Free Cocksure by Mordecai Richler

entered with Rachel, who looked strikingly elegant, he sensed a wetting of lips all around him. Derek grinned lasciviously at him from behind the bar.
    “I know,” Rachel said, clapping her hands, “let’s have champagne.”
    Mortimer looked amazed.
    “A half bottle, then,” she said.
    Somewhere behind Mortimer’s stinging red neck, Donnelly began to softly whistle “Roll Me Over in the Clover.” Wzcedak caught Mortimer’s eye in the bar mirror. He wiggled his ears at him. While Derek opened the champagne with unnecessary ceremony, Rachel went to make a phone call. Rapani the chemist was instantly by Mortimer’s side. “Was getting worried about you, mate, you haven’t been in my shop for a week now.”
    “The poor luv’s beginning to feel his age,” Taylor called out, bringing forth hoots.
    Rapani, reeking of garlic, began to whisper in Mortimer’s ear. “It was getting round to closing time and you hadn’t been round for a whole bloody week –”
    Wzcedak gave Mortimer the thumbs-up sign.
    “– so I says to myself, use your loaf, Alex, and I brought the stuff with me.”
    Rapani slipped Mortimer the package. Fortunately just before Rachel returned to the table.
    “We’ve met before,” Mortimer said to Rachel, pouring the champagne. “At the bank, remember?”
    “The bank,” Rachel said, appalled. “Now I’m too late.”
    “Is there anything I can do?”
    “Silly me. I meant to go, but it was my first day at Oriole – I haven’t a penny.”
    “How much do you need?”
    “Ten pounds. Would they cash a check for me here, do you think?”
    “No, no, let me. I’ll lend it to you.”
    “Oh, aren’t you a sweetie,” she said, waiting.
    But Mortimer didn’t hand over the money. Instead he drained his glass. “It’s getting frightfully late. I’m taking a taxi. Going north. Can I drop you off?”
    “If you’re passing Baker Street –”
    “Yes.”
    “But you must let me pay my share.”
    Once in the taxi, Rachel’s skirt rode up. She made no attempt to adjust it. “Whee,” she said, giggling. “One glass of champagne and I’m tiddly.”
    After last night’s nightmares, his homosexual doubts, Mortimer was enthralled to discover a familiar warmth and upspringing in his genital area.
    “You’re not saying anything.”
    “Sorry,” he said, handing Rachel the ten pounds.
    “You wouldn’t give it to me in the pub because of all those filthy-minded men there.”
    “That’s not true,” he lied.
    “It is and it’s very sensitive of you, Mortimer. Ooops, here we are.”
    As the taxi braked she was flung briefly against him. Hastily, he got out of his side of the taxi and raced round to open the door for her.
    “This is where I live. I’m on the third floor.” She gave him the phone number. “Will you remember it?”
    “Yes, indeed.”
    Rachel kissed him shyly on the cheek and was off running, a flash of long brown legs.
    Dining early at the Tiberio, Dino Tomasso couldn’t eat his T-bone steak. He sent back his poire Hélène untouched. Finally, he summoned the waiter. “I want you to get me the Star Maker on the phone,” he said, and he gave him the Las Vegas number.
    “The Star Maker’s not here,” Miss Mott said. “The Star Maker is in the hospital again. Thanks to you.”
    “Hey, hey there, that’s no way to talk. Give me the hospital number.”
    It wasn’t the usual place, but the clinic in Casablanca.
    “Why there?” Tomasso asked.
    “You ought to know, you fool.”
    “Look, let’s not play games. Just give me the number.”
    A half hour later Tomasso got the Star Maker on the line. Between sobs, he told the Star Maker about England’s postmen. “Listen to me,” he pleaded. “How many postmen can they have all together on this piddly little island? Let’s us give them the two bucks.”
    “Impossible.”
    “Aw, come on, Star Maker. It wouldn’t even make a dent.”
    “It’s not the money. They would resent it. They’d call it dollar