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Once again Tony is behind the wheel of the van. Only this time the meatheads aren’t heading to a funeral to do some serious VanDamage to the free buffet. They’re doing their job, which is none other than delivering a bouquet of red roses to one of the McMansions that exist on the cushy Schuyler Meadows Country Club golf course. They drive the tree-lined Schuyler Road for a couple hundred feet until they pull into a circular drive that’s situated in front of a big white Colonial that’s constructed with four big ass Elvis Presley Graceland pillars that support a triangular portico. Stan stares at the house with awe, his lower jaw now located down around his dick.
“We ain’t never been here, Tone,” he says.
“We...have...never...been...here...before, Stanley,” Tony barks. “Can you please talk English for once and not Polish?”
Stan turns to him.
“Oh, okay,” he says, “as soon as you stop talking whop, I’ll stop talkin’ pollock. How’s about them rotten apples, douche bag?”
“That’s it,” Tony says, while reaching for Stan’s throat.
The two are engaged in a death wrestling match in the van’s front seat. The vehicle is rocking n’ rolling like one of those sex-in-the-van pornos you see all the time on Pornhub when the front, big black door to the mansion opens. Out steps an early middle-aged man dressed in pressed khaki shorts, black Gucci loafers with gold clasps, and a pink Izod polo shirt, the collar standing up at attention as if defying gravity. He not only looks filthy rich, he smells filthy rich.
Filthy Rich man’s hair is cut short but stylish and slicked back on his head with product. His face is clean-shaven, and he wears black tortoise-shell eyeglasses like all the Albany attorneys wear. The good ones anyway. The expensive ones.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Filthy Rich Man says in a loud, almost commanding voice.
“Oh, fuck,” Tony says while releasing the hold he’s got on Stan’s neck.
“What don’t you fucking get about ‘I can’t breathe?’ Tony,” Stan says, pushing his partner off. “What am I, George fuckin’ Floyd?”
“Shut up and get out,” Tony says. “Our customer is standing right there. We need to make a good impression. We’re a pube hair away from losing our jobs as it is.”
“I guess we already blew the chance to make a good impression,” Stan says opening the van door and stepping out. “Like I give a rat’s ass.”
Tony gets out and comes around the front of the truck.
“Sorry about that, sir,” he says with a faux grin. “My partner and I were just messing about a bit. Breaks up the day a little. You know how it is.” Then, reaching into the pocket for one Filthy Rich Man’s order, he reads the name printed on it. “Mr. Britten, I presume?”
“That would be me?” Britten says. “You have my red roses order? Took longer than I expected. My wife isn’t getting any less mad at me. I could have used those flowers a couple hours ago. I’d be getting laid by now.”
“Our sincerest apologies, Mr. Britten,” Tony says. “We ended up with too many orders and too little time.”
“Glad business is good,” Britten says.
“Just a sec, sir,” Tony says. Then turning to his meathead partner. “Don’t just stand there, dumb ass. Grab the bouquet.”
Both men go around to the back of the van. Stan opens the doors and finds the flowers that have the name Britten stamped on them. The roses are packaged in bright pink paper that reads “Flowers N’ Fads.”
“I got it,” Stan says lifting the flowers by the ceramic vase on the bottom.
The two then approach Britten who takes the flowers in both his hands, carries them inside, and sets them on an antique wood side table where he keeps his house keys.
“If you would just sign this for me, Mr. Britten,” Tony says through the open door, “we’ll be on our way.”
Britten takes a step forward.
“Hey, don’t I know you guys?” he says.
Tony feels a start in his heart.
“Oh shit,” he whispers to himself. “He’s got a good memory.” Then, out loud. “I don’t think so, Mr. Britten.”
“Yeah, I do know you guys,” the lawyer says. “I never forget a face, and in my business, it’s a talent that comes in quite handy, especially during heated divorce court cases when I happen to spot a deadbeat dad who can’t afford child support but spends his day gambling at the Saratoga Thoroughbred Track.” Pausing for a beat, but then raising his right arm and extending his index finger. “Anthony Spagnoli and Stanley Koblenski. We graduated the same class.”
“That so?” Tony says.
“Yeah, that so?” Stan repeats. “I don’t remember you for fuck all. But then, we didn’t hang out with the stuck-up preppies.”
“Stan,” Tony says grinding his teeth. “We’re talking to a client here.”
Snickering, Stan says, “Oops, pardon my language, Mr. Britten.”
“No worries,” the divorce lawyer says. “I can see where you might not recall me all that much. I was there only for the senior year after I got kicked out of prep school after banging the headmaster’s wife.”
“Wow,” Stan says. “My hero.”
“I guess nowadays they’d arrest the wife and call me the victim,” Britten says. “But trust me when I say, I was no victim. We both enjoyed every moment of that night in the backseat of my 1979 Volvo, four-door.”
“Good for you, Mr. Britten,” Tony says wanting badly to wrap the conversation up. “We’ll be seeing you.”
“Wait one more second, Anthony,” Britten says. “Is this your flower business? Because good for you if it is. You two actually did something with your life. No offense or anything, but I honestly assumed with the way you guys were always in trouble for one thing or another, like filling some poor kid’s locker with spaghetti from the cafeteria or spraying the football team’s jock straps with itching powder, that you would get nowhere in life.”
Feeling a slow burn rise from the tips of his toes all the way up to his forehead and back down again, Tony says, “Oh yeah. We own this business...and a few others too. We’re doing okay, Britten. More than okay, in fact.”
Tony is silently praying the lawyer can’t spot the lie on his face, as if there’s some truth to a nose growing bigger and longer with every lie delivered.
“Well, whaddaya know,” a grinning Britten says while reaching into his pocket and pulling out a twenty. “Will small wonders never cease?” Then, holding out the money. “A small tip for your time, gentlemen.”
Tony takes a step back.
“Oh no, Britten,” he says, “you don’t need to do that. We usually don’t even do the deliveries, but two of our best workers called in sick and left us short-handed.”
But Stan takes a quick step forward and snatches the bill right out of his hand.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he says, pocketing the cash.
“You’ll have to excuse my partner, Britten,” Tony says, “sometimes the sight of money makes him crazy.”
“Aren’t we all, Anthony,” the lawyer says. “It’s been very nice running into you boys. Perhaps you’d like to come to our Labor Day cookout this year. It’s always lots of fun. Cocktails galore, and...” he allows his thought to trail off while he glances over his shoulder into the house as if he’s afraid his wife is going to be standing there listening, “...plenty of pussy,” he adds while once more focusing on Tony. “Where can I get in touch with you, Anthony?”
“Just go through the company,” Stan says. “Flowers N’ Fags, er, I mean Flower’s N’ Fads. Sorry, Mr. Britten, it’s been a long day already.”
Britten does one of those Westchester lockjaw laughs like he really thinks something’s funny. Tony grabs hold of Stan’s arm and starts marching him to the passenger side of the van.
“So long, Britten,” Tony says. Then, once more gritting his teeth. “Come on Stanley, lots of deliveries to make today.”
“Whaddaya doin’?” he says. “Let go of my arm, Tone.”
Britten disappears back inside the house while the two meatheads get back in the van. Tony fires up the engine and punches the gas. Driving the circle to the driveway’s short straightaway, he hooks a left onto the Schuyler Road. Only when Britten’s house is barely visible in the rearview does he inhale and exhale a breath.