A SIP OF AMONTILLADO
“For the love of God, Montresor!”
“Now, when we come to the work of Arthur Miller, a dramatist our male editor deems significant enough to include two of his plays in our anthology, we see a very dissimilar case.” Andrea Kaufmann, Ph.D. candidate, paused to catch her breath, then continued. “We see the work of a neo-reactionary sexist. What more could we expect from a writer who sought fame in Hollywood—both these plays were made into movies remember—and the body of its leading sex victim Marilyn Monroe? Would we respect David Mamet if he wrote Iron Man scripts and married Miley Cyrus?”
No one in the surgical white seminar room dared object or appear bored. Her aviator glasses flashing in the fluorescent light, Angela tapped her laptop. “It is very obvious that in All My Sons Miller is not attacking the military industrial complex at all. No, the play merely demonstrates a conflict between father and son. The war veteran Chris with all his Rambo macho love for his fallen buddies vs. the corruption of a petty businessman trying to protect his loot. Miller never addresses the causes of war, never attacks capitalism. I see nothing redeeming in this work at all, certainly not for women or people of color. I don’t see how anyone can see anything in this play or Death of a Salesman, for that matter. All of Miller’s females are weak, superstitious characters who throw their lives away on dead sons or deadbeat husbands.”
“Do you agree, Dr. Payton?” someone asked.
What? Winfield looked up from his legal pad. Had someone asked him a question? Was Andrea done already? Revising a sales brochure extolling the virtues of distressed debt, he hadn’t been listening for the last fifteen minutes.
“Well, I think Ms. Kaufmann has given us a great deal to consider. Our time is just about up, and I suggest that next Wednesday we open with this point.” A footnote in a foreword came to mind, rescuing him. “When All My Sons opened in the Soviet Union, the critics were very harsh. In their view, Chris’ shock at his father’s deception suggested that honesty was the capitalistic norm. Clearly in their view, Joe Keller’s actions were to be perceived as typical capitalistic machinations, not ethical deviations. See you next week.”
Winfield gathered his papers, stuffed them into his briefcase, and headed for the nearest stairwell. Elevators were too risky. Waiting for the doors to open, he was an easy target for students wanting help with a research paper or advice on a resume. He jogged down the steps, hoping he would not run into anyone he knew. An extra eight hundred dollars a month was not worth all this. Next semester I’ll quit, he promised. Putting up with graduate students was hardly compensated by the ego stroke of teaching in a “real university” instead of MITI, which paid better anyway.
Carefully belted into his Mustang, he pulled out of the guest faculty parking lot and headed downtown. Win slid in a Sinatra CD and mentally shifted gears. Out of academia. Into business. Into two-hundred-dollar an hour consulting. Into the S&L. Into PR. Into “let’s grow our way of poverty.” Into dreams. “We have a dream” had been his best slogan for Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan. It was emblazoned across full page ads in community newspapers, theater programs, billboards, and complimentary golf pencils distributed at Twin Oaks, that staunchly black and very Republican country club.
He was about to pick up his phone, when something flashed in the rear view mirror. A Jaguar, fire-red, was closing fast. Like an Exocet missile, it tore up behind him, then passed by, horn blaring. Forced onto the shoulder, Winfield banged his steering wheel.
Sonofabitch!
Win pulled back into traffic and zipped into the fast lane, dodging semis. The red Jag weaved a quarter mile ahead, slipping in and out among the housewife-going-to-pick-up-the-kids-SUV’s, battered Hispanic Camaros, Shiite Novas, NRA pickups, and patriotic Buicks.
Damn!
Win floored it, tearing up the pitted concrete. But it was too late. The red car was gone. Where are the speed cops when you need them? He turned up Sinatra and patiently threaded his way through traffic. An overturned municipal truck had spilled a ton or more of biodegradable yard waste over two lanes. Win followed a school bus, kid faces leering at him behind smudged windows. Sinatra was crooning about autumn in New York. It didn’t help.
Turn signal on, Winfield decided to abandon the billion-dollar expressway system for potholed city streets. Despite the intersections, the stop signs, the double-parked delivery vans, Michigan Avenue would be faster. He was edging toward the exit ramp when the red Jag appeared again, screaming around the pile of would-be compost, beating him to the exit and forcing him behind the school bus. Damn!
Win pounded the steering wheel. The kids in the bus smirked, twisting their faces with dirty fingers. As the Jag peeled up the ramp, Win caught the license plate. FTJ-654. He jotted it down on the back of a parking ticket. FTJ-654. Repeating the letter-number combination to himself, he smiled. OK, Fortunato.
The incident left Winfield shaken. Reduced to impotent rage, his legs trembled. What would have happened had he caught up with the Jag? Win was ill-equipped for physical confrontation. Despite his workouts, his power lifting, his diet, he was still five-six and needed two hands to fire a .45 with accuracy. A train of feminist significant others had sapped his manhood, softened his edge, tamed his killer instinct.
“Win, what’s wrong? You OK?” Lionel asked as Winfield stormed past the receptionist’s counter.
“Nothing important. Just some nut on the freeway. Tried to run me off the road.”
“Too bad. You ready for the meeting?”
“Sure.” Winfield watched Lionel adjust his George Will bow tie and brush his carefully styled hair. Nothing, not war, riot, not even a personal denunciation from Jessie Jackson could shake Lionel’s conservative soul. Win felt shamed. He immediately dismissed fire-bombing the Jaguar as an unconscionable act for a college educated Presbyterian. Besides, he might get caught.
During the meeting, Win took notes, made suggestions, and as usual volunteered to create all the media needed to secure board approval for a three-million-dollar investment in African cocoa futures. But his Irish, though not up, smoldered.
Afterwards, he stopped in Ted Kaleem’s office. The former FBI man was Kojak tough, blooded in undercover work. But how to ask? Would it be unseemly for a white guy to bring Ted his dirty work, to assume that he freelanced as muscle?
Ted glanced up from his desk.
“Can I help you, Win?”
“Well, uh, yes. There is something. A question. One of my students had her car banged up in the parking lot. She got the plate number, but thinks she transposed the numbers. She wants to check.”
“Wisconsin tag?”
“Uh, yes.”
“No problem. Got the number?”
“Sure.”
Ted pointed to the computer. “We’re online with DMV for car insurance. Stop by anytime or have Jessica take care of it.”
The cocktail hour at Twin Oaks was in full swing. Gold-braided white undergraduate waiters darted among the middle-aged black men sporting flag pins on their lapels. Rudy Smith, Jackson State ‘69, was shaking hands and collecting checks for his reelection campaign. Representing Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan, Winfield simply smiled and waved. The cash donation, a Marshall Field’s shopping bag stuffed with untraceable tens and twenties, had already been delivered.
Rudy leaned forward and grabbed Win’s hand, jerking his arm like a pump handle. “I knew you guys would come through for me.” Drawing closer, he whispered, “We have to keep those . . . . liberals in Madison on the run before they get us all on food stamps.” For Win’s benefit, Smith deleted “white” from “liberal.” Smiling, Rudy pressed a gold elephant key chain into Win’s palm.
At the bar Win ordered a Diet Coke.
“What are you doing here, Dr. Payton?”
Win recognized the bartender as a former student from his TA days.
“Representing some clients.” Always eager to impress those who remembered him from his impoverished grad school years, Winfield was about to spill out a train of success stories. His days as a VW-driving teaching assistant were over, and he wanted the world to know it.
A voice booming from behind caught his attention. Win turned. At six-six, Gayton Phillips dominated the room. Despite gray hair, professorial beard, and Italian suit, he looked like a linebacker ready for scrimmage.
“So this punk tears into the lot and almost smashes my car and gives me the finger. Hell, I pulled out my piece and tapped the window.”
“Would you use it?”
“Hell, yes. You think I am going to let some Jheri curl homeboy get the drop on me? Hell, some lowlife crackhead pulls any jive with me, I’m gonna nail his monkey ass. Nail him dead. That way in court, there is one story to tell. Mine.”
“That’s cold, Gayton.”
“Cold as ice. Three holdups in my stores in six weeks. I’m sick of it. Some lowlife messes with me, and he’s history. Nothing but a stain on the sidewalk. Nail him dead. Not going to let some goddam Jewboy lawyer turn him into some kind of underprivileged saint.” Noticing Win, the retail mogul winced and gripped his shoulder, “Forgive me for speaking out of school. You ain’t Jewish are you?”
“German-Irish.”
Nail him dead. FTJ-654. Revenge is sweet. To allow a slight on one’s person to pass unavenged is weakness, not diplomacy. Win put down his Diet Coke and ordered a shot of Jameson. That did it. His Irish was up. Hooligan rage burned within. He was, after all, the great-great-grand-nephew of Frank Payton who bludgeoned two people to death in the St. Patrick’s Day Riot of 1867. And there was his distant cousin, Jimmy. A former Westy, he was awaiting trial for dismembering a Prudential actuary who stiffed one of his hookers.
Go ahead, FTJ-654. Make my day.
The next morning a series of routine computer checks identified the owner of FTJ-654 as Howard J. Lang. Reenacting classic episodes of The Rockford Files, Winfield made calls to credit bureaus, banks, the bar association, and a life insurance company. Variously identifying himself as an IRS investigator, a personnel director, and an alumni association fundraiser, Winfield assembled a profile of the Jag owner. Within two hours his computer screen was full:
Howard J. Lang
1725 East Pomeroy
Shorewood, Wisconsin 53211
(414) 555-2424
11/8/75
BA, University of Wisconsin, 1997
JD, Marquette, 2000
Junior partner, Grayson, Mahan, and Rehbock
777 East Wisconsin Avenue
(414) 555-8989
Secretary: Nancy Klumb
Wife: Sarah Jane (Bergman)
Children: Beth, 12; Jon, 10
Income: $575,897.00
Tax Liens: None
Warrants: None
As Howard Lang’s life filled the screen, Winfield’s anger mounted. Five-hundred-and-seventy-five grand a year! That alone was worth a brick through the windshield. Using the S&L security computer, he added more details, following the electronic paper trail of Lang’s life and career. Big law suits had come his way, but nothing looked dirty. Win’s fantasy of unearthing Watergate scandal faded. What could be done to wreak havoc in Lang’s uber-class world—without getting caught?
Picking up the phone he punched out 555-8989 and asked for Ms. Klumb.
“Howard Lang’s office.” Her soft professional voice unnerved him. Vivaldi played in the background.
“This is Gordon G. Raymond of IBM calling from New York. I just wish to make sure I have reached the right Howard Lang. Did Mr. Lang graduate from Marquette University?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And his wife is named Sarah?”
“Yes.” The secretary hesitated, becoming suspicious.
“Good. We have the right party. You see one of our board members met him an alumni dinner and very impressed. His name has come up a number of times. We are looking for a new firm to represent us in the Midwest. Our contract with our present law firm in Chicago is expiring, and we believe that your firm could give us the attention we need. Please let Mr. Lang know I called. I will be contacting him shortly. Thank you.” He hung up abruptly before the secretary could respond.
Winfield giggled. No doubt Howie would wet his pants waiting for a call that would never come.
But driving home, fighting traffic, and realizing his Mustang was overdue for an oil change, Win felt deflated. Revenge would require more than a telephone prank.
A few days later, having fallen asleep over a stack of essay exams, Winfield awoke to a strident, yet vaguely familiar voice. Looking up from his desk, a red-mottled page sticking to his cheek, his eyes focused on the TV. Ms. Andrea Kaufmann was banging the arm of her director’s chair on Public Access Channel 14. Braced by a pair of women in black jumpsuits holding smart phones, Andrea came to Win’s aid. Her group was fighting the exploitation of womanhood and the defilement of a multi-racial working class neighborhood and catching offenders in the act. Win sat up and smiled.
Despite the pile of papers, his overdue income tax return, an impatient resume client, and an upcoming sales presentation, Winfield devoted two full evenings to his pet project. Working with the deft skill of the anonymous hands doctoring Oswald photos in Oliver Stone’s JFK, Winfield carefully photoshopped images cut and pasted from Car and Driver and Maxim. Once satisfied with the composition and the accompanying text, he pressed PRINT and watched two hundred copies churn from his LaserJet. Printed on flame red paper, the picture looked better in black and white, convincingly cell phone blurry but still distinct.
The labeling and stamping, performed with latex gloves, took two full hours. He checked his work carefully, making sure that the flyers headed “Tell Your Patient” went to Lang’s dentist, internist, and allergist, and the ones reading “Tell Your Partner” went to every attorney at Grayson, Mahan, and Rehbock.
“I think Ms. Kaufmann’s point on Edward Albee is well-taken,” Winfield told his class, stunning everyone in the seminar room, including Ms. Kaufmann. “It is not inappropriate to bring one’s political consciousness to literature. All of us are obligated, of course, to be honest with ourselves. I think all points of view assist us to examine the play more clearly, if only by answering the questions they raise.”
Winfield smiled at Ms. Kaufmann, who nodded and let a hint of a grin quiver briefly on her chapped, unpainted lips. Glancing at the clock, Winfield glowed. No doubt by now the efficient Shorewood post office had delivered fifty-two flame red mailers to every house within a three block radius of 1725 East Pomeroy. In two hours, the brokers, insurance agents, real estate entrepreneurs, and restaurant owners would arrive home and collect their mail. Sorting through circulars, bills, and mail order catalogs in search of tax refund checks and pizza coupons, they would discover a glossy flyer showing a leggy blonde leaning into the driver’s window of a Jaguar with clearly visible Wisconsin plates. The bold caption—in ominous inch-high letters—explained the photo’s significance:
TELL YOUR NEIGHBOR HOWARD LANG,
OWNER OF RED JAGUAR FTJ-654,
TO STOP SOLICITING PROSTITUTES!
Womyn on Watch
Two days later, Winfield stopped Ted in the hallway.
“I understand you want to get Leotha a car for her birthday. Something special.”
“Yeah, I got a line on a ‘14 BMW with only fifteen thousand miles. Almost mint. I want to get her something nice, something classy to tool around in. Budget won’t let me go new.”
“Listen, I know a guy with a brand new Jaguar who might want to sell. I found out by accident. Well, I, uh, well I heard it from his wife—you know—so you can’t mention my name. Just call him and ask. I have his number. And Ted, I think if you mention that you were in the FBI, he might give you a hell of a deal.”