I nodded thanks and rapped on the hard wood with a knuckle. “Tomorrow.”
“Hold up,” he said. He turned and reached to the top of his compact-disc player. He handed me his copy of Donizetti’s L’Elisir d’Amore. The young, bearded Pavarotti smiled at me as Leo added, “There’s magic in there.”
I must’ve looked like I needed it.
SIXTEEN
“Dad!”
There she was; there was no confusion now: She was a young woman. Her soft brown hair framed her sweet face with its delicately applied eye shadow, rouge, faint traces of lipstick: the face of a young woman, with definition, strength. Determination. Her young woman’s face, now in a fierce grimace. My 14-year-old daughter had her hands on her hips as she stood in her white, ankle-length slip, her legs in pantyhose with floral designs. Dainty white socks on her feet.
“What?”
She sputtered, “You— You look like you’re just going, you know, like, out. To a restaurant. Or a play.”
I was wearing a classic blue blazer—which I’d had dry-cleaned—a blue Oxford, black wool slacks and loafers.
“I don’t want to feel self-conscious, Bella.”
I felt fine. I’d taken a long nap, spoken to Addison—they were holding Bascomb; they’d charged him with aggravated assault, which might get busted down to simple assault, but what the hell, it’ll put him in Rikers until Monday—hadn’t spoken to any of the Mangos or McDowell, since, to my surprise, none had called or come by to wave Villa over my head. Nor had I pissed blood. A steamy shower had brought back the feeling to my knee. I felt fine: I’d more or less figured out how I’d deal with this morning’s fuck-up at the Willet’s Point station.
“This is a special occasion,” she said. “I told you.”
“Bella, for a special occasion, I wear this.”
Exasperated, she muttered, “You wore that for my fourteenth birthday.”
“Point made,” I replied. We went to Chanterelle, my favorite restaurant, where Marina had taken me for my 30th. Wonderful nights, then and last year. Bella had sipped Champagne demurely as we waited in the homelike, flower-laden foyer for our table.
Rebuffed, she turned and went to the stairs. “Ten minutes,” she said.
“I’m ready.”
She said something about a tie as she padded back to her room.
Ten minutes later, she came back down.
Her dress was a very pale baby-blue, long and full with a kind of frilly stuff at the bottom; bare shoulders with thin straps, the front cut modestly; and she wore a white, frilly shawl. The shoes were white flats with pert bows.
Instead of her customary two dozen rubber bands, she wore a silver bracelet. Falling to just above the neckline of her dress on a fine silver chain, a silver heart-shaped locket rested against her skin.
She saw me stare at the pendant. “You don’t mind?”
I had given it to her mother a long time ago, when I was still at St. John’s. It cost next to nothing, but it meant everything to me when Marina took it from my hand, then let me do the clasp at the back of her neck.
“Mind? No,” I said. “Bella, you look fantastic.”
She beamed.
I asked her to turn around and she spun slowly, her hands holding out her ample skirt.
“Perfect,” I said. “Really.”
“Thank you,” she replied modestly.
“No rubber bands, though.”
She bent down and tugged at her white socks, showing me the rubber bands around her ankle.
The sharp honk of a horn sounded as if it came from a car parked on our front steps.
“That’s the limo,” Bella said hurriedly. “Come on.”
“Limo?”
“Yes, I ordered a limo. With my own money. Now, let’s go.”
“OK, but—”
“Dad, get the camera. Over there, the camera,” she said, pointing, as she scurried to grab her white handbag. “Mrs. Maoli wants photos. Glo-Bug, too, and Daniel. Dad. There.”
The disposable camera was on top of Bella’s manuscript.
“Got it.”
“Come on,” she repeated. “Your friend is waiting.”
“Julie?”
“Dad, I wouldn’t describe Dennis as your friend. Would I?”
She held open the front door.
“Go.”
I stepped into the brisk night air and immediately skidded to a halt.
“Oh, Christ, Bella.” A white stretch limo.
“Very Spinal Tap,” she said as she squeezed by me.
A black man who weighed about 330, most of it muscle, stood beside the car wearing a black tuxedo with a gold embroidered vest. He smiled to reveal a glittering diamond in his front tooth.
“Good evening, Ms. Orr,” he said. He tipped his black cap and bent at the waist.
Flecks of stars danced above us as Bella went down the steps toward the cobblestone, toward the open door of the limo.
“Perfect,” she said.
Julie Giada lived on 28th Street between Second and Third avenues in Kips Bay, a neighborhood dotted with brownstones, short, four-story apartment buildings and thick caliper trees.
As the white limo cruised uptown, I stared absently at the gold spire of the MetLife Tower, at Madison Square Park, at lazing dogs sniffing in the dark run. Thoughts of Hassan returned as we left Sixth: the reaction of his friends as they took a frantic phone call, expressing disbelief for a moment before shifting to acceptance and understanding. Memorials were being crafted now, I thought, by people who knew nothing of Sonia Salgado, who would not believe Hassan capable of any kind of betrayal, who might credit him for his generosity of spirit in sharing books of plays with an indigent murderer. For perhaps the fifth time since we left Harrison, I tapped my jacket pocket: The photo of young Hassan and old friend Sixto was still there.
As the limo navigated the narrow crosstown street, I wondered how the press would play Hassan’s death. A small box in tomorrow’s Times, followed by something warm in Monday’s Metro Section or in Arts & Leisure, I concluded. The Post? A screaming headline on the newsstands later tonight. Something like BROADWAY BIG FOUND HANGED IN THEATER. But what, I wondered, was a bigger story? Danny Villa, media star, professional rabble-rouser, El Caballero, is, says the NYPD, a suspect in the murder of a female ex-con. That’s too good, I realized: Nothing pleases a tabloid editor so much as exposing celebrity hypocrisy. So the suicide of an artistic director of a cultural institution goes inside; page four, eight.
If that editor jumps the Villa story next to the piece on Hassan he’ll be almost as cute as he thinks he is.
Meanwhile, Bascomb is an afterthought. “Blue-collar man brought in on an assault rap” gets nothing.
“Bella, how do you know where Julie lives?”
She sat across from me, her back to the driver, on the buttery black leather seat. She had a drink in hand—Diet Dr Pepper—in a heavy crystal tumbler. She was loving all of it.
“Darryl,” she said, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb as the limo went east on 28th. “He’s nothing if not prepared.”
A diamond glittered in the rearview.
“Actually,” she added with a smile, “I asked her.”
As if to advertise the tenor of the neighborhood, two women bundled in cloth coats, their gray hair under thin, pink scarves, were on the front steps of the brown-stone where Julie lived.
As Darryl edged the limo next to a hydrant, the glass doors of the brownstone opened and Julie Giada appeared.
“Oh, man,” I said.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Bella nodded.
She was dressed in a long, deep-purple satin gown with a plunging V-shaped décolletage. A matching purple shawl covered her bare shoulders.
As she stopped to kiss her flattering neighbors, Darryl came around and opened the door.
“Get out, Dad,” Bella instructed.
I did. When I arrived at the steps of the brownstone, one of the women whispered, “That’s hi
m. Tall. Good skin.”
“But not a tie,” replied the other old woman. She expressed her chagrin with an irksome shirk that brought the shoulders of her coat over her large ears.
“Terry, this is Mrs. Sadler. And Mrs. Malone.”
“Hello Mrs. Sadler, Mrs. Malone.”
They smiled politely. Then Mrs. Malone whispered, “He’s the one who—”
“Ssshh,” snipped the other woman.
I took Julie’s hand as her purple shoe touched the sidewalk.
“Hello, Terry,” she said.
“Julie.”
I led her to the limo. She bent gracefully under the low ceiling and joined my daughter, shifting her full gown as she eased into the soft seat across from me.
“So, finally, Gabriella,” she said. “Hello.”
Her fragrance left a faint, pleasing trail as Darryl closed the door and I sat with an accidental oomph.
“Killer, Julie,” Bella cheered, “really. Dad?”
Taking her cue, I began, “Julie, you look—”
“Is it all right?” she asked, shifting her gaze from me to Bella and back again. “I’m not much of a rock ’n’ roll girl.”
“Julie,” I said. “Excellent. Really.”
Her round face shone in the glow of the small dome light and her brown eyes sparkled under soft traces of violet on her lids. “Thank you.”
Bella took a satisfied sip of Diet Dr Pepper.
“And thanks for the advice, Gabriella.” She tapped my daughter’s hand.
“You’re welcome.”
Darryl took a left on First. The wide avenue was quiet below the flapping flags outside the U.N. building.
“Your father told me about your book, Gabriella.” She sat with her hands and purple clutch purse on her lap.
“Really?” Bella raised an eyebrow, then looked at me.
“Mordecai Foxx. The name is so evocative,” Julie said. “It’s the eighteen-seventies, isn’t it?”
Bella nodded. “After the end of the Tweed Administration.”
I knew this: Mrs. Gottschalk, the school librarian, had told me that Richard B. Connolly, the subject of my Slippery Dick, played a role in Bella’s book, as did several of the Tammany Hall regulars. Connolly, city comptroller during Tweed’s reign, was the first of the ring to roll over on the others. A world-class vermin, he would’ve gotten along fine with the Mangos—father and sons.
“Will you let me read it?” Julie asked.
“Sure,” Bella chirped.
“I’d like that.”
My daughter slid her glass into a side tray and offered her right hand to Julie. “Deal.”
They made a dramatic, arching shake. “Deal,” Julie said as she smiled at me.
Big Darryl slid the limo behind a queue of yellow cabs at the entrance to Vanderbilt Hall in Grand Central Station.
No TV crews or photographers, no racks of groupies drawn to the buzz, however soft, of celebrity.
“There’s Dennis.” Bella tapped Julie on the knee as she pointed.
Diddio was waiting on the red carpet that led into the station. He shuffled nervously, anxiously, as he peered into each cab that came to the curb. I thought he looked good in his tux, with his scraggly hair more or less combed, his shoes shined. Almost healthy, though a bit undersized: The cuffs of his sleeves extended to the bases of his thumbs.
“He’s going to win an award,” my daughter added. Though she appeared calm, her foot was dancing on the limo floor.
As we pulled up and stopped at the lip of the carpet, I asked, “What’s the protocol, Julie?”
“I think it’s Gabriella, me, then you,” she replied. “Not that I’ve done this before. …”
Darryl’s ample hand jutted into the car. Bending carefully to avoid the roof, Bella came forward and stepped into the April air.
“Thanks, Darryl,” I said as I got out behind Julie.
He replied with a smart, professional nod. “Anything for Ms. Orr.”
The introductions were underway by the time I arrived.
“Glad to make your acquaintance,” Diddio said nervously, formally, without looking directly at the four-star woman in purple standing next to him. He fingered a laminated badge that was clipped to a lanyard around his neck.
Julie nodded. “Hello, Dennis.”
I pointed to the yellow badge. “That is who?”
The word “nominee” was embossed over the face of a round man with a floppy walrus mustache and a sneer that looked permanent.
“Lester Bangs,” D told us. He lifted the badge for us to see. “Hall of Fame, our first inductee.”
That told me nothing.
“This is the first—Is it the New York Rock Critics Association?” Julie asked. “The first awards ceremony?”
“Third,” Diddio replied, holding up three fingers. He looked at the sky, then at a man in a tux and red socks who wore a baseball cap with the word “anarchy” above the bill.
We stood in silence as the opportunity for explanation withered. An empty double-decker bus wheezed to a stop, then made an illegal left at Park Avenue.
“Let’s get inside,” Diddio said finally. “If it’s good with everybody, I mean.” He looked at Bella, then me. “It’s happening already, kind of.”
Bella grabbed him and took his arm.
“Shall we?” Julie said to me. She tucked her arm in mine and we followed.
Separated by a sloping path that led to the concourse, Vanderbilt Hall was actually two magnificent foyers: Beaux Arts architecture highlighted by a row of gold, egg-shaped chandeliers above pink marble floors. Now, a black curtain blocked a view of the vast main concourse, the vaulted dome with its constellation, the Westchester- and Connecticut-bound riders of Metro North.
The hall was dotted with perhaps 30 round tables set for eight, and Julie caught the theme before I did. “Oh, cute,” she said. “We’re backstage after a rock concert.” She pointed to the folding chairs, red plastic tablecloths, bowls of brown M&Ms, drooping daisies in soda bottles.
At the east end, about 70 men and women, mostly in ill-fitting formal wear accented with ornate jewelry and other mild flights of affectation, milled around a bar that seemed to serve only longneck beers and cheap California white.
I said, “Don’t they all look—” But I stopped. Asking Julie if everyone in the odd lot in back resembled Diddio didn’t seem like the way to go. I wanted her to like him, to see what Bella and I saw in him.
On a stage at the other end, a small combo with two horns played jazz with a Latin flair. It sounded pretty good to me, but no one was on the small dance floor.
“Somehow, I didn’t expect this,” Julie said.
“What did you expect?” I asked.
“I have my expectations,” she said coyly, “but I’ll keep them to myself.”
“Well, this whole thing is news to me,” I told her. “But I’ve got to stand by Diddio.”
“Or?”
“Or Bella will kick me in both shins.”
She asked, “Should I be calling her Bella?”
“Oh, no,” I said quickly. “No, no.”
Diddio and my daughter, her eyes locked on him in admiration, returned with drinks.
Brow furrowed, Diddio handed me a beer. “We’re a little low on star power,” he said as he sipped the cold brew.
I offered the longneck to Julie. She declined and took a glass of club soda from my daughter.
“Cock Michaels is here,” Bella said cheerfully, hopefully. Her face was red with excitement.
“Well, every year we invite all the New York guys. But, you know, what are we offering, you know what I mean?”
Affixed with black tape to the station’s walls were banners advertising the event’s sponsors. Only a few local businesses had thrown in their support. I recognized the brown-and-yellow logo of J&R Music World on one wall, the blue box of The Village Voice next to it. Zabar’s, Helmsley Hotels and the Humane Society of New York had also ponied up for the crit
ics.
“No real big fish, D,” I said, as I pointed toward a red-and-green flag from Ray’s Pizza.
“We can’t go to the record labels,” he replied. “Conflict. Taco Bell? Not very New York. Wal-Mart? They spike stickered discs.”
“There’s a certain set of principles at work here, I suspect,” Julie said kindly.
“Nah. We’re just inept at anything other than rock ’n’ roll,” he replied, peering at his scuffed shoes. “If we had to get real jobs …”
The Latin band came to an abrupt stop, the sudden silence accentuating the awkwardness of the moment. People who had been shouting quickly shifted to hissing whispers, soft social laughter.
“I suppose you have to keep your distance,” Julie continued, offering Diddio a gracious exit.
“They hate us,” he said. He pulled at the wet label on the beer bottle.
“Cock Michaels likes you,” Bella pointed out hopefully.
“Yeah, but …”
“I’ve heard of him,” Julie said, over the din of conversation, rising now to take up the silence. “Is he still popular?”
Diddio said, “He’s presenting the Doc Pomus Award for best New York song. Doc helped him. Michaels loved Doc. Loyal guy,” he nodded. “Good guy.”
“Then why do they call him—”
“His first name is Cochrane, Dad,” Bella explained dryly.
“You know this guy, T,” Diddio said. “You do.”
“I do? From where?” Drinks in hand, people from the bar area were moving toward tables, shifting into folding chairs.
Bella answered. “From the plate. On my bedroom wall.”
I thought for a moment. “That’s Cock Michaels? Wow.”
“What?” Julie asked, looking side to side. “What don’t I know?”
I explained. When newborn Bella came from the hospital, Diddio greeted us with an enormous fruit basket—“Tangerines, man!”—and a delicate, handmade plate of cute little yellow stars against a sapphire sky. A large beaming star in the center bore the name “Gabriella.” Underneath it were written a few lines from a song: “Remember you are as a star in the midnight sky: brilliant and never alone.”
The music picked up again. “‘Caravan,’” Diddio said, glancing toward the Latin group. “Dizzy’s arrangement, 1954.”
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