“The wife shot him, I hear. Is that right?”
“It seemed.”
“Where did that take place?”
“In your house.”
“Merry Hill?”
“Yes.”
“Christ, you’d think the realtor would have brought that up.”
“Perhaps she didn’t know. It all happened thirty-five years ago. People forget.”
“This club all WASPS?” asked Elias. Laurance noticed that Elias often shifted themes abruptly, as if his mind were on one thing while he was talking about another.
“WASPS?”
“Protestants, I mean. Are there just Protestants in this club?”
“Oh, goodness, no, Elias. That sort of thing went out years ago. Over there, at that table by the bar, for instance. The man playing backgammon with Herkie Saybrook is Quentin Sullivan, one of the outstanding Catholic laymen of the city, knighted by the Pope, all that sort of thing.”
“Mother was a Morgan too. That don’t hurt, I suppose.”
“Mother was a Morgan. Yes, you’re right. She was. I forgot about that.”
“I’d like to become a member here, Laurance,” said Elias.
Laurance, startled, picked up the menu and started to peruse the specialties of the day. Elias’s request was not a thing that Laurance had expected. In the name of business, Laurance Van Degan could insist that his reluctant sister invite the Elias Renthals to the wedding of her daughter, or that his equally reluctant wife include the Elias Renthals as guests in her box on the fashionable nights at the opera, or that his wife, sister, son, and niece change whatever plans they had in order to attend the forthcoming ball of the Elias Renthals, but he did not have the same altruistic feeling about membership in the Butterfield, which his own grandfather had helped to found.
“Well, we must discuss this, Elias,” he said, meaning at some time in the future.
“What’s to discuss?” asked Elias.
“May I suggest to you either the cold poached salmon, which is marvelous, or the chicken hash, which is the best anywhere in New York.”
“I’ll try the hash.”
“Marvelous choice.” Laurance picked up the pad and small pencil that Doddsie had left on the table and wrote the order down. He then tapped on a bell to signal the waiter.
“You write up your own order, huh?”
“No mistakes that way.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Van Degan,” said Doddsie, arriving.
“Here you are, Doddsie,” Laurance said, tearing off the page and handing it to him.
“Nothing first, sir?”
“I think not. Must watch our waistlines, Doddsie.”
“You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Van Degan,” said Doddsie, looking down at Laurance Van Degan’s slender waist.
“Don’t look over at my waistline, Doddsie,” said Elias, patting his girth, and the three laughed. “And I will have something first. Like a salad.”
“Yes, sir. House dressing?”
“Thousand Island.”
“We’ll go up to the dining room in a minute, Doddsie,” said Laurance.
When the waiter left, there was silence for a moment. Herkie Saybrook, on his way up to the dining room, passed the table and greeted Laurance Van Degan.
“Playing squash later today with young Laurance, Mr. Van Degan,” said Herkie.
Any mention of his son always brought a smile of pleasure to the face of Laurance Van Degan. “Mr. Saybrook, Mr. Renthal,” he said, introducing them.
“What a pleasure, Mr. Renthal,” said Herkie Saybrook. “May I present Quentin Sullivan. Elias Renthal.”
“Pleasure, pleasure,” said Elias. “I was just saying to Larry here what a nice club this is.”
No one ever called Laurance Van Degan Larry. Even as a boy in school, no diminutive of the name Laurance was applied to him. For an instant Laurance assumed the look on his face of a person who had been called by a wrong name. Then, not wanting to correct Elias in front of other people, he smiled and winked at Herkie Saybrook, as if amused by the presumption of the billionaire.
“We’ll see you upstairs,” said Laurance.
“Nice fella, Herkie Saybrook,” said Elias.
“Lovely,” agreed Laurance. “A great friend of my son’s.”
“What about it?” asked Elias.
“About what?”
“Me joining the club.”
“You see, Elias. It’s not that easy. There would be opposition.”
“What kind of opposition?”
“All the members of the Butterfield have to have been born in New York.”
“Quentin Sullivan was born in Pittsburgh.”
“There are occasional exceptions, and in the case of Quentin Sullivan, his grandfather on the Morgan side was a member, and his great grandfather as well.”
“How would I go about joining?”
“You have to be invited to join by someone who has been a member for at least twenty years.”
“That’s you.”
“You have to have letters of recommendation from six other members.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult.”
“Ah, but it is, you see.”
“I’ve been helpful to a few people I’ve seen around here today,” said Elias.
“We should go upstairs to the dining room,” said Laurance.
“I’m starved.”
“One other thing, Elias.”
“What’s that?”
“If the person who has been proposed for membership is turned down, the member who proposed him must resign.”
“That’s the best news yet.”
“How so?”
“Don’t tell me anyone is going to ask Laurance Van Degan to resign from the Butterfield. No fucking way. Say, I’m dying to walk up that winding stairway.”
The following Saturday afternoon, on the seventeenth hole of the golf course of the Maidstone Club in East Hampton, Long Island, Laurance Van Degan said to his son, young Laurance, “I would like you to write a letter for Elias Renthal.”
“What sort of letter, Dad?” asked young Laurance.
“For membership in the Butterfield.”
“You must be joking.”
“I’m not joking.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“It would mean a great deal to me, Laurance,” said his father.
“Elias Renthal? Herkie Saybrook told me he called you Larry the other day. Herkie said he didn’t know which way to look.”
“He did, yes, he did call me Larry, but you see, he didn’t know.”
“There are so many clubs he could join, Dad, if he wants to join a club, but not the Butterfield. You can’t mean the Butterfield.”
“I do mean the Butterfield.”
“But, Dad, only a year ago you blackballed—”
“I hate the world blackballed, Laurance,” said his father, cutting in on his son’s sentence. He leaned down to place his ball on the tee.
Young Laurance began again, rewording his sentence. “You kept Whelan O’Brian from joining, when Sonny Thomas, your old friend, proposed him. You called him a mick, don’t you remember?”
“I would appreciate it if you would ask Herkie Saybrook to write a letter also, Laurance,” said Laurance, as if his son had not spoken. “I need six letters.”
31
Gus was expecting to hear from Peach in California and picked up the telephone on the first ring, but it was not Peach, who had promised to call after she spoke with Mr. Feliciano. Instead it was Matilda Clarke.
“Oh, Gus, good, you’re home,” said Matilda.
“Yes,” answered Gus.
“I’d like to stop by.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“I’m going out to dinner at eight.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Is there anything wrong?”
“Heavens, no. I just felt like seeing you for a drink.”
Gus continued to dress, expecting the telephone to ring at any time. He hoped Peach would call before Matilda arrived. When his black tie was tied and his cummerbund in place, he picked up the telephone and called California. Peach answered on the first ring.
“It’s Gus,” he said.
“I was going to call you,” Peach answered.
“I’ve been waiting.”
“I was waiting until five our time before calling.”
“Why?” But, of course, he knew the answer why. He had been married to her for years.
“The rates go down at five.”
“For God’s sake, Peach,” said Gus. It was a bone of contention between them always. Peach was one of the thrifty rich, even in semi-emergency situations. “I would have been gone by then.”
“Well, anyway,” said Peach. “I talked to your private detective.”
“What did he want?”
“He said he’s going to get married.”
“He’s already married. To someone called Wanda. He’s got pictures of her all over his office.”
“No, Gus, not Mr. Feliciano. He told me Lefty Flint is going to get married, as soon as he’s released.”
Gus was silent.
Peach continued. “Someone he’s been corresponding with the whole time he’s been in prison. You know those nuts who write to prisoners and fall in love with them. One of those.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s called Marguerite Somebody. She owns a bar in Studio City where he’s going to work when he gets out.”
“Is Marguerite Somebody out of her mind?”
“Perhaps she doesn’t have a mind.”
“Look. I have to go. There’s someone ringing my bell.”
“All right”
“Listen, Peach. I may be coming out for a day.”
“I won’t be going anywhere.”
When he put down the telephone, he had the same disquieting feeling he always had when he talked with Peach, as well as the same feeling of anger he always got when anything about Lefty Flint was mentioned to him.
As he went to the front door of his apartment, he put on his dinner jacket. Opening the door, Matilda Clarke was standing there. Behind her was Ned Manchester.
“Don’t you look smart, Gus,” said Matilda. “Gus is one of the most popular men in New York,” she said, turning to Ned. “You know each other, don’t you? Ned Manchester. Gus Bailey.”
“Easter at Lil Altemus’s,” said Gus, remembering where they had met.
“Exactly,” said Ned. He seemed slightly ill at ease. “Charming, your flat,” he said to Gus.
“Isn’t it?” agreed Matilda. “Exactly the right amount of shabby.”
Gus laughed. “Such compliments. How about if I make you drinks in some chipped glasses?”
“Scotch for me,” said Ned.
“Wine for me,” said Matilda.
When Gus went into the kitchen, Ned picked up some books on tables to look at the titles. “I wish I had time to read,” he said.
“Play a few less hours of squash every day, and you’d have time to read,” said Matilda.
“You sound just like someone I used to be married to,” said Ned.
Matilda snapped her fingers quietly to get Ned’s attention and pointed to the photograph of Gus’s daughter on a tabletop and mouthed but did not say the word dead.
“I saw Constantine de Rham today at Clarence’s,” said Matilda, when Gus returned with the drinks.
“Out again, is he?” asked Gus.
“Looks about a hundred,” said Matilda.
“Very aging, a gunshot wound in the stomach,” offered Ned Manchester.
“Did you talk with him?” asked Gus.
“Heavens, no. He was with that young woman with the Eva Perón hairstyle,” said Matilda.
“Yvonne Lupescu, her name is,” said Gus.
“She was playing nursie, leading him to his table.”
“A strange pair,” said Ned.
“I’m sure she’s the one who shot him,” said Matilda.
“It’s a theory,” said Gus.
There was a pause in the conversation. Gus, curious, wondered what the purpose of the visit was.
“What time are you off, Gus?” asked Matilda.
“Almost immediately, in fact,” said Gus. “I’m going to Maisie Verdurin’s, and you can’t be late at Maisie’s. In at eight. Out at eleven. Like clockwork.”
“Loelia and Mickie are going to Maisie’s too,” said Matilda to Ned.
“Lucky Maisie,” said Ned. There was a note of bitterness in his voice.
“Listen, Gus,” said Matilda. “My son’s here from Santa Barbara. He’s turned my little hovel upside down. Would you mind very much if we stayed on a bit after you left?”
Gus looked up and immediately understood the situation. Ned, turning away, went back to examining the books on Gus’s coffee table. Gus smiled at Matilda.
“No problem,” said Gus, taking his glass into the kitchen, and Matilda followed him.
“We’re having dinner around the corner, at that little French place, whatever it’s called, and we thought we could wait here until our reservation at nine,” Matilda went on quickly. “I mean, it’s so cozy here.”
“No problem,” repeated Gus.
Matilda turned on the tap in the sink and rinsed out Gus’s glass. “Don’t you dare say loose woman to me, Gus Bailey,” she whispered.
“Who said loose woman?” asked Gus.
“You’re thinking it.”
“No, you are,” said Gus, laughing.
“He’s so forlorn since Loelia,” said Matilda.
“You know where the rubbers are,” said Gus.
“You are awful!” she said, pretending to pound him with her fists. “I could ask that nice elevator man of yours to lock up after we leave.”
“Sure,” said Gus.
“Would you like to come out to the country over the weekend?” asked Matilda, in a normal voice, returning to the living room.
“I’ll be away,” answered Gus.
“Another one of your mysterious trips? This man, Ned, I’m sure he’s leading a double life. One of these days we’re going to find out he’s not a writer at all, but an assassin.”
* * *
“Gus, I was thrilled with the piece you wrote about us for the Times Magazine,” said Ruby Renthal, at Maisie Verdurin’s dinner.
“Thanks,” said Gus.
“You were a pal not to repeat some of those damn fool things I said,” said Ruby.
“I told you I wouldn’t.”
“A lot of you guys say you won’t and then you do,” said Ruby. Gus noticed that people stared at Ruby Renthal the way they stared at film stars.
“If I had, I wouldn’t have gotten invited to your ball, and I want to go to your ball,” said Gus. They both laughed.
Lest anyone had not picked up on the change in status of Elias and Ruby Renthal, Maisie Verdurin, whose dinners were always a barometer of exactly who was successful in the mercurial world of big business, seated Elias Renthal on her right that night, the place of honor that she usually reserved for cabinet ministers and former presidents. As Ruby Renthal was every bit as important a social star as her husband was a business star, Maisie had been in a quandary all day at exactly how to seat Ruby at no less elevated a place than Elias’s, especially as the invitations to their ball were out and they had become even greater objects of curiosity.
Finally Maisie had broken one of her own rules never to seat husbands and wives at the same table and placed Ruby across from her between the chief executive officers of an airline and a petroleum company.
“I have never seen Mrs. Renthal wear the same dress twice,” said Rochelle Prud’homme to Maisie. Rochelle, who had resisted the Renthals’ rapid rise, had now fallen into line, praising them on every occasion, especially as they were giving the grandest party of the decade. “I hear Ezzie Fenwick tells her what to wear.”
“Isn’t
she beautiful?” Maisie had replied. “I think she’s the chicest woman in New York.” Maisie did not add that she had never had clients like Elias and Ruby Renthal for buying art, even though she could not bear Jamesey Crocus, who had now become their private curator. As Elias’s walls, both in town and country, were now filled with works of art, his collecting spree had abated somewhat, except for the occasional swap, when a finer specimen of a painter’s work came on the market. Maisie, ever on the lookout for new walls to fill, had taken an interest in Reza Bulbenkian, another of the New People whose wealth was incalculable, and invited him and his wife Babette to the same party that the Renthals were attending, but she seated them at less exalted tables than her own. The Bulbenkians were also rising in society, although in adjacent groups of lesser smartness than the group that had taken in the Renthals, and they were not often mentioned in social conversation, except in that month each year when Mr. Forbes brought out his list of the four hundred richest people in America, on which Reza Bulbenkian’s name kept rising.
“Who in the world is this Reza Bulbenkian?” Loelia had asked Ruby, looking up from the magazine.
“You see him at benefits,” answered Ruby. “He always buys several tables, or whole rows of seats, and fills them with people you never saw before.”
“With the hair in his ears, that one?” asked Loelia.
“Exactly. And the wife who weighs about three hundred.”
With that, the Bulbenkians were dismissed until the following year, except, of course, on Wall Street, where he was discussed almost as much as Elias Renthal.
Maisie placed Reza Bulbenkian at what she considered her third best table, next to Yvonne Lupescu, and she placed Babette, who had been married to Reza for thirty years, in the little room in the back, next to Constantine de Rham, who was responsible for introducing the Bulbenkians to Maisie, just as he had been responsible for introducing Elias Renthal to Maisie. Maisie knew that the dream of the Bulbenkians’ life was to be asked to the Renthals’ ball, but she had declined to intercede in their behalf, agreeing only to have them to the same party and let them take it from there.
“Marvelous, your toupee,” said Yvonne Lupescu to Reza Bulbenkian, in an effusive tone, as if she were complimenting him on an exquisite article of clothing, and then continued, pretending not to notice the look of discomfort on his face, “No one would ever know.”
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