Read Online The Franchiser by Stanley Elkin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stanley Elkin
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straight-back chair—a chair like a chair at a dinner table—near one of the staggered, tall, smoked mirrors that offered the room the illusion of several entrances.
He had not looked at the books but had a pretty good notion of how things were. He could tell from the music—or lack of it—that business was bad. In the old days he could stand in the Office of Admissions and hear fox-trot, bossa nova, cha-cha, waltz, polka, rhumba, and tango rhythms coming from record players in the private instruction studios. It had been like being in a bazaar where many tongues were spoken. Now only the “Carousel Waltz” wafted through the thin wallboard of one of the private instruction studios. After sitting a moment he got up and went back into the Office of Admissions.
“For God’s sake,” he told Luis, his Latin rhythms instructor, who was working the switchboard, “it’s like a morgue in there. Why isn’t there any music in the ballroom?”
“Overhead.”
“Suppose the phone rings? If there were music the caller would hear it in the background. He might think something’s happening here.”
“I got that FM you brung last time. It’s tuned to this all-music station, just like you said. If the phone rings I turn it on.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t a good idea. Suppose there’s a commercial? I think we should go back to the old system.”
“Sure, Mr. Flesh. What do you want to hear?”
“What is it, you do requests? I don’t care. It’s too quiet. Turn on the stereo. Where’s Clara?”
“Clara’s still back there with the waltzer.”
“And Hope and Jenny? Where’s Al?” Al was his other male instructor.
“Jenny and Hope are around somewhere. I think they’re doing each other’s hair for the gala. You want me to get them?”
“No, the phone might ring. How many do we expect at the gala tonight?”
“Gee, Mr. Flesh, I can’t say. There’s the Fishers, they’ll be here. Runley said he was coming. Johnson and—”
“You can name them? My God, you can name them? It’s bad as that? That’s terrible.”
Luis nodded.
“Where’s Al?”
“Al went to get cookies for the gala.”
“Cookies.”
“It’s pretty quiet, Mr. Flesh. The old people stay in their condominiums. Those buildings got social directors who teach them the steps. A lot are afraid to come downtown. It’s different times, Mr. Flesh.”
Flesh nodded. “Here,” he said. He took his Diners Club card out of his wallet. “Run down to Fritzel’s. Have them make up a tray of sliced turkey. Get roast beef, too. Rare. Tell them rare. Make it so we can serve at least fifty people.”
“There won’t be no fifty people, Mr. Flesh,” Luis said.
“They can take what’s left over in fucking doggy bags!” Flesh roared. “I’m feeding fifty people! The gala’s at nine, right?”
“Nine, yes, sir. Nine.”
“It’s not yet eight. All right, give the guy ten bucks. Let him bring the stuff over and set it up for us. When you’re through at Fritzel’s, cross over to Don the Beachcomber and have them do us some hot hors d’oeuvres. They deliver?”
“No, sir, and Don the Beachcomber ain’t no take-out joint either, Mr. Flesh.”
“Luis,” Flesh said, “I got five people working for me—you, Clara, Al, Jenny, and Hope. One is off somewhere buying cookies and two are having their hair done. Now if a busy guy like me with a hot commercial property like the Fred Astaire Dance Studio can let his personnel crap around on company time, Mr. Beachcomber can send someone in a rickshaw with the hors d’oeuvres. Here, give him twenty bucks. I want the stuff at nine-thirty. Liquor, what about liquor?”
“We ain’t licensed, Mr. Flesh.”
“I ain’t selling, Trini, I’m giving it away. Martinis. Scotch. Bourbon. And plenty of ice. I don’t want to run out of ice.”
“Jesus,” Luis said. “Holy shit.”
“Goddamn,” said Flesh, “that’s brilliant, Babaloo. Can you lay your hands on some pot?”
“ Pot?
He had not looked at the books but had a pretty good notion of how things were. He could tell from the music—or lack of it—that business was bad. In the old days he could stand in the Office of Admissions and hear fox-trot, bossa nova, cha-cha, waltz, polka, rhumba, and tango rhythms coming from record players in the private instruction studios. It had been like being in a bazaar where many tongues were spoken. Now only the “Carousel Waltz” wafted through the thin wallboard of one of the private instruction studios. After sitting a moment he got up and went back into the Office of Admissions.
“For God’s sake,” he told Luis, his Latin rhythms instructor, who was working the switchboard, “it’s like a morgue in there. Why isn’t there any music in the ballroom?”
“Overhead.”
“Suppose the phone rings? If there were music the caller would hear it in the background. He might think something’s happening here.”
“I got that FM you brung last time. It’s tuned to this all-music station, just like you said. If the phone rings I turn it on.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t a good idea. Suppose there’s a commercial? I think we should go back to the old system.”
“Sure, Mr. Flesh. What do you want to hear?”
“What is it, you do requests? I don’t care. It’s too quiet. Turn on the stereo. Where’s Clara?”
“Clara’s still back there with the waltzer.”
“And Hope and Jenny? Where’s Al?” Al was his other male instructor.
“Jenny and Hope are around somewhere. I think they’re doing each other’s hair for the gala. You want me to get them?”
“No, the phone might ring. How many do we expect at the gala tonight?”
“Gee, Mr. Flesh, I can’t say. There’s the Fishers, they’ll be here. Runley said he was coming. Johnson and—”
“You can name them? My God, you can name them? It’s bad as that? That’s terrible.”
Luis nodded.
“Where’s Al?”
“Al went to get cookies for the gala.”
“Cookies.”
“It’s pretty quiet, Mr. Flesh. The old people stay in their condominiums. Those buildings got social directors who teach them the steps. A lot are afraid to come downtown. It’s different times, Mr. Flesh.”
Flesh nodded. “Here,” he said. He took his Diners Club card out of his wallet. “Run down to Fritzel’s. Have them make up a tray of sliced turkey. Get roast beef, too. Rare. Tell them rare. Make it so we can serve at least fifty people.”
“There won’t be no fifty people, Mr. Flesh,” Luis said.
“They can take what’s left over in fucking doggy bags!” Flesh roared. “I’m feeding fifty people! The gala’s at nine, right?”
“Nine, yes, sir. Nine.”
“It’s not yet eight. All right, give the guy ten bucks. Let him bring the stuff over and set it up for us. When you’re through at Fritzel’s, cross over to Don the Beachcomber and have them do us some hot hors d’oeuvres. They deliver?”
“No, sir, and Don the Beachcomber ain’t no take-out joint either, Mr. Flesh.”
“Luis,” Flesh said, “I got five people working for me—you, Clara, Al, Jenny, and Hope. One is off somewhere buying cookies and two are having their hair done. Now if a busy guy like me with a hot commercial property like the Fred Astaire Dance Studio can let his personnel crap around on company time, Mr. Beachcomber can send someone in a rickshaw with the hors d’oeuvres. Here, give him twenty bucks. I want the stuff at nine-thirty. Liquor, what about liquor?”
“We ain’t licensed, Mr. Flesh.”
“I ain’t selling, Trini, I’m giving it away. Martinis. Scotch. Bourbon. And plenty of ice. I don’t want to run out of ice.”
“Jesus,” Luis said. “Holy shit.”
“Goddamn,” said Flesh, “that’s brilliant, Babaloo. Can you lay your hands on some pot?”
“ Pot?
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