Although one could be forgiven for thinking so, Emily Cardoza was hardly a fictitious person. Sharp eyed, ageless, one noted first the blue-black hair, then the long, narrow neck, wrapped always in a scarf. Her eyebrows were large, thick, and arching. She wore black or violet sun dresses, Gucci or Karan preferred. Whether or not she descended from royalty was beside the point. Rich, pleasure-seeking, without scruples of any kind, Madame Cardoza travelled the world in a 400 foot yacht, with 34 sailors, chefs, cabin boys, waiters, and lifeguards in continual attendance.
Only the wealth was obvious to John Schatz, who could literally smell money. He sat in her suite in the Downtown Hilton, sipping Doucette Sancerre and eating Royal Imperia caviar. Her boat, she explained, was in the Mediterranean. She would have liked to sail it to Minneapolis, but some things, even for the very rich, are not possible.
“We could go to Capri,” she told him. “Just the two of us.”
Schatz squeezed lemon on an oyster. “What about the chef?”
“Him too.”
Bracelets tingling, Emily moved from her small chair to the snow white divan where Schatz sat. Only a pink pillow separated them. “You see,” she said. “If we can be alone, then our impulses would be allowed to roam freely.”
“Sounds grand. But I’ll be busy the next few weeks.”
“With what?”
“Work.”
“Work! That terrible word again. What is it with you and work?”
“I like it. And it gives me something to do.”
“I’ll give you something to do.” She moved the pillow aside.
Schatz stood. “Yes, but right now I have a big project. There are some friends who need help. Wonderful people, artists. They can get a big order, if only they had name recognition. Why don’t we help them?”
He walked to the bar. Emily followed. “Oh, Juan,” she said. “You’ve been all over the world. Haven’t you learned?”
“Learned what?”
“You can’t help people. They just go back to being themselves.”
“But it would be so easy.”
“It doesn’t sound easy.”
“And even fun. We’ll just lend them your name.”
“What do you mean?”
Schatz stepped past, bottle in hand. He returned to the divan and sitting, picked up her glass. “More wine?”
“Don’t try to get me drunk.” She walked behind and rubbed his shoulders.
“Never.” He poured and kept talking. A large builder was seeking bids. The builder needed tens of thousands of wall tiles for a mixed-use development in Albuquerque. “It’s called Lisbon on Sixth,” he said. “A Mediterranean-themed project of townhomes, stores, and warehouse space.”
“How gauche.”
“Maybe. But if my friends could get the order it would be highly profitable.”
“I dislike people who need money.”
“Of course.” It occurred to Schatz he had to get his Mercedes back by six, or he would be charged another day. “But we would only be establishing the brand on their behalf. The rest is up to them.”
“What brand?”
“Cardoza Tiles, by Rebel Pots. How does that sound?”
“Horrible.” She tried to kiss his ear.
Schatz stood and walked to an old-fashioned Zenith console. The modern world annoyed Emily Cardoza, and she had such things installed wherever she traveled. He picked an album from a stack. Fitting the record on the turntable, he lifted the needle. “Let’s help these young people. As a mitzvah.”
A tango filled the suite. “What’s a mitzvah?”
“A good deed.”
Hips swaying, Emily approached. “And what’s in it for me, Juan Alberto?”
“Well, as they say,” Schatz smiled. “One good deed deserves another.” He placed a hand on her wasp-like waist. Cheek to cheek, they danced across the room.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com