Style, you
either have it or you
don't. And if you have it, you have it
all the time.The Lovable Rogue
by Tux Toledo
Page 2
I
stored my binoculars, adjusted my tie and went off to find my
chauffeur, James. Do you know how hard it is to find a
chauffeur named James? No, you probably don't.
Well, let me tell you - it's damn difficult. It took me quite
a while to find mine so I wasn't too keen on losing him. "A
proper chauffeur is worth his weight in spare parts," someone once told
me. My James was certainly a proper chauffeur, always wearing
leather gloves and never driving with one arm on the
windowsill. Very fastidious.
I had successfully kept an eye on him all day until the final furlong
of the final race. The favorite's dramatic failure had
diverted my attention just long enough to allow him to vanish into the
mob. I waded through the drunks and discarded programs and
finally spotted him collecting a tidy sum at the payoff
window. I'll admit to you that I don't really like him
gambling. It's not that I have anything against a good wager
it's just that he was so hard to find. Do you know how hard,
no, of course not. Anyway, the point is I don't want him to
accumulate huge gambling debts and then have to run off to avoid paying
them. He never seems to lose, though.
I
was on my way to collect him and my winnings when I was intercepted by
Bernie Ives, a highbrow sort of fellow with a home in San Francisco's
pricey Nob Hill district, another one in Carmel, and maybe one in Palm
Springs. His face was made of putty and carried a perpetual
look of mild disappointment. His eyes darted like moths
around a streetlight and they never focused on any one thing in
particular. The wind tugged at his hair but not a strand
would budge because it was held tightly in place by a beeswax type of
substance. His dark blue suit was made of a fabric too heavy
for the weather. That's a crime in my book.
I wasn't the only one to notice his fashion faux pas. A
couple of polyester mugs also had their eyes on him. Now if
you ask me, wearers of synthetic fabric garments have no right to pass
sartorial judgment on anyone. But there they were looking at
Bernie as if he was a criminal.
"Winnie! What a surprise meeting you here," he said.
"Bernie, it's good to see you again. And my name's
Winston." I hate Winnie.
"What a coincidence running into you," he said. Nothing in Bernie's
life was ever a coincidence.
"I haven't seen you in a while." I said.
"I just returned from Mexico. Thought I'd come here and watch
the races." His feet shuffled like a stallion in a
stall. I kept one eye on him, the other on James.
"What about you?" he asked.
"Me? I came here to place a few wagers, of course."
He nodded and looked past me.
"Say, I'm having a party tonight," he said. "Why don't you
come?"
In case you don't know, Nob Hill parties are not to be
missed. A summons to the pantheon of San Francisco's
self-appointed gods is indeed a remarkable event - but one that is
expected to be observed with quiet smugness. Satisfaction
with one's inclusion is best radiated, not shouted.
"Yes, I suppose I can do that," I yawned.
"Good." His face almost lost its look of
disappointment. "I'm so glad I ran into you." He
gave me one of those Hollywood handshakes and shuffled off.
James hid his winnings and strolled my way. The abnormal
bulge on the left side of his chest betrayed his good fortune.
"Successful day?" I asked.
"Sir?"
I winked at him and started for my car. And what a sight it
was! The magnificent bodywork sparkled in the sun and the
flying lady soared on the elegant chrome grill. I slowed my
walk to admire what in my opinion is the world's most beautiful
automobile: a 1963 Rolls Royce Silver Cloud III.
You know, I couldn't resist that car. The first time I saw it
I knew I had to have it. It was a steal, really.
Its previous owner ran a limousine business. When the
business suddenly fell into severe financial difficulties I got the car
and he got the insurance money.
© 2008 David Biagini