"Take her to Le Living, Harry. It's a new bar that opened on the Plateau where you won't run into anyone you know. All French there."
Unlike Basement Harry who had an aversion to scenes, any kind of scene, Finkie reveled in the glory of nightlife. But for Harry, anything "In" invariably made it "Out." If they like it, Harry hated it. If it was good for them, it was bad for Harry. Finkie however, was a self-proclaimed authority on the club scene. Through his network of film buddies, Plateau artsies and friends in the know, Finkie got invited to every new opening and knew all the doorman.
"Is it easy to park though? I don't want to look like an asshole on the first date," Harry's stomach and throat muscles contracted. Parking was a beast.
"Not to worry, Harry. There's valet parking for ten bucks."
"Ten bucks? Quel rip-off! Maybe I'll do a movie instead."
"Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me, Harry? A movie is the best way to get seen and blow your cover."
"Not at Cinema P?"
"Yeah right. A rep house. Two-fifty a ticket! Cheap, cheap, cheap. What the fuck is wrong with you Harry? Take her to Le Living. Be cool."
"Sorry but I do not need to go somewhere to validate my coolness or not."
"Is it the ten bucks, Harry? Is it the lousy ten bucks? " Finkie fished a crumpled ten dollar bill from his pocket and flung it at Harry.
"It's not the ten bucks, Finkie...I hate scenes."
"What scene, Harry? A crowd of well dressed people having fun? What's the scene? Is there gore, is there blood, are their body bags? What exactly is The Scene?"
"The Scene is the phonies, Finkie. Ever read Shakespeare? Those King Richard plays? All about phonies too, the dross coated in gold. Ever read Catcher in the Rye? "
"Ever read The Idiot? Quoting Shakespeare won't get you laid, Harry, but listening to me might. Remember my Inga plan?"
How could he forget? Finkie at his finest, The Inga Plan:
Harry trying hard to impress Snoot-with-Streaks. Finkie 'coincidentally' bumps into Harry and Snooty exactly half an hour into their date. Finkie feigns excitement running into Harry, blurts out, "Harry Starr! I thought you moved to Stockholm with Inga, the Vogue model? Or was that before Bettina from Berlin?"
Harry pretends to be embarrassed and shrugs. Finkie waves to someone at the door, but no one in particular, and makes a hasty exit. Harry apologizes for the gaucheness of his friend, "Have to be nice to him, 'cause he's my cousin."
And it works. Harry dates Snoot-with-Streaks until she trades him in, along with his Dodge Dart, for a disco-coiffed putz with a Corvette.
"Okay, okay. I admit it, Finkie, you're right. I gotta get over this valet parking phobia."
"If only Ginette didn't know me, I could play your driver. I'd wear the dark suit with the dorkie hat...We could rent a black Continental. It would be fucking epic!"
****
And of course, as always, the logistics weren't anything close to the nightmare that Harry anticipated. He picked Ginette up without actually getting lost driving to her place, paid the valet the ten bucks and even got a perfectly placed table in the corner of the bar. Piece of cake.
A translated snip of their conversation:
"So how do you know how to speak French, 'arry? Not many Americans do?"
"I'm originally from Montreal. Moved to L.A. after I graduated from McGill."
He was ready for that question.
"And where do stay when you're here?"
"With my aunt in Glenview."
Ready for that one too. Harry used the aunt story instead of his parents' address based on Finkie's advice. "Never give out any information that can be checked." Finkie knew what he was talking about. An undercover detective who was following Izzie Finkelstein, overheard him at Main Steamie's shmei ad nauseum about the smoked meat at Delly Guys. How it's way better than Schwartz's, buries The Brown Derby, demolishes the Westside Del. How he has his own table reserved at Delly Guys.
...How the cops then bugged that table, leading to Izzie's arrest and conviction for his master role in an eight million dollar telemarketing scam that bilked lots of old folks of their life's savings.
"So you must be a Jew?"
Which rubbed Harry the wrong way. He was playing a movie producer that night, not a Jew. But what could he have expected from a pur laine girl from the east end, who may have never met a Jew before. Harry was part love interest, part anthropology to her, and vice versa. What do the other tribes really do?
"Yes, and you must be French."
"Perceptive."
"Figured it out as soon as you started speaking French."
She stroked his hair...
"You don't look like a Jew?"
Still with the Jewish crap, when instead she should be asking him about Steve Martin.
"Like what's a Jew supposed to look like? But hey, I've got dark skin and black wavy hair, that's kind of Jewish."
"You're tall and well-built..."
"Good looking too, I hope." Harry said, going with the personal compliment over the implied tribal slight. There would always be plenty of chances to go to rallies for Israel in the future. It was time to rally for Harry, only Harry.
"Big ego. I can see how you can be a movie producer."
She was finally on the right track, but completely wrong. If he had a big ego would he drive a Dodge Dart when he could have driven a Camaro? Mike Winikoff pumped himself up good from the get-go. His big ego and served him well. Too bad for Harry. If he had a big ego, he wouldn't be selling belts for a prick like Alvy Shugar. A big ego was good and it was time Harry got himself one.
"And I can see you with me," said Harry playing Harry with the big ego.
He grabbed Ginette and kissed her like Brando in Last Tango, finally starring in the role he dreamt of playing.
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