1199 Park Avenue

1. A group of dim-witted building workers (doormen, porters and a handyman) in a century old, luxury apartment building in Manhattan, stumble upon a potential Nazi conspiracy, involving Broadway actors, an heiress, stolen gold and an unlikely love triangle.

Chapter 7

 

After Switchblade explained to Sal that Henry wasn’t in fact a homosexual peeping tom, along with the possibility that one of the Mike’s could be having an affair with Mrs. Menillo, Sal had calmed down. The three of them sat around the locker room table, eating slices of Ms. Chapman’s German chocolate cake. Henry still didn’t have the slightest idea what Sal was saying, but Switchblade translated for him and the three of them were actually able to hold a conversation. “I like this guy!” Sal laughed and affectionately slapped Henry on the shoulder. “He’s fucking crazy, getting himself trapped inside a locker.” 

“He says he likes you.” Switchblade translated.

Henry felt relieved. Once they had explained that he had been hiding in the locker to spy on a potential nazi, Sal had taken a liking to him. If there was one thing in this world that Sal hated, it was monopoly, the board game. Everyone made up their own rules, he was dreadfully afraid of trains and the games seemingly lasted forever, usually ending with someone getting angry and overturning the board. But if there were two things Sal hated, they were monopoly and nazis. He mumbled something to Switchblade in Salinese, then let out a boisterous laugh. 

“He said, you’re lucky I showed up when I did.” Switchblade told Henry as he chuckled. “He thought you were a poltergeist, he was about to kill you!”

“Funny.” Henry sarcastically replied, not finding it funny at all. He was about to take another bite of cake, when a thought suddenly occurred to him causing Henry to furrow his brow and look confused. “Hang on, how was he gonna kill a poltergeist?” he asked.

Sal briefly stopped eating his cake and looked up at him. “There are ways.” he said.

“He said-” Switchblade began to say, before being cut off by Henry.

“There are ways!” Henry said, finishing Switchblade’s sentence for him. “I actually understood that!” he said in surprise, which honestly left him with more questions than answers.

“So, Mrs. Menillo is having an affair with one of the Mikes?” Sal asked, before going back to eating his cake.

“According to Mr. Menillo.” Switchblade replied. “But it doesn’t seem possible either way.”

“You poor, dumb bastard.” Sal chucked. “It’s entirely possible, she’s a witch!”

“What?” Switchblade laughed at the ridiculous accusation. 

“There are some things about this world that you’re not ready to understand my poverty stricken, uneducated, well-meaning, black friend.” Sal told him. Switchblade looked highly offended.

“I graduated from college, asshole.” he defensively replied. 

Sal ignored him and continued speaking. “Listen to me, earlier today, I saw my Uncle Milos.” he told them.

“And?” Switchblade asked, clearly not following. 

“I drowned him in the lake behind our summer house in 1989, he’s been dead for thirty years.” Sal casually replied, before eating another mouthful of chocolate cake.

“What’d he say?” Henry curiously asked.

“You don’t wanna know.” Switchblade replied. 

Sal put his fork down and sat up in his chair. “Look, recently, I’ve noticed that a lot of strange things have been happening at 1199.” 

“Recently?” Switchblade sarcastically asked.

Sal ignored him and continued. “I’ve already begun to suspect that someone has put an ancient curse upon me. Now it appears this Jezebel has also cast a spell on one of the Mike’s, possibly even both!”

“Now you think she’s banging both of them?” Switchblade asked, in disbelief.

“It’s possible!” Sal argued. “The depravity of these nazi’s knows no bounds! Have you ever even seen German porn?” Sal rhetorically asked them. “Fucking shitting and pissing everywhere, they’re fucking perverts!”

“What’s he saying?” Henry asked again.

“He thinks that Mrs. Menillo is a witch.” Switchblade replied.

“L-, Like, like a real witch?” Henry asked, looking baffled. “How could he have possibly come to that conclusion?” 

 “It’s obvious!” Sal quickly replied. “All the signs are there, you just don’t want to see them. She’s an actress, they’re masters of deception. The theater has always been known to be a safe haven for sorcerers and those who practice the dark arts, to hide in plain sight. Just look at Barbara Streisand!” Switchblade couldn’t help but nod in agreement. “Anyway,” Sal continued. “When it comes to problems like this, especially involving matters of the heart, there’s always a witch or warlock behind it.”

“What the fuck is a warlock?” Switchblade asked.

“It’s a male witch, I’m pretty sure.” Henry replied.

“No,” Switchblade argued, shaking his head. “At Hogwarts they taught witches and WIZARDS. What the hell is a warlock?”

“I think wizard and warlock are synonyms.” Henry told him.

“Cinnamon?” Sal asked, before shaking his head. “No, that doesn’t work. You’re thinking of garlic and vampires.”

“Vampires?” Switchblade asked, looking visibly confused.

“Did he say vampires?” Henry asked, looking even more confused.

“Why do you two keep going on about vampires?” Sal asked them, starting to become annoyed.

“You brought up vampires!” Switchblade argued.

“There’s fucking vampires?” Henry asked in alarm.

“Will you two stop talking about vampires!” Sal angrily shouted, as he slammed his fist on the table. Henry didn’t need a translator to understand him that time. 

“We need to be prepared, my friends, these sorcerers are nothing to trifle with.” Sal warned them. “One minute, you think you’re in total control and the next, you’ve been accused of committing war crimes in Kabul!”

Switchblade shook his head in disbelief. “Sal, that doesn’t sound like something that happens to people.” 

“It happens my friend, trust me!” Sal urgently implored them. He took another bite of cake while Henry scratched his head and tried to make sense of things. 

“So, let me get this straight,” he began. “You’re saying Mrs. Menillo is a Nazi witch that put an ancient curse on you, potentially cast a spell on one of the Mike’s or both of the Mike’s, and also resurrected your dead uncle Milos to haunt you?”

“Precisely!” Sal happily replied. “This fucking guy gets it!”

Henry certainly did not get it. “Why would she put a curse on you?” he asked.

“She must have sensed I was beginning to catch on to her.” He hypothesized. “These shapeshifters develop a sixth sense about these things, like a hawk that smells a wounded child trapped at the bottom of a gully, thousands of miles from civilization. But their powers have never worked on me, they prey on the feeble minded. Crazy Mike is probably the dumbest son of a bitch I’ve ever met in my life and he’s goofier than a pet coon, but he’s a sweet kid. I’m not sure how he got mixed up in all of this, but I’d wager that witch is behind it.” Sal sadly said. “On the other hand, Psycho Mike is crazier than a shithouse rat! I fear that he’s most likely become an agent of the S.S.”

“What’s he saying?” Henry asked. 

“He said he thinks Psycho Mike’s a nazi.” Switchblade translated.

“Oh yeah!” Henry emphatically agreed. “Big time!” He didn’t know why he felt so strongly about it, but there was something about the man that was clearly off. Psycho Mike moved, walked, talked and behaved so strangely, that the idea of him being under some kind of supernatural enchantment almost seemed more plausible than him just simply being born this way.

The three of them each had another slice of cake and continued to theorize about Mrs. Menillo, the two Mike’s and satanic black magic. Eventually Ivan walked into the locker room and when he saw the three of them casually sitting around the table, doing nothing, he wasn’t happy about it. “What the fuck you doing, man?” Ivan angrily asked them.

“What?” They all collectively replied in unison, looking confused.

“You’re supposed to be watching the two Mike’s!” Ivan told them. “Instead, you fucking monkeys are sitting around having some kind of gay party and eating cakes!” 

“It’s pretty good cake.” Switchblade admitted.

Sal shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve had better.” he said in Salinese.

“Wait a minute, where did you fucking knuckleheads get that cake from?” Ivan asked them, as he pointed at the cake box lying on the table. The other three looked at one another and shrugged. “That’s Ms. Chapman’s cake, you fucking idiots!” 

“Oh man!” Switchblade sadly groaned. “Now I feel like an asshole, she’s got cancer.”

“Does she?” Sal asked, sounding surprised.

“Yeah dude.” Switchblade sadly nodded.

“Oh, no! That’s too bad.” Sal said, looking disappointed. “She’s one of the best tippers.”

Ivan angrily shook his head in disbelief, he was growing impatient. “Can you fucking monkeys focus for two minutes?” he rhetorically asked them. “I’ve been stuck upstairs in the lobby, keeping an eye on Psycho Mike, while holding in a monster shit for the past forty-five minutes! I held out as long as I could, now one of you retards needs to get upstairs and watch him!”

The room became silent and the three men looked at one another, then Henry began to shake his head. “You know what I don’t get?” he asked.

“What?” Ivan replied.

“What’s the connection between the nazi’s and witchcraft?” Henry wondered.

“What the fuck are you talking, man?” Ivan angrily asked, looking absolutely baffled.

“The third reich were notoriously obsessed with the occult.” Answered Sal. “Hitler had them doing all kinds of crazy experiments.”

‘Yeah,” Henry agreed. “But still, it’s not just that, Psycho Mike’s not even German, he’s Scottish or something.”

“He’s Northern Irish.” Ivan corrected him. “But who knows, that accent may not even be real! Besides, you don’t have to be German to be a nazi. He could be from one of the other Axis countries.”

“Very true.” Sal agreed. 

Switchblade appeared to zone out for a moment and began to chuckle, leaving everyone else at the table looking confused. “Am I the only one that’s ever found it odd that Finland was on the wrong side during that war?” 

“What do you mean?” Henry asked. 

“I don’t know,” Switchblade laughed. “All of the other countries like Japan, Italy, Bulgaria, Romania etcetera, they somehow make sense to me, they just sound aggressive. But Finland?”

“Now that you mention it, it does seem a little out of place.” Ivan agreed. 

“I bet F.D.R. probably wasn’t even expecting that shit when they showed him the battle plans.” Switchblade continued. “A colored boy probably wheeled him over to the map and he stood up and yelled ‘Nigger, is that fucking Finland on there?’” Everyone laughed at Switchblade’s Roosevelt impression.

“I love it when he says that word!” Sal chuckled. “I’m glad somebody can still say it.”

“Don’t make me laugh, you’re gonna make me shit my pants.” Ivan pleaded, as he began to head towards the bathroom. “You need to get upstairs to the lobby, this fucking maniac is up there by himself! Who knows what kind of shit that guy’s getting into!”

“What about Crazy Mike?” Switchblade asked.

“I don’t know, I think Richie’s on top of it. “Ivan replied, before running into the bathroom. 

 

Richie was in fact, ‘on top of it’. He and Philip had spent the past half an hour lurking in the staircase on the building’s third floor. They had correctly assumed that eventually someone would venture there in search of solitude and they crouched down behind the bannister when they heard someone walk into the stairwell, a few fights below them. Philip slowly lifted his head over the guardrail, then took a quick glance and crouched back down. “Who the fuck is that?” Philip whispered to Richie. Richie mimicked Philip and quickly poked his head over the rail, took a peek and crouched back down. Then he suddenly began to laugh. 

“That’s Crazy Mike you eejit, he’s in disguise!” he whispered to him.

“Oh.” he replied, before taking another look over the railing and looking downstairs. “Why’s he dressed like a pedophile?” he asked.

“It’s a long story!” Richie whispered back.

They both watched Crazy Mike pace at the bottom of the stairwell as he pulled out his cell phone and began calling the same number over and over again, without getting any answer. “Come on!” Crazy Mike groaned in frustration, before dialing again. 

“He seems pretty nervous.” Philip whispered to Richie. “Who’s he trying to call?”

“I don’t know.” Richie admitted. “The only person I’ve ever heard him talk about is his Mother.”

“Yeah, Norman fucking Bates was like that too!” Philip replied.

“Hiya!” Crazy Mike suddenly said in a cheerful voice, greeting somebody over the telephone. 

“Somebody picked up!” Richie whispered.

“Yeah, I know you’re busy,” Crazy Mike continued. “I just wanted to check in, you know, see if everything was going okay.”

“He still sounds nervous.” Philip observed. “What’s he checking in on?”

“Philip, would you shut the fuck up!” Richie angrily whispered to him. 

“I am sorry!” Crazy Mike apologetically groaned over the telephone. “Yes, I remember the rules. I said, ‘I remember the rules!’” 

“Well, I don’t know who the hell he’s talking to, but they seem to be in charge.” Richie said. Philip nodded in agreement. The both leaned over the guardrail a little further, trying to get a closer listen. 

“I said, I’m sorry!” Crazy Mike apologetically groaned again, as he began to walk around in circles. “If I knew you were in the theater, I wouldn’t have called!”

Richie and Philip suddenly looked at one another and gasped in shock. “Janey Mack!” Richie exclaimed. “Did he say theater?”

“Yeah!” Philip replied, with a look of disbelief all over his face. If he hadn’t heard it with his own ears, he would never have believed it. “He’s talking to Mrs. Menillo!”

“So, everything’s ok?” Crazy Mike asked Mrs. Menillo over the telephone. “Our plans for tonight haven’t changed?”

“Plans?” Richie whispered. “What plans? What fucking plans could he possibly have, looking like that?” he wondered out loud.

“Okay, I’ll see you tonight. I love you too! Bye!” Crazy Mike said, before hanging up the phone. 

“Holy shit!” Philip exclaimed in shock. His mind had been blown, neither of them could believe what they had just witnessed. Mr. Menillo wasn’t crazy after all. “We’ve gotta get back and tell the guys.” Philip urgently whispered. Richie agreed and the two of them slowly crept out of the stairwell. 

 

Most of ‘the guys’ were in the service elevator, on their way upstairs to the lobby. It was now Henry, Switchblade and Sal’s turn to monitor Psycho Mike, a task that nobody was particularly looking forward to. Switchblade turned around to talk to the others. “Remember, don’t ask him anything too directly. We don’t wanna tip our hand and let him know we’re on to him.” he told them.

“Do you really think he’d even catch on?” Henry asked, looking surprised. “The guys totally out of it, if you asked him what year it was he’d probably say mango.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Switchblade cautiously warned. “This whole thing could be an act, a big ruse.”

“It’s true.” Sal agreed. “These kraut pieces of shit are very clever, they invented Fanta.”

“Did they?” Switchblade asked, sounding both surprised and impressed. “I didn’t know that.”

“Didn’t know what?” Henry asked.

“He said the Nazis invented Fanta.” Switchblade translated.

“Oh, wow, I love Fanta!” Henry replied.

“Yeah, in general it’s very underrated in my opinion.” Switchblade said.

“It really is!” Henry agreed. 

“Will you two idiots shut up about the Fanta!” Sal angrily shouted. “We have to keep our wits about. Psycho Mike may be plotting something sinister. Remember, he isn’t even supposed to be here today.”

“That’s true.” Switchblade agreed. “Ordinarily they do a pretty good job of keeping him away from the general population.”

“This isn’t his normal shift?” Henry asked.

“Are you insane? They would never give this psychopath a doorman shift in the middle of the day!” Switchblade replied. “Psycho Mike covers Philips days off, working upstairs, alone, away from everybody. And the other two days-” Switchblade’s voice suddenly trailed off, as he suddenly remembered his recently deceased co-worker. “He covers the night shift.” 

The entire elevator suddenly felt uncomfortably quiet for a brief moment, until Henry’s curiosity got the better of him, once again. “Who works the other night shifts?” he asked.

“Does that fucking matter right now?” Sal angrily barked, startling Henry, who immediately shut his mouth.

 

The three men spent the rest of the ride in silence, before finally arriving on the first floor. Sal opened the elevator door and the other two nervously followed him into the lobby. They found Psycho Mike standing over by the front desk, in the midst of a heated argument with himself. “All that I’m saying is they’re misunderstood! There are some major misconceptions about them out there!” Psycho Mike enthusiastically exclaimed. 

Henry looked over at Switchblade and whispered. “Who’s he talking about?”

Switchblade shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, let’s find out.” he whispered back, before turning to Psycho Mike. “I Agree!” he called out from across the room, startling him half to death.

“Good heavens!” Psycho Mike exclaimed in surprise. “Greetings gentlemen, I didn’t see you over there. It’s damn good to hear there’s someone who feels as strongly about this as I do!”

“Of course!” Switchblade replied, playing along. “You’re absolutely right, there ARE a lot of misconceptions out there.”

“Indubitably!” Psycho Mike happily agreed. “I’m not an expert, but I’ve spent a lot of time around these greedy, big nosed devils and I don’t believe they have as many of us fooled as they’d like to believe!”

Henry and Switchblade looked at one another in shock. They were thinking the same thing, but neither of them wanted to say it. “THE JEWS?” Sal blurted out. Henry and Switchblade cringed, then each of them shot Sal a dirty look.

“Jews?” Psycho Mike asked, looking confused. “No, I’m talking about dolphins.”

“Dolphins?” Henry asked, looking perplexed.

“Well, yes! Arrogant little bastards if you ask me!” He angrily said, before turning his head and spitting on the floor in disgust. Henry, Switchblade and Sal were puzzled. “Anyway,” Psycho Mike continued, before looking up and smiling at them. “Randolph, Salwise, DeShawn, it’s good to see some familiar faces! It’s been quite some time, gentlemen.”

Henry turned to Switchblade. “Your real name is DeShawn?” he curiously asked.

Switchblade looked insulted. “Bitch, my name is Jerry,” he sternly replied. 

“Lads, as you may know, it’s been quite a long time since I’ve worked a day shift and I can’t help but notice that a lot of things have changed around here.” Psycho Mike told them. 

“Not really,” Switchblade shrugged. “We still see the same people at the same times, every single day. 

“With all due respect, I beg to differ with you Deion.” Psycho Mike argued. “Things appear to have changed a great deal. For example, have any of you gentlemen ever heard of a world wide web?” he asked them, before turning around and looking up at the sky. “Where is the damned thing? I’ve never seen one anywhere!”

They all blankly stared at him with looks of stunned curiosity on their faces, like watching an orangutan trying to figure out how a doorknob works. “Mike, what year is it?” Henry asked.

“I’m sorry Randolph,” Psycho Mike began to laugh. “I’m notoriously bad at seeing constellations during the day, you’ll have to ask me again in an hour or two.”

Henry was obviously confused by Psycho Mike’s response but he didn’t have long to think about it. All of a sudden, a small motorcade of black cars arrived in front of the building. “What’s all this?” Henry curiously asked. 

“It’s Mr. Richards.” Switchblade replied. “He’s the American Ambassador to Romania, or some shit.”

“That’s pretty cool.” Henry said, appearing to be impressed. 

The ambassador’s large security detail jumped out of their cars and opened the doors for the short, frumpy ambassador. Everyone stopped to watch the bodyguards escort him to the building, where Psycho Mike stood at attention and saluted them. “Huzzah gentlemen!” He happily greeted them. Henry briefly wondered if it was customary that he too salute the ambassador but when he saw that the others hadn’t, he decided that Psycho Mike most likely had no idea what he was doing. 

When the ambassador and his armed escorts walked into the lobby, Sal immediately ducked behind the front desk and hid out of sight. Switchblade and Henry exchanged a glance, both of them clearly wondering why Sal was behaving so strangely. The ambassador was escorted to the passenger elevator, then he stepped inside and headed upstairs to his apartment. Psycho Mike saluted the bodyguards on their way out and cheerfully waved them off. Then Sal slowly and carefully poked his head out from behind the desk. “Are they gone?” he asked in Salinese.

“Yeah.” Switchblade replied. “What was all that about?”

“The Romanians,” Sal chuckled. “Those slippery fucks will never stop hunting me.”

Switchblade looked as though he wanted to say something but dinging of the passenger elevator, alerting them of a resident’s imminent arrival, forced him to keep his thoughts to himself. The elevator door opened and when the four men turned their heads, they saw a frail woman walk into the lobby, who appeared to be as old as time itself. She wore a short gray bob, that was obviously a wig and her face had become so pruned up, that her eyes almost appeared to be shut. Henry couldn’t help but feel she was stylishly dressed for an older woman and possessed a certain elegance. She carried an expensive looking cane but each small step she took seemed to be a struggle and her limbs trembled with every move she made. 

“Dear God man, that woman’s ancient!” Psycho Mike blurted out.

“Have a little respect.” Sal sternly warned him. 

“Holy shit!” Switchblade mumbled under his break in surprise. 

“Who’s that?” Henry asked

“That’s Ms. Chapman. She’s agoraphobic, she hasn’t left her apartment in years.” Switchblade told him.

“You there!” She called out, as she pointed her cane at them.

“Hi, Ms. Chapman, how are you doing?” Switchblade warmly greeted her as she approached them.

“Hello boy.” She coldly replied, walking right past him.

“My deepest apologies Ms. Chapman, I hardly recognized you!” Psycho Mike happily greeted her. “I believe the last time our paths crossed was just after that nasty business in Cuba, involving Elian Gonzalez.” 

“Michael Burke, you’re still alive?” Ms. Chapman asked, appearing to be shocked.

“Indeed I am madam!” Psycho Mike proudly replied. as he stood up a little straighter and tugged on his lapels.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Chapman.” Sal politely said, bowing his head a little.

“Yes, hello there.” she dismissively replied. “I can never understand what this Russian one is saying, but he seems harmless enough, I suppose.”

Sal looked insulted. “I’m not fucking Russian!” he scoffed.

“Bless you, or salud, whatever you people say over here!” She dismissively said to him. “Anyway,” She continued. “I placed an order for a cake this morning, but it never arrived, you see? Naturally I got Mindy on the wire, Mindy is the pastry chef, she owns the confectionary on the corner of 86th street. She’s a fine baker, nothing special with cookies or danish, but she’s aces when it comes to German chocolate cake! Best in the city, I find! Do you follow me so far?”

She asked Psycho Mike.

“I believe so, madam!” he replied.

While they spoke, Henry leaned closer to switchblade and whispered. “Why does she talk like a news reporter from the 1930’s?” he asked.

“She’s from old money.” Switchblade whispered back. “It’s called a transatlantic accent, Katherine Hepburn used to have one.”

Henry looked shocked. “She was trans, Katherine Hepburn?”

Switchblade shook his head and looked disappointed, “Nevermind.” he said.

“Like I was saying,” Ms. Chapman continued. “The cake was due to arrive here this morning. When it wasn’t delivered I got Mindy on the horn to see ‘what gives?’. She assured me that the cake had been delivered, dropped off sometime earlier, around eleven o’clock. Have any of you gentlemen seen it?” She asked them.

Psycho Mike thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “No Ma’am, I don’t recall seeing any cakes today at all!” he told her, before turning to the other three. “How about you gentlemen, do any of you know anything about this?” 

The three of them nervously shuffled their feet, as they lied and innocently shook their heads. “Wait a minute, what’s that I smell?” She suspiciously asked, before taking a step closer to Psycho Mike. “I smell Marlboros, tunafish, cheap brandy and CHOCOLATE!” She shouted at him in an accusatory tone. 

Psycho Mike burst into laughter. “Oh, that’s very good madam, do me next!” he excitedly said.

“You ate my birthday cake!” She angrily said, before turning and glancing around at the others. “You ALL ate my cake! That ones got chocolate all over his face!” She angrily shouted, as she pointed her trembling finger at the chocolate stains on the corners of Switchblades mouth.

Psycho Mike cleared his throat. “There is no call for that kind of racism here ma’am, he’s a person just like the rest of us now!” 

Ms. Chapman looked outraged. “I wasn’t being racist, you tosspot!” She angrily replied. “I’ll have you know that I once marched with Dr. King!”

“And I’m sure you’ll find a cure for whatever it is you were marching for!” Psycho Mike warmly replied. 

“You can’t cure racism you dolt!” Ms. Chapman replied, clearly becoming annoyed.

“Well, not yet!” Psycho Mike replied, sounding optimistic. “But maybe, one day we’ll be able to. Maybe one day, someone, somewhere, will be able to solve this great problem we call racism. In many ways, it’s the last great problem for man to solve. My dear Ms. Chapman, it’ll happen one day, we just have to hope and pray that we’ll live long enough to bear witness to someone coming up with this, ‘final solution.’”

Henry and Switchblade gasped, but Sal gasped so deeply that he briefly began to choke on his own saliva. They looked at one another in shock. “Did he say, final solution?” Switchblade mumbled to them under his breath. 

“That’s a lovely thought Michael.” Ms. Chapman dismissively replied. “But how exactly are you going to solve this problem with my cake?”

“And what cake would that be dear?” Psycho Mike curiously asked.

“Oh, for the love of God!” Ms. Chapman groaned as she rolled her eyes.

“We’ll get you another cake!” Sal interjected. 

“Que pasa?” Ms. Chapman asked, looking confused. “What did he say?”

“Yeah, what?” Switchblade also asked. 

“It’s her birthday! The poor, old bat has cancer, it’s the least we could do.” Sal replied. “Send the boy.” He said, pointing at Henry.

“Fair enough.” Switchblade agreed.

“Why me?” Henry protested.

“Seniority.” Switchblade told him, before turning to Ms. Chapman. “Ms. Chapman, Henry will go to Mindy’s and pick up a brand new cake for you.”

“Yes, that’s all well and good but who in God’s name is Henry?” She asked.

“I’m Henry.” He said, as he shyly raised his hand and waved at her. Ms. Chapman took a couple of steps closer to get a better look at him and her eyes lit up. 

“Handsome this one. Looks exotic, kind of reminds me of Desi, actually.” she said, biting her lip as she looked Henry up and down. 

“Desi?” Henry asked.

“Don’t be a fool dear boy, there’s only one Desi!” She told him.

“I once had a sexual tryst with Marlon Brando in the 1970’s!” Psycho Mike proudly proclaimed.

“Is that so?” Ms. Chapman replied, sounding skeptical.

“Indeed!” Psycho Mike laughed. “It was in one of the back rooms of a French dance club, Madame Tussaud’s I believe they called it!”

“Oh my god.” Switchblade mumbled under his breath, before burying his face in his hands. 

“Anyway,” Ms. Chapman said. “Desi and I had our thing for a while until his fat, bitch of a wife made him cut it off. The fucking cow.” She angrily said, before turning to Henry and looking up at him with big doe eyes. “But that’s all ancient history now, isn’t it Desi?” Ms. Chapman smiled at Henry and it made his skin crawl. 

“Well, I should get going now!” He awkwardly announced, as he began to inch toward the door.

“Do me a favor and try to make sure the cake makes it upstairs this time! You all know how much I despise coming down here.” Ms. Chapman told them, before walking back to the elevator and heading upstairs. 

“ACHOO!” Sal suddenly sneezed.

1. “Gesundheit!”  Psycho Mike quickly replied.

1. First attempt of novel.