“Perish the thought,” said Dancer. “It might be that Spitz here feels like hanging around the Shandon Star all night to watch the Dodgers. On that same evening, maybe I opt to see a Mamie Van Doren feature at the Trans-Lux that my wife doesn’t approve of, ogling the screen in pleasant solitude.”
Braverman lit his pipe. “It’s the adult version of playing hooky, Dale. Every Monday night from here on in, we all do whatever we like without having to account to anyone, even if it’s as harmless a distraction as going back to the old neighborhood to have a chocolate malt while reading a comic book. Simple, innocent pleasures.”
There was a significant pause. Then Braverman added, “Or you can do something bad.”
“Very bad,” Dancer instantly affirmed with a wicked grin. “Very bad indeed.” I had the impression he had specific images in his mind, and I was glad I couldn’t see them for myself.
“What does ‘bad’ really mean, after all?” Spitz waxed philosophically. “A life without experience is a life hardly lived.” Then he glared at the room. “But what we do on our Mondays is nobody’s business. Correct, gentleman? Even amongst ourselves.”
“Even amongst ourselves,” Dancer repeated, clearly for my benefit. “As far as any of us are concerned, we are all here every Monday, playing poker. If anyone significant in our lives happens to ask us how the evening went, we will merely try to do as admirable a job as Brother Dale just did in recounting whatever details — very real details, to be sure — are needed. Thus, should our wives or others compare our stories, they will jibe harmoniously.”
I tried to understand what they were telling me. “So we’re supplying each other with an” — I couldn’t think of another word — “alibi?”
Spitz fidgeted. “The term ‘alibi’ would imply that one or more of us might need one, because we had done something illegal. Think, rather, of the Monks of the Abbey Victoria as a cover story, and that we spend our Mondays... under cover.”
“So how does it work?” I asked, already wondering how I might occupy myself next Monday evening.
Spitz said, “We don’t meet here again until we have to. The innocuous events of this evening will serve as what transpires here every Monday until one of us is obliged to recount the details to another person, in which case we will reluctantly reconvene to create a different real evening to describe.”
Dancer was moving the used glassware to the ice-bucket tray. “Each week, one of us mans this outpost. Today was my turn, next week is” — he mentally went through the alphabet — “is Shepard, then you, Winslow, then Harv, and then it’s back to me.”
“And what do I do when it’s my turn?”
“The same thing we all do,” Matty Dancer said. “You check in for the four of us, order up some beer and a card table, and sit here alone for the rest of the night. You watch TV or read a book, but you must stay here. Mid-evening, the three remaining members phone in, just like Shepard did from the Chinese restaurant, to make sure the coast is clear. If one of our wives has called the hotel, either because of an emergency, an errand, or simply to check up on us, that week’s sentry will tell them their spouse is out getting food for the others. When that husband checks in at mid-evening, the sentry advises him to call his wife as soon as possible. We all check in a second time at midnight, just in case.”
Harv chimed in, “If anyone presses us about what we did, what we discussed, how the poker game went, we just describe the last time we were together. That’s why we never discuss current events, TV, movies, things that might date our evening. Under ideal circumstances, we may not have to meet more than once or twice a year.”
“That’s fine with me,” Spitz murmured.
“If you like, I’ll help you on your first shift as sentry,” Dancer offered as he and I left Room 622 and walked to the elevators. Braverman and Spitz had already left, staggering our departures to draw less attention to ourselves.
“But won’t that mean you’ll lose out on one of your Mondays?” I asked.
He looked almost embarrassed. “Oh, I’m afraid I don’t have any really exciting prospects at the present. Not like some of us.” He pushed the elevator button. “Our receptionist Donna, for example. She likes you, damn your eyes.”
“You work too hard, Mr. Winslow,” Donna said that Friday. She’d volunteered to bring me a cup of coffee before she left for the night, and I’d had no problem accepting her gracious offer.
“Call me Dale, please,” I requested. “After all, I call you Donna.”
“But you don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?” I asked.
“Call me.” She set the cup on my desk, accidentally brushing the right side of my body. “My number’s in the book, you know.”
“And what would we talk about?” Oh, I was enjoying this.
“About where you might want to take me for dinner after we go to the planetarium.”
“You’re interested in astronomy?” I asked.
“I’m interested in dark places. On a first date, the planetarium is as far as I go.”
I was certain if I asked how far she went on a third date, I’d get yet another answer I’d never forget, but my conscience nagged at me almost as much as Joanie does when I’m not helping her around the house. I indicated my wedding ring, which suddenly weighed a ton.
“I’m married,” I heard myself say.
Someone knocked at my office door and opened it without waiting for my response. I would have bitten his head off if he hadn’t chosen to be Ken Compton.
“Winslow, am I hallucinating, or is there simply no ethical behavior on this avenue anymore? You will not believe who was just coming on to me, and I mean coming on strong.”
Reflexively I looked at Donna, but Compton answered his own question. “Those little worms at CBS. Paley’s man Denham. Inquiring if I wouldn’t be happier with them, maybe I could do a little better for myself there. Insult to my intelligence and ego. It’s the damn schedule they want, that’s all. They know we’ve got them beat this season. If you get any calls from anyone at CBS, I want you to put them directly through to me. That’s official, got it?”
A second later, Donna and I were alone again. “Where were we?” she asked.
Compton’s exit seemed to trigger her need to fidget with the buttons on her blouse, and I was fighting a similar urge. “I’m afraid I was reminding you I’m married,” I reprised.
“I know,” she said. “So many people in this country are. It must be the reason for the skyrocketing divorce rate.”
Give me credit. At least I was no longer a foolhardy kid who couldn’t foresee an absolute disaster in the making. At least I now had enough willpower to resist temptation, no matter how appealingly it was offered.
“You doing anything Monday night?” I asked.
Joanie shouted to me through the bathroom door, “How much longer are you going to be using the shower? My makeup’s in there.”
“Help yourself!” I called out cheerfully, being in a better mood than I am most Monday mornings.
As she entered, she turned her head away so as not to see me through the translucent shower curtain. It wasn’t as if I were deformed or something, I was just naked.
“Where’s my makeup mirror?” she asked.
“Sorry, I was using it,” I apologized. “I was shaving in the shower. I read somewhere you get a much smoother shave that way.” I turned off the water, wrapped a towel around my waist, handed the magnifying mirror to her, and reached for the bottle of Aqua Velva I’d bought on Sunday, ladling its contents onto my face.
“Take it easy with that stuff,” she said. “It’s expensive.”
“Sorry yet again. I’ll try to defray the expense by winning a few big hands tonight.”