IX. Dinner a la Dave
In the last episode, Dave Devoran, also known as Dave the Dude, made a date with a woman named Amy. The following installment, prepared with suggestions from Laura C. Brown, is Episode IX.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
I’m out of the office and in my milieu: Vick’s American Cafe, the best place to get Mexican food in Budapest. As soon as I walk in I see my drinking buddies at the bar. There’s James, the accountant who’s doing time in Hungary before going back to be an international honcho at his firm’s headquarters in London. He’s talking with Harry, a junior manager for the company that’s introducing frozen Chinese dinners to eastern Europe.
“Hey James. Hey Harry. How’s it respectively hangin’?”
They look at me, look at each other and shrug. Then they go back to talking as if I don’t exist. Jerks. They don’t recognize me? I’m Dave Devoran, free‑market ambassador, here to teach the clueless former communists of Hungary what big business is all about. By the time I leave this town, everybody’s gonna know my name. But today I’m here on a different kind of business. Love business. So it’s a good thing James and Harry don’t want to chat. I’m too busy to bond with the boys over brews.
My colleague d’amour is a stunning package of busts and brains named Amy. Beautiful, but cold. She’s a lawyer who wants to get me involved in a deal to ship arms to the war zone in former Yugoslavia. But when I’m through with her, the only gun she’ll be interested in is Big Dave’s Bazooka. I’ll have to play along, though. Act like I’m considering the deal until I can melt that ice‑cube heart.
* * *
I don’t know why I told this guy I’d meet him here. I don’t like this ticky tacky place, or the ticky tacky expatriate yuppies who come here. When I decided to travel thousands of miles to practice law in an eastern European capital, I didn’t picture myself spending my evenings in a pseudo‑Tex‑Mex palace with boring American businessmen. I should leave, but this Dave person claimed he wanted to discuss the project I’m working on. I really don’t think it was business he had in mind. I’m not even sure if he knows anything about the project.
If I’m convinced he’s a phony, why am I waiting here? I guess it’s better than the alternative: Staying at home and practicing my Hungarian—again. I just wish there was more to do in this town, and a better selection of men. It’s not exactly a single woman’s paradise, especially if you don’t speak the language.
* * *
Just thinking about this babe makes me nervous. I know I want her—or at least I want her body for a while. But I’ve got to watch it. If I let myself get carried away, I may end up getting killed for gun‑running in Sarejevo. That femme fatale aspect about her really excites me. Still, I must prepare for this battle of the sexes. I have to steel my nerves and be tough. I order a margarita. Ooh that goes down smooth. Have too many and it’ll come up that way too. I check my watch. It’s well after eight. She was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. I glance around the bar and ... oops. There she is already sitting at a table in the corner. I begin the assault with my warm but casual smile and my piercing stare as I saunter over and plant myself on the chair across from her.
“Hey babe. How's it hangin’? I mean um, I knew you’d be here. You knew it too.” I begin coolly. “Let's face it, we've got a lot to talk about. You and me well ... I think that more than just a little business will pass between us.”
***
“Um, uh, hi. Your late.”
Oh my God. I agreed to have dinner with this guy.
***
It’s in my eyes. It’s all in my eyes. I just give her a deep, soulful look with my big baby browns and she knows she’s up against the kind of man who could melt her heart. The confidence she exuded in the office has disappeared. I can see the fear spread all over her face. That’s right babe: You’ve got your hands full now.
“Sorry I took so long. I had some things to take care of,” I say, maintaining my powerful eye contact. “Let me you get you a drink.”
White wine for her, and I’ll have a half a liter of beer.
***
Can I be this desperate? I think it’s my mother’s influence. Every time she calls, she tells me I should have stayed in Philadelphia and married Johnnie Cuebaker. I try to tell her that Johnnie was narrow‑minded and that there are much better men in the world. I try to tell her that I’m enjoying my career and I’m not in a rush to get married anyway. But I think my mother’s anxiousness has got to me. I start to feel nervous if I don’t go out on a regular basis. I start looking for men who are better than Johnnie just so I can show my mom. I end up in situations like this.
Dave’s had three beers by the time the appetizer comes. He’s blithering, mindlessly. He says Hungarians are backwards, but he’s going to help them and get rich doing it. I tell him that’s a jingoistic attitude. He says he's tired of people making disparaging remarks about the Beatles’ drummer. When I try to explain that I’ve come here to assist in the creation of a new democratic legal structure, which will be uniquely Hungarian instead of just a mirror of the American system, he laughs.
“Yeah, I know you're not interested in the American way,'” he says. “People like you would probably be glad to put the old communists back in power, just so you can make money by catering to their war machine.”
What the hell is he talking about? For the first time in two years, I miss Johnnie Cuebaker.
***
I shouldn’t have said anything about the gun running. I have to steer the conversation back to us and keep her from talking business. It must have been the beers that made my tongue slip. Either it’s the beers, or maybe ... She could have put something in my drink. You never know with these espionage types.
“So let’s forget politics,” I try. “Why don’t you tell me what a nice young woman like you is doing mixed up in—um—in the law racket.”
She just sits there staring at me. I begin to get woozy. She did dope me—I know it. I start to lean forward. I feel like I’m going to pass out. Then it happens: Bang! My face falls forward into my plate. But I don’t loose consciousness.
Hmm, maybe I’m not drugged after all, just a little tired. I’m feeling silly, but this isn’t the time to get embarrassed. I lift my head up and go on the offensive: “Alright. I know your game. You work for Matt, you’re in the weapons business and I think it stinks. I only showed up tonight because I want to stop you before you get in too deep.”
***
“I don’t know any Matt, and you have a pinto bean on your nose.”
***
“But, you came to my office. You said we had to talk.”
***
“I think I got the wrong office. I was there to get your company to sponsor a series of seminars on copyright laws.”
***
Oops. My mistake. Or maybe she’s just covering up: Who knows? Anyway, she’s leaving, and I don’t want that to happen. I stand to stop her, but she pulls her arm away and breaks into a slow jog. I bump my knee against the chair and it scrapes loudly against the floor. The waiter comes over and stops me, obviously wanting to be paid. While I fumble for my wallet, she coyly slips out the door, nearly knocking over two people on the way.
Was she telling the truth? I promise myself I’ll find out.
***
If my mother thinks marriage is so important, she can go out with these guys. I am not this bored. I am not this desperate. And I am not going to stop running until I get home.