20. Encounter with the Stove
It had been a long, trying day for Frank Armstrong. Dr. Keating had run him through a full physical and every other conceivable kind of test – give blood, piss in a cup, get hooked up with wires – on and on. The prostrate exam had been the worst part; he’d have rather been jabbed fifty times with needles than undergo that humiliation.
The whole process was dispiriting. It was impossible to maintain one’s dignity in such circumstances. For damn sure, the regimen was not designed to keep you feeling like a big shot. Then there was a visit from Patricia to further test his patience. Thank God she hadn’t blathered about the reorganization plan again.
She’d hoped that he was “feeling better.”
“This isn’t a day for ‘feeling better,’” he’d replied.
Patricia left soon afterwards.
“Why don’t you stay another night, Mr. Armstrong?” Dr. Keating had suggested. “You can go home tomorrow, all rested up.”
To which Frank replied: “Screw that, Doc, I’m getting out of here – the sooner the better!”
And he was doing just that, striding down Millionaire’s Row toward the elevators when a voice called out to him from a doorway.
“Well, if it ain’t Frank Armstrong!”
Frank recognized the voice immediately. It was Ed ‘the Stove’ Stoverman, real estate mogul and sometime business associate. He turned to see Ed beckoning to him from a chair inside a patient room.
“Well, hi, Ed,” Frank replied.
He entered the room. It was actually a two room suite – three, if you counted the john. Ed was perched on a leather recliner in the main space with the bed lurking behind him. A smaller, lounge type area was set off to the side. Everything was pleasant and tastefully decorated, in marked contrast to the ‘morgue chic’ style of Frank’s old room.
“This is quite a place you’ve got here,” Frank said, shaking hands.
“It ought to be,” the Stove replied. “I’m paying enough for it. The year’s rent comes to a small fortune.”
“You mean ... you reserved this place for a whole year?” Frank asked, nonplussed. “But you’re strong as a bull, Ed. What the hell do you need it for?”
“That may be, Frank, but you never know when the big one’s going to hit, right?” the Stove replied. “Best to be prepared, that’s what I always say.”
He pulled a cigar out of his jacket pocket and clipped off the end with a little guillotine type device.
“Besides,” he added, “I don’t want anybody stinking up the place when I’m not here.”
“Well ... that’s one way to do it,” Frank said.
He was still trying to grasp the idea of somebody paying to reserve a hospital suite for a whole year, whether he needed it or not. Then again, Ed always had been the extravagant type.
“Close the door, would you Frank?” the Stove said. “They don’t like to see me doing this.”
Frank closed the door; Ed lit up his cigar with a long, sensuous lighter flame. High on the wall, tucked in the angle with the ceiling, a large filtering device rumbled into life. Ed blew out a stream of smoke which was immediately vacuumed up by the machine.
“I’m impressed,” Frank said.
“Well, you know,” Ed replied, “money talks as loud in this joint as it does everywhere else.”
He gestured toward the cast on Frank’s arm.
“I can see why you’ve been in here,” he said.
“Yeah, I lost an argument with a ladder,” Frank replied sourly.
“Me, I’ve had another gout attack.” Ed indicated his foot stretched out in front of him. “Treatment is just an outpatient type of thing these days, but I thought I’d check in anyhow. Make sure they didn’t move a leper colony here in my absence.”
He chuckled nastily and took another drag on the cigar. Ed rather did resemble an old cast-iron stove with his comfortable pot belly, Frank thought. And now he was puffing smoke like one.
“Ahhh, top flight Havana!” the Stove said with deep satisfaction. “I’d offer you one, Frank, but I know you don’t smoke.”
“Well, maybe just this once ... for old time’s sake,” Frank said.
“Good boy!”
The Stove produced another big Havana and guillotined the end off. He handed it to Frank along with the lighter.
“President Kennedy was a big cigar man,” the Stove said. “The night before he signed the Cuban trade embargo, he sent somebody out to buy all the Havanas he could find.”
“He was a smart guy,” Frank said, “for a Democrat.”
“Damn right,” Ed replied. “We could use a man like him now to tell those Ruskies and commie Chinese where to get off.”
The two men shared some fellowship through the premium cigar smoke. Frank relaxed for the first time since he’d had the Las Vegas row with Laila. Had that been only yesterday morning? It seemed as if a year had passed since then.
In some ways, he felt like a much different person, molded by recent experiences more than he could have imagined possible. He should think about that – soon, when this little reunion was over and Ed’s voice wasn’t echoing in his ears any longer.
The Stove projected a very large presence, waxing eloquent on various subjects.
“You know, Frank,” he said at one point, “we live in the ‘too much information’ age. I mean, I don’t give a crap if somebody’s gay or whatever; I just wish they’d keep it to themselves. The absolute, rock bottom, last thing I want to hear about is somebody’s ‘sexual orientation’ or bedroom shenanigans.”
“I agree totally,” Frank said with conviction.
He already knew far more about others’ ‘bedroom shenanigans’ than he cared to think about.
“The topic is even lower on my list than religion is,” the Stove continued. “Somebody says: ‘Let me tell you about my encounter with the Lord.’ And I say: ‘So long, buddy, I’m going over there to encounter the bartender!’”
Frank took a long, pleasurable drag on his cigar. “Still the same old Ed, I see.”
“Speaking of bartenders ...” the Stove said.
He produced a fifth of bourbon from the side pocket of the recliner along with two glasses in a zipped plastic bag.
“Now, there’s a topic I can get into!” Frank said.
Their comradeship continued as they ruminated some old times – fast deals made, rivals vanquished, government regulators outmaneuvered. Frank felt a warm glow issuing from these memories and from the bourbon. But a melancholy tone underpinned his pleasure.
He’d not seen Ed Stoverman for a year or two, and he was a bit depressed at the man’s decline. The Stove had put on weight, and his complexion did not look very good, though the lighting in the room might have something to do with that. The interior decorator had not bothered to replace the crappy fluorescents.
But Ed appeared a lot older, there was no denying that, and not particularly fit. Frank’s earlier remark about him being “strong as a bull” was merely idle chitchat.
My God, we’re the same age! Frank realized with a start. Do I look that bad?
The conversation about the ‘the old days’ started to get him down, then. Had all the battles and sharp trading been worth it? Was he really happy where it had gotten him, or was he just another older guy with a lot of money and a bad ticker? He felt a sudden need to get away from the Stove; he began paving the way for a graceful exit.
“You know, Ed,” he commented, gesturing to the remodeled surroundings, “if you got sent to the slammer, I’ll bet they’d have luxury suite waiting for you there, too.”
The Stove broke out into raucous laughter, snorting a bit of bourbon up the wrong passageway. He began coughing heavily, then he started to choke. His complexion turned green under the fluorescent light, right up through his bald head.
“Are you all right?” Frank said, alarmed.
Clearly not. The Stove was gasping for air now. Frank flung the door open and dashed out.
&nbs
p; “We’ve got a problem here!” he cried.
He stood fretfully in the corridor, watching as medical staff poured into Ed’s room. Then they were hauling him out on a gurney. The whole thing progressed with the efficiency of a military operation.
It was over so fast that Frank could scarcely believe he’d been enjoying a glass of bourbon only moments before. The door to Ed’s room was shut now, cutting off its opulent interior from view.