The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [294]
“What’s that?” Jim said.
“I’ve never really known exactly how to tip, when furniture is moved. Never in my life. Is there some—”
“Like you’d tip a whore,” Don said.
“Excuse me?” Francis said.
“He’s kidding,” Jim said, disgusted.
“No, I’m not. Don’t you tip whores? They name a price, and you’ve got to pay it, but, if you really like what they did, don’t you give them a big tip and go to them again?”
“At my age, I’m not sure I’ll have any more moving jobs for you, unless it’s moving us into the old-age home,” Francis said.
“You never went to a whore, did you?” Don said.
“Shut up,” Jim said.
“I’m not bragging,” Don said. “I never did it in Kuwait. I did it once in Las Vegas, and once in the Combat Zone, when one almost pulled me outta my car. She was terrible, but the one in Vegas had red hair.”
“I’ve been to Vegas,” Francis said. “But you’re right—not for anyone’s services. I was with Hugh Hefner, who had to fly there to pick up the sister of that month’s Playmate, to help Miss November, or whoever she was, get her twin into rehab. They were only seventeen, lying that they were eighteen.”
“What?” Jim said. “You’re puttin’ us on.”
“No,” Francis said, with the dismissive tone of someone telling the truth. “No, I was advising Hugh Hefner about a legal matter I’m still not free to disclose. We talked business on the plane, because we thought a trial might be coming up soon. I found him to be a gentleman. This was long before he went everywhere in pajamas.”
They rode in silence for a moment. Then Jim said, “So did it work out O.K. with the sister?”
“She completed rehab but died in a skiing accident,” Francis said. He could feel it as if it were yesterday: Hefner’s broken voice on the phone, going straight into his ear.
“You wouldn’t have struck me as the sort of guy who hung out with Hugh Hefner,” Don said.
“I was a lawyer,” Francis said. “Lawyers meet all kinds of people.” He let the comment hang in the air. What he still did not know was how one calculated a tip. He decided to delay payment until the furniture was unloaded, which might have been the way to do it, in the first place.
By the time they got on the road with the truck, it was after ten o’clock. They drove for a while, and then Francis blinked his lights several times; eventually, Jim responded by pulling to the side of the road. It was late and Francis was tired. He asked Jim if they could check into a motel. The two detours had cost them several hours, and Francis was having trouble staying awake. He was worried for Jim, as well, and insisted on paying for their room. Jim thought it over for a second. “Sure,” he said.
Half an hour later, as they registered for two rooms at a Hampton Inn, Francis handed Jim a folded-up wad of money. “For the decoy,” he said solemnly, as the night clerk handed them their key cards. Don had fallen asleep in the truck but stumbled out, groggily, when he realized where they were. He stood outside the door on the passenger side, blinking, his hair matted. He looked young, and helpless, and for a second Francis felt sympathy for him—he’d acted impulsively, then regretted what he’d done, because he wasn’t a bad guy, after all. Tough lives, both of them had. Fighting in the Gulf War. Having a damaged child.
Jim said that he would wake Francis early if he was sure he wanted to follow the truck. Why did he want to follow them? But Francis insisted that he did, and then Jim and Don hopped back in the truck to drive to a faraway but well-lit area that the clerk had said was for large vehicles. They went their separate ways without saying good night.
“Bern?” he said, sitting on the side of his bed.
“God! I thought you’d never call!” she said. “Where are you?”
“A Hampton Inn,” he said. “Has everything gone to hell?”