A Commodore of Errors (7 page)

THE LITTLE GUY IS BIGGER

“W
ell, what do you know,” Mogie said, looking at the photo of Johnson's

Johnson's johnson. “I'm bigger.”

“I knew you had to be, babe,” Mitzi said.

“Not when it's down. He may have me beat there, okay? But when it's up, I'm huge. Huge.”

“You are, babe.” Mitzi stroked Mogie's hair while he obsessed over Johnson's johnson.
Men. If they weren't obsessing over their virility, they were obsessing over money.

“We've got him,” Mogie said. “There's no way they can't fire the guy. After the flap the Air Force Academy had, there's no way the government wants another sex scandal at one of its military academies, see what I mean?”

“I couldn't believe he pulled it out when I was at my desk. One minute I'm working, ya know?” Mitzi snapped her gum. “And the next minute the creep is
pulling out his schlong in front of me.” Mitzi laughed. “It was pretty big though, I gotta admit.”

“I'm bigger, baby. When it's up, I'm bigger.”

“I know, babe,” Mitzi said.
Bigger. Mogie was always trying to be bigger.
Mitzi knew that Mogie's father called him “Little Guy” and that Mogie hated him for it. When he became mayor, his father went around saying, “Can you believe the little guy is mayor?” Mogie was always reaching for more and it made Mitzi nervous. On the one hand, she was attracted to men like Mogie because they reminded her of her father. But on the other hand, she wanted to turn and run the other way, too . . . because they reminded her of her father. Men were complicated, at least for her they were.

“Anyway,” Mitzi said, “it's a good thing my camera was right there.”

“It's almost too good to be true, baby,” Mogie said. “Think about it. We've got a picture of Johnson in his office holding onto to his johnson.”

Mitzi nodded her head. “I think we nailed him, babe.”

Mogie got up and stalked around the room. “I'm on to something, Mitzi. I'm on to something, see what I mean?” He stopped pacing and turned to face Mitzi. “I was just thinking. The Commodore didn't help us at all here—you got the picture all on your own—so why should we cut him in on the deal, see what I mean?”

“Who's gonna be the admiral then if not the Commodore? He's next in line ya know, or so he says.”

“I don't know,” Mogie said. “I just never liked the idea of going into business with a WASP. I'd sure like to get a nice Jew in there as admiral. Someone who talks the same language.”

“There aren't too many Jews at the academy,” Mitzi said. “Some of the professors are, a few administrators. But most of ‘em are dopey WASPs.”

“I know,” Mogie said. “I gotta think about it some more.”

“Oh my god,” Mitzi said, “look at the time. We gotta get out of here. Without those damn Martinizing machines going, Putzie'll hear us up here.”

Mogie and Mitzi were in their “love shack,” an apartment above the Great Neck Martinizing Dry Cleaners. Mogie rented it out from the owner of the dry cleaners, Ira Paultz. They knew each other since they were kids growing up
in Great Neck. In fact, Mogie was the one who gave Ira Paultz the nickname Putzie. Putzie, who also happened to be Mitzi's husband, was a creature of habit. He Martinized every day between 10 am and 1 pm with Raymond, his Filipino helper, a man who Putzie said was the best Martinizer in all of New York. At exactly one o'clock every day, they turned off the Martinizing machines and took a lunch of cucumber sandwiches on white bread. Putzie said the cucumbers were good for his colon. They ate their lunch together, then Putzie took an hour nap on the cot in his office in the back of the cleaners and Raymond took over the cash register so Mrs. Tannenbaume, who worked the register from ten to one every day, could go home. Putzie wanted Mitzi to work the register, but Mitzi hated the goddamn dry cleaning business. It was too hot. She liked being a secretary so she could sit in air-conditioning all day during the hot summer months.

Mogie and Mitzi left by the outside fire escape, their usual route. Mitzi said it was more exciting that way. It felt more like an affair. By the time she and Mogie climbed down the fire escape, the Martinizing machines wound down with a big
clankety clank
.

After Putzie ate his cucumbers and went to take his nap, Raymond joined Mrs. Tannenbaume behind the counter.

The Great Neck Martinizing Dry Cleaners was in a line of stores built in the Art Deco era. Putzie told everyone who inquired that he hired Mrs. Tannenbaume because she was as Art Deco as the building and that she fit right in. Her wardrobe just kind of went with the look of the place. Putzie said her outfits were gaudy but at least they were consistently gaudy. Even her reading glasses were loud—the kind that swept up at the corners. Raymond called them “cat woman” glasses. Roz, Mrs. Tannenbaume's closest friend, used another word to describe her: kitschy. “What can I tell you?” Roz would say. “My friend is kitschy.”

“You know,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said, “it sounds like Willie Wonka's chocolate factory in here when the machines shut down.”

“This is a bad thing?” Raymond said.

“I didn't spend thirty-five years in education to work in a chocolate factory in retirement. The only reason I work here a few hours a day is because I thought I could be of some help in running the business. You don't spend thirty-five years in education and not learn a thing or two about people, and if you understand people, you'll always have customers. The first thing people want is a clean place to shop. They come into a place that looks like Hogan's Alley and they'll turn around and walk right out. Of course, the product has to be good, mind you. There's nothing more expensive than a cheap product. That's why Putzie hired you. I said to him, ‘Putzie, you want a good worker you hire yourself a Filipino. You can teach a good Filipino how to Martinize.' And now look at you. You're the best Martinizer in New York.”

A customer entered the shop and cut Mrs. Tannenbaume's monologue short. It was Mr. Goldfarb. He came in every week at this time to pick up his shirts.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Goldfarb,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tannenbaume with an E,” Mr. Goldfarb said. “Have you heard from Captain Tannenbaume lately?”

“My sonny boy is fine. He gets off his ship this October, so he'll be home for Christmas. That'll be nice. He makes a nice eggnog, you know.”

“Christmas at the Tannenbaumes,” Mr. Goldfarb said. “A one-of-a-kind experience I'm sure. Actually, an eggnog might be in order about now. I was just elected president of the Great Neck Garden Condos.”

“
Mozel Tov
! Condo president. Mrs. Goldfarb must be so proud.”

“Oh enough about me.” Mr. Goldfarb waved his hand at Mrs. Tannenbaume. “Speaking of congratulations, I understand some are in order for Captain Tannenbaume.”

“You mean his daring rescue at sea? How'd you hear about that?”

“One of my clients, Mr. Costello, is an official in Captain Tannenbaume's union. I do his taxes. Mr. Costello told me all about it.”

“The Coast Guard gave him a commendation. They said the way he maneuvered his ship in rough seas could only be done by someone who knew his stuff. Of course they worded the plaque they gave him a little differently, but that's what they meant, basically.”

“Costello says he's the only one out there who practices real seamanship anymore.”

“Is that what he said?”

“Costello should know. He's the dispatcher for the union. He tells me he gives Captain Tannenbaume all of the tough jobs. Sends him to the ships no one else wants. The old ones. The ones where you need to know what you're doing.”

“Yeah, I've heard my sonny boy mention that. ‘Tween-deckers he calls ‘em. He hates the new ones—the big container ships. Not enough time in port he says. But he's been on the
God is Able
for years now.”

“So I understand.” Mr. Goldfarb tried to hide his smile. “I've heard a thing or two about your boy's port visits on the
God is Able
.”

“Oh?”

Mr. Goldfarb could no longer hide his smile. He looked down at the floor. Mrs. Tannenbaume sensed he was embarrassed. She thought she knew why. She handed the new condo president his shirts.

“Well, Mr. Goldfarb, you're my last customer for the day. I've got to sashay now.” Mrs. Tannenbaume grabbed her pocket book and left.

A minute after Mrs. Tannenbaume left, the Commodore walked in. Raymond came around from behind the counter, and together he and the Commodore sat down in the front of the store, something they did whenever the Commodore came in to pick up his shirts. The sunlight that came through the plate glass window in the middle of the day was pretty harsh, so Raymond swung the curtain partly closed. Maybe it was the curtain, or maybe it was that the Com-modore had nobody else to confide in, but something made the Commodore want to sit and talk with Raymond in the front of the store. That was the only explanation Raymond could come up with for why someone like the Commodore would want to talk with him—or talk
to
him, which was more like it. And more often than not—no, always—he talked about himself. But still, Raymond didn't mind. He was flattered that someone as important as the Commodore wanted to talk to him, although he didn't like it so much when the Commodore yelled at him.

When the Commodore told Raymond what had happened with Miss Conrad, he wasn't surprised. He never thought Miss Conrad was the right girl for the job. She sounded like too much of a Miss-Goody-Too-Shoes to be part of a trap like the one the Commodore had set. But Raymond didn't dare tell the Commodore what he really thought. So he just sat and listened, like he always did, and tried not to upset the Commodore.

EXPERIENCE AT SEA

T
his time it was the chaplain who called Johnson to suggest they meet for coffee. “Trouble” was all he said before he hung up the phone.

When they settled in with their coffee down at the boathouse, the chaplain spoke first.

“You hear about the bandleader? His wife called early this morning.”

“What bandleader? The Commodore fired the poor bastard.”

The chaplain shook his head. “His wife says he's missing. She says she thinks the Commodore must be behind it.”

“Behind what?” Johnson said.

“Behind the fact he's missing. The police questioned him this morning. They say he was the last one to see the bandleader before he went missing.”

“Jesus Christ,” Johnson said, coming out of his chair. “You serious?”

“You don't think the Commodore has anything—”

“What? Are you crazy?”

Johnson walked to the big window overlooking the wharf and placed his cup on the sill. The Commodore was unusual, that's for sure, had been forever, but he was harmless, wasn't he?

Wasn't he?