'Tis the Season continued


A high-tech-looking brushed stainless semi-automatic pistol with rosewood grips takes up space next to the bottle of Cutty.  Another bad sign, unless Mulwray is considering a self-inflicted wound.

"Jack," Mulwray slurs,  "I want you to stay away from Grace."

"What are you talking about?"

"You heard me."

"You've been drinking."

"Don't try to change the subject.  Grace has expressed affection for me.  So it's time for you to move on."

"Or what?  You'll shoot me?"

"Don't tempt me, Jack."  His hand reaches forward, maybe for the glass of Scotch, maybe for the pistol.  A stream of sunlight breaks through the window behind Mulwray attacking my eyes like a swarm of yellow jackets.

I'm transported to a beach in North Africa.   An Algerian hothouse stud in navy blue Italian trunks offers to give me a blowjob at the special introductory price of 30 Dinars.  The sun glints off his gold front teeth.  I fire my Colt .45 indiscriminately in his direction.    

Back in Mulwray's office, when he reaches across the desk, I go blitzkrieg.  All the pent up anger from working in this garden of earthly delights for the last six years, kowtowing to morons like Mulwray, kissing ass twelve ways to Sunday when celebrities like Christina or Asia Argento visit the store, paddywhacking shoplifting gang-bangers.  And now Mulwray wants to muscle in on my love interest.  All this and more, gives rise to a tsunami of rage.  Ripping the Bose ® Wave ® music system from the side table and leaping onto Mulwray's desk, I smash the Bose against his bald dome again and again, like a shipwreck breaking against a reef, until the music player shatters in two.  With a small groan Mulwray slumps sideways.  Blood seeps from around his eyeballs; dribbles out of one nostril. 

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that he's dead.  Nevertheless I go through the motions of holding a small mirror in front of his nose and mouth.  But no condensation appears on the glass.  There's no pulse either.

Think fast dickhead, I say to myself.

A paparazzi flashbulb goes off in my brain.  

The answer is suicide.

I lock Mulwray's door.  Then call Karen and tell her in a workmanlike imitation of Mulwray's supercilious tone to take an early lunch and whatever extra time she needs to finish her Christmas shopping.  When I hear the elevator doors open and close, I know I'm halfway home.

Next I pry open the sash window behind Mulwray's desk.  It's been painted shut for centuries like a long forgotten Egyptian tomb.  But somehow I get it open.  Beyond is a stone ledge and low balustrade.  From the ledge it's a seven-story drop to the sidewalk.  Lucky number seven. 

Wrapped in his Hart Schaffner Marx trench coat, Mulwray's corpse barely fits through the window.  After he's resting lifeless on the ledge, I wipe up the blood where it's spattered on the desk, sweep the floor for scattered components of the shattered Bose and generally tidy up the office.  While I'm at it I finish off the fifth of Cutty.  Mulwray's Colt goes into my waistband, hidden by my suit jacket. 

Upon final inspection, everything looks pretty normal.  I consider writing a suicide note but there's no way, Jose, that I could even halfway duplicate Mulwray's illiterate chicken scratches.  Forgery was never my forte. 

Okay, here goes, I think.

Leaning out the window, I push and prod Mulwray's corpse to the edge of the ledge.  Then over he goes, followed by the two halves of the Bose.  I count the seconds in my head: one thousand one, one thousand two.  The scream of brakes, horns blaring, the wail of a distant siren.

Quickly I cross to the door of Mulwray's office, unlatch and open it, wipe down the doorknob with my cotton handkerchief. 

The executive floor is deserted.  Walking past the elevator I arrive at the stairwell door and punch in the code that unlocks it.  Toi et Moi, a song written and made famous by Charles Aznavour, the Parisian Frank Sinatra, plays over and over in my head as I take the stairs two steps at a time.

When I reach the first floor, I'm nearly breathless.  I open the security door a crack.  The main floor is crowded with beautiful women, some in furs, inspecting the shelves and racks of merchandise.  Slipping through a slightly wider crack, I walk quickly to the nearest exit and out onto the sidewalk.

To the left, where Mulwray's body ripped through a canvas awning above the first floor display windows before slamming into the pavement, all is chaos.  Cops, firemen, medics, rubberneckers, pickpockets, kibitzers, tourists, gawkers, ne'er-do-wells, kingpins and a pair of hookers who just arrived from the Dominican Republic.  It's a rave party. 

I turn and walk in the opposite direction.

[Cut to West 44th Street, same day, evening]

Grace graces my arm as we cross the gaudy lobby of the Algonquin Hotel and are shown to a table in the Oak Room supper club and cabaret.  The crowd is light but it's still early.

We order drinks and a cheese plate.

"This ain't Paris, Jack.  But it'll do for tonight," says Grace.

"Gee, thanks."

The piano player is working his way through an old Randy Newman tune. 

I lean close and nibble Grace's ear lobe.  She squirms away and jams another chunk of cheddar between her lips.

"Were you cozy with Mulwray?" I ask.

She gives me a raised eyebrow look, like: where did that idea come from?

"I'd never sleep around on you, baby."

Some relationships thrive on dishonesty.

I excuse myself and trudge to the men's room.  After a monumental whiz, I adjust the knot of my tie, rub some fresh gel in my hair and chomp down a breath mint.  After what happened at work today I really, really need to get laid.

But when I walk back into the cabaret Grace is leaning over the end of the piano giving the piano player a panoramic view of her famous cleavage.  She says something just under the sound radar.  The piano player smiles and gives her a knowing wink. 

Mulwray's piece is still tucked in my waist.  I have a sudden yen to shoot the piano player.  But it dissipates like cigarette smoke into thin air.

Faute de mieux, I grapple the passing waitress decked out in a frilly French maid's outfit, surrounding her petite waist and hoisting her into my lap.  She squirms and wriggles like a tropical squall.

"Oh, monsieur, zees eze naut permitted."

I force my lips on hers. 

From out of the wild blue yonder, a hand slams the side of my head.  I see stars, galaxies, universes.  The waitress scurries for cover.

As the shockwaves subside I shake my head like an over-the-hill prizefighter at the end of the third round of his next to last fight. 

We're the center of attention.  Even the piano player has stopped tinkling his keys.  I stand and look deep into Grace's baby blues.

"This place is for queers and commies," I say.  "I don't know about you, peaches, but I'm starving.  Let's catch a cab down to Mott Street and grab a plate of chop suey at that Chinois dive we always go to."

It's as if a dark cloud has passed and the sun has burst forth anew.  A beatific smile suffuses Grace's lips.  She takes my arm.

"Baby, that's the best idea I've heard all day.  Let's go to Chinatown."    

[Fade to black]

FIN