Ed Note: This is the second of a Christmas trilogy. John Davis Collins says, " In reading all of the trilogy remember that I loathe Christmas because the stories are true."The Inditer Christmas Page
To Save The Throne Casualties of War
A Humbug Tale - A Salute to Ebeneezer Scrooge
by John Davis Collins @1999 All Rights Reserved By John F. Clennan, Esq.
Adapted from the unplublished novel Dream Street.
It was dark when I returned to 350 Dream Street, a Romanesque villa sandwiched between towers of glass and steel. The small patch of gravel and grass about our pretty little monument to the past was overrun with cars; so too were the mean macadam black tops attached to the office buildings next door. I had to trudge a mile across the muddy shoulders of the upstart hub as Christmas revelers tossed bottles of empty cheer from passing cars at my feet.
How I hated Christmas, particularly this one. "Couldn't we have declared a truce in the dirty little litigation war instead?" I had declared in a moment of exasperation when I heard of plans for this party.
My tall slender colleague Gale Peterson from behind a goading smile had reported, "No magic in Christmas? Everybody's dream! A fantasy fed by the outer reaches of the imagination."
"You describe our rolly Polly boss Richard Santava perfectly," I snarled. "His dream may become our nightmare."
Gale merely reached for a chain around her neck, which held a pocket watch.
When I finally stood on the gravel oval in front of Dream Street, the door was open and the shades were up.
I told my colleague Gale of the boss' plans for the part, with a snarl, "The boss thinks he can cut a million dollar deal for the mortgage company that he allows to free load in our space."
"They're as happy," Gale gasped, "to take his money as his supplies, space and telephone."
"We must make a rear guard action to preserve the throne." I declared. The freeloaders the mortgage people brought with them blocked the foyer and were pulsating across the checkerboard floor to the circle around Rick where Rick stood with the out of town banker and tiny black capped Roxanna Little their local operative.
"Why" I had asked Rick, "hold a Christmas party for them? Revenues are down at Christmas … there's no wills, real estate closings … and that mortgage bank hasn't brought in a single two-bit notarization ... much less the promise of …"
I pushed my way into the party I wished I could have avoided. Just past the entrance, waitresses in white blouses over black skirts plied through the celebrants. My entrance reminded me of patrols on the mountain passes of Korea, one never knew when to expect the enemy.
Beforehand, Gale has asked me why I spoke of the party in military terms. "It's war in different form … you never know where you'll find the enemy and there will be casualties."
"Hopefully," Gale replied, "not us."
"Or Rick," I added. "I can ill afford to see Ricky so swept up in this vision lose the throne." Gale's peek at the time piece around her neck reminded me that life augured me precious few further second chances … in a career of bouncing from one failure to the next. First they said it was the war, then the drink, soon they'd say age … "We have to uphold the throne; we must." I resolved.
Just inside the kingdom, I declined a drink offered me. "None for me …" I looked to the center of the checkerboard floor where Rick stood with the bank executive. Roxanne Little stood in the background like a Red Army Sniper ready to pounce.
"But," the waitress protested, "pure as the springs of the Italian Swiss Alps."
The swirls of cross currents drew the waitress into play on the checkerboard floor and sent me face to face with Bill Velma, Rick's former law partner. "War has an advantage over a party like this … you can hunt the enemy … you don't have to be polite to him." I had told Gale. "The things I had to do … to save the throne."
Gale checked the timepiece dangling from a gold chain about her neck. "The party will be a free fire zone in a battle for the paper throne .. We already lost the rod of paper clips … the free loading mortgage bankers already seized that."
Yet over my protests Rick ordered everybody invited. "But Bill Velma, your former law partner tossed you out … six months ago … without so much as a good day to you, Sir." I had argued. Yet I was still surprised to see bearded Bill within the sanctity of our realm.
In the military, one must weigh all contingencies. Losses occur when assumptions are made. If only Laura, Rick's faithful secretary, hadn't thrown out the invitation, as she vowed she would.
"Bill," I recovered from shock as I looked at him suspiciously. I could feel my eyes narrowing and my teeth gritting involuntarily. "You're of course welcome!"
Bill studies his drink. "It's only business. Rick understands."
"Law is about love, money and people's rights. That sounds very personal to me." I declared.
Our face off was averted by a waitress who offered drinks "as delicate as the spray from the Trivoli fountain."
I worked further up the corridor toward the refuge of the kitchen, but found myself facing Joe Currens, Rick's elusive financial backer. Fortunately, looking toward Velma, from behind a liquor stained pink visage, Currens quipped. "At least Benedict Arnold had the good grace to call himself the real American …"
"Business is played in the center of the checkerboard. Why do you cling to the shadows of the sidelines?" I queried.
"Staying out of the play until the moment I'm needed … if that comes." Currens retorted.
Currens reached another drink from a tray offered by a smiling waitress with the expression "Holy as the baptismal font in old St. Peter's."
Raising one eyebrow, Currens asked in a challenging tone, "Joining me?" I demurred. "I gave up the booze …" I added with a sigh, "along with the art of small talking my way through sitz-kreigs with a pretense to congeniality."
Currens laughed so hard he sprayed his drink. Composing himself, Currens exclaimed, "Social occasions are warfare concealed. Some prefer it more honest." Currens raised his drink in salute. In a whisper he added, "if you make it to the checkerboard floor, protect the Queen of battle."
I laughed. Currens like me often spoke in military terms, though he was dedicated to a different cause and different battle. He was honest … especially, when he told you he didn't like Americans much. Could he be trusted? I laughed, only as far as anyone else vying for the elusive throne should be.
A waitress' enchanting smile came between Currens and me. "As refreshing as wild white water," was her offer. I was carried further down the corridor toward the kitchen.
"Roxanne Little!" I exclaimed at a small woman swirling toward the other wing of the villa.
"Mr. Duke, John Duke, Esq., age 60, former Sergeant U.S. Army, Korea. Bottom of your class in a no-name law school … the bankers would want better quality in this law firm as a condition of further dealings …"
I granted, "And when your mortgage company can afford its own rent, telephone, paper clips maybe it can buy some better lawyers." I laughed as the witch vanished in a swirl of her cape.
I signed. Rick, our boss, the dreamer believed these people could produce millions. I had warned Rick against the party.
"There's much about the world today … I don't understand … mergers … consolidations … spin offs … it makes as much sense as buying an over priced house and selling the backyard and garage to pay for it … he who builds dream castles in the sky inherits the whirlwinds of heaven."
Rick was lost in the dream. Maybe his secretary of many years could talk some sense to him.
A passing waitress offered a drink, "as redeeming as the holy water in St. Pat's."
I would have collapsed in laughter … or tears, but my sleeve was tugged by Laura, the dark haired secretary of the firm.
While the invitations were piled on Laura's desk at the head of the checkerboard floor, the impressive entrance to our start up firm, I had lobbied with Laura to talk Ricky out of the party.
"He's lost in the dream. Maybe if he wakes up in a hangover he'll come to his senses." Laura had snipped back at me.
In the present, a blond haired waitress offered a drink "as sweet as the grapes from a Sicilian Don's garden."
Laura giggled as she reached for another drink clumsily almost tipping over the entire tray.
"What funny farm did I walk in on !" I declared. "Laura you've already had too many …"
Every good NCO or subordinate deserves a three-day drink … now and then but never in the heat of battle.
"Don't be a fuddy duddy tonight." Laura slurped her drink in a gulp. I grabbed Laura by the arm and forced a path to the relative sanctuary of the kitchen.
Gale Petrowski stood alone in the kitchen looking at her watch, which dangled from a gold chain around her neck. When she looked up, her eyes light up and her auburn curls seemed to dance. "Oh, John, rescue me … let's say we have a date and leave …"
At that moment a waitress passed by with "excellent grape right from the Papal wine cellar."
Before I could stop Laura, she had gargled another drink.
I scanned the ceiling in an appeal to heaven. "Have we turned over the firm to psychiatric inmates?"
"A puerile point," Gale flicked her eyebrows, "Rick chose to make. Why and for whom that's you guess." Gale widened her eyes to set piercing brown against pure white for emphasis. "Go up to Rick say hello. We'll pour our secretarial casualty home." Rick the dreamer was captivated by the dream that could become our nightmare. At my age, Roxanna had candidly pointed out, there were no more second chances.
Nudging my way from the kitchen to the checkerboard floor, where rolly polly Rick stood with an out of town bank executive Rick looked out across the checkerboard floor at the glare of envious cupititors. The out of towner drawled. "Mr. John Dukes, you about the only lawyer here who ain't tried to lick the trail-dust off my old raw hide saddle."
I shot back a look of disgust. "Sergeant Dukes to you … I work for a living … and my working day is done … so good night to you, Sir."
"John is a bit heretical … he believes in hard money …" Rick laughed. "Fast hot fillies too?" The executive drawled.
As I walked away Bill Velma approached Rick from the other side of the checkerboard floor.
"As sanctified as grapes blessed by His Holiness," an angelic voice chanted. Back in the kitchen, Gale was leaning against a table with arms crossed across her chest. Laura's head was on the table.
A waitress offered a drink "right from the Pope's chalice." Before I could move one step forward, Laura had jumped up, grabbed the drink and belted it down.
Laura slurred. "These people talk funny …" To the waitress who disappeared down the corridor, Laura yelled, "wait … I got one just as funny … personally stomped by the Pope's Swiss Guards …"
"In their combat boots" Gale suggested with a bemused, seductive smile. "Yeah," Laura doubled over in laughter. Her face flushed crimson. "In their combat boots … what are they stomping … grapes or …" Laura slammed her drink down on the table. A crackling sound broke the air. "The floor is spinning … get Swiss Guards to stomp more grapes … from the vinegar of an Italian don … Holy water from St. Michael's; St. Patrick …"
"Sparkling as the backwash in the Hudson River." Gale interjected. Laura fell into my arms as she continued to babble some kind of literary, " … St. Joseph pray for us … now and at the hour …"
I looked toward the hallway. "Help me get her to my office … no one's looking … what are you just standing there for?"
Gale casually replaced her drink on the table and checked her timepiece before she firmly grabbed Laura's legs and said, "Not yet midnight and we have casualty number one."
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