“Your daughter’s here, Mr. Aaron.” It’s the nurse, speaking softly, with a thick Queens accent like the Dingbat on All in the Family. Herbie turns to the door and there’s Olive, coming to visit Annie after her shift at the bar.
“She’s gone,” he tells her. Olive freezes, knowing everything. She starts toward Herbie, stops and then runs down the hall.
“And now she’s gone,” he says, unable not to sound like Groucho.
All those years together he must have said a million times— honey, we should go. They’re off to a show, the house lights are already dimming, they’re thirty-eight blocks north of the theater and they haven’t left the apartment yet. She’s in her underwear and three or four possible outfits are lying on the bed. Honey, we really should go. She smiles at him and continues to put her look together, unhurried. She had her pace. They never missed a curtain. He looks at the empty shell of her body on the bed. He puts on his coat and goes.
CHAPTER FIVE
TWO WEEKS LATER THERE’S A MEMORIAL SERVICE AT the Booth Theatre on Forty-fifth Street. The Booth is an old gem, sitting right on the corner of Schubert Alley. It’s a nonmusical house—only about eight hundred seats—and it’s considered one of the desired places to mount a straight play on Broadway. Annie did a comedy there back in the early days and she’s always had a soft spot for it. Her memorial is on a Monday, Broadway’s traditional dark day, and it’s a standing-room-only affair with friends coming from as far as London and Hollywood. It draws the cream of the crop— actors, writers, directors, and producers, all turning out to pay tribute to one of their own. Typically these show-business memorials are uplifting, lots of laughs, and happy memories as the speakers celebrate the life of the person rather than mourn the death, but today’s service is having a serious problem getting off the ground. Yes, there are funny stories about Annie’s early days—an actress friend shows a clip of a toilet bowl cleaner commercial that Annie shot when she was in her twenties; an actor reads a bad review she received from the Times, indicating that we won’t be hearing any more from this sorry young ingénue— written, of course, by a critic who’s never been heard of since; another actor recalls a ribald story about Annie’s penchant for seducing the cameraman on whatever film she was working on. But the show’s not working today because of the all-encompassing black hole that is Herbie. The general consensus among friends and family is that he has been sedated for the service. What they don’t realize is that none of them have ever seen him so completely unmedicated. He’s off everything, no booze, no pot, no coffee—and he looks like he’s been mummified, like one of those little dry Egyptians with crackly skin.
Candy, who’s sitting at his side, tries desperately to pump some air into him, reminding him that Annie would want him to laugh, would want him to breathe, for Christ’s sake. He smiles wanly and shakes his head in agreement, but there’s no energy behind it. He always said that the problem with having a love affair like they had was that one of them is going to die first and then the other one is fucked. And that’s what he looks like right now to Candy—fucked—with no hope of getting un-fucked.
“Maurice wants to take you to lunch, Pops. Why don’t you do that?”
“What, today?”
“Yeah, right after. He wants to talk to you.”
“No, I… I don’t want to have lunch with anybody. Tell Maurice I’ll be all right, don’t worry.”
They’re walking up the aisle after the service. Herbie’s nodding to people, not really looking anybody in the eye. He leans over close to Candy so that no one can hear. “So you and Maurice are working it out, or what?”
“I don’t know about working it out, but he’s been a prince these last couple of weeks, since Mom died. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me for a second.”
Herbie nods. “I’m glad to hear that.” Some people are still milling around. It’s around noon and actors have no idea what to do at that hour. It’s like a crowd of vampires trying to stay out of the sun.
Herbie sees Olive waiting at the top of the aisle and he thinks she looks like the only one with light on her in the whole room. She and Candy have a hug and they make a plan to talk on the phone. Herbie watches them, thinking how did they get so close in so little time? Then Candy kisses him and says she’s going to find Maurice and that he’s going to take Herbie to lunch. He shakes his head in protest but she’s gone. He sees Jeffrey, his agent, hanging back against the wall. Jeffrey’s all in black—everything, shirt, tie, suit—all black—except for his face, which is gray. Jeffrey doesn’t handle death well. Herbie waves him over.
“You look like a fucking mortician,” Herbie says. Jeffrey grabs his hand and shakes it manfully. His breathing is shallow and sputtery, like an asthmatic having an attack.
“I’m not good at this, Herbie.” He takes a few gulps of air like he’s trying not to drown. “I’m not good at this. She was an extraordinary woman, and…” He gulps again.
“Jeffrey, Jesus Christ, don’t do this. I don’t need to hear this crap right now.” Herbie takes Olive by the elbow and presents her. “This is the girl I called you about.”
“Olive,” says Jeffrey, as if he known her for years. “We’ve met, we’ve talked and she’s already signed with the office. Hello Olive.”
She says a quick hello to her new agent and then kisses Herbie gently on the cheek. “I’ll talk to you soon,” she says and disappears into the crowd.
“How did you meet her already? I didn’t even tell you her name yet.”
“Annie called me. She said she didn’t trust you to do it. She said you weren’t in very good shape, which is… obvious. She called me the day before she…” he pauses and starts to do the breathing thing again.
“Died, Jeffrey, the day before she died. It’s all right; you can say the word. Jesus Christ.”
“She told me she met an extraordinary girl and that I should sign her. And then, as soon as I can, I should get her cast in a straight play—a classic, preferably, so she has good words to say. Out of town, no money, it doesn’t matter. She has to act, she said—really act, not the musical-comedy thing. I called Williamstown. They owe me. We’ll see.”
“She’s absolutely right, of course.” Herbie shakes his head and almost smiles. “She’s still running things. To Annie, it doesn’t matter that she’s dead, she’s still making things happen.”
Jeffrey puts his hand on the top of Herbie’s head in a fatherly, almost rabbinical way—a gesture unlike anything he’s ever done before or ever will again.
“Take a tip,” he says and makes his way out the door to the street.
Herbie bundles up, pretending not to recognize all his old friends and pushes his way through the crowd and out the door. He hits the sidewalk at a good clip and heads toward Eighth Avenue. It’s cold but livable. His plan is to go up Eighth and then into the park at Fifty-ninth Street. Maybe he can walk this off. He starts to cross in the middle of the block and a limo almost runs his toes over. He lifts his hands up to the driver in the “what the fuck are you doing” gesture, and the back door of the limo opens. It’s Maurice.
“Get in.”
“No, I don’t want to talk to anybody, Maurice.”
“Get in the fucking car.” He says this like a man holding a .52 Magnum to your nose. Herbie gets in the car. Maurice is on the phone.
“Hey, Bixby. I’m coming in, but I want you to cancel the whole day. Something came up. No, everything.” He listens. “No Bixby, I want you to cancel the whole day, which is why I just said cancel the whole day.” He listens some more. “No, he just thinks he’s important. Wedge him in tomorrow.” Mrs. Bixby has been Maurice’s executive assistant for years and can apparently do anything.
They ride up Eighth Avenue in silence, both of them staring straight ahead, watching the driver negotiate the traffic.
“Just drop me off at the corner of Fifty-ninth Street,” Herbie says to the driver. “I’m gonna walk in the park.”
“Just let me do this, wil
l you, Herbie?” Maurice seems agitated, which is unusual for him.
“Do what?”
“I don’t know, do what. But you’re going to stay with me today and we’ll figure it out, all right?”
“Candy put you up to this.” Maurice doesn’t respond and Herbie slouches down in the seat and steams like an eight-year-old.
Maurice Leventhal has been the smartest person in the room for as long as he can remember. He has a gift for scoping the system—whatever system it may be—and then, with ease, manipulating it to his benefit. School was a breeze—he never got less than an A and never studied more than a half hour per semester. Same with the SATs—he figured out what they were looking for and banged out perfect scores with no effort. That left him free in college to concentrate on girls and poker. Poker was an obsession. By the time he graduated law school he had stashed away enough tax-free money to bankroll his first business venture and he’s been building on that ever since. He plays it all like poker—taking a long, objective look at his own position; then reading his opponent like the morning paper, cataloging all his weaknesses; then waiting patiently for the right moment to exploit the situation. He’s never lost at poker and he’s never lost in business.
With girls, however, it’s been a different story. They just don’t seem to follow the same pattern as normal people. And girls like him, which just makes it all the harder. He tries to play women like he plays poker, but it never comes out right—he wins every hand, he rakes in every pot and still finishes up the night a loser. He’s baffled by women and he can’t get enough of them, so he’s pretty much been led around by his dick most of his adult life. By the time he met Candy, he’d been divorced twice and pretty much without hope of ever getting it right.
The limo drops them at Maurice’s building on Madison and they take the elevator in silence up to a very high floor. Maurice ushers Herbie past the receptionist and back to his private office. Mrs. Bixby is on guard at her desk outside.
“Hello, Mr. Aaron. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Herbie nods and follows Maurice into the office, which is the size of Penn Station. There’s a desk with absolutely nothing on it sitting in front of a corner bank of windows that has the whole city in its view—over Central Park all the way north to the George Washington Bridge if you look to the right; over the Plaza all the way down to the Statue of Liberty if you look left.
“What? You couldn’t get a view?”
“You want a drink?”
“No. What time is it?”
“What difference does it make?”
“No, I’m not drinking today.”
“Oh, that’s like a rule?”
“What time is it?”
“Almost noon.”
“Jesus.”
Maurice picks up the phone. “A big pitcher of Bloody Marys, spicy—horseradish—you know. A quart of Grey Goose on the side. Two glasses. Fruit?” He gestures to Herbie who shakes is head. “No, no fruit.” He listens and sighs. “Wedge him in, Bixby, wedge him in.” He turns to Herbie. “You play basketball?”
“Never was my game.”
“I’m going to change. Just make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
Maurice crosses to a door that leads to an apartment—bedroom, full bathroom with a Jacuzzi, a kitchen that’s never been used, a big formal dining room, and a closet with about a million dollars’ worth of clothes. Herbie wanders around the office, checking out the art on the walls. Maurice has a very sharp eye for art. In what seems like seconds, Mrs. Bixby appears with a tray—the pitcher of Bloody Marys, the extra quart of vodka and some sandwiches and chips. She puts them down on the coffee table and looks around.
“Where’s Mr. Leventhal? Did he jump?”
Herbie smiles. Mrs. Bixby’s sense of humor appeals to him.
“Do you need any help, Mr. Aaron?” He shakes his head. “I could twist the cap off the bottle for you, if you like.”
“No, that’s okay.” Herbie pours a drink from the pitcher and tastes it. Then he adds a healthy slug of the vodka and stirs it in.
“It’s never strong enough, is it? No matter how strong I make it, you guys have to add a little bit more.” She pats him on the arm and leaves. Herbie tastes again. He has to admit it’s a great Bloody Mary—spicy with lots of salt, black pepper, and horseradish and a serious kick of alcohol. And, oh yeah, tomato juice. He finishes the glass and pours another, topping it up with a glug from the bottle. Then he makes an identical one for Maurice and takes it into the bedroom. Maurice is checking himself in the mirror. He’s dressed for the gym—except for the four-thousand-dollar black cashmere V-neck sweater that covers his T-shirt. Herbie gives him the drink and they toast. “Here’s to cashmere,” says Herbie.
“Here’s to a good day,” shoots back Maurice. “First of many.”
“Why not,” says Herbie and they drink to it.
“You really don’t play basketball? At all?”
“Actually I used to have a great two-handed set shot. Probably if I warmed up a little I could get that working again. But I don’t run around or any of that shit.”
“That’s all right. We can play Horse.”
“Where are we gonna play Horse?
“New York Athletic Club. We’ll drop by your apartment so you can change. You have sneakers?”
“Yes, Maurice, I have sneakers.”
Maurice sips his drink and Herbie finishes his. Maurice takes his glass and goes back into the office and makes him another one.
“You trying to get me loaded?” “Yes, I am.”
“You gonna take advantage of me?”
“That’s right, Herbie. Four men are on their way up here. They’re going to rip your clothes off and hold you down. Then I’m going to do everything I’ve ever wanted to do to you.”
Herbie almost smiles. “So, this is widowhood.”
At Herbie’s apartment, Maurice can feel the sadness seeping through the walls. The apartment is spotless. Herbie’s been holed up here for the last two weeks with nothing to do but clean. He comes out of the bedroom dressed in tan pants, a purple golf shirt and his own, much less expensive version of the black cashmere sweater. He has his sneakers on.
“Here, take a hit.” He holds out his hash pipe to Maurice and lights the lighter.
“What’s this?” Maurice knows full well what it is.
“Take a hit, Maurice. It won’t hurt you.”
“No, I don’t do that shit.”
‘You never have? In college?”
Maurice shakes his head.
“Here, I’ll hold it for you.”
“It’s illegal.”
“I won’t turn you in.”
First Herbie demonstrates, taking in a lungful and holding it. Then he refills the pipe and passes it over. “Just take in a little. Otherwise you’ll cough it all out.”
Maurice takes the lighter and holds it up to the pipe. He takes a little smoke and immediately coughs it out.
“That always happens. Try again.”
“This is fun?”
“Try again. Take less.”
Maurice manages to hold a little smoke in his lungs and finally blows it out. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’ve led an exemplary life; I’ve built a fine career that I’m proud of, and now it’s all going to come crashing down because of some degenerate actor.”
Herbie takes the pipe, taps out the ash into the garbage and puts it in his pocket. “Maybe I should bring an extra pair of underwear. I hate walking around in moist shorts,” he says as they’re putting their coats on.
Mrs. Bixby, one step ahead as always, has transferred the Bloody Mary mix to a big non-drip travel pitcher that sits on a little coffee table in the backseat of the limo. There are two man-sized glasses, a full ice chest and the requisite new, unopened quart of ice-cold Grey Goose. The driver waits until they’ve made their drinks and then slowly eases the car in the direction of downtown. After ha
lf of his drink disappears, Herbie sets down his glass, refills the pipe and offers it to Maurice.
“Are you crazy?” Maurice points to the driver.
“What’s his name?”
“Robert.”
Herbie leans forward and knocks on the glass, which opens part way. “Robert, I’m gonna smoke a little medical marijuana back here. Perfectly legal. You got any problem with that?”
Robert smiles. “What’s happens in the limo stays in the limo.” And the glass slides closed.
By the time they get onto the basketball court, they’re feeling pretty loose. They each pick up a ball and start to warm up on their own. There are a couple other pickup games on the floor but they have a half court to themselves. Maurice moves around pretty well, shooting one-handers and following with a layup. Herbie stands on the foul line and shoots two-hand set shots, one after the other. A two-hand set shot has not been seen on any respectable basketball court since the days when they played the game with an inflated pig bladder, but it’s all Herbie’s got. Maurice takes off his sweater and throws it on the floor against the wall.
“You want to go first?”
“No, you start.” Maurice dribbles to his right, pulls up and fires a fifteen-foot jump shot. It hits the rim and bounces out. “All right, you have a free shot,” he says.
“I know how to play the game.” Herbie throws up his twohander from the foul line and misses. “Gonna be a long day.”
Maurice does the same thing as before, this time to the left, and hits it.
“Okay, you have to make that shot.”
“I know how to play the fucking game, Maurice.” He walks to the spot that Maurice let the ball go and throws up his twohander, which goes in.
After Annie (9781468300116) Page 5