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Heinz seemed a happy fellow. He dated wildly, drank vigorously and expounded on his exploits mightily. In private. Publicly, Heinz loved to play the role of contemplative diplomat of earnest reputation, which is why the waitresses at Morton’s or Goldoni’s squealed with shock and feigned delight when he grabbed whole handfuls of their fleshier under parts.
Heinz could never stay married for long. He found his ever-widening power and influence to be too electrically charged, too highly prized, to let it be wasted on the wants and needs of only one woman, even if that woman happened to be the mother of his children. Diplomatically, always smoothly, he left in the fog bank from which he came.
“Whath time iz shit,” Heinz would ask, intently.
“The same time it was thirty seconds ago when you started bangin’ me, mutha fukkah.”
“Youth don haffa be wude, Shantee.”
“My name is Shantel, loverboy. Just pay me what you owe me and get your slimy ass outa my apartment. I have bidness I needs to conduct.”
“Buth I luv ewe, Shantee.”
“Whatevah. Here’s your shoes. Where’s my draws? Gimme back my draws! Now! And git out!”
Always confident, Heinz knew he’d be back; she’d want him back. They always did. Repeat business was something the Ashkenazim were known for. Eventually, she would be paying him for his services just like all the rest. In fact, she would be begging for it before long. He was just that good.
The air on this side of town – this side of the Rotunda – seemed stale, like one big dumpster sitting next to a grease trap. The muffled sounds of traffic elsewhere gave an atmosphere something like a sense of the Pine Barrens, of other-worldliness. No one would suspect Heinz of traveling in these circles, which was a big reason why he came here, why everyone he knew came here. In the circles where Heinz found himself, no one would believe a word any of these people had to say, one way or the other. Safe and secure in the anonymity of the goyim and of all things goy.
“Can I help you, sir,” a sparkling voice queried from behind the counter.
“Yesh. I woodth leek a dooblth karma machkakaleeato ventee, peace.”
“I’m sorry, sir, could you repeat that?” The girl wiped the spray of some errant saliva from her face.
“I thaid, ‘I…woodth…leek…a…dooth…karmal…makakachiapo…pleeth.’ Venteeth.”
“I’m sorry, sir, could you speak up?” These children were so rude.
“Geth me yurth mengela! Sheeth nose wad I wanth!”
“Yes, sir.” Almost in tears, the little girl complied and went to fetch her manager, wiping her face on her sleeve.
“Do you know who he is,” the manager shrieked at her charge. “That’s a Nobel Prize winning consultant in charge of all things holy and pure!” Apparently the customer wasn’t just a German tourist with a speesh impediment. “He comes here every day and orders the same thing…Double caramel machiatto, venti. I can’t keep up with my stuff and do your job, too.” Roasters can be real assholes. Heinz didn’t mind them, though. Shikses in green aprons and hats have a charm all their own when they’re in the wild. Always smooth and charming, Heinz beamed a toothy grin at the manager, paid, took his cappuccino, and disappeared back into the fogbank from which he came.
Engine noise. Bedlam. Gotham City.
Commissioner Gordon needs his Batman, needs his crime-fighting superhero. Ridding the world of godless communists in favor of the god-fearing capitalists -- that was something Heinz did best. Life in the global village mirrors life in the pages of vintage comic books. Dancing a disembodied dance in Chile with a picture of a Disappeared? Turn the page, my dear. It gets better.
Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.
