commodore stepped toward Mogie's office. “I know I don't have an appointment, dear, but if you will overlook it just this one time . . . ”

Maven looked up in alarm. The Commodore put his hand on her shoulder. “Tulips,” he said. “My, my . . . you are one classy woman.”

The Commodore saw that Maven could not stop him from doing what he wanted. He put his index finger up to his lips to silence her and entered Mogie's office. Mogie sat in his high-backed leather chair behind his desk up on the platform and spoke in a hushed tone. He was on the phone.

“You're driving me foolish, Mitz. You drive me foolish when you stretch. I can picture you stretching. It's like you're right here. Stretch for Mogie, baby.”

The Commodore stepped back into the vestibule when he heard Mogie.
Mogie was having phone sex with Mitzi!
The Commodore had known that it was only a matter of time before Mogie and Mitzi got back together, but he did not think it would happen this fast. He was hoping to come to the mayor's office unannounced, catch Mogie off guard, and reassert himself. Now he felt pressured.

Breathe!
Why did he always stop breathing in tight situations?

He stepped back into the office. “Ahem.”

Mogie spun around in his chair so fast it nearly toppled off the platform. “Call you right back, Mitz.” He hung up. “Commodore? What the hell are you doing here? Where's Maven?”

“Maven said you wouldn't mind.”

“Maven knows damn well I mind.”

“Be that as it may, I am here. We need to talk.”

“What about?”

“It looks like we will not be needing a Jew admiral after all.”

“Says who?”

“I have discovered that Mitzi is in possession of the camera. You, therefore, are a blackmailer with no blackmail. You have been rendered impotent.”

“Me, Mitzi, same thing. Mitzi does what I tell her.”

“I am afraid I know otherwise. Mitzi and Putzie are back together. Your masquerade is over.”

“Mitzi's frustrated. Putzie's being a putz—oh, there's a surprise.” Mogie opened the humidor on his desk and picked out a cigar.

“Are you able to refrain from smoking until we've finished our business, Mr. Mayor?”

Mogie lit his cigar with his favorite lighter. The flame was a fireball. A billow of smoke enveloped his face. “Please, Commodore. Call me Mogie.”

The Commodore would not let Mogie's bullying tactics get to him.

“We have a deal, sir.” The Commodore's voice rose. “Don't you remember? I would place Johnson in a compromising situation. You would demand his ouster. I did my part. Miss Conrad did her part. Now it is time for you to do your part.” The Commodore's speech coach would not have been pleased to hear the shrillness creeping into his star pupil's voice. “A deal is a deal.”

Mogie's response was to puff smoke rings.

“Look.” The Commodore hoped he did not sound pleading. “Johnson is on the ropes. I have informed him that you, in fact, are in possession of the camera and that you intend to go public with it. He will fall on his sword. He will walk away. It will be a clean break. Johnson resigns and I take his place. Our plan as we conceived it is brilliant. Why tarnish a good plan?”

“No.”

“Mr. Mayor, I beseech you to reconsider.” That, sadly, was pleading.

“I said no.”

“We had a deal that you would make a public demand for Johnson's resignation. Why is that demand not forthcoming, sir?”

“I'm stalling.”

“Stalling?”

“Yeah. I know you're next in line to be admiral. I wanna see if I can't find a Jew first.”

“But why is having a Jew so important to you?”

“Because WASPs are schmucks, that's why. You got all these by-laws and rules and restrictions that you place on yourselves. We got a dumb WASP on the city council. He's always bugging us about Robert's Rules of Order. Who cares about Robert's rules? See what I mean? You got all these titles and ranks. What the hell is a Commodore anyway? Isn't he someone who runs a yacht club? You got a fancy title like Commodore but you got no
saichel
. Why should I go into business with some schmuck
goy
? Who needs it?”

“But I'm different. Can you not see that? I am above the rules.”

Mogie stood up from his chair. He placed his cigar in the oversized ashtray on his oversized desk and stepped down from the platform. He walked over to the Commodore and stood by his side. Mogie barely came up to the Commodore's chest and had to lean his head back to make eye contact with the Commodore.

“Look. You seem like a nice-enough guy. Why don't you just keep your fancy title and your do-nothing job. Be happy with what you got. See what I mean? Find me a Jew who knows how to drive a boat and let us run things. You'll still be part of the deal. You don't have to worry about that. Look, the Jews have an expression, ‘I'll take the gelt, you take the glory.' See what I mean? Don't be a schmuck. Take the gelt.”

Mogie led the Commodore by the arm to the vestibule. The Commodore shrugged Mogie off, placed his cap under his arm, and marched out.

When he left Mogie's office, the Commodore spent the rest of the morning driving the streets of Great Neck. He hated himself for it. He hated himself whenever he wandered the streets where the lonely walked. The Commodore thought of himself as a dynamic man. He kept a rigid schedule and held himself accountable for how he spent his time. He earmarked every minute for serious endeavor. Hadn't he just this past week upbraided his secretary for permitting him to dawdle? He had earmarked three hours to rearrange his office to improve its feng shui, and Miss Lambright let him waste an entire day on it. He had been very angry with her that day. Why did she allow him to dawdle? Was it because she herself dawdled? He made a mental note to spend more time accounting for Miss Lambright's time.

That aside, the Commodore's wandering helped to put him in a better mood. As bad as his life was at the moment, he was surely better off than the mass of humanity that passed before him that morning. Did these people not have anything better to do with their lives? Walking, driving, shopping, running needless errands. He felt sorry for them and it made him feel better about himself.

Now the Commodore sat in his LeBaron in front of the Great Neck Martinizing Dry Cleaners and waited for Mrs. Tannenbaume to leave. Mrs. Tannenbaume with an E. If he had heard it once, he heard it a hundred times. He knew for a fact she had been a clerical worker, a typist! She was a flunky, a gal Friday. He was in no mood to deal with that woman this afternoon.

The Commodore wanted to get back to his office where he could think. He needed to come up with a plan B. His attempt that morning to persuade Mogie to stick with their original plan, the plan that would have made him admiral, had failed. Mogie made it clear he thought the Commodore was just another dumb WASP. Well, truth be told, he was another dumb WASP. Dumb like a fox.

This, of course, was the WASP's secret weapon. The Southern WASP hid behind his soft drawl and gentle manner, lulling a helpless “victim” into thinking his intellect was as slow as his speech. Do not be fooled. Behind the drawl was a cunning mind, a chess player's mind, able to think three moves ahead. The Northern WASP hid behind his starchy shirts and lordly mien. It was easy to think of him as an outdated relic, out of touch with the modern world. Again, proceed with caution. Behind the well-worn clothes and high-miles automobile was a fierce competitor, an eager-for-battle warrior. The Northern WASP was not as cunning as his Southern brethren, perhaps, but what he lacked in strategy he made up in doggedness. As a breed, the WASP was easy to underestimate.

The Jew, on the other hand, could not afford to be subtle. When one was surrounded by a hundred million sworn enemies, as were the Jews in Israel, one simply could not afford to ask questions first. It was shoot first and ask questions later. Mogie, who was about as subtle as a miniskirt, was so obviously of this school. So how does a WASP deal with a hard-nosed Jew? Simple. He plays possum with him. He lets him think he is winning. The Commodore knew that this was what he needed to do. But just how could he pull it off ?

The Commodore got out of the LeBaron and entered the dry cleaners. Raymond was there to greet him at the door. He had the Commodore's shirts with him.

“I've been waiting for you,” Raymond said. “Here are your shirts.”

The Commodore refused to take the shirts. Why was Raymond handing him his shirts at the front door? This was highly unusual.

“Ok then, Mr. Commodore, I'll take them to your car for you.”

Raymond tried to rush out of the store with the shirts. The Commodore grabbed him by his arm just above the elbow and yanked him back in. He held him and looked toward the register. “Where is Mrs. Tannenbaume, young man?”

Raymond made an involuntary, almost imperceptible glance over at the curtain.

“She left early today.”

The Commodore let go of Raymond's arm and turned his back to the curtain. He heard Mrs. Tannenbaume and Putzie talking.

He stiffened. “Please do not tell me there is something untoward going on behind that curtain.”

Raymond clenched the shirt hanger so hard his knuckles turned white.

The Commodore stomped his foot on the floor, spun around, and pointed his arm at the curtain. He could not bring himself to look in the same direction. He purposefully turned his head ninety degrees away from where his arm remained pointed and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply.

“Raymond . . . this is a public place of business. This type of behavior is reprehensible.”

The Commodore wanted Raymond to put a stop to whatever was going on behind the curtain. He did not have to say it. Raymond hung the hangar on the front doorknob and walked over to the curtain. He hesitated.

“Um . . . Mrs. Tannenbaume?” He said it so meekly it went unheard.

The Commodore strained to listen. He heard Mrs. Tannenbaume's gravelly voice but could not make out her words from where he was standing. He did not have time for this. If Raymond could not keep them from using a public space for Putzie's rubdowns, he would have to do it himself. He dropped his arm, marched over, and pulled back the curtain.

He closed the curtain as quickly as he opened it. “Oh, no . . . ”

Raymond grabbed the Commodore's arm to steady him and then led him over to a chair, sitting him down gently. The Commodore struggled to breathe. He implored Raymond to help him.

“Why is this happening to me?”

SEX ED

M
rs. Tannenbaume heard the curtain open and close but she was too minvolved to notice who it was that had peeked in on her and Putzie.

“Right there, Ira, that's it, right there.” Mrs. Tannenbaume knew that Mitzi could be pretty impatient with Putzie. She figured the poor man just needed to hear a few encouraging words when he was in the act to boost his confidence.

Putzie was behind Mrs. Tannenbaume, holding on tight to her waist.

“Oh, yes, that's it. That's the sweet spot.” She knew Putzie couldn't find a woman's sweet spot with a Geiger counter, but what else could she do? She had to keep up the encouragement.

The Commodore writhed at the thought of what was happening on the other side of the curtain. So Mrs. Tannenbaume was a talker! “Why is this happening to me?”