Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [113]
“You know what Lew Grade said about his Raising the Titanic, a real stinker? ‘It would have been cheaper to lower the Atlantic Ocean.’ ”
“But, lo and behold,” I went on to say, “the ship docks safely in New York, where the innocent kid is met by a sexy reporter, a Lauren Bacall type, who —”
“Lauren Bacall,” he said. “You’ve got to be kidding, unless she’s playing somebody’s mother.”
“A Demi Basinger type, I mean, who asks him what the trip was like? Boring, he says, and then —”
“Demi Basinger? That’s some wicked sense of humour you’ve still got there, Mr. Panofsky. I want you to know I do appreciate this window of opportunity to strategize with somebody who used to be a player, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass on this one. Hey, I’m married to Hymie Mintzbaum’s granddaughter. Fiona. I love her. We’ve been blessed with two children.”
“And do you love them too?”
“Absolutely.”
“Imagine that.”
Then the phone rang. “Speak of the — I almost said the you-know-who. It’s my wife. Excuse me.”
“Certainly.”
“Uh huh. Uh huh. Now you calm down, darling, and apologize to Miss O’Hara and tell her it’s okay. I think I’ve just solved the problem. Honestly. Yeah. No. I can’t explain right now.” Hanging up, he beamed at me. “When Fiona told Hymie you were coming in to dialogue with me, he asked would you like to join him for dinner tonight at Hillcrest. Keep the limo. My pleasure.”
My sense of betrayal had passed since our brawl in London, so I was inordinately pleased that Hymie wanted to patch things up. There would be so much to talk about. Before starting out for Hill-crest, I stopped at Brentano’s, and bought Hymie the latest novel by Beryl Bainbridge, a writer I admired. Then I called for my limo.
I would not have recognized Hymie had not a waiter led me to the table in the Hillcrest dining room where he sat, dozing, in his motorized wheelchair. His crown of tight curly black hair had been reduced to random white balls of fluff, fragile as dandelion heads at risk in the slightest breeze. The linebacker’s body had diminished to a near-empty sack of projecting bones. The waiter, who had thoughtfully provided Hymie with a bib, now shook him awake. “Your guest has arrived, Mr. Mintzbaum.”
“Flush glish mmerm,” said a roused Hymie, reaching out for me with an unsteady twig of a hand, the one that still worked.
“Just say you’re glad to see him too,” said the waiter, winking at me.
Hymie’s eyes were rheumy, and his mouth was tugged down on one side, yanked by an invisible wire. Spittle trickled down his chin. He smiled, or tried to, the result a rictus, and pointed at my glass.
“Would you care for a drink?” asked the waiter.
“Make it a Springbank. Straight up.”
“And the usual for Mr. Mintzbaum, no doubt,” he said, moving off.
His head bobbing up and down, Hymie began to whimper. He reached out for me again, taking my hand, the pressure feeble.
“It’s okay, Hymie,” I said, and I wiped his eyes and then his chin with his bib.
The waiter brought me my Springbank and poured Hymie an Evian. “Floshui beshuga shlup,” said Hymie, his eyes bulging with effort, as he knocked over his Evian and pointed at my glass.
“You’re being naughty, Mr. Mintzbaum.”
“Don’t talk to him like that,” I said, “and bring him a Springbank, please.”
“He’s not allowed.”
“At once,” I said.
“Providing you tell her it was you who insisted on it.”
“Her?”
“His granddaughter. Mrs. Katz.”
“Fetch.”
“I know what Mr. Mintzbaum is having,” said the waiter, passing me a menu, “but what about you,” and he