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 4
James
opened the rear door and I poured myself into the luscious,
leather-upholstered back seat. The fine Connolly hides
emitted an intoxicating aroma. Breathing it was similar to
sniffing a glass of excellent single malt Scotch. James shut
the door and it closed with a solid, reassuring thud. He then
slid behind the steering wheel and tilted his head slightly toward the
back seat.
"Home, James," I said.
I love those words! In fact, it's the only reason I wanted a
chauffeur named James. I could have done a lot worse, mind
you. My James, in addition to being a superb driver, can fly
airplanes and knows how to handle himself in combat. Knows a
thing or two about horses, too, I suspect.
We returned to San Francisco and he eased the Rolls onto Seacliff
Avenue, a mansion-laden street that served as home to the City's
aristocracy. Out on the bay thin lines of fog drifted under
the Golden Gate Bridge like fingers stretching into too-tight
gloves. I was staying, uninvited, in a very comfortable house
owned by a couple who were vacationing in Europe. You may
raise your eyebrows but they should never have left the place
vacant. These old architectural jewels, like Italian sports
cars, require constant attention. And who better to give them
that attention than me? The neighbors never bothered
me. In this neighborhood no one ever bothers someone with a
Rolls. There is, however, the ever-present danger of the
owner's unexpected, premature return. It's worth the risk in
my opinion.
With the car securely in the garage, I sauntered into the kitchen,
pulled a Bass Ale from the refrigerator and sat down in front of the
panoramic living room window. The chair was leather covered,
had a great aroma, and was comfortably stuffed. Very much
like my Rolls. The Bass Ale, however, was too cold.
I suppose not everything in this world is perfect.
I turned my thoughts to Bernie Ives while I waited for the Bass to
warm. What can you say about a man who made his fortune from
pet mortuaries? I mean, really! Apparently there
are an abundance of pet owners who are willing to pay top dollar to see
their furry loved ones go out in style. It's hard to figure
some people.
The thing about Bernie, though, was his lack of
self-discipline. To put it bluntly, he was a
sucker. Women played him like a roulette wheel and their
numbers always came up. That weakness cost him quite a bit of
money. Do you recall the time he was mixed up with the
daughter of a powerful San Francisco political figure?
Perhaps not. Well, Bernie thought she was after him but she
was actually after the use of his pet mortuary. She wrapped
him around her finger the way butchers wrap paper around
meat. Once he was properly wound she started using his
mortuary for some very unpopular cult activities. The
potential scandal would have not only destroyed her father's political
career but also ruined Bernie's business. In the end I saved
the day by employing, at Bernie's expense, a fictitious film crew to
convince everyone that what was going on in the mortuary was simply the
filming of a movie.
It is this kind of quick thinking that encourages Bernie to call on me
to help him get out of girl trouble. The party invitation
was, no doubt, a summons to duty. So what had he gotten
himself into this time?
© 2008 David Biagini