Paternity Suit

By Andrew Solkin

Matt Fry, middle-aged and set in his humdrum ways, wants peace above all else: to coast through his job, to relax by the pool in his south Florida condo, to survive his daughters adolescence, and to maintain his twenty-year-old marriage on a fairly even keel. Such, however, is not his fate. The first sign of trouble is the reappearance, after a long and welcome absence, of Matts former college roommate Sandor Rossenblum. Matt has long since abandoned his career as a newspaper columnist, but Sandors has flourished: with two Pulitzer prizes under his belt, his very existence is an affront; even worse, he hasnt lost his taste for practical jokes, nor (apparently) for attractive women like Matts wife Barb. Sandor wastes no time in insinuating himself back into his old friends life.

Things arent much quieter at the office. Its enough that Matt has to contend with the baseball metaphors constantly hurled at him by his boss, Smilin Jack, and the vitriol hurled at him by his rival, Snarlin Marlon; on top of this, his nubile teenage secretary has discovered that shes pregnant with no father in sight and Matt agrees to help her break the news to her redneck, fundamentalist Christian parents.
A host of other people seem to be conspiring to distrurb Matts fragile equilibrium. His fifteen-year-old daughter Jess seems to be getting surlier and sluttier by the day; his friend Aaron is exhorting him to engage in extramarital flings; his voluptuous neighbor Anne torments him with her habit of sprawling, nearly naked, by the pool every morning. Then theres Jerzy Kowalski, the agencys newest client, whos invented a new kind of shirt that he thinks will take the fashion world by storm. Matt has to handle this exuberant entrepreneur with kid gloves.

None of this, however, compares to the bombshell that Barb drops on Matt one fine day when she is conveniently out of town. She slaps him with a lawsuit, alleging that the vows they exchanged during their hippie marriage, some twenty years before, compel him to provide her with a second child. Not only is this just about the last thing Matt wants: it would also require him to undergo a reversal of the vasectomy he had not long after Jesss birth. When she returns home, Barb is intransigent. Nothing Matt says can dissuade her. She advises him to hire an attorney, but Matt knows the deck is stacked against him: a popular public prosecutor, Barb is well-known and well-liked by everyone at the county courthouse. Sandor is delighted with this motherlode of material for his column, and threatens to turn the affair into a major media circus.

Paternity Suit is the story of how Matt survives or fails to survive the lawsuit, his friends and family, his job, and his midlife crisis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 20, 2001
• ISBN: 9781465322678

Andrew Solkin

Andrew Solkin is a business writer with 20 years of professional experience. Born and raised in Montreal, he attended the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, where he received a BA in English, and McGill University in Montreal, where he pursued graduate studies in creative writing. He currently lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. He has written five novels since 1990.

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Copyright © 2001 by Andrew Solkin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

FIRST TRIMESTER

ONE

TWO

THREE

SECOND TRIMESTER

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

THIRD TRIMESTER

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

AFTERBIRTH

FIRST TRIMESTER

ONE

Squinting into the bright sun, Matt Fry unlocked the gate to the pool area and let himself in. As he had half-hoped and half-feared, the blonde was there again this morning: stretched out prone on a big yellow towel, spread-eagled, the Y-shaped crease in the ripe wet gooseflesh above her briefs screaming at him Avert your eyes if you can, the top half of her string bikini, resembling nothing so much as an outsized sleeping mask, crumpled blackly at her elbow. Matt quickly kicked off his thongs, stripped off his robe, put down his Miami Herald and dove deep into the tepid water, trying to expunge the dark thrusting thoughts of sodomy from his sick sick mind. Beneath the surface, breast-stroking (God, he had to get his brain on another tack!), he remembered the story his last paper had run, some eight, nine years before—God, was it that long ago?—about some woman in Australia, claimed to have been impregnated by a swimming pool. Well, that wouldn’t happen here. He weighed the pros and cons of ridding himself of his burgeoning erection by scraping his crotch against the marcite; with the thought of the ensuing discomfort came detumescence, for which he was thankful. Relieved without relief.

He came up for air and finished his twenty laps without further incident, hauled himself out on the opposite side of the pool from the Bimbo from Hell, and beat a hasty retreat to the house. He wondered which unit she’d moved into, to whom she belonged, as he dumped the daily dose of Pussy Vittles into the row of scuzzy plastic bowls on the kitchen floor to appease the trio of complaining, shin-rubbing, fur-shedding, useless cats, the surrogate children with which he had been required, at virtually annual intervals over the last few years, to propitiate Barb’s recurring, overwhelming and insane desire for another baby.

And now she was at it again. Matt groaned as he remembered last night’s crying jag, and prayed that it wasn’t the harbinger of another month of piteous pleadings, angry arguments and sullen silences. How many more of these was he going to have to endure until something snapped in Barb’s head, until she was finally free forever of what he called her Temporary Infanity? Would menopause finally take care of it? well, he told himself as he went to the powder room to remove from the litter box the night’s reeking accumulation of small, carefully buried turds: she can beg, she can cry, she can beat a tattoo with her fists on my chest until she’s blue in the face, but two things are certain: I will never surrender, and I will never consent to another stupid kitten either.

He returned to the kitchen to pour himself a coffee, and then passed through the sun-porch onto the patio, closing each sliding screen door behind him, a gas-permeable double barrier separating the obese felines indoors from the voracious fleas, almost the size of sunflower seeds (which, at least, rendered them too damn big to squeeze through the screens) lurking in every bush, on every blade of bluegrass, biding their time, waiting for just one slip-up, one opportunity, to invade the house and infest the animals, people, carpets, blankets and furniture inside.

For Chrissake, he groaned to himself, how am I expected to swim every morning with her around? Maybe I could suggest a pool dress code for women at the next homeowner’s association meeting. Chadors might do it. It’s either that, or massive doses of saltpeter in my coffee.

The little lizards scattered insanely, as they always did, when he sat down on the lounge chair. Lounge lizards. It had rained during the night, and the lush, almost painfully green vegetation had that freshly-washed look in the bright, but not yet hot, morning sun. Another shitty day in Paradise. After six years in Florida, Matt still didn’t know the name of the little lizards with which he shared the patio every morning. He had long since given up asking neighbors who would only reply, "I don’t know. They’re … little lizards. That’s what everybody calls them." He settled down to read about the latest outrages committed by various members of the Tortilla administration.

The post-lizard stillness was interrupted by the sound of feet approaching over the dewy, spiky lawn. Someone was walking around from the front of the row of townhouses. Maybe, Matt thought crazily, it’s her, clutching a tube of Bain de Soleil, coming to ask me to do her back; or maybe it’s her jealous husband or boyfriend, clutching a tire iron, coming to smash my face. He looked up: in the place of his wild imaginings, he was confronted instead with the tall, slim figure of his daughter Jess, wearing a filthy tee-shirt and slightly torn pair of flowered shorts. As she neared, he could see that her hair was a tangled lank mess, her eyelids heavy either with too little sleep or too much sex … probably a combination of both. And of course, he observed with despair, she wasn’t wearing a bra, small hard nipples dark under the thin cotton, screaming to be criticized, to be acknowledged, Go on, say something, Daddypig, Daddyprig. Make my day.

Have a good time last night, my dear? The irony, he knew, was wasted. Scrap irony.

Front door was locked. Couldn’t find my keys.

Oh, good. They’re probably in the possession of one of those troglodytes to whom you laughingly refer as boys. Now he’ll be able to drop by and hump you any night he likes.

Chill out, Daddy, Jess groaned. Either they’re in my room or they’re, like, somewhere on the beach.

Among the sand-encrusted condoms … where, last night, you stole the key to a young man’s heart and lost the keys to your old man’s house. How poetic.

Is there more coffee, for Chrissake?

In the kitchen.

Okay then. Jess slouched past him, one of her impossibly long impossibly brown thighs brushing against his newspaper as she did so. After a few seconds of fumbling at the latch, she slid back the screen door and passed into the house.

Close it behind you, Matt called after her automatically. Fleas. The cats. Practically every day of her life, he had to remind her about the existence of the insects outside, the pets inside, the vital necessity of maintaining the status quo, like separation of church and state.

His. Teenage. Daughter. God, how it had pained him when Barb had told him, less than a year ago, that they had to face facts, that she was sending Jess to her gynecologist to get her put on the pill. She’s only fourteen years old!, he had remembered crying out in disbelief, She’s still got Muppet Babies up in her room! His wife had gazed at him evenly, intelligently, coolly: so adult, she always looked, despite the fact that she wasn’t even five feet tall and had the smooth round small-featured face of an eight-year-old. Let go, baby, she had said softly, as she deftly smashed his illusions, his memories of his child—the soft helpless infant, then the eager toddler, then the lanky tomboy, inexplicably much taller than Barb and almost as tall as he, who would beg her father to take her bass-fishing on the Loxahatchee—Do you want her to have a real baby up in her room, too?

All gone. The adoring, happy, straight-A’s daughter replaced by a surly, sulky, school-skipping stranger, out now practically every night—he’d hardly seen her since school had ended last week—undoubtedly screwing herself silly with one of the tribe of interchangeable mesomorphic Neanderthals with their monosyllabic vocabularies—Hey. Whassup? Thasscool. Seeya—and their off-road four-by-fours with the gun-racks behind the seats and the beer coolers under the dashboards and their cut-off Hurricanes sweatshirts over their hairy chests and their stupid tractor caps with Hurricanes or Seminoles or Dolphins logos on the front. If Matt hadn’t been there to watch her grow up he wouldn’t have believed it possible, that the Jess of yesterday and the Jess of today were one and the same person.

He sighed, sipped his coffee, and returned his attention to the paper: a byline leaped out at him. Sandor Rossenblum?? On the Herald’s goddamn editorial staff? Since when? Last he’d heard, the bastard had been three thousand merciful miles away, scribbling his foul opinions for the Examiner. For an imbecilic second Matt toyed with the idea that it wasn’t the same man, that there might be two columnists named Sandor Rossenblum. Sure. Right. Christ, if that bastard ever found that that he worked for an advertising agency, that he lived a little more than an hour from Miami!

The screen door was pulled open again, and closed afterwards this time. Barb. Morning, baby, Matt said, afraid to look up.

Morning. As Barb leaned over to kiss him on his bald spot, he inhaled the aroma of her perfume, caught sight of her tailored sleeve at his shoulder, but was unable to see her face. Was the kiss conciliatory, a token that her Temporary Infanity had passed? Or was it perfunctory, indicative that she was still brooding about last night? He decided to send out a feeler.

Sleep well?

Lousy, Barb grunted, and Matt’s spirits sank. She took the chair beside him, looking grumpy, and took her first sip of coffee. Jess in?

A couple of minutes ago. Didn’t you see her?

No. She must have gone to her room.

I’m not surprised, Matt snorted, glad of a topic to discuss. The poor kid needs her sleep, I guess, what with balling like a bunny every night.

Ease up on her, honey. We had lots of sex once, too, you know.

That was different, Matt objected.

How?

For one thing, I was considerably older.

It’s not Jess’s fault that you were slow on the uptake, Barb shrugged.

Besides which, there’s the inescapable fact that Jess is a girl.

I’m so glad you’ve noticed, and that the double standard is still alive and well. Hand over the editorials.

I’m, um, not finished with them yet.

Look, baby, I have to leave for court in ten minutes, she told him. You’ve got another half an hour to read the paper.

Wordlessly, he passed the front sections over to her and pretended to concentrate on the sports. Luck was with him: after a few minutes’ reading and coffee-drinking, peppered with derisive comments about Mayor Tortilla and his gang, Barb returned the sections to him, stood up, and announced that she had to run. She hadn’t spotted the byline. Little lizards scurried at the clicking of her heels on the patio stones; the screen doors were opened and closed; the front door slammed; her car engine started, faded away as she pulled out of the parking lot; all was silence.

Maybe, Matt reflected, I’m simply envious of Jess. After all, with the exception of a couple of very earnest but incredibly inept attempts at breast-fondling and thigh-squeezing during sock hops at Weston Central, I was clean, a virgin until my sophomore year in college, by which time I was five years older then than she is now … but I really don’t think it’s envy. Those early fumbling forays of mine were exciting—if occasionally terrifying, usually humiliating and always frustrating—journeys of discovery, whereas she’s already so … jaded. It’s a little disgusting, and very sad, to think that nothing life can throw at her, ever again, will cause her eyes to grow wide in wonder… . Mine, of course, have long been inured, but then, at forty-five what else can I expect? Not much I can do about that … except wait to turn forty-six.

Whoopee. Christ, that blonde by the pool can’t have been much over twenty. Probably less than half my age, practically the same generation as Jess. I wonder if she’s still lying out there, her skin now dried by the sun, the curve of her buttocks glowing warmly under the bright blue summer sky… .

Christ. I wish that I could grow really old, really fast: buy the nylon golf cap, the white loafers, the green polyester slacks and the hearing aid and the pacemaker and be done with it.

I’d better get moving, Matt thought. He swallowed the rest of his coffee and went into the house, closing the glass door this time and then all the downstairs windows. Turning on the AC, he called out in the general direction of Jess’s room as he reached the top of the stairs, and received an answering grunt. As he closed his study window he looked outside; the pool was deserted.

He hung up his robe, peeled off his swimsuit, and examined himself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, sucking in his gut and flexing a biceps, striking a pose. Flesh getting a little softer, forehead getting a little higher, chest hair turning a little gray … but, all in all, he decided that he looked pretty good. At least he wasn’t fat yet. His cock was still shriveled and wrinkled from the damp Speedo; he dried his crotch briskly and then crossed the room to get dressed.

God, if Sandor ever finds out about the agency, there’ll be no end to it, assuming of course that the high-and-mighty bastard would deign to talk to me at all, which if I’m lucky he probably won’t. What a prize-winning asshole: only problem was, it’s the damn Pulitzer Prize he’s won. Twice. AIDS in the gay bath-houses, something like that … and the earthquake survivor profile. Why in hell has he decided to move to Miami? Probably going for the big bucks, the Herald collects Pulitzer winners like some people collect stamps. It’s a hell of a distance between the cesspool of Smilin’ Jack’s fourth-rate advertising agency to the pinnacle of one of Knight-Ridder’s flagship newspapers. A pinnacle to which I once aspired and then abandoned, and on which the wretched Rossenblum now stands, triumphant, master of all he surveys.

Matt knotted his tie savagely, called out an unanswered goodbye to Jess as he thundered down the stairs, and let himself out of the house. He’d better get another key made for her today.

Out in the parking lot, Matt spotted a new red Miata and realized instantly that it had to be the blonde’s. So she’d moved into 18. The other spot was empty: either she was single or her husband had already gone to work. With a car like that, she definitely had no kids, but did have a few bucks. Not serious bucks, not BMW or Ferrari bucks … which made sense, of course: she was, after all, very young to have either kids or big bucks, and as far as the bucks were concerned, the development didn’t exactly cater to a lot of the Beemer people, it wasn’t upscale enough. Matt imagined the blonde’s tanned thighs flashing as she got into the low-slung car, her perfect ass nestling into the driver’s seat. He groaned.

His own aging Camry wagon, escutcheon of the new suburbia, was already beginning to bake, even though it was only nine o’clock. The radio warned that 95 north was backed up all the way from Copans to Glades, so Matt took the turnpike to Boca.

He arrived at the office to find that someone had taken his space under the awning. Cursing, he made a mental note of the offender’s license-plate number and then parked in the visitors’ area under the only available tree, a stunted spindly ugly melaleuca, knowing that its meager shade would offer little protection as the sun climbed, that he would burn his fingers on the steering wheel at noon.

The chill of the AC greeted him as he entered the building. He slipped on his blue sweater and threw his car keys onto the guard’s desk.

Dennis, there’s a dark blue Audi, Dade plates, XMJ 1402, in my spot. Find out whose it is, phone him, and get him to move his damn car the hell out of there and to park mine in its place; I’m in 56. After he’s done that, send the miscreant to see me in my office. Tell him to bring my keys.

Dennis looked at him blankly. Miscreant, Mr Fry?

Never mind what it means, Dennis. Just do it. okay, Mr Fry.

Matt took the elevator up to the third floor and strode angrily down the hall. Melba was at her desk, putting the phone down as he came in. She looked worn out, somehow, as if she had recently been crying.

That was Security, Mr Fry. That there car in your spot, it ain’t registered as no employee vehicle. Gotta be a visitor’s. They’re trying to trace it but ain’t nobody logged in this morning.

Then tell them to tow it.

"Tow it, Mr Fry?" Melba’s eyes, already enormous by any standards other than a giant squid’s, widened.

That’s right. Call Dennis and tell him to have the car in my spot towed away—I don’t care where, the further the better—and then to move my car back from 56 to where it belongs. He’s got my keys.

Yessir, Mr Fry.

And good morning, Melba.

Oh, good morning, Mr Fry.

Matt nodded curtly, went into his office and stopped dead. Sandor Rossenblum, a lot fatter round the middle, his beard a little gray, but otherwise almost unchanged after more than twenty years, was sitting behind the desk.

How the hell did you get in here? Matt exploded.

It was easy. I lurked outside until the guard slipped away for a minute; then I came up here and waited for your luscious little secretary to do the same.

You parked in my spot, didn’t you?

Thought you’d appreciate that, Sandor chuckled.

Matt decided to let it pass. He’d have the last laugh when the bastard found his car gone. What are you doing here?

Just wanted to see where you work, if you can call it that. I’ve never visited the offices of an advertising agency before. It’s broadening.

Seems to me that you’ve had more than your share of broadening already, Matt snorted. God, you must’ve put on forty pounds since I saw you last.

"Forty-five, actually. You look good, though. Sandor heaved himself out of the black leather chair, its springs creaking in protest. He came around from behind the desk and shook hands heartily. You don’t seem very surprised to see me, Matt."

And why should I be? I’ve been living for too long in the land of hurricanes, red tides, algae blooms, saltwater intrusion, sinkholes and giant Formosan termites. I’m used to natural disasters.

Sandor chuckled. Still the same old sweetheart, I see.

Is this a business call, Sandor?

How could it possibly be business?

I didn’t think so. I’ve got a meeting in five minutes, so I’m afraid you’ll have to go. Words can’t express my pleasure at seeing you again, and all that, but buzz off.

I checked your day-timer, Matt: your meeting’s not until ten thirty. Perhaps the shapely young thing who guards your inner sanctum could be prevailed upon to bring us some coffee.

For such a clever bastard, you’re pretty slow on the uptake.

Sandor shrugged. I know you don’t want to see me, he said. "I just don’t care. I wanted to see you.’"

Well, you’ve had a good look. Bye-bye, now. He started for the door, but Sandor grabbed his elbow. Let me go, Sandor.

Can’t we be grown-ups? I didn’t come here to gloat, or to laugh, or even out of simple curiosity. I really wanted to see you, to talk. We used to be very good friends.

That was over twenty years ago. A lot of water—no, toxic waste-has flowed under the bridge since then.

Please can I have some coffee? Sandor asked, letting go of his arm.

Oh, all goddamn right, Matt grumbled; the tow truck, he realized, would need more time anyway. He opened the door and stuck his head out. Melba, some coffee for our guest, please. Black, two sugars.

Yessir, Mr Fry. She nodded at him, sniffing a little, and got up to fetch it.

You haven’t forgotten how I take it, Sandor smiled.

I haven’t forgotten anything. Matt closed the door, went over to his chair, sat down heavily, and stared out the window. "I haven’t forgotten how you beat me out for editor-in-chief of the Daily Penn-sylvanian, and for the presidency of our SDS chapter, and for the seat on the Students’ Executive Committee. I haven’t forgotten that you made summa cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa after picking my brains so hard during exam periods that I didn’t have any time left for my own studying. I haven’t forgotten the stupid practical jokes you played on my whenever you got the chance. I haven’t forgotten that the moment you perceived my interest in any girl on campus, you managed to get her into your bed before I could manage even to get her to give me her phone number. And I certainly haven’t forgotten that you had my nose broken. Oh no, Sandor: I remember. And now you’ve moved to Florida and joined the Herald with your two Pulitzers under your forty-four-inch belt, and you drop by my lousy office just to say hello. Well, hello. Hi, Sandor. How are you doing?"

My. I believe I detect a discordant note of bitterness in your voice.

There was a timid knock on the door.

Here’s your goddamn coffee, Sandor.

Sandor opened the office door and Melba peered in, clutching a tray.

Thank you, you divine creature, he smiled at her, and she lowered her eyes, passed him the tray, and backed out.

That’s disgusting. Even now, when you’re fat and middle-aged, you still try that hokey charm; and on a child like Melba.

There isn’t a woman in the world, of any age, who doesn’t like being admired, Matt; even if it’s only by a rotund middle-aged lecher like me.

I’m sure they’re wowed by the Pulitzers and all the rest of it, too, aren’t they? Christ. I’ll bet you’ve erected a little shrine in the corner of your bedroom where the nubile acolytes can kneel in worship; that is, when you’re not blocking the view, paying homage to yourself.

That note of bitterness is fast becoming a full-blown symphony, Sandor smiled. Still, it’s reassuring to know that you’re still the master of articulate invective.

My modest powers haven’t atrophied since I left the ranks of the fourth estate, if that’s what was worrying you.

I couldn’t be sure. After all, six years is a long time, Sandor shrugged, and Matt turned from the window and looked over at him in surprise. Oh yes, I’ve followed your career, Matt, he chuckled, pleased at the effect of his words. "Just as you’ve obviously continued to follow mine. Of course, I lost track after you left the Gazette and dropped out of the profession, but up until that time I always knew where you were, what you were up to. I even instructed my clipping service to keep an eye out for your byline; not that they found it very often, in the year leading up to your, um, career change. Sandor smiled benevolently. I imagine that you did the same for mine."

No, as a matter of fact. There was never any need: wherever I’ve lived, the local rag would pick up just about every word you wrote.

How gratifying. Well, anyway, a couple of years ago I heard from Tommy Schneider—remember him?-that you’d gone into advertising somewhere in south Florida, so the first thing I did on arriving was to have a few inquiries made. And now that we’ve re-established contact after all these years, we shouldn’t remain strangers. Sandor pulled a business card from the breast pocket of his impeccably tailored gray suit. Here’s my work number; they always know where to reach me, he said, smiling again. "And I always know where to reach you. Au revoir, Matt." And he was gone.

Matt sighed heavily. This is what is must be like, he thought, to have one of those dreadful diseases, like syphilis, that flare up in your youth only to become dormant a little later, making you believe that you’re rid of it until, after an absence of fifteen or twenty years, the tertiary stage kicks in and you learn to your horror that it wasn’t cured, it was only playing possum. Rossenblum Syndrome. Sandorrhrea.

The bastard. He comes down here, slumming, wearing that smile on his fat face like a taunt. I’ve never visited the offices of an advertising agency before. As if it were some quaint little expedition, Alistair Cooke dropping in at a bowling alley, Gary Kasparov observing a rural checkers tournament: Do you mean that people actually DO this? And I’m the delightfully drooling doofus with Coke stains and Cheese Doodle crumbs on the bib of my overalls, sitting at the checkerboard, inanely shouting King me! under the sardonic eye of the master of the Sicilian defense… . Well, he may be more successful than I am, with his insipid columns quoting Talleyrand and Machiavelli and Nietzsche, but I’d like to see him try to come up with something original, something real, something that sells.

Right. As if he’d even think it worth his while to try.

As if I even think it worth mine.

Matt sighed, sat down at his desk, and pulled the scouting report on his ten-thirty from the file. Smilin’ Jack and his stupid baseball metaphors, he muttered to himself, as he re-read the covering memo:

From: Jack Senior

To: Jack Junior, Marlon and Matt

File: Kowalski, J.

Date: Monday, June 22

Re: Jerzy Kowalski

My exploratory lunch with Mr Kowalski was very fruitful. He’s sort of a mad scientist, very smart but uncultured, who makes his living in real estate but constantly comes up with new inventions he hopes to market. He’s struck out so far, but is sure he’s got a winner this time. He was wearing it at our lunch: it’s a shirt, a business shirt but one that pulls over your head. He thinks it’ll be a big hit, since it has no collar, no buttons and doesn’t need a tie. Frankly, I think he’s chasing an outside fastball on this one, but a customer’s a customer and this one’s trying to play in the big leagues. He’s even bought an Eastern European sweatshop, all ready to churn these things out, and he wants to invest big! Well, who are we to bench him before he even comes up to bat?

Matt: my reading of this guy says he won’t go for any touchy-feely bullshit. He’s got a shirt, and he wants to tell the public about it. It’s as simple as that. I realize that this is short notice, but I want preliminaries ready by the 25th. He’s coming in at 10:30.

Marlon: run up some numbers for national exposure-print media-just in case. I don’t know how much this guy wants to spend, but if he’s swinging for the fences then let’s accommodate him! Network TV, I believe, is out of the question on this one.

-Jack

Network TV, Matt snorted to himself. Smilin’ Jack hasn’t run a national TV campaign—or even a statewide one, for that matter—in his whole life, and here he talks as if it’s something he’s considered, but after careful thought has rejected, this time.

The rest of the file yielded little: an eight-by-ten glossy of Mr Kowalski’s shirt—which Matt had seen before—and a memo from Marlon, hand-written on one of his famous sheets of yellow legal paper and dated the 24th (presumably added to the folder by Melba this morning), comprising some hastily scribbled cost data. Matt stared glumly at the sketches and copy that littered his desk (Sandor had probably enjoyed a good chuckle at them when he’d been alone in the office): sketches of lantern-jawed men stroking their chins (the better to display their cuffs, my dear!), banal paeans to the gods of Comfort, Convenience and Chic, Holy holy holy, Blessed Trin-i-ty.

Garbage. Putrid, stinking, unadulterated garbage. Shit! Suddenly, he grabbed everything up, wadded it into a crinkly mass, and hurled it into the wastebasket.

It was almost time for the meeting. He’d have to wing it.

As Matt emerged from his office, Melba looked up at him apologetically. I’m real sorry about letting that man in, Mr Fry. I just stepped out for coffee—

Don’t worry about it, Melba. Couldn’t be helped. He smiled weakly at her in what he hoped she would interpret as a forgiving manner, and went out. He’d never seen her so glum before.

When he opened the door to the main conference room, Smilin’ Jack and his usual entourage were already waiting, the entourage in question comprising Jack’s halfwit son and Special Personal Assistant, Jack Junior (whom Matt secretly referred to as Grovellin’ Jack); Marlon Hepple, the dour and incredibly stingy Accounts Supervisor (Snarlin’ Marlon); and one of the ever-present, always gorgeous secretaries whose identity changed every couple of months or so but whose physical proportions always matched those of a life-sized Barbie doll and whose age, like her IQ, never exceeded her waist size. No one in the agency knew where Smilin’ Jack found these improbably stunning young creatures, each of which in turn he called my stenographer, and no one was sure whether he doled them out to important clients or reserved them for his own exclusive personal entertainment. None of them ever spoke to anyone on staff, to whom they were known, simply and collectively, as This Week’s Child.

I was beginning to worry about you, Matt, said Jack.

I’m not late.

We don’t want to make a bad impression at the first meeting. This could be a hell of a big account.

Anything over a hundred thousand a year was Smilin’ Jack’s idea of a hell of a big account. Matt kept his mouth shut, refraining from pointing out that to the important agencies in Miami (not to mention New York or LA), nothing under a couple of million would qualify as big. He also forbore from expressing his doubts that a small-time importer of men’s shirts would be likely to cough up enough for even the modest campaign outlined in Marlon’s memo; this was just another instance of the undying optimism that had earned Jack Tagliacci his nickname.

Marlon, meanwhile, had noticed the absence of any sketches or preliminary copy. Melba bringing your stuff in later, Fry? he asked.

No. I thought I needed a better feel for the account before proposing an approach. I felt that there was a risk of turning the client off.

Matt! Jack cried in dismay. Are you telling me that you don’t have any preliminaries?

That’s right, Jack.

But that’s like showing up at the game without your bat! How the hell can you expect to hit one over the fence if your gear’s still in the clubhouse?

I wasn’t happy with what I’d prepared, Matt replied simply. I’d rather show up empty-handed, willing to listen to what the prospect has to say, than to turn him off with something lacking sparkle.

"Sounds to me like you’re empty-handed and empty-minded," Marlon grumbled.

When I want the opinion of a bean-counter, I’ll ask for it, Matt snapped. God, how sick he was getting of these people! He sat down at the foot of the table and stared out the window.

Jack, after muttering something about professionalism and salvaging situations (to which Matt paid no attention), turned to Jack Junior. Well, son, we may have a couple of strikes against us but we’re not out yet, he said. You just watch the old man in action, okay? This Kowalski’s just a rookie, after all; I should be able to pinch-hit okay for Mr Prima Donna over there. He indicated Matt with an abrupt gesture of his thumb.

I’m sure you’ll do just fine, Dad, Jack Junior oozed.

There was a knock on the conference-room door. Come in, said Jack, and Miss Lacey, his personal assistant who, in stark contrast to This Week’s Child, was elderly, flat-chested and efficient—and who had been with the agency for longer than anyone, maybe even Smilin’ Jack himself, could remember—ushered in the prospect. They all stood, Jack performed the introductions, and they all sat down again.

As Jack went into his spiel about the agency and its illustrious history, Matt sat quietly and examined their quarry. Jerzy Kowalski was a short, stout, swarthy man in his late thirties or early forties, with a kind, intelligent face and sparse black curls that clung, like a laurel wreath, to the skin above and behind his ears, looking more like chest or even pubic hair than something which had any right to adorn a man’s head. Any evidence of similar growth on his chest was, however, concealed by the shirt that he wore, and which Matt recognized as the object of the prospective advertising campaign. It was a pale blue cotton sports shirt, but a pullover, which somehow managed to stay closed at the neck and wrists despite the absence of any buttons on the cuffs or where its collar should have been. The V-neck and cuffs did not appear to employ any hidden fasteners: rather, they seemed simply to be possessed of a natural stiffness that kept them from flapping around. Matt’s silent examination of the shirt was noticed by its wearer.

What do you think, Mr Fry? he asked proudly. In three years, every man in America will wear my shirt.

Matt refrained from remarking that the poor old shirt would be pretty smelly by the time every man in America had worn it, and forced himself to concentrate instead on the promotional possibilities. No need for ties; no buttons to lose: in this era of convenience, he realized, the shirt could be a winner if only the intransigent hidebound fashion conservatism of the American male could be overcome. If it couldn’t, Jerzy Kowalski’s invention would go the way of bell-bottomed suits and the Nehru jacket. On which people had, nonetheless, made pots of money for a while. How does it work, Mr Kowalski? he asked, playing for time.

I am glad you ask. It is my own invention. I put, inside the neck and cuffs, the thin strips of aluminum-polystyrene composite, which I invent and which is patent pending. This shirt can be washed hundreds of times, my composite cannot be destroyed. It has pores to let the skin breathe, and it keeps strong for years. My shirt closes gently around the neck and the wrists of the man who wears it. But he can pull it over the head, he can pull the sleeves over the hands. My factory, in Nowa Ruda in Poland, can produce two thousand every week. If I need to make more, I can expand the factory if the people demand.

Well, that’s what we’re here for, Smilin’ Jack smiled. To increase the demand.

I call my shirt the Kowalski Kollarless, Jerzy Kowalski said proudly. With two K’s.

Matt shuddered. Not any more, you don’t.

Jerzy Kowalski looked offended. What is wrong with this name?

What isn’t?

Matt— Jack cautioned him from between clenched teeth.

I’m sorry, Jack, Matt said doggedly, but the man is considering using our professional services. Accordingly, I’m going to give him the benefit of my professional expertise. No offence, Mr Kowalski, but if you call your product Kowalskis Kollarless, with two K’s, or Jerzy’s Jerzies, with two J’s, or anything else like that, people are simply not going to buy it. He stood up. "Consumer items—especially clothing—have to be marketed with flair. You’re not selling just a shirt, you’re selling an image, a warm feeling, that goes with the shirt and makes someone want to buy it, to own it, to show it off. If you were selling roach spray or plumber’s helpers, then your product’s performance would be the only thing that mattered; but you’re selling fashion, you’re selling style, and I’m afraid that Kowalski’s Kollarless, with two K’s, doesn’t have either of those things. In fact, Kowalski’s Kollarless, with two K’s, stinks. With one K."

There was absolute silence in the room. Everyone, with the exception of This Week’s Child (who wasn’t paying attention) stared, open-jawed, at Matt. Matt! Jack finally burst out. My apologies, Mr Kowal—

No; let me finish, Jack. The way I see it, Mr Kowalski, you have a choice: either you can achieve a very small measure of dubious personal notoriety, and an even smaller measure of profit, with that hokey name, or you can put your ego aside, sell your shirts under another label, and make millions of dollars. Which do you want?

I am very proud of my name, Mr Fry.

I’m sure that you have every reason to be.

I am very proud of my shirt, too. What is wrong with my proud shirt bearing my proud name?

Let me answer that question with another: how much money do you think the founder of McDonald’s would have made if he’d called his hamburger the Big Kroc?

But-

Matt stood up. It was a pleasure meeting you, sir. I’ll be sure to send you a sympathy card when you file for Chapter Eleven. He shook Jerzy Kowalski’s hand and left. We’ve got other copywriters!, he heard Jack cry despairingly as he shut the door behind him. I’ll fire that sonofabitch, don’t you worry! Quietly, Matt went back to his office, nodded wordlessly at Melba as he passed, and sat down at his desk to wait.

He didn’t have to wait long, but when Melba knocked and Matt said Come in and the door opened it wasn’t Jack, pink slip in hand, but Jerzy Kowalski who stood before him instead.

Mr Fry?

Hello, Mr Kowalski.

I have not much time, Mr Fry, and we must talk. You say that I can make millions of dollars with my shirt. You were impolite to me, but I am sure you have no reason to tell the lies. You must be sure that Kowalski’s Kollarless is a bad name for my shirt.

I’m convinced of it.

Yes, I see you are sincere. You insult me, but you are sincere.

I apologize for the insult, Mr Kowalski.

I can forgive a man who makes for me millions of dollars, Jerzy Kowalski shrugged. If you can do this, it is easy for me to forgive. May I sit?

Please.

Jerzy Kowalski did so. Please talk, Mr Fry, he said.

Matt was ready. Men don’t like changing their way of dress, he said. "They’re afraid of looking different, afraid of being laughed at, afraid to take chances. Oh, sure, if you could convince some bigname designer to go in with you, you might sell a few of your shirts to the trendoids in Manhattan; you might even make a little money on them; but the average guy won’t even look at your product if he thinks it’s avant-garde. Men don’t want avant-garde. On the other hand, they won’t be caught dead wearing something called a Kowalski Kollarless, either. The solution is to convince them that what you’re offering is fashionable but at the same time traditional."

Traditional? Jerzy Kowalski repeated, looking confused. "My aluminum-polystyrene composite is a brand-new invention, patent pending. The design of my shirt is revolutionary. How can I say my shirt is traditional?"

By using a legend, Mr Kowalski, Matt explained quietly. You can’t start a revolution in this country anymore; but you can create a myth. You can appeal to the inherent snobbism of the average American male by offering him something that reeks of tradition. Throw in some macho, some mystery, and a dash of high-tech and you’ve got them hooked.

Jerzy Kowalski eyed Matt appraisingly. You have already an idea, yes?

I think so; but I’m not ready to show it to you just yet. I’ll need … twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours, Kowalski repeated. He went over to the window and stared out, frowning, across the parking lot. When he turned back to face Matt a minute later, it was with his right hand extended. You shake, Mr Fry, he said.

Matt shook.

Come to my office at eleven thirty tomorrow, with your idea to show me, and how much it will cost, and a contract, Kowalski said, handing Matt his business card. If I like the idea, I sign the contract.

Tomorrow it is.

"Good. I like you, Mr Fry: you are sincere. If you can make money for me, then we will work very well together. But I want to say this. If

I like your idea and I sign the contract, I want you to work for me, nobody else. I do not want Mr Jack Tagliacci or others. I want you."

I think that can be arranged.

I am glad. Goodbye, Mr Fry.

Goodbye, Mr Kowalski. They shook hands again, and Kowalski left.

Matt returned to his desk and waited again. Within minutes, Jack and Marlon came into his office.

Still in one piece, I see, Jack muttered. Marlon was all for strangling you on the spot, while I voted for a slow and painful death. But when Mr Kowalski asked to see you alone, both of us decided to let him have the first at-bat.

That was very honorable of you.

Of course, we’ll never see him again so there wasn’t really much to be gained by it … but I like to think that the client comes first, even when he’ll never actually become a client.

You’re a credit to the industry, Jack.

Thank you for those kind words, Jack said acidly. It’s nice to know you think well of me. Too bad that you won’t be able to appear as a character witness at my murder trial.

Oh? Matt smiled. Are you planning to kill me, Jack? I don’t think that would be a very sound business decision. Mr Kowalski would be very upset if you killed me.

Why should I care? He already had his licks.

And I already have his verbal agreement for the campaign.

You’re lying, Fry, Marlon snorted.

Provided that he likes what I show him tomorrow morning, that is.

Tomorrow morning? Jack repeated. That’s not much time.

I’ve got some ideas, Matt shrugged confidently. "Marlon, would be you kind enough to prepare a standard six-month contract, along with a cost-plus budget for three consecutive full-page ads in Esquire and the fall issue—I assume that there’s a fall issue—of GQ. They don’t have to be premium spots. I also need an estimate for a sixteen-page, four-color, self-cover sales catalog with a couple of dozen studio shots of the product. We’ll need two days of photography, four or five male models in assorted colors, and five hundred words of text. And 160 hours of my time: mine, no one else’s. He’ll sign it."

Smilin’ Jack, whose pudgy face had been red with anger when he first arrived in Matt’s office, was now living up to his name. I can’t believe it! he cried exultantly.

One lousy man-month and a raft of outside costs? Marlon objected, scribbling furiously on his yellow legal pad.

If the preliminary numbers in that memo of yours are correct, the client’s going to pay a lot more than he wanted to. I have to keep our margins low on this one.

But there’s almost no profit in it. What’s the point of-

Who cares? Jack cut him off. "Can’t you see the big picture for once? We’re talking major exposure here. Matt and I understand that, even if you don’t. Besides, the contract is just for the first six months of what could shape up as a major ongoing account. The product might very well take off into the stratosphere. If everything works out, Jerzy Kowalski and his shirts could be the next Arrow or Hathaway: this could catapult Tagliacci and Associates into the big leagues!"

If, sticking to the metaphor, the client can be persuaded not to pick up his ball and go home.

That’s up to you, Matt, isn’t it? Jack pointed out. "We didn’t sell this guy:you did. I’m betting that you won’t screw up." He pumped Matt’s hand vigorously.

And if he does? Marlon sneered.

Our Matt? Our clean-up man? Jack replied. If he screws up, then he’s fired. He favored Matt with a singularly beatific smile, and left.

Marlon started to follow, but paused, closing the door after Jack had gone, and turned to Matt. "If you do, in fact, blow it, Fry, I’m going to make sure that you are fired, he said quietly. You, along with that highly ornamental but completely incompetent little girl whom I pay sixteen thousand dollars a year for pretending to be your secretary." He left, closing the door behind him.

Matt was alone. Finally alone, alone with his thoughts, alone with the chance to reflect on what he had done and what he had yet to do. Even after more than five years, he’d never been able to get used to the idea of working with the other people, the constant interruptions and the lack of simple privacy that resulted from, were inseparable from, an office environment. When he’d been a columnist he’d always worked out of his home, maintained a sanctum from which even Barb and Jess were strictly prohibited; now, he spent half his day in pointless meetings and the other half, it seemed, receiving an endless stream of visitors who had nothing better to do than to drop in with their petty problems, their inane ideas, their distracting digressions. I wasn’t built for this, Matt told himself. I may be doing it, but I’ll never get used to it. When a timid knock on the door announced that someone else wanted to see him, he almost screamed.

Come in!

It was Melba, sweet little Melba, whom he’d hired—frankly, and over Marlon’s strenuous objections to her lack of qualifications—more for her looks than for anything else: for her absurdly huge blue eyes and her absurdly blue-stocking morals, for her impossible sexy lithe figure and her funny sexy southern accent—he loved it when she called him Mistah Fraaah—and out of pity: a high-school dropout from Mobile or Biloxi or some such dreadful place, barely seventeen, who’d moved to Florida with her family and had come in for the interview six months ago with those enormous frightened eyes full of fragile hope, trying desperately to avoid a lifetime of hamburger-flipping or worse, thrust into adulthood before she was ready for it. Not that anyone, least of all Matt himself, was ever ready for adulthood: sufficient proof of which, he supposed, was the fact that he had hired Melba primarily for her looks. Since he did his own word processing, gave no dictation, and needed someone only to make photocopies, brew the coffee and answer the phone, he had accepted her; and her gratitude, her servility, had both flattered and embarrassed him ever since.

What is it, Melba? You’ve been looking depressed all morning.

Mr Fry … I was wondering if maybe we could talk some.

Any time, Melba.

Well, it ain’t office talk or nothing, Melba almost whispered. Fact is, I don’t want it to get around. I was hoping maybe we could go out somewheres, like for lunch maybe, and talk there.

I’d be delighted to have lunch with you, Melba, Matt said, a little perplexed. It’s a little early, but I don’t mind. Shall we go?

Melba bit her lip. I’d just as soon not be seen leaving the office with you, Mr Fry, she said. I don’t want no loose talk or nothing.

Matt smiled. Then we’ll have to meet somewhere, won’t we? Do you like Italian? How about Casa Manetti?

Isn’t that real expensive, Mr Fry? I mean, I don’t have a whole lot of-

I’d be happy to buy for both of us, Melba; that is, if that’s all right with you. I’d put it on my expense account, but I’m afraid that that Mr Hepple won’t let us entertain the staff.

Melba was scandalized. Oh, I couldn’t let you do that, Mr Fry!

Let’s go to the Pizza Shack on Glades Road, then.

Dutch treat?

Dutch treat.

Could you kind of… go on ahead of me, Mr Fry? So we won’t be seen together? I mean, just a few minutes ahead.

No problem. I’ll see you there.

Thank you, Mr Fry.

Still puzzled, but amused by all the precautions, Matt took the elevator down to the ground floor. My keys, Dennis, he said to the guard.

Here you go, Mr Fry.

That car that was parked in my spot, Matt asked. I suppose its owner got it out of there before the tow truck arrived?

Sure did, Mr Fry. Fat guy with a beard. He moved your car back into its spot, too, like I told him, Dennis told him. Funny thing, though: I called for the truck, but it never came.

Oh, well, Matt shrugged. It was too much to hope for, I guess.

What’s that, Mr Fry?

Never mind. Matt left the office and went around the building.

His car was not in its place, or anywhere else under the awning. Panic seized him as, squinting in the bright sunlight, he spotted the slip of paper, held in place with a stone, sitting on the asphalt where his car should have been. He ran over and picked it up, immediately recognizing Sandor’s crabbed handwriting.

Dear Matt,

I stuck around for a while, to supervise. Your car’s waiting for you at Brothers Auto Shop, 6506 North Palmetto Street, in Pompano Beach. My treat.

You know that as a journalist, I’ve made a career out of listening at doors, and the one between your office and that of the delectable Melba is very thin. See you around.

—Sandor

PS: I haven’t had this much fun in years. Nothing beats a good tow job!

Matt wanted to scream.

He did.

Shit shit shit shit SHIT!!! He yanked his sweater off and hurled it to the asphalt.

Mr Fry!

He whirled around. Melba, her eyes practically popping out of her head and her hand to her open mouth, was standing behind him. My apologies, Matt said, trying to calm himself. My car: it’s gone.

You mean somebody done stole it?

Not exactly; I’ll explain later. We’ll have to go together in your car, I’m afraid.

She looked at him dubiously. You going to be okay, Mr Fry?

Yes yes, I’m fine.

You going to be able to get your car back?

I’ll get it back. Maybe, after lunch, you can take me down to North Palmetto Street in Pompano Beach, to claim it.

Pompano Beach? Sure thing, I’ll take you, Mr Fry, but what’s your car doing way down there?

Maximum effect, Matt grumbled, retrieving his sweater.

What say?

Never mind. Maybe I’ll explain it to you later. In the meantime, let’s eat.

Melba nodded. This way, she said, and led him out into the lot. I ain’t got much of a car. Sure hope you won’t mind. Arriving at the passenger side of an ancient rusty Chevette, she unlocked the door for him and went around to the other side. The vinyl gets real hot in the sun, so I use these, she said, as she reached into the back and pulled out a pair of old beach towels. Just spread it over the seat and you’ll be okay.

Thank you, Melba. Matt did as he was told, catching a glimpse of the tops of Melba’s round, high breasts as she leaned over, the other towel in hand, to do the same. He cursed silently, reminding himself that the girl was only a