They arrived at the rug game late in their careers. Peter had been a decorator. Lionel a nurse anesthetist turned furniture salesman. They met in Baltimore, moving to New Orleans that fall. Peter found work at Macy’s, Lionel at an antique dealer on Royal Street. It was thin pickings, as Peter liked to say, and Lionel renewed his license and went back to anesthesiology, part time. Bland, analytical, a true expert in rugs and tapestry, his sales technique was to speak only when spoken to. Years later, in their Palm Springs store, Peter liked to say Lionel was still putting them to sleep.
Their relationship was based on absolutely no trust. They were nearing middle age when they met, and had been through all that. “Would you ever leave me?” Lionel asked, twenty years later.
“Who would I leave you for?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
Peter was a tall man with a big nose. He wore his gray hair in a crew cut, substantially bald on top. “Well,” he said, thoughtfully. “You know Reinhold Barber?”
“Reinhold Barber the designer?”
“Yes. We have a coffee table book, somewhere.”
“When did you meet Rheinhold Barber?”
“I never did. As a matter of fact, I think he’s dead.”
“Then why did you bring him up?”
“You asked if I’d ever leave you. Well, Reinhold Barber was probably the most famous decorator in San Francisco. He’s the one who brought maroon back, the color maroon. Amazing vision. And the one behind giant vases. If I were to leave you, it would be for someone like that.”
“You would leave me for a living room planner.”
“Possibly.”
“A dead living room planner.”
“Dead would, I suppose, be a negative.”
Lionel looked at his partner through narrowed eyes. He wasn’t quite through with him. “Forget a decorator. How about someone who knows more about Azerbaijani carpet than me?”
“Pal, no one knows more about Azerbaijani carpet than you.”
He was satisfied.
They were among the first to wed after California legalized marriage, fifteen years ago. A lavish reception followed in their cavernous store. It was one of the great events of the season. Writing off a large portion, they actually sold eighty thousand dollars-worth of rugs. “This is it, Lionel,” Peter said the following week, on a jet to Tahiti. “Till death do us part.” He sipped lemon water. Both had long given up alcohol.
“Or bankruptcy.”
“Same thing.”
Peter was a numbers guy. Lionel, with his laconic, unruffled commitment to quality, his passivity and vision, drew a steady stream of high-end buyers. They had that most powerful of unions. One based on complimentary skills. Plus, they liked each other.
Schatz had known them for years. He sat in their high-ceilinged store, the windows looking out on Palm Canyon Drive. Lionel, small, heavy-lidded yet alert as a gecko, sat across from him. An immense white ottoman separated the two. Holding a peculiar catalog, heavy and thick, Schatz turned pages slowly, looking at rugs. He understood none of the descriptions, all in Farsi. It was captivating.
“Tell me the whole story,” he said. “How you two got this store.”
“We already told you.”
“I want to hear it again. I like it.”
“Well, there was this man in New Orleans.”
“An older man.” Schatz put the catalog down.
“Yes, an older man,” Lionel said. He repeated the story. They met a carpet and rug dealer, Carl Von Lapp, an enigmatic and rather suspicious character with access to Iranian-made rugs, not the easiest thing to do. For health reasons (he drank, Lionel said) Von Lapp closed his store and moved to Palm Springs. Lionel followed, after being offered a job.
“He had an inappropriate relationship.” Peter said, walking into the store. The doors flashed with the bright, almost white day. He wore a track suit, and dropped his bag on the floor.
“I did not have an inappropriate relationship,” Lionel said.
“We’ll never know.”
“You may not. But John here does.”
“You’re not the inappropriate type,” Schatz said to Lionel, smiling.
“Thank you. In any case, Peter followed a month later. Carl’s store did very well. But mostly due to me and Peter. He slept all day, while we sold rugs.”
“Then he died,” said Schatz.
“Yes. Not wholly unexpected, poor man.”
“Tell me the other part.”
“What other part?” Peter said.
“The good part.”
“Ah, the good part,” Peter stripped off his warm-up top. Flat and hard, he had the body of a twenty year-old.
Lionel finished the story. “He left us this store. All of it. Title to the building. All the stock. Quite a bit of cash, and…”
“And the most important part,” Schatz said.
“The most important?”
“The customer list.”
The men smiled at Schatz. They knew him. It was why he had come to Palm Springs in the summer. No one came to Palm Springs in the summer. Schatz did.
“Where is your young lady?” Peter asked.
“Around here somewhere.”
“Is she business, or pleasure?”
“Both,” said the always-cagey Schatz.
“And where does she fit in our little scheme?”
“She, Gentlemen, is going to make us five million dollars.”
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