CHAPTER XXXVI
14:45
"Mrs. Garfunkel, there are two gentlemen here to see you, ma'am. They are also having the same face. They are twins." The doorman spoke into the receiver not too quietly and Elsie tittered, delighted that, although late, her boys had come.
No, she thought. Not "boys" - its racially insensitive. My friends have arrived..
"Let them up immediately, Mr. Weisman," she replied. Weisman was a hulking specimen of the male gender, but he was a gentle giant who tried to be soft-spoken and polite. He was also autistic but he did his job well and Elsie insisted to the management that they keep him on. Hank Weisman was also something like Elsie's protector; he instinctively sensed that she was a mother figure to him although they could be of an age, if he wasn't older. She was protective, caring, gentle and always looking out for him. So he had to protect her from everything and everyone who might be a bit dangerous. He did his job well... if a bit zealous for her wellbeing oftentimes. "Hank, those are my good friends from school. Treat them like how you treat me."
"Alright, ma'am. One of them is dressed in a suit and looks calm... The other one looks like he wants to play basketball but doesnt want to get dirty... I don't think he likes me too much..."
"Hank? Please direct them to the elevators."
"Yes'm." When Hank came from around the lobby station, Kingson grabbed Branson's hands so that he didnt reach for any weapon - this muthafucka was huge! Hank approached and walked right by them desultorily. "Right this way, sirs." He made Branson jittery but all he did was lead them to and leave them by the elevators, pressing the call button. "First apartment to your right." Hank walked off, back to the not too far lobby station where he watched them watching him watch them!
There was other staff and a few tenants moving about, but otherwise, the posh Carnegie Hill section of the Upper East Side was just as calm and quiet and orderly as it had always been. The elevator opened on well-oiled hinges and they stepped into the empty box. The movement of the elevator was smooth and noiseless too. Soon after, Kingson rang Elsie's door. It was ajar, so he cautiously pushed it farther open.
"It's open, my darlings," Elsie's voice called out from somewhere inside, its affectation of sometimes over enunciating grating, but that was their person. They went in and made their way past luxurious furniture, thick carpets your feet disappeared into, gold-gilted everything and a spotlessness that the twins knew could not have been Elsie's doing. The smell of Kush, a particularly strong and effective strain of marijuana, pervaded the place and became stronger as they simply followed its scent to where she was sitting pretty on a large white couch, and in a thick white bathrobe watching a huge plasma screen, the slightly concave kind. The blinds in the parlor were down and slanted up most of the way so only a bit of light edged into the living room. Kingson and Branson went and kissed her on the cheek then flopped on a nearby couch.
In front of Elsie was a hookah and a bong ensemble, smoke still swirling in its obviously recent use. On the same table as the bong was a plate with two pieces of toast and a what was likely a boiled egg, a small spoon beside it and a full glass of Ballantines - the bottle sat near the glass. Kingson made a quick call to Delilah and told her that she could leave early because he wasn't going to make it to the office today. Branson recognized the movie she was watching, a cult classic entitled "Big Trouble in Little China."
"Y'all make y'all selves at home now," Elsie said.
"Shit," Branson said, taking up the bong and hookah. "Ain't gotta tell me twice." He even kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the glass table close by. Elsie and Kingson looked at him with raised brows and Branson felt the silent rebuke of their stares and put his feet back down. He wiped off the mouthpiece of the hookah and used the lighter to reignite the simmering Kush in the seat of the bong. Pure and excellent cannabis invaded his system. He closed his eyes, enjoying the instant calming effects of the tetrahydrocannabinol. Kingson watched the movie with Elsie until the end; there were only about twenty more minutes. At some point, Branson finished smoking, wiped the mouthpiece off again and passed it to Elsie who had beckoned for it.
"Ayo, where's the kitchen?"
"When you first walk in, the first right, left and left again. It's actually right behind this wall and I was going to do some remodeling but..." She shrugged and took a hit of the bong. Branson got up and went to the kitchen in his socks, luxuriating in the feel of the high grade alpaca underneath. Focused on the movie and subconsciously going through a few legal scenarios in his mind for that which he planned, Kingson realized that how Thunder and Lightning died in the film was stupid. How could Thunder have exploded himself from sheer anger and how could living lightning be smashed by a rock? It was a dope movie, no doubt a classic, but it could have been a lot better, in his analytical estimation. Branson returned shortly with two glasses filled with ice and handed one to Kingson, who took the glass and filled his and Branson's glasses.
Elsie knew Kingson had to be a bit stressed in order for him to be drinking during the day. She reduced the volume of the t.v. and motioned for Kingson to give her some of his ice, which he shook into her glass. Branson again took the bong and proceeded to repeat the process earlier accomplished. As he again wiped the tip of the hookah, Elsie thought about the crazy COVID times in which they lived and reflected that, indeed, even if COVID had not existed, she would have insisted that Branson wipe off the mouthpiece. Herpes and hepatitis were still a major societal concern and no one could rationally take exception to asking anyone else to wipe off the tip of a smoking contraption.
"You look stressed, dearie," Elsie told Kingson. He leaned his head back.
"Yeah," he answered. "You can say that again." Branson threw him a side glance that Elsie caught.
"Spill the beans," she demanded, lighting a Dunhill she removed from a very delicate gold and Terra Cotta cigarette case. It was Branson who began the story, sticking only to the "safe parts," naming no names but talking about Kingson representing an associate of his, them finding out the associate had been arrested, he and Kingson following up the arrest at the precinct and what happened there.
"I thought I saw that on the news an hour or so ago," Elsie said. It was about four oclock now. "So you're a true hero." Kingson smiled and sat up straight, taking a long gulp of the whiskey and grimacing at its slight bite.
"I ain't no hero," he remarked. "I just did what I had to do." Elsie laughed in her sing-song manner.
"My dear, when did heroes ever do otherwise!" He shrugged. Branson nodded and chugged.
When did heroes ever do otherwise than just what had to be done?
Elsie reflected on how Kingson represented her, free of charge. Did he have to do it? No, but it had had to be done and he was the one who had stepped up when it counted. Kingson also hadn't needed to come see how she was doing in Florida, but he (and even Branson, imagine!) had gone down to visit her and, while there, gotten some information about her situation and gathered up some files. Above all, Kingson had used up a substantial amount of his savings to bail her out after she was arrested for assault on her piece of shit abusive adulterer husband, an i o u. Who did i o u's for fifty thousand dollars? But it had just had to be done. And Kingson had done it.
Of course, Kingson had to know she was good for it in the long run, but it was still almost unheard of. Elsie had listened to all of his advice while out on bail. Much of the time she either jogged or stayed at home or had Hank escort her while on small shopping sprees with her husband's credit cards he had forgotten to cancel. She was going stir crazy, a bit, but she could handle it. She wanted to be on a beach in Cancun or the Ivory Coast. But that could wait.
"Elsie, I think we can talk a bit now about how I'mto proceed with your case." Elsie glanced at Kingson as she picked up a slice of toast and began nibbling on it. "How much is he worth?" Elsie calculated.
"About thirty-five million... And that's on the conservative side." Kingson himself did some swift calculations.
"I'm gonna go see him sometime next week." Elsie looked at Kingson sharply as she used a small spoon to crack the egg before peeling it. "I'll be recording without his knowledge, and of course his lawyer will be present." She nodded in assent. "I'm going to tell him to drop the charges and, furthermore, grant you a divorce with a healthy alimony and an annuity." Elsie suddenly looked crestfallen. Kingson moved over to sit near her. He riffled through his folders to find her file. Removing the damning photos of Mr. Garfunkel with some girls one could obviously see were younger than average, even for an older man, Kingson showed Elsie the evidence, the bargaining chip, that might put her on a path to total liberation and full independence. "This is not the man you want to spend the rest of your life with." He spoke in a low and confidential tone. "Let alone that he is also physically abusive." Her lips tightened and her body stiffened at the remind. "Yes, go back to that righteous indignation. Remember the bruises, the hairline fractures, the stitches... It's amazing you're still as beautiful as you are. You healed up real nice. Now I'm trying to keep you healed up. Forever."
If she had been about to cry just a few seconds ago for a broken marriage, Kingson's recollection of how badly her husband had beaten her the last time caused her tear ducts to instantly dry up.
"Okay, Kingson. I'll continue doing everything you tell me to do."
"Everything?" Branson asked in a jokingly suggestive manner. The remaining piece of toast she held was thrown at Branson speedily. Amazingly, he caught the piece of toast and put it back on the plate, laughing and a little amazed himself. "Gotta be quicker than that," Branson quipped like in the commercials. Kingson got up and leaned down to kiss Elsie on the forehead. Instead, she held his head between her hands and planted a solid kiss on his thin and soft lips. Then she stroked his sideburns down to his goatee, smiling. "I gotta go. But I'll be back on Tuesday or Wednesday," said Kingson.
"I'll be waiting," she replied.
"If he got a kiss, I'm getting one too," said Branson.
"He's a hero, Bran."
"You really not gon' gimme a kiss?" She turned her face and pointed to her cheek. He shrugged.
"I'll take what I can get." As he bent down to kiss her cheek, Branson also squeezed her breast through the bathrobe. She shoved him playfully.
"Someone's gonna cut off that hand one day." She closed her bathrobe tighter.
"It would still continue its perverted ways." He hummed a bit of the theme music from The Addams Family show, in reference to Thing T. Thing.
"Come and lock the door," Kingson called out as they left the apartment. Elsie rose and went to lock the front door, to the left of which Kingson waited until he heard the telltale clicks of her locking the door. Branson had called the elevator and by the time Elsie had locked the door and Kingson moved off, the elevator had come, opening right on time. They boarded the empty elevator, rode it speedily downstairs and left the building without so much as a glance at the strangely hurt Hank.
