Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Read online

  ***

  "Grilled rock lobster salad," Bridgework said from the opposite end of the table, "is the finest way to begin a meal. Would you agree, Baron, or would you prefer an argument?"

  We sat on the patio and, in the simmering rays of the setting sun, Bridgework looked much improved in contrast to his afternoon debut. "You, sir, will receive no quarrel from this quarter. Quite delicious."

  "I think it's the touch of balsamic mixed with the olive oil," he said, stabbing a fork at his plate as though spear-fishing, shaking the catch in the air before him. "Naturally, the success of this dish rests on the freshness of the greens, especially the peppers."

  "Agreed." The appetizer revived my energy and verve, shifting me into a pleasing mood. Too, Bridgework arranged our settings at a comfortable distance and I was able to observe the entire surroundings with ease. "The quality of such nourishment and the pleasantry of these grounds surely brings together even the most hostile points of view."

  Bridgework laughed, taking the opportunity to wipe his distinguished facial features with a silk napkin. "And all along I thought Stinky Kornblatt was the only low level diplomat Trotters was capable of producing. Look at you, poking an olive branch into a hornet's nest."

  "Surely it beats a sharpened branch of olives in one's eye," I countered. Dining with a cynic guaranteed a most miserable gastronomic experience. "Still, you must agree this offers an opportunity to discuss what investors can expect from Woolamaloo, yes?"

  "If you were an investor, which you are not, you could find such information in our quarterly reports. Better yet, our website's information is updated daily. I expect better of you, von dek Horn. You're reputation is such that you're not considered some garden variety lotus-eater. At least, not yet."

  I chuckled in an attempt to deflate the hot air balloon Bridgework guided my way. "I believe the same assessment can be applied to you, sport. The data appearing in your mailings, as well as digital press releases spun by your P.R. department, amounts to less than the odious goop found in the proverbial barnyard crock. And, I can assure you, it's not butter that's being churned out."

  "An interesting observation. Permit me to focus the picture for you. My private life is entirely separate from the business I perform in the Loo." He stopped to savor a piece of the tender crustacean. "Pass that along to Sondheim like a good errand boy, will you?"

  "Again, we differ in opinion. The general perception, Mr. Bridgework, is that you are the Loo. All your money, influence and ownership make the Loo what it is today. When the Piggybanks of the world look at the Loo, it's your face they see."

  "And if I were to suddenly retire? Disappear from view?"

  Stymied for a moment, I prodded around a few leaves of lettuce before unearthing another succulent piece of sea meat. Retirement was an action only briefly considered in my analysis. Tread carefully, old lad. "You would still remain reigning over the Loo, if only with the titular standing of president emeritus. What you do in retirement would have a greater effect on the Loo's global financial impact, even more so than that of your present active role."

  "Perhaps not, Baron."

  As our salad bowls were whisked away by servers, Chip/Silly skimmed across the yard swinging a pair of ski poles as though schussing in the Alps. Clad only in the khaki shorts he wore earlier he continued his pseudo-skiing up onto the patio, narrowly avoiding the table as he would a rogue mogul. I nodded my approval as he entered the open doors, the final gate in a long run.

  "See what I put up with? See?"

  "Well executed, too, I might add."

  "He's driving me crazy! The single most reason why I itch all over. There's not a nerve pill in the universe that can cure the illness he brings on."

  "For instance?"

  "Refrigerator doors left open. Cars parked sideways in the drive. Golf clubs left in the bathtub. Conversations interrupted. Obsession with fire. A compulsion to constantly purchase plaid clothing."

  "Helpful if he's buying off season."

  "That's not helpful at all! His attire constantly clashes with the simple dignity of my tuxedos or the cool tones of a Monte Carlo casino." Bridgework sighed. "Up north, in winter, it's doors left open during subzero weather, lights left on in every room and the television volume turned up to earsplitting levels."

  "Surely of little economic inconvenience to you."

  "Worse than that. It's an imposition on my sanity. Von dek Horn, you're in over your head. Your level of comprehension on this matter stopped far short of the runway."

  "That being the case, why don't you take matters into your own hands and rid yourself of the irritant?" A server placed a dish of jerked pork, steamed cabbage and ackee in front me that was absolutely mouthwatering, my veneration of Mrs. Potsdam's talents notwithstanding. "Surely a man of your station determines his associates."

  "Unfortunately, he's family."

  "By extension, yes. But still, isn't there an assignment you could send him on? Such as the collection and cataloging of endangered butterflies in the Australian outback?"

  "He's to provide me with an heir, a continuance of the Bridgework dynasty."

  I tried to strike a positive chord. "Have your daughter accompany him. I understand the aboriginal fertility dances are terrifically original and highly effective."

  "She wouldn't last three minutes past the final rest station."

  "These dances are considered quite short in duration. It wouldn't take much."

  "You bring no solutions at all," Bridgework scoffed. "Exactly as I told Sondheim. What could be expected of a Trotters --"

  His issuance of uncalled for judgment was truncated by the entrance of a young woman who appeared to have stepped out of a freshly opened time capsule sealed in the summer months of 1959. Her blond hair was gathered into prominent pigtails, each sporting a red ribbon, accentuating her round and innocent looking face. She wore a white blouse underneath a blue sweater, the latter emblazed with the felt patch letter "B" on the left breast. Below the ruffled hem of her red plaid skirt rose a pair of knee-high white bobbysox covered at the very bottom by shiny black buckle shoes. I instantly stood up, realizing her presence offered new ground to be plowed between Bridgework and myself.

  "Ah," I said cordially, taking her hand and applying a brief kiss to it while tapping one heel to the polished flooring, "it is my pleasure to greet you, Miss Angelica Formica de Corcoran Bridgework Shumway. Or may I call you Angel?"

  She fluttered her blue eyes at me and giggled before inflating an enormous pink bubble of chewing gum between her ruby red lips. Bridgework's grimace was, from the corner of my eye, plainly obvious.

  "This is my personal assistant, you fool."

  "April Après," the young lady offered, popping the bubble and allowing its remnants to disappear behind her smile. "Please to meet you, Mr. Horn."

  "Miss Après," I said, attempting to extract myself from the clumsiness of my initial introduction. "And the name's von dek Horn. Baron von dek Horn."

  "Do you know what I bring?"

  "I can well imagine," I replied, not wanting to blindly wade into yet another social mud puddle.

  "Mrs. Bridgework for the main course."

  As if cued for her grand entrance, Ethelene Cartier Bridgework floated through the door, her brilliant presence sweeping away the detritus of my conversation with her husband and the clumsy encounter with his personal assistant.

  "Well, my, my, if it isn’t the esteemed Baron von dek Horn."

  "Ah," I said cordially, taking her hand and applying a brief kiss to it while tapping one heel to the polished flooring, "it is my pleasure to greet you, Mrs. Bridgework. Or shall I call you Ethelene?"

  "And who said gentlemanly manners were lost to the days of yore?"

  "I’m not sure, Mrs. B., but I can Google it to see what comes up."

  "Not necessary, April," she responded with a brief smile, "the source is my husband."

  "Really, Ethelene," Bridgework said with disgust, balling up his
napkin only to unfold it again onto his lap. "Shall we save the sniping until after dinner?"

  "So, Baron," Ethelene continued, ignoring his remark, "you’ve been hired to save our family."

  "Not necessarily, Mrs. Bridgework. I’ve --"

  "He’s an overpriced errand boy, Ethelene," Bridgework interrupted. "Contracted to consult on a regular basis by that seedy old feather pillow Sondheim. No surprise there."

  "Consulting? Really?" Ethelene used her fork to reorganize the food on her plate. "On what topic, may I ask?"

  "I’m hired to," I started, before switching course, "my purpose is to process information, formulate a plan of action and, ultimately, bring my assignment to a successful conclusion."

  "Really? Conclusions? Bringing closure to people sounds like a rather trite business. A modern day Good Samaritan who might actually break the law to fulfill his duty."

  "I can assure you, Mrs. Bridgework, that I --"

  "Couldn’t find a law to break," Bridgework once more tread upon my line. "Tell us your old motto, Baron, the one used for years on your calling card."

  "I was fresh out of university then," I mildly protested, caught off-guard by Bridgework's knowledge of a small and prickly skeleton in my closet. "Young and keen on my new venture. The intent of that particular saying meant I would endeavor to locate whatever required finding, is all."

  "Speak the words to us, dear Baron," he demanded. "You splashed them on your business papers, letterhead and envelopes. You even reproduced the expression in the foreword of your first book."

  "Yes, please Baron. I’m itching to know, really I am." Ethelene stared at me with all the innocence of a fair maiden as April popped her gum loudly.

  "It was this," I offered with a degree of timidity. "'Both hands and a flashlight.'"

  "Both hands and a flashlight!" Bridgework roared, eliciting a burst of giggles from April, her pigtails dangling back and forth like errant participles typed within a high school essay.

  I lifted my chin with a certain pride. "I take comfort in Shaw’s belief that the more a man has to be ashamed of, the more respectable he is."

  "In your case, let’s hope it is so." Bridgework laughed once again, appearing to finally be enjoying the evening’s company.

  A silence followed, allowing me to retreat within my psychological fortress in order to rejuvenate the supply of energy required to continue wrestling with my host and hostess. Though I had not anticipated this venture would be an easy task, neither had I expected to be repeatedly dunked in an onrushing tsunami of vileness. The thought of an a.m. flight back to the mainland grew in its appeal, though I was unwilling to give up the jug right at this particular juncture. Maintain, old fella, maintain. And maintain I would.

  "Do you believe in immortality, Baron?" Ethelene asked mid-bite of steaming cabbage.

  "To live forever in one sense or another? Of course, I do."

  "I meant being eternal in human form right here on earth." She adjusted her gaze to Bridgework. "Living forever on this planet."

  "I would say the probability is low, given it has yet to be accomplished. Besides, there might be other sights proving more interesting to see and experience."

  "Wayland’s pursuing the concept of everlasting human life. In fact, it’s all he has left to conquer."

  My overt surprise at learning this heretofore unknown enhanced Bridgework's snarling at his wife. "It’s a subject few can grasp, least of all our unexpected guest. For the sake of lucidity, please don’t pursue the topic."

  "I was only offering up your latest hobby and obsession."

  "Offer something else."

  Without missing a beat, Ethelene broadcast her message using a different frequency. "Baron, isn’t your brother the head of the new union of churches in the States?"

  "I thank you for asking, Mrs. Bridgework. Actually, I’m an only child. It’s my cousin Brother von dek Horn who has been in the theological spotlight of late."

  "Do you attend services, Baron, if I may inquire?"

  "Naturally."

  "Gosh," Ethelene snapped her fingers twice, "the name of the church doesn’t come to mind right away. It’s, it’s --"

  "Google it, Mrs. B?"

  "It’s, it’s, it’s," Ethelene continued, not heeding April’s offer of help with the guessing game.

  I drew a deep breath. "It’s the Cascopalic Church, madam. An attempt at setting right the centuries old asunder between Henry the Eighth and Pope Clement the Seventh. At the time, you see, England narrowly outscored Rome."

  "How fascinating, wouldn’t you say, dear?"

  Bridgework grunted and continued pulling his pork.

  "And do Cascopalic’s believe in eternal life?"

  "We do. The Cascopalic’s hold a semiannual meeting you may have knowledge of. It's a gregariously verbal affair known as the Lambaste Conference. I chair the Council of Prayerful Unified Laity and Teaching Ecclesiastics. Our agenda is filled with a variety of topics, most of which seek to draw the best ideals from both the Catholic and Anglican churches --"

  "Oh my word! Now he’s a spiritual seamstress, stitching together two warring factions in the name of a faceless supreme being!" As Bridgework leaned back, a small oblong medallion attached to a necklace emerged from inside his collar.

  His outburst chastened my ebullition to discuss the state of the ongoing Cascopalic reformation. "I apologize for raising the issue of my religion so obliquely and I do not intend to instigate a ruction over such a personal topic. Mrs. Bridgework's initial inquiry was on the religion's belief in eternal life. My answer is yes."

  "You'll no more find eternal life going into a building once a week than you'd find it tucked beneath a seashell on the beach." Bridgework shoved himself back from the table and drew up to a full measure. "I, on the other hand, am willed to discover what has eluded mankind since the inception of practical science. And this right here," he added forcefully while tugging at what appeared to be a cheap piece of plastic, "contains more value than any religious icon produced over the centuries."

  "Humankind," I suggested. "Women haven't found the source of eternal human life, either." I had another quick glimpse of the befuddling medallion before Bridgework shoved it back beneath the fabric of his shirt.

  "Regardless. April, I'm ready to provide dictation in the lower bungalow. Make sure your steno pad is prepared." Bridgework strode across the open foyer to an ornate humidor placed upon the top of a bookcase and rummaged for a cigar. "Von dek Horn, enjoy your abridged stay. Begone tomorrow, there's a good fellow." Igniting his smoke with a single match, he departed down the steps and disappeared into the jumble of hedges below.

  "Well."

  "Don't take it personally, Baron. He's working on his memoir."

  "For someone who's planning to live forever? It must be appearing in serialized form." I sipped my water and pondered this new information, unmentioned in any material Sondheim supplied. Bridgework aims to defy the natural order at the cost to those invested in the Loo. Seeking a cure to avoid the inevitable was truly a red flag flying aloft one's madness. "Mrs. Bridgework, would you say your husband's fear of death has become obsessive? More so, has his behavior been excessive in this department?"

  "Baron," she replied, tipping her wine glass and draining the final drop, "life is too short and unpredictable to give a rat's ass about Wayland's activities, whether they be investing in a permanent life bubble or orating in April's lower bungalow. What I do find imperative, though, is that tonight you and I go dancing!" She leapt from the table, snapping her fingers in the air above her head while scuffling her shoes along the stonework.

  I gulped hard at the news. Mortality, simmering gently on the back burner all evening, suddenly became the hottest dish being served.