Эд Макбейн - Barking at Butterflies and other stories

“The four o’clock flight to Los Angeles,” the captain answered, though Arthur knew he wasn’t a captain at all, he was just making him feel good.

“I’ve never been to Los Angeles,” he said.

“No?” the captain answered politely.

“No. How much does it cost?”

“How much does what cost?”

“A ticket to Los Angeles, that’s the city of Angels, did you know that?”

“That’s right, so it is. First-class, sir?”

“First-class, of course.”

“First-class round trip to Los Angeles is three twenty-one eighty. Plus tax.”

“How much is the tax?”

“Sixteen-oh-nine, sir.”

“That sounds very reasonable. Will you take a check?”

“Sir?”

“For the flight you just called. I have identification, if that’s what’s troubling you.”

“No, sir, it’s just... I don’t even know if there’s room on that flight, sir. Christmas is our busiest...”

“I don’t need a room, just a seat.” Heh-heh, he thought, how’d you like that one, Sonny?

“Well, I’d have to...”

“Yes, well go ahead and do it. You said it leaves at four, didn’t you?”

“Are you serious, sir? Do you really want me to...?”

“Certainly, I’m serious. Of course I’m serious. Nobody the hell goes anyplace anymore!”

He knew he would not go through with it, he was just having a little fun with the captain, what the hell tomorrow was his birthday. He knew he would not do it because old Arthur Doc Pitt simply didn’t do things like that, flying away from home and hearth on Christmas Eve, what would Fran say? Fran would take a fit, that’s what Fran would say. And besides, this really had nothing whatever to do with Fran or anyone else. It had only to do with old Doc Pitt, who knew he could never never never do something like this, the same way he could not that time in Buffalo when the man sitting in the lobby had asked him if he would like to spend the night with a burlesque queen, or was it even a burlesque queen, that part may have been just imagination. In any case, he could not do it then, and he would not do it now, but there was no harm in having a little fun with the good captain here, hanging up the phone now, and putting on a bright smiling cheerful airlines face.

“Well you certainly are lucky, sir,” he said. “There’ve been some cancellations in the first-class section.”

Yeah, well I was only kidding, Arthur thought.

Something started inside him. He knew it was the alcohol, he knew he had had absolutely too much to drink. He knew it was kissing Trudy in MacLeish’s office and putting his hand under the short suede skirt, the candy-striped stockings, he knew it was that, nineteen years old, Trudy. He knew it was the wild ride to the airport with the two girls from Accounting, and the soaring disappearance of Benjamin’s plane into the clouds, the sudden desperate knowledge that the party was going to end without ever having begun. He knew it was all that, but he suspected it was something more as well, and so he allowed the excitement to grow inside him, teasing himself, saying to himself Go ahead, do it, go ahead, why don’t you? And then soberly regarding himself through his eyeglasses, Don’t be ridiculous, and then looking at the captain’s expectant face and thinking the thing to do was reach into his pocket and slap his checkbook on the counter and write that goddamn check, he had always wanted to do things like that. The captain was waiting, and the excitement was rising inside Arthur, something that started down in his groin for which he blamed Trudy in MacLeish’s office, and climbing up into his chest and his throat and then suddenly leaping into his fingertips which positively twitched with the need to reach into his pocket and slap his checkbook onto the countertop, You like that Rolls-Royce, kid? It’s yours.

The captain was waiting.

“Okay,” Arthur said, and reached into his pocket and slapped his checkbook onto the counter.

“Where to, Mac?”

“A good hotel,” he said.

“Lots of good hotels in Los Angeles.”

“Like what?”

“You want the city, or Beverly Hills, or what?”

“Beverly Hills,” he said. “Why not?”

“Which one in Beverly Hills?”

“The best one.”

“They’re all good.”

“There is only one best one.”

The cab driver set the car in motion. “You want the Beverly Hills?”

“I already told you I wanted the Beverly Hills.”

“I meant the Beverly Hills Hotel .”

“Okay, why not?”

“You in the movie racket?”

“No, I am in the advertising game,” he said.

“What do you advertise?”

“Benjamin Luggage,” he said. “Among other fine products.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, I never heard of the Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said.

“They’re crying,” the cab driver answered, and stepped on the gas.

“This looks like Long Island,” Arthur said.

“It ain’t,” the cabbie replied.

“It sure looks like it. What are all these hot dog stands for? What do you do out here, eat hot dogs all the time?”

“That’s right, we eat hot dogs all the time,” the cabbie said.

“That’s what I thought,” Arthur answered. “Boy, what a city. It looks like Long Island. I’ve never been to Los Angeles.”

“That’s a shame,” the cabbie answered.

“All you do out here is frolic, huh?” he said.

“Yeah, that’s all we do out here,” the cabbie said.

“What’s this we’re on now?”

“The San Diego Freeway, heading north.”

“Is that where Beverly Hills is?”

“North, right. You been drinking a little bit?” the cabbie asked, which Arthur thought was very clever.

“Yes, a little bit. I have been drinking since twelve o’clock noon New York time.”

“That means you’ve been drinking since nine o’clock this morning, California time.”

“That’s very clever,” Arthur said. “What time is it in London?”

“Who the hell knows?”

“It’s seven A.M. Christmas morning,” Arthur said, not having the faintest idea what time it was in London or even Bangkok.

“Well, Merry Christmas,” the cabbie said, and again lapsed into silence.

“What is this Beverly Hills Hotel?” Arthur asked. “Some kind of fancy hotel, is that what it is?”

“That’s what it is.”

“In that case, you’d better take me back to the airport,” he said.

“What?”

“The airport, the Los Angeles International Airport where it is now six forty-five California time and the temperature is seventy-eight degrees.”

“What?”

“You must think I’m crazy or something,” he said, “coming all the way out to Los Angeles on Christmas Eve when my wife and family are waiting at home for me.”

“Mister, you’re not crazy,” the cabbie said, “you’re drunk.”

“You bet I am,” Arthur said. “I was only kidding, so what the hell am I doing here in Los Angeles?”

“Mister, I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I’m doing here in Los Angeles.”

“Well, I don’t want to go to the Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said.

“Okay, so where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know what my mother told me? My mother told me never pick up no drunks, son, because they will give you gray hairs and a hernia. I’m a working man, mister, I’ve got a wife and kids waiting home for me, too, this is Christmas Eve. I’d like to get a few calls in and then go home to trim the tree, okay? So where shall it be? The Beverly Hills, the airport, downtown Los Angeles, name it.”

“Where’s the Beverly Hills?”