A Commodore of Errors (8 page)

“I want a Jew admiral,” Mogie said.

Mogie threw out this tidbit as soon as the Commodore entered his plush office in Great Neck City Hall. Mogie sat in a high-backed chair behind his desk, puffing on a cigar. Smoke swirled around his head. The desk itself was situated on a platform raised a foot off the floor. The combined effect was to make the five-foot-two-and-a-quarter-inch Mogie look more imposing than he really was. Mogie directed the Commodore to take the seat in front of his desk. The Commodore sank into the small stuffed chair and looked up at the cloud of smoke on the platform.

“I am afraid that is impossible,” the Commodore said, remaining calm in the face of this outrageous demand.

“What's so impossible about it?”

“Because the superintendent of the United States Merchant Marine Academy needs seagoing experience as master aboard a U.S. merchant vessel. It is a requirement. It is right there in the academy by-laws.”

“That wacko Johnson was captain of a ship?”

“For six months, believe it or not,” the Commodore said. “A chemical tanker.”

“Wow,” Mogie said. “What a scary thought.”

What was scary was the way this meeting was going.

“There's no reason to be scared,” the Commodore said. “I am perfectly capable of assuming the job of superintendent. I was master of the MV
Kings Pointer
, the academy training vessel, so I fully satisfy the academy's requirements for work experience. If we stay together on this, we shall achieve our objectives. It is gut-check time, Mr. Mayor. It's best we remain calm and live up to our prearranged agreement.”

“No,” Mogie said, his face all but invisible behind by the cigar smoke. “I want a Jew admiral, end of story.”

“I was under the distinct impression that we had a deal,” the Commodore said as evenly as he could. “You needed me to set up the meeting with Miss Conrad. After the inevitable peccadillo, Johnson would be dismissed, and I would replace him. I thought we were clear on that.”

“Yes, but the thing is, Johnson didn't pull out his johnson on Miss Conrad. He pulled it out on Mitzi, see what I mean?”

“No. In fact I do not see what you mean.”

Mogie stood up and came out from behind the smoke. “Look, the fact is, the meeting you arranged didn't work. Miss Conrad turned out to be a dud. Mitzi did it all on her own. I don't need you anymore. You're out.”

The Commodore was stunned. They had a deal! And Mogie was reneging. The Commodore needed Mogie's help in getting rid of Johnson—he needed an outsider like Mogie to demand the resignation. Otherwise, Johnson's cronies would sweep his shenanigans under the rug and return to business as usual. In return for Mogie's help, the Commodore would cut Mogie in on the business of running the academy. As admiral, he would outsource nonessential services to businesses established by Mogie—landscaping, dry cleaning, plumbing, snow removal. The dry cleaning business alone would be worth millions. For years, the only thing that stood between the Commodore and the superintendent's job was Johnson. Now, with Johnson all but removed, there was yet another obstacle in his path.

The Commodore needed time to think, time to sort out his next move. He would have to placate Mogie the best he could for the time being.

“Very well, then,” the Commodore said. “I see I've been bested by a superior adversary.” The Commodore extricated himself from the little chair as gracefully as he could. He stood up, clicked his heels, and bowed before Mogie's platform.

“Good day, Mr. Mayor.”

With that, the Commodore tucked his hat under his arm and marched out of Mogie's office.

STICKS, STEPPERS,
AND STOOLS

“N
ot one of them Jew boys went to sea?” Mogie asked. He was lying on the couch in the love shack above the dry cleaners with Mitzi's head in his lap. They were both naked.

“No,” Mitzi said. “Commander katzenberg said Jewish mothers want their boys to grow up and become doctors and lawyers. He says he never heard of a Jewish mother saying, ‘If only my boy could be a seaman one day.'”

“He's probably right. But still, we gotta somehow find ourselves a Jew captain. It's in the by-laws.”

“We'll keep looking, babe. But ya know, if we don't find one, making the Commodore the admiral wouldn't be such a bad thing. He don't care about the gelt, ya know. All that fruitcake's interested in is the glory.”

“That's what scares me. He's got no
Yiddisher kop
, see what I mean? No
Saichel
.”

“So what? You've got enough business sense for the both of you.”

Mogie didn't respond. For all of his multitasking abilities, whenever a naked woman was around—not to mention one ten years his junior—he lost his train of thought. And this was especially true of Mitzi. Her flaming red hair. Her long legs—sticks, Mogie called them. He was a sucker for a great pair of sticks.

“You're driving me foolish, Mitz.” Mogie stroked Mitzi's long, silky thigh. “You've got some pair of sticks, baby. World-class.” Mogie slapped her on the side of her rump. “Come on, baby, do your stretching routine for me.”

Mitzi pushed herself up off the couch, walked over to the dining table, and standing with her back to Mogie, lifted her left foot up onto the table and pressed her nose down to her ankle.

Mogie groaned.

“Stretch, baby,” Mogie said. “Stretch yourself for Mogie.”

Mitzi switched legs and stretched some more. Then she spread her legs out wide and bent over so that she looked directly at Mogie through her legs, upside down.

“Oh, baby,” Mogie said. “You're driving me foolish. You drive me so foolish when you stretch.” Mogie jumped up off the couch. “Hold that stretch, baby, while I get my stool.”

Mogie ran into the bedroom and grabbed what he called his “stool.” It was one of those plastic steps that Mitzi used in her aerobics class. Mogie placed it behind Mitzi and climbed on top then he grabbed hold of Mitzi's hips and lined himself up. Mitzi liked it from behind but she just couldn't do it on all fours—she had a bum knee from an old gymnastics injury. She'd told Mogie she wanted Putzie to handle her from behind but he was too short—with Mitzi's sticks, he just couldn't reach, not even on his tiptoes. It would never occur to Putzie to use a stool. Mogie, on the other hand, had the ingenuity—that's why he was the mayor. He loved climbing up on his stool to service Mitzi, and Mitzi, bless her, didn't seem to care that he needed her aerobic stepper to do it.

Mogie had long ago stopped trying to get Mitzi to leave Putzie because, deep down, he knew why she stayed, no matter what she said about Mogie leaving his wife first. It all had to do with her father. Mitzi's father went broke when she was in high school. The sucker reached too far. He had made a small fortune selling life insurance and then risked it all on a real estate deal. The building he built in Little Neck stood empty for years. He tried selling insurance again but he was never the same. That's why she married Putzie. His dry cleaning business was safe. People would always need a pressed suit of clothes. Mitzi knew Putzie played it safe and that's why she stayed with him. And that's also why Mogie kept his ever-present money troubles to himself. If Mitzi ever found about his bad debts, she'd drop him in a New York minute. Mogie was always shooting for the moon, even though Mitzi told him he didn't have to own the moon, he just had to take her there once in a while. Hence the stool.

Mitzi was a screamer. She and Mogie only did it when the Martinizing machines were going full bore. Otherwise, Putzie would certainly hear her from downstairs. Mogie, who prided himself on his control, made it a point to hold off as long as he was able. As soon as Mogie heard the Martinizing machines begin to wind down, he told Mitzi to get ready.

“Get ready for Mogie, baby,” Mogie said, gasping for air as he went at Mitzi like some kind of Oklahoma oil derrick. “Get ready for Mogie. Here he comes, baby. Here comes Mogie.”

Mitzi's screams melded perfectly with the Martinizing machine, and as the machine wound down, so did Mitzi's screams. They both ended simultaneously with a thud. Mogie took his stool back to the bedroom and placed it under the bed—he liked knowing exactly where it was at all times. When he came back into the other room, Mitzi was getting dressed. “We gotta get down the fire escape before Putzie hears us up here,” Mitzi said.

When they got to ground level, they went their separate ways, Mitzi to her car that she had parked in the alleyway, and Mogie to his car parked on Middle Neck Road. He normally parked his car to the south of the dry cleaners so that he wouldn't have to walk in front of the store and risk running into Putzie. Today, though, he couldn't find a spot south of the store, so he parked directly
in front. Mogie ran to his car and jumped in just as the Commodore pulled up to the dry cleaners.

The Commodore watched Mogie come out of the alley and give a furtive look in both directions before running to his car.
Why would Mogie be coming out of the alley like that?

The Commodore entered the dry cleaners. Today he did not sit down with Raymond in the front of the store like he usually did. Today he stood up and paced behind the curtain. “I want to be admiral so bad, Raymond, I can taste it. Now this monster Mogelefsky is standing in my way. After everything I've done for the academy, after all the years and years of sacrifice and selflessness, putting others first, never thinking of myself—I never think of myself, you know that. Why is this happening to me?”

“Mr. Commodore,” Raymond said, “everything'll work out. You'll see.”

“How is it going to work out? Mogie wants a Jew for an admiral. I'm not Jewish.”

“But things always have a way of working out, you'll—”

“Raymond, are you listening to me! Have you no empathy, not to mention manners? Look at what I'm going through. Between this and being questioned by the police—”

“What police?”

The Commodore erupted. “Mind your own business, young man!”

The Commodore sat down and put his face in his hands. After several minutes, he looked over at Raymond. He could tell that his outburst hurt the young man's feelings, but surely Raymond understood that he was wrong. He needed to learn to be a better listener. The Commodore was about to apologize, but then didn't. What would be the point?

“I just saw Mogie coming out of the alleyway next door,” the Commodore said. “What business does he have around here?”

“Beats me.”

“Could it be that he's liaising with Mitzi in the apartment upstairs?”

“How would I know? I'm busy Martinizing all day.”

“Imagine that,” the Commodore said. “To liaise with a man's wife directly over the man's head.”

“The Martinizing machines are really loud. Mogie and Mitzi could be up there and Putzie would never hear them.”

Just then the Commodore and Raymond heard Putzie waking up from his nap. Raymond went behind the counter and retrieved the Commodore's crisp shirts. When Putzie walked into the front of the store, he gave the Commodore a grumpy hello.

“Did you have a nice nap, Mr. Paultz?” the Commodore said.

“I always do.”

“I'm no good at naps.”

Putzie, who had not missed a nap in twenty years, said, “Habits, Commodore. It's all about habits.”

“I see.” The Commodore glanced toward the apartment above, winked at Raymond, and left the store without another word.