Making Love (34 page)

“Jane, you got my note. Why'd you come upstairs?”
 

“I wondered about your work. Actually I was curious.”
 

“What I did was par for the course. Sometimes people even supply narcotics. I've never gotten into anything like that,” he said with self-approval.
 

“Give yourself a chance. You're still young.”
 

“I suppose I deserved that. I'd intended to begin on a different note.”
 

“Well, everyone has a price, not just whores. It's only a question of finding out how much. Now that I know your methods, we can begin as equals.”
 

“I really am, truly am, sorry.”
 

She'd ruffled him and he sank back, defused but not defeated. In a world of pretense, Luckmunn seemed to her to be a realist. A dealer in instant slums, he conducted himself like a founder of cities. Christ, he was despicable. What was she doing with him? Lost, a bit like her mother, she'd allowed herself to be picked up without protest by Charles Luckmunn, who was always in the market for the shop-soiled, the demo model that came with a solid price reduction. She disgusted herself. Only in his presence could she find a measure of self-respect. Plagued by contradictory thoughts, she could resolve nothing, except that she found his discomfort reassuring.
 

“Why'd you call me?” Her tone was belligerent. The question, he sensed, was too dangerous to answer, too complicated, for he had no motive that he could define.
 

“I dunno. I thought it might be a diversion for you.”
 

“I'll call you Uncle Charlie.”
 

“At least I amuse you.”
 

She wasn't like Nancy, and yet something about the way she railed against him—he who'd brought grown men to tears when he forced bankruptcies—answered a need he had, confirmation of his unworthiness.
 

“I come from a race of sufferers.”
 

“Oh, we're back to the anti-Semitic shit, are we? Probably you're the anti-Semite.”
 

“Jane, you're too fast for me. I seem to offend you. Look, Sonny and Cher are at the Empire Room, would you like to go?”
 

“You're ridiculous. Don't you know that? Sonny and Cher! Do I look fifty years old?”
 

She began to cry and he let her sob. When she was weak, he found her unsympathetic, preferring her antagonistic, spirited, taking the crop to him, an interloper amidst WASP tradition. He'd slept with their women, cuckolded the husbands, fleeced useful introductions to their friends, and altered his style because basically he admired what he was not. He was heading up along some graph that existed in his mind, but he needed an adornment, a shortcut. He'd been denied the head starts others had been born to. Locked in his envy was the naïve respect he unwaveringly maintained for aristocracy, and his passport to higher offices—boardrooms with real paneling, not the simulated rubbish he used—sat right next to him.
Beautiful,
he thought. The luck of the rich. They annihilated you with a stare, turned their back, and you disappeared, questioned your own reality, wondered dimly whether your fate had been predetermined by an astrological mishap (one never could be sure) or by mysterious genetic messages sent along invisible transcontinental circuits, all controlled by a private club which had blackballed Charles Benjamin Luckmunn. His nose had been clipped by an eminent surgeon and now it resembled thousands of others—nondescript. He found it on the faces of shop assistants, a waiter in a delicatessen he had once frequented, and, as if that weren't bad enough, among the majority of the city's homosexual population, a kinship he dreaded. His nose had been franchised.
 

Jane wiped her eyes, gained some control, and he held up his Dupont lighter for her cigarette. She didn't notice it, had probably lost a dozen like it.
 

“Would you like to see a magnificent view of the skyline—an important view—and have a cocktail with me?”
 

She didn't want to remind him that it was ten-thirty and the cocktail hour was behind them, that a view was either good or not worth mentioning, and that she had hated the Rainbow Room for many years.
 

“Where?”
 

“Leave it to me. Bob, home. That's Bob, my chauffeur. You can call him Bob. Bob, before you start, I'd like you to meet Jane Teller Siddley.” An uncertain black hand in the position of a half nelson was extended over the glass partition. “You'll be at her disposal until further notice.”
 

He opened a small Frigidaire and revealed half a dozen bottles of champagne and a pound jar of caviar.
 

“I never know when someone's going to have a yen for some of this. So I'm prepared. Jane, can I ask you a personal question?”
 

“Well?”
 

“Who did your eye?”
 

“Just an old friend.”
 

He pressed her arm, interlocked fingers (her protector), and sniffed at her earlobe to find out if her scent didn't repulse him. It didn't. In the business of girls and real estate, nobody fucked Luckmunn. The car pulled up at an apartment house on Fifth Avenue.
 

“Bob, if there any calls for me, will you tell them I'm out. I've got a telephone in my car, Jane, which you may not have noticed. We can even get ships at sea. Sometimes Bob and I go for a ride in the country and listen to all the radio calls. Gale four et cetera.” Bob did not appear enthusiastic about Luckmunn's listening pleasures, and he opened the car door solemnly. “I'll be in touch with you, Bob.”
 

The doorman flew to open the door for Luckmunn and said, “Evenin', Mr. Luckmunn.”
 

“Good evening.”
 

As they waited for the elevator, Luckmunn hummed to himself.
 

“This is one of the few buildings the Irish haven't abandoned. Puerto Ricans have protested to the union, but we're solidly behind our old employees.” He'd lived there exactly a year.
 

As she expected, he had the penthouse, a Chinese houseboy, a lot of mirrors, white marble floors, and had doubtless personally supervised the decorating. It exuded the warmth of a Hilton lobby.
 

“When Nixon's apartment was up for grabs, I made an offer. I thought, why not, Charles? People of the caliber of Lindsay or Javits or Rockefeller might drop in, or a Dean Rusk. Unfortunately, my offer was not accepted. I think there was some concern about my last name, and I wasn't going to change it just to suit a tenant group. It held me in good stead at the Bronx High School of Science where I was awarded a Westinghouse scholarship. And if it was good enough for Westinghouse, then it was good enough for me. The apartment went for less than my offer so President Nixon was the loser. Maybe he didn't know about it.”
 

“How'd you find out about it?”
 

“Connections.”
 

He accepted her fun fur coat and caressed it before handing it to the silent houseboy for incarceration in the sliding-mirrored wardrobe.
 

“I've got my hand on the city's pulse.”
 

She walked down two steps into a dropped living room, a study in violent contrasts. White sofas, black rugs on white marble. It made her dizzy.
 

“Jane, I'd like to ask you something.” She was about to answer but he was already asking. “How long do you intend to wear your dark glasses?”
 

“Until my eye's better.”
 

“Good.” He seemed pleased. “I just wondered if it was a habit of yours to wear them at night.”
 

He moved close to her on the sofa and lifted them off, averted his eyes when he saw fuchsia specks trying to break through the deep plum color.
 

“I don't think I've seen an eye like that since Jerry Quarry's last fight. I was at the Garden, hosting an evening of a group of investors. Who did it, Jane?” He sounded genuinely concerned and she relaxed for a moment. “I'd like to introduce him to Lee, my houseboy, just to see how tough he really is. Lee is a Black Belt from Korea. And when you get one there, you really earn it.”
 

Now that Lee's credentials had been firmly established, she wondered where this talking land mine would lead her next.
The balcony,
ending momentary suspense. His come-on seemed out of keeping with his performance on the tennis courts with her mother. As a bet collector, Luckmunn had proved to be reluctant, although finally diligent. From Nancy, it was evident, he had required introductions, not fellatio, but had settled gamely for the latter. Appeasement oozed from his pores like sweat.
 

A fine view, even an important one, she agreed. A snowflake fell, then many, and Luckmunn appeared to be delighted. Winter and a time for small treasons, expensive gifts, poignant cruelty, sibilant winds, indifference. Her sorrow slammed against her like a rabbit punch. Sonny in his West Side apartment removed from the possibility of glory: crushed pebbles on a roadway waiting for the tar job. It would come, no doubt of that. Luckmunn, she noticed, became increasingly exultant with the snow on his face. She thought it touched upon some undetected latent romantic ideal he concealed perfectly from the eyes of strangers. He embraced her and she felt herself respond involuntarily. Then he explained. Tomorrow the snow, men out of work, Christ, he'd insured himself against such eventualities and stood to gain by his men not working on the tract he was taming in the vicinity of Monmouth. Luckmunn, with land grants dating from Queen Isabella, was destined to bring civilization to New Jersey.
 

She pulled away and he spoke of affairs of the heart and high premiums, worth every cent. Which? Emotions or insurance rates? She couldn't be sure. She went inside and he cautiously sprayed his breath with Binaca. Nice breath was essential in the cause of passion. How many curtains had been peremptorily rung down on gorgeous secretaries, stock brokers with a get-rich tip, bus drivers fired, manicurists poorly tipped, their destiny slipping through their fingers because of acidic stomach, too many Marlboros, or unsightly underarm wetness. Luckmunn would have none of it. Snowflakes in his hair, no crown of thorns but an olive wreath, he came in off the balcony smelling as sweet as the freshly powdered crease of a whore's ass. In his treatment of women, Luckmunn deserved three stars, a mention in
Michelin's Guide,
Jane thought.
 

Champagne and delectable tidbits, even a side of Peking duck, were set on the table by the evanescent Lee—whose skill with Chinks, Luckmunn assured her, was exceeded only by the power of his headlock. He'd just watch her, he had dieting on the brain. His bathroom scale had brought the bad news early that same morning: two pounds overweight. He'd dry out for a day to make the weight.
 

“How much time do you spend here?” she asked. It was like living in the lobby of a Miami hotel, transient, good for pickups, all the junk owned by some finance company.
 

“I'm in and out. Here, the hotel, Connecticut every weekend I can. That's where I unwind.” Did she give him a funny look or was he imagining it? “I bought the place from a gentleman who was in a hurry to reach Costa Rica. His business demanded it.”
 

“Coffee?”
 

“No, three million dollars in back taxes. The Internal Revenue couldn't put a jeopardy lien on what he didn't own. He specialized in going bankrupt. You know, getting credit, then not paying bills and taxes. It's a good way to build capital if you don't mind spending your life in Puntarenas with elderly Nazis or going into the Mato Grosso.” He laughed to himself. “Imagine shopping for your trip at Abercrombie's and ordering a dozen machetes. I prefer to lease. My car, offices, apartment. You see, Jane, I have a theory—apart from the tax deductions I get—that this body belongs to God. He's the landlord and I'm only a tenant. So since I'm here on a leasing agreement, it's obvious that those are God's wishes.”
 

“I don't understand you. Why'd you buy the house, then?”
 

She knew he was a conniver, but this seemed craziness. She closed her eyes to try to recapture the scene he'd played with Nancy, but saw only darkness and a yellow sliver of light. In retrospect, it vanished, belonging to some perverse fantasy she'd imagined. In the flesh, Luckmunn was pleasant, socially helpless, motivated by the desire to turn a buck. How had she made him the personification of evil?
 

“The house was business. I had
green
which I couldn't account for and this man wanted to do a Houdini. Leasing is God's will.”
 

“God's will?” She knew it worked in mysterious ways, but this was positively visionary. Few had been privileged by such a conference between Maker and tenant.
 

“Peking duck is one of Lee's specialities.”
 

She licked her fingers approvingly. He contented himself with overseeing; ounces were slipping from his body invisibly, self-denial seldom a public act.
 

“Is there any reason why you're taking such pains to be nice?” she felt compelled to ask.
 

The question obviously perplexed him, and he moodily broke his fast with a barbecued chicken wing. Aggravated, he ate, dipping freely into the duck sauce, and also grudgingly gave himself some champagne. Tomorrow he wouldn't weigh himself.
 

“Fried in Crisco,” he explained.
 

“You still didn't answer my question.”
 

He located a hot scented napkin, smoking in a covered dish, and removed all traces of disgrace from his mouth and fingers.