Social Crimes

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Social Crimes Page 21

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock


  The wearer, her back to me, was talking to Miranda Somers. I couldn’t see her face, yet there was something disturbingly familiar about her. I drew nearer—moth to flame. The closer I got, the more disconcerting the image became. When I was only footsteps away, the woman suddenly turned and laughed loudly, her long white neck straining upward in a gesture of forced gaiety.

  Monique.

  I looked at her face, the white complexion, the intense dark eyes, the shiny black hair. I couldn’t move. My eyes were anchored to her. I heard nothing except a weird mechanical pounding in my head, like the sound of a cash register drawer repeatedly slamming shut.

  A waiter passing a tray of hors d’oeuvres splattered with what looked like pink shaving cream brushed by me. It crossed my mind to grab this tray of disgusting finger food and fling it at Monique and her moonlight satin dress, when I felt a distracting tap on my shoulder.

  “Hey, sweetie!” said a voice.

  It was June Kahn, in that ghastly orange ruffle dress I’d forbidden her to buy at Bergdorf’s. This time, she recognized me.

  “Oh my God, Jo, you look fabulous! I’m so happy to see you here, sweetie. I was so worried about you.” She pointed to my necklace. “Whatever you have to hock, never hock that.”

  June, who thought she was being funny, had no idea how close to the bone she’d cut. “Jo? Sweetie? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I wish,” I said, nodding in Monique’s direction.

  June gave me an empathetic pat on the arm. “I know. Courage.”

  Nauseated as I felt, I was unable to tear myself away from the spectacle of Monique in all her glory. It is a curious fact of social life that the pain of exclusion often confers a perverse pleasure.

  “Look at them all sucking up to her,” I said in a purposely languid drawl as if I were amused by the situation. “Remember the days when no one would speak to her?”

  “Social life!” June shrugged, as if that were the explanation for all the ills of the world.

  I looked at June with sudden apprehension. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with her, would you?”

  “No, sweetie, of course not.”

  “And Charlie?”

  “You know Charlie. He always forgets who he’s supposed to hate.”

  “Well, you make sure and remind him.”

  “Jo, dear, I know this may sound a bit Pollyanna-ish, but all this is really so unimportant.”

  “June, dear,” I said, trying to contain my irritation, “people always think the things they have are unimportant. By the way, do you know who my mystery man is?”

  June looked perplexed. “What?”

  “The main reason I’m here is because Trish has some billionaire from Chicago she wants to introduce me to.”

  June grabbed my arm. “Oh, I bet that’s Brad Thompson,” she said.

  “You know him? What’s he like?”

  “Paper mills. So rich you can’t believe it. And very low-key. Divine. I sat next to him the other night. He’s just gone on the board of Chapel’s. He loves to sail.”

  “I’m glad you told me. I guess I won’t mention I think boats are prisons on which you can drown,” I said, quoting Samuel Johnson.

  “No, don’t,” June said earnestly. “Oh, and his daughter’s got something to do with Russia.”

  “What?”

  “Something. I forget.”

  We were interrupted by waiters with gongs and the flashing on and off of lights.

  “Whatever happened to ‘Dinner is served’?” I said to June.

  The Grand Ballroom was studded with dozens of round tables covered in burlap, sprinkled with fresh earth, with a phallic skyscraper made of moss at the center of each one. The bluish green nuclear winter lighting was highly unflattering. People looked like the walking dead.

  “A new low in decoration,” I whispered to June as we waded in. “What number are you at?”

  “Forty-eight,” June replied. “You?”

  “Forty-seven.”

  “Goody, goody, we’re right next to each other.”

  A harried young man with a clipboard was directing people to their tables in the vast room. I felt my excitement mounting as we each told him our number and he waved us toward the front. I spotted the number “47” sticking up on a white card on a table directly below the dais.

  When I arrived, Charlie Kahn and Dick Bromire both stood up to greet me. Dick seemed particularly pleased to see me.

  “Jo, dear. My God, it’s been too long,” he said, embracing me.

  Charlie was, as always, more reserved. But even he gave me a kiss.

  Roger Lowry was at the table along with his wife. I nodded politely to both of them, hoping to keep them at bay. But, unfortunately, they both got up from their seats and came over to welcome me with an effusiveness I found slightly off-putting, considering the way Roger had treated me.

  Betty was sitting down next to Charlie. She signaled me over to her. I leaned down and gave her a hug.

  “All set for a scintillating evening?” she said, squeezing my hand. “Jo-Jo. It’s so nice to see you out and about. You look good, kiddo.”

  “You, too, Betts. I’m just recharging the old batteries.”

  Betty tugged on my arm and pulled me down closer to her. Her mouth was practically in my ear.

  “Listen,” she whispered, “your girlfriend switched the fucking place cards. I saw her.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  Betty stuck out her thumb like a hitchhiker, pointing it toward the next table.

  “The Cuntess, who else? She stole your eligible. Trish is about to have a cow. Look.”

  I glanced over at the next table where June was seated. Trish Bromire was standing talking to a tall, rather distinguished-looking, auburn-haired man in a double-breasted tuxedo. They appeared to be having a slight difference of opinion. At one point, Trish took him forcibly by the hand. He demurred with a laugh and sat down in the chair in front of him. Trish pretended to shrug it off, but I could see she was upset and just didn’t want to make a scene. She walked back to our table and took me aside.

  “Jo, dear, I’m so happy to see you. Thanks so much for coming. Listen, we’ve had a little glitch. Brad Thompson? The man I wanted to introduce you to? Um, he’s going to be over at that table for the first course. He’ll join us for dessert, though. It’s a mess. I can’t go into it.”

  I, of course, didn’t let on I knew what had happened. I could see it was hard enough on Trish. She’d been kind enough to invite me. I sat between Dick and Charlie Kahn.

  Dick talked a great deal about the case the government supposedly had against him. I asked him exactly what was going on. He said they were accusing him of “petty, Leona Helmsley—type stuff.”

  I didn’t feel it my place to remind him that Mrs. Helmsley went to jail.

  “I’ve donated over a hundred and fifty million dollars to charity,” he said. “Still, they’re out to get me. What have I done wrong except be successful?”

  “Sometimes that’s enough,” I said.

  “You know you’re right, Jo.” He nodded his head. “They resent us. They really do. Trish and I live very well. We make no bones about it. We’re visible. And there’s this one little prick in the DA’s office who wants to make a name for himself through me. He just won’t let go.” Dick looked pensive for a long moment. “He can’t get anything, though, because there’s nothing to get. I ain’t Leona. Plus, I’ve got a great team of lawyers. Still, it’s a bore.”

  While Dick was talking, I stole glances at Monique—Miss Moonlight herself—who was working her wiles on my Chicago billionaire.

  The table turned and I now spoke to Charlie Kahn, who was bland as tapioca, talking about golf and Lyford Cay. Sitting next to Charlie was like floating on a raft. I didn’t have to do any work at all; I just drifted along on the current of his slow, gentle conversation.

  I noticed that the chair on Monique’s other side remained curiousl
y vacant. I wondered who was supposed to be there. The unoccupied seat was a godsend for the Countess because it meant that she could devote herself entirely to the handsome Mr. Thompson. I have to admit he looked happy with her company, especially during those frequent times when she tilted her head back and laughed like a demented swan at what I assumed was one of his jokes.

  Charlie didn’t notice my eyes wandering. Charlie didn’t notice much, or if he did, he never let on. I wore a manufactured smile and bobbed my head up and down politely, but inside I was feeling grimmer than Lee at Appomattox.

  How could I ever compete with that sexy, seductive killer who was years younger than I?

  At one point during the salad course, Betty, who must have sensed my distress, leaned behind Charlie, pinched my arm to get my attention, and whispered to me: “Don’t be too upset. I hear his wife left him for another woman.”

  I didn’t really see what that had to do with anything, but I appreciated Betty’s effort to cheer me up.

  As the night wore on, I felt that familiar fault line of masochism rumbling deep inside my gut. I was catapulted back to my childhood where the delicious torment of exclusion was always more vivid than any positive experience. That was social life in a nutshell: the delicious torment of exclusion.

  Suddenly, I caught sight of Nate Nathaniel oozing toward Monique’s table, all smiles and smarm, greeting everyone with oily charm. My heart did a cartwheel as I watched him dip down behind Monique and infect her bare shoulder with a little kiss.

  “Bon soir, cheri, you’re late,” she said, looking up at him. “Sit down, mon amour.”

  Nate shook hands with the billionaire and was settling in when Trish, God bless her, saw this as her chance to shift the seating. She signaled to Dick.

  “Uh-oh, I have to desert you,” Dick said to me. “General’s orders.”

  He grabbed his wine glass and his napkin and walked over to Monique’s table. I quickly opened my bag and checked myself out in my compact mirror. I put on some fresh lipstick. By the time Trish escorted my Chicago billionaire to the seat that Dick had occupied, I was ready for battle.

  He sat down and shook my hand.

  “Brad Thompson,” he said in a deep, husky voice.

  “Jo Slater.”

  He was very attractive close up, with solid, masculine Mount Rushmore looks. He smelled good. He had navy blue eyes, like Lucius, and a positive, self-assured manner.

  “I hear you’re from Chicago. I’ve never been there but I hear it’s a marvelous city,” I began, anxious to get the ball rolling in the right direction.

  “Chicago’s great. But I love New York. This is a really fun town. I like a city with a lot of contrasts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are so many different scenes here, all so interesting. I like going to these little Off-Broadway shows. I love experimental stuff. How about you? You a theater fan?”

  “Sometimes. I actually love museums. That’s my preferred form of entertainment.”

  “You and my daughter. She’s working at the Hermitage Museum over there in Russia, studying to be an art restorer. That’s a whole other world, boy. I have no patience for museums. When I see a beautiful thing, I want to own it. Museums are too frustrating for me,” he said, only half joking. “They remind me of what I can’t have. Hate that.”

  “I just might be able to change your mind.”

  “Think so? Okay, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll take you to a show and you take me to a museum. Then we’ll compare notes. But no faking now. If we’re bored, we say so. Deal?”

  “Deal.” We shook hands. I liked him more and more.

  Then he leaned into me with a conspiratorial air and whispered in my ear, “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Try me,” I said, hoping to sound seductive.

  “I need to duck out of here before the speeches begin.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I whispered back. “I wouldn’t mind myself.”

  “So if you’ll excuse me, lovely lady, I’m going to say good night.”

  “You mean right now?”

  He was halfway out of his seat. I just couldn’t believe it. I’d hardly had time to take a good crack at him.

  “What’s your hurry?” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “Why not stay for a few minutes? I’m thinking of taking a cruise and I hear you’re a great sailor. I’d love to get your thoughts on what type of boat I should rent.”

  “Sailboat . . . I’ve really gotta run. I want to catch the end of the Titanic documentary.”

  “The Titanic documentary?”

  “You oughta see that show. It’s supposed to be terrific.”

  “I’m living that show, thanks.”

  He smiled broadly and pointed his finger at me. “Hey, you’re funny. Catch you later, Jeanie.”

  “Jo.”

  He was gone. I looked around, vaguely embarrassed. Trish was staring at me across the table with a perplexed expression on her face. I tried to laugh off his departure.

  “Must have been something I said.”

  Trish shrugged and made a sad face as if to say, “Well, I tried.”

  I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest as waiters cleared our salad plates and replaced them with bowls of the most revolting-looking concoction I’d ever seen—some sort of slimy mousse drowning in a curdling raspberry sauce. There were little unidentified black and orange chunks floating around in it as well. God knows what they were. It looked like bloody vomit. I pushed it away.

  I glanced over at Monique and Nate, watching them as they flirted with each other, laughing like conspirators. I wondered which one of them had thought up the plan to get Lucius’s money?

  My loathing of Monique at this moment was so intense I was afraid people could see it. I was electric with hatred. I drank some wine. Even that didn’t help. I was in a state. I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, where I splashed cold water on my face and took deep breaths like Swami Shivapremenanda had taught me.

  Inhale, one, two, three . . . exhale . . . one, two, three, four, five . . . All those private yoga lessons were finally coming in handy.

  Walking back to the table, I retreated into the shadows for a moment.

  The room hummed with conversation. The waiters were still passing out that wretched dessert. My eyes were glued to Monique, who looked so stunning, so at ease, and so rich in her magnificent moonlight dress. She was telling a story, using hand gestures and facial grimaces with the timing of a polished actress. Her spellbound audience gazed at her in expectant admiration. The whole table exploded in laughter at her punch line.

  Suddenly, a wicked idea occurred to me. Walking to the back of the room, I approached a waiter and explained to him exactly what I wanted him to do. The poor man looked at me as if I were crazy and hurried on about his business. I approached another waiter, and another, and another. They all turned me down once I explained what I had in mind. About to give up, I suddenly spotted a surly-looking busboy idling near an exit, sneaking tokes on a cigarette. Just the ticket, I thought.

  “It’s not knowing how to do it yourself. It’s knowing whom to choose”—one of Clara Wilman’s famous dictums.

  “Excuse me,” I said, approaching him. He folded the cigarette into his palm and looked me up and down—a promising sign. This was definitely my man. “Would you like to make fifty dollars?”

  Shifting his weight from one leg to another, he gave me a lascivious little wink. “Whaddya have in mind?”

  “I’ll give you fifty dollars if you go over there and accidentally spill a bowl of dessert on that woman in the silvery dress,” I said, pointing at Monique.

  The busboy seemed vaguely disappointed. And disbelieving.

  “I’m serious. Here.” I handed him the folded fifty-dollar bill.

  He gave me the once-over again and shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Ruin the dress,” I said.

  Oh, the confidence of wearing couture. No armo
r offers better protection. And it’s more expensive than medieval chain mail. How well will you behave when your fabulous dress is destroyed? I thought.

  I watched keenly as the busboy cleared Monique’s table. People had barely touched the disgusting dessert. The young man picked up the full bowl in front of her, hesitated, then tripped on purpose and fell forward. The bowl landed squarely on Monique, dumping a mousse and raspberry car wreck in her lap and splattering the entire dress.

  A bomb could hardly have produced a more horrified reaction. Trish Bromire screamed. Nate Nathaniel shot up, grabbed the busboy by the scuff of his collar, and growled, “You clumsy son of a bitch.”

  Defiant, the busboy cried, “Lay off, dude, it was an accident.”

  A commotion ensued. People leapt up from their chairs and ran to Monique’s aide, offering napkins, sparkling water, sympathy, advice.

  Wriggling free of Nate’s grasp, the frightened busboy feinted back like a boxer. Nate rushed him. I watched with delight, anticipating the revelation of Nate’s true character.

  Gil Waterman grabbed Nate’s sleeve to halt his charge. The lawyer backed off reluctantly. Monique arose majestically from her chair, revealing the brownish red gelatinous stain fouling her silver gray gown. The dress was ruined. Thirty thousand dollars down the tubes. I savored my triumph from the shadows.

  Gallant and stoic, like a battlefield nurse drenched with the blood of wounded soldiers, Monique edged her way out from behind the table and walked slowly toward the insolent busboy so everyone could see. People held their breaths. She stood in front of him for a long, theatrical moment. Then she reached out, patted his cheek, and said: “Never mind, young man. Gray is such a boring color.”

  Monique burst out laughing, sending the tense crowd of onlookers into a round of spontaneous applause. I saw the combination of relief and admiration on their faces. Nate Nathaniel’s rage was punctured. He laughed and hugged Monique. Even the busboy hugged her. It was a memorable moment.

  I could tell from the approving looks on people’s faces that they were all thinking: What class, what elegance, what noblesse oblige. The woman is a queen.

 

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