He looked across the table at Morty. Fat bastard. He wondered how long it took him to shave all those chins. But Morty was his only hope.
Now, if lhe’d double their budget and cover the loss, Aaron could straighten things out with Annie, buy out Jerry, and make things okay with Leslie as well. He felt his stomach knot. He hated being so much in the power of another. Well, he was the phoenix, he reminded himself again. He’d get this buffoon to do what he wanted, and in the process maybe teach Chris a little bit about how it’s done.
”So I took a bath because of that bastid Ewell’s column. But business is bOoming. It’ll be all right. And Shelby’s excited about her new show. What’s with you?”’ ”Nothing much,” Aaron said, smiling.
“Except, Morty,” he added as he cut into the very rare roast beef they all three had ordered, “we have to talk about a bigger advertising budget for next year. You know, the only way you can stay rich is by getting richer.” He looked over at Chris and winked. Chris looked properly impressed.
Morty put a forkful of Yorkshire pudding into his mouth, ignoring the gravy that dripped down his chin. “Hey, I like you, kid. Always have.
Have I ever let you down? I’m with you.”’ He pointed his fork at Aaron. Turning to Chris, Morty said, ‘We’re a good team, your father and me. And we’ll get even richer together.” Morty returned his attention to his food, while Chris excused himself and went to the men’s room.
Aaron saw his opportunity and took it. ‘Which brings us to another matter,” he said, a lot more off handedly than he felt. ‘We need to talk about the margin I covered for you. And my losses. We haven’t really talked about that yet, Morty.” Putting down his fork, he added, ‘I took a bath with that one. On your say-so, Morty.”
Morty snapped, ‘Hey, I can’t help it if you couldn’t get out of it when I told you to. Whose fault is that?”’ Morty shrugged and took a sip of seltzer.
Aaron’s resentment at Morty’s shrug welled up, ready to burst out.
Stuffing down his anger, he said in a monotone, “You told me to cover you and I did, Morty. And then you told me you would cover me, but so far, nothing.” He’d better keep his temper. Keep control. New tack.
Now Aaron stared directly at Morty. “This isn’t like you, Morty.
You’ve always been straight with me.” Leaning slightly forward, he asked kindly, “What is it, Morty? This IRS thing bigger than you’re letting on?”’ “No, no, that’s not it,” Morty answered, maybe a little too quickly. “I mean, sure, it’s on my mind, but it’s no big thing.”
He forced a big smile. “My lawyers are handling it.” Yeah, and Leo was having a shit fit. He’d found out about Morty’s accounts in Europe and was screaming like a stuck pig.
He continued, “Listen, kid, I said I’ll take care of you and I wi11.
Okay, you got the account budget expanded. Trust me, I’ll make up some of the losses to you soon. Just give me a little time. After all, you can’t afford to let go now.” He smiled at Aaron.
Aaron forced himself to return Morty’s smile. He’s right, of course, thought Aaron. But still I wish Morty didn’t have IRS problems, too.
I don’t want this guy to get distracted.
”You’re right, Morty,” Aaron said as Chris returned to the table, “I can’t afford to let go now.”’ Brenda was happy to see Diana, but not happy with Diana’s choice of lunch spots. “Hey, Diana, I’m no Hindu, remember? I’m a not-sonice lewish-italian girl from the Bronx.” She pushed her chair into the table. “What the fuck kinda name is Nirvana,’ anyhow?” Brenda looked around at the incongruous setting.
“Now, Diana, let me get this straight, just so as I don’t get confused.
I’m a Jew about to eat a meal prepared by Hindus in a restaurant decorated for Pilgrims, is that right?”’ Diana laughed out loud and said, “Yes, that’s absolutely right, Brenda. So, should I order for both of us?”’ “Sure. Anything, so long as it’s not green or brown.”
Diana ordered an array of Indian vegetarian dishes that Brenda thought sounded pretty unappetizing. Oh, well, I should be dieting anyway, she thought. As the waiter walked away, Diana turned her attention to Brenda. “You haven’t talked very much about your job with Duarto, Brenda. How do you like it?”’ “Just being with Duarto is great. We laugh all the time. Nothing is sacred to him.” Brenda noticed Diana’s nod to continue.
“You remember I told you Duarto landed Gil and Mary Griffin’s decorating contract for their new Fifth Avenue apartment? Well, I got inside it with Duarto yesterday. I am his assistant, after all. There was no one there except some workmen, so I did some snooping.”
Brenda saw Diana’s eyebrows rise slightly. “Oh?” Brenda said feigning surprise. “Do I detect some disapproval here? You mean you don’t want to know what I read in her diary?”
Diana couldn’t resist. “Her diary?” Diana was incredulous. “You read her diary, Brenda? What was in it?”
Brenda looked off into space, as if she hadn’t heard Diana.
”Okay, okay, I don’t disapprove. I’m dying to know. Now come on, tell me.”’ Brenda giggled. “I didn’t really read her diary—I couldn’t find it— but you know those yuppie organizer-appointment books that are about twelve inches thick? Well, I found last year’s copy in a box.” Brenda now spoke emphatically. “She has Mrs. Gil Griffin, Mary Birmingham Griffin, Gil loves Mary’ scrawled on practically every page.
Like in high school. What a hoot !”
Brenda said, hitting the table with her hand.
Diana threw back her head and joined Brenda in the laughter. “Brenda, you’re one in a million. Don’t ever change.” Diana looked up as the waiter approached. “And here comes our lunch.”
”I can’t believe it,” Brenda said to Diana after she had tasted each of the dishes. “This stuff’s great.”
Diana, watching Brenda dig into the feast she had ordered for her couldn’t help adding, “See, I told you food can taste good and be good for you, too.”
“Now you sound like my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Wasserstein.
Children, what are the four important food groups?”
” Brenda asked, mimicking her teacher. “I used to say to Ginny Skelton, who sat next to me, Chocolate malted, cheeseburgers, french fries, and coleslaw.” I could make Ginny wet her pants at the drop of a hat.”
Diana smiled, then became serious. They looked at one another in silence for a moment. Then Brenda lowered her eyes and began to fuss with the silverware.
“You know, Brenda, you’ve become very important to me.” Diana paused.
‘I know the last time I tried to tell you how I feel about you, you cut me off. But you’re very special.”
Brenda reached across the table and took Diana’s hands in hers ‘You don’t have to say anything more, Diana. I know. Ever since that conversation, I’ve been thinking myself. No one has ever been so good to me, so accepting. You’re on my mind all the time. You’ve really helped me and I love you for it.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I love you.”
Brenda felt her heart leap in her chest. She wanted to say, “Me, too,” but the words got stuck. She coughed and finally, after a pause, heard her own voice.
“Me, too, Diana.” It felt so good.
Diana smiled and they sat in silence for a moment, looking at each other. Then Brenda, remembering there was food on the table, broke the spell. “Whatever.
Now that that’s settled, let’s eat. What do Indians have for dessert?”
Shelby Cushman was lunching with Jon Rosen. It was, of course, a business lunch, and she, of course, would pay. She was taking him to the Boxtree, partly because it was very expensive, but also because it was very intime. lon Rosen wasn’t only the most powerful art critic in America, he was also a very attractive man.
If Morton saw the bill, he’d scream, but he wouldn’t see the bill.
Shelby was using her own money. Well, it was her own money now. For the last few months, many of the paintings that Shelby bought for the gallery she bought with her own money. Shelby bought them from artists, raised the price, then sold them to Morty’s gallery. And at a hefty profit for her.
Well, Shelby thought as she put mascara on her long, long lashes in preparation for her lunch, a girl has to do what a girl has to do. No one was married forever, and Morton was not a generous man. Fact is, he screamed when he had to write checks. I’ve simply got to look out for myself, she thought.
The money was tucked away in a safety deposit box in Zurich. She had an arrangement with a courier, who delivered it there. And the key was safely hidden in the gallery. In some ways, she was an oldfashioned girl. No bank accounts with messy paper trails and taxable interest for her. She felt that the gallery was enough of a marital asset. And if it lost money, well, it wasn’t her money.
In fact, it wasn’t doing as well as she had hoped. Despite her mother’s prodding from down in Atlanta, and all the New York prodding she could do, she had not been getting enough of the monied crowd at her gallery. She couldn’t think why. Was it because of Morton? Other people had overcome a Hebrew background. It wasn’t as if he were Negro or anything.
Shelby finished with her eye makeup. She fluffed out her long, yellow-blond hair. She looked good, really good. She ran her tongue over her red, red lips.
She couldn’t wait to see Jon Rosen.
Mary Birmingham Griffin wore sunglasses and had her pale hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. A bulky car coat and a pair of old jeans added to her unusually casual look and to hen-she hoped— disguise.
As she stepped from the cab, she threw the driver a crumpled pile of singles. The fare was eight dollars and change, and she only had eleven dollars, aside from the ten thousand in crisp, new hundreddollar bills stuffed in her coat. Rich people never seemed to carry much cash, she’d learned. Well, she could take the crosstown bus home, if she had to. She’d taken it before, God knows.
Mary stepped across the littered sidewalk at Amsterdam Avenue. The majestic spire of St. John the Divine rose up on her left, but a filthy vagrant, standing by the fence, and another human form crouched in the doorway, were more immediate scenery. She strode by them with her habitually purposeful walk. Ten thousand in cash was a lot of money to lose to a crack freak or a wino who decided to get aggressive.
In just a few strides she was at the door of V & T’s. She paused for a moment, her hand on the doorknob. She hoped ten thousand would be enough. She would give him ten times that if she had to, but she couldn’t let him know that.
Mary pulled the glass door open and walked in. The place hadn’t changed much, the same worn linoleum, plastic tablecloths, gloomy, cheap wood paneling on the walls. The front room, reserved for smokers, was separated from the back one by a hip-high divider that housed planters of plastic orange and yellow flowers, none of which even made a pretense of resembling anything that had ever actually grown. How many years of grease coated them? she wondered. They were the same ones from her years up here at Columbia, getting her M.B.A.
Nothing else here had changed either. The same mural of Vesuvius on the wall, the same fake-wood captain’s chairs, the same Bobby.
She walked into the room, and as she did, her ex-husband smiled. His teeth still looked beautifully white in his dark face. His hair was different.
Instead of the Afro he had worn, it was in one of those new hairdos, a high-top.
“Hello,” Mary said coolly.
“Hi, babe. Good to see ya.” He looked up at her, turning on the charm. Voice like warm molasses. Eyes full of puppy pleading. Same old Bobby. He reached out, took her hand, its whiteness stark against his ebony skin. His hand felt undeniably good around hers. Well, sex had never been their problem. Only everything else.
“What do you want?”’ “Hey, baby. Nuthin’. Just to see you, just to talk. For the holidays, you know.”
“Oh, come on. Cut to the chase, homeboy.”
He smiled. “Same ole Mary. Won’t you sit down, at least? Have a bite with me?”
Mary sat. She’d picked this place because it was the most unlikely she could imagine to risk running into any of her new group of friends and acquaintances. The last thing she needed was for anyone to find out about her first marriage, short-lived, emotional, and to a black man.
Christ, Gil wished she had been a virgin, and the women in his Circle acted as if they were.
They would never understand what Bobby had done for her.
Bobby handed her the menu. It felt sticky. She looked at it. In her Bobby years, V T’s had been the treat of the week, something they could afford only occasionally. Now, well, she looked at the heavy Neapolitan selections and repressed a shiver. She only ate Northern Italian now.
“I don’t want anything,” she told Bobby. “What do you want?”
The smile finally left his handsome face. Mary watched as he made the expected transition from Fun Bobby to Earnest Bobby.
“Babe, I been thinkin’. I got to make a new start.” Bobby smiled again. “You know, like you did. Take a step out and a step up.”
“Yes?” Don’t act too interested, Bobby, she knew, got to believing his own bullshit and could go on all day. But today he seemed a little intense. Too intense, she thought, trying not to show her anxiety.
“I thought I might try Las Vegas. I got a friend thinks it’s the place for a guy like me … a guy with ambition and some workin’ capital.”
“What’s her name?”
Bobby gave her that slow smile again. “Never could fool you for long, Mary.
Name’s Tamayra. Workin’ at the Sands.”
“That’s fine, Bobby. But what has this to do with me? We’re annulled.
That’s like saying we were never married. I want you to remember that.
So why did you call?” she asked, even though she knew. It was like the other shoe had dropped, hearing from him. A part of her had been waiting all this time.
“Saw your picture in the paper. Said where you worked. Made me think of old times. Thought maybe I’d come see you.” He smiled wolfishly.
Mary stifled a shudder. “Then I figured, maybe not.”
Bobby shifted slightly in his seat. Mary kept looking at him. Coming here in the cab, she was sure she could outlast him. Now, well, Bobby seemed different, harder. He had been a local boy, raised in Harlem, attending Columbia on an athletic scholarship. All he wanted was to play ball and to party. When she hit New York and saw him at a Columbia game, she’d been knocked breathless by his skill on the court.