Storymania - A Place To Stay by Steven R. Kravsow

A Place To Stay
Steven R. Kravsow

Arnie Westin turned up the collar of his coat hoping to keep out the October chill that was in the air. It had been gray and cloudy all day and every once and a while a few raindrops fell from the sky, teasing those who trod the busy sidewalks below. It was time to start thinking about finding food, time to line up a way to get out of the elements for another fast approaching evening. He was cold and he was hungry. He tugged at the left sleeve of his overcoat, revealing his watch. He looked at the timepiece. It was already past four in the afternoon and he hadn't eaten since early this morning when he had gotten a few hand-outs from the flour covered man who was emptying the trash into a Dempster Dumpster behind the bakery. But what he really wanted was a drink. Yeah, that would taste really good, right about now, he thought. He pulled the collar a little tighter around his neck.

Arnie was a hustler, a man of the streets he liked to call himself; a public relations specialist. But he was no big time guy. He was really a nickel-and-dimer who always hoped for the big score. It was a never ending search. In fact, he thought that it was a lot like playing the lottery. You knew the jackpot was out there somewhere and that someone had to win it, and if you played all the angles long enough and played the game often enough, some day you would be rewarded for your perseverance. Or something like that. You just had to keep at it and keep looking, that's all. In the meantime, he worked as little as he needed to, just so he could pick up enough bucks to pay for a decent room, a meal, and few drinks. He was no sleep outside kind of guy. Hell no. That was too dangerous, a good way to get yourself killed if you were lucky, or busted up pretty bad if you weren't.

No, Arnie Westin liked to think of himself the same way that he remembered his history teacher describe the founders of the Jamestown settlement-- decayed gentlemen. It had such a nice ring to it. And it said so much with such economy of words. Yes, that was how he thought of himself, a "decayed gentleman". He had once aspired for that life and it seemed within his grasp. Wife, children, car, house, dog. The whole American Dream. But perhaps he had offended the gods along the way, or maybe he was just plain unlucky. As fast as he made it he spent it. He spent it on everything. He was a merchant's dream. He liked to flash the bankroll around. Impress the peons.

He looked at his watch again. It read almost 4:30. Enough of the reverie. Time to get serious, it was getting late and he was thirsty. He stopped walking and looked around for a likely spot. There was a real art to picking the right place. It was sort of like taking a Goldilocks and the Three Bears approach to his evening hustle. The place couldn't be too high class, no one would ever let him in to run his scam. It couldn't be a place too shabby or else there wouldn't be anybody in there that could afford to stake him once he worked his hustle. It had to be a place that was "just right". That meant a place that had pretensions but a clientele that didn't match. He looked up and saw his "Three Bears" place just up ahead; "The Home Team Sports Bar". Bingo! Jackpot! This place would do just fine.

He looked at his reflection in the display window to his right, one of those cash and carry stores that sold everything from boom boxes to sunglasses to VCR's to knock-off watches. He smoothed out his coat and then combed his hair with his fingers. He didn't want to look too perfect. After all, he was a decayed gentleman, temporarily fallen on hard times. Image was everything, he thought. Satisfied, he opened the door to the bar.

He stood in the entrance for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting while he sized up the place. He saw that the bar was divided into two parts. The part on the left held about twenty-five tables that could be pushed together to form larger tables of four, six, or even eight. Meals were being served in there. The walls were lined with posters, autographed photographs of ballplayers who had occasionally stopped in for a drink, old uniforms, bats, mitts and other assorted bits of memorabilia-- all belonging to the home team, which were the Yankees. The waitresses all wore baseball uniform tops, baseball caps, and black shorts with dark stockings that had seams down the backs of the legs like in the "40's or 50's.

The other side of the place was the bar. It was three-sided and had the same motif on the walls; more posters, photos, and memorabilia. The wall behind the bar was terraced with what must have been at least one hundred liquor bottles that covered three rows. Above that was a mirror that covered the rest of the wall. It was framed in dark wood and was covered with autographed photographs and drawings of sports celebrities. The three bartenders were in the mid-twenties and wore umpires' shirts with black hats. The waitresses wore the same baseball uniforms as the ones on the other side of the divider.

Arnie stepped to the right and wound his way over to the bar picking one of the three empty seats near the end. He was in no hurry so he waited for one of the bartenders to come his way. While he waited, he listened to some of the conversations that surrounded him. He needed to get the lay of the land and sports bars were great because they were basically filled with young, outgoing, mildly aggressive people who had money to spend on their hobbies and weren't stingy about spending it. And if you happened to speak their language, tell them what they wanted to hear, it often got you a drink or two for free.

"What can I get you, pal?"

"A Scotch on the rocks, please," Arnie said as he looked up at the bartender in the umpire's uniform, making a mental note that his name tag said "Dave".

"Comin' right up."

While Arnie waited, he listened. The two guys to his left were having a conversation about the Yankees' chances of winning the pennant next year.

"... and I keep tellin' ya, Tony, the Yankees need pitchin' bad. Look what happened to 'em this year, for Christ sakes. They didn't have anyone who could find the goddamned plate, 'cept with a knife and fork."

"Yah, yah, Bobby, but I still say that if they get some serious hitters who'll knock in a few runs, then the pitching will straighten out. Shit, they've been in the toilet ever since they let Winfield get away," Tony said, flicking a handful of peanuts into his mouth.

"Aw, Tony. You're hopeless, do you know that?" Bobby said as he paused, taking a gulp of his beer. "How many times have we had this argument?"

"Gee, I dunno, man. How many times have we talked about those guys?" he laughed as he slapped Bobby on the back. "Look, Bobby, hittin' is what baseball is about. Why do you think they keep movin' the fences back and forth all over the league? Man, these guys all pump iron now, all year long. And most of them guys got battin' cages in their freakin' basements." Tony sat back and folded his arms across his chest, satisfied that the debate was now decided in his favor.

"Tony, Tony, Tony. How many times do I gotta tell ya? They keep movin the freakin' fences because the pitchers are gettin' so good, the hitters got to have help. If I pitch it," Bobby said, his right hand cutting through the air as he made his point, "and you can't hit it, then I win the freakin' game. Simple. Pitching always wins out over hitting." He grabbed his drink and downed it.

Bobby watched Dave the bartender deliver Arnie his drink. He picked up his empty glass and pointing to it with his right hand said, "Hey Dave, lemme have another one of these, will ya please." It was a statement, not a request.

"Yes sir," Dave responded, smiling his practiced, professional smile at Bobby. He hated guys like him who pointed to what they wanted, like someone hailing a New York cab during rush hour. "Another beer for the gentleman," he said, exaggerating the word "gentleman". He took the empty glass from Bobby's hand. Asshole, Dave thought, making a mental note to slosh the beer on the counter in front of Bobby when he set it back down.

Tony grabbed another handful of peanuts and tossed them into his mouth and crunched them. When he had crunched them enough to speak he said, "Look Bobby, everybody but you seems to understand that hitting rules in baseball." He looked over at Arnie, who was seated next to him, nursing his drink. "Hey Bobby, why don't we ask this guy here and see what he thinks?"

"Okay, Tony. Go ahead and ask him. Geez, some guys just need to take more punishment. It's your funeral, pal," Bobby said.

Tony turned towards Arnie and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, but my friend here...," he said, pointing at Bobby, who nodded at Arnie, " ...and me are havin' a disagreement about the Yankees' chances of winnin' this year. Bobby, here, says pitchin' is the answer while I say that decent hittin' is what they need. What do you think?" he asked.

Arnie pretended to think for a minute. This was the inroad he was looking for. "Well, as a matter of fact, I couldn't help overhearing your discussion and you each made some good points," Arnie responded, careful to avoid taking either side. "But, in the case of the Yankees, I think it's a bit more complicated. They need to improve their defense first, get some speed on the bases, and get somebody who can give 'em some power numbers." Arnie was warming up.

"Well, they made some real progress when they got Kelly off third and moved him back to second. The kid is slick but he's no third baseman. You gotta be born wanted to play third base to be any good at it.

"Then they need to fill third base. Find somebody who can really pick 'em. I hear they've go this kid in the minors. They need to get into him into the line-up every day. They say he can cover ground like a racehorse. Next they need to get a power hitter who can put up some big numbers, hitting behind Mattingly so he sees some decent pitches again.

"Then they either need to shop for a pitcher or hope the talent in Columbus can get it done for 'em. Personally, I think they need to shop for a couple of guys and maybe go with one or two of their kids. If they do that, I'd think they'd have a chance to do some damage this year."

"Geez," Tony said, looking from Arnie to Bobby, whose mouth was hanging open, then back to Arnie, "what are you, some kind of freakin' scout for the club or somethin'?"

"No, no," laughed Arnie. "I just love the Yankees, ever since I was a little boy. My father used to bring me to the Stadium to see Joe D. on the TV when I was a kid. Musta been '52 or '53. Rizzuto, Allie Reynolds, Lopat. Now those were real ballplayers. Saw Maris and Mantle hit back to back home runs in '61. I've been following them ever since."

Dave the bartender returned with a beer and set it down in front of Bobby, sloshing some of it on the counter.

Tony turned to Arnie and said, "My name's Tony, and this here guy," nodding his head to his left, "is Bobby. I didn't catch your name?"

"Arnie. Arnie Westin," he said.

"Well, Arnie, let me buy you a drink. That was some analysis of the Yankees' chances. What're you drinkin'?" Tony asked.

"Gee, thanks a lot. Scotch rocks," Arnie replied, picking up his almost empty glass, giving it a wiggle.

Tony caught Dave's eye. "Would you give him another one of those, please?" he said, pointing to Arnie's drink. "Put it on my tab, okay? And could we have some more peanuts, too,?"

Dave nodded.

Tony looked at Arnie and said, "So if you ain't a scout for the Yankees, then what do you really do for a livin'? Bobby and me own a home improvement company. Just the two of us. It keeps us pretty busy and outta trouble--most of the time." He laughed at the joke and poked Bobby in the ribs. "You?"

"I'm in public relations. I go around giving motivational speeches to people," he said, stretching the truth as if it were an elastic band. "You know, I talk to sales staffs. Pump 'em up. Give them sales techniques. That sort of thing. Right now, I'm between engagements."

"You sound like a real Andrew Carnegie or somethin'," Tony said, shaking his head.

"I think you mean Dale Carnegie, He's the one who really started this kind of stuff," Arnie corrected gently. He smiled and held out his hand to Tony. They shook hands.

"You must travel a lot then, right, man?" asked Bobby, keeping his end of the conversation going.

This was what Arnie had been waiting for. Now he could build on his tale.

"Yeah, I'm on the road most of the time. But all that travel really takes a toll on a family man."

"You married?" asked Tony.

"Was. Well, still am, I guess." This was going well, Arnie thought.

"What do you mean, Arnie? Are you or ain't you married?" He took a gulp of his beer.

Arnie breathed a large sigh. He lowered his head and said, "What I mean is, one day I came home from a business trip and when I got there, all I found was a note. My wife left me while I was gone and took the kids with her. Shit, she even took the dog. I haven't seen any of 'em since." He shook his head. Then he picked up his glass and drained it.

"Shit man, that sucks." Tony raised his hand and signaled the bartender. "Hey Dave, another one for my friend here and charge it to me."

"Thanks a lot, Tony. You didn't have to do that," he said. "I don't want to turn this into some kind of downer conversation." This was going good. Real good. Two drinks so far and I haven't even warmed up yet, Arnie said to himself.

"Shit, man. Don't give it a thought. It's the least I can do for you."
Bobby leaned over and looked at Arnie. "If you don't mind my askin', she left you just like that? Just for workin' your butt off for her and the kids?"

"Well, not exactly," he answered. Now it was time to set the trap. Again he took a deep breath for effect. He pretended to have reached a decision to continue with a confidence.

"Truth of it is, we were getting hounded by lots of bills. You see, I was sick for a while and my insurance didn't cover much of it. It seemed like the phone never stopped ringing. People constantly hounding us for money."

"Geez, man. What was wrong with you?" Tony asked.

"I have this thing growing in my head and the doctors tried to remove it but they couldn't. Said it would kill me for sure if they did. So they left it alone. Told me to start believing in miracles."

"J-ee-sus!" whistled Bobby. Tony shook his head and drained the last of his beer. "So the thing's still in there?" he asked.

Arnie nodded. "Yup. They gave me three to six more months to live." He finished the rest of his drink. This was so easy. So simple, he thought. Like taking candy from a baby. The truth was whatever came out his mouth.

Bobby caught the bartender's eyes and made a circling motion that three refills were urgently needed at this part of the bar. Dave, the bartender nodded.

Tony looked critically at Arnie. "You don't look sick, man. In fact I should look as good as you."

Arnie lowered his head. "That's the funniest part. I feel fine. I don't have any symptoms except some occasional headaches. But the doctors say that it will come on real quick. They say it will start with the headaches, then my balance will go, and then I'll be sick until the end. They say it will take about a month."

Arnie looked at them. Measured them. He didn't want to lay it on too thick but these guys seemed to believe anything. He remembered reading about that Nazi named Goebbles who said the public would always believe a big lie easier than a little one. That German sure knew what he was talking about, Arnie thought. These guys were living proof.

"Boy, life sure kicked you in the face, right Bobby?" Tony said.

"You got that right, Tony." Then, looking at Arnie, he asked, "How much time do you think you got left?"

Arnie pretended to do some mentally calculating. Like the perfect musician, he waited a few beats for effect. "Well, like I said, I'm starting to get the headaches, though they're not too bad yet. I figure maybe a month, month-and-a half.

Bobby and Tony nodded their heads.

"But the doctor--sweet bastard that he was-- said that when the end is near, it's gonna hurt so bad that I'll look forward to dying."

"Christ Almighty," Tony said. He looked at Bobby. Bobby nodded back to him. "Tell you what, man. We've got some room at our place. It's not the Ritz but you're welcome to stay with us for a while if you want."

"We gather you don't really got no place to go, what with the kids and the missus gone, right?"

Bingo! Did it again, Arnie said to himself. Got my place to stay. "Aw, guys, I really appreciate your offer but you don't want some sick guy staying with you that you met in a bar just an hour ago."

"Sure we do. You seem like a nice guy and you sure got yourself a shitload of bad luck. Maybe we can help you a bit. What the hell," Tony said.

"Yeah, man," said Bobby. "We ain't done our good deed for today yet, anyways." He winked at Arnie.

Dave brought the drinks and the three of them polished them off. Tony settled the tab and then the three of them left the bar.

The van pulled up to a Victorian styled house on the edge of the city limits, its white clapboards badly in need of fresh paint. The shutters on the windows were in various states of disrepair-- those that were not missing all together. The house had a wrap-around porch and the railings were missing quite a few of their uprights. Still the design was pleasing to the eye and with some hard work, the house could reclaim its pride.

"How do you like it, Arnie?" Tony asked. "Some piece of property, hah? Our little piece of Shangrila."

"Yeah," Bobby added, laughing. "This was whatcha call a 'handyman's special'-- and we're handymen. We've been fixing it up little by little. In the spring we're gonna start workin' on the outside. Wait 'til you see the inside."

Arnie smiled. "There's a lot to be said for these things. Buy 'em for a song, fix 'em up, and sell 'em. I knew some guys that did that. Got their own corporation now. Real big shots."

"That's what we're doing, too," Tony said as he pulled up the driveway and stopped at the front door. "But it sure helps when you're in the business. Right Bobby?"

"Absolutely, man," Bobby answered. "Let's get inside and we'll give you the tour."

The three men got out of the truck and went inside. Arnie was impressed. The inside was almost completely restored. The parlor and the dining room had been recently completed and the kitchen had been modernized with all the latest appliances. The four upstairs bedrooms had been renovated and the master bedroom and the main guest room each had whirlpool baths.

"Well?" asked Bobby waving an arm over the domain.

"It's unbelievable. You guys are really good. This house is gonna be worth a fortune when you finish the outside," Arnie said in reply, his eyes taking everything in as he did mental calculations.

"Thanks," Tony said. "It's gonna be real hard to give up this place when we're done. This is me and Bobby's third house and we're getting better each time."

"I guess practice really does make perfect," Arnie said, smiling at his new marks.

"Tell you what Arnie, why don't you stay in the main guest room, the one with the Jacuzzi. Jump in there a while and treat yourself. You look like you could use it. Me and Bobby will be in the kitchen, seeing what we can cook up for dinner. We'll see you in a while, okay?"

Arnie couldn't believe his luck. He had to be sure to do whatever it took to make this con last. He started to nod but then he brought his hands to the sides of his head. "Ow, my head." He deliberately staggered slightly as if in real pain. He reached out and grabbed the banister to steady himself.

"Are you all right, man?" Bobby asked as they grabbed him and sat him on the stairs.

Arnie rubbed his temples gently. "Yeah, I guess so. I told you that I'm starting to get the head pains a bit now, but they don't last long. I'm feeling better already.

"Well do you need any help getting upstairs?" Tony asked.

"No, no," Arnie replied as he stood up. "See, I'm okay now. Sorry about that, guys. I don't want to be any trouble for you."

They both shook their heads in protest.

"I'll see you in a little while. That Jacuzzi oughta do the trick," he said as he turned and climbed the stairs to his room, remembering to walk gingerly, as he was walking on eggs.

Bobby and Tony sat at the kitchen table, waiting for Arnie to wake up. "You know Bobby, we might have made a big mistake with this guy."

"I know what you mean, Tony. It seemed like a good idea in the bar but now that he's here..." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Exactly. I thought we'd let him stay a night or two, catch his breath and off he'd go but it's been two weeks now and he doesn't seem to ever wanna leave?"

"Right, and he's complaining about them headaches more and more. He's not our responsibility, man. But if he's sick we can't exactly throw him out."

"Yeah," Tony said, "but remember what he said at the bar when we first met him? When the pain starts, he'd wish he was dead. And he does seem to be getting worse."

"I know, Tony, but what are we gonna do?"

Tony looked over Bobby's shoulder, past the kitchen door to the stairs. No sign of Arnie. He leaned closer to Bobby. "I think we ought to kill him."

"What!?" Bobby replied, rising from his seat. "Are you nuts?"

Tony grabbed him by the shoulder and Bobby sat back down in his chair. "No, man. I ain't crazy. I mean it. It would be doing him a favor, really. He's gonna be dead in a few weeks anyways, whether we speed it up for him or not. And I know how we can pull it off I've been thinking about this for a few days now."

"But Tony," Bobby said, looking around to make sure Arnie was nowhere in sight. "If he dies by himself, that's one thing but if we speed it up for him, that's murder."

"Look, Bobby. There's no way we can get caught on this. It's so simple. Listen, he's already told us he's sick. So when he's in the whirlpool, we go up and ram his head into the edge of the bath. He drowns. When the cops get here, we tell them he must have slipped and hit his head. He was sick and maybe he got dizzy or somethin' and fell. Simple. Anyways, they won't be able to prove a thing." Tony sat back in his chair and folded his arms, giving Bobby a moment to digest what he had just heard. "Well?"

"Well, it makes sense. We can't get rid of him, he's gonna die soon, anyways, and it sounds like we can pull it off." He was silent for a moment. "Okay. I'm in. When do we do it?"

"How about right now, if he's still in there?"
The two men rose and climbed the stairs to Arnie's room. Arnie was sitting in the whirlpool reading a newspaper, and puffing on a cigar, acting as if he were a corporate executive. He took the cigar from his mouth and waved it at the two men. "Hey guys, how's it goin'? Geez, this thing is fantastic. Too bad I didn't have one of these things a few years ago."

Bobby faced Arnie as Tony walked casually around the tub and stood behind him. "So how are the headaches, Arnie?" asked Bobby.

He didn't have any but he wasn't about to tell that to Bobby. He knew a good con when he saw one. "Not too bad right now, but they were pretty bad, earlier." Arnie dragged on the cigar until the end was glowing bright red.

"Geez, Arnie, we're real sorry to hear that. Ain't we, Tony?"

Tony moved in a flash. He reached over Arnie's head and grabbing his forehead between the palms of his hands, Tony yanked hard. The back of Arnie's head hit the edge of the whirlpool with a sickening thud. Bobby winced at the sound. Arnie let out a groan as the cigar fell out of his mouth and hissed into the water. He lost consciousness and sank beneath the water as Tony held his head down to keep him from surfacing. He needn't have bothered. Air bubbles rose to the surface as he floated face down in the bath.

"J-J-esus Christ! Is he d-dead?" asked Bobby as he hopped nervously from one foot to another

Tony nodded. "He's dead," he said. "Now here's what I want you to do. Go downstairs and call the police while I pull him out of the pool. Tell them we heard a noise and came up here and found Arnie in the Jacuzzi. I'll pull him out so we can say that we tried to give him mouth to mouth."

"I g-get it, Tony. We pretend like we tried to save him but we couldn't. Right?"

"Exactly, Bobby. Now get goin' and make that call."

Bobby nodded and left the room.

"Here he is, officer," Tony said. "Me and Bobby heard a noise when we was down in the kitchen. It sounded like a thud. We ran up here and there was Arnie, floatin' in the tub. I guess he musta slipped and hit his head or somethin'. Anyways, I told Bobby to call 911 and I pulled him outta the tub and tried to bring him to, but he didn't come around."

Officer Macklenberg bent over Arnie's still form and rolled him onto his stomach. His fingers found a large, sticky lump the size of a golf ball on the back of Arnie's head.

"I guess you were right," he said. "Guy's got an lump on his noggin the size of a cue ball. Musta slipped in the tub, hit his head, and knocked himself out." Macklenberg scratched his head. "You'd be amazed how many people get hurt--even killed-- in bathroom accidents," he said, turning to Bobby and Tony who looked suitably concerned. They nodded their heads in agreement.

The policeman spotted something floating in the tub and fished it out. "A cigar?" he asked, holding up the soggy remains. He laughed softly as he held it up for examination.

"What's so amusing, officer?" Tony asked.
"Do you guys know who he is?" Macklenberg pointed to Arnie's body like there was anyone else in the room who was dead.

"S-Sure we do," Bobby answered. "He's Arnie Westin. He's been stayin' with us for about two weeks now. Ever since we met him at the "The Home Team". He was so down on his luck we told him he could stay with us for a little while. Told us he lost his job, his wife. Even told us he was real sick. Brain tumor or somethin'. Only had a few months left to live." He looked at Tony for support. Tony nodded.

Macklenberg laughed louder now. "Christ were you guys had. This guy's a con man. A real nickel and dimer. He's used that line on lots of people before you guys. When he found you two, he musta thought he'd found the mother load." He laughed again.

Bobby turned to Tony. All the color had drained from Tony's face. "Are you sure? I mean really sure?"

The officer nodded his head. "Positive. A real small timer but a persistent one."

"But what about the stuff about a few months to live?" Tony asked, as he stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling.

"A few months to live?" Again Macklenberg laughed. "He's as healthy as a horse, far as I know. Just part of his con. Gets somebody to feel sorry for him and then he sets up shop and stays as long as he can before someone gets wise and kicks him out."

Tony looked at Bobby who was shaking like a leaf. "Jesus Christ!" he said slowly. "Jesus H. Christ, Almighty."

"Aw, don't worry about it, guys. Everybody runs outta luck sometime. Even con men like Arnie Westin. Accidents happen."

Tony and Bobby stared at each other as the paramedics came into the room. Macklenberg finally placed Arnie's sodden cigar back in the ashtray that was still sitting next to the tub. He straightened up again and said to Tony, "Poor guy. Probably thought you guys were the answer to his prayers."

"Jesus," Tony said again, to no one in particular.

"Yeah," Macklenberg said. "My momma always told me to be careful what I wish for because you don't always get what you want. No what I mean? Looks like old Arnie finally found a place to stay."