“Hamilton Edgar, Hamilton Edgar,” the commissioner said speculatively.
“The lawyer from the U. You turned me down. Held out the bid I brought you all arm’s length and little pinkie finger like somebody’d pissed on it.”
“Hamilton Edgar?” the commissioner said.
“What’s that supposed to mean—‘What’s a guy with a moniker like yours doing under the headgear?’ ”
It was exactly what it meant, thought the commissioner who, though he couldn’t always put names together with their faces these days, felt he still had perfect pitch for the demographics. “Oh no, of course not. Not at all,” he flustered. “No no.”
“Because I didn’t change it,” the young man said. “My old zeyde did.”
Druff nodded.
“Hey,” Edgar said, “speak of the devil, lookee there who’s coming.” Druff followed the fellow’s arm as he uncurled it once more from his shoulder, flourishing it like a magician’s assistant.
A third man in a suit, maybe two or three years Hamilton Edgar’s senior — ballpark figures — came down the wide temple steps toward them.
“Who?” Druff said.
“Is that who I think it is? Is it? Is it?” the other suited man was saying. “Is that City Commissioner of Streets Druff that Ham ‘n’ Eggs’s been telling me so much about? He said you two were thick, he said he took meetings in your office, but darned if he mentioned he was inviting you. Ham ‘n’ Eggs,” the fellow scolded, “you really should have said something about this. Listen,” he addressed Druff, “you’re too late for services. You’re even too late for the kiddush. The aunts and old uncles were mopping up the last of the wine and sponge cake when I came out to fetch Ham.” He turned back to Hamilton Edgar. “We’re starting lunch up soon. The klezmers have gathered. Don’t you think it would be nice if you got with the program? I mean if you’d said something. Now — excuse me, Commissioner — I don’t know where we could even fit him in.”
“Dan, he’s City Commissioner of Streets. These are his sawhorses closing the street off to traffic. How do you think B’nai Beth Emeth got them? How do you think it ever got its one-way street? Who gave us yea and nay over the flow-control patterns?”
“I know,” the Dan one said, “I know, but tell it to the caterers. You don’t draw blood from a stone, Ham.”
“Isn’t this ridiculous?” Hamilton Edgar, winking at the commissioner, said. “What are we talking about here, an extra place setting? No big deal, I’ll pay for it out of my own pocket. Here,” said Ham ‘n’ Eggs, pulling a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet.
“Twenty dollars?” Dan scoffed. “You think twenty dollars would even begin to cover it? Filet mignon? Fresh vegetables? Wine? Strawberries out of season? Klezmerin with embouchures on them that go back before the sounding of the first shofar? You’re living in the past there, kiddo. Rosebird! Rosebird!”
“It’s not enough? It isn’t? Here.” The Jazz Ager held out his wallet. “Take whatever you need.”
“An extra place setting,” Dan said scornfully, taking the twenty and lifting additional tens and fives from Edgar’s billfold.
“Look,” said Druff, finally intervening, “there’s been a mistake. He didn’t invite me to your son’s bar mitzvah.”
“My son’s bar mitzvah, my son’s? Is that what he told you?”
“What’s going on?” Druff said.
“What I’d like to know,” Dan muttered, pouting.
“Speak of the devil,” Hamilton Edgar said and looked again in the direction of the temple steps.
“Oh yeah,” Dan said. “Yeah. This is a guy,” he told the commissioner out of the side of his mouth, “you really have to meet him. Wouldn’t you say so, Ham?”
“A ‘must.’ A definite ’don’t miss.’ ”
“Don’t let on, Ham. See if the commissioner catches it.”
“Even money says he names that tune in three.”
Were they high? It occurred to the commissioner these two were high. They sounded high. Amused by their own rash slapdash. Into the wine and sponge cake deeper even than the aunts and old uncles. (A judge in these matters, a fine distinguisher — the ground-up coca leaves, he supposed, white against his gums as toothpaste, the fine, frothy hydrophobics of his own hooked rabidity.) And turned to where a new man, another, Druff, who was no judge, judged, baby-boomer came coming — a man (this one suited too, but in a style more deliberate, the belted back of his suit coat seeming to flourish material, throwing out pleats like a kind of sprayed fabric, vaguely reminiscent of the accordion reserves and expanses of backpacks, garment bags) with a raised, forward-thrusting smile he seemed to carry balanced on his chin like a Roosevelt.
“Jerry,” said Dan, “do you know who this is here?”
“It’s City Commissioner of Streets Robert Druff,” Hamilton Edgar said.
“Gosh, is it? No fooling?”
“Pleased to meet you,” Druff” said.
“Jerry Rector,” said the baby-boomer and took the commissioner’s hand. He pumped it. “It sure is swell to meet you, sir.”
“Yeah, well,” said Druff, “I got in late last night. I set the alarm but slept through it anyway, wouldn’t you know? When I finally got up I was totally disoriented. I shaved, showered and dressed just as if it were an ordinary workday. That’s why I’m wearing this suit and tie instead of the more casual clothing you might expect someone to have on on a day City Hall is closed.”
“What I think,” Jerry Rector said, “is he looks mighty yar.”
Hamilton Edgar, giggling, politely covered his mouth.
“Well, he does,” Rector said. “Doesn’t he Dan?”
Now the two of them were giggling, covering their faces like conscientious coughers.
“Just ignore them, Commissioner. My chums are a couple of stinkers.
Druff shrugged.
“That’s just bunk, Ham and Dan,” Rector said. “That’s just bunk and hooey.”
“Oh Christ,” Hamilton Edgar said. “The man breaks me up. With his yars and bunks and hooeys. He sounds just like Jimmy Stewart in The Philadelphia Story.”
“More like Katharine Hepburn, you ask me,” Dan said.
“Very nice,” Jerry Rector said, “very nice indeed.” Then he grinned. “I happen,” he explained to the commissioner, “to be an admirer of the screwball comedies of the thirties and forties. It was a more gracious time. I mean anyone can say fuck or call some asshole a cocksucker. I’m sorry,” he said, “but that’s just not my style.”
Him too, Druff thought. High as a kite. The drugged Jews of B’nai Beth Emeth. It was a good thing the street was closed to traffic. Otherwise it could have been all chaos and fender benders. Like in an ice storm before the salt trucks responded.
“Well,” Ham said laughing, wiping his eyes, his amusement damp now, run to mucus, settled in his chest and nasals, “I say it’s about time we tucked in to that filet and those berries. Commissioner?”
“Ham has to have his grub.”
“Grub!” Dan exploded. “Did you ever? This is some guy, this guy.”
“Commissioner?” Ham said, taking his commissioner’s arm.