We worked through the rigors of lent and began
preparations for the more monumental demands of Easter, all with little or no relief for me, who could find no one in the front rows of the church worthy of attention other than Mr. and Mrs. Little, who were less and less of a curiosity as the weeks went on.
As Easter approached, I noticed a repetition of their cycle of declining health, which invariably resulted in the woman’s rapid disintegration, preceding that of her companion. Then again a few weeks later, there was the almost miraculous return to health, and the two of them were suddenly back at their usual station, looking as if they could both go out and do cartwheels through the parish grounds. For the rest of the choir season, scheduled to end in June, I was unable to affiliate my attention with anyone special during mass, and therefore seldom noticed the revolving population that shared the front pew of the church with Tom and Mrs. Thumb. But I noticed they were never at a loss for words with their fellow congregants; and those who sat nearby appeared to be anxious to go out of their way to treat the two little people as other than sideshow oddities.
Admittedly, I am not a very religious person, finding my spirituality in music and my own counsel. Therefore, when summer — the choir’s off season — succumbed to heat and humidity, I tried to avoid regular services, but Commander Bridget conceded that we could go to church in the cool of the evening. That is probably why I didn’t see the two Dresden Doll people until we cranked up a new season the next September.
There they were, at their normal station, and I must admit that they were looking as chipper and spry as any two could. The bloom of health and happiness appeared to go as hand in hand as did the two of them. It was really quite touching to see such devoted affection between two people (as inexperienced in the phenomenon as I was).
My attention from the midget couple each Sunday was pleasantly distracted for a while by a tall, lithe young lady next to them. Strictly for the fantasy file. This one had the mark of money, class and a savoir-vivre, which was well beyond my realistic expectations, but I could do much worse to occupy my time and daydreams.
Sometime before the bounties of Thanksgiving, I noticed that the cycle of degeneration had begun again for my delicate little friends. The small woman’s face changed from week to week, like one of those dried apple dolls; you know, the ones that have crinkly withered features and are always dressed like fugitives from the Ozarks.
The man was not doing much better. And when he appeared alone in church, to sit next to my stunning beauty, I could not help but think he would be better off in an oxygen tent or on a life-support system.
By Thanksgiving, a service of sporadic and eclectic attendance, there were no familiar faces in the front pews. Sadly, I was forced to concentrate on the sermon and my singing. Even Adrian Donatello for once complemented me on my attention to his musical direction.
By the second week in December, and well into the wonderful melodies of Advent and Christmas, the dynamic duo were ensconced back in the front pew, having once again, through some miracle, regained the flowers of springtime in their cheeks and a sprightly bounce to their walk. I could not help but stare when they reappeared. To hell with Donatello’s glare at my lack of concentration! I was incredulous at the change that had brought renewed vigor and youth to these two unique creatures.
The little man caught me watching him — my tall, lanky beauty having moved on like everyone else — and he acknowledged my curiosity by laying a finger against his lips and presenting me with a huge wink. As disconcerting as this recognition was, it was nothing compared to the similar blink and smile I received from his Lilliputian wife. For the rest of the mass, Maestro Donatello received my undivided attention.
“You know how crowded midnight mass is,” I pointed out to Bridget-The-Bombardier. “You should come as early as possible and sit right up front where you and dear little Prissy will be
close to me and we can share everything.” I explained to my wife that she and her foal could come to church early with me — rehearsals were at least an hour before midnight services —and thereby, secure their rightful place in the forefront of the Christmas activities.
And that’s how it came about that Bridget-The-Sow-Of-Sligo and her lively little piglet, Priscilla, came to sit in the front pew at Midnight Mass next to the little people. I could see that an immediate bond was impending, and reverted the reverence of my supplications to the Almighty that the new friendship might become firm and fast with this first contact.
Apparently, the power of prayer does still manifest itself in the realm of our daily lives, for after that Midnight Mass, Bridget-The-Devout betook her and her offspring immediately to the first pew each Sunday, and there renewed her acquaintance with the pint-size couple.
Patiently, I waited through the weeks after Christmas, watching the little people deep into the heart of winter. Just as I expected, the decline began again.
This time it took only two weeks and the little lady looked positively terrible: weak and wan. The Mister appeared to expend every ounce of energy just to help her down the aisle to secure their proper place in the front pew. God love her! When she saw the state of the little people, Saint Bridget-Of-The-Icy-Heart found some remnants of compassion. I could see her leaning over to express whatever concern she could muster for the two ailing little people. It was a splendid ceremony, which I sang with such astonishing purity of voice and concentration, that Donatello even congratulated me throughout the service by the succinct raisings of an eyebrow and nods of encouragement when he required a double forte or the most subtle of exquisite pianissimos.
After mass, the choir was required to stay behind and receive its critique from the maestro. Therefore, when this recitation of our musical sins and transgressions was completed, and the house of worship almost empty, I was surprised to find the little man waiting for me by the door.
For the first time I could see that his eyes were of the most guileless baby blue. They appeared to be completely out of place in the creased and seamed old man’s face. “You sing very well,” he said in the strange high-pitched voice that miniature vocal cords give to a fully mature man. “Thank you.” I did sing well. What else was there to say? “Your wife and daughter have accepted our invitation to dinner. They’ve gone on ahead with my wife. Won’t you join us?”
I looked at his smile, appreciating for the first time how his sharp, bright, tiny teeth glistened in his wizened face. “Well, I...uh...” I fumbled politely.
“We’re having something Irish,” he interrupted. “Perhaps you would enjoy it.”
“I don’t think so,” I replied, knowing how completely indigestible the Irish could be.
“Ah, then we shall have to proceed without you.” He didn’t appear to be particularly disappointed as he made his way carefully out into the weak, wintry sunlight. “Bon appetit!” I called after him as I prepared to go home to my very quiet house and enjoy the Sunday football games for the first time in three years.
LIMMENKOV ‘S LAMENT
Madcrap Limmenkov was crying, and it scared the hell out of Nails O’Leary. She’d never even seen Madcrap dejected; she’d seen him mad, but never sad.
Madcrap got his nickname one day when he’d stormed into Big Louie’s Bar & Grill, raving: “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore.” He’d just seen Network on the late show and was so impressed with John Finch’s rant that he’d adopted it as his own.
Louie The Lip, sitting at the end of his crowded bar, completely taken aback by Bernie Limmenkov’s angry harangue, had asked loudly: “What’s this ‘mad’ crap, Limmenkov?” Someone in the had crowd shouted, “Hey, it’s Madcrap Limmenkov!” Although no one could ever remember what had incensed the dapper little guy that particular night, the name stuck. Limmenkov had been called many things in his day, including, “Lemmon Drops.” So he found this new moniker reasonably acceptable, especially as it seemed to have a connotation
of fierceness he found extremely satisfying. Now, Madcrap was sitting in a booth at the back of Big Louie’s, large crystal tears magnifying the creases along the sides of his nose. Uncomfortably, Maureen “Nails” O’Leary studied the rainbow across her long acrylic fingernails, wondering if she should reverse the colors and begin the sweep of violet to bright red from the right instead of the left. Change was good, Nails decided. She’d heard two of her customers drunkenly discussing shifts in their personal circumstances one night and was quite taken with the concept of change.
She pushed the double scotch closer to the quietly weeping man.
“Drink up, Bernie.” Nails was one of the few who remembered Limmenkov’s first name.
Limmenkov stared at his liquor, unable to summon enough thirst to drink.
“Come on, Bernie,” Nails whispered. “It can’t be that bad.”
Madcrap nodded. “Yeah, it is.”
Nails was sitting across from Madcrap, a wary eye on the door to Louie’s office. The Lip didn’t like his waitresses off their feet with the customers — unless it was in the back room where he got a cut of the action. Even though Madcrap was another of Louie Lipinsky’s army, that wouldn’t excuse her dereliction of duty.
“Whassa matter?” Nails asked.
Madcrap looked up with watery eyes. “I’m in love, Nails.
For the first time in my life, I’m in love.” “Hey,” the waitress brightened. “That’s great! Ain’t nothin’ like a little push-push to make a guy feel good.” “It ain’t like that.” Madcrap shook his head sorrowfully. “She don’t do that kind’a thing. She’s a friggin’ saint, an angel, a paragon of virtue.”
“A pair a what?”
Madcrap should have known better than to wax eloquent in front of Nails O’Leary. After all, what could you expect from someone whose current reading list was limited to nail polish brands with fruity colors? He prided himself on being a well-rounded person, reading constantly and willing to watch black and white movies on his 12-inch television. “This woman is a lady, Nails,” Madcrap tried to explain.
“And I ain’t a lady?”
“Yeah, sure; you’re a real fine lady, Nails, but she’s...she’s something special.”
Nails decided not to take further offense at Madcrap’s exaltation of another woman. She genuinely liked Madcrap —one of the few men she knew who treated her with respect. “Nail’s, I’m forty-five-years old and I ain’t never been in love before, ‘cept maybe for Brenda Braverman in the fourth grade. But never like this.”
“So why’re ya cryin’?”
Madcrap looked around at the late afternoon interior of Big Louie’s. The evening crowd of drinkers was already filtering in, mostly familiar faces: regulars. Smoke hung heavy in the air and Madcrap wistfully watched a middle-aged couple, half hidden in the haze, holding hands in one of the other booths. This brought freshets of tears brimming to his eyes. “‘Cause, like I said, Nails, she’s untouchable. She’s a goddess and I’m merely mortal.”
This worshipful concept was well beyond Nails, but not her solution to most mortal male problems: “Whyn’t you and I go inta the back room later, Bernie, and I’ll make you feel better.”
Madcrap smiled wanly. “Not this time, Nails. Nothing’s going to make me feel better this time. It’s hopeless.” “You two got nutten better to do?”
Neither of them had seen Louie Lipinsky waddle out of his office and approach the booth, the sweat of his efforts already shiny on his round face.
Madcrap wanted to scowl at his boss for interrupting this unprecedented confession of love, but no one glowered at Louie The Lip without severe repercussions. “Don’t you need to swamp out the back room, Nails?”
Louie asked, glaring at his waitress.
“It ain’t my turn, Louie; it’s...”
“It’s your turn now, O’Leary; unless you want me to save you a little time when you get around to painting your nails again by ripping a couple a those claws off with a pair of pliers.”
Madcrap Limmenkov stared into his drink as Nails slipped out of the booth. He knew better than to interfere when Louie was pissed. He could hear his boss wheeze with effort as the big man squeezed into the booth.
“You take care of that little business we talked about, Madcrap?” Lipinsky asked.
“I’m workin’ on it,” Madcrap said, trying to avoid the sight of his employer’s belly spilling over the edge of the table. “Whad’ya mean ‘you’re ‘workin’ on it?’ I sent you over to collect from that putz a week ago.”
“He was a bit short, so I gave him a little more time.”
“You what! When did you start rewritin’ my paper, Madcrap?”
“I ain’t rewriting your notes, Louie. It’s just that I figured you’d rather get it all at once rather than bits and pieces.” Louie Lipinsky was the unofficial banker of a ten-square block area of Queens, and his terms were inflexible: 10% a week interest, and no extensions when it came to the principle. Madcrap Limmenkov had worked for Louie The Lip going on fifteen years. He handled routine collections and, as necessary, persuasion for delinquent accounts. Madcrap ran a few numbers on the side, and The Lip let him, as long as it didn’t interfere with his regular duties.
Lipinsky waggled a sausage-like finger in his collector’s face. “Lissen, Madcrap, that shmuck ain’t even paid his vig for
the last month; and I know his shop ain’t doin’ so good, so he ain’t ever goin’ to be able to pay the principle, which was due three weeks ago.”
The subject of their conversation was Salvatore Urbano, who owned a small dry cleaning front on 69th. He took in cleaning and laundry, contracting it out to a larger factory and pocketed the mark-up. Lipinsky had sharked Urbano $5,000 to buy equipment so he could process the laundry himself and just farm out the dry cleaning. This way, at least he could maximize his profits on that part of his business.
The Italian had misjudged the potential. He was now too far behind to ever pay The Lip back without forfeiting more than half of his income for the next two years just to cover the interest on the original loan.
“Did you tell ‘im, I said to sell that crap he bought?”
“He says they won’t take it back.”
“Let ‘im sell it somewhere else.”
“No one wants it.”
Lipinsky’s fat finger stirred the air again in front of Madcrap Limmenkov’s face. “I don’t need no Guinea bastid makin’ me a laughing stock on the street. I want my money, Madcrap, and you were supposed to get it for me. How’d ya think it would look if I had to go over to 69th and collect it myself?”
Madcrap almost smiled at the vision of Louie The Lip lurching down the street to collect on his own loan. It wasn’t ever going to happen, not as long as there were people like Madcrap Limmenkov available to do The Lip’s dirty work. And there were always candidates for that.
“Time to teach ‘im a lesson,” Lipinsky said, a certain demented delight diverting the rivulets of sweat on his face into puddles between his chins.
“You want I should rough him up, Louie?” Madcrap knew that if The Lip thought he was being screwed, he relished retribution almost as much as repayment. Lipinsky stared off into the smoke of the bar as Madcrap pictured small, rusty wheels of thought creaking in the fat man’s brain.
“Nah. Do the daughter.”
“His daughter?”
“Yeah, do the kid.”
“She ain’t a kid, Louie; she’s a grown woman.” Lipinsky shrugged. “So? Cut her in front of the old man and show ‘im we mean bidness.”
Madcrap shook his head. “I don’t know Louie. I don’t think —” “That’s right, Madcrap; you don’t think. That’s why you’re there,” Lipinsky pointed at the booth, “and I’m here.” A whole fist-full of fat fingers waived toward the bar. “You gotta problem doin’ what I tell ya?”
Madcrap barely hesitated. “No, Louie, I ain’t got no problem.”
“Good. Yo
u go on up to 69th and rearrange the broad’s features with somethin’ sharp and the old fart’ll come up with the money. Tell ‘im he’s got a week. I want it all, and double the vigorish” — the interest owed was already more than the principle — “for the extra time he’s made me wait. I don’t like to wait.”
Awkwardly, Louie Lipinsky hauled his bulk from the booth and stood over Madcrap, sweat dripping on the table, the determination in his eyes evident. “Remember what I said, ‘I don’t like to wait.’“ Madcrap looked at the amber liquid in his untouched glass. “I’ll get right on it, Louie; just let me finish my drink.”
“You do that, Madcrap,” Lipinsky glared. “You just do that.”
Scotch was Madcrap Limmenkov’s favorite libation. He could savor its pungent, smoky bite for hours, discovering new delights in every dram. But now, as he sipped and watched Louie The Lip wobble back to his office, the dense liquor tasted terrible.
“I wish that slob was dead,” Nails O’Leary said, sitting back down in the booth across from Madcrap. They both knew The Lip would need a rest before he could regenerate enough energy to come back out and make his hourly check of the till. Louie didn’t trust anyone. “He’s a walking corpse, Nails. It’s just a matter of time.” “He’s been like that ever since I’ve known him,” Nails complained. “Even then it couldn’t be soon enough.” “Why don’t you get out of here, Nails? Go, find a job somewhere else.”
The waitress looked around for a moment. When her eyes came back to Madcrap’s they were direct and sad. “Where would I go, Bernie? I been here almost as long as you.” Nails slumped on the cracked Naugahyde bench. She ran her hand through her hair in frustration, and Madcrap could see dark roots beneath the dry platinum waterfall that tumbled to her shoulders. He wanted to tell her she needed a touch-up, but realized neither of them was in the mood for more criticism. “You could go somewhere else, Nails,” Madcrap encouraged. “You still got...uh, got certain a-tri-butes.” He didn’t know how to express it more diplomatically. “Yeah, that’s why you turned me down, right?” Madcrap reached across the table to touch the back of his friend’s hand, marveling at the bright rainbow of enamel colors that sparkled even in the dim light of the bar. “It ain’t got nothing to do with you, Nails. Like I said before, I’m really, honestly and truly in love for the first time in my adult life, and couldn’t ever be unfaithful. “Who is this broad?”