“I do have one condition,” she replied, her face looking up at his. “Don’t leave the firm. A, L and W is right for you, for us. And my father wants you there.”
“He barely notices me.”
“He doesn’t want to show favoritism, but believe me, he wants you there. I wouldn’t oblige him by going to law school. Who else does he have? Make partner, and then if you’re still unhappy, you can make a lateral move and I won’t say a word. Or maybe you’ll retire early and we’ll travel. Who knows? It’s all ahead. Marriage is supposed to be an exciting adventure.”
“If it’s half as exciting as engagement, maybe we should stick to being just friends.”
She laughed. The crisis had passed, though not completely. The hardest thing he had to ask her for was yet to come. “All right,” he said. “I’ll stay at the firm. I don’t want to, but I will.” He walked over to the bar and put a melting cube in what was left of his drink. “But I have a condition, too.”
“I thought we just made a deal,” she said. “One condition for another. You have two?”
Money she had to spare, and giving it had seemed almost easy for her. He had not counted on that, but then, giving money was almost always easier for the rich, wasn’t it? Easier than giving their time or ceding their way. “I’ll sign the prenup as it is,” he said, “but you’ll give me the money. And I’ll stay at A, L and W, and work for Jack. But I don’t want a Plaza wedding for four hundred people. I want to elope, just us.”
“What if we did it in Tuxedo, like we originally planned, instead of at the Plaza? I can cut down the list if you hate it so much. You might have said something earlier.”
“You don’t understand. This isn’t about the Plaza. I want to elope.”
“Give up my wedding? Robert, how can you ask that of me?”
“Tomorrow I’ll call in sick and we’ll drive to Maryland where we don’t need a blood test.” Random members of his family — knocked-up brides, couples too young or too poor to afford the simplest of parties—had been eloping to Maryland for generations. “I’ve said what I want and you can refuse. But then I’ll refuse and we’re back where we started.”
His family. He would spare them. He did not say this was about his family, but she had to know that they were part of it. He could not put them through the reporters and black-tie-optional, the congressman, the mayor, the shrimp forks—could not put himself through it, either. But there was a delicious bonus, too. No one would be more upset by this than Jack Alexander. She was his only child. And no man wanted inclusion in his daughter’s decisions more. After all his meddling and checking up, he would be shut out completely. The thought of such a triumph made Robert feel almost gleeful.
On the wall behind them, the wall clock chimed Bonn-Bonn-Bonn. She was right that he might, eventually, get used to it; through the last hours he’d not even noticed the sound but now it intruded, insistent, Bonn-Bonn-Bonn. “This is the only way,” he said over the noise.
She stood just a few feet from him, her face illuminated by the one lamp that was on in the room. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, and he could see two thin lines running along the side of her mouth, lines that had not been there before. Then she nodded—that was the only answer she gave, a nod—as she pulled her robe around herself and walked back into the bedroom, leaving him there alone with the chiming, so loud and urgent now that the room seemed hardly able to contain it.
PART III
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Of trading floors and shoe shines
The spring rains came, first in a pitter-patter and then a steady drumming, assaulting the windshield of the pale yellow Mercedes that made its way along Water Street. In the backseat, Robert Vishniak had long ago given up looking through a thick stack of papers that lay in front of him on a small pull-down table, and was instead taking in the buildings rising along the southern tip of the East River. These included a three-story mall designed to look like a ship in dry dock, plus outdoor restaurants and retail stores, all on an open promenade of remarkably clean cobblestones. A tall ship from another era was docked permanently in port for tourists who wanted to go onboard.
A, L and W had little to do with the fifteen years of political and legal fights, or the architectural compromises, that created the Seaport—other law firms had reaped those rewards—and Robert felt privately pleased by this. He’d been down here with Crea early in their courtship to look at the crumbling nineteenth-century Federalist townhouses and old maritime warehouses, and he had to admit, if only to himself, that he had liked the area better when it smelled of fish from the market and feral cats prowled the streets, nestling in the doorways of pubs that sold cheap beer to dockworkers. The place had been a neighborhood then. Now, he wasn’t sure what it was. He still loved old buildings, lived with his wife and daughter in a landmark Beaux-Arts townhouse on the Upper East Side, but this love was a guilty pleasure, played out more in theory than practice. In daily life he was paid, and paid well, to justify new construction.
The car approached its destination, a fifty-story skyscraper that stood out conspicuously among the low-rise architecture. Robert watched men and women in dark suits emerge from the revolving doors, their golf umbrellas blooming like enormous striped flowers on the wet streets.
“At least there’s parking down here,” mumbled Robert’s chauffeur, Troy Gibbons. “Even if we’ve about fallen off the edge of the earth.”
Robert gathered up the papers, stuffing them back in his briefcase and snapping it shut as the car pulled up to the curb. “I’ll need you back at two,” he said.
“Will do,” replied Troy, a burly man with a blond crew cut, as he got out and opened the passenger door, then held an umbrella over Robert’s head as he exited the car. Robert thanked him and walked quickly to the entrance and through the revolving doors.
Two men, both in uniform, sat at a large marble desk in the cavernous lobby.
“Prudence Brothers, thirty-seventh floor,” Robert said, and was waved through.
The receptionist had a dark tan, white teeth, and long, permed blond hair that had been teased high. She wore an ivory-colored silk blouse and a dark blazer that made her shoulders as broad as a linebacker’s. “Mr. Vishniak, Hilary just buzzed,” she said, leaning toward him with what appeared to be great interest, “he’s on his way.” Then she slid something across the top of her desk. He was meant to take it and he obliged—picking up her business card with the company logo. At the bottom, in a scrawling hand, she’d written her name and phone number.
“For a rainy day, Jennifer,” he said, putting the card in his pocket.
“It’s raining right now, from what I’ve heard.” She licked her lips and was about to say something else when Barry Vishniak rounded the corner, stomach first; prosperity hung on him like a pregnancy. Robert still felt a small shock of recognition every time he saw his brother these days. It was like looking back in time, to what their father had looked like in Robert’s clearest memories, with the potbelly and the mostly gray mop of curly hair. Their father had died the year before. Vishniak had been dying for so long, and in such complicated ways, that when he finally went they were surprised at the simplicity of it—a quick heart attack, in bed with the television going.
“Come on back,” Barry said. “I’ll show you my new office.”
Robert followed him through a series of glass doorways that led to an enormous open room where rows of men held phones to their ears, all talking at once.
“Pusssssy!” The word pierced the air like a battle cry.
“If you can afford ten thousand shares, then you can probably afford fifteen —”
“What do you mean, you have to ask your wife?!”
“Yes, ma’am. A very safe investment for anyone on a fixed income —”
One by one the men hung up their phones, scribbling furiously, then waved pieces of paper in the air that were quickly whisked away by a variety of young female assistants. Barry paused to light a cigar
. “Bull pen,” he said loudly. “We call them the great unwashed.” Then he led Robert to a glass office in the corner.
“Congratulations,” Robert said, as he walked inside. “A corner office.” The office was not large, nor did it have a window to the street, but it announced to the world that Barry was an earner worthy of separation from the pack. At a smaller lower desk sat a boy; he appeared to be little more than a boy, with his own phone and a stack of cards.
“This is Justin, my cold caller,” Barry said, and Robert shook the boy’s hand. “Go get yourself some lunch, kid.” Barry put his hand into his pocket and took out a roll of bills so thick that Robert wondered if it had been assembled for his benefit. He peeled off a twenty and sent the kid away, telling him to keep the change.
“Empty walls,” Robert said. “Put up some pictures and your diploma, at least.”
“I just got here,” Barry said. “How long have you owned that apartment that doesn’t have a stick of furniture?”
“About three months,” Robert said. It was his first real estate purchase, a one-bedroom co-op on Ninetieth Street, close to Broadway. “Trying to decide if I’m going to rent out the place, sit on it for a year or two and flip it, or what. Boy, has that neighborhood come up since I lived there.”
“Crea going to decorate it for you?”
“She doesn’t know I bought it,” Robert said.
“I figured,” Barry replied. He threw his head back and laughed, drawing out his amusement for an extra few moments.
“Finished yet?” Robert asked, folding his arms in front of him. “You make me sound very sinister, when I’m faithful as a monk.” As if to prove his point, he removed Jennifer’s card from his pocket and ripped it into little pieces, letting them fall like snow into the waste can.
“You seen your statement lately?” Barry added. “You can afford to buy three apartments with what I’m making you.”
Robert considered himself partially responsible for his brother’s success. Were it not for him, Barry would never have met Tracey and Claudia and connected to a certain high-end client base. Even if Tracey’s account wasn’t big, it had established Barry’s reputation. Robert had been nervous about Barry’s new role at first, but he couldn’t resist the easy profit. Initially he’d given Barry a cautious five thousand and then, seeing a big return, more after that. By now, most of what was left of Crea’s prenuptial gift was invested with Barry, as was much of his savings. He tried never to touch the principal, as he had done early in his marriage, dazed by possessing actual wealth and spending down almost a third of it. And though he was loath to admit it—hated that he, the older brother, now needed the younger—without Barry, he’d be struggling, and failing, to keep up with his own lifestyle.
Most of Robert’s profession disdained Wall Street, even as they invested with them. Wall Street played games for a living and were out the door by six, whereas lawyers, the straight-A students with more schooling behind them, slaved away until all hours for a lower payback. Barry now had a better office than Robert, and a bigger salary, while working fewer hours. Robert loved his brother and tried not to be envious. But Barry had always been given so much more leeway by their parents; he’d always taken more chances, doing whatever he felt like doing while Robert, the oldest son, agonized and tried to please. And once again, Barry had ended up just fine. More than fine. “That cigar is killing me,” Robert snapped. “Put it out. Where do you want to go for lunch?”
“First we’ll go upstairs and you can meet one of the traders. May need a lawyer for some crap with his co-op board. I’m always looking out for you.”
“Sure, thanks,” Robert said. “Invite him to lunch.”
“Traders don’t leave the Quotron this time of day,” Barry replied, putting out the cigar. He added something that Robert did not hear on account of the sudden whistling and hollering coming from the floor. The door to the office had been left slightly ajar when the cold caller exited, and as the noise got louder, Barry walked over and shut it.
“What the hell is that?” Robert asked. Most of the men in the bull pen were standing now, and those who weren’t had their hands in the air. “Did something just happen in the market?”
“Boner Thursdays,” Barry replied. “That’s what the boys call it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look up there,” he said, pointing toward the trading floor.
“I don’t see anything,” Robert replied and, just as he said the words, he did, in fact, see her: a blonde in tight jeans and a thin blue T-shirt that pulled across her ample chest. She was unusually tall, all T and A and long legs, and she carried a large, rectangular box on a strap around her shoulder. Despite the encumbrance that hung by her hip, she walked with theatrical poise, as if aware of being watched. She reminded him of a woman from another era, a statuesque Rockette or a Ziegfeld girl. As she approached the man on the end of the first row, he nodded, pivoting in such a way that his leg jutted out from his desk, and then he went back to his call.
“What the hell is she going to do to him?” Robert asked.
Barry did not reply. The girl had put the box down on the floor and was now bending over, giving Robert and Barry a clear view of a magnificent, heart-shaped behind. The box, which was about fifteen inches high, had a red leather seat that she straddled and slowly lowered herself onto. Then she opened up a trapdoor that flipped outward at an angle, with a piece of metal on top. From inside the box she removed a checkered cloth, which she spread on the floor around her, then two large wire brushes, a bottle of white liquid, and, finally, a metal can. Across her thigh she folded two pieces of dirty-looking flannel, then she reached out and took the man’s loafer in her hands, placing it in the metal toepiece so that he sat with his foot elevated. Then she set to work, first cleaning his shoe with the white liquid and a brush, then wiping it off with the rags. She placed a scrap of cloth on her finger, then took some polish from a can and, bending over the shoe, began to spread it on the leather in a slow, circular motion. The man slid back in his seat and hung up the phone, watching the girl beat on his foot with two bristled brushes, first slowly, and then very fast, so that her body bounced up and down ever so slightly with the effort.
“Who is she?” Robert asked.
“Sally Johannson,” Barry replied. “Our shoe-shine girl. She’s early today. Still in a hurry to eat? Or you want a shine first?” Not waiting for an answer, he went out and spoke to the girl, who nodded, then went back to her current customer, finishing off the first shoe with a fast snapping of the flannel rags. Then she put the foot back on the floor and took up the other. When she was done, the broker reached up and placed his money in the wide front pocket of her apron. She smiled and stepped across the aisle to Barry’s office, pulling open the heavy glass door.
“Sally, this is my brother, Robert Vishniak.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, looking him in the eye—the two of them were about the same height. Robert extended his hand. “You don’t want me to shake that hand,” she added, showing him her own, fingers black with embedded polish. “I don’t like gloves—they make my palms sweat.” She took the box off her shoulder and placed it in front of his chair. “Gucci loafers, very impressive; they’re the best. But you have to use water-based polish on leather this thin. Somebody’s been using wax.”
“That would be me.”
“You shine your own?” she asked, lowering herself onto the red seat.
“When the need arises,” he replied, unable to take his eyes off her.
Barry, who had returned to his chair by now, continued talking, but Robert hardly heard. Usually he liked subtlety, liked girls that were more natural, less obvious. He didn’t much go for pale blondes, either, at least not those so obviously bleached, or for women so generous in their proportions. Her face was not particularly beautiful, though she had lovely, wide-set blue eyes with long, dark lashes, but her nose was wide and her mouth large with too many teeth. Still, there was a quality about
her. And what was happening to his foot? The thought had not occurred to him when he got his shoes shined by one of the old black men in Grand Central, but now he realized that a shoe shine, if the worker applied enough pressure, was a kind of foot massage.
As she slid the flannel rags fast and light over the leather, he noticed a bit of sweat that had come out on her upper lip. She wore gloss on her lips—the lower one was noticeably fuller, shiny and pink, and he wanted to take it in his mouth. When she was done, she placed all her equipment back inside the box and moved over to Barry. Sitting on the floor behind the enormous desk, with her head bent toward the shoe, she all but disappeared. Robert went over to stand in the corner and watch her from behind.
“Sally, you shine shoes at law firms?” he asked.
“All the time.”
“Ever go to Alexander, Lenox and Wardell? On Sixtieth?”
“We have to have a contract with the firm,” she said, still absorbed in her work. Barry was now making a low, contented purring sound. “That place has a reputation.”
“As what?” Robert said, taking a few steps closer.
“They hate shoe shiners.”
“You talked to the office manager?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “My boss is the one who signs up new business.”
“You have a boss?” he asked, as Barry switched feet.
“Yeah, we’re a real company. A Shining Star.”
“Don’t tell me,” Robert said. “Actresses?”
“And musicians, yeah.”
“You definitely have stage presence.”
“Really?” she asked, turning then to look up at him, and he caught in her voice a sudden girlish insecurity that he found touching.
“Yes, really. So I can’t get you to just show up and take care of my shoes?”
“Only one way,” she said. “If your brother sends you a shine as a gift. But you have to warn the receptionist or she won’t let me in.” She stopped talking, giving Barry’s shoe her full attention. Robert now sat on the corner of Barry’s desk watching and waiting.
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