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jjaywmac · 7 years

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Marcia

You have just been the victim of what is known in television as a “tease.” It is something, or anything, to keep the audience watching and away from the clicker. So while I still have your attention, let’s discuss my new career.

Since I wasn’t trained to do anything except throw a baseball, the field was wide open. Growing up, I was fascinated by my father’s work. The usual conversation at the dinner table was a discussion of the case he was working on. Dad would give facts and clues, and it was up to Tommie and yours truly to close the case. Being financially secure and having, as the players might say, “time drippin’ out of my butt,” I figured what the hell.

In the state of Florida, you don’t just proclaim yourself a Private Investigator, there is a course to take. But since this is Florida, you are only required to show up for twenty-four of the forty hours. Three weeks and a practice test later, I drove up to Orlando to take the exam. As I sat in the room with a group of nervous candidates, it occurred to me that the same people who ran the Inquisition had quizzed me in College – the Jesuits. No lousy State exam bothered me. I passed. So, now armed with a card that announced me as a licensed Private Investigator in the Sunshine State, I set to work.

I passed up the obligatory office on Main Street for a desk, a couch, two chairs, and some file cabinets. My den is now the World Wide Headquarters of Vic Landell Investigations.

In my first year on the job, the cases I worked on fell into two categories. Fifty percent were suspicious wives who hired me to follow their husbands to discover if they were getting a little sumthin’ sumthin’ on the side, and the other fifty percent were curious husbands who had hired me to find out if their wives were playing hide-the-salami with the pool boy. Many are the nights I spent parked outside a strange house, armed with my trusty Nikon. In time, I earned the nickname “Wrecking Ball” because of all the happy homes I’d broken up. OK, so I wasn’t on the hunt for the Maltese Falcon, but I was a Florida private eye. From jump, I made myself a promise that I would work hard and take the job seriously like my dad – no dilettantes here.

You have been very patient, so let’s talk about my date. This, by the way, is not a first date. It’s probably the 101st date. Tonight, I’m seeing my girlfriend. What’s the big deal? You haven’t seen my girlfriend. Welcome to my whirlwind romance.

It all started about six months ago. The National Muscular Dystrophy Telethon was held on Labor Day weekend, and I volunteered to help answer phones, tend bar, or whatever they needed. The chairperson had other plans in mind.

“Would I bring something for the auction?”

I obediently autographed two baseballs, put on my Hugo Boss tuxedo, and headed up the Trail to the Van Wezel Center. All the while wondering why anyone would bid on a ball signed by a relief pitcher that was no longer capable of providing relief?

When I arrived, Mrs. Farnsworth, a classic southern matron with what you might call an air of entitlement, welcomed me with open arms and made a fuss about my donations. Jeez, you would have thought I brought the Magna Carta. I did a little schmoozing, signed a few autographs, ate some shrimp, and then as I looked across the Center floor, I saw her. Oh Lord! Of course you could hardly miss her. She was six feet tall and had on a pair of five-inch stilettos. Poured into a black cocktail dress, not only did she tower over all the women, she towered over the men as well. I wonder if Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay got this feeling that first day? But that was only the beginning. Flawless skin, red hair, green eyes, and lips that screamed KISS ME. The body? Put it this way, she could put on a potato sack, walk into any strip club in South Florida, and be hired on the spot. I can’t tell you what the band was playing, but my brain was playing “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress,” in allegro vivace. If I did nothing else tonight, I was going to meet that girl. Walk over, look her right in the chin, and say hello.

In a woman, I look for intelligence, a sense of humor, and – well, I’ll cop to it – nice legs. As I walked toward her, she turned slightly, opening a strategically placed slit up the side of her gown to reveal the longest, most beautiful leg I had ever seen. So, you can check that box. As I got closer, I did what a lifetime of practice taught me – checked her left hand. No engagement ring and no wedding band. Further proof of what I’ve always believed.

“The men in this town are either gay or blind.”

She saw me approaching, and her smile turned to a scowl. Through clinched teeth she said,

“I don’t like you.”

Could someone please remove the ice pick from my heart? The scowl turned into a big, warm smile,

“Because I am a Cubs fan.”

I broke up laughing and so did she. Another box checked.

“Since I know who you are, let me introduce myself. My name is Marcia Glenn. I saw you play in Wrigley Field and sat there wondering how this guy with his assortment of junk pitches could get out my beloved Cubbies.”

I’d been ripped a new one in the nicest possible way by the hottest woman on the Gulf Coast. Fumbling for a line, the best I could do was,

“Sometimes I wondered the same thing. So, what brings you down here?”

She saw me sizing her up and down so decided to return the favor, head to toe in a glance.

“I’m working the room. Actually, I’m a news anchor at WWSB, and we’re the local station for the telethon. We all chip in, and I got stuck doing our hourly cut-ins.”

In my whole life I’d never felt less glib or clever. I decided it was safer to ask questions and let her do the talking – safer for me anyway.

“Are you going on soon?”

“Yes, my last spot is in five minutes.”

Thinking fast, I came back with the unbelievably insipid,

“Would you mind if I stood here and watched?”

That brought another smile,

“It’s fine with me, but the cameraman may not care for it, you’re in the shot.”

“Sorry.”

Sure hope she goes for the awkward, clumsy type. So I moved and watched her effortlessly seduce her audience. Besides being drop dead gorgeous, she was smooth and in total control. She did her bit and signed off. In those three minutes, I had formed my next question,

“Would you like to get out of here?”

Too soon? Keep in mind that to a ballplayer, “Would you like to get out of here?” usually translates as, “Would you like to go back to my hotel room and do the horizontal mambo?” With a disarmingly coy look, she replied,

“What did you have in mind?”

This was a woman who, no doubt, had heard every pick-up line east of the Mississippi. Now, hoping she wouldn’t laugh in my face\ I pressed on.

“Coffee for you, ginger ale for me.”

A moment that seemed like a lifetime passed and then,

“OK, Lefty, you sold me.”

We said our good-byes to Mrs. Farnsworth, and moments later, her 3 Series BMW convertible was following me down The Trail. I had just accomplished one of my goals in life – leave a big event with the best looking woman in the place, even if it was just for coffee. By the way, the next day I was informed my baseballs went for one hundred dollars apiece. The only possible explanation: Someone was desperate for a tax deduction. A right onto Bee Ridge Road and a couple of blocks later, we arrived at the only place still open on The Ridge, Denny’s. Our Sarasota is sometimes referred to as a sleepy little town, and not without reason. Yes, they roll up the sidewalks at 8pm. So, now having guided this long drink of water into a booth, it was time to do a little vetting of my own.

“Where are you from?”

“The burbs of Dallas, Los Colinas.”

I broke out laughing. She didn’t see the humor.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry, Marsha, it’s just that every year I watch the Miss America Pageant, and every year Miss Texas is a six-foot redhead with legs that start at her neck and end in El Paso.”

“While that is probably true, that’s not me, and it’s not Marsha, it’s Mar-c-ia. Besides I’m not six-feet tall, I’m five-twelve. You get credit for one thing, you didn’t fall back on that tired, old witticism, ‘they grow ‘em tall in Texas.’”

Christ, that was my next line. Rethink.

“So how did a Texas girl wind up in Wrigley Field?”

“Northwestern. Since I was seven, I wanted a career in broadcasting and opted for Evanston. That and college were a chance to see more than Texas. In the spring semester, I arranged all my classes in the morning and then jumped on the red line to catch the first pitch on Addison.”

“Wait a minute. I spent my career sitting in bullpens with six horny pitchers, tw0 horny catchers, and one horny ball boy. Most of the time we didn’t know what the score was, we were too busy scoping out the local talent in the crowd. These were guys who could spot a hottie ten blocks away. How did we miss you?”

“April and May were much too cold for a Texas girl. Didn’t you see me? I was the one with the parka on top of baggy sweats, a ski cap, and a ski mask covering my face.”

“I get it – no tank tops or shorts before June.”

Let’s see if I can pull a gratuitous complement out of her.

“When you saw me pitch, did you think ‘he’s kind of cute?’”

“I might have, but you have to remember, I was very busy hating your team…and you.”

Kiss my gratuitous complement good-bye. The server brought a second cup of coffee and another Canada Dry as we delved deeper into the life of Marcia Glenn, Cubs fan.

“After college, I was ready to start my career and sent tapes out to a number of TV stations in very small markets. I soon received responses from News Directors who were thrilled with the idea of a leggy redhead doing their weather. Well, I didn’t go to college to become someone’s weather bunny. And since no one wanted me to be a serious journalist, I did what all of my friends who couldn’t find a job did. I went back to school. In my case, it was Cornell Law School.”

Smart. Three boxes, a perfect score.

“Networks are hiring reporters and anchors with law degrees, thinking that a J.D. makes them credible. Watch Fox News, the women are gorgeous and all attorneys.”

Notes to self: 1. Tomorrow, go Home Depot and buy a stepladder and, 2. Send a nice note to Vera Wang or Hervé-Léger or whoever designed that dress.

“I tried again after law school and this time got an offer to be an anchor/reporter for a very prestigious station. Two weeks later, I was the newest, youngest member of the Newswatch3 team at KDIK.”

“I’m quite willing to be impressed, but I have never heard of KDIK. Where is it located?”

Her bluff called and her cover blown, sheepishly she admitted…

“Idaho Falls”

I almost spit up the ginger ale. I laughed, she laughed, the server laughed, and the couple in the next booth laughed. When order was restored, she continued.

“That’s how it works in Television. Start at the bottom and work your way up. So for me, the bottom was the 162nd market. Three years later, I was an expert on Bonneville County and ready to move on. My chance came when I got an offer from WWSB, Tampa – the number 13 market. What they didn’t tell me was that, while it reached the Tampa area, it was located in Sarasota. I said yes and here I am.”

Are you ever?

“So, the game plan says that the next jump will be to a major market and then to a network. There is, however, a problem with the game plan…”

I think I knew what was coming.

“Let me see if I can guess. You love Sarasota.”

“You hit it.”

“Well, this bodes well for me – a redheaded goddess who doesn’t want to leave town.”

“Now that I think about it, you were rather cute, or maybe I’m just a sucker for a man in uniform.”

“By the way, in case this goes south, do you have a sister?”

“Katelyn, and she is married, so you better not screw this up.”

We made a date for the next Saturday. She’d come over to my house, and we’d go to Phillippi Creek for lunch. A tall redhead from Texas had just put the fun back in fundraiser. On the way home, I kept saying to myself,

“This is no bimbo. I’m back in the big leagues, and if this is a dream, I will gladly kill the guy who tries to wake me up.”

Saturday came and promptly at noon, the BMW pulled into my driveway. She stepped out of the car wearing cut-offs, a tank top and most importantly, flats. I’m six-foot one, and she had just leveled the playing field.

“Welcome, but you should have brought a bathing suit.”

“Honey, this is the Sun Coast – there is one under my clothes, another one in the glove compartment, and an emergency back-up in the trunk.”

We walked through the front door and into what Floridians call the great room. Which translates as “no walls.”

“Well, I see you’ve done the whole place in early bachelor.”

“Yes, it does cry out for a woman’s touch.”

Would you like the job? Full time? She looked around and then noticed the sidewall.

“I always say that no Florida home is complete without a portrait of an aircraft carrier.”

“CVN-72, the USS Abraham Lincoln. My brother is a carrier pilot and that’s his ship.”

“So, how come a good looking, well-off guy like you hasn’t been roped, tagged, and branded?”

“Well, since you asked. You are a Baseball fan. Do you know the name George Brett?”

“Sure.”

“George had a brother named Ken, a really good guy known to one and all as ‘Kemer’, and his philosophy became my philosophy. A baseball player has a lot of opportunities, see also temptations, and it seems crazy to get married and then spend half the year being unfaithful, so, don’t get hitched until after you retire. If you are single, you can do anything you want. You can two-time, three-time or even four-time. Once you put the ring on, everything changes, no more straying, no foolin’ around. Kemer is gone now, but his philosophy is alive and well and living in me. Do I believe in marriage? Absolutely. My parents had a fabulous marriage. That’s my story. Now what about you? How is it that a mouth-watering redhead is not bedding down in some oil baron’s ranch house?”

“I’ve had my chances. I went with a guy through college, and it looked like we were headed toward the altar until one day he broke it off. He told me that he wanted more. And that ‘he couldn’t be what I wanted him to be.’ Whatever that means. Combined with the ever popular ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’ And, of course, like so many women, I immediately blamed myself, wondering what’s wrong with me. In time, it was replaced by a brisk screw him, and I threw myself into my career.”

“More? Are you kidding? You are beautiful, sexy, smart, funny, and have legs for days. What else is there?”

With a smile that could break your heart she replied,

“He didn’t say, he just left. You are a sweetheart, but enough with the bargain basement flattery, I’m hungry and you promised me lunch.”

Note to self: NEVER leave this girl waiting.

“So, padna, as we say in Texas, let’s mosey over to the chuck wagon. Do I get to drive the Lotus?”

“Not today. We’re using an alternative form of transportation.”

Those legs followed me into the backyard, past the pool, down to the dock, and into my 15-foot boat. No surprise, it’s a Boston Whaler.

“Where are we going?”

“As promised, Phillippi Creek, via the scenic route. I’ll drive and you lie gracefully across the front cushions.”

“Lie gracefully? Really? Is this lunch or just a clever ruse to get me into my bikini?”

What I lack in intelligence, I make up for in cunning.

“OK, Lefty, your boat, your rules.”

In a flash, the cut-offs and tank top were gone. I nearly fell out of the boat – from stem to stern. Seventy-two inches of goddess in a black bikini, and the legs were only the start. Some girls are fun; this girl is an amusement park. Believe me when I tell you, Disneyland is so not the happiest place on earth. I almost felt sorry for the guy who passed up the chance to marry her. Almost. Wherever you are today, thank you.

“Why do I think I’m not the first woman you’ve gotten into this boat. I’ll bet if I look hard enough, I’ll find a thong around here.”

“Too late, I cleaned out the thongs last week along with all the bras, the garter belts, and stilettos. Right now, I’m only thinking about the present woman in this boat, not the ones who have gone before.”

“Did they teach you that line of bull shit at Boston College…”

“…or did you learn it in the National League?”

There have been other women, but nothing like this. Something tells me I am going to have to bring my “A” game to this party.

“Never mind where I learned it. The operative question is, ‘is it working?’”

“I’ve heard worse. Heck, I’ve gone home with worse, which I guess bodes pretty well for you.”

I just smiled – of course by now even my hair was getting hard. By the way, on top of everything else, she does graceful very well. Don’t take my word for it, just ask the men on every boat we’re passing. All of us lost in a reverie.

“Hey, Lefty, someone is hungry up here. Will this thing go any faster? I’ve been on quicker cattle drives. No wonder they call this bucket a whale boat.”

End of reverie.

Thankfully, we are a minute away from the dock at the Phillippi Creek Village Restaurant & Oyster Bar. As usual on Saturday afternoon, the joint is jumping but we somehow manage to find an open slip and then flimflam our way into a table by the window. The Oysters in question are Apalachicolas. Found only on the Florida panhandle and prized by shellfish aficionados as some of the best in the world. The server arrives.

“And what can I get for the lady?”

“Two dozen oysters.”

Lunch is off and running. I wouldn’t eat those slimy buggers with a gun to my head, so I counter with a half-pound of shrimp and then another half-pound. She hoovers the oysters and then goes for the crab cakes and cold slaw. Here is a girl with either a Texas-size appetite, or the metabolism of a hummingbird.

“Is it too early in a second date to discuss a third date?”

With a voice that Mae West would have been proud of,

“What do you have in mind, big boy?”

Very good, too bad my Cary Grant is lousy.

“Ever had dinner at the White House?”

“Not since George and Laura moved out.”

When will I learn? She’s too quick for me.

“White House? Do you mean Maison Blanche?”

“Yes. The French place on Longboat Key, the number-one rated restaurant in town. Saturday night, I can make a reservation for eight and pick you up at 7:30.”

“Lucky for you, I’m dying to try it…you’re on.”

As we walk down the dock to leave, she reaches over and grabs the key out of my hand, jumps in and sits down behind the wheel of the whaleboat.

“Get in.”

“Can you drive this thing?”

“Let’s find out.”

I untie the line and step over the gunwale as she jams the throttle forward. Now with one foot on the deck and the other on the dock, the whaler takes off. I am lucky enough to fall into the boat rather than the water.

“Let’s see what this baby can do.”

“Great, I’ll just sit here and watch for the Coast Guard.”

In a flash, we are under the bridge and doing ‘S’ turns across Robert’s Bay, all of this way above the speed limit. I ordered the whaler with the upgraded engines in case someone wanted to do a little water skiing. Oh, was I regretting that decision.

“We, who are about to die, salute you.”

Her heavy hand on the throttle gets us down the Intracoastal, through Sarasota Bay, and into the canal in a heartbeat. Skillfully, she pulls the engines back to idle and floats the whaler right to the dock. I have been sandbagged.

After extending my hand and helping her out, I explain,

“I usually charge gorgeous redheads for driving my boat.”

“Really? What is the going rate?”

“This.”

I take her in my arms, pull her close, and plant one on those pouty lips. She gives just as good as she gets. This is a girl who has been kissed before. The spell is broken when she starts to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was thinking, what is the charge for driving the Lotus?”

I turn away and begin peering into the whaler.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking to see if you’ve left a thong.”

Saturday comes after a week of work, and now it is time for the all-important third date. Tonight, I make my move. I played with guys who knew how to dress, and they schooled me well. The navy-blue Armani suit has served me true in the romance department and now will be “called to the colors” yet again. We couple that with a Geoffrey Bean spread collar shirt and then over to the tie rack for something in red. Next stop, the shoe rack for a pair of Gucci dress loafers. Finally, a spritz of Fahrenheit, and I am good to go.

Marcia lives downtown in one of the new “townies” off Fruitville. I pull up in front, traverse the walkway, and ring the bell. The door opens, and there she is, six feet of redhead in a gunmetal mini-dress, and bless my soul, the stilettos are back.

“You clean up good.”

“What, this old thing? I just threw it on.”

“As we say in the National League, nice throw.”

This is followed by a moment I have been waiting for, to see if she can get all those legs and very little skirt into my overgrown go-cart without putting on a show. No show tonight. She manages to get her appendages in with no loss of modesty. Still in all, they really never end, they just go on forever. Any plan on running your hand the length of those legs requires a compass and a map. I have such a plan.

I drop the clutch on the Elise and we take off – from Fruitville to The Trail, over the Ringling Bridge, around St. Armand’s Circle and onto Longboat Key. Longboat equals high demand, still higher prices.

“Silly question, but did you bring your appetite?”

“How long you know me?”

We pull in at Maison Blanche, and a fight almost breaks out. All three parking attendants push and shove to open the passenger door and watch intently as 72 inches, plus 5, of woman get out of my tiny car. I, on the other hand, am less popular than a leper. More than slightly irked, I walk behind the Lotus, and then shove the key into someone’s hand.

“Get your own girl. Do you always cause this much of a ruckus?”

“I don’t mean to, it just sort of happens.”

“Were you the girl that didn’t get any dates because all the men thought you were unattainable?”

“Let me put it this way, I spent a lot of Saturday nights washing my hair.”

Part of my wooing technique is my sense of humor. Now, I have to compete with a woman who is funnier than I am.

“How would you feel about a bottle of champagne? Do we have reason to celebrate?”

“Baby, I’m out with you, that’s reason enough.”

“This may get me into trouble but I have to admit it – the cheaper the flattery, the more I like it.”

More good news, I can do cheap flattery all night long.

“I have been sitting on pins and needles waiting for news, and today the letter came from the Bar Association. This redhead passed the Bar Exam. I, Marcia Glenn, am now allowed to practice law in the State of Florida. Son of a gun, you see before you an Officer of the Court.”

The sommelier arrives. He doesn’t get a word out.

“Cordon Rouge, s’il vous plait.”

In my house, “Mumms” the word.

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. That and “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir” are my total grasp of the French Language.”

That brings a big smile from the big redhead.

“Know what I really like about you?”

Here it comes; let’s all say it together.

“Your self-deprecating sense of humor.”

One for me, but she is still way ahead on points. Now, time to mix in a little business.

“OK, so now you are an attorney who from time to time will need the help of a private investigator, and I am a P.I. who from time to time will need a lawyer to get his chestnuts out of the fire. What do you say to a partnership?”

“You know, for a left-handed pitcher you’re pretty bright.”

She puts out her hand.

“Deal?”

Shaking her hand, vigorously,

“Deal!”

How am I going to break the news to Frank Ianella? Frank is my family’s attorney in Boston. How can I explain to him that a redhead has replaced him? I’m talking about a woman with curves in places that other women don’t even have places. Sorry about that, Frank, but I’ve got someone here who gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “In-house counsel.”

That said, dinner is a delight with escargots for the lady and onion soup for me, followed by Marcia’s blackened grouper and a sublime Coq au Vin for yours truly.

A note about Sarasota – you can get the local favorite fish at virtually every restaurant in the town. I keep waiting for McDonald’s to advertise “the McGrouper.”

We wrap up dinner with Bananas Foster and then head for the parking lot – time for Act Two of The Invisible Man. H. G. Wells, thanks for nothing. There is a cavalry charge of valets to retrieve the car and open the passenger door for the lady, all this in spite of the fact that I am the guy holding the tip in my hand. Every male within earshot then comes to attention when she says,

“I think it’s time for the top to come off.”

I don’t say a word, just a look.

“Not mine, the car’s.”

“Not my first choice, but I am here to serve.”

The little roll-up, canvas thing Lotus – with a perfectly straight face – calls a top is off and in the trunk in about ten seconds. So, let’s take stock – a raucous red convertible, a warm Florida evening, a moonlit beach road, Jimmy Buffett on the stereo, a gentle champagne buzz, and a leggy redhead. That just about covers it. Our tour of the Keys takes us the length of Longboat, around Bird, and finally to Midnight Pass Road, the main drag of Siesta Key. It is only then she recognizes where we are.

“Oh, you are good. My momma always told me watch out for those smooth Yankee boys.”

Feigning anger.

“First of all, I’m from Boston, don’t ever call me a Yankee.”

Now smiling.

“Besides, you’re a baseball fan. Don’t you know a crafty portsider when you see one?”

In case you are wondering, a “crafty portsider” is a left-hander who substitutes guile for velocity on his fastball.

“Well, if I had to guess, I’d say the next part of your devious little plan is to position me carefully on the couch, with soft lights and just a hint of music in the background.”

Not exactly the best kept secret since the A-bomb.

“What gave me away? The dinner? The flattery? How about the fact that I can’t take my eyes off you?”

By now, there was enough sexual tension in the room to light up South America.

“Let’s just say you’re not without charm, and – what do you know – we have arrived at the couch. The lights ARE low, and I believe I hear Kenny G wafting through the house.”

Now, we discover if this is a love seat or just a couch.

“OK, Lefty, let’s see what you got.”

The conversation portion of the evening is finished, having given way to long soft kisses. In time, the only other sounds are the metallic slide of a zipper and the gentle thud of a gunmetal mini-dress hitting the floor.

BURDEN OF PROOF – Chapter 2 2 Marcia You have just been the victim of what is known in television as a “tease.” It is something, or anything, to keep the audience watching and away from the clicker.

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