Six years prior"Hey."
Nothing.
"Jules. That you?"
At that, a grunt. Well it had that Jules ring to it. Still holding the door open, Mayordomo leaned to peek at the shoes on the marbled chessboard floor. Sneakers. So it was him. The only fucker in Nikes under this roof. Even Mayordomo could do better than that, and those fraying loafers on his own feet had seen one too many Sundays. At least the sneakers were black instead of nuclear-diarrhea green. You couldn't say the man dressed all
too tacky.
"Hey, man, Don says pack it up. The dog fella's ready to call it a night. You movin' and shakin' in there?"
"Gim' sec," Jules mumbled before getting off a wet, half-choked cough.
Mayordomo closed the door and checked his reflection at the sinks. "Don't sound too good, there," he observed, adjusting his tie.
Another grunt from behind the stall door, then a retching noise. "Hey, man!" Mayordomo exclaimed, turning around, but Jules was keeping it together. Barely, though, by the sound of things. "Seriously, Jules. Are you okay?"
The answer was a thud and a rattle of hinges that could only have been Jules banging his head against the stall. "Fuckin' shrimp," he said shakily. "Fuckin'... I knew they ain't cooked it right... knew I shoulda sent it back..."
Mayordomo watched the black Nikes stirring heavily and decided to withhold his own reckoning that it wasn't the shrimp so much as the red wine Jules maybe ought to have sent back, somewhere short of the ass-end of the bottle. In his experience these people would say anything when they were drunk and
you, my man, had really better let 'em.
He kept it to: "You don't sound good for drivin'."
"Shit," replied Jules. "Shit," he eventually added.
Mayordomo wasn't totally sure how to take this, but he figured it was probably
Shit, yeah, that's right, driving, yeah, no, I am not good for driving, no. "Listen, hang in there," he told the stall door, and left the bathroom. Down the corridor and past the kitchen doors, he returned to the dining room, a dense space of dark red walls and cream-colored molding, filled with tables and chairs in the same red and cream colors. One of these tables sat six laughing men, the shortest of whom stood up with a quiet word to his companions and met Mayordomo some distance away.
"You did find him?" asked Don Massimo.
"Yeah, I guess he's been there a while. Hey, he's soundin' pretty bad. Thinks the shrimp got to him. I don't know he's up to driving right now."
The short man raised his eyebrows -- the last traces of hair to be found, going up to the smooth round top of his head. "Is that so?" he said. "Well, that's my lesson for the evening. I really should have known. It seems Giulio's self-restraint takes a blow whenever he finds himself at a place setting with more than just the one fork." But Massimo's glance at the smaller table that Jules and Mayordomo had shared, and at the empty bottle on one side, told Mayordomo that the don wasn't necessarily on board with the shrimp theory, either. "This will be the last time I ask him to chauffeur, I guess. Wouldn't you say, Mr. Mayordomo?"
Mayordomo only nodded as Don Massimo strolled over to make a more careful inspection of the small table. He still wasn't too sure he'd gotten used to the boss calling him "Mr. Mayordomo" but insisting on "Massimo" in return, especially when he called everyone else by their first names, too. But the don had said he liked that name, Mayordomo. "A lot of power in it", that's what he said.
The short man gingerly lifted a napkin and announced: "Ah." Beneath was a single car key which he handed to Mayordomo. "You won't mind taking Walter back to the hotel, then?"
Mayordomo blinked. "Hey, I—"
"Of course I realize that's an unplanned request, Mr. Mayordomo, and an imposition on your time. Can I make it worth your while? A bonus tomorrow? I assure you, I don't consider Walter's company a reward unto itself."
To Mayordomo, time wasn't all so much the issue here, with the hotel no more than ten minutes from the restaurant. But he couldn't say he was keen on spending that time in a moving metal box with one of Don Massimo's friends. Fact was, Mayordomo wasn't even supposed to be here in the first place. The don had only called on him with a hurried explanation that "one of my men" -- hey, you know, an
actual member of the family -- had taken sick, and they could use an extra pair of hands for the arrival of some guests. After hearing where they'd be going for dinner, Mayordomo had said yes without a thought. But here at the restaurant, it'd come to him that this was the first time he'd dealt with the Giarrettieras outside of business, the first time he'd seen them hosting others from beyond the group besides Mayordomo himself. And
he, in his best suit and tie and those too-many-Sunday shoes, wasn't fooling no one. This was the Giarrettieras' world and he was
not supposed to be looking from the inside out. If Don Massimo's friend the dog fella was expecting a proper mascot for the Giarrettieras, he'd be better off saddling up in the stall next to Jules.
But now the money was jingling a car key and asking Mayordomo for one more little favor. And in his experience, the money was a
keen observer of favors paid and favors yet to pay.
So "Okay, man, okay," he said.
"I'm sorry, and thank you," said Don Massimo crisply. "Are you ready to leave, then? Walter's flown a long way."
At a nod from Mayordomo, both men approached the table where the don's party sat. "Let me introduce Walter McPhearson," announced Don Massimo, and the oldest-looking man at the table stood up. Mayordomo flinched: this guy was enormous, easily a head taller than Mayordomo himself. His bulk was more pudge than muscle, but he was anything but barrel-shaped: he looked like a shorter, fatter man had been rolled out on a pizza paddle. His hair was a popsicle-orange matched by his necktie. Mayordomo thought Jules might actually have a pair of sneakers this guy would like. "The Willy Wonka to our furry friends. Walter, this is my esteemed colleague Roufus Mayordomo."
"Oh." McPhearson reached out to shake Mayordomo's hand. As he took it, Mayordomo felt the other man's giant frame lurch slightly. From the look of their table, Jules wasn't the only one feeling the buzz right now. "I kept a dog named Rufus once. That was a good name. It's a fine name."
Mayordomo released his hand a little quickly. "Sure is."
"Roufus will see you back to the hotel," Don Massimo said immediately. "That is, if I really can't talk you into one more drink?"
The other man shook his head, and with another uneven motion pushed his chair aside to leave. Honestly Mayordomo wasn't totally sure there weren't three Don Massimos stacked on top of each other in there. That would explain the coordination. A wig from Halloween Haven would explain the hair. "I've had a hell of a day, Massimo. Let me make up the difference tomorrow at lunch."
"Just as you say. And let me thank you again for joining us. You know how much we enjoy having you here in Winstone." As the others at the table said goodbye, Don Massimo took Mayordomo aside another second and added: "Drive as slowly as you need to."
Then the massive Walter McPhearson was leading the way out of the restaurant, luckily not stopping in at the bathroom, where Mayordomo heard loud noises. Outside, a few streetlamps had lit up in the brick plaza, but the screaming fluorescent storefronts gave most of the light. The ride was a silver Audi, not all too shabby. McPhearson went around back and stood by the right-side back door, looking off across the plaza at a couple with a small, stout dog. It took a second before Mayordomo realized why he was waiting. He hurried back and opened the door for McPhearson, who ducked in with a low "Thank you."
Mayordomo walked stiffly back around to the front door and got inside. The engine started smooth and quiet at an easy twist of the key. As he craned his neck to back out, he saw McPhearson still staring at the couple and the dog.
"I thought it was a Jack Russell," he said, "but the legs are too long. I'm guessing it is actually a variety of Mountain Feist." He drew a deep breath that turned suddenly into a yawn. "Now that's not a nice name," he added. "It means 'stinking one'. I don't suppose you know that
feist comes from an Old English root meaning 'to break wind'."
The light turned green. "That so?" asked Mayordomo, wheeling out of the plaza.
"I'm not joking. This means that if someone calls you feisty, they're actually accusing you of vigorous flatulence." McPhearson smiled into the rear-view mirror. "You can keep that in mind if you ever need a veiled insult."
There wasn't all too much Mayordomo could say to that. He forced a chuckle.
"Do you own a dog, Roufus?"
"No, sir."
"I guessed not. That's too bad." The old man put his arm up on the seat next to him with a sigh. "There aren't enough black dog owners in first-world countries. I'm constantly disappointed by the numbers. Why do you imagine that is? I would think if anyone could
use a dog around the house..."
Mayordomo flinched. His grip on the steering wheel tightened. He looked into the rear-view mirror, only to see McPhearson gazing back with a neutral expression. "'Fraid I don't see where you're goin' with that."
"No? Well, maybe I'm wrong there. It's still a puzzling question, though."
He left off at that, frowning. They approached a tunnel where the lanes would narrow, and the cars started to pack in closer. Mayordomo fell into position, keeping his gaze steady. They'd get to the hotel soon enough. He could spot the old shit one foul comment. Probably born in Mississippi in about nineteen thirty. Don's gonna make this worth your while, my man.
"Would you say it's because you're afraid of them?"
Then Mayordomo went halfway into the next lane and was met with shrieking horns from both ahead and behind. He righted the Audi as they entered the tunnel and everything suddenly glared with orange light. He looked back over his shoulder to see shadows rolling steadily across McPhearson's face. "Hey,
excuse me?" he demanded.
"I'm sorry, Roufus, I'm just trying to feel things out here," said the other man. "You're a mystery to me. How did a man like you end up in the Italians' employ? My impression was that that particular camp already had plenty of brute muscle on deck."
Mayordomo glowered ahead at the end of the tunnel, still a coin-sized black spot appearing only sometimes over the roof of the car ahead. "I'm an associate of Massimo's."
"An
associate, yet? And you looking fresh out of college?" In the rear-view mirror Mayordomo saw the wrinkled face nod very slowly, so slow it was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic or not. "You did attend college, I hope."
For a second Mayordomo thought about lying, but as soon as he said yes the old man would pitch about twenty more questions and Mayordomo didn't have all that many answers lined up in the pipe. "I didn't," he said.
"I was afraid of that. Another problem. Though not one I've got such a selfish interest in solving..."
"Hey," Mayordomo said in a flat voice, "I never said I didn't spend that time learnin'."
Oh yes, learning. Fuses and circuits. Zinc and copper. Castings, putties, binaries. Ethyl azide, disulfur dinitride, tetraazidomethane, nitrogen triiodide, and octaazacubane. Years not wasted, my man. Years especially not wasted paying forty thousand dollars for some pasty old shit like present company to tell you about Du Bois.
"All right. Of course. All right. Roufus, I'm sure you're a very well-informed young man. Don't ever let me suggest otherwise. But that -- you see?—" McPhearson broke off into a cough. "That only makes it even more of a conundrum, to work out why Massimo would ask such menial work of you."
Mayordomo shrugged. They left the orange glow of the tunnel behind. McPhearson was quiet for a minute or two.
Then he said: "I think I have the solution, actually."
Hey, I'll fuckin' bet you do."I've seen that in dealing with me," the old man said slowly, "Massimo seems to like pushing the polite pretense that he organizes a... clean, legitimate enterprise. Employees of all stripes. Roufus, I don't know if you've noticed the same in your own
associations with the man, but that is definitely the face he presents to me."
"That it?" said Mayordomo bluntly.
"Why, then, did he field you instead of just one more of his greasy thugs? Hmm?" McPhearson spread his hands wide and spoke through a smile. "Why, the solution's obvious. To show me what an inclusive, forward-looking corporation I'm doing business with! God forbid I mistake him for one more wop scumbag trying to hold his place in a shrinking lineage of grubby, inbred, reactionary crime!"
Then he fell into a longer fit of coughing. Mayordomo was silent at the dark intersection. They turned onto Basilicum Boulevard past evenly-spaced pairs of trees. In another minute the hotel'd be in sight. He was wondering if Don Massimo would believe him if he said anything.
But, like he was reading Mayordomo's mind, the old man went on: "You can tell him I said that, by the way. I wouldn't recommend it, but you certainly can. I don't particularly care, myself. You see, Roufus,
he is the one who wants a favor from
me." He met Mayordomo's eyes in the rear-view mirror. "And do you think you can work out what that favor is?"
"Plat'num pooper-scooper, 'd be my guess," Mayordomo muttered.
Right away he wished he hadn't gone with the first thing to come to mind, but if he thought McPhearson would get mad, that worry didn't last all too long: the large man laughed so hard he reared back and bumped his head on the Audi's ceiling. "All right!" he said hoarsely. "All right. Now I see it. You're a sharp one after all, Roufus. I believe you." He chuckled, coughed again, and wiped his eyes. "No... Massimo has no dog either, last I checked. And no interest in a share of the business. He's more of a cat man, don't you think?
"No, what your associate's trying to pry out of me -- with all his dinners and shows and his
unbelievable lack of subtlety -- has nothing to do with dogs, Roufus. Nothing at all."
Mayordomo waited, but McPhearson didn't explain any more as the Audi rolled up the drive to the massive hotel, with its Greek-looking pillars and low-lit flowerpatches. Nearly every window on this side of the building was still giving out light. A doorman stood waiting for them.
"Ugly place, don't you think?" asked McPhearson casually.
"Mm," was all Mayordomo had for that one.
McPhearson leaned over the other back seat to gaze up out the window as they pulled around the circle. "Maybe that's not the word. I guess I mean to say it doesn't quite seem to
belong."
Mayordomo jerked his head in a way that didn't say much.
McPhearson frowned. "Oh well," he said, "perhaps it doesn't."
He opened the door. "No need to get up, I'm feeling better," he announced without looking back. "Thank you for the ride, Roufus. You're a surprising man." Then he shut the door and said a muffled good-evening to the doorman.
Mayordomo sat very still and watched the doorman help him through the brass-trimmed double doors into the high, open lobby. McPhearson had disappeared into the elevator by the time Mayordomo's breathing steadied. At that point he took the Audi out of neutral and circled around again to leave. Before all too long the bright façade of the Hotel Ansonia behind him was swallowed up by trees. He turned on the radio.
* * *
The present
Dear Mr. Mayordomo,
Your presence is being requested for a meeting. The meeting place is the Glade in the park at ________ at 9:00 a.m. on the upcoming Tuesday. If you are not interested, please disregard the letter. However, I shall like to think that it will be worth your time. To make things a little more interesting, I have given you a riddle to solve. If you come, you will be expected to solve the riddle, and you will gain a reward. Also, you should know, there are five people who are coming to this. The sooner you arrive, the better chances you have of gaining a great reward. This will be an unforgettable experience. I can guarantee it.
Best wishes,
Walter McPhearson
P.S.
And a little more after that.
In six years he'd seen McPhearson not once more, nor heard anything of him, even though he'd kept his ears open around the Giarrettieras for a few months after that night. By and by he'd forgotten. And then, three days ago, something unexpected in the mailbox. One look at the name and the pawprint design on the envelope, that was all you needed, my man. That got your memory going.
Almost nine. Better head over.
Had he told the boss? Hell, he had not. The boss was not much of a fan of McPhearson either, as far as that went. And Mayordomo figured this "great reward" idea didn't need to do the rounds. He wouldn't say he was all too much of one for riddles, but if McPhearson had something to tell him, he'd tell it to Mayordomo alone. So one momma-taken-sick and two or three plane transfers later (and his mother was doing just fine in old Bay Bottom, thanks), he'd seen his way through to here.
Now that the drizzle had let up it was a gorgeous morning, all right, with the sun beaming in throughout the leaves over his head, but awful quiet. A squirrel shot across the dirt path ahead of him at one point, but if any birds were up there, they were keeping damn well to themselves. As the trees gave way and the torn-down old house came into view, he finally heard movement again. It was the others, coming in from all sides. Three women and a man. By the look of them, some had taken a lot longer finding the place than he had.
"Hey!" he called, waving to them with a wide grin.