“I’m looking for a telephone,” Michael said.
“This is a private party,” the man said.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I thought this was a restaurant.”
“It is a restaurant, but it’s also a private party. Dinn you see the sign in the door? The sign says `Closed.`”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see it.”
“It says `Closed` whether you seen it or not.”
“All I want to do is make a phone call, it won’t take a …”
“Are you a cop?” the man asked.
“No,” Michael said.
The man looked at him.
“What are you then?”
“An orange-grower.”
“My grandfather grew grapes,” the man said.
“I’m Frankie Zeppelin.” He extended his hand to Michael. “What’s your name?”
“Donald Trump,” Michael said.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Trump,” Frankie said, and shook hands with him. “Come on, I’ll get you a drink. What do you drink, Mr. Trump?”
“You can call me Don,” Michael said.
“Well, that’s very nice of you, Don. And you can call me Mr. Zepparino. What do you drink, Don?”
“If you have a little scotch …”
“We have a little everything,” Frankie said, and grinned as if he’d made a terrific joke. Putting his arm around Michael’s shoulders, he led him toward the bar. “You look familiar,” he said. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you from the neighborhood?”
“I’m from Minnesota,” Michael said at once, just in case Frankie had seen the earlier news broadcast.
“A lot of the girls here come from Minnesota,” Frankie said. “These very dumb blonde girls with blue eyes, they must drink a lot of milk out there in Minnesota.”
“Yes, it’s called the Land of the Lakes,” Michael said.
“I thought it musta been,” Frankie said.
“Kid,” he said to the bartender, “pour Donny here some scotch.”
The bartender picked up a bottle of Dewar’s Black Label, and poured generously into a tall glass.
“Anything with that?” he asked.
“Just a little soda,” Michael said.
“Hello?” a voice said over the loudspeaker system. “Hello? Can you hear me? Hello? One, two, three, testing, can you hear me? Hello, hello, hello, hell …”
“We can hear you already!” Frankie shouted. Michael looked over to where a man wearing brown shoes and what looked like his blue confirmation suit was standing behind a microphone set up near a big copper espresso machine.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I want to wish you first, one and all, a very merry … is this thing on?”
“It’s on already!” Frankie yelled.
“Hello?” the man at the microphone said.
“Can you hear me?” He began tapping the microphone. “Hello? If you can hear me, please raise your hands please. Hello? Can you hear me?” Frankie threw up both his hands. All around the hall, people were putting their hands up.
“Looks like a police raid in here,” the man at the microphone said, which not too many people found funny, including Michael.
A redheaded woman wearing a black negligee over a black teddy and black garters and black silk stockings and black high-heeled patent leather shoes came over to the bar, said, “Hello, Frankie,” and extended her glass to the bartender. “Just vodka,” she said.
“I think I can safely say, at this our annual Christmas party here,” the man at the microphone said, “that this year was a better year than any year preceding it. And I think I can say without fear of contradiction that next year is going to be an even better one!”
There were cries of “Tell us about it, Also!” and “Attaway, Also!” and “Let’s hear the figures, Also!”
“Hi,” the redhead said. “I’m Hannah.”
“How do you do?” Michael said.
“You look familiar,” she said. “Have I ever seen you on television?”
“No,” he said at once.
“Aren’t you the one who used to do the Carvel commercials?”
“Yes,” he said, “come to think of it.”
“No kidding? I love your Cookie Puss cakes.”
“As an example,” Also said, “in hotel encounters in the midtown area of Manhattan alone, revenues were up seven percent from last year for a total of …”
“Who’s this?” a voice at Michael’s elbow said.
He turned. He was looking at a very large man wearing a brown tweed suit, a yellow button-down shirt, a green knit tie, and an angry scowl.
“Jimmy, this is the man used to do the Carvel ice cream commercials,” Hannah said.
“No kidding?” Jimmy said, immediately disarmed. He took Michael’s hand, began pumping it vigorously. “I love your Black Bear cakes,” he said. “I’m Jimmy Fingers.”
“How do you do, Mr. Fingers?” Michael said.
“It’s Finnegan, actually. But that’s okay, everybody knows me as Jimmy Fingers.”
“Especially the cops,” Hannah said.
“Yeah, them,” Jimmy said.
“Mobile encounters,” Also said into the microphone, “by which I’m referring only to passenger automobiles and not vans or pickup trucks—and, mind you, I’m not even including figures for the Holland Tunnel or the George Washington Bridge —were up a full fifteen percent over last year.”
“That’s very good,” Jimmy said appreciatively.
“Good? That’s sensational,” Frankie said.
“But it can give you backaches,” Hannah said.
“Does anyone know where I can find a telephone?” Michael asked.
“Why you need a telephone?” Frankie said.
“I want to call a friend of mine. She may be able to take me to St. Luke’s Place.”