“Is that your city’s slogan?”
“No, I just made it up, but in your case it might be true.”
The man looked at me, looked at his cigar, looked at me again. He took a long silver rectangle from a desk drawer, something that looked like a pistol clip. He flicked the top, and a flame erupted. He took a moment to light his cigar. He leaned back, puffing away. The smoke settled between us like a shifting curtain of motive. I sat before him as calmly as a tick on a blade of grass waiting for a fat golfer to pass by.
Finally, he took the cigar out of his mouth, leaned forward until his clasped hands rested on the desk, and shook his head with deep resignation.
“I have a daughter,” he said.
About half an hour later I called the information into Melanie from the curvy bar of some steak house just south of Division Street. It was an expensive meat market in more ways than one, but I had time to kill before my flight and I had developed a sudden hunger for a slab of animal flesh, well charred. Fortunately, Melanie had given me an American Express card to cover my expenses. After I downed a quick Sea Breeze, and after a waiter showed me a tray of aged cuts of prime beef and I pointed to something round and red, I made the call.
“He has a daughter who started a catering business in Miami,” I said into the phone as a woman a few seats down eyed me with something more than mild interest. “He wants it to be a success.”
“The doting father,” said Melanie. “I’m surprised.”
“That he loves his daughter?” I said, smiling back at the woman. She had thin wrists, and her lipstick was candy-apple red, and she was not the kind of woman who would usually eye me with interest in a bar, but there she sat and there she eyed.
“No,” said Melanie. “I’m surprised that he said anything to you at all. The read we got on Flores was that with strangers he was as close-lipped as a clam. Nice job steaming him open. The partners will be pleased.”
“And I aim to please the partners.” I waved a finger in an oblong circle, letting the barkeep know he should refill my Sea Breeze and buy the woman whatever it was she was drinking. “I got the sense, based on the level of his concern, that it’s going to take a lot of weddings to make his daughter’s business work.”
“Let us worry about the weddings. You just get back here.”
“My plane leaves in two hours,” I said as I nodded in acknowledgment of the woman’s mouthed thank-you. She was tall and lush and blonde, as tasty and well marbled, no doubt, as the rib eye I had ordered. And she smiled as if I were exuding some sense of newly won authority. “Before I depart, I’m going to have a steak and three more drinks and nuzzle the earlobe of the woman four seats down from me, and then I’m going to sleep like a narcoleptic on the flight home.”
“Good,” said Melanie. “So you’ll be well rested when you land.”
“Don’t.”
“There’s a hysterical woman in Fairmount who is threatening to kill herself. You need to talk her down.”
“Get a psychiatrist.”
“We need someone we can trust, someone with tact and absolute discretion.”
“Boy, do you ever have the wrong man.”
“I’m betting not.”
“But if she’s threatening to kill herself, what can I do? I won’t be back for four hours.”
“Trust me, she’ll wait.”
CHAPTER 10
SHAKE AND KISS
That lying bastard. I love him so much I swear I’ll stick a knife in my throat and watch the blood spurt.”
Amanda Duddleman, barely old enough to order a beer in a bar, was sitting on her couch with her bare legs curled beneath her, naked inside a white terry-cloth robe stolen from some high-priced adultery hotel. Her tearstained face was dramatically aimed at the ceiling, a knife the size of a Chihuahua in her hand. We were in her town house by the art museum, quite the tidy love nest, with hardwood floors and comfy furniture.
“And you know what hurts the most?” she said, absently patting the back of the blade against her neck. “The part that makes me really want to kill myself, beyond even the betrayal?”
“Let me guess,” I said, sprawled in a chair, my tie loosed, the flatness of exhaustion in my voice. “It’s the lying.”
“How did you know?”
“Because it’s always the lying.”
I had been wrong about what I had told Melanie on the phone in Chicago. Yes, I had eaten the steak and downed the drinks and nuzzled the ear, but I hadn’t slept an ounce on the flight home, and I was neither fit nor in the mood to be part of a scene where I played the straight man for some love-crazed sweet thing. And yet there I was, supposed to fix whatever it was that had driven Amanda Duddleman to feign suicidal distraction. There wasn’t enough glue in Kentucky. I didn’t know who the lying bastard she was referring to was, but I figured if I didn’t let on to all I didn’t know, I’d find out soon enough.
“I just can’t take the dishonesty anymore,” said this Amanda Duddleman. “I know it’s built into the bones of what we have. I went to Barnard, I studied Derrida, I know how to deconstruct the text of our relationship. He’s married, which means that every bottle of champagne, every kiss, every hump on the kitchen floor is a lie to his wife, and ultimately to the people.”
“How will they ever survive?”
“I am nothing but his lie, and I can handle that. Truthfully, I’m not sure I would want to be anything more. His little helpmeet? A bauble on some congressman’s arm? His wife can have that honor. I went to Barnard, for Christ sake. But when he starts lying to me, that’s the part I can’t abide. Lying to his lie, my God, where will it end?”
“Exactly what I was wondering,” I said.
She tilted her head down to stare at me for a moment. Her eyes lost their desperate wobble as she pointed the knife at me. “Some questions are rhetorical.”
“I thought I’d help move things along.”
“I’m sorry if my trauma is keeping you awake.” She was unaccountably lovely, Amanda Duddleman, young and tawny, with perfect skin and healthy teeth. She must have been quite the sight cutting across the Columbia campus, legs flashing, sunlight glinting off her hair, the very perfection of raw youth. She must have destroyed the hearts of all the mad young boys.
“You don’t mind if I doze off here, do you?” I said.
“You’re not being very sympathetic. I’m in crisis here. I love him. I love him so much I want to rip out my heart and serve it to him on a silver platter.”
“With fava beans and a nice Chianti?”
“But when I call him with sobs and pleading and the worst kinds of threats, instead of coming himself to kiss my tearstained face and make sweet love to me, he forces me to wait for hours, and then you show up. And you’re no prize, let me tell you. Who are you, anyway?”
“All you need to know is that for the time being, as long as you’re putting on the crazy, I’ll be the guy you’ll be dealing with.”
“Where’s Colin? Colin knows how to calm me down. We talk, share a joint, listen to some tunes.”
“Colin’s in rehab.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re Pete’s new errand boy?”
“Something like that.”
“I suppose you don’t have any weed.”
“No, sorry, I’m straighter than a crossing guard in a back brace. But enough about me. Let’s go back to the lying.”
“Yes, let’s. The lying.” Her chin tilted up as she lifted her hand so that the handle of the knife was on her forehead. “I just can’t take the lying.”
“What was he lying about?”
“Is that important?”
“Always.”
“Isn’t the lying itself enough?”
“Never.”
“Really?”
“No one g
ets upset when someone lies about a surprise party. Or in a deposition. Or about their mother-in-law’s hair. But, just to grab an example, when someone is upset that her lover is lying about cheating on her, I’ve generally found that, no matter what she says, she is more upset about the cheating than the lies. So what is he lying about?”
“He’s cheating on me.”
“Well, blow me over and call me Kip.”
“I had a fish named Kip.”
“A salmon?”
“Of course he’s cheating on me, Kip, he’s a politician. But to be so obvious about it, and then to lie to my face. What must he think of me?”
“Maybe that you went to NYU. So what was the giveaway, the tell? Let me put it in my book of things not to do when I’m cheating on my mistress.”
“Do you have a mistress, too?”
“Not yet, but we all have aspirations. Was it lipstick on the collar? A strange perfume?”
“Lipstick or perfume could just be from his wife.”
“Who he’s cheating on with you.”
“Right. No, it was the condoms.”
“Ahh, the condoms.” I nodded sagely. “You’d be surprised how often it is the condoms. What did he do, write the wrong name on them?”
“Do men do that? I mean, really?”
“No.”
“Good, because that would be creepy. I have to buy them for us—he can’t very well go into a store and pick up a box, now can he? I mean it would be all over the front page of the Daily News.”
“I can imagine the headline.”
“‘Congressional Party Hat,’ ” she said.
“‘Political Rubber Match.’ ”
“I counted the number in the box I bought and there were too many missing. I counted twice to be sure. The son of a bitch is using my rubbers to screw someone else. Can you imagine?”
“I’m actually impressed. He got you to buy his rubbers for him. Maybe I should put in an order, too. Two boxes, extra large.”
“Really?” One eye squinted in disbelief. “What’s your shoe size?”
“Ten,” I said, and then after a slight pause, I added, “and a half. So that’s why you want to kill yourself, the condoms?”
“You don’t seem so concerned that I’ll go through with it.”
I stood up and spread my arms. “It’s late, I’m tired, and you’re too smart to be counting condoms. Give me the knife.”
She looked at me a moment, looked down at the knife, and placed it on the coffee table. I leaned over, picked it up, whirled, and tossed it for effect at her wall. I wanted it to stick in with a thud and then twang back and forth with that ominous sound, but it didn’t stick. It just sort of slammed against the wall and clattered on the floor.
“I’m going home,” I said. “I’m going to sleep for a week and forget that I was ever here. You don’t want to kill yourself, you just don’t want to be ignored. Try the rabbit and don’t forget to tip your waiter. How’d you meet the Congressman anyway?”
“I write for the City Weekly.”
“The free rag? Nice gig.”
“I majored in journalism.”
“At Barnard.”
“Well, I took advanced courses at the Columbia School of Journalism. And I was assigned to write a profile on Congressman Peter J. DeMathis, and I was impressed with what I saw. He seemed to really care about things.”
“A politician who seems to really care? Boy, that’s a new one. And to prove how much he cared, he screwed you in his socks.”
“Why would I be wearing his socks?”
“Good night,” I said.
“Nothing happened while I was writing the article, I’ll have you know. I’m a journalist, I have my standards. But after my profile came out, he called to thank me and we ended up having drinks, and things sort of—”
“I get it.”
“—happened.”
I looked around at the town house. “Does he put you up here?”
“That would make me a whore. No, this is mine.”
“I didn’t know the City Weekly paid so well.”
“I get some help.”
“Are Mommy and Daddy tired of supporting you?”
“Not yet, but they’re getting there.”
“Can I give you some advice, Amanda, good serious advice?”
“Please, God, no.”
“Men don’t like crazy, especially married men. They want sane and fun and young and beautiful, and you’re already three out of four.”
“You don’t think I’m too fat?”
“If you’re too fat, then I’m too smart, and we both know that’s not true, because I’m here. If you want him to stop cheating on you, then don’t give him any of the crazy. No more phone calls threatening to kill yourself, no more wild scenes about missing condoms, no more showing up at campaign rallies in the shake-and-kiss line.”
“How do you know about that?”
“No matter what he’s told you about love and the future, he’s simply screwing around with you. Nothing wrong with that, but treat it like what it is, a stupid fling with a stinking politician, and have fun with it. Call him tomorrow, apologize, promise him it won’t happen again, and then wait for him to call you. He will, and soon, too. You’re pretty enough to infect his dreams. But in the meantime, find yourself someone your own age to play with when you’re not with him. Get your life together. Don’t forget what you are.”
“What is that?”
“You’re a Barnard girl.”
“Who the hell are you, really?”
“I’m a nobody and a nothing, a suit who does what he’s told. I’m your friendly neighborhood fixer.”
“You’re actually pretty good at it, Kip. How long have you been doing this?”
“About a day and a half,” I said.
CHAPTER 11
THE CONDOM THIEF
I have a secret to tell you,” said Congressman Peter DeMathis, the great condom thief. He spoke softly, intimately, and leaned forward, as if he were about to bare the dark root of his soul. He was a decade older than me, tall and handsome in his navy-blue suit, fit as a gymnast, the very image of exactly what I wasn’t, a serious man on the rise. “And this is my secret, as embarrassing as it might be: I still believe in America.”
There was a smatter of applause in the dreary hotel reception room from the troop of fine people who had ponied up to drink cheap zinfandel, eat greasy spinach squares, and shake hands as they got their pockets picked.
“They slop this crap right up,” I said softly to Melanie in the back of the room.
“Like pigs in a sty,” she said.
I reached toward a tray of sautéed pork bits being passed around by a waitress and grabbed two little skewers. “You want one?”
“God, no,” said Melanie. “If I ate at every one of the events I’m forced to attend, I’d end up a blimp. But help yourself.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
“I know it’s not popular or cool to believe in America,” continued the Congressman. “I know all the smart, clever folk will tell you that America’s best days are behind it and that we have no choice but to take our place behind the likes of China and India and Singapore.” A round of boos poured from the crowd, as if he were talking about the New York Mets and not a trio of sovereign allies on the other side of the globe. “But I don’t believe any of this, not a bit, because I believe not just in this country but in its people. Because I believe in you.”
“I can’t believe you work for this guy,” I said.
Melanie turned and looked at me. “I don’t work for him, Victor. Why would I ever want to work for a backbencher like DeMathis?”
“I just thought—”
“Don’t think so much, it doesn’t pay. He couldn’t afford me anyway.”
&nb
sp; “Then why are you running his errands?”
“I’m not, you are.”
“I see so much energy just in this room, so much raw ability and desire to make a difference,” said the Congressman. “Think now about all the potential boiling across this land, from sea to shining sea.”
“Somehow this speech is making me hungry,” I said. “Is that shrimp over there?”
“Sure, we’ve taken some shots,” continued the Congressman. “But when I look at this great country of ours, and I see its people ready to saddle up and bring this nation back, I know no barrier is too high, no challenge is too daunting, nothing can get in our way—except maybe ourselves. Which is why I’m in the House of Representatives, and why I’m asking for your support as I prepare to run for reelection.”
The applause rose like a wave out of the paying crowd to wash over the Congressman and he rose on tiptoes to greet it. It was a stirring sight as I stirred a prawn in a beaker of cocktail sauce. The shrimp was as bland as the speech. I took two more.
“I’ve seen government regulations stifle innovation. I’ve seen government interference kill progress. And I’ve seen government-imposed taxes take the profit out of a small business and drive it into bankruptcy. We can outwork, outproduce, outcompete anyone in the world if can we just get the gorilla of the federal government off our backs. That was my purpose in running for Congress in the first place, that’s been my mission during my first three terms in the House, and that’s what I pledge to continue to fight for if the people of the Thirteenth Congressional District see fit to send me back to Washington for another round of battle.”
When I returned from my fishing expedition, Melanie was with a tall, serious man in a dark suit, who stood beside her with his arms crossed, staring with a mournful intensity at the man on the platform waving his hands like a carnival barker.
“Victor,” said Melanie, “I’d like you to meet Tom Mitchum, the Congressman’s chief of staff.”
Without uncrossing his arms or turning his gaze from the Congressman, he said, “So you’re the one I’ve been hearing so much about. The Congressman asked me to thank you personally for your efforts. That’s why we invited you here today.”
Bagmen (A Victor Carl Novel) Page 6