WATER WORKS: 26) HECKLE & JECKLE
Sunday Funnies: A Novel of Intrigue, Lunacy & H2O
35.
Upon landing in the Dutch Antilles, a black Mercedes rolls is waiting to roll Morton Levi and me to a helicopter.
We climb aboard.
The pilot points at the seatbelts, waits until we're harnessed, then lifts his whirly-gig upward and out, over water.
A slice of land soon comes into view, surrounded by the very blue sea. I can make out a small port and a large construction project as we dip down and settle. Once the rotors stop whizzing we alight. A Bentley rolls us into the courtyard of a magnificent chateau.
Morton, who'd seen his share of extravagance, is awed. "This looks like Versailles," he gasps.
The Asian limo driver springs out and opens the back door. He is immediately replaced by a butler clad in tux and tails.
"Good morning, gentlemen." The Caucasian butler speaks in a posh English accent. "Please follow me."
Inside the magnificent foyer, a wide and very grand staircase spirals up to a galleried mezzanine. We are led into a drawing room, walls adorned with life-size portraits of 16th and 17th century royalty. Its polished walnut parquet floors are interspersed with intricate Persian rugs woven by master craftsmen of a bygone age. The seating arrangement is courtesy of Louis XVI—the days when furniture was crafted to last a millennium.
"Versailles," sighs Morton utterly impressed, almost to tears. "It's a copy of Versailles."
The butler reappears with a gleaming silver tray in his hands. Upon it are two schooners and a crystal decanter of a ruby red liquid.
"Harvey's Bristol Cream?" he offers.
Morton declines, mumbling something about his upset stomach.
Sherry isn’t my favorite tipple. That said, anything with alcohol is acceptable while on duty.
"Prince Thomas and Prince Theodore will join you presently," says the butler. He backs out of the room.
"Did he say prince?" whispers Morton.
"Twice."
Morton shakes his head in puzzlement. "I've heard of nouveau riche. But nouveau royale?"
French doors open wide.
The butler reappears. He waits until we’ve shifted our focus from ourselves to him. Then he steps to one side.
The Scrogg twins come through, side by side.
In their matching pinstripes—the boldest ever cut by Savile Row—they look identical. Same hairstyle: salt and pepper hair combed from left to right. Same shiny black wingtips. Same bland expressions. Same shirt, same tie. Same rose gold crested pinkie ring.
Simply put, the Scroggs are Siamese twins without the inconvenience of being stuck together.
With their upper-class accoutrements, the twins radiate a presence suggestive of Eton and Oxbridge.
Until they open their mouths.
"'ere, Tommy," Teddy cracks out the side of his mouth, "who are these geysers?"
Maybe it’s a joke. Maybe he’s being rude. Maybe he really doesn’t know.
"These are the blokes what want us to flog a bit of our Dulci Acqua."
"Eh?"
"You 'eard right, Ted. We discussed this with old Foggy—remember, mate?"
"Ah, bloody wog." Teddy twitches. "Wogs and chipolatas."
This is how to distinguish between them, I quickly deduce: Teddy twitches—a neck tic. Tommy doesn’t.
And something else.
Eyes are a portal to the brain. Looking through Teddy's, I diagnose insanity.
Heckle and Jeckle. That's the next thought that hits me. A pair of wise-cracking cartoon mynah birds masquerading as a pair of nouveau royale princes.
"The conference room is ready," announces the butler.
Apparently, we aren’t supposed to sit on Louis XVI, just admire it.
"Cor blimey," says Jeckle. "About bloody time."
"Patience, mate," Heckle admonishes his twin. "It's meant to be a bloody virtue 'n' all."
Morton and I follow the twins across the vast foyer into a vaster conference room—more a grand hall suitable for occasions of state.
The butler pulls a chair for each prince, maitre d'-style. Morton and I are left to rump our own rears less regally.
Heckle faces Morton across the end of a table so highly polished, I can see my reflection in mahogany tint.
"Right," say Heckle. "What brings you 'ere?"
"That's right," echoes Jeckle. "Why've you come, eh?"
"I'm going into the water business," declares Morton, somewhat flustered.
"Did 'e say 'e wants to do water?" asks Jeckle.
"'e did, Ted," answers Heckle. "I 'eard 'im."
For the life of me, I do not know what to make of this, other than it’s Alice in Wonderland—perhaps to disorient us?
"I've always believed," continues Morton, "that when I want to branch into a new arena, the best way is to identify those already doing it well, then either join them—or compete with them."
"Oy," Jeckle turns to his twin. "Is this geyser threatening us?"
"No," says Morton. "I'm a businessman. I'm laying my cards on the table with candor. I intend to become a player in global water, with or without an investment in Dulci Acqua. I just want you to know that up front."
"Bloody cheek." Jeckle twitches.
"If we thought you was a simple 'ustler, son, you'd never gotten this far," says Heckle. "Tell us, mate, why should we be willing to cut you into our thriving water business, eh?"
"Capital," replies Morton.
"'e thinks 'e can buy 'is way in after we've taken all the bloody risk," Jeckle says to Heckle.
"We already 'ave capital, son," says Heckle. "What else you got?"
Morton's jaw clenches, then unclenches.
"I'll tell you what you’ve got, son," Heckle says to Morton. "You’ve got contacts, that's what. Bankers and politicians. We 'ave our bunch what snap to attention when we call. You ‘ave your bunch. Between us, we got two bunches, eh? And you’ve got something else 'n' all. Front office. We've been using old Foggy as front office. 'e was all right to start wiv, but 'e doesn't 'alf smell, know what I mean? Proper image is important. You could 'elp us with that, mate. That's why we're taking the time to talk wiv you blokes—not because of bloody capital. Not to say we don't expect a fair price for a modest transfer of shares, right Teddy?" Heckle glances at his twin prince.
"Bloody right, Tommy."
"How much?" asks Morton.
"We're willing to let go of 20 percent, mate," says Heckle. "At two and a 'alf million a point. It equates to 50 million. Cash, of course."
"I assume," says Morton, "you can demonstrate true value?"
"Bloody cheek," says Jeckle.
"Of course, we can, mate," says Heckle. "Once you've agreed to part with 50 million quid, cash money. And to put your contacts to work. And to 'ouse Dulci Acqua in your fancy New York office."
Morton glances at me.
I nod.
"'ere, 'ho's in charge?" asked Jeckle, scowling. "'im or you, mate?"
Some things are best left unsaid in business, just observed. But I already suspect it is impossible for Jeckle to observe anything without passing comment. He appears to be absent of a front brain editor and cannot help but vocalize whatever occurs to him, as it occurs to him.
Morton bristles. "Jay is my designated water person. I rely heavily on him for advice."
"I'm only taking the mickey." Jeckle giggles. "No offense, mate."
"None taken," utters Morton. "The answer is yes, gentlemen. I am prepared, in principle, to make a 50 million investment, and to integrate Dulci Acqua Consortium into my New York City office."
"Brilliant—eh, Ted?"
"Bloody marvelous," says Jeckle.
"We don't 'ave many visitors," says Heckle. "We don't like people, do we, Ted?"
"Bloody right we don't," replies Jeckle.
"We 'ave a scientist works for us, we do. 'e compared our solar system to a cell that's turned cancerous. Smart lad, 'e is. Ours was a perfectly normal cell, 'e says—until our planet allowed sulphur-eating insects that mutated into thinking beings. Ever since, Earth is an errant electron, or neutron, or some bloody such tron, trying to poison the 'ole bloody system. Mind you, this cell's immune system is fighting back. Asteroids, volcanoes, and what-not. Right Ted?"
"Bloody right, Tom. People are a menace, that's what."
"That's kind of cynical,” I say. “Isn't it?"
"No, mate," replies Jeckle. "It's science. We try to avoid people, we do. That's why we 'ave our own island."
The double-doors open. "Luncheon is served," the butler announces.
"About bloody time," says a cross-eyed Jeckle.
Morton rises. "I'm due back in New York." This is one popstand he wants to blow, pronto.
"You must 'ave tea before you go," says Heckle.
"I..." Morton begins.
"Sure," I say. "Let's eat. Is Armand Sieff here yet?"
"No, mate," says Heckle. "'e called, 'e did. Wanted to be 'ere today. I told 'im to leave off.”
"Bloody right," says Jeckle. "Rude bastards, the French."
"Between us," Heckle winks, "we're planning to cut 'im off once we do a deal wiv you blokes. We've been meaning to sever ties with Monte Carlo. Too many bloody people in that 'orrible place."
The butler leads us into a dining room large enough for a state dinner.