The Bonfire of the Vanities

by Tom Wolfe

  A sad, sad wave of sentiment rolled over Sherman. What could he say to Campbell? And how much would she pick up from what other people said about him? Six years old; so guileless; a little girl who loves flowers and rabbits.

  “I understand,” he said in an utterly depressed voice. How could Campbell be anything but crushed by it all?

  After saying goodbye to Killian, he sat at his desk and let the diode-green letters and numbers on the computer screens skid in front of his eyes. Logically, intellectually, he knew that Campbell, his little girl, would be the first person to believe him totally and the last to lose faith in him, and yet there was no use trying to think logically and intellectually about it. He could see her tender and exquisite little face.

  His concern for Campbell had one fortunate effect, at least. It overshadowed the first of his difficult tasks, which was going back in to see Eugene Lopwitz.

  When he showed up at Lopwitz’s suite again, Miss Bayles gave him a wary look. Obviously Lopwitz had told her that he had gone walking out of the room like a lunatic. She directed him to a bombastic French armchair and kept an eye on him for the fifteen minutes he was kept waiting before Lopwitz summoned him back in.

  Lopwitz was standing when Sherman entered the office and didn’t offer him a seat. Instead, he intercepted him out in the middle of the room’s vast Oriental rug, as if to say, “Okay, I let you back in. Now make it quick.”

  Sherman raised his chin and tried to look dignified. But he felt giddy at the thought of what he was about to reveal, about to confess.

  “Gene,” he said, “I didn’t mean to walk out of here so abruptly, but I had no choice. That call that came in while we were talking. You asked me if I had any problems. Well, the fact of the matter is, I do. I’m going to be arrested in the morning.”

  At first Lopwitz just stared at him. Sherman noticed how thick and wrinkled his eyelids were. Then he said, “Let’s go over here,” and motioned toward the cluster of wingback chairs.

  They sat down once more. Sherman felt a twinge of resentment at the look of absorption in Lopwitz’s bat face, which had voyeur written all over it. Sherman told him of the Lamb case as it had first appeared in the press and then of the visit of the two detectives to his house, although without the humiliating details. All the while he stared at Lopwitz’s rapt face and felt the sickening thrill of the hopeless wanton who flings good money after bad and a good life after vile weak sins. The temptation to tell all, to be truly wanton, to tell of the sweet loamy loins of Maria Ruskin and the fight in the jungle and his victory over the two brutes—to tell Lopwitz that whatever he had done, he had done it as a man—and that as a man he had been blameless—and, more than blameless, perhaps even a hero—the temptation to lay bare the entire drama—in which I was not a villain!—was very nearly more than he could withstand. But he held back.

  “That was my lawyer who called while I was in here, Gene, and he says I shouldn’t go into the details of what happened or didn’t happen with anybody right now, but I do want you to know one thing, particularly since I don’t know what’s going to be said in the press about all this. And that is that I did not hit anybody with my car or drive it recklessly or do anything else that I can’t have a completely clear conscience about.”

  As soon as he said “conscience,” he realized that every guilty man talks about his clear conscience.

  “Who’s your lawyer?” asked Lopwitz.

  “His name is Thomas Killian.”

  “Don’t know him. You oughta get Roy Branner. He’s the greatest litigator in New York. Fabulous. If I was ever in a jam, I’d get Roy. If you want him, I’ll call him.”

  Nonplussed, Sherman listened as Lopwitz went on about the power of the fabulous Roy Branner and the cases he had won and how he first met him and how close they were and how their wives knew each other and how much Roy would do for him if he, Gene Lopwitz, said the word.

  So that was Lopwitz’s overpowering instinct upon hearing of this crisis in Sherman’s life: to tell him of his inside knowledge and the important people he knew and what a hold he, the magnetic baron, had over the Big Name. The second instinct was more practical. It was set off by the word press. Lopwitz proposed, in a way that did not invite debate, that Sherman take a leave of absence until this unfortunate matter was resolved.

  This perfectly reasonable suggestion, calmly made, set off a neural alarm. If he took a leave of absence, he might—he wasn’t completely sure—he might still draw his base salary of $10,000 a month, which was less than half of what he had to pay each month in loan payments. But he would no longer share in commissions and bond trading division profits. For all practical purposes, he would have no more income.

  The telephone on Lopwitz’s Irish Chippendale side table rang with its little cooing ring. Lopwitz picked it up.

  “Yeah?…You do?” Big smile. “Terrific…Hello?…Hello?…Bobby? You hear me all right?” He looked at Sherman and gave him a relaxed smile and mouthed the man’s name, Bobby Shaflett. Then he looked down and concentrated on the receiver. His face was creased and crinkled with purest joy. “You say it’s okay?…Wonderful! I’m glad to do it. They’ve given you something to eat, I assume…Good, good. Now listen. You need anything, you just ask them. They’re nice fellows. Dja know they both flew in Vietnam?…Oh sure. They’re terrific fellows. You want a drink or anything, you just ask ’em. I keep some 1934 Armagnac on the plane. I think it’s stowed in the back. Ask the smaller one, Tony. He knows where it is…Well, when you come back tonight, then. It’s great stuff. That’s the greatest year there ever was for Armagnac, 1934. It’s very smooth. It’ll help you relax…So it’s okay, hunh?…Great. Well…What?…Not at all, Bobby. Glad to do it, glad to do it.”

  When he hung up, he couldn’t have looked happier. The most famous opera singer in America was in his airplane, hitching a ride to Vancouver, Canada, with Lopwitz’s own two former Air Force captains, veterans of combat in Vietnam, as chauffeurs and butlers, serving him Armagnac more than half a century old, $1,200 a bottle, and now this wonderful round famous fellow was thanking him, paying his respects, from forty thousand feet above the state of Montana.

  Sherman stared at Lopwitz’s smiling face and grew frightened. Lopwitz wasn’t angry at him. He wasn’t perturbed. He wasn’t even particularly put out. No, the fate of Sherman McCoy didn’t make all that much difference. Lopwitz’s English Reproduction life would endure Sherman McCoy’s problems, and Pierce & Pierce would endure them. Everybody would enjoy the juicy story for a while, and bonds would go on being sold in vast quantities, and the new chief bond salesman—who?—Rawlie?—or somebody else?—would show up in Lopwitz’s Tea-at-the-Connaught conference room to discuss raking Pierce & Pierce’s billions to this part of the market or that. Another air-to-ground telephone call from some fat celebrity and Lopwitz wouldn’t even remember who he was.

  “Bobby Shaflett,” said Lopwitz, as if he and Sherman were sitting around having a drink before dinner. “He was over Montana when he called.” He shook his head and chuckled, as if to say, “A hell of a guy.”

  21. The Fabulous Koala

  Never in his life had he seen things, the things of everyday life, more clearly. And his eyes poisoned every one of them!

  In the bank on Nassau Street, which he had entered hundreds of times, where tellers, guards, junior officers, and the manager himself knew him as the estimable Mr. McCoy of Pierce & Pierce and called him by name, where he was so esteemed, in fact, they had given him a personal loan of $1.8 million to buy his apartment—and that loan cost him $21,000 a month!—and where was it going to come from!—oh God!—he now noticed the smallest things…the egg-and-dart molding around the cornice on the main floor…the old bronze shades on the lamps on the check-writing desks in the middle of the lobby…the spiral fluting on the posts supporting the railing between the lobby and the section where the officers sat…All so solid! so precise! so orderly!…and now so specious! such a mockery!…so worthless, offering no protect
ion at all…

  Everybody smiled at him. Kind respectful unsuspecting souls…Today still Mr. McCoy Mr. McCoy Mr. McCoy Mr. McCoy Mr. McCoy…How very sad to think that in this solid orderly place…tomorrow…

  Ten thousand in cash…Killian said the bail money had to be in cash…The teller was a young black woman, no more than twenty-five, wearing a blouse with a high-neck stock and a gold pin…a cloud with a face blowing the wind…in gold…His eyes fastened upon the strange sadness of the wind’s face of gold…If he presented her with a check for $10,000, would she question it? Would he have to go to a bank officer and explain? What would he say? For bail? The estimable Mr. McCoy Mr. McCoy Mr. McCoy Mr. McCoy…

  In fact, all she said was “You know we have to report all transactions of $10,000 or more, don’t you, Mr. McCoy?”

  Report? To a bank officer!

  She must have seen the puzzlement on his face, because she said, “To the government. We have to fill out a form.”

  Then it dawned on him. It was a regulation designed to foil drug dealers who did business in large amounts of cash.

  “How long does it take? Does it involve a lot of paperwork?”

  “No, we just fill out the form. We have all the information we need on file, your address and so on.”

  “Well—all right, that’s fine.”

  “How would you like it? In hundreds?”

  “Uh, yes, in hundreds.” He didn’t have the faintest idea of what $10,000 in hundred-dollar bills would look like.

  She left the window and soon returned with what looked like a small paper brick with a band of paper around it. “Here you are. This is a hundred one-hundred-dollar bills.”

  He smiled nervously. “That’s it? Doesn’t look like much, does it?”

  “Well…depends. All bills come in packages of a hundred, the ones same as the hundreds. When you see a hundred on there, it’s impressive enough, I guess.”

  He propped his attaché case up on the marble sill of the window and snapped open the lid and took the paper brick from her and put it inside and snapped the case shut and then glanced at her face again. She knew, didn’t she! She knew there was something sordid about having to take out such a desperate amount of cash. There was bound to be!

  In fact, her face betrayed neither approval nor disapproval. She smiled, politely, to show her goodwill—and a wave of fear swept over him. Goodwill! What would she or any other black person who looked into the face of Sherman McCoy think tomorrow—

  —of the man who ran down a black honor student and left him to die!

  As he walked down Nassau, toward Wall, on his way to Dunning Sponget & Leach, he had an attack of money anxiety. The $10,000 had pretty well wiped out his checking account. He had another $16,000 or so in a so-called money market savings account that could be shifted at any time to the checking account. This was money he kept on hand for—incidentals!—the ordinary bills that came up every month! and would keep on coming up!—like waves at the shore—and now what? Very shortly he would have to invade principal—and there wasn’t that much principal. Had to stop thinking about it. He thought of his father. He would be there in five minutes…He couldn’t imagine it. And that would be nothing compared to Judy and Campbell.

  As he walked into his father’s office, his father rose up from the chair behind his desk…but Sherman’s poisoned eyes picked out the most insignificant thing…the saddest thing…Just across from his father’s window, in a window of the new glass-and-aluminum building across the street, a young white woman was staring at the street below and probing the intertragian notch of her left ear with a Q-tip…a very plain young woman with tight curly hair, staring at the street and cleaning her ears…How very sad…The street was so narrow he felt as if he could reach out and rap on the plate glass where she stood…The new building had cast his father’s little office into a perpetual gloom. He had to keep the lights on at all times. At Dunning Sponget & Leach, old partners, such as John Campbell McCoy, were not forced to retire, but they were expected to do the right thing. This meant giving up grand offices and grand views to make way for the rising middle-agelings, lawyers in their forties and early fifties still swollen with ambition and visions of grander views, grander offices.

  “Come in, Sherman,” said his father…the erstwhile Lion…with a smile and also a wary note. No doubt he had been able to tell from the tone of Sherman’s voice on the telephone that this would not be an ordinary visit. The Lion…He was still an impressive figure with his aristocratic chin and his thick white hair combed straight back and his English suit and his heavy watch chain across the belly of his vest. But his skin seemed thin and delicate, as if at any moment his entire leonine hide might crumple inside all the formidable worsted clothes. He motioned toward the armchair by his desk and said, quite pleasantly, “The bond market must be in the doldrums. Suddenly I rate a visit in the middle of the day.”

  A visit in the middle of the day—the Lion’s old office had not only been on the corner, it had commanded a view of New York Harbor. What bliss it had been, as a boy, to go visit Daddy in his office! From the moment he stepped off the elevator on the eighteenth floor he was His Majesty the Child. Everyone, the receptionist, the junior partners, even the porters, knew his name and sang it out as if nothing could bring greater happiness to the loyal subjects of Dunning Sponget than the sight of his little face and budding aristocratic chin. All other traffic seemed to come to a halt as His Majesty the Child was escorted down the hall and deep into the CEO’s suite to the office of the Lion himself, on the corner, where the door opened and—glorious!—the sun flooded in from over the harbor, which was spread out for him down below. The Statue of Liberty, the Staten Island ferries, the tugboats, the police boats, the cargo ships coming in through the Narrows in the distance…What a show—for him! What bliss!

  Several times, in that glorious office, they came close to sitting down and having a real talk. Young as he was, Sherman had perceived that his father was trying to open a door in his formality and beckon him through. And he had never known quite how. Now, in the blink of an eye, Sherman was thirty-eight, and there was no door at all. How could he put it? In his entire life he had never dared embarrass his father with a single confession of weakness, let alone moral decay and abject vulnerability.

  “Well, how’s it going at Pierce & Pierce?”

  Sherman laughed a mirthless laugh. “I don’t know. It’s going on without me. That much I know.”

  His father leaned forward. “You’re not leaving?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He still didn’t know how to put it. So, weakly, guiltily, he fell back on the shock approach, the blunt demand for sympathy, that had worked with Gene Lopwitz. “Dad, I’m going to be arrested in the morning.”

  His father stared at him for what seemed like a very long time, then opened his mouth and closed it and sighed a little sigh, as if rejecting all of mankind’s usual responses of surprise or disbelief when a disaster is announced. What he finally said, while perfectly logical, puzzled Sherman: “By whom?”

  “By…the police. The New York City police.”

  “On what charge?” Such bewilderment and pain on his face. Oh, he had stunned him, all right, and probably demolished his capacity to get angry…and how contemptible a strategy it was…

  “Reckless endangerment, leaving the scene of an accident, failure to report an accident.”

  “Automobile,” said his father, as if talking to himself. “And they’re going to arrest you tomorrow?”

  Sherman nodded and began his sordid story, all the while studying his father’s face and noting, with relief and guilt, that he remained stunned. Sherman dealt with the subject of Maria with Victorian delicacy. Scarcely knew her. Had only seen her three or four times, in innocuous situations. Should never have flirted with her, of course. Flirted.

  “Who is this woman, Sherman?”

  “She’s married to a man named Arthur Ruskin.”

  “Ah. I think I know wh
o you mean. He’s Jewish, isn’t he?”

  What earthly difference does it make? “Yes.”

  “And who is she?”

  “She’s from someplace in South Carolina.”

  “What was her maiden name?”

  Her maiden name? “Dean. I don’t think she’s Colonial Dames material, Dad.”

  When he got as far as the first appearance of the stories in the newspapers, Sherman could tell his father didn’t want to hear any more of the sordid details. He interrupted again.

  “Who’s representing you, Sherman? I assume you do have a lawyer.”

  “Yes. His name is Thomas Killian.”

  “Never heard of him. Who is he?”

  With a heavy heart: “He’s with a firm called Dershkin, Bellavita, Fishbein & Schlossel.”

  The Lion’s nostrils quivered, and his jaw muscles bunched up, as if he were trying to keep from retching. “How on earth did you find them?”

  “They specialize in criminal law. Freddy Button recommended them.”

  “Freddy? You let Freddy…” He shook his head. He couldn’t find the words.

  “He’s my lawyer!”

  “I know, Sherman, but Freddy…” The Lion glanced toward the door and then lowered his voice. “Freddy’s a perfectly fine person, Sherman, but this is a serious matter!”

  “You turned me over to Freddy, Dad, a long time ago!”

  “I know!—but not for anything important!” He shook his head some more. Bewilderment upon bewilderment.

  “Well, in any event, I’m represented by a lawyer named Thomas Killian.”

  “Ah, Sherman.” A far-off weariness. The horse is out of the barn. “I wish you had come to me as soon as this thing happened. Now, at this stage—well, but that’s where we are, isn’t it? So let’s try to go from here. One thing I’m quite sure of. You have got to find the very best representation available. You’ve got to find lawyers you can trust, implicitly, because you’re putting an awful lot in their hands. You can’t just go wandering in to some people named Dershbein—whatever it is. I’m going to call Chester Whitman and Ed LaPrade and sound them out.”