by Nan
* * *
“So?” Janos asked, pointing to the screenplay. “You like what you’ve read so far?”
“I haven’t read it,” Cal said, sitting down.
“I thought we were going to make a deal.”
“We are.”
“Without reading it?”
“You never said reading it was part of the deal.”
Janos tapped his finger on the script. “If you had read The Last Cowboy, big shot, you’d know it isn’t as bad as they say.” Cal began to laugh. Janos shook his head. “All right. You made your point. You’re only doing it for the money.”
“Why does that make you angry?”
“Because you don’t know anything about money. If you knew enough you’d have enough. It’s no fun making a deal with someone who needs money. It’s like a dying man who tries to bargain with death.”
“I’m not trying to bargain. The deal is five.”
“Five?” Janos roared.
“Five.”
“Listen, movie star, I understand you need money. But nobody needs five million dollars.”
“I need five.”
Janos laughed. “Forgive me, my friend. If you need five, you don’t need money. You need five. Why five?”
“I want five.”
“All right. All right!” Janos rubbed his hands together. “So, thank God, we’re not talking need anymore. We’re talking want. Now we’re talking a deal.”
“We’re still talking five.”
“Darling boy, just for the record. You are talking five.”
“I won’t do it for less.”
“Less? Who said less? Did I say less? You think I want people to say I put my wife in a picture with a nobody? You think I don’t know what your price is? No, my friend, as far as I am concerned, there are forty producers out there who would do anything to get you in a picture. The only reason you have decided to make my picture instead of theirs is that you are hot for my wife!”
Cal started to laugh. “I never came on to Rikki. What the hell are you talking about?”
“I am talking about the deal.”
“The deal is five,” Cal said.
Janos sighed deeply and sat back. “I am the deal maker and the deal is what I say the deal is. The deal is not five, dear friend. We’re going to tell everyone the deal is five because I don’t want people to think you did it for the money. But the deal is six. You will make this picture with Rikki for six. You will also make love to Rikki. Included in the price. You will fuck her deaf, dumb, and blind at no extra charge except what it will cost me to make certain everyone knows you are screwing my wife.”
Cal stared, unblinking, at Janos. Surely it was a joke. He was convinced it was a joke until he heard the punch line.
“And then after the entire world knows that Mr. Hollywood Handsome has stamped U.S. Grade A on her ass, then, Mr. Great Lover,” Janos said, savoring each word, “she will leave you and come back to me. And that is the deal!”
The moment J sat down, Maxie brought her a margarita. Diane Betwee, J’s junior lunchette, wore her Southern Connecticut heritage with no less bravado than Jezebel wore her red dress. A young woman of impeccable pastels, Diane was true WASP trash: boarding school, beer, L. L. Bean, Boehm birds, and just enough ants in her pants for a few meaningless affairs with worthwhile people.
J sat back and sighed, having emptied her glass in a single swallow. “Do you drink, dear?”
Diane smiled. “Mais oui.”
J raised her hand, summoning Maxie. “We may.”
“I am so glad I ran into you last week. At the Morgan Library, of all places. I always buy my Christmas cards there.”
“In October?”
Diane leaned forward. “I am a Christmas junkie. I do nothing but buy Christmas ornaments all year long. I know, I know. I’m crazy. But c’est moi.”
Maxie came to the table, his pencil poised to take the young woman’s drink order. J’s drink was already on the first line of his pad, the rule being that when two women lunched, the older woman’s order came first. Two women of the same age: the first line was for the woman closest to the door. Two women of the same age sitting equidistant from the door: the sexier woman or the one at the waiter’s right went on top.
“Oh, I just don’t know what to have!” Diane said, shrugging her shoulders.
J stepped on Maxie’s foot. It was her signal to keep the margaritas coming. She smiled at Diane. “Why not have a boiler-maker?”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“It was all the rage at the Vineyard. We were working on some benefit last summer. I don’t remember what it was. Either Lou Gehrig’s disease or Joe Heller’s disease. You know how depressing those things can get.”
“I’ll have a white wine spritzer, please. With two cherries?”
“Thank you.”
As soon as Maxie left, Diane leaned toward J and spoke sotto voce. “I know just what you mean. There are diseases and there are diseases. I had to say no to MS, Down’s syndrome, epilepsy, and cystic whatever before I decided to play it safe with cancer.”
Ashanti put a hand to her forehead as though the first taste of Truffle Pot Pie caused excruciating pain. She pointed her fork repeatedly at the plate while fluttering her eyes. “My culinarius has been raped! Sue the kitchen! Oh, God, where is Libby? This is delicious!”
But Hots wasn’t listening. His eyes were riveted across the room. Moina, looking every bit as chic as she had the day before, posed atop the steps. “Jesus!” Hots muttered. “Welcome to the Meshuggener Brothers Circus.”
Moina crossed the room, walking on conversation. Heads parted. People stopped talking. The rumor, which had spread through the room even faster than Truffle Pot Pie, was that she had traded it all in for a Bill Blass shroud.
Steven angled the table and Moina slid in gracefully next to Hots. She stared at Steven. “Why don’t you get yourself a decent haircut?” Then she reached for Ashanti’s hand. She held on tight.
Hots waited for Steven to leave before asking, “How the hell did you get out?”
Moina never took her eyes from Ashanti. “Isn’t everything negotiable?”
Ashanti stretched across the table and kissed her on both cheeks. Then, on the lips. “Pussy, you shouldn’t be here.”
Moina smiled. “Au contraire. I wouldn’t have missed it.” She turned to Hots. “The pain is killing me. You’ll have to get me out of here in half an hour and take me home.”
“Home?” Hots whispered. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital!”
Moina looked across the room and waved. She didn’t know at whom but she wanted to be seen waving. “I suppose Fay has been circling my table.” She sat back slowly and narrowed her eyes at Hots. “Don’t look at me that way. Did you really think I’d let them chop off my tit?”
“It’s better than dying.”
“Says who?” Forcing a smile, she stared into the room as she gave Hots instructions. “I’ll need a car every day. Promptly at twelve-fifteen. Make arrangements for a plainclothes nurse to wait in the limo. For as long as I can walk, I’ll show up for lunch as though nothing has happened.”
He ignored the blinking lights on his phone. “I can’t let you do this.”
Moina took a deep breath. “It’s not up to you.”
“Uh oh,” Hots said. “Red alert. It’s Fay.” Hots and Ashanti exchanged worried glances knowing how fiercely the two women hated each other.
Fay had been reading lips from across the room. She squeezed onto the banquette next to Moina, glaring at her. Then with tears in her eyes, Fay put her arms around Moina and whispered, “You goddamn stupid vain bitch!”
Pink silk tunic. Pink wool skirt. Gold mesh belt. In uniform and reporting for active duty, Libby stood behind Steven at the reservations desk. Lunch was in full swing. All the tables were filled. She didn’t have to look at the room, she could hear it playing. Instead, she watched Steven’s head turn slightly in disacknowl-edgment of he
r presence.
Libby noticed how neatly he combed his hair. Not at all the way he had as a little boy. She bit her lip, wishing desperately there was something she could say to let Steven know how much she loved him. She glanced down at the seating chart. “Now that’s really stupid, putting Av and Rosina in the back.”
Without turning around, Steven shook his head. “The voice of the turtle.”
“And why the hell would you bury Janet and John at 82? Have you lost your mind?”
“Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing. Have you been betting on the ponies or something? There are two guys sitting at the bar waiting for you. Very film noir.”
Libby turned quickly. The two men at the bar nodded and got off their stools. “I don’t know who they are. They could be killers.”
“No. I don’t have that kind of luck. You probably called them stupid and they’ve come to rough you up a little.”
Libby turned toward the bar. “If I’m not back . . .”
“Be still my heart.”
“Gentlemen?” she said, with a smile.
“Mrs. Dennis.”
“Yes?”
Meehan took out his ID. “Secret Service.”
“Not again!” Libby tried waving him aside. “Don’t worry. I’ll give the boss a good table!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dennis. We have orders to take you with us.”
The gray Plymouth station wagon headed downtown along Seventh Avenue, past Times Square, and into the garment center. The streets were clogged with accountants and receptionists and brothers-in-law. Flocks of overweight salesmen, like penguins on an ice floe, lined up at hot-dog stands. They shifted from foot to foot to catch the sun.
Libby stared out the window, one thought repeating itself over and over again. They had found out about Steven. After all the years and all the lies, they had uncovered the truth.
As the car slowed down, Libby’s heartbeat accelerated. Meehan stepped out and held the door open. For an instant she thought of running—until she realized where she was. She was in front of Macy’s.
“Mrs. Dennis?” Meehan helped her from the car. He led the way into the store. He might as well have sprouted wings and flown her to the top of the Empire State Building. It couldn’t have been more surrealistic. They stepped onto the escalator, rising on the diagonal to the second floor. Lingerie. Was that where the United States Secret Service had its office?
By the time they reached China and Glassware on the eighth floor, Libby’s heart had stopped pounding. She wasn’t frightened anymore. She was furious. She followed Meehan through Cut Crystal and into Imported Dinnerware.
There was Birnbaum. A dinner plate in each hand. He looked at one plate, then at the other. He turned quickly, sensing someone was watching. Seeing Libby, he smiled and held out the plates. “So what do you think?”
Libby took them from him. She looked at one plate. She looked at the other plate. Then she looked at Birnbaum. Never taking her eyes from him, she smashed both plates against the counter.
Everyone within earshot turned around. Birnbaum nodded slowly. “I didn’t like them either.” He motioned for Meehan to take care of the stunned saleswoman. Very gently, Birnbaum took Libby by the arm and led her out of the store.
“I am going to sue you for kidnaping,” she said, getting back into the Plymouth. “And then I’m going to sue you for violating my civil rights.”
“How about false arrest?” he suggested.
“That too.” Libby looked out the window. They were driving uptown. “Where is your office?”
“Downtown.”
“Are you taking me back to the restaurant?”
“No.”
Although they were sitting right next to each other, Libby shouted at the top of her voice. “I want to call my lawyer!”
The driver was startled. He stepped on the brakes, hurling Libby forward. Birnbaum grabbed hold of her then let go quickly. He put his palms up to show he wasn’t armed. Then Birnbaum opened a side panel and held out the phone. “Here,” he said to her. “Five five six, five six nine nine.”
Libby froze. That was Hots’ number. She withdrew her hand. “You know who my lawyer is?”
“Yes.”
After a moment, “Is there anything about me you don’t know?”
He smiled. “All I know, Mrs. Dennis, is what I read. Most people don’t realize that the Secret Service operates out of the Treasury Department.” He shrugged. “So does the IRS. It’s amazing how much you can find out from a tax return.”
Libby stared out the window. They were heading north through Central Park.
“The other thing most people don’t realize,” he said, as though conducting a tour, “is that the Secret Service, when protecting the life of the President, is the only branch of government not bound by the Constitution.”
“You make your own rules?”
“We can’t afford to lose.”
“You can do anything you want?”
“No questions asked.”
“How about one question, Birnbaum? For old times?”
“For old times.”
“Where the hell are you taking me?”
“Where do you think? To lunch!”
* * *
The Lotus Inn on 125th Street and Broadway was Birnbaum’s favorite Chinese restaurant. To Libby’s practiced eye, The Lotus Inn probably did a terrific business on Thanksgiving. Most of the tables were occupied by singles. Almost everyone was reading.
The waiter shouted to Birnbaum, “I save your booth for you.”
Instinctively, Birnbaum positioned himself against the wall so that he faced the front door. He waited for Libby to take her seat.
She hesitated. “What the hell has this got to do with protecting the life of the President?”
“I’ll figure out something.”
Libby looked at the soiled vinyl booth and chipped formica table. “I don’t want to eat here.”
“Everybody says that the first time.”
“Birnbaum, I don’t like chow mein.”
“You never tasted their chow mein.”
The waiter brought a steaming pot of tea and two cups. He took silverware from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “You want the usual?”
“Two number one combination plates,” Birnbaum said. “But with special fried rice.”
“Not so fast.” Libby turned to the waiter. “How do you make the special fried rice?”
“We make it in the kitchen.”
“It’s delicious,” Birnbaum said. “And two cans of cherry soda.” He smiled at her. “What the hell.”
Libby took the lid off the teapot and dropped in the silverware. She pulled napkins from the dispenser and cleaned the forks and spoons. “I gather your wife took all the dishes with her.”
“She commissioned some lesbian potter in Vermont to create a series of ‘food environments,’ as she called them. There wasn’t one piece that was level. Every time you cut something, the plate rocked back and forth. She took them all, thank God. But she did leave me a set of depression glass. I couldn’t tell whether it was a gift or a comment.”
Libby poured tea onto the table. She rubbed at the food stains. “You come here often?”
“Not often enough.”
Libby nodded. “I guess it’s hard to find people to kidnap.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Birnbaum, what is the half of it? Why did you bring me here?”
He leaned toward her. “I have to ask you some questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Personal questions.” He stared at her long enough to feel guilty. She was scaring the hell out of him. He’d never been able to talk about his wife before. “I don’t mean that I’m making a move on you, Mrs. Dennis.”
She smiled. “Why not?”
The waiter brought two steaming plates. “Two number one combination with special fried rice.”
Even before the plates were
on the table, Birnbaum picked up his fork. He pointed to the chow mein. “You see all those onions? Did I tell you it was great?” Birnbaum poured on mustard and plum sauce. “Go ahead. It’s like biting into a time machine. You can taste the world the way it used to be. Oh God,” he groaned, inhaling deeply. “You can actually smell the MSG.”
“Birnbaum . . .”
“Don’t tell me you hate it,” he said with his mouth full. “Not until you try it.”
“What kind of questions?”
He nodded. “Right. Good idea. Let’s talk business until your taste buds get acclimated. Tell me about your affair with the President.”
Libby froze. “Why?”
“Why?” He put straws into the cans of cherry soda. “Why do you think? My job is to protect the President. Put yourself in my shoes. You meet someone who may or may not have a grudge against him. How are you going to find out? You ask questions. You listen to the answers. You look for clues. You have to find out if a person is dangerous. You have to understand why people do what they do.” He stared at her, wondering why she did what she did to him. “You’re not eating your chow mein.”
Libby brought a forkful to her mouth. The onions were so overcooked they greeted her palate with an aftertaste. But Birnbaum was right about one thing. It did bring back the past. The Lotus Inn had cornered the market on Cantonese Pentothal. “What do you want to know?”
“Just start from the beginning.”
Libby put down her fork. “I can’t talk and eat at the same time.”
He shook his head. “You are some tough cookie, Mrs. Dennis.”
“Libby.”
“Libby.”
“I was in a show. Out of town. Washington, D.C. It was opening night and we bombed. One of the producers had a house in Georgetown. He gave us a party but I wasn’t in much of a party mood. Cal and I had separated and reconciled and then separated again just as my big chance for Broadway fizzled out. I went upstairs to one of the bedrooms. I didn’t want to see anyone. I slid down into a chair. Someone came in to use the phone. It was him. His wife had just left him. He called her twice but each time she hung up. I didn’t know what to do. Then I heard him start to cry.”