16
The Window Washers
August 19
“I
wish you wouldn’t keep doing that, Randy,” Kenton groused.
“What?”
Kenton pointed to his wrist. “That. All that tapping.”
Montefiore glanced down at how he was batting his pen against his wrist again. “Ah. Nervous habit. Something I’ve done since I was a teenager.”
“Well, my friend, you’ve been doing it a lot more of it lately.” Kenton sipped his chilled black coffee, made a face, and sipped it again. “Anyway, it’s fucking annoying. Are you nervous about something?”
In either an act of compliance or ridicule, Montefiore made a point of placing the pen on Kenton’s desk. “Okay. Done and done. And yes, Al, I am a little concerned.” He narrowed his gaze at the Premier. “It’s about Saunders. He’s been acting...distracted, lately. Not concentrating on his work.”
“‘course he is. He just got back from one of his tours of the gulags.” Kenton took another sip of his coffee, made another sour face, then took another sip. “He’s perfectly doing his job. Look at all those Neo-Publican shitheads he shipped off in May. He did an outstanding thing, there. Outstanding. Don’t you think. Randy?”
“Okay, yeah, Al. But lately? Not so much. He’s been walking around in some sort of funk. Totally distracted. He hardly ever shows up in his office anymore.” He picked up the pen again and poised it against his wrist. “He’s locked himself away in his suite. His secretary hasn’t seen him in a week.” He started to flick the plunger on his pen: click-click...click-click. “I saw him in the hall two days ago walking around like some sorta zombie. Looked like he hadn’t ‘t shaved in a week.”
“Sure, of course. He’s probably preparing a report on his gulag visits. You know how fucking thorough he can be.”
Montefiore had to admit, Saunders could be anal retentive about his reports. “But, still, I’m worried for him. He could become a liability.”
Kenton stared annoyed at Montefiore’s clicking away on his pen. “Look, maybe he’s just tired. Why don’t I send him for a week at my place in West Palm Beach? He can play a little golf, then come back to us in perfect shape.”
“He doesn’t play golf.”
“That’s fine. I’ve got some of the best pros in the business who’ll work with him.”
Montefiore stared briefly at the cleanliness of Kenton’s desktop—the sign of one who chose to do no work. He mused over how easy the Premier’s job was. And he would know; he did most of his boss’s work. “Saunders once told me once. He doesn’t want to learn golf,” he glanced back up at Kenton to make his point, “he hates golf.” He knew that would cut Kenton to the quick.
The Premier glared at him. “He’ll like it if I tell him to.”
“Look, Al, why don’t you send him on a long sabbatical? I can fill in as PRICE Commissar for a while.”
Kenton’s glare turned moderately challenging. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Randy? But no. I need you here with me, and I need Stan where he is. He’s good at it.”
Montefiore’s vision was sideswiped by a window washer’s platform being lowered from the roof. “And I wouldn’t be good at it?” he said, distractedly.
“I don’t know, Randy. But you’re better at being my legal counsel. I need you for that.”
The two window-washers expertly waved their squeegees against the window. Montefiore became quiet; entranced with the way the soapy water oozed down the glass.
“Let’s get Stan up here, Randy. Let him explain. Maybe it’ll put your thoughts at ease.”
As Kenton dialed up his PRICE Commissar, Montefiore noticed the window washers were Mexicans—or something like that. He wondered how nice it would have been to open the window and push them off into a 58-story fall. He started batting the pen against his wrist.
————————————————————————-
Maybe it was because Saunders had recently watched a re-run of the movie, but in a nightmare, he’d imagined he woke up next to his own severed foot, like the horse’s head in “The Godfather.” Then, in waking, he became clumsy, as if he had lacked a foot —bumping into furniture, dropping things. Drinking more, he’d become increasingly vacant from his office, as he sequestered himself away in his apartment. His lingering image of old Maribelle, the once-upon-a-time whore who had nursed him back from his bottom almost two months before, also plagued his nightmares. It had been enough even to keep him away from his whores.
He’d also kept his distance from Randy Montefiore, to whom he’d become persona-non-grata. Every meeting Montefiore had alone with Premier Kenton was another clench to the heart of his chronic paranoia. One more day away from all the other shit on the outside, he’d convinced himself. Just one more day. Then, tomorrow: Just one more day.
He allowed another moment of silence until his inter office cell squawked out “You can’t always get what you want...”; that ring tone from Premier Kenton’s office. He put the phone to his ear but said nothing.
After a second or two, Kenton spoke: “Stan? Are you there?”
“Yes, sir,” Saunders croaked dryly; barely audible.
“Can you come on up here for a minute?”
This bolted him with a wave of dread. He never wanted Kenton to see him this way—so self-demolished. “Yes, sir. I’ll be right up.”
He straightened his tie and moved heavily toward his front door. His vision was caught by a card that must had been slipped through the mail slot while he was cowering away within his thoughts. It was a kid’s birthday card with a dancing pink and blue hippo on its cover. “What the fuck?” he muttered as he picked it up. He opened it and immediately recognized the innocuous block printing:
“Three...Soon...Three.”
————————————————————————-
Saunders shuffled into Kenton’s office as he tried to retain a semblance of professional demeanor. Montefiore noticed his color had drained. His forehead was dampened in sweat. His eyes were bloodshot. His hands trembled at his sides. All of this was proof to his point that the Commissar had come undone.
“Have a seat, Stan,” the Premier invited.
“Is it okay if I stand, sir?”
“Well, sure. If you want. Now, Randy tells me you’ve been acting a little out of touch, lately. Is everything okay?”
“I...think so, sir,” he replied weakly.
Montefiore gloated over Saunders’ show of weakness.
“Okay,” Kenton said. “I thought so.” He glanced at Montefiore. “We thought so. See, Randy? All is good.”
Montefiore saw that certainly, it wasn’t. Saunders was cracking—or maybe already cracked.
“How are your reports from your gulag tours coming along, Stan?” Kenton pressed. “Anything new? Any suggestions on how we can make our inmates any more...” he suffused a chuckle, “comfortable?”
“As if they weren’t comfortable enough. Right, Stan?” Montefiore said.
Saunders tried on a fleeting grimace of a smile. “Sure, Randy. Yeah.”
“Anyway,” Kenton said, “we think that because you’ve done such a great job, you deserve some time off. Maybe take a few weeks off in West Palm. Maybe learn a little golf. There’s nothing like some holes of golf to ease your mind. Isn’t that right, Randy?”
“Oh, yeah. Right. It really relaxes me.” Montefiore said lack-lustered.
“Would you like that, Stan?”
“I would, sir. But now I think my time is best spent here.”
“Ah!” Kenton said. “See that, Randy? Total dedication, that’s what’s needed around here.” He turned his attention back to Saunders. “So, Stan. You’re good?”
“I’m good, sir.”
“Well, then. That settles it. If you’re good; we’re all good. Right, Randy?”
Montefiore had become distracted by the squeaking of the squeegees against the glass. It annoyed him to all else, and he would like nothing more than to push those illegals off their platform to stop the noise.
“Randy?”
“Yeah, Al?”
“Are we good, now?”
“Yeah. Super-good,” he answered distantly with a rueful smile. “Real good.”
“Okay, then, Stan. You can get back to your reports. Can I have them by Friday?”
“Of course, Mr. Premier.”
“Okay, then, you can go.”
Montefiore stopped Saunders as he turned to leave. “Uh, Stan?”
“Yeah, Randy?”
“You, uh...you pissed yourself.”
Saunders looked down at the wet bloom in his pants-front and blushed from white to red. “Oh. Sorry,” he replied ashamedly, then sauntered back out of the office, with his hands fanned over the stain to hide it.
“So, Al. You still think he’s okay?”
Kenton regarded his answer. “Well, Randy? He’s been going though a lot, lately.”
“Uh-Hunh,” Montefiore said facetiously. “He has.”