Oliver's Story

 

'Oliver, don't leave me — I'll crack up.'

'Don't worry, it'll be all right. Stay loose.'

Bouncing over potholes in a taxi to the airport, I was tranquilizing Barry Pollack for his day in court.

'But, Ollie, why? Why pull this sudden fade-out on me now?'

'You'll handle it. You know the research upside down.'

'I know I know my stuff. But, Oliver, I can't debate and bullshit anywhere like you. They'll foul me up. We'll lose!'

I soothed him and explained how he could parry all the opposition's thrusts. Remember, speak distinctly. Very slowly. Baritone, if possible. And always call our expert witness 'doctor'; it impresses them.

'Christ, I'm scared. Why must you go to Denver now?'

'It's necessary. Bar. I can't be more specific'

We bounced in nervous silence for a mile.

'Hey, Ol?'

'Yeah, Bar?'

'Will you tell me, if I guess what's going on?'

'Yeah. Maybe.'

'It's an offer. A fantastic offer. Right?'

Just then we reached the terminal. I was halfway out before the taxi stopped.

'Well, is it?' Barry asked. 'Is it an offer?'

Oliver the Cheshire Cat shook hands with his young colleague through the taxi window.

'Hey — good luck to both of us.'

I turned and headed for the check-in desk. God bless you, Barry — you were shaking so, you didn't notice I was edgy too.

Because I hadn't told her I was coming.

No sooner did we land in Mile High City (as the jolly pilot endlessly referred to it), I grabbed my little suitcase, picked a cabby who looked like he'd drive extremely fast and said, 'Brown Palace.

Please shake ass.'

'Then hold yer old sombrero, buddy,' he replied. I'd chosen well.

By 9 p.m. (eleven minutes later) we were at the Palace, Denver's venerable hostelry. It has a massive lobby, sort of a fin de siecle astrodome. The floors are piled in tiers with one huge garden in the middle. You get dizzy merely looking at the hollowness above.

I knew her suite from all those phone calls. I deposited my luggage at the desk and started jogging toward the seventh floor. I didn't call the room.

I took a second just to catch my breath (the altitude). Then knocked.

There was silence.

Then a man appeared. If I may say, a very handsome man. A plastic prince.

'May I help you?'

Who the hell was he? His accent wasn't Denver. It was pseudo-English via Mars.

'I'd like to speak to Marcie,' I replied.

'I'm afraid she's busy at the moment.'

With what? What had I stumbled into? This guy was too beautiful. The kind of face you want to punch on principle.

'I'd like to see her anyway,' I said.

He had about two inches on me height-wise. And his suit was so well made I couldn't tell where it left off and he began.

'Mm, are you expected by Miss Binnendale?' His way of saying 'Mm' could be the prelude to a broken jaw.

Before I could continue with polemics or with punches, a fernale voice floated from within.

'What is it, Jeremy?'

'Nothing, Marcie. A mistake.'

He turned to me again.

'Jeremy, I'm no mistake,' I said. 'My parents wanted me.' Either the effect of wit, or else the menace in my tone, made Jeremy step back and let me enter.

I wondered as I strode the little corridor how Marcie would react. And what the hell she might be in the midst of.

The living room was wall-to-wall gray flannel.

Which is to say, executives were scattered everywhere, each by an ashtray, puffing nervously or chewing cardboard sandwiches.

At a desk, unsmoking and uneating (also not undressed, as I had feared), was Marcie Binnendale.

I'd caught her in the flagrant midst of … business.

'Do you know this gentleman?' said Jeremy.

'Indeed,' said Marcie, smiling. But not flying to my arms, as I had dreamed en route.

'Hello,' I said. 'I'm sorry if I interrupted.'

Marcie looked around, and then said to her platoon, 'Excuse me for a moment.'

She and I went to the corridor. I took her hand, but Marcie gently kept me from a grasp of more.

'Hey — what are you doing here?'

'I thought you'd need a friend. I'll stay until you settle things.'

'But what about your lawsuit?'

'Screw it. You were more important.' And I grabbed her waist.

'Are you berserk?' she whispered, anything but angry.

'Yeah. Berserk from sleeping — or not sleeping — in a double bed alone. Berserk from missing you across the plywood toast and soggy eggs. Berserk — '

'Hey, friend,' she said, and pointed to the other room, 'I'm in a meeting.'

Who gave a shit what all the flannelites could hear. I ranted on. '— and I was wondering if even in your presidential turmoil, you might also feel a little bit berserk and— '

'Schmuck,' she whispered sternly, 'I am in a meeting.'

'I can see you're busy, Marce. But look — just take your time, and when you're finished, I'll be waiting in my room.'

'This could last forever … '

'Then I'll wait forever.'

Marcie dug the sound of that.

'Okay, my friend.'

She kissed me on the cheek. And then went back to her affairs.

'Oh, my love, my Aphrodite, my exquisite rhapsody … '

Jean-Pierre Aumont, a Foreign Legion officer, was putting it to some pneumatic desert princess, who was gasping, 'Non non non, beware mon pere!'

It was after midnight and this ancient movie was the only game in town on Denver television.

Otherwise, my company was a diminishing supply of Coors. I was so punchy I was talking to the screen.

'For Christ's sake, Jean-Pierre, just rip off tier costume!' He paid no heed to me and kept the bullshit — and his hands — too high.

Until a knock.

Thank God.

'Hi, baby,' Marcie said.

She was tired-looking, and her hair was semi-loose. The way I like it.

'How's it going?'