Insane City (38 page)

53

Mike Clark was feeling pretty good. He’d slept well. The weather was spectacular.

Castronovo and Brewer had taken care of the idiotic Haitian distraction. Marcia had just called from her

meeting with Tina and the wedding coordinator, reporting that everything was on schedule. The only bit of

bad news was that Meghan was nowhere to be found. But Meghan was always disappearing; Mike was

sure she’d be back.

And there was one more piece of excellent news that Mike had just gotten from his personal

assistant: The governor of Florida was coming to the wedding. It had been uncertain, but now it was

definite. Mike was pretty sure the governor was coming because he’d found out that Wendell Corliss was

there. But that was fine with Mike. It was a huge feather in his cap.
The governor of Florida.

So this was shaping up to be a very good day. And Mike was determined, as he strode down the

corridor to the Corliss suite, to make it a great one. He and Wendell had a breakfast scheduled for this

morning, a power meal, just the two financial titans. It would be their only time alone together this

weekend, and Mike did not intend to let it go to waste. He had decided that he was going bring up the

topic of membership in the Group of Six.

The conventional wisdom among Mike’s fellow multibillionaires in the Group of Eleven was that it

was bad form to lobby for membership in the Group of Six, and that any such effort would result in being

permanently blackballed. But Mike, while flossing this morning, had gotten to thinking about something

Corliss had said at the rehearsal dinner the night before. It had happened when Mike, in a coy effort to

refer indirectly to the Group of Six vacancy, had mentioned the death of industrialist Herb Wentworth.

Corliss had responded with a weird story about watching a fly walk into Wentworth’s ear and then

marveling at how
confident
the fly would have to be to do that. At the time Mike had assumed that Corliss

had simply drunk too much wine, although he wasn’t known to be much of a drinker.

But then this morning a startling thought struck Mike:
What if Corliss had been trying to tell him

something?
What if he’d been saying to Mike:
Hey, if you want to join the Group of Six,
you have to be

confident
. You have to plunge into the dark unknown of the earhole.

The more Mike thought about it, the more certain he became: Corliss was daring him to make the

bold move.

And by God, he was going to make it.

He reached Corliss’s suite and pressed the door buzzer. From inside he heard a shout, which

sounded like Corliss, and then a laugh, which sounded like another man. Mike frowned: This was

supposed to be a one-on-one breakfast. He waited at the door. Nobody came. He heard more shouts and

laughter. He pressed the door buzzer, leaving his finger on the button longer this time.

He heard footsteps. The door opened. Mike’s jaw dropped. It was Marty, wearing only a huge

bathing suit the color of a traffic cone, his pasty white belly drooping over the waistband.

“Look who’s here!” said Marty.

“Who’s there?” replied Wendell from inside the suite.

“The father of the bride!” said Marty.

“Who?” said Wendell.

“Mike,” said Marty.

“Ah,” said Wendell.

Mike stepped into the suite, which was huge. To the left, beyond a barrier of sofas, the TV was

showing
SpongeBob SquarePants
. In the distance, Wendell, in a bathrobe, was seated at the dining-area

table, frowning at the screen of a laptop computer. The table was strewn with coffee cups, dirty plates

and ravaged stainless-steel platters of bacon, toast and potatoes. In the middle was a large Styrofoam

takeout container containing two pancakes.

“So,” said Mike, approaching Wendell, “are we—”

Wendell raised a hand, stopping him. “Marty,” he said, “how do you capture a graveyard again?”

“Which graveyard?” said Marty.

“Snowfall.”

“No no no,” said Marty, waving his arms. “Do
not
capture Snowfall Graveyard.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t want to re-spawn out of the battle.”

“Ah,” said Wendell.

“What’s going on?” said Mike.

“World of Warcraft,” said Marty. “Ever play?”

“No,” said Mike, trying not to look at Marty’s vast mayonnaise-white belly. He turned to Wendell.

“So, are we still on for breakfast?”

Wendell looked up at Mike. His eyes were bloodshot. “You have
got
to try the pancakes,” he said.

“There’s a couple left.”

Mike looked at the pancakes, then back at Wendell. “I’m cutting down on gluten,” he said.

Wendell nodded. “Is it just me,” he said to Marty, “or does it seem like everybody’s cutting down on

gluten?”

“It’s not just you,” said Marty. “Five years ago, I never even
heard
of gluten. Then all of a sudden

it’s the worst thing in the world. It’s the Nazi Party of food ingredients. People are scared to death of

gluten. You could rob a bank with it. The bank people would be like, ‘Do whatever he says! He’s got

gluten!’” Marty burped. “What the fuck
is
gluten, anyway?”

“It used to be trans fats,” said Wendell.

“Gluten did?” said Marty.

“What I mean,” said Wendell, “is that it used to be you weren’t supposed to eat anything with trans

fats. Or maybe you were
supposed
to eat things with trans fats. I don’t remember which. You never hear

anybody talk about them anymore. They’re over.”

“Like Myspace,” said Marty. “Or global warming.”

“Or Deepak Chopra.”

“Who?

“Exactly.”

“What about carbs?” said Marty.

“What
about
carbs?” said Wendell.

“Are they still bad?”

Wendell frowned. “I think so,” he said. “But not as bad as gluten. Or lactose! Lactose is
evil
.

Lactose is
death
. Lactose is Glenn Close, in that movie where she stalks whatshisname.”

“Who?”

“Whatshisname. You know. She boils his daughter’s rabbit.”

“Who does?”

“Glenn Close.”

“Glenn Close boils a
rabbit
?”

“You never saw this movie?”

“No. Why did she do that?”

“She was in love with whatshisname.”

“So she boils a fucking
rabbit
?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“How does she boil it?”

“Yes.”

“In a pot.”

Marty thought about that. “Why doesn’t it jump out?”

“Of the pot? They don’t explain that.”

“That’s a plot flaw. I mean, a rabbit is not a lobster. You put a lobster in a pot, it stays in the pot. But

a rabbit would definitely jump out.”

“Yes, but if she boiled a lobster, nobody would care. I mean, as a viewer you’d be thinking,
Big

deal, a lobster
.”

“No, I understand that. It couldn’t be a lobster. But it could be a small dog.”

“Dogs can jump.”

“OK, maybe a chicken.”

“No, because there you have the lobster problem all over again. A chicken boiling in a pot, the

viewer goes,
Well, it’s only a chicken
.”

“So you’re saying it has to have fur.”

“No, I’m not ruling out feathers entirely. For example, it could be a parrot, but it has to have some

personality. Like earlier in the movie it says some comical words or phrases so the viewers get to know

it, and their reaction is,
Oh no! Glenn Close boiled Polly!
”

Marty thought about that. “Why wouldn’t the parrot just fly out of the pot?”

“Excuse me?” said Mike, trying not to show how pissed off he was getting.

Wendell and Marty looked at Mike, whom they had both forgotten about.

“So, Wendell,” said Mike, “about breakfast.”

“Absolutely,” said Wendell. “You should try these pancakes. They’re gluten-free.”

“Seriously?” said Mike.

“No. But they’re very special pancakes.”

Wendell gave Marty a look, and Marty snickered. That did it for Mike. He was Mike Clark, and

nobody treated him this way, not even Wendell Corliss. He was about to deliver a cold good-bye and

stalk out when suddenly it hit him what was going on here:
Corliss was testing him
. He was deliberately

trying to annoy him by talking nonsense with this idiot Marty, to see if Mike would give up and walk

away.

Well, fuck that. Mike Clark didn’t get where he was by giving up. This was his opportunity and he

wasn’t going to let it slip away:
He was going into the earhole.
He pulled out a chair and sat down at the

table.

“Wendell,” he said. “Let’s cut the bullshit here.”

Wendell looked at Mike, suddenly interested in him. “OK,” he said.

Mike looked at Marty, who was listening while at the same time reaching inside his gigantic orange

swim trunks and scratching himself.

“Can we speak privately?” said Mike.

Wendell looked at Marty, then back at Mike. “I think whatever we have to discuss, we can discuss it

in front of Marty.”

“Fine by me,” said Marty. He then farted.

“All right, then,” said Mike. Clearly this was part of the test. He took a breath, exhaled. “Wendell, I

—”

“Michael Douglas!” said Wendell, snapping his fingers.

“What?” said Marty.

“It was Michael Douglas whose daughter’s rabbit was boiled.”

“Which one is he?” said Marty.

“Michael Douglas,” said Wendell. “You know, he’s married to whatshername.”

“Glenn Close?”

“
No.
Whatshername.”

“
Excuse
me,” said Mike.

Wendell looked at him.

“I want in,” said Mike.

Wendell blinked. “You want in.”

“That’s right. I want in, and I think I belong.”

Wendell nodded thoughtfully. Several seconds passed.

“He wants in what?” said Marty, in a stage whisper.

“I have no idea,” Wendell whispered back. “I’m just nodding thoughtfully to stall for time.”

From across the room, a woman’s voice called, “Are there any more pancakes?”

Mike looked and saw Greta Corliss’s head poking above the sofa in front of the TV. Mike hadn’t

noticed her before.

“There’s two,” said Marty.

“Could you toss me one?”

Marty reached into the foam container, picked up a pancake and flung it, Frisbee style, across the

room. Greta—New York society superstar Greta Corliss, famed for her elegance, her poise, her fashion

savvy and her lavish yet exquisitely tasteful dinner parties—caught the pancake one-handed, stuffed the

entire thing into her mouth, then sank back onto the sofa to resume watching
SpongeBob SquarePants.

Mike was shaken. But he was not going to quit.

“The Group of Six,” he said.

“What?” said Wendell and Marty both.

“I want to join the Group of Six.”

“Ah,” said Wendell, suddenly realizing why he’d been invited to the wedding.

“What’s the Group of Six?” said Marty.

Wendell turned to Marty, his face solemn. “You must not tell anyone what I am about to reveal to

you,” he said.

“OK,” said Marty.

“The Group of Six,” said Wendell, “is a very secret, very exclusive organization of highly successful

men who get together from time to time for the express purpose of hanging around with other highly

successful men.”

Marty arched his eyebrows. “Is that where you talk about your helicopters?”

“Exactly.” Wendell turned to Mike. “So you want in.”

“I do,” said Mike.

“Are you sure? You
really
want in?”

Mike fought to hide his excitement. He had passed the test.
This was going to happen.
“I’m sure,” he

said. “I really want in.”

Wendell’s eyes met Marty’s for a half second. Then he stood, put his hands on Mike’s shoulders and

said, “There’s a sort of initiation.”