A child! Why I was taking care of the whole family when I was her age. A child? Well, that’s you Missus, too kind by half. I’ll get that tea, now.
You’re the kind one, Mrs. Veal. A smile would break across Mrs. Veal’s face, and a blush (a little bronzer would do miracles her father had said).
Lily imagined her mother worried sick about her, wrapped tight in celery-colored satin. Then she thought of Lawrence ordering extra cinnamon for his toast in the satanic café and rubbing it on his pinky finger, then onto his lower lip and licking it with a small point of his shocking pink tongue and she’d been mesmerized. Though he hadn’t looked at her, it was still possible he thought of her when he made this gesture. Lily’s grandmother said that Lily should always let love slide and flow like water, and once her face was wet with drizzle and her hair fragrant with foreign dope, she’d slip down Achilles’s pedestal and walk home quickly in the dark on the park side, too damp and sad now to be caught in front of the Dorchester.
The first week in December, Lily was doing her slow-motion walk when she spotted her father’s blue Bentley crawling down her side of Park Lane. She was at the point where a sharp fast left turn could squeeze her past the doorman and into the hotel. Nearly four o’clock and traffic was snarled. If he leapt right out of the car, impatient, he would see her. She dipped into the nearest door, into the lobby and down the stairs where nervous waiters were preparing for tea. The waiters ignored her; they were accustomed to American children lost in the lobby. Hold on there, mate. She heard his voice from somewhere nearby. High and low, smooth and crackled at the same time. Holy shit, laughed Lawrence. Look what the cat dragged in.
Oh, said Lily.
Mater, I’d like you to meet my school friend, oh shit. Is it Natalie? Nancy?
Lily.
Well, how nice. Are you staying here, too, dear? asked Lawrence’s mother. Everything about her shimmered. From her winged plum-colored hair to her patent leather boots. Lily stared and Lawrence’s mother laughed. Well, she said. Aren’t you adorable. Will you join us for tea, Lily?
She actually spoke. No, no thank you. Lily couldn’t fathom how to leave now, and felt her breath go very shallow. What if her father suddenly came through the door? It was possible. Her father was unpredictable now said her mother. Keeping us on our toes she’d sigh and take a long close-eyed drag on her Dunhill. What I’d give for an American cigarette, but she had plenty of those stacked in a kitchen cupboard. They were both unpredictable. Now Lawrence was studying her face like she’d seen him study the satanic artifacts at the café, carefully, thoughtfully. Everything here is meant to do something very specific, you know, he’d told them. Yes, I learned about this in Indonesia where they’re pretty keen on devils. Very keen, he told Mirabel, who smiled her mystical smile. But now he watched Lily with the same interest.
Mums, may I show Lily the Bernford?
His mother laughed. Poor Lily. You and that Bernford! Then she sighed. Ten minutes, or I start tea without you. Lily, you are about to see the dullest painting in the entire world, bar none. But Lawrence and his father are besotted. Go. I hope you’ll tell me what you think. She grasped Lily’s forearm and smiled without wrinkling her face, more a beam of delighted approval. You’ll settle this once and for all, Lily!
Come on, said Lawrence, and walked toward the waiting elevator.
I’ll figure it out for you, Mrs. Weatherfield, said Lily.
Lawrence’s mother raised her eyebrows. Good girl, she said and blinked as if distracted then turned to survey her impact on the room.
Hey! Hurry up, said Lawrence, pushing her into the elevator. Penthouse, Jeeves, express, no stops for the proletariat, si’l vous plaît.
Sir. The elevator attendant nodded and pulled the lever.
Listen, I hope you brought your naughty lace? No grubby cotton knickers like the last time, Lawrence said, stepping out at his floor. Lily glanced at the man who seemed to be counting something beyond her head. We’re going to look at a painting, she said. She smiled at him, but he closed the gate.
What kind of religion is your mother?
Self-veneration, it’s very portable. She can practice anywhere.
I don’t understand.
Neither does she. Lawrence edged an enormous key out of his tight pocket. Welcome to the shrine. He opened the thick white door onto a very prim-looking room with flounced skirts on two high narrow beds, lace curtains yanked back within heavy satin drapes held with hooks and through the panes Hyde Park shimmered green and wet. Lily wondered if she’d been visible all along, if he could even see Achilles from here.
You share this with your mother? she asked.
Lawrence choked. No way. Come on, I’ll show you the beast.
I thought you loved the painting?
You’re very literal.
Lawrence opened the adjoining door and they went on to the drawing room of the suite, smaller than she would have guessed, and Lawrence as if mind reading, said they were economizing. It’s nice! she said, but it wasn’t. Two long narrow windows let in the grim afternoon. Two heavy sofas were covered in shiny brown brocade and faced one another, two rickety gold tables piled with ashtrays and magazines. Everything was unhappily paired. Sit, Lawrence pointed to the window-side sofa. And sit up straight, he laughed. She smiled though she didn’t see the joke exactly yet. She sank into the too soft cushion and a puff of old soured perfume rose up as if his mother had spilled some long ago. Something in the smell made her worry.
Lawrence rummaged in a trunk-like suitcase open on the floor. A fight to the death, he said, between the chambermaids and the trunk. We open it—he tossed a stack of embroidered squares on the armchair—and they come and tidy up and we can’t find a thing. Lawrence piled some ceramics wrapped in plastic on the rug. Blue-and-white Japanese cups and bowls wobbled then tipped. Here we go, said Lawrence. He stood and adjusted the wide black belt that hovered just at his hips. Don’t move, he shouted as she stood up to see. I said stay where you are.
Lily sat. She held very still and felt alert, like something needed her protection here, but she wasn’t sure what. Lawrence was grinning at her. Almost a frozen smile, as if she was supposed to understand something beneath it, something private and important. He kept his hands behind his back. Is that it? she asked. Is that the painting?
Shut the fuck up! said Lawrence, but in a whisper, which made Lily look to the other door, closed on the adjoining bedroom. Would they wake someone sleeping? Maybe his father.
Are you watching? And now he was shouting. Can’t you keep your fucking eye on the ball?
Lily knew her mouth was open and closed it, blinking. She thought of her father, possibly in the lobby, and what he would say if he found her here, in Lawrence’s suite. He would come right in and say, Sweetheart? Everything okay? Yes, she was sure of it. Lawrence dropped the object he held in his hands, hid it from her, covered it now in the embroidered squares. Sorry, he said. You failed.
I did?
Yup. He was walking toward her, watching her carefully. But these, he said and he bent over and reached out toward her hands, crossed at the wrists, fingers clutching her knees. Lawrence picked up one hand in both of his and murmured, Perfect, as if speaking to himself. Perfect, he said again, and looked deep into her eyes as if she’d been keeping something from him. He took the hand he held and spread open the fingers, his touch ticklish and odd, then he lay the hand down in her lap, and tapped it up, farther, tighter toward her belly, and she let her hand be moved, and watched it almost like a puppy being prompted into place. He arranged her fingers splayed at the top of her thigh and then quickly, much more quickly, brought the other into place, so that her hands made a basket shape over her crotch like rice Chex or that plaid bikini bottom she’d wanted so much; neither of them could breathe well, and Lawrence’s eyes were tearing. A loud crash right outside the door frightened them both. Jesus fuck, cried Lawrence. Better go, he said in a rough voice. Better go right now. Right now. Get out.
Lily found the vestibule and the door. She had trouble with the knob and finally got it open and she was out in the corridor, ready to weep; then she was weeping with her failure and her loneliness.
Poor young miss. The chambermaid had a black hairnet that came down over her wrinkled forehead and made the skin bunch the top of her nose. Poor young miss, she sang again, and opened a brand-new box of tissues for Lily. That little boy is very nasty, do you hear? Find your mother, now, and think no more of it. Just a terrible dream. Not touching right? Please say not touching.
Lily thanked her for the tissue and shook her head. Not really. The chambermaid waved her away. Go find Mama, now, she said and wheeled her cart toward the suite.
17
Harry Lewis made an odd spectacle in his gold suede dinner jacket, sitting, or more squatting, at the blackjack table, as if he might be required to spring off his chair at short notice. Stitched up in Hong Kong, he told Nick, fingering the cuff, identical to something he saw on Sinatra in Vegas a couple months ago. Saw it; had it shipped right here. Feel.
Very nice, said Nick, but you smell like dead game. Harry grunted and nodded, called the dealer a cocksucker, but quietly, caressingly, and in turn, it seemed, he was allowed to occupy the side chair next to Nick without playing a single hand.
Cold feet? You? said Nick.
Studying, kiddo, watching the experts in their lairs. Look at this clown and his upright chest. The baby-blond hair combed sideways? All a front. The Sicilians would run at the sight of him.
This got an acknowledgment from the dealer. A faint smile.
He’s the master. The sensei. Right, Kimpton?
No response.
All right, said Harry. I’ve seen enough. Deal me in. Nicky? Stake me.
Nick reached into a pocket and dropped a thousand-pound plaque on the table.
Two more. Come on. A little faith, please. And Nick obliged. On his other side the woman’s arm pressed into his gave off a shiver as she lifted and peeked at her dealt cards. She’d lost and lost again. No visible backing. He began to notice a jasmine scent about her, an old-fashioned perfume. He tucked a hundred-pound chip into her evening purse, a tiny gold seashell left unclasped on the green baize edge. Grazie, Signor, mille grazie, she said, with a tragic glance before dropping the chip on her scant remaining pile.
Harry overdrew his hand right away. Kimpton, you lying bastard. Then he scowled over at the woman who was still in the game. What, you’re backing the table? he said to Nick. He knocked back out of his chair. Come on. Let’s split. Presto.
I want to see if she wins.
Oh, she’ll win.
Nick smiled, Signorina.
Yeah right, Tarzan, said Harry. Come on. And he pulled Nick up and out through the throng toward the next room. Look at this place, said Harry. It’s amateur night. But I’m telling you, that Kimpton is an artist.
How do you know? said Nick. You played one hand.
You think I can’t tell the difference?
Okay, you know.
I do know.
That’s what I just said.
Nick turned to watch the woman through the crowd; her dress had a lavender sparkle in the straps, so subtle, just that touch on a black dress, simple. He looked back at Harry. Ciao, Harry.
Now, don’t be cross.
Cross? He laughed.
Grab a nightcap with me.
Not tonight.
One. Just one. I’m a dick. Right? We know that.
Nick nodded, slightly, still watching the woman, who now gazed up at him. Her eyes were slow to focus, and then opened with a recognition that was more than gratitude for a tossed chip. She’d won, maybe for the first time tonight; he could see it.
But not here, Harry was saying. It’s stupid night. Let’s go to Annabel’s. What do you say?
Actually she didn’t rise, but it seemed to Nick she was almost levitating, the tiny sparkles on her shoulders, her eyes moved into his. He reached into his pocket for what he had left.
Yeah, cash in. We’ll get a drink.
One minute.
Nick zigzagged back across the room and he could feel the place now, out of Harry’s muting range. He relaxed and shifted in and out of the bodies, smiling, nodding, saying hello, until he was back at Kimpton’s table. He pulled the rest of the chips from his jacket and the last thousand plaque from his trouser pocket.
He leaned down to say something while Kimpton swept in the cards. She turned. She had very warm-looking skin, deep apricot color to her cheeks, a clever dot of white lipstick centered on a full pretty mouth, black hair in a precarious pile with tiny jeweled fasteners, long narrow amber eyes. Cara mia, she said. She seemed to speak in his ear. He bent closer as if to listen, bent into the jostling around the table. He pulled her hand gently from the fold of silk in her lap and placed the chips in her open palm and felt the give in her body, just like that. She bowed over his hand and startled at what he’d offered her. He touched her shoulder, smiled, and turned away.
Obliging, isn’t she, said Harry when Nick caught up with him.
Nick shrugged. But he was happy now. Harry couldn’t touch him.
You didn’t even have to send a script. She got every cue, like a tango or something; she’s good.
Whatever you say, Harry, always so valuable.
Harry tilted his head sideways, gave Nick a look like he was taking aim at something.
But Nick was much too light and he would hold on to that all the way out the door to the sidewalk no matter what Harry had to say. Then it was gone.
Chill damp slick-feeling air, the stinking exhaust of a taxi just passed. Two in the morning, and Harry was still on his toes, looking for action. Nick felt in his pocket for the plastic whiffer and gave himself a quick blast.
Yeah, offer that thing to Miss Hot Pants.
Nick stood and caught his breath for a minute. He could hear the wheeze start up in his chest, feel the pull. What she really wanted—he paused, took a breath—was your number, Harry. So what could I do?
What’s the matter with you?
What? Nick felt his own cheek as if testing for a fever. Nothing’s the matter. I just don’t feel like a drink.
I mean, what? I’m supposed to be impressed because you can make a hooker smile by giving her money?
Nick laughed. It’s not that.
Really?
No.
Because I think you’re sending me a message, baby.
Nothing you don’t already know.
What do I know? Harry stepped a little closer, put a hand on the cuff of Nick’s coat. This is what my grandfather would say was fine goods. A garment guy, you knew that. Did you know that? Harry smoothed down the collar, plucked at the stitched notch. Very nice. Is Derek taking care of you these days? His breath juniper strong, Give me a kiss, doll, he whispered.
Let it go, Harry.
What’s that? The coat? Sure. He put his hand inside, pushing gently into Nick’s chest. Where’s that fat wallet, he said, feeling down his side. Give me some of those big chips. You know you’ll get better than a smile, right?
Nick lifted up his arms for the frisk, Harry humming a tune. Nick leaned in closer, put his hand over Harry’s, pulled it up slowly, turned over the palm and kissed it. Harry grinned. That’s right, baby. That’s it.
Night, said Nick and started walking. So long.
Fuck off, you faggot.
Yeah, yeah.
Hey! I ran into this Vivienne kid who said she knew you. Now there’s a kick.
But Nick was already tripping his way across the cobbles of Curzon Street. Back of the hand waving over his shoulder, Ciao, Harry-bird. He bent over coughing, then straightened back up. Good night.
You can run, baby, sang out Harry. Oh yeah, you can run.
Nick was out of sight, around the corner, and Harry and his stupid menace were extinguished in his head so thoroughly he wanted to laugh. Bumbling prick. Lionel’s bird dog. Harry used to guard the files on West Fifty-Fourth Street, collected all the chits, the order slips at the end of the day and looked them over like someone who could read a number. Then he’d flex his jaw in a way that conveyed threat more effectively than a cocked gun lying on the table. But who needed to be threatened? They were crating cash, at least in theory, on paper. Even the runners, even the kids going to the deli for coffee were just putting off buying Cadillacs for their mothers until they had the time.
We’re doing a friendly service. We’re like farmers, spreading the bounty, Lionel would say over a late dinner in a back booth at Mike Manello’s. He’d lay his hands on the thick white cloth, wrists together making his fingers flutter like the branches: It’s like we’ve got a ladder and we’ve got a tree, but that tree’s upside down, deep in the ground and full of rare fruit. We’re just divvying it up as we find it, giving everyone a bushel or two. It’s kind of beautiful, really.
And Harry, who listened when Lionel spoke like he’d smack anyone who sneezed, said, Yeah, it is. And when the tree is bare, we’ll seal up that crap hole for good.
The Loved Ones Page 15