by Tom Wolfe
The little one, still sitting on the desk, finished the sentence for him: “—to a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
The small one shook his head the way you do when somebody you’re advising seems determined to stick to a foolish course. “That’s your privilege. But if you got anything substantial here to talk to a lawyer about, you’re gonna be better off coming out with it right now. And you’re gonna feel better. Whatever it is, it probably ain’t as bad as you think. Everybody makes mistakes.”
“I didn’t say there was anything substantial. There isn’t.” He felt trapped. I’m trying to play their game—when I should be rejecting the game itself!
“You sure?” asked the fat one with what he obviously thought was a paternal smile on his face. In fact, it was…horrible…obscene…The impudence!
Sherman edged past the smaller one, who remained seated on the desk and followed him with his menacing little eyes. Near the door Sherman turned around and looked at them both.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t see any point in going into this—I don’t think I should discuss it any further.”
Finally the smaller one stood up—finally removes himself from his insolent perch on my desk! He shrugged and looked at the fat one, who also stood up.
“Okay, Mr. McCoy,” said the smaller one, “we’ll see you…with your lawyer.” The way he said it, it seemed to mean “We’ll see you…in court.”
Sherman opened the door of the library and motioned for them to head out into the entry gallery. It seemed terribly important for him to usher them out and leave the room last—to prove that this was, after all, his household and that he was master of it.
When they reached the door to the elevator vestibule, the smaller one said to the fat one, “Davey, you got a card? Give Mr. McCoy a card.”
The fat one took a card from the side pocket of his jacket and handed it to Sherman. The card was wrinkled.
“You change your mind,” said the smaller one, “you give us a call.”
“Yeah, think it over,” said the fat one, with his hideous smile. “Whatever’s on your mind, the sooner you tell us, the better it’s gonna be for you. That’s the way it is. Right now you’re still in a position to cooperate. You wait…the machinery starts…” He turned his palms up, as if to say, “And then you’re in a hell of a mess.”
Sherman opened the door. The smaller one said, “Think it over.”
As they walked out, the fat one gave him a horrible wink.
Sherman closed the door. They were gone. Far from being relieved, he was swept by an overpowering dismay. His entire central nervous system told him he had just suffered a catastrophic defeat—and yet he didn’t know what had happened. He couldn’t analyze his wounds. He had been outrageously violated—but how had it happened? How had these two…insolent…Low Rent…animals…invaded his life?
When he turned around, Bonita had emerged from the kitchen and was standing on the edge of the marble floor. He had to say something to her. She knew they were the police.
“They’re investigating an automobile accident, Bonita.” Too flustered.
“Oh, an accident.” Her wide eyes said, “Tell me more.”
“Yes…I don’t know. One of the cars involved had a license plate close to one of ours. Or something.” He sighed and made a helpless gesture. “I couldn’t figure it all out.”
“You don’t worry, Mr. McCoy. They know it’s not you.” The way she said it, he could tell he looked very worried indeed.
Sherman went into the library and closed the door and waited three or four minutes. He knew it was irrational, but he had the feeling that if he didn’t wait until the two policemen were out of the building, they would somehow reappear, pop back in, just like that, smirking and winking in the horrible way they had. Then he called Freddy Button’s home and left word that he should call whenever he got in.
Maria. Had to talk to her. Did he dare call her? Didn’t even know where she would be…the hideaway, the apartment on Fifth…Telephone tap!…Could they somehow tap his telephone immediately? Had they left a listening device in the room?…Calm down…That’s crazy…But suppose Judy has already come back, and I didn’t hear her!
He got up from the chair and walked out into his grand entry gallery…No one around…He heard a little clink clink…Marshall’s license tags…The doleful dachshund came waddling out of the living room…The beast’s toenails clattered on the marble…The little piece of salami that walks…the cause of half my problems…And what do you care about the police?…Food and a walk, food and a walk…Then Bonita poked her head in the doorway…Don’t want to miss anything, hunh? Want to gobble up all the cop stuff, right?…Sherman stared at her accusingly.
“Oh, I think Mrs. McCoy come home,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “when Mrs. McCoy and Campbell come in, you’ll hear them.” And until then keep your nose out of my affairs.
Picking up the tone of his voice clearly enough, Bonita retreated into the kitchen. Sherman headed back toward the library. I’ll risk a call. Just then the door from the elevator vestibule opened.
Judy and Campbell.
Now what? How could he call Maria? Would he have to tell Judy about the police first? If he didn’t, Bonita would.
Judy looked at him quizzically. What the hell was she wearing? White flannel pants, a white cashmere sweater, and some sort of black punk jacket with shoulder pads…out to…here…sleeves pushed up almost to her elbow, a collar with a ridiculously wide notch way down…here…All the while Campbell looked supremely ladylike in her burgundy Taliaferro jumper and blazer and white blouse with a buttercup collar…Why was it that these days all the little girls were dressed like ladies and their mothers were dressed like teenage brats?
“Sherman,” said Judy, looking concerned, “is something wrong?”
Should he tell her about the police immediately? No! Get out and call Maria!
“Uh, no,” he said, “I was just—”
“Daddy!” said Campbell, walking toward him. “See these cards?”
See these cards?
She held up three miniature playing cards toward him, the ace of hearts, the ace of spades, and the ace of diamonds.
“What are they?” she said.
What are they?
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Playing cards.”
“But what are they?”
“Just a minute, sweetie. Judy, I’ve got to go out for a minute.”
“Daddy! What are they!”
“The magician gave them to her,” said Judy. “Tell her what they are.” A little nod of the head that said, “Humor her. She wants to show you a trick.”
“When I come back,” he said to Campbell. “I have to go out for just a second.”
“Daddy!” She hopped up and down, trying to put the cards right in his face.
“One second, sweetheart!”
“You’re going out?” said Judy. “Where are you going?”
“I have to go over to—”
“DADDY! TELL—ME—WHAT—THEY—ARE!”
“—Freddy Button’s.”
“DADDY!”
“Shhhhhhhhhh,” said Judy. “Hush up.”
“Daddy…look!” The three cards were dancing in the air in front of his face.
“Freddy Button’s? Do you know what time it is? We have to get ready to go out!”
“Tell me what they are, Daddy!”
Christ! He’d totally forgotten! They were supposed to go to dinner at these dreadful people’s, the Bavardages’! Judy’s bunch…the social X-rays…Tonight? Impossible!
“I don’t know, Judy. I…don’t know how long I’ll have to be at Freddy’s. I’m sorry, I—”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“DADDY!” Close to tears, in her frustration.
“For God’s sake, Sherman, look at the cards.”
“Don’t say ‘God,’ Mommy.”
“You’re absolutely r
ight, Campbell. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He leaned over and peered at the cards. “Well…the ace of hearts…the ace of spades…and the ace of diamonds.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Big smile. Triumphant. “I just wave them like this.” She began fanning the cards about at a furious rate, until they were a blur in the air.
“Sherman, you don’t have time to go to Freddy Button’s.” A stern and-that’s-that look.
“Judy, I have to.” Rolling his eyes toward the library, as if to say, “I’ll explain it to you in there.”
“Bibbidy, bobbidy, boo!” said Campbell. “Now look, Daddy!”
Judy, in a voice under tight rein: “We’re going…to—that—dinner.”
He leaned over again. “The ace of diamonds…the ace of hearts…the ace of…clubs! Whuh—Campbell! How did the ace of clubs get there?”
Delighted. “It just—did!”
“Why—it’s magic!”
“Sherman—”
“How did you do that? I can’t believe it!”
“Sherman, did you hear me?”
Campbell, with great modesty: “The magician showed me.”
“Ah! The magician. What magician?”
“At MacKenzie’s birthday party.”
“That’s amazing!”
“Sherman, look at me.”
He looked at her.
“Daddy! You want to see how I did it?”
“Sherman.” More and-that’s-that.
“Look, Daddy, I’ll show you.”
Judy, with frantic sweetness: “Campbell, you know who just loves magic tricks?”
“Who?”
“Bonita. She’s crazy about them. Why don’t you go show her before she’s busy fixing your dinner. Then you can come back and show Daddy how you did it.”
“Oh, all right.” She trudged off to the kitchen disconsolately. Sherman felt guilty.
“Come on in the library,” he said to Judy in a portentous voice.
They went into the library, and he shut the door and told Judy to sit down. This will be too much for you to take standing up. She sat down in the wing chair, and he sat in the armchair.
“Judy, you remember that thing on television last night, about the hit-and-run accident in the Bronx, and they’re looking for a Mercedes with a license plate that begins with R?”
“Yes.”
“Well, two policemen came by here, just before you and Campbell came home. Two detectives, and they asked me a lot of questions.”
“Oh?”
He described the interrogation, wanting it to sound menacing—I must go see Freddy Button!—but avoiding his own feelings of inadequacy and fear and guilt.
“So I called Freddy, but he wasn’t in, although they’re expecting him. So I’m going over to his apartment and leave him this note”—he pressed the breast of his jacket, as if there were a letter in the inside pocket—“and if he’s back when I get there, I’ll talk to him. So I’d better go.”
Judy just looked at him for a moment. “Sherman, that makes no sense whatsoever.” She spoke almost warmly, with a little smile, the way you talk to someone who needs to be coaxed back from the edge of the roof. “They’re not going to put you in jail because you have half a license number. I saw something in the Times about it this morning. Apparently there are 2,500 Mercedeses with license plates that begin with R. I was joking with Kate di Ducci at lunch. We had lunch at La Boue d’Argent. What on earth are you worried about? You certainly weren’t out driving that night in the Bronx, whenever it was.”
Now!…Tell her!…Get rid of this horrible weight once and for all! Come clean! With something approaching elation he scaled the last few feet of the great wall of deceit he had erected between himself and his family, and—
“Well…I know I wasn’t. But they acted as if they didn’t believe me.”
—and immediately fell back.
“I’m sure you’re imagining things, Sherman. That’s probably just the way they are. For goodness’ sake. If you want to talk to Freddy, you’ll have plenty of time to talk to him in the morning.”
“No! Really! I’ve got to go over there.”
“And have a long talk, if necessary.”
“Well, yes, if necessary.”
She smiled in a way he didn’t like. Then she shook her head. She was still smiling. “Sherman, we accepted this invitation five weeks ago. We’re due there in an hour and a half. And I’m going. And you’re going. If you want to leave the Bavardages’ number for Freddy to call you, that’s fine. I’m sure Inez and Leon won’t mind. But we’re going.”
She continued to smile warmly…at the jumper on the roof…and that’s that.
The calmness…the smile…the would-be warmth…Her face got the point across more firmly than any explanation she could have ever come up with. Words might have given him openings to wriggle through. This look offered no openings at all. Dinner at Inez and Leon Bavardages’ was as important to Judy as the Giscard had been to him. The Bavardages were this year’s host and hostess of the century, the most busily and noisily arrived of the arrivistes. Leon Bavardage was a New Orleans chicory salesman who had gone on to make a fortune in real estate. His wife, Inez, perhaps really was a member of an old Louisiana family, the Belairs. To Sherman (the Knickerbocker) they were ridiculous.
Judy smiled—and she had never been more serious in her life.
But he had to talk to Maria!
He jumped up. “All right, we’re going—but I’ve got to run over to Freddy’s! I won’t be long!”
“Sherman!”
“I promise you! I’ll be right back!”
He all but ran across the dark green marble of the entry gallery. He halfway expected her to run after him and yank him back inside from the elevator vestibule.
Downstairs, Eddie, the doorman, said, “Evening, Mr. McCoy,” and stared at him with a look that seemed to say, “And why did the cops come to see you?”
“Hello, Eddie,” he said without pausing to look at him. He began walking up Park Avenue.
Once he reached the corner, he rushed to the fateful telephone booth.
Carefully, carefully, he dialed Maria’s number. First at the hideaway. No answer. Then he called the apartment on Fifth. A Spanish voice said Mrs. Ruskin couldn’t come to the telephone. Damn! Should he say it’s urgent? Should he leave his name? But the old man, her husband, Arthur, might very well be there. He said he would call back.
Had to kill some time to make it plausible that he went to Freddy Button’s building and dropped off a note and came back. He walked over to Madison Avenue…the Whitney Museum…the Carlyle Hotel…Three men came out of the door that led to the Café Carlyle. They were about his age. They were talking and laughing, with their heads thrown back, blissfully boiled…All three carried attaché cases, and two of them wore dark suits, white shirts, and pale yellow ties with small print patterns. These pale yellow ties had become the insignia of the worker bees of the business world…What the hell did they have to laugh and crow about, other than the alcoholic buzz in their brains, the poor deluded—
He was experiencing the resentment of those who discover that, despite their own grave condition, the world goes on about its business, heartless, without even so much as a long face.
When he returned to the apartment, Judy was upstairs in their bedroom suite.
“Well—see? Didn’t take so long,” he said. He sounded as if he expected a star, for keeping his word.
Several possible comments had time to run through her head. What she in fact said, finally, was: “We have less than an hour, Sherman. Now, do me a favor. Please wear the navy suit you got last year, the deep navy. Midnight blue, I think it is. And a solid tie, not one of those prints. That navy crepe de chine. Or a shepherd’s check is all right. You always look nice in those.”
A shepherd’s check is all right…He was overcome by despair and guilt. They were out there, circling, and he hadn
’t had the courage to tell her. She thought she could still afford the incalculable luxury of worrying about the correct necktie.
15. The Masque of the Red Death
Sherman and Judy arrived at the Bavardages’ building on Fifth Avenue in a black Buick sedan, with a white-haired driver, hired for the evening from Mayfair Town Car, Inc. They lived only six blocks from the Bavardages, but walking was out of the question. For a start, there was Judy’s dress. It was bare-shouldered but had short puffed sleeves the size of Chinese lampshades covering the upper arms. It had a fitted waist but was puffed up in the skirt to a shape that reminded Sherman of an aerial balloon. The invitation to dinner at the Bavardages’ prescribed “informal” dress. But this season, as tout le monde knew, women dressed far more extravagantly for informal dinners in fashionable apartments than for formal dances in grand ballrooms. In any event, it was impossible for Judy to walk down the street in this dress. A five-mile-an-hour head wind would have stopped her cold.
But there was a yet more compelling reason for the hired car and driver. It would be perfectly okay for the two of them to arrive for dinner at a Good Building (the going term) on Fifth Avenue by taxi, and it would cost less than three dollars. But what would they do after the party? How could they walk out of the Bavardages’ building and have all the world, tout le monde, see them standing out in the street, the McCoys, that game couple, their hands up in the air, bravely, desperately, pathetically trying to hail a taxi? The doormen would be no help because they would be tied up ushering tout le monde to their limousines. So he had hired this car and this driver, this white-haired driver, who would drive them six blocks, wait three and a half or four hours, then drive them six blocks and depart. Including a 15 percent tip and the sales tax, the cost would be $197.20 or $246.50, depending on whether they were charged for four or five hours in all.
Hemorrhaging money! Did he even have a job left! Churning fear…Lopwitz…Surely, Lopwitz wouldn’t sack him…because of three miserable days…and $6 million, you ninny!…Must start cutting back…tomorrow…Tonight, of course, it was imperative to have a car and driver.