Finnegan's Waikiki

Finnegan was halfway through Family Feud when he got the update on his dad's prostate.

"Harry, phone!" his wife yelled down from their bedroom, where she was packing shoes for her tropical vacation. They had agreed on separate trips this year, at the urging of Dr. Fern, their marriage counselor, though Finnegan was still not sure how he felt about Marge's toddling off to Bora Bora unescorted. "Harry, it's your father's thing again. It's flared up...."

"All right," Finnegan called from the rec room, "I'll take it on the Princess."

For a second more, he stayed where he was, while Richard Dawson planted wet kisses on a jumbo Montana woman, mother of six. The man would put his tongue anywhere. But why? Finnegan got up and flicked off the set with a heavy sigh. Lately, news of his dad's condition sent waves of dread sweeping over him, leaving him moist and weak-kneed. It was as though, once the old man landed terminal gland trouble, it would be only a matter of time till he passed on and left it to his only son, like shares in Monsanto.

"Pop, it's me," Finnegan shouted when he grabbed the kitchen Princess. "How's the boy?"

"This isn't your pop," said a girl at the other end, "and you don't have to talk so loud. The phone company does wonderful things with satellites."

"Oh ... Bambi," said Finnegan, and he settled in against the dishwasher. Bambi was the perky 24-year-old his father had wed after Finnegan's mom had lost her bout with lupus. For two and a half years, the old man had nursed her, never complaining, doing all the things a loyal, loving husband would do. And two weeks after she went into the ground, he snapped up Bambi and moved to Waikiki, where he lived in some kind of rest home with a bunch of people he referred to as "swingers." Hey, kiddo, come on down! he'd holler in his weekly calls---an ex---gossip columnist, Finnegan Sr. was used to hollering on phones to make himself heard over jumping city desks, a habit his son had inherited---Come on down and see the swingers! Have some fun for a change! But so far, Harry had bowed out. He had not even met his stepmother face to face. He'd only seen her in the snapshots the old guy was always mailing along. Ten years younger than Harry, Bambi looked a little like Morgan Fairchild and struck Finnegan as the sort of girl who popped out of cakes. In fact, that's how the old guy had met her, when she leaped out of an eight-layer at a reunion of his dad's old magazine, Uncensored. After leaving newspapers, his pop had gone on to write for the "glossies," as he always called them, popping along from Confidential to SIN-sensational, on up the ladder to Uncensored before the market dried and he retired to stay home and care for Finnegan's mother.

What bothered Harry, he supposed, was that Bambi was so much better-looking than his own wife, a horsy brunette who seemed to have lost her waistline sometime around 1975.

"So how is he?" Harry asked before Bambi could launch into another subject. If you didn't steer her, he'd discovered, the girl would just sort of ramble on until you either had to put the phone down or tell her the surrounding five-block area was engulfed in flames. "Marge tells me he's had a flare-up...."

"Well, gee," Bambi sighed, the first time he'd ever heard her less than vivacious. "It's kinda worse than that. They were gonna operate. Then they weren't. And now he'd got the emphysema, plus cancer of the thingy, so they had to go in and put a little extent up over the water bed. It's, like, this giant gator bag, and Bernie was all upset, 'cause he wanted to keep his Sony portable in there with him. You know how he loves Hawaii Five-O. But like I keep telling him, 'Bernie, you're already in Hawaii, so------'"

"Bambi, please," Finnegan cut in, "just tell me what's going on."

There was quiet for a second; then Finnegan heard a sniffle. "I think you ought to come down, Harry. He asked special."

"That bad, huh?"

Finnegan was already making calculations. He wondered if this would count as his vacation---going to see his dad in an Oahu oxygen tent.

"All right. I'll catch the next plane out." He spoke as gently as possible, half surprised by the girl's concern. This was an all-new Bambi, or else he'd had her wrong all along. "Just don't worry, OK? The old guy's always been lucky."

"Let's hope," Bambi blubbered, "but you better wiki wiki."

"I don't know if that's legal," said Harry, happy to hear a giggle at the other end.

"You silly, that means 'Hurry up." I'm scared to death."

"On my way," he promised, and he felt a lot better when they hung up. So what if it did count the same as Marge's stint in the South Pacific? He had to be there, and he would.

Finnegan felt almost noble as he trooped up the stairs to give his wife the news. "Honey," he announced, catching her bent over before the mirror, trying on Bermudas---not his favorite view---"you may have to find another ride to the airport tomorrow night; Dad needs me in Waikiki right away."

"He ... what?" Marge met his eyes in the full-length. "Is it awful?"

"Bambi says wiki wiki," he said gravely, leaving her tugging at a zipper while he skipped back down to the Princess to make his reservations.

Harry himself had no idea why he felt so giddy.

•

From the second Bambi met Finnegan Jr. at the airport, she had been eager to tell him how well his father looked, how smoothly all his bodily funcitions still operated, as though the old man were some kind of farm implement Harry had come all this way to consider purchasing. "It's amazing," she bubbled, leading her legal stepson into the bungalow and upto the tent beneath which her husband appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

In the dusk, Finnegan Sr. did appear remarkably well, if a tad pallid. He still sported a full head of hair, which he slicked straight back and kept a shimmering black with daily applications of Skuff-Kote. As far back as Harry could remember, he'd been dousing his waves with the old-fashioned olive brush that came with the polish. When the Skuff-Kote folks switched over to a modern sponge applicator, Harry's dad stocked up on the original bottles, and one of the young Finnegan's fondest father-son recollections was of watching his pop dip in the tiny brush, then daintily swab on shoe polish, taking special care with his natty, Amechelike mustache.

The old man lay flat on his back, like he always had, his hands behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankle. He was the only person Harry knew who slept with his legs crossed, as though in a deck chair.

"You're right; he looks fantastic," Harry whispered, though something was still a little off. It was so obvious, it took a few seconds to see what it was. "Why the hell doesn't he have any clothes on?"

"Oh, Harry," chuckled the perky blonde, "you're just like him."

"What?"

"Come on, you nut," said the girl, "we'll have plenty of time to kid around tomorrow. Right now, I'm going to change, then we've got to get you to your bungalow. We had to put you in Honeymoonland, 'cause just about everything's booked up. I wanted to slide you right in here with us, but your daddy said three's a crowd."

Bambi seemed 100 percent more chipper now than she had on the phone. She did not show the least discomfort standing in front of the nude old man, and Harry had a feeling it could have been anyone---his father, Marvin Hamlisch or Ted Koppel---and it would not have made a lick of difference to her if he was naked. He realized as they turned to leave that, except for a simple terry robe that barely covered her own bottom, she was just about in the buff herself. She was tinier than he had imagined but still very much in the Fairchild mold.

When she saw him gawking, Bambi pranced back and gave him a peck on the chin. "I' know what you're wondering---Why the hoopy-doop does she have a robe on? Well, the one thing about going au naturel is the buggy bites. Especially at night. They don't seem to bother you know who. But they like, me, so that's why I sometimes slip into this old thing. To protect the investment, as Bernie says."

"That's not what I was thinking," Harry said, but Bambi wasn't listening. The girl had already grabbed his hand and was tugging him out of his dad's quarters back into the courtyard. From What Harry could tell, Waikiki Haven consisted of clusters of round, overgrown cabanas, separated by palm trees and winding paths that led to other cabanas and more palms. The beach was nowhere to be seen, but they passed a pair of kidney-shaped pools---one just for "waders," Bambi explained with a little nose wrinkle---as well as a blossom-covered gazebo, a horseshoe pit, shuffleboard courts and a long, low building Harry guessed had to be for dining. Strings of colored lights sagged between the bungalows, lending the tropical rest home a makeshift, carnival feeling, (continued on page 80) Finnegan's Waikiki (continued from page 70) like a summer camp fixed up for parents' weekend. To Finnegan, the air smelled like Glade.

"You missed the luau," said his jaunty stepmother, walking him by a fenced-in barbecue pit where a few cinders still sizzled in the dark.

"Story of my life," said Harry. "But what I still don't get is why you and Dad are the only people I've seen. It's only eight and the place is deserted."

"Bingo night," Bambi giggled and gave his hand a squeeze. "They bus 'em out at six and bus 'em back in again around eleven. The only kids who skip bingo are the 'mooners," she whispered, leading him down a dirt path between smaller cabanas with their names on little stilts out front. They passed deep dish apple and baked alaska, where plaintive cries of "Herbie, Herbie!" leaked out into the night. Bambi continued to speak in hushed tones, as though they'd entered a hospital zone. "They named all the bunks in Honey-moonland after desserts. I think that's kind of cute."

"Me, too," said Harry, going sotto voce himself, not wanting to spoil the mood. "Which one am I in?"

"Spicecake," Bambi said, smiling, and she gave his fingers another squeeze. "The same as your dad and me our first night."

There was nothing Finnegan could think of to say to this. He simply trailed behind in silence as the girl skipped up the three steps to the honeymoon suite, trying not to stare at the perfect handfuls her teeny robe revealed as she took each one.

"For God's sake, she's your mother," he said to himself, causing his hostess to turn around and ask if he'd said something. "Oh, no ... I mean, just how I'm glad we're related," he said lamely. But Bambi hardly noticed. She was too busy fiddling with the oil lamp, digging Finnegan's blanket out of the bureau drawer and generally making things just so for his visit.

Harry waited by the door in his business suit, doing his best to stay composed while his tempting stepmom puttered about her tasks.

"Voilà!" she cried at last, with a little curtsy. And then she bounced backward onto the bed so that her robe flew open and Harry saw everything he'd been struggling not to for the past five minutes. "I'm pooped!" she laughed, lolling back on the mattress, which seemed to buoy her up and sink down into itself before settling. "These water beds are just like curling up in a womb, don't you think?"

"I don't know," said Harry. "I've never been in one."

"You're kidding! Well, Harry Finnegan, come on down!"

Bambi giggled and patted a spot beside her. The bed began to undulate, sending the girl up and down again, rising and falling as she lay down, exposing every inch of herself to his nervous gaze. It had been so long since Harry had seen a woman, a really gorgeous woman---for better or worse, he could not count the waistless Marge---that he felt his mouth go dry. She had the tiniest belly, the palest hair, the most delicately arching throat.... All that, plus champagne-cup breasts that spilled neither right nor left but remained there, the nipples good little soldiers just waiting for a command.

Harry sighed, his fingers tightening around the strap of his leather-look bag.

"Your father and I like to play life raft," Bambi said brightly. "We sort of bounce around till things really start to roll; then we pretend we're trapped together on stormy waters. Babes at sea...."

"Babes at sea," Harry repeated, his voice going husky.

He had to lean on the doorjamb while the girl who was his father's bride threw her head back and laughed. Nothing in Harry's life had prepared him for such a situation: for being older than his step-mother, to begin with, not to mention finding her bare-skinned on a water bed, exposed from platinum head to rosy toe-nails, while his prostate-damaged dad lay wheezing in his sleep just five minutes down the road. Some things Emily Post had just never got around to covering.

"Bambi," Finnegan blurted, feeling the blood rush to his face. "Bambi, I just want to...."

"Yes?"

"I just want to say I like you, as a mother," he heard himself say.

"And I like you," tittered the sumptuous blonde, "my only son. Maybe tomorrow, if Bernie's up to it, we can have a picnic."

"Swell," said Harry. Then, to his mixed relief and disappointment, the diminutive beauty hopped off the bed and rushed over to smooch him on the forehead.

"If I had to have a child," she confided on the way out, "I'm glad it was you."

Again, Finnegan was speechless. He remained in the doorway, watching his young relation sway off into the night. Faint cries of "Herbie! Herbie!" could still be heard wafting out of Baked Alaska, and for a second more, he gazed up at the stars. He'd have to call Dr. Fern. He'd been there only an hour, and he already had a whole new batch of marital problems he needed to kick around.

•

The chanting must have begun around seven, but Harry felt as though he'd just dozed off. Something about the water bed, the way it sort of churned when he rolled over, kept him hopping out to stand over the bowl every couple of hours. He wasn't sure if he felt nauseated or if he just wasn't used to the feel of fluid-packed plastic shifting under his vital organs. As the chorus drew closer---it seemed to be marching on his cabana---he dug in, face down, on the percale, clasping the single pillow provided over his head and squishing it against both ears.

"Shall we give it to him?" cried a man with a voice like Jiminy Cricket's.

"You bet!" sang the rest of the gang, and Harry's annoyance turned to panic as they clumped up the steps to his bungalow and began to chant:

"We know what you're do-in'! We know what you're do-in'!"

They kept it up for what seemed like centuries. Then a tingle in the back of his neck told Harry they were actually staring at him, that if he lifted up the pillow even an inch, he would see them. They'd be there waving and smiling through one of the bungalow portholes.

"C'mon, you newlys! Shake a leg!" It was Jiminy Cricket again. "There's plenty of time for that stuff. We've got some volleyball to play!"

"Go 'way," Finnegan muttered, and he realized they couldn't hear him just mumbling like that into the bedding. Keeping the pillow clamped over his head, he edged his face off the mattress and shouted, "All alone ... family emergency!" Then he laid his head back down and hoped they'd wander off.

"What'd he say?" came a voice after a few seconds.

"He says he's alone," said another.

"Honeymoon horror! You know what that means!" It was the crickety ring-leader. "She left him! The bride's gone back to Momma!"

There was a sympathetic hush, during which Finnegan burrowed deeper in the sloshing mattress. He'd just begun to drift back off when a female voice started in again. "We just can't leave the poor bunny! This is when a person really needs some support!"

"She's right," chimed in Jiminy, to a rising tide of All right!s and Go for it!s. "Ok, fella, come out with your hands up. Or the honeymoon fun squad's comin' in!"

"No," Harry mumbled weakly, "no!" He heard his cabana door being opened and wanted to disappear. He hadn't locked it, could not even remember if the thing had a lock. It sounded like 100 fun seekers were piling in, and Harry played desperately at sleep, even though he'd (continued on page 168) Finnegan's Waikiki (continued from page 80) have to be deaf not to hear the racket.

"Up and at 'em, big guy!"

When Finnegan stayed catatonic, the ringleader leaned down and blew into a referee's whistle. Then he clapped his hands and addressed the group. "OK, kiddies, we need a quorum! Do we let this slug-a-bed play possum, or do we give him the Waikiki treatment?"

"The treatment!" they echoed, to plenty of hoots and catcalls.

I'm on Candid Camera, Harry thought, as someone yanked his blankets away.

"Oooh, boxers!" cried a dozen honey mooners, the shock of their voices unmistakable. "He's got on boxer shorts!"

There was nowhere to hide. "I---I was going to pack pajamas," Harry began, but when he raised up and opened his eyes, the words caught in his throat. His jaw might have been missing a hinge. "Holy cow!" he said. He had never seen so many naked people in one place.

"What are you, a nonconformist?" asked the cricket man, actually a rotund, middle-aged fellow with a part down the center of his scalp that seemed to match the part in his chest hair and the fur circling his rounded belly. Even naked, he was the neatest man Harry had ever seen.

"I'm not really ... anything," Harry tried to explain. "I mean, I'm here for my father, Bernie Finnegan. He's over there in------"

"Bernie!" chirped the neatly parted fellow. "Of course! You must be his son, Harry! I'm Chuck Burnell, director here...."

"Pleased to meet you," said Harry, trying hard to act casual. He struggled to sit up in the water bed so he could shake hands. "So this is a nudist colony, huh?"

"No, no, no!" cried Burnell, his voice getting even more insectlike. He reddened and made pudgy little fists. "We can't call it an N camp. Don't even say the word! It's a zoning thing. We've got to list as a clothing-op factory. Strictly clothing op! Otherwise, the chamber-of-commerce boys shut us down like that. Most folks who move in just decide not to op, if you get my meaning."

"Of course." There were a few throat clearings and titters, and Harry tugged self-consciously at the elastic around his waist. He tried not to look at the director's privates, which hooked to the left, or at the hummocky thighs of the older ladies. The problem was finding somewhere to aim his eyes, and he finally settled on his own feet. "I'm really just here to be with my dad," Harry explained. "I don't really know if it's a nude kind of situation."

"That's clothing optional!" steamed Burnell, coloring up again. "I told you!"

"That's what I meant," Harry said, still staring at his toes. "I think it's more of a clothes-on situation than a clothes-off, at least for now."

There was some murmuring among the newlyweds, and Harry lifted his eyes cautiously. The entire predicament was so peculiar, Harry almost forgot he was still sprawled in his underwear, on display for a horde of senior sun worshipers.

"All righty," cackled a gaunt gentleman as he bounced a volleyball off the bungalow floor. "Me 'n' m' buttercup feel like doin' some spikin'," he cackled again, jiggling his Adam's apple. "Come on, 'mooners!"

One by one, the Waikiki newlyweds trooped back out of Spicecake. Only the director, Burnell, stayed behind long enough to say how sorry he was about his dad and that he hoped the old guy would pull through. "Around here, we call him the Walter Winchell of Waikiki Haven," he chuckled. "I guess you could say he's got a little scoop on just about all of us."

Harry smiled and thanked him, wondering if what he'd just heard was good or bad, when the well-groomed nudie chief stopped at the door and spun around. "You want my advice, son, can the skivvies. When in Rome, there's no point acting Armenian---if you get my drift."

"Loud and clear," said Harry, tugging the blankets back over his head the second the man was out of sight.

An hour or so later, Finnegan made his move.

By sneaking out of Spicecake, keeping to the back of Baked Alaska and flitting through the jonquils that bordered the shuffleboard courts, he managed to make it to his dad's without meeting any nakeds. Only once, skirting the wading pool, did he nearly bump head on with a family of clothing ops. Crouched by a Dumpster, he spied on the clan, three generations from bent and heavy-chested grandma to acned teen, as they trotted off for a dip. Harry wondered if they were year-rounds or if they just went bare when they visited. He could not imagine flapping around with his own wife. Marge did not even like to undress in front of him---after 12 years of marriage, she still disrobed in the closet. And try as he might, he could not bring himself to head off without any clothes on. Instead, he wore the boxers he'd slept in, a baggy pair Marge had bought him for the Bicentennial, stamped with little flags and Lincolns.

Approaching the bungalow the back way, he heard his father's voice and stopped under the window to listen. "Sure," the old man was going on, "reminds me of the time Dino, Lawford and Frankie were skinny-dipping at the Sands. Must've been Sixty, Sixty-two. Anyway, out comes the manager, and he says, 'Sorry, folks, pool's closed.' Can you imagine? Half the pack's out there doin' belly flops in the altogether, and he makes the payin' customers hit the pavement! Those were the days, boy. Rob Roys by the tureen. We ran a feature about it in the June ish....Raised all kinds of stink."

Still stooping, Harry scooted around to the front and took a deep breath. It had been two years since he'd seen his father, and his heart was thumping.

"Daddy," Harry blurted as he burst through the doorway. "It's me! It's your son, Harry!"

The old man looked up momentarily, then went back to the cards he held in his hand as he sat in bed. "Have a seat, kiddo, I'm almost gin. Two cards and I take these putzes to the cleaners."

"OK," said Harry, and he dropped onto a barstool by the door.

For a moment, he thought he was going to weep, but he steadied himself with a peek around the room. Flanking his dad's bed were two naked old guys, one a thin, brittle-looking fellow with liver spots dotting his back, the other a squat, bullish man with bushy sideburns and a Twisted Sister headband. "Joe Alzheimer," announced the brittle fellow with a friendly wave, "no relation to the disease."

"And I'm Greenstein," the bushy chum called over his shoulder. "Stateside, I'm known as the Chaise Lounge King. You might've seen my ads. Stores in all forty-eight big ones, excepting Utah. Don't ask me why. My theory is, Mormons don't like to recline."

"Harry don't wanna hear all that," his father interjected, slamming down a three of clubs. "He's an important coupon guy back in Chi town. You probably read his stuff: Redeemable at time of purchase. Void where prohibited. Harry Writes that stuff. He's got no time for lawn furniture."

"Wow," said Alzheimer, "you don't look a minute over forty, either. That sounds like a heck of a responsibility for a guy just over forty."

Harry, who happened to be 34, again fought off the urge to bury his face in his hands. "Nice to meet you," he said and managed to smile. He knew his dad was doing his best to build him up. But nothing could disguise the fact that banging out Save $1 on your next nabisco purchase! was a thousand times less thrilling than scooping Earl Wilson on the Cary Grant -- Luba Otasevic scandal. Back in '59, Bernie Finnegan had beat out the pack on the leading man's fling with the lady hoopster---and had dined out on it for years. But even worse for Harry was the fact that he'd dropped everything to fly off and be with his dying father, and here was the old guy telling Vegas stories and winning at gin rummy. Just like he always did. "You're not supposed to be having fun, you're supposed to be dying!" he felt like saying, but bit his tongue. What kind of son would even think of such a thing?

The oxygen tent had been folded back over the headboard, and Bambi now perched beside her husband, as naked as a waif, fanning the old man with a giant banana leaf. When Harry caught her eye, she shook her head sadly, as though what they were witnessing were death throes, not a guy and his pals in a penny-a-point gin game. Harry was so out of sorts, he could not even focus on the girl's body, beyond reflecting that her breasts were colossal for someone so petite.

The bed tray on which they were playing was propped over his dad's middle and sounded a resounding thwack every time one of the fellows discarded. With each slap, Harry grew a little more agitated. He was about to leap and say something, but just then his dad yelled, "I'm a ginny!" and broke into a coughing fit that had all three men scrambling to smack him on the back. When he started gagging, Bambi slapped an oxygen mask across his mouth. The tank was tucked beside the bed for easy access. After a second more, his father waved them off, but Harry quickly regretted his thoughts of a second earlier.

"Maybe we oughta take a break," said Bambi, and both boys nodded that they understood.

"Sure thing," said Alzheimer. "See ya later, Bern. And nice to meet you," he added, turning to shake hands with Harry before leaving.

But Greenstein, the Chaise Lounge King, hung on a moment longer. "Check it out," he barked, pointing to the Twisted Sister sweatband around his head. He wore his few remaining strands of hair swept forward, covering the top of his skull from somewhere around his occiput. "This is 'cause you gotta keep up with the kids. Me 'n' your daddy see eye to eye on that. You're only as young as you feel!" Here he snapped into a quick frug around the bed, sneaking a pinch at Bambi's bottom and frugging back again. "And this doll here feels pretty young to me!" he hooted.

"Hey, none of that," snarled Finnegan's dad. "Find your own."

"Sure, sure," chuckled Greenstein, poking Harry in the ribs. "I love this guy! He's got the best broad in the joint and he won't even let his pals have a pinch."

When the old man felt well enough, he handed the tube back to the girl and asked if she'd mind running out for magazines. "I still keep up," he explained, "even though this People crap is nothing like the old days. I don't trust any magazine that don't use composites." His eyes misted over and he got a kind of far-off look. "One month, we must've pasted Ingrid Bergman next to every chump who ever got off a bus at Hollywood and Vine. That was the same ish we ripped the lid off Kookie---'Mad ave makes millions off kiddie comb craze.'...Edd Byrnes claims, 'Mom always told me to look neat!' Edd Byrnes! Those were the days, boy."

Finnegan had heard it all before but wanted to make his dad happy any way he could. "That must've been something, huh?"

"Don't patronize me," growled his father, and Harry felt instantly crushed. You couldn't win with the guy, which is one reason he'd stayed away as long as he had. "Grab me a Midnight, a Star and an Enquirer," the old man told Bambi as she fished in her purse. "And pick up some Coppertone for Harry. He's not going to be prancing around in those shorts for long, and there's nothing worse than an ass burn the first day out."

Harry was embarrassed at being treated this way in front of the girl, but Bambi just smiled as she scampered off. After she left, Bernie Finnegan nodded proudly. He moved the tray off his midsection, exposing his old-guy organ to his son, who'd never really seen it before.

"So what do you think?"

"Well," said Harry, a little flustered, "it doesn't look sick."

"Not that," snapped his father. "I mean my bambina. My B.W. She's some stepmother, huh? Guys'd kill for a little somethin' like that in the family."

"Dad!" Harry blushed.

With some effort, his father propped himself up on his elbows, and up close Harry saw for the first time how sick he really was. He'd grown so thin, the cords in his neck stuck out painfully. And the slightest exertion set him panting. Even the tattoo on his shoulder---Loose Talk, in scarlet filigree---had faded to a greenish blur, like some kind of label that had gone through the wash once too often.

"Kid," his dad began, his voice now no more than a rasp, "there's two things you oughta know about your old man. I'm dying and I'm broke. Bustereeno. I wanted to get you down here to hear it straight from me, so you don't find out the hard way."

"But, Dad ... I mean, you look------"

"Like Georgie Jessel on his last Merv," his father butted in. "I happened to catch the show. Guy looked like he was on leave from the mortuary. Sonny boy, a bum tater's a bum tater. Believe me. They've done everything to my weenie but roast it on a stick. The chemo, the shmeemo, the operations, the examinations where they make you bend over and play up periscope while they talk about their golf game. I tell ya, Harry, I don't see how these guys hold their lunch."

"Come on, Pop," Harry pleaded. "You're doing OK."

"Would you knock it off? As if the dingus isn't bad enough, I need a rest every minute and a half from the emphysema. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I've had some laughs. But if I don't say what I have to say now, you might have to wait till after the next nap, and who knows....You know what I mean?"

Harry had never learned how to handle his dad's dramatics and just tried not to acknowledge them. He moved to the seat at the head of the bed, where the ailing gossip grabbed his knee for leverage.

"Slide me against the wall," he said, and Harry eased him backward.

Finnegan Sr. flattened one hand to his chest and sucked in enough air for another sentence. Harry had a feeling he needed the oxygen again but did not want to admit it until he had said what he had to.

"Daddy," Harry said softly, but his father waved him off.

"Don't 'Daddy' me, kid. I'm a pro. I made my living sniffing out crap. I know your mother and you never approved of me. But bereft as I am---which reminds me, you'll be getting the bill for this fun house the second I croak; my apologies---bereft as I am, I still want to leave you a little something. I want to make it up to you for all the times I was off carousing when you were stuck home with your mother, may she rest in one piece."

Harry opened his mouth, but the words came out in a soft moan. "What is it?"

"What it is," said his father, brightening considerably, "is Bambi. I want to leave you Bambi."

"You what?"

"Tit for tat," cackled his dad. "I only wish my old man had left me something that nice. All I got from that crumb bum was a Purple Heart he didn't even earn---he got it in a crap game."

"But ... Bambi," Harry sputtered. "I don't------"

"You don't what?" The color had returned to his father's cheeks. He looked almost young again. "I didn't even have to sell her," he declared, as if this were the best part of all. "I just dropped a hint about a week ago, after my last checkup, and she said it was A-OK, as long as she got to stay here in Waikiki. You can come on down and visit when you want to, or you can move right in."

"Dad, I'm married!" The pleading in Harry's voice surprised him, as if he were begging his father to write him a note so he could get out of it. "I'm a married man."

"Of course you are---and you're gonna stay that way! When it comes to man and wife, Bernie Finnegan says you got to honor the office. Look at Jack Kennedy. No matter where he was planting it, Jackie stayed up on that pedestal. That's class! You think I ever caused your mother grief?" He paused when he saw his son's expression. "OK, maybe a little. But only by accident! Your father always took care of the home front. He honored the office!"

Harry started to say something, but the old man waved him off again. He had worked himself up. A thick vein quivered in his temple, and his face shone a boiled-tomato color. He began taking tiny gasps between each word, but nothing could stop him.

"Kiddo, we talked about it. Last night, after she showed you around, she woke me up to tell me how much she likes you. She likes you, buddy boy, and Bambi ain't a gal that likes easy, believe me. That mug Greenstein said he'd sign over his Eldorado---for one night---and she laughed in his face."

"Maybe she wanted it for more than a night," said Harry, setting his father off with a rasping snort that turned into a wheeze, then worked its way into a hacking cough. He sounded like a bad clutch.

"Always a kidder," gasped the old man. "You're such a kidder, I don't know why you never did Merv along with Jessel." He coughed again, doubling up this time. "You should make half what that man left to his damn poodle with what you make writing coupons for feminine napkins."

"Not that again," said Finnegan wearily. Months ago, Bambi had spotted a 30¢ off slip in a Modess box, and she asked Harry on the phone if his firm had handled it. "That happens to be one of mine," he told her, in a flush of authorial pride, and had regretted it ever since.

"OK, I'm teasing," said his father, catching his breath. "That's a good-looking coupon. I couldn't be prouder."

"Dad, please," said Harry, but in another second he'd started gagging again. This time, he motioned for his son to grab the oxygen.

"Right ... there," the old man panted, and Harry reached over to try to turn the valve on top of the little tank. "No," he gasped, but Harry was still wrestling with the valve and didn't hear. He tried frantically to turn the dial and finally tipped the whole thing over, crashing the night table with his father's Sony and his Snoopy clock-radio. But the old man didn't notice. By now, his eyes bulged and his face throbbed purple. The sweat ran in black streaks down his cheeks from all that polish. At last, he got out a single word---"mask"---and Harry caught on. He grabbed the oxygen mask and his father snatched it and shoved his face inside. Clutching it with both hands, he inhaled until his shoulders hunched up around his ears.

"Harry," his father whispered when he was able, "it was already on...."

"Oh, Jesus," Finnegan groaned. "I'm sorry...."

But the old gossip dismissed him with a kindly wave. "Relax, pally. Just wake me up for the luau."

Then he crossed his legs and keeled over on the water bed, as dapper as ever.

•

Harry decided to spend the three days before the funeral right there in Waikiki Haven. At first, he was uneasy about the prospect of a nude funeral. But after the very first day, it made more sense. He and Bambi really got to know each other. The girl informed him that his father had wanted to be cremated and to have his ashes scattered in the flowers around the shuffleboard courts. He'd jotted down a few little plans for the occasion that he, Bambi and Chuck Burnell went over ahead of time. The idea was to have a modest ceremony there at the courts around nine, then ease into a light brunch and kick off the first annual Bernie Finnegan Memorial Shuffleboard Classic at noon on the dot. When Harry called Marge with the news, he left out the brunch-and-shuffleboard part and mentioned instead that he wanted to cash in his return ticket and use the credit to give her an extra week in Bora Bora. Marge was overwhelmed with this generosity. "Except when will you be coming back?" she kept asking, but Harry told her to just enjoy herself and they'd talk about that later. Which seemed to do the trick.

The morning of the ceremony, Harry spent a long while in front of the cabana mirror, deciding how to wear his black arm band. Since "nudists have no lapels," as Burnell explained, traditional clothing-op mourningwear consisted of black arm bands for men and black mantillas for the ladies. Finnegan finally decided on sliding the band high up on his right biceps, gladiator style, and at 8:45 sharp, he and Bambi stepped out of Spicecake and headed for the shuffleboard courts.

The young window wore a veil over her face and black spike heels, a combo the bereaved son had a feeling he'd be requesting for years to come---all thanks to his dad's inimitable foresight and generosity.

About 60 nakeds---the entire Haven population, barring the grounds crew, who insisted on keeping their civvies on and shunned contact with live-ins---showed up for Bernie Finnegan's service.

The sky shone cheery blue and an easy breeze blew from the east. Harry stepped up, ashes in hands, and gave a nod all around before beginning his modest eulogy. "Der Bingle, Danny Thomas, Bob Hope," he intoned, "just about everybody my dad admired had a tournament named after him. And now he's finally got one of his own."

"We just hope, wherever he is, he can peek down and enjoy it," Bambi chimed in, as planned, and then Finnegan unscrewed the lid from the urn the mortician had given him. A hush fell over the crowd, and there were a few sniffles as he began to scatter his father's ashes here and there alongside the asphalt courts. But just then the breeze picked up, and some of the grit blew in the direction of the nudists, who squinted and brushed themselves.

"Do you realize," cried Burnell, "if we had pants on, this stuff would be landing in our cuffs?"

"Holy cow, you're right!" said Finnegan.

He felt certain, as the last bits drifted off in the wind, that he had made the right decision.

"She had champagne-cup breasts, the nipples good little soldiers just waiting for a command."

"'Pleased to meet you,' said Harry, trying hard to act casual. 'So this is a nudist colony, huh?'"