special.”
Rosenfarb bursts out laughing. “Darling, your triple-decker corned beef and pastrami with cole slaw is special. But Ira Overman? Please.”
“Why do you find that so hard to believe?”
“Maybe because I’ve known the man for over forty years and I’ve never once seen or heard of him doing anything evenly vaguely special.”
“Perhaps the fact that he doesn’t broadcast it is a sign of his humility,” Corned Beef Kim reasons.
“Look, I don’t mean to burst your bubble—”
“You seem kind of threatened. And jealous.”
“I happen to be a very successful entrepreneur. More successful than he is, I’ll have you know.”
“I’m not interested in your tax return,” she replies. “Here’s the deal. When Mr. Overman looked at me, I sensed a certain power.”
Power. There was that word again, the one Overman had used — only this time it had been seconded by a complete stranger. Rosenfarb is sure he has entered some sort of alternate universe. He feels as if he is driving through a thick fog, straining to find the white lines and praying he doesn’t topple over the guardrail.
The waitress blasts the window dresser out of his queasy reverie. “Mr. Rosenfarb, a handful of men are extraordinary, and then there’s the rest. Maybe you can learn from him,” she finishes, going off to take an order for stuffed derma.
Rita returns from the ladies’ room to see the same ashen expression that Overman saw when he entered Jerry’s the night before. “You look like shit,” she informs her husband. “Did you eat a bad pickle?”
Rosenfarb shakes his head, wondering what kind of pickles Overman has been eating.
The Overman E350 is driving Topanga Canyon Boulevard. Not anywhere near the expensive, woodsy, former hippie haven, but far north, deep in the bowels of the West Valley. Maricela Flores lives in Chatsworth, an odd mishmash of horse ranches, estates and business parks with a smattering of smaller single-family houses and inexpensive apartment buildings. He finds a liquor store and realizes he needs to stop. Sure, she’s got wine, but Overman needs to bring something out of politeness. How did he get involved in such a thing, he asks himself? He is going to spend an entire evening with a twenty-six year-old girl and her boyfriend. Plus, he has to be polite and shell out money for that privilege.
Overman surveys the vodkas, thinking a classy cocktail might serve as a nice icebreaker for the evening. He can score a gallon of Gordon’s rotgut on sale for eighteen bucks or a petite but stunning bottle of overrated Grey Goose for twenty-eight. That Overman spends more than ten seconds thinking about it speaks to his dreadful instincts. But tonight, in honor of being invited into a beautiful young woman’s life, boyfriend or no boyfriend, he comes to his senses and the Grey Goose wins out. He throws in a tin of Altoids, two of which he pops in his mouth while glancing at the condoms he might be purchasing had he not expressed his eagerness to hang with Rodrigo. What is he thinking? Maricela is young enough to be his daughter. Overman pulls a wad of cash out of his wallet and checks his look in the mirror behind the register. He determines it best to lose the tie and ballpoint pen before knocking on Maricela’s door.
The Mercedes fits neatly into a space in front of Le Monde Garden Apartments on billboard-infested DeSoto Avenue. Despite its location on a busy, ugly thoroughfare, Overman can’t help but notice how much nicer the place is than his. And Maricela’s just a receptionist. With no alimony or child support, he reminds himself. He works his way over to the apartment buzzer. 303. Flores. No boyfriend’s last name. She lives there alone. Promising, unless the boyfriend is some sort of professional freeloader. Overman presses the buzzer.
“Who is it?” bellows the ominous voice that could only belong to the imposing Rodrigo.
“Hi there. It’s Ira. Ira Overman. From Steinbaum Mercedes.”
“Who the fuck is Ira Overman?” he hears the boyfriend ask.
“One of our salesmen,” Maricela says. “I told you. We’re having wine with him.”
“I ain’t havin’ wine with no fuckin’ salesman—”
“Come on up.” Maricela cheerily buzzes him in.
Overman considers making a run for it, but it’s too late. Maricela has stuck her head out the window.
“I’m glad you came, Ira.”
“Me, too.” I am so fucked right now, he thinks, sorry he ever agreed to such foolishness. “Are you sure this is okay?” he asks. “’Cause I’ve got a million things to catch up on at home.”
“Name one,” Maricela snaps.
She’s got him. Even if he could think of something it would sound ridiculously phony.
“I suppose I could stay a little while.” Overman takes the longest three-floor elevator ride of his life. He is expecting that when the door opens, he will find himself face to face with Rodrigo and a machete. But what he sees instead is Maricela smiling at him in a tight black tank top and low-rise jeans that expose a stomach so flat there is nothing left to crunch.
“Hi.” She gives him a kiss on the cheek and a full-on hug, smelling like the sweetest wildflowers he could ever imagine. Having never actually smelled a wildflower, imagination is his only frame of reference. Maricela takes Overman by the hand and leads him through the open door to her apartment. Rodrigo is in the kitchen, guzzling a beer.
“Rodrigo, say hello to Ira,”
The boyfriend nods disinterestedly.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Overman offers with car salesman-like geniality.
Rodrigo doesn’t bother looking at him, grabbing a jacket off the chair. “I’m going out,” he announces, heading out the door.
“Nice meeting you,” Overman calls out.
“As you can see, I have horrible taste in boyfriends,” Maricela confesses.
“Everybody has their issues,” Overman offers.
“He’s a pig. That’s his issue.”
Outside the office, Maricela is as direct as Overman is phony.
“I brought you something,” he says, thinking it best to drop the subject of Rodrigo.
Maricela’s eyes light up as she is presented with the elegant Grey Goose. She is in love with the hand-painted bottle, and its contents happen to be her favorite premium vodka. She caresses the glass with a tenderness that more than justifies the $27.95 price tag. Overman starts to envision what those hands might do with human flesh, but wisely thinks better of it.
There are no mixers in the house so they decide on shots with Pabst Blue Ribbon chasers, ironically the lagerly equivalent of the Gordon’s rotgut he left on the shelf. Overman pours and they head for the sofa. As Maricela’s body moves, it generates more molecules of lilac or lavender or whatever that heavenly smell is.
“So,” she says.
An ominous first line in that it is an invitation for Overman to dictate play. Where will he direct the conversation?
“So,” he fires back, an ingenious deflection.
“Tell me something about yourself.”
Now he is truly fucked. “Let’s see,” says Overman, having no clue which uninspiring facet of his being to lead off with. He downs his first shot hoping the liquor will produce something exciting, or at least help him summon the on-demand vulnerability that comes so naturally to his friend Rosenfarb.
Overman gives it his best. “Maybe this sounds crazy, but until yesterday, I felt like my whole life amounted to nothing. Now it seems like my luck is going to change.”
Maricela smiles. “That’s awesome.