Insane City (13 page)

“The brownies from your Aunt Sarah in California. She sends them to your father. For his gout. He

likes them.”

Seth lowered his voice: “Mom, do you know what’s in those brownies?”

“Of course I know. It’s marijuana.”

“Ohmigod, Mom,” said Seth, shooting a glance back toward the terminal entrance. “You brought

marijuana
? In your
suitcase
?”

“It’s
medical
marijuana,” said Rose. “For his gout. Sarah told me it’s perfectly legal. She gets it

from a place.”

“In
California
it’s legal,” said Seth. “Here it’s not legal.”

“Who is she?” said Sid, noticing Cyndi.

“I’m Cyndi,” said Cyndi, extending her hand.

Sid turned to Rose. “Is she the one he’s marrying?”

“Of course not,” said Rose. “He’s marrying the other one. This one is helping with the wedding. He

says.”

“OK, Mom, Dad, let’s get in the car, OK?” said Seth.

“I have to pee,” said Sid.

“No you don’t,” said Rose.

This was followed by several minutes of departure preparations supervised rigorously by Rose:

getting Sid settled into the backseat; making sure that Seth had put the luggage in the back; fastening the

seat belts; adjusting the seat belts because they were too tight; readjusting the seat belts because they were

too loose; readjusting the seat belts because they were once again too tight; insisting that Seth go back and

check to make absolutely sure that he had put the suitcases into the back; reminding Seth that he should not

make any sudden starts or stops or drive like a maniac because he could give his father a heart attack.

Finally Seth was given clearance by Rose to actually leave the airport. He started the Escalade.

“. . . yes yes oh yes that’s right fuck me baby yes yes fuck me hard you fucking fucker
fuck me hard
!”

moaned the porn-video actress, adding, “FUCK ME WITH THAT BIG COCK!!”

“OK!” said Seth, stabbing frantically at the dashboard controls as he drove. “Maybe we can have

some music! Cyndi, can you put some music on loud right now please?”

“YES! YES! YES! I’M COMING, BABY! FUCK ME!!!!”

“What is all that racket?” said Rose, leaning forward.

“Nothing!” said Seth, hunching close to the video to block her view.

Cyndi managed to get the audio going. That was the good news. The bad news was, the song

currently playing was a tune by 50 Cent titled “I Smell Pussy.” Fortunately, the shouted rap lyrics,

intermingled with the porn sound track, filled the Escalade with an incoherent cacophony of obscenity.

“Who is that shouting?” said Sid.

“Music, they call it,” said Rose.

Finally, as they reached the expressway, the porn actors achieved a spectacular fake climax and the

video ended. Cyndi was able to stab the audio off just as the rap artist David Banner launched into

“Play,” a romantic ballad that begins, “Cum girl, I’m tryna get your pussy wet.”

“You call that music?” said Rose.

“So!” said Cyndi brightly. “How was your flight?”

“That’s not what I call music,” replied Rose.

They rode in silence to Miami Beach, Seth pulling to the curb near the entrance to the Delano.

“Is this the hotel?” said Rose.

“No, Mom,” said Seth. “I’m just picking up Marty and Kevin and Steve. It’ll just be a minute.” She

started to ask another question, but Seth was already out of the car, leaving Cyndi to her futile efforts at

making small talk with his mother.

Seth entered the Delano Hotel and walked through its desperately hip lobby, consisting of random

weird spaces sparsely decorated with unattractive yet at the same time uncomfortable furniture, then

through the pool area, then down to the beach. He spotted the Groom Posse immediately: Big Steve on his

feet, looming nervously over the wretched, sprawling, sunburned, semi-comatose figures of Kevin and

Marty. Kevin was wearing boxers and a T-shirt; Marty was wearing only Big Steve’s shirt as pants.

Although the beach was filling with sunbathers, the Groom Posse was in the middle of an empty circle of

sand ten yards in diameter, nobody wanting to get close.

Big Steve saw Seth approaching. “Finally!” he said.

“Jesus, Seth,” said Kevin, getting to his feet. “What took you so long?”

“Oh, right,” said Seth. “My bad, failing to anticipate your need to be rescued after you left me, the

groom, unconscious at the bar and went off and got robbed and all ended up fucking naked.”

“Objection,” said Marty, struggling to rise. “We weren’t all naked. Just me. And Kevin had no

pants.”

“Jesus, Marty,” said Seth. “Will you please put away your balls?”

“Oops,” said Marty, tucking himself back into the neckhole of Big Steve’s shirt.

They made their way back through the Delano lobby. “Where’d you get this?” said Kevin as they

approached the Escalade.

“It belongs to the stripper’s boyfriend,” said Seth.

“The stripper showed up?” said Kevin.

“She did,” said Seth. “And she’s in my room with her boyfriend, who’s the size of a post office, and

Marty’s going to get rid of them both or I’m going to kill Marty.”

“Not a problem,” said Marty, dismissing the matter with a wave of the hand he was not using to keep

his balls inside Big Steve’s shirt.

“There’s another thing,” said Seth. “There’s these Haitians in my room.”

“There’s
what
?” said Big Steve.

“I’ll explain later,” said Seth. They had reached the car. Seth pasted on a smile as he opened the

door and said, “Mom! Dad! Look who’s here!”

“It’s an oven in here,” announced Rose. “Are you trying to kill us in this heat?”

“It’s Marty, Kevin and Steve!” said Seth.

Rose peered at the Groom Posse and said, “Were they in an accident?”

“Sort of,” said Seth. “But they’re fine. Guys, you remember Cyndi from last night?”

Cyndi waved from the front seat.

“Cyndi from last night is still here?” said Kevin, brightening.

“Yeah,” said Seth. “It’s complicated.”

“He
says
she’s helping with the wedding,” said Rose. “He doesn’t say how.”

“I can think of lots of ways Cyndi could help,” said Kevin.

“Kevin’s married,” said Seth.

“I can tell,” said Cyndi. “Hey, don’t forget you need to get diapers and formula.”

“Damn, that’s right,” said Seth. “OK, we’ll stop on the way back.”

“Diapers and formula?” said Big Steve.

“Just get in,” said Seth.

Kevin, Marty and Big Steve clambered back into the third-row seat. Seth started the Escalade and

discovered, to his horror, that the video system had rebooted and was now displaying the opening scene

of the porn movie in which the cable installer knocks on an apartment door, which is opened, as so often

happens in apartment life, by a woman wearing only a lavender thong. To blot out the video sound track

Cyndi quickly got the audio system going again, which proved to be a mixed blessing inasmuch as the

selection currently playing was the singer Riskay’s plaintive love ballad about a woman who suspects

that her boyfriend is unfaithful, titled “Lemme Smell Yo Dick.”

They pulled away from the curb encased in a cocoon of cacophonic cursing. There was no

conversation, other than Sid asking Rose what all the shouting was and Rose informing Sid that maybe

some people called it music but she, Rose, did not call it music.

12

Mike and Marcia Clark, impeccably attired in casual yet very expensive resort wear,

stood outside the entrance to the Ritz-Carlton, waiting. A few yards away, their security guards, looking

as unobtrusive as possible for men the size of forklifts, kept an eye on the surroundings.

Mike, for the twentieth time, glanced at his scarily complex, $380,000 Swiss watch, which had so

many dials on it that it took real determination to decipher the actual time. The Clarks were not used to

waiting. They were used to having people wait for them, inasmuch as, being Mike and Marcia Freaking

Clark, their time was exponentially more valuable than the time of anybody they were likely to encounter.

They were waiting for a man named Wendell Corliss, who resided in Greenwich, Connecticut, where he

ran a hedge fund worth more than most member nations of the European Union.

But that was not why Mike was waiting for him. He was waiting because Corliss was in a position

to give him one of the few things he wanted but could not buy. It happened that Mike belonged to a

fanatically exclusive and secret group of powerful businessmen called the Group of Eleven. The Group of

Eleven, as the name suggested, was limited by its charter to eleven members. If you wanted to join, you

had to wait for somebody to die—assuming you even knew (and very few people did) that the Group of

Eleven existed. It was almost impossible just to be considered for membership, let alone be admitted.

Warren Buffett had been deemed too
nouveau
. Donald Trump’s letters were returned unopened.

The members of the Group of Eleven gathered periodically at fabulously luxurious undisclosed

locations for retreats, during which they talked frankly about the kinds of things that men at their level of

achievement have on their minds, such as golf and the cruising ranges of their helicopters. There was one

topic, however, that the Group of Eleven did not discuss, although it was never far from their thoughts

when they got together. It was too painful to bring up, too sensitive even for these tough, commerce-

hardened men. For the truth was that despite the fact that they seemed to have everything a man could want

—immense wealth, power, influence and spectacular surgically enhanced second or third wives—there

was one thing they did not have, and because they did not have it, it was the one thing they wanted above

all else.

They wanted to belong to the Group of Six.

This was an even
more
exclusive group, a group so secret that the only people on the planet who

knew it existed, outside of the men who actually belonged to it, were the deeply envious members of the

Group of Eleven. They had to live with the knowledge that, although they were treated like gods by the

mortals around them, they had not reached the pinnacle. There was a higher peak, upon which wealthy

men were holding helicopter range discussions to which they were not privy. This gnawed at their guts

like a cancer.

It especially gnawed at Mike Clark. He had become obsessed with the Group of Six, consumed by

the desire to join it, and now he saw his chance. A prominent eighty-seven-year-old industrialist had

recently died; Mike was pretty sure the man had been a member of the Group of Six. That meant there was

an opening, and Mike intended to fill it.

The key to his plan was Wendell Corliss, the man Mike was waiting for outside the Ritz. Mike was

fairly certain that Corliss was one of the five surviving members of the Group of Six. Corliss had the

personal charm of an iguana, but that did not deter Mike, who had cultivated Corliss relentlessly—

bringing him in on lucrative business deals, contributing massively to his pet charities, sending him

fawning congratulatory notes for every minor achievement, kissing up to him at social events.

His boldest move had been to invite Corliss to his daughter’s wedding. To his delight, Corliss had

accepted. This was Mike’s big chance: He would spend quality time with Corliss, show him what kind of

man he was, what kind of family he had. He would not mention the Group of Six explicitly—that would

be a serious breach of etiquette—but by the end of the weekend, Corliss would think of Mike as a man he

could confidently recommend for membership. Tina’s wedding had created the perfect opportunity; now it

was a matter of closing the deal. And nobody closed a deal better than Mike Clark.

“Is that his car?” said Marcia, pointing down the driveway.

Mike looked and saw a maroon Bentley Mulsanne approaching, followed by a black SUV.

“Shit,” said Mike.

“What is it?” said Marcia.

“I should’ve brought the Bentley.”

“But I thought you said—”

“I
know
what I said.” What Mike had said was that he didn’t want to bring the Bentley fearing that

Wendell Corliss would find it pretentious. Instead, Mike had gone with a rented stretch limo. But here

Corliss was, arriving in his Mulsanne, which he must have had flown down from Greenwich. “Shit,” said

Mike again, wondering if there was time to have
his
Bentley flown in. Or maybe his Maybach, so Corliss