himself to hear what he’s done wrong now.
“Take me out to dinner. I don’t feel like cooking.”
“Honey, I had a horrible day. I just want to relax,” Rosenfarb pleads.
“You’ll relax at the restaurant. How about sushi?”
“I don’t want sushi.”
“Italian. We’ll go to Angelini Osteria.”
“Too noisy. And I don’t feel like Italian.”
“Fine. Let’s get you a steak.”
Rosenfarb didn’t want a steak. No food sounded appealing to him, but Rita was determined to get out of the house. He tried to think of what would be the fastest possible dining experience. She quickly rejected the In ‘N Out Drive-Thru. Rita had to sit down and be waited on while his head throbbed. Suddenly, it dawned on him.
“Jerry’s Deli.”
“You went there last night with Overman,” Rita says, confused. “You still have the leftover sandwich in the fridge.”
“Which I would be glad to eat, but you want to go out.”
“I don’t think they have anything for me,” Rita informs him.
“Their menu is thirty-two pages long. I’m sure you’ll find something.”
Rita reluctantly agrees. Rosenfarb knows exactly what he is looking for and it’s not on the menu. He is obsessed with Corned Beef Kim Basinger, partially because of her attractiveness, more so because she is attracted to Overman. Suddenly his headache is gone and he informs Rita that he wants to change into something more comfortable.
A half-hour later, peacock Rosenfarb in his $250 Nat Nast silk bowling shirt is tearing his hair out as his wife puts in the world’s most complicated salad order with Corned Beef Kim, who seems to have no recollection of him whatsoever.
“No onions, no dressing, extra spinach, light beets, double jicama…” etc, etc.
The waitress looks even more stunning than last night, prompting Rosenfarb to inquire as to whether she recommends the rye bread or the bagel chips to complement his matzo ball soup.
“They’re both good,” she replies, not tipping her hand.
Unsurprisingly, Rita has an opinion or two of her own. If he gets the rye bread, he’ll want to butter it, and he doesn’t need the cholesterol. The bagel chips are dry and less fatty but sometimes they’re burnt. “Are the bagel chips burnt?” she asks Kim.
Kim doesn’t think so, promising to do her best to find some unburnt ones.
“The rye bread might be safer though,” Rita re-considers, as if the bagel chips were somehow irradiated with nuclear contaminants.
“I’ll bring you both and you can decide,” says Kim, the perfect hostess, wanting to get away as quickly as possible.
“That was nice of her,” Jake comments.
“She’s just lazy. Wasting the company’s money. If she were my employee, I’d fire her ass. I’m going to wash my hands.”
Rita gets up to go the ladies’ room. Rosenfarb’s chance to make his move. As soon as his wife is out of sight, Jake intercepts Kim on her way to another table.
“Excuse me, don’t you remember me from last night?”
Kim’s expression is as blank as white roll-up shades.
“Jake Rosenfarb. I was with another gentleman—”
“Mr. Overman,” she smiles, apparently delighted at the thought of him. “Do you think he’ll call me?” she inquires hopefully.
“I don’t know. Can I just ask you one question?”
“Sure. Seeing as how you’re a friend of his, you can ask me anything you want.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does a young girl like you want to hear from Overman?”
“It’s nothing specific,” she sighs. “There’s just something about him. He’s special.”
Rosenfarb bursts out laughing. “Darling, your triple-decker corned beef and pastrami with cole slaw is special. But Ira Overman? Please.”
“Why do you find that so hard to believe?”
“Maybe because I’ve known the man for over forty years and I’ve never once seen or heard of him doing anything evenly vaguely special.”
“Perhaps the fact that he doesn’t broadcast it is a sign of his humility,” Corned Beef Kim reasons.
“Look, I don’t mean to burst your bubble—”
“You seem kind of threatened. And jealous.”
“I happen to be a very successful entrepreneur. More successful than he is, I’ll have you know.”
“I’m not interested in your tax return,” she replies. “Here’s the deal. When Mr. Overman looked at me, I sensed a certain power.”
Power. There was that word again, the one Overman had used — only this time it had been seconded by a complete stranger. Rosenfarb is sure he has entered some sort of alternate universe. He feels as if he is driving through a thick fog, straining to find the white lines and praying he doesn’t topple over the guardrail.
The waitress blasts the window dresser out of his queasy reverie. “Mr. Rosenfarb, a handful of men are extraordinary, and then there’s the rest. Maybe you can learn from him,” she finishes, going off to take an order for stuffed derma.
Rita returns from the ladies’ room to see the same ashen expression that Overman saw when he entered Jerry’s the night before. “You look like shit,” she informs her husband. “Did you eat a bad pickle?”
Rosenfarb shakes his head, wondering what kind of pickles Overman has been eating.
The Overman E350 is driving Topanga Canyon Boulevard. Not anywhere near the expensive, woodsy, former hippie haven, but far north, deep in the bowels of the West Valley. Maricela Flores lives in Chatsworth, an odd mishmash of horse ranches, estates and business parks with a smattering of smaller single-family houses and inexpensive apartment buildings. He finds a liquor store and realizes he needs to stop. Sure, she’s got wine, but Overman needs to bring something out of politeness. How did he get involved in such a thing, he asks himself? He is going to spend an entire evening with a twenty-six year-old girl and her boyfriend. Plus, he has to be polite and shell out money for that privilege.
Overman surveys the vodkas, thinking a classy cocktail might serve as a nice icebreaker for the evening. He can score a gallon of Gordon’s rotgut on sale for eighteen bucks or a petite but stunning bottle of overrated Grey Goose for twenty-eight. That Overman spends more than ten seconds thinking about it speaks to his dreadful
