"Turn the fucking air conditioner on, Michael, why don't you?" the Bull said to Mickey when they were no more than fifty yards from the Warwick.
"It's broke," Mickey had replied.
"What are you riding around in this piece of shit for anyway?" The Bull then looked around the car and warmed to the subject. "Jesus, this is really a goddamned junker, Michael."
"Fuck you, Casimir. It's reliable. And it's paid for."
"You always were a cheapskate," the Bull said. "Life ain't no rehearsal, Michael. Go buy yourself some decent wheels. You can afford it, for Christ's sake. You ain't even married."
"Huh!" Mickey snorted. "That's what you think."
"Whatdo they pay you, Michael?"
Mickey told him and the Bull laughed and said, "Bullshit," and Mickey said, "That's it. No crap, Casimir."
"I'll be goddamned, you mean it," the Bull had said, genuinely surprised. Then he grew angry: "Why those cheap sonsofbitches!"
Three days later, the publisher of theBulletin had received a letter on Heidenheimer amp; Bolinski stationery stating that since preliminary negotiations had failed to reach agreement on a satisfactory interim compensation schedule for Mr. Michael J. O'Hara's professional services, to be in effect while a final contract could be agreed upon between the parties, Mr. O'Hara was forced, effective immediately, to withhold his professional services.
When Mickey heard that what the Bull meant by "interim compensation schedule" was $750 a week, plus all reasonable and necessary expenses, he began to suspect that, despite the Bull's reputation in dealing with professional sports management, he didn't know his ass from second base vis-a-vis the newspaper business. Mickey had been getting $312.50 a week, plus a dime a mile for the use of his car.
"Trust me, Michael," the Bull had said. "I know what I'm doing."
That was damned near a month ago, and there hadn't been a peep from theBulletin in all that time.
The good-looking dame, from last night, her hair now done up in sort of a bun, was behind the marble reception desk in the lobby of the Bellevue-Stratford.
What the hell is that all about? How many hours do these bastards make her work, for Christ's sake?
This time there was no line, and she saw Mickey walking across the lobby, and Mickey smiled at her, and she smiled back.
"Good morning, Mr. O'Hara," she said.
"Mickey, please."
"Mr. and Mrs. Bolinski are in the house, Mr. O'Hara. If you'll just pick up a house phone, the operator will connect you."
"If I wanted to talk to him on the telephone," Mickey replied, "I could have done that from home. I want to see him."
"You'll have to be announced," the good-looking dame said, her delicate lips curling in a reluctant smile.
"You got your hair in a bun," Mickey said.
"I've been here all night," she said.
"How come?"
"My relief just never showed up," she said.
"Jesus! She didn't phone or anything?"
"Not a word," she said.
"You didn't get any sleep at all?"
She shook her head.
"You sure don't look like it," Mickey blurted.
Her face flushed, and she smiled shyly.
Then she picked up a telephone. She spoke the Bull's room number so softly he couldn't hear it.
The phone rang a long time before the Bull's wife answered it.
"Good morning, Mrs. Bolinski," she said. "This is Miss Travis at the front desk. I hope I haven't disturbed you. Mr. O'Hara is here."
Travis, huh? It figures she would have a nice name like that.
"May I send him up?" Miss Travis said, glancing at Mickey. Then she said, "Thank you, madam," and hung up. "Mr. Bolinski is in the Theodore Roosevelt Suite, Mr. O'Hara. That's on ten. Turn to your right when you exit the elevator."
"Thanks."
"My pleasure."
Mickey turned and started to walk to the bank of elevators. Then he turned again.
"You get yourself some sleep," he commanded.
The remark startled her for long enough to give Mickey the opportunity to conclude that whenever it came to saying exactly the right thing to a woman he really liked, he ranked right along with Jackie Gleason playing the bus driver on TV. Or maybe the Marquis de Sade.
But she smiled. "Thank you. I'll try," she said. "I should be relieved any minute now."
Mickey nodded at her, and walked to the elevator. When he got inside and turned around and looked at her, she was looking at him. She waved as the elevator door closed.
It doesn't mean a fucking thing. She was smiling at the old bluehaired broad last night, too.
Mickey had no trouble finding the Theodore Roosevelt Suite, and when he did the door was open, and he could hear Antoinette's voice. He rapped on the door, and pushed it open.
Antoinette was sitting on one of the two couches in front of a fireplace, in a fancy bathrobe, her legs tucked under her, talking on the telephone. She waved him inside, covered the mouthpiece with her hand, and said, "Come in, Michael. Casimir's in the shower."
Then she resumed her conversation. Mickey picked up that she was talking to her mother and at least one of the kids.
Casimir Bolinski entered the room. He was wearing a towel around his waist. It was an average-sized towel around an enormous waist, which did little to preserve Mr. Bolinski's modesty.
"I can't find my teeth, sweetie," he mumbled.
Mrs. Bolinski covered the mouthpiece again.
"They're in that blue jar I bought you in Vegas," Mrs. Bolinski said.
"Be with you in a jiff, Michael," the Bull mumbled, adding, "You're early."
He walked out of the sitting room. Mickey saw that his back, and the backs of his legs, especially behind the knees, were laced with surgical scars.
"Kiss, kiss," Antoinette said to the telephone and hung up. "We left the kids with my mother," she said. "Casimir and I have to really work at getting a little time alone together. So I came with him."
"Good for you," Mickey said.
"I didn't know we were coming here," Antoinette said, "until we got to the airport."
Mickey wondered if he was getting some kind of complaint, so he just smiled, instead of saying anything.
"How's your mother, Michael?" Antoinette asked.
"I had dinner with her yesterday."
"That's nice," Antoinette said. Then she picked up the telephone again, dialed a number, identified herself as Mrs. Casimir Bolinski, and said they could serve breakfast now.
The Bull returned to the room, now wearing a shirt and trousers, in the act of hooking his suspender strap over his shoulder.
"I told them to come at ten," he announced, now, with his teeth in, speaking clearly. "We'll have time to eat breakfast. How's your mother?"
"I had dinner with her yesterday. Who's coming at ten?"
"She still think the other people are robbing her blind?"
"Yeah, when they're not… making whoopee," Mickey said. "Who's coming at ten?"
"Who do you think?" the Bull said. "I told them we were sick of fucking around with them."
"Clean up your language," Antoinette said, "there's a lady present."
"Sorry, sweetie," the Bull said, sounding genuinely contrite. "Ain't there any coffee?"
"On that roll-around cart in the bedroom," Antoinette said.
The Bull went back into the bedroom and came out pushing a cart holding a coffee service. He poured a cupful and handed it to Mickey, then poured one for himself.
"What am I, the family orphan?" Antoinette asked. "I thought you had yours," the Bull said. "I did, but you should have asked."