by Nan
“I’m looking for the right way to put this.” Cal slid into the role of Cal Dennis, All-American Boy. He averted his eyes, shifting his body to indicate modesty. “We both know that Rikki’s going to get a big kick out of sucking my cock and I want the moment to be as perfect for her as possible.”
Janos appeared to have stopped breathing. He spoke without any trace of emotion. “You pull down her pants. You unzip your fly. You go in. You go out. And then you go to the bank.”
“The hell I do!” Cal protested. “What do you take me for? This isn’t some hide-the-salami deal between two strangers. If you’re paying me six million dollars to lay your wife, I’m damn well going to do it right!”
“I don’t want your cock in her mouth.”
“But Janos, you and I are like family!”
“But nothing. I have to kiss her afterwards.”
“Jesus. You’re so sensitive! I never thought you were so sensitive.”
“What do you think? Only people with blond hair and blue eyes are sensitive?”
“Janos, I’m only thinking about Rikki. You and I know what we’re getting out of this deal. But what’s in it for her?”
“Who cares what’s in it for her? This is my deal. Not hers.”
Cal smiled. “But Rikki is the fuckee.”
“Of course she’s the fuckee. She’s always the fuckee. I created her to be the fuckee!” Janos’s face had begun to flush. He was breathing faster.
Cal sat back and shrugged. “I just thought as long as I was at it, why not let Rikki have some fun.” He grabbed Janos by the arm. “What about her nipples? I could bite them very gently. Some women like that.”
“Forget it.”
“I’m only asking for Rikki’s sake.” Cal nudged him with his elbow. “Come on. What does she like you to do to her?”
“Who cares?”
“Janos, does she like you to undress her?”
Janos stared out into the room. “No.”
“I get it. She likes to surprise you! Naked under the covers?”
“No.”
“Well, then does she like to watch you get undressed?”
Across the aisle, Margaret Truman Daniel was being seated. “She likes to pull down my pants.”
“Son of a bitch!” Cal said, patting Janos on the arm. “Now we’re getting somewhere. You really know how to tease the hell out of her, don’t you? Then what?”
“She gets undressed.”
“All right, I don’t want to mess this part up. Does she like you to touch her while she gets undressed?”
“How can I touch her if she’s standing on a chair!”
“On a chair?” Cal cleared his throat to prevent himself from laughing. “She’s standing on a chair?”
Janos whispered angrily, “Why the hell are you asking all these questions?”
“You never heard of An Actor Prepares? Janos, where should I be when she’s on the chair?”
Janos shook his finger angrily in Cal’s face. “I don’t want you sitting on my toilet!”
Cal started to laugh. “That’s where you are? You sit on the toilet while she gets undressed?” He held up a hand in self-defense. “Okay. Okay. How about if I walk around the chair? I brush my shoulder against her thighs. Put a hand on her ankle. Then slowly, fingertip by fingertip, I walk my hand up her leg. Inside her thigh. Then one finger at a time . . .” Cal paused, asking matter-of-factly, “What do you think? You think that would please her?”
Janos banged his fist on the table. “Who cares? I didn’t hire you to please her! I hired you to fuck her. The deal is: You fuck her, you please me!”
It was time for a drum roll. All Cal had to do was raise the pie and aim. “You know,” Cal said calmly, “I have an even better deal. You fuck her. And then you go and fuck yourself!”
Libby couldn’t take her eyes from Cal. If only he had smiled at her instead of smiling at Janos. She needed that Cal Dennis smile, however perfect it was, to reassure her, however imperfect she was. Instead, he had turned back to Janos. Laughing. Whispering. She knew they were working out the details. The time. The place. And however often she reminded herself that only a fool would walk away from a six-million-dollar deal, she wanted to see Cal run as fast as he could. She wanted him to hop the first available camel and carry her off into the desert sunset.
But the desert sunset would have to wait. There were no liver dumplings in the celery broth.
Diane von Furstenberg tried to stop Libby. “Please, darling. It doesn’t matter.”
But Libby snatched the bowl and headed toward the kitchen carrying the plate as though it held the head of John the Baptist. She passed the busboys in the service area and shouted, “Check the pitchers! I want ice in the water!” Pushing open the door, Libby shifted sensors from the chic buzz of the dining room to the harsh clatter of the kitchen. The rattle of silverware. The crash of china being stacked. The nervous sizzle-spit of the grill. And the shouting.
“Pots! Pots!” Cham repeated angrily, waiting for the porter to remove the dirty saucepans.
“Fire the chops!” Ursula yelled.
Norm stood in the middle of the room. “Where the fuck are my veggies?”
Libby grabbed hold of Stu and showed him the bowl. “What do you call this?”
“Oh, shit!”
“Fire one duck thighs!”
Libby tapped a finger on Ursula’s shoulder. “You’re not checking plates.”
“Fire one lobster hash!” She looked at Libby impatiently. “If they don’t stop, I don’t check. I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”
“Then you better get a pair up your ass,” Libby said. Ursula put a hand to her mouth, laughing loudly. Libby shouted to the waiters, “Pick it up, boys. You’re too slow.”
“His wife wishes!”
“Ready on the chops for 52!”
“What about my bluefish?”
“Ready on the livers!”
“Fuck your bluefish!”
“Fuck your chops!”
“He no wait!” Liang shrieked at Libby while putting dumplings in a fresh bowl of broth. “He rush rush rush!”
“Rush you!” Stu said.
“Fuck you!”
“Ordering one swordfish naked!”
“Extra sauce on the crabmeat!”
“I no give extra sauce!”
Libby took the plate from Liang. “I do!”
“Pick up two TPP’s!” Bud shouted. He slapped his palm on the counter impatiently as Al took the plates. “Come on! Come on! Before they’re old enough for social security!” Bud walked around the chef’s table to Libby. “We’re in trouble.”
Libby shook her head. “I’m closed. No more trouble today.”
“Alfero stole all the truffles.”
“He did what?” Libby began to laugh. “Good for Alfero.”
“I borrowed enough from Caravelle and Grenouille to get started but the delivery hasn’t arrived yet. I’ve only got six pies left.”
Maxie the waiter burst into the kitchen and shouted, “You’re not going to believe this! Burt’s thinking about doing a play!” He handed Ursula the dupe from his order pad. “But Michael wants them to do a movie together.”
“Ordering Table 22!” Ursula shouted. “One pâté! One crab!”
“What play?” George asked.
“What play! Phyllis Elgin’s play!”
George shook his head as he picked up two orders of chicken livers in raspberry vinegar. “I was afraid of that. Burt’s totally wrong for the part. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!”
Bud put his hands on Libby’s shoulders, pleading with her to understand. “I’m running out of truffles!”
She shrugged. “Welcome to the club.”
Abner Waxman, as lean as Cassius, pale and balding, stood up as Mary Borden approached the table. “And how is the world’s greatest agent today?” he asked, not expecting an answer from her. “Kiss kiss,” he said, without bothering to lean over.
“Chris
t, you’re not in one of your moods, are you?”
Abner nodded. “I spent all yesterday listening to Bachianas Brasileiras and eating nothing but lobster Newburg. Captain Depresso.”
“You’ll get fat,” Mary warned.
“Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.”
“Can you take me to the theater tonight?” Mary asked. “It’s an opening. One of my clients. I have to go.”
“The theater is for illiterates,” Abner said. “It’s for people who can’t read. That’s how it all started, didn’t it?”
Abner Waxman was a brilliant editor with a penchant for first novelists. Editing virgins was the only part of the business he enjoyed. As far as Abner was concerned, it was all downhill after the first book. But his first-novel fetish was costing the house a fortune. Which is why when Mary offered to bring him best-selling author Tully Ireland, she knew he would do anything in return. Even publish John Sessions’s book, one of the few first novels he truly hated. Still, it was the quintessential Mary Borden deal: In the end, everyone got what they really wanted. Tully got more money, Abner got out of the red, John got published, and Mary got rid of John.
“I spoke to Junior yesterday about Before Dawn,” Mary said. “I gave him the ‘Good Germans versus Bad Germans’ routine and said it was perfect for Cal Dennis.”
“What did Cal Dennis ever do to you?”
Al, the waiter, nodded politely. “Are you ready to order?”
Abner leaned over to Mary. “Who’s paying for lunch?”
“You are.”
Abner smiled at Al. “Then I’d better cancel the ’34 Petrus.” His face brightened. “You know what I’m in the mood for? Lobster Newburg!”
Mary was impatient. She took both menus and handed them to Al. “I’ll pay. Two chicken paillards. No veggies. Salad with lemon.”
Abner waited for Al to leave. “I hate what you did.”
“It’s for your own good. You want to look like the Michelin Man?”
“I’m talking about Before Dawn. It’s too early to send it out. I know you want everything tied up as quickly as possible for personal reasons, but it’s too distracting for him. Why should he waste time on the rewrite? I can’t compete with an offer from Junior and Cal Dennis.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll see that John does whatever you want.”
“Not with a movie option from Junior under his arm. You’re giving him the gold medal before the torch is lit.”
“John is very serious. He’s dying to have you edit him. This is his first novel.”
“It reads like his third first novel.”
Mary ignored Abner’s remark. “Besides, he’s not about to screw around with a forty-thousand-dollar advance.”
“Forty? I offered you twenty!”
“Forty and an author tour.”
“How about his own rocket ship? We could launch him into space and you’d never have to see him again.”
“You’ll make it all back on Tully. I’ve read the new manuscript.”
“How about my reading the new manuscript?”
Mary shook her head no. “I want to tell him that you didn’t have to read it. You’re willing to take it sight unseen.”
“That about sums up publishing in America.”
“Trust me, Abner. It will sell his usual million copies. I’ve leaked it to the clubs. You’re safe.”
“You went through all of that?”
“I want you to edit John’s book.”
“At your service, madam.” He smiled. “I majored in Advanced Rumpelstiltskin. I’ve turned crap into gold before.”
“You damn well better do something.” She smiled for the first time. “He dedicated that piece of crap to me.”
“Say no more. I shall do battle against the dreaded third-person singular. Armed with my faithful blue pencil, I shall vanquish all errant commas and rampant sentimentality.” He reached for Mary’s hand and held it tight. “However, there is still one huge loose end. I understand why you’re giving me Tully for John. But who the hell are you giving Putnam as compensation for stealing Tully away? Now that has got to be one hell of a deal.”
Andre picked up his glass and swirled the Château Lafite 70 wondering what the inmates at the Pritikin Center were having for lunch. After Junior backed out of the deal, Andre postponed his reservation again. He had been granted a reprieve. Andre was almost glad Junior had passed. He couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life on tofu.
Still, he knew something had to be done. It was increasingly difficult to breathe. He sat up half the night with palpitations worrying about his clogged arteries, his nicotine-stained lungs, and his nearly petrified liver. It had taken three Courvoisiers from room service before he calmed down enough to think about something more cheerful—imminent poverty.
Andre had one more day before his check to the Grandma Moses Foundation bounced. By drawing it on an Italian bank, he had been able to stall for a few weeks. But the bank notified him that the check had been submitted for collection and gave him only until the close of business Thursday before telexing the Foundation. He had thirty-six hours left in which to lay off the property.
“To miracles,” Andre said, clinking glasses with Broadway composer David Gene.
“Is this stuff any good?” David asked, holding up his glass.
“Don’t Chernobyl me, David. I’ve seen your cellar.”
“Smart ass.”
“Smart enough to invite you to lunch.”
“You invited?” David asked. “Listen, I don’t want to have a scene when the check comes. Please. I invited.”
“David, if you recall, I was the one who told you last night that we ought to concept at lunch.”
“Whatever. As long as I pay.”
“If you can find a check, you can pay.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I don’t get a check. They send a bill.”
“Like the IRS?”
“David, is this what we came to lunch to talk about? The bill? You want a house account, I’ll make it part of the deal.”
“What deal?”
Andre sloshed the wine from cheek to cheek, swallowed hard, and breathed in through his mouth.
“What deal?” David repeated.
“David, I’m not here to talk deals. I’m here to talk dreams. Do you remember what you said before dinner last night?”
“I said I was hungry and when the hell was C.Z. going to serve?”
“You said that Sunday in the Park with George should have been called Sunday in the Park with Sondheim.”
“Don’t get me started again.”
Andre reached over and put his hand on David’s. “That’s the whole point, dear friend. You got started and couldn’t stop. They called dinner and you didn’t move. You and I sat there at the piano well into the Lady Curzon soup. You said, and I shall never forget this, David, you said that if you were writing a musical about an artist, and ‘artist-to-artist’ was the precise phrase you used, you said you’d make damn well sure to have a song you could hum!”
David nodded. “What the hell is Lady Curzon soup anyway?”
Andre raised his glass. “A toast, David.”
“It’s that good?”
“I’m toasting your next Tony award for best musical of the year.”
David stared at him. “In that event, keep talking.”
“Open your hand, David.” Andre pretended to pour something from his hand into David’s palm.
“What is that?”
“My dream. My dream for Anna Mary Robertson Moses. Play it on your piano, David.”
David looked at his open palm. “Grandma Moses?” he whispered.
“A musical about a woman trying to recapture her youth armed only with a paintbrush and a canvas. Not some pointillist punk making dots. I am talking songs you can hum.”
David continued staring at his hand. “You want me to write a big Broadway musical about some little old lady
with one foot in the grave and the other in a tube of burnt sienna?”
Andre was breathing heavily. “I have it all, David. All the merchandising rights. Coasters. Posters. Toasters. You name it. I’m willing to give you part of the action.”
David began to flex his fingers, as though suddenly hearing a melody. He looked at Andre. “Maybe it’s not such a crazy idea.”
“It is a crazy idea, David. That’s the reason it’s going to work. It’s totally crazy.” Andre stopped to gulp some air. “That’s why if we’re very careful, if we guard zealously against losing any of our insanity, we’re going to come up with the most important musical of the eighties.”
David moved his fingers as though playing a brand new song. He glanced up at Andre. “I get a cut on the T-shirts?”
“You get everything you want.”
David, his eyes ablaze, leaned toward Andre. He tapped his forefinger on the table. “And I pay for lunch?”
Andre raised his glass. Breathlessly, he said, “To ‘Grandma!’ ”
J held up two fingers. She needed a double if she was going to hear Bumps Whitney retell the story of how she single-handedly fought to get Bergdorf’s landmarked. Bumps had been given her nickname by David Eisenhower when he was a tot and she was entering the postpubescent winter of her flat-chested discontent.
“I don’t see why we can’t have those cute blue circle things they have in London telling you that Disraeli lived here,” Bumps said, noting in her alligator Filofax that she was having lunch with J. “I think putting all your appointments down in advance is like peeking at the end of a mystery novel. It spoils all the fun. Don’t you think? I mean, I think a diary is a diary. Not a pre-diary. Dear Diary, today I am going to feel sad. Why do you think it is, J darling, that people misuse things whenever they can? At every turn.”
“Disraeli didn’t live here.”
“What time, J darling?” Bumps asked, poising her thirty-nine-cent Bic pen.
“Do you want me to look at my watch?”
“No. I don’t want you to do that. I just thought you might know what time—I don’t mean what time it is, I mean what time was our reservation for lunch?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“Oh, I like twelve-thirty so much better than one. Trust you. One o’clock runs the risk of getting a used table.” Bumps jotted down twelve-thirty in her diary. “J darling, if you really think about it, and I do when I get depressed, what about all those times we stayed at hotels and slept in beds that other people had slept in? Taken actual baths in tubs that other people had used? It makes my skin crawl to think of all the dangerous things we did while growing up. It’s a wonder we made it. Don’t you think?”