“Fight fair, Evangeline. Don’t start when I’m hungry.”
“But you can run a business—or save America—just as easily from New York as you can from Boston. And you love this neighborhood.”
“Love is a strong word,” said Peter, “but—”
It was one of those sparkling spring days that made every building look as if it had been powerwashed and squeegeed. They’d practically invented the luxury apartment house around here, so even at the edge of a low-rise block with a CVS and a Best Buy, with the traffic thrumming the New York baseline that played day and night, with hundreds of people hurrying along, all of them doing the most important thing in the world (at least in their own minds), you could still lift your eyes toward the beautiful detailing of the Ansonia or feel the magnificent bulk of William Astor’s Apthorp and know that you were part of the parade that had been rolling since the Dutch made a deal with the Indians and started cutting in De Heere Straet.
“Okay,” said Evangeline. “So you like the neighborhood.”
“And there are some things I like a lot.”
“Like what?”
“Zabar’s, the museums, the Historical Society, the history.”
“I thought all the history was downtown.”
“There’s history all along Broadway. Up here, it used to be called the Bloomingdale Road. It ran through fields, forest patches, and orchards, until it just petered out a few miles north of here. Woodward Manor was right about where Zabar’s is today. It was one of the big estates.”
Sometimes she thought Peter had a pair of extra lenses in his sunglasses and whenever he wanted, he could flip them down like polarizing filters to remove the modern world, so that he could see the shadows of the past as if it were still unfolding.
“If you were here in November of 1776,” he said, “you would have seen three thousand Americans marching to the prison ships after Fort Washington fell. And most of them would die. Three times as many men died in the prison ships as on the battlefields. Something like eleven thousand.”
“No Zabar’s back then,” she said.
“Just disease, exposure, and starvation.”
The faux siding on Zabar’s was supposed to make it look like a European food emporium. But the siding was the only phony part of this place. They stepped inside, inhaled a symphony of aromas—coffee, cheeses, pickles, salamis, fruits, pastries, chocolates, bread. And they forgot about the Continental Army and the prison ships.
Then Peter’s iPhone vibrated. Another text message:
Have you considered my invitation? Avid Austin
IT WAS A short walk to Evangeline’s building.
At the desk, they asked Jackie if there had been any visitors or messages.
“Nope. Nothin’. Nobody.” Jackie glanced at the bag. “You been to Zabar’s, eh?”
Peter held up the bag.
Jackie grinned. “A loaf of bread, a Zabar’s salami, and thee.”
“Thou,” said Evangeline.
“Pah.” Jackie looked at Peter, “A broken-down old pug don’t just quote The Rubaiyatt of Omar Khayyam. He paraphrases it. And she corrects him.”
“I only correct the people I love.” Evangeline pressed the elevator button. “I want to make you look good.”
“Miz Carrington”—Jackie pasted a grin on his face—“you make me look good just by standin’ there.”
“You’re too kind.” She batted her eyes to tell him she didn’t believe a word of it.
Jackie gave Peter a wink. “I gotta work on my Christmas tips year-round.”
“You got your pocketknife?” Peter asked him.
“Now, don’t go stickin’ her, just ’cause she’s correctin’ me.”
Peter pulled the salami out of the bag.
Jackie pulled out a pocketknife, pressed a button, and a three-inch blade appeared.
Peter took the knife and cut off a chunk of salami.
“I think I’m gonna like this guy,” Jackie said to Evangeline.
The elevator bonged and the doors popped open.
Peter handed the knife back to Jackie. “A Buck knife, Right?”
“Buck Bantam BLW.” Jackie sliced a piece of salami and popped it into his mouth. “Small, convenient, one-hand operation. A fine blade for a lot of purposes.”
Peter lowered his voice. “If anybody comes around lookin’ for us, someone who looks a little dicey—”
Jackie stopped chewing. “Dicey? How?”
“Neck tattoos, maybe, or a bulge under the windbreaker.”
“Heat?”
“Peter,” called Evangeline from the elevator.
Peter kept his eyes on Jackie. “Yeah. Heat. If somebody like that comes ’round wanting to see us, call upstairs and say, ‘Hello, Buck, there’s a gentleman here—’”
“You mean, ‘Buck’ like the knife?”
“That’ll be our signal.”
Jackie squared his shoulders as if he was answering the bell. “About time we got a little excitement around here.”
“Very little, I hope,” said Peter, then he stepped onto the elevator.
The door thunked shut, and Evangeline said, “Buck?”
“Now Jackie can send a warning without saying it out loud.”
“Okay, Buck. Press eight.”
THE MIDDAY SUN flooded Evangeline’s apartment.
She never pulled the curtains because the shades in the apartment across Seventy-ninth were always drawn. And the view out the front reached to infinity.
She called her decorating taste “New York eclectic.” Oriental carpets, a slim modern sectional in chocolate brown, Eames leather chairs in a complementary earth tone, mirror over the mantel, watercolors and oils from places she had visited, along with African masks, framed Fijian stencil paintings, wood carvings, and in the dining area, a Stickley mission-style table, chairs, and sideboard.
It was all a bit like her, thought Peter. The facets fit, even if they didn’t quite seem to work on first glance.
She grabbed her laptop and opened it on the dining-room table.
He set out the lunch—sliced salami, Spanish olives, Drunken Goat, bread.
While he poured sparkling water for her and a glass of Rioja for himself, she Googled Austin Arsenault and came up with about twenty thousand references.
“That should keep us busy.” Peter set his computer next to hers, and as they ate lunch, they worked through the list.
For the next hour, it was salami and The Economist, olives and The New York Times.
Rioja for Peter. Seltzer for Evangeline.
Drunken Goat, a bit of bread, and the Boston Business Journal. More salami and the Web site of the Paul Revere Foundation.
“Drink to Revere,” said Peter. “The man who brought us together over a lost tea set all those years back.” And he filled her wineglass.
“Oh, what the hell.” Evangeline had some wine.
“Another drink or two, maybe I can convince you to squeeze in a nooner.”
“This is a working lunch.”
By the time the wine was half gone, they had a clear picture of the man in question:
Harvard Business School, ’75. Major player on Wall Street. Exclusive broker who only handles “high net-worth” clients through his company, Avid Investment Strategies. Twice-divorced fixture on the New York charity circuit, occasional subject of Page Six boldface. Fashions himself as Mr. Triple A, the Avid Austin Arsenault. Collector of scripophily, current plaintiff in a lawsuit against the United States Government over the redemption of two-hundred-and-thirty-year-old bonds.
“And he’s the broker that Delancey is always trying to get me to put my money with,” said Peter.
People Magazine had done a profile that explained the nickname:
“Be avid about everything,” he says, “in both senses of the word. Be eager and greedy. Be eager for experience, from diving on the Great Barrier Reef to dining at Le Cirque . . . for relationships of all kinds, with politicians, celebrities, ballpl
ayers, power brokers (of either sex), and with the most beauteous members of the opposite sex, too . . . ”
“Beauteous?” said Evangeline.
“It means nice tits and long legs.”
“Keep reading . . . Buck.”
“. . . and for things, for possessions, for art and furniture, cars and carpets, wine and rare books and all the other aesthetic objects that enhance a man’s enjoyment of his own existence. And be greedy, too, because without a bit of healthy greed, none of the above would be possible.”
Sporting a deep tan offset by a mane of silver hair, Arsenault seems a man who drinks deep from every stream, in the hope that one of them might just be the fountain of youth.
“A man after your own heart,” said Evangeline.
“The heart, maybe,” said Peter. “But what about the soul?”
“You score points for asking,” she said, “even if what you’re really thinking is, ‘This guy sounds like a buyer. What can I sell him?’”
The People piece had been written at the launch of the Paul Revere Foundation. And however greedy he was, it seemed that Avid Austin was also a patriot:
For all of his personal self-indulgence, he says that we are watching our wealth and the wealth of our children disappearing, sucked up into the giant hot-air balloon called the National Debt, and one day we will regret our lifestyles of me-first consumption and profligate spending.
“It sounds like some editor at People was asleep at the switch,” said Peter. “Most of their readers love stories about me-first consumers and profligate spenders.”
“Pour me some more wine.” She held out her glass. “And read this from the Paul Revere Web site:
The Foundation seeks to do what its namesake did: warn every American village and farm, every household and legislature, every thrifty child of the Depression and every free-spending baby-boomer and all their kids, too, about the dangers ahead. These dangers can be reduced to one word: DEBT . . . national debt and personal debt, the crushing burden of debt that threatens the happiness of every American man, woman, and child. We started borrowing in the Revolution because we needed money and there were nations—and individuals—ready to lend. We paid those debts, proving the maxim of Alexander Hamilton: “A national debt is a national asset. . . . If properly handled.
Do you think we’ve handled the current national debt properly? Well, do you?
If not, click the link and join our crusade to save America.
“Let’s click the video link instead,” said Evangeline.
The foundation Web site was classy, colorful, not too heavy on the text. But it had plenty of links, blogs, widgets, and ways to wind through the information pile. Book readers moved in a straight line toward truth. A good Web site let you bore holes into it. Peter called it learning in three dimensions.
He preferred books. Whenever he opened some fancy Web site, he felt like the defender of a dying faith, a Roman pagan before the glowing presence of Christianity. If the march toward the electronization of everything from novels to newspapers continued, he’d have to start calling himself an antique dealer instead of a rare-book dealer, because the book would finally go the way of the buggy whip.
Evangeline didn’t see things quite so starkly. She just clicked the link that took them to a taped interview on the MarketSpin.com business Web site.
The logo appeared, and there he was: Avid Austin Arsenault, looking just as tanned, silvered, and sleek as People had promised. He was sitting on the set of a Manhattan television studio with Columbus Circle in the background, while off-camera, a female voice was introducing him.
Peter’s iPhone buzzed again. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered as he read another text from Avid Austin:
Now that you have considered my proposal and researched me (no doubt), allow me to invite you and Ms. Carrington for lunch tomorrow, 12:30 P.M., 145 CPW. And put on CNBC if you are near a television. It will give you a bit more background.
At the same moment, Peter heard Evangeline say, “Jesus Christ.”
He realized that the female voice coming out of the computer speaker sounded familiar. Very familiar: Kathy Flynn, posing a softball question for Avid Austin Arsenault. In an instant, Peter remembered the red hair, the creamy complexion, and that voice that flowed like honey. He remembered other things, too.
So did Evangeline. She glared at the screen and said, “Of all the info-babes on all the financial Web sites in all the world, and she has to show up on this one.”
“We both knew that she worked in New York as a financial reporter.”
“But I thought she was a writer. Who’s putting her on a Web site?”
“Someone who likes her reporting. Or someone who thinks she looks good.”
“Do you think she looks good?”
Peter shrugged.
“Well, whatever you think, don’t even think of going near her again.”
Peter closed the window on the computer screen. The sound of Avid Austin’s voice clicked off. Peter said, “Kathy Flynn is in the past. Let’s leave her there. It’s been over twenty years. She’s probably married by now, with three kids and stretch marks.”
Evangeline turned to the window. “Yeah, well, she does look good.”
Peter poured them both more wine. “So do you.”
“You better say that.”
“So let’s put on the TV. Arsenault says that I should watch CNBC.”
Evangeline took her wine glass, stalked over to the sofa, found the remote between two cushions, and aimed it at the flat-panel on the inner wall. “Your ex-girlfriend better not be on when the picture comes up, or—”
“Or a nooner is out of the question?”
“We’re too old for nooners.” She flopped onto the sofa and kicked off her shoes.
“You’re never too old for a nooner.” He sat next to her.
And there was Arsenault again, on a split screen: silver hair slicked back and curled slightly at the collar, silver-gray suit, blue shirt, darker blue tie, matching pocket square. He was talking while, at the top of the screen, in orange “alert” mode, the stock averages were flashing: S&P: DOWN 31. DOW: DOWN 350. NASDAQ: DOWN 29. A horrible day.
And Arsenault was putting it all into perspective: “This is the Wall Street response to China’s announcement that they are not going to purchase United States Treasuries at the Thursday auction.”
The other talking head was Robert Lappen, secretary of the Treasury.
The moderator, Maria Bartiromo, asked Lappen, “Is this all about Taiwan, then?”
Lappen measured his response, which was not surprising: “The Chinese have legitimate security concerns. To say that they are unhappy with our sale of technology to Taiwan would not be an exaggeration, so—”
“So they plan to stop buying our debt,” said Arsenault, “and at least for this week, stop financing our profligate ways so as to influence our politics and . . .”
“Pretty arrogant,” said Evangeline. “Thinks he knows more than Lappen.”
“When it comes to money,” answered Peter, “he probably does.”
Arsenault plowed ahead, “. . . and they can do it because every administration since Reagan has been auctioning our sovereignty in the form of United States Treasuries to fund everything from missiles to Medicare to pieces of pork with their ears marked. The Chinese, along with the oil sheikhs, have been buying our debt for years. And now, what some of us have always feared is coming to pass: the Chinese are reminding us of the Golden Rule: he who has the gold makes the rules.”
“And the Chinese have the gold?” asked Ms. Bartiromo.
“Correct,” answered Arsenault. “We can no longer impose our will on the world or take care of our obligations to our own people without fearing financial repercussions like this.”
Lappen said, “That’s a rather simplistic spin to put on international relations.”
“But accurate, sir,” said Arsenault. “Perhaps you should join our crusade.”
; “Perhaps,” said Ms. Bartiromo. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it there.”
“I don’t know what’s worse,” said Peter. “That the Dow is down by that much, or that Arsenault is probably right about the reason.” He clicked off the television.
“Add all that to the streaming video appearance of an old girlfriend,” said Evangeline, “and . . . it’s enough to kill the mood.”
“For a nooner?”
“Like I said, we’re too old for nooners.”
“Look at it like the five thirty dinner special at Denny’s. Have a nooner, then you don’t have to worry about staying up late.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s one thirty.’
“So time is running out.”
“But there’s a worldwide financial crisis, and—”
He refilled her glass. “All the more reason for a nooner.”
She took the glass, took a sip, leaned back and put a bare foot on the sofa.
A promising gesture, he thought, but no fast moves. Just set the wine bottle down.
She stretched her leg. “I have a deadline. And you have to get about the business of saving America. Besides, there’s no word for doing it at one thirty in the afternoon.”
He shrugged. “One thirtyer?”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s weak.”
“Maybe, but life is short.” He reached over and put his hand on her bare foot and stroked the arch with his thumb. “Time is slipping away.”
She looked at her watch. “One thirtyer. I guess it works. And I suppose a man needs to be inspired if he’s going to save America.”
THEY WERE IN bed an hour later when the telephone rang.
Peter was closer. He grabbed for it.
“Hello, Buck?”
Peter popped up. “Jackie?”
Evangeline popped up, too, rolled out of bed and began to dress.
Jackie was saying, “There’s a gentleman here, he says his name is—oh, shit—”
“What? What is it?” Peter held the phone with his shoulder and hopped into his pants. “Jackie!”
“Hang on a minute. The guy was here a minute ago, now he’s disappeared.”
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