Carriage Trade by Stephen Birmingham

call .
    Eddie? Moe here. Listen, I need some new phone credit card numbers. Last ones you give me is turning into duds already. Get me corporate card numbers. They last the longest. Those individual numbers don’t last shit.…
    Whaddaya mean how do ya get ’em? Same way you always get ’em. Go out to the airport, hang around the pay phones, and when you hear some guy give his number, write it down —what’re you, some kind of jerk? And if he starts punching in numbers, watch what numbers he punches. You got eyes , ain’tcha? Watch, and make a mental note. And remember what I told you about delayed flights. Check the TV screens for delayed flights. That’s when guys call their boss, or their wife or girlfriend, or who’s meeting their plane, to say they’ll be late. Just act like you’re waitin’ to use the phone.…
    Whaddaya mean the price has went up? Listen to me, you little shmuck, there’s about fifteen thousand other shmucks out there who can do what you do for me! You want this job or not? … Okay, that’s more like it. The price stays the same, two bucks a pop. Now get out to La Guardia and start shlepping. I need fifty new numbers by five o’clock.
    He slams down the receiver. Now he eases himself out of his chair. He checks the wall safe, then walks into the outer office .
    MINSKOFF (to Smyrna): Christ, I’m starving to death. I haven’t had anything to eat all day. Doctor keeps telling me I gotta take off sixty pounds, but a man’s gotta eat something, don’t he? I’m going across the street to Harold’s and grab a bite. If they locate Bonham, come get me.
    Smyrna merely nods, not looking up from her magazine. He exits. Cut to: Interior, Harold’s Diner, a seedy luncheonette with a counter and butt-sprung stools, most of which have been taped together with masking tape. HAROLD, in a dirty white apron, stands behind the counter .
    MINSKOFF enters, takes a seat at the counter, experiencing some difficulty squeezing his large frame between the stool and countertop .
    MINSKOFF: Harold, I keep tellin’ ya, ya got these stools too close to the counter. I got a friend in the bar fixture business. He could get ya some stools—
    HAROLD: Always sellin’ somethin’, ain’tcha, Moe?
    MINSKOFF: Just trying to be of service. I’m in a service business, after all.
    HAROLD: Well, what’ll you have today?
    MINSKOFF: Let’s see. (Studies the plastic-coated menu.) Gimme a bowl of your chili, a double bacon cheeseburger heavy on the mayo, a large fries, a large onion rings, and a diet Pepsi.
    HAROLD: Cash only, Moe. Remember my policy. Credit makes enemies. Let’s be friends.
    MINSKOFF: Cash, shmash.
    He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a large wad of bills. He waves this in front of Harold’s face before replacing it in his pocket .
    HAROLD (whistles): Comin’ right up, Moe!
    MINSKOFF (sighs, removes the unlighted cigar from between his clenched teeth, and balances it carefully on the counter’s edge): Hit an Exacta in the sixth at Belmont. Yeah, it’s been a pretty good week, all things considered. It ain’t gonna be long now before Honeychile and me can hang it all up and retire to the Bahamas.
    Blackout

3
    As she steps from the bright summer sunshine of the street into the seductively lighted Cafe Pierre, it takes a few moments for Miranda Tarkington’s eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. She removes her sunglasses, and then she sees him. As usual, a tall, sleek, and expensively put-together woman has stopped at his banquette to talk to him, and Miranda watches the two of them in animated conversation. Tommy Bonham, she often thinks, must know every woman in New York, or at least every important woman in New York, and of course this is all a part of being vice president and general manager of Tarkington’s. Even today, when the store is closed, Tommy is doing