Indecent Proposal Read online

  Compulsive: A Novel: Fiction.

  Escape From Mount Moriah: Memoir.

  Award-winner for writing and film.

  Slot Attendant: A Novel about a Novelist. Fiction.

  The Girls of Cincinnati: Fiction.

  The Prince of Dice: Fiction.

  The Bathsheba Deadline: Fiction.

  The Horsemen: Non-fiction.

  Excerpted in The New York Times

  The Days of the Bitter End: Fiction.

  * * * * *

  A new Spanish language edition of Indecent Proposal will be released in 2013 in both print and e-book editions and made available for purchase worldwide.

  Praise received for Jack Engelhard’s other books:

  “Compulsive is written as such a person thinks. Through it all we see the masterful orchestration of action that is pure Engelhard.”

  - John W. Cassell, author of Crossroads: 1969

  “Engelhard’s writing has a raucous edginess that is fresh, original and superb in drawing us into the mind of a compulsive gambler. In Compulsive, Engelhard brings it home, again.”

  - Lois Sack, author of Her Brightness in the Darkness

  “A towering literary achievement.”

  - Letha Hadady, author, for The Bathsheba Deadline

  “Savor it…it may be the best, sharpest, most vivid portrait of life around the racetrack ever written.”

  - Ray Kerrison, New York Post columnist writing for the National Star, for The Horsemen

  “The refugee stories Engelhard preserves are boyhood memories of an almost Tom Sawyer character… adventurous, humorous, sometimes wonderfully strange.”

  - Chris Leppek, Jewish News (Denver), for Escape from Mount Moriah

  “It is such a fantastic read that I wonder, can any reviewer ever do it justice.”

  - Gisela Hausmann, author and blogger, for Slot Attendant: A Novel About a Novelist

  “What a great story. If you missed the 60s – if you missed the excitement, the passion, the radicalism, the thrills, the hopes and dreams – this book brings it all alive. I could not put it down.”

  - Kmgroup review for The Days of the Bitter End

  Foreword

  As I often do with novels I enjoy, I have now read Indecent Proposal several times. For me each reading further reveals the skill with which Jack Engelhard developed the plot, subplots, subtexts, themes and characters. The book isn’t Love Story with a twist. It’s much more in tune with novels like The Postman Always Rings Twice and Double Indemnity, complex and dark. It is comparable to some of the finest works by such under-appreciated contemporary authors as James Salter (Light Years) and John Yates (Revolutionary Road) as well as the more well-known hard-hitting American authors (Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Bellow, Updike, Roth, DeLillo, McCarthy, and others).

  Engelhard’s well-crafted plot, exposition and dialogue - as well as the protagonist’s internal monologue - make Josh Kane, Joan Kane and Ibrahim Hassan (the couple and the rich guy in the book) as memorable and fully realized characters as any I have encountered in contemporary literature. Josh is a flawed “hero,” heroic only in battle, driven by an obsession to erase his memories of immigrant childhood poverty. Ibrahim is an Arab prince, bored with his unlimited wealth, a Machiavellian character with a soul as black as his hair and mustache. Joan is a stunningly-beautiful woman from a wealthy Philadelphia Main Line family who is happy and satisfied with her middle-class life as Josh’s wife, but she finds herself trapped in a world of two macho men with a deep cultural hatred of each other battling for her “love.” The interaction of these three characters is remarkable.

  Here is a classic story of human temptation and obsession and it is a story about the nature of love, ethics, and personal integrity. The characters are believable, and there are many exciting twists, turns and unexpected consequences for all three of them. Those who approach this wonderful book with the understanding of its genre will be well rewarded whether or not they enjoyed the movie.

  David A. Chinoy, M.D., FACC

  Contributing Editor for the medical magazine, Human Sexuality

  Dedicated to

  Leslie, David, Rachel, Sarah, Toni...and Siena!

  ...and to the loving memory of my parents

  Noah and Ida

  Immeasurable gratitude to

  Jeffrey Farkas, John W. Cassell, and Linda Shelnutt

  Chapter 1

  THE MAN was playing blackjack for a hundred thousand dollars a hand. A woman sat next to him, but no one else. The table was roped off for his private use. A crowd had gathered to watch. Security officers tried to keep the people moving.

  “He’s losing,” a day-tripper said. “He’s lost ten hands in a row.” A million dollars.

  Me? I’d been casing the place for a three-dollar table.

  Then I’d gotten myself drawn to the crowd and then to the man. He was spectacular. In the dimness of the casino he was a vision in black. Black hair, black mustache, black suit. Tall and straight and handsome and built for a throne.

  From the looks of him, he was no doubt an Arab, a prince, a member of the royal household from the depths of a desert kingdom, and worth, I figured, hundreds of millions and maybe some billions.

  Royalty for sure. The man was aloof, absolute and magnificent.

  “Move it, move it,” the security people said.

  But I was too fascinated to move, captivated as I was by this event that made time stop. This was a tribute to excess, a triumph of opulence. So there were such people, after all. Such people actually did play for that kind of money.

  That million he had dropped, he began winning it back and then some. Even drew blackjack twice in a row.

  “Good shoe,” said the dealer in admiration. Only in gambling did luck count as skill.

  The man nodded, but it was a reluctant gesture. He spoke no English, I assumed. That, or he was too exalted to accept, or even understand, praise. Nothing could touch a man like that; what could he need? He had enough money, obviously, to own whatever tempted him--things, for sure, and people, maybe. He had nothing in common with the rest of us except mortality, and even that was a question.

  He continued to win. But win or lose, he was impervious. He had the face of a prince--masculine but also fine, sharply drawn, and washed, it seemed, by the sands of Arabia. The hands were beautiful, shaped to command by the flick of a wrist.

  For me, a corporate speechwriter earning thirty-one thousand dollars a year before taxes, this performance was astonishing. All these chips being traded so nimbly and casually between man and house--any single one could have let me quit my job and join the dig for the City of David, or buy someone else a complete college education, or even a lung, a kidney, a heart...a life!

  Despite this, I felt no envy, no resentment. I was too stupefied to feel anything but respect. After all, I had not been there when God gave out the money. This man had been!

  But what sort of man was this, I wondered, who could so trivialize the profound, who could squander in an instant what others could not accumulate in a lifetime? Rich was one thing, but this--this was godly.

  One hundred thousand dollars a hand was beyond gambling. It was more like creation, mountains and seas heaving and tossing and contesting for the exclusive right to declare sovereignty.

  Who was this man?

  “He’s winning,” a day-tripper said.

  Most of the crowd watched in humbled silence, awed by this drama, mesmerized by this mighty Arab.

  As for me, I was no stranger to this place and certainly no stranger to games of chance. I had seen high rollers before and big action, but nothing so lofty as this, and it deserved my attention. Would I not have paused for Beethoven in his day?

  What Beethoven was to music, obviously this man was to money; and as music, literature and art spoke for the past, money spoke for the present. We wagered billions on the stock market, lotteries and casinos, and in so doing we defined our culture. Our culture was money. Millionaires and billionaires, t
hese were our heroes.

  Critical? Not me. I was here, wasn’t I?

  I came here often to hit the jackpot, and as yet this had not happened; but there was always this time, and next time, and meantime there was this Arab to behold.

  Though I was far back, behind a wall of people, I felt something strange--a kinship with this man. Maybe it was simply a natural longing to be in there with him, in the eye of life.

  Or maybe it was true that there was contact, for each time I took a step back--acting on my decision to do some gambling on my own--I noticed his head drift my way, as if to summon me hither.

  You’re dreaming, I said to myself. What is he to you and what are you to him? You’re not even on the same planet. Oh maybe he does notice you, but as he notices the rest, as grasshoppers.

  But there it was again, a movement that could not quite be called a nod--but close. Close to what? I thought. What do you want from him? You want him to anoint you? You come from your own line of kings. You are already anointed. This is not your man.

  Finally, I edged clear of the crowd and began my rounds, moving and losing, from slots to roulette to craps, distracted all along by thoughts of this man. There was this about him: possibility. The chance for something big.

  Just being near this Arab removed the curse of tedium. The trouble with life, as I had it figured, was that nothing happened. Every day was just another day.

  But in the vicinity of this Arab, something was bound to happen. What exactly, I did not know, except that greatness produced sparks, and these could light up another man. Burn him, too, of course.

  So I resisted the urge to go back, although I was tempted, and even found that I had made a circle and was now only six blackjack tables away from him.

  It was a three-dollar table, so I moved in and let the lady dealer exchange forty dollars for chips. I played an uninspired game. I was doing too much thinking--like this: What does a man reach for after his first billion? Does he dream, and what can he be dreaming when he already has everything?

  I remembered combat heroes from my newspaper days--a Medal of Honor recipient among them--and their sorrow when peace set in. They were not lovers of war, but they knew they’d never get to surpass or even repeat themselves. I wondered if the same applied to heroes of wealth. Such an odd despair.

  “You see what’s going on?” the woman next to me said to the dealer.

  “He’s a sheik,” said the dealer.

  “I thought it was Omar Sharif.”

  “He sure is handsome,” said the dealer.

  “Forget handsome. He’s glorious. God!”

  “Never mind glorious,” said the dealer. “We’re talking rich.”

  There was no escaping this man. The place was buzzing. I played a few more rounds, broke about even and then let my restless feet carry me back to this sheik.

  As I made my way over I remembered this from the Midrash: A man’s feet lead him to his destiny.

  I was again a face in the crowd.

  “Ever see gold chips?” a man said to his friend.

  “Gold chips?”

  “Ten-thousand-dollar chips.”

  “Didn’t know they made them that high.”

  “You know it now.”

  I kept edging closer, and before I knew it I was up front, my knees touching the rope. These gold chips, he had them piled high, and they came and went so fast I had no idea what was going on. Was he up, down? You should not care, I told myself. He, I reminded myself, was not me.

  Also, I reminded myself, he’s an Arab. So he’s your friend?

  Back in 1967, when I was with the Fifty-fifth Paratroop Brigade, they were shooting at me from Jerusalem rooftops; and even today there wasn’t much kissing and making up.

  The difference here was this: This was royalty. Royalty was another business; and I had to admit I felt sensations. Something magical was transpiring here and I was getting hooked. I mean I started to care. I wanted him to win. I also wanted to be in there with him, only for a moment, to know what it’s like in that upper world.

  This was glory.

  I must have been planted to the same spot for an hour. Then I thought I saw him eyeing me and I turned my face, embarrassed for me and for him. For me, especially. I felt small, here shoulder to shoulder with the mixed multitudes, the voyeurs, the scavengers.

  I felt perverse taking part in this great American pastime--watching.

  Enough of this, I thought. I turned to muscle through the crowd and then it happened, meaning he lifted his left arm and waved. Must be the queen of England behind me, I figured, for surely he cannot be waving at me.

  “You!” he said.

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  He nodded and smiled, and kept nodding and smiling and waving me in, as you do to a reluctant pet. “Yes,” he said. “You. Please. Do me the honor of being my guest. Join me.”

  Easy game, I thought as I stepped over the rope. Sometimes life is such an easy game.

  At the same time I had an inkling about something. I don’t know. Sometimes things just look too good.

  Now what? So I was in this red-carpeted enclosure, where all was plush and glitter, alongside this man and this woman, and it was his move, only there was nothing coming from him. He ignored me. Was there a mistake?

  For the moment I felt quite rotten and abused and even stunned inside these gates. I became conscious of my jeans, sandals, red and white polo shirt--hell, I was a regular tourist!

  The dealer was in a tux and so were the pit bosses, about five of them, and it was all so smooth and elegant among these people, nothing at all like real life. There wasn’t much talking at all here, everything was said by winks and nods, none of it my language. Food and drinks were served by raising a pinky finger. Even the dishes made no sounds. The hostesses moved in and out without notice.

  Finally, the Arab did say something and it provoked whispering in the pit, which amounted to a riot for this respectful crew. What had he said? All I heard was: One.

  “Our pleasure, sir,” said the dealer. “It will take a moment, sir.”

  With that, the dealer gathered up all the chips, counted them out and waited. We all waited.

  For what I did not know.

  Now he introduced himself. “Ibrahim Hassan is my name.” I said my name was Joshua Kane.

  He said, “Take the anchor seat, Joshua Kane.”

  So I did. I sat down and without staring at him I gave him the once-over. He was massive all right, meaning, by my estimation, possessed of a rare intensity. This man knew who he was. He was beyond confidence. He was power. He was all presence.

  His woman was another story. She annoyed me. There was something askew about her. She was wrapped loosely in a dress of many colors and was darkly splendid; but unlike her man, she was not here.

  I had seen this type in the Middle East. They were “the women.” There was nothing more to be said. Ibrahim Hassan, no, I had never seen his type. They were there, I knew, out in the desert, riding the sands by camel and by jet.

  “I should offer an explanation,” he said.

  “Not necessary,” I said.

  “You see…you have brought me luck.”

  I said, “You believe in luck?”

  He laughed. “Luck is everything. Don’t you know?”

  Why yes, I thought, luck is everything. I’d known it all my life but never thought it so plainly.

  “Stay awhile,” he said. “I’ll make it worth your time. Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you care for a drink?”

  “Pepsi is fine.”

  My answer pleased him. He was a Moslem and drinking no alcohol. Though in private, who knew?”

  For some reason I was scared. I had the willies. What was I supposed to be doing?

  I forced myself to remember that once upon a time I had not been so scared of them.

  Whatever we were waiting for, we still waited.

  “It takes time,
this,” he said.

  What is this? I thought.

  “Be patient. Please.”

  This finally arrived--a stack of paper slips, each the shape and size of an ordinary receipt. The bundle was handed to Ibrahim Hassan and he placed a single slip on his square and then on mine, right in front of me, and written on the paper were the words one million dollars.

  I kept cool, showing no trace of the astonishment that had me walloped.

  The dealer rapidly dealt out the cards, and Ibrahim responded with the traditional blackjack signs, finger down meaning hit, palm down meaning stay. I was not impressed by his selections, especially when he split tens. This was not even basic blackjack.

  But I had no say over any of this, including the cards that came to me at the anchor. I was sitting here, bringing him luck. Luck? He was getting clobbered.

  Millions kept going the wrong direction. He was too damned bold.

  I became protective over my square. I resented it terribly when he took the wrong action; as, for example, when the dealer’s up card was six and he hit on “my” thirteen--and busted. I shook my head.

  He laughed. “Play?” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Play the anchor.”

  I had half expected this but it was still an intoxicating moment.

  For starters, I knew I had to do something dramatic to turn things around. The first cards to arrive my way were ace and seven, meaning a soft eighteen, since an ace could count for one or eleven. The dealer’s up card was eight; so assuming he had a ten down, we’d be even, a push. A wise thing to go for.