THE PRESIDENT IS COMING TO LUNCH

by Nan

  Shelly rushed in. “He’s not here! I want to change my bet to steak tartare.”

  “Oh, shit,” Stu complained.

  “He’s not here yet. I can still change!”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Fire one jalapeño pasta,” Ursula shouted. “Extra sauce. Al dente. Customer wants it split four ways. One plate very light.”

  Bud banged his fist on the chef’s table. “Fuck the customer!” He looked over at Special Agent Mitchell. “No special portions!”

  “You’re dragging my veggies!”

  “Why the hell so much mayonnaise on here?”

  Bud leaned across the table. “Which one of you assholes took that pasta order?”

  The waiters closed ranks. The line cooks turned from the stoves to face the enemy. The Special Agents glanced at one another, tensing as they waited for the next move. The only sounds were the sizzling of the grill and the hiss of sauté pans.

  The door swung open wide. George, who had been anointed the President’s waiter, strode into the kitchen as though he were MacArthur reviewing the troops. “Should be any minute now,” he announced briskly before turning to leave.

  “Hey!” Louie shouted, holding two truffles in front of his eyes. “You tell President order this. Very famous dish.”

  “Oh, my God!” Ursula squealed. “Did I order a gravlax and a curried oysters? Table 61?”

  “Boss, what you pick? I pick Truffle Pot Pie.”

  “I didn’t bet, Louie.”

  “Boss, you serious?”

  Maxie was out of breath as he came into the kitchen. “He’s not here yet and Calvin Klein has a headache.”

  Stu picked up his shrimp pâté and a crabmeat cocktail. “Don’t worry. His head doesn’t hurt like real people’s.”

  “Wait a minute,” Maxie said. “I want to change my bet to swordfish.”

  “Fuck you,” Stu said, hurrying out the door.

  Maxie pointed to the chef’s table. “Where the hell is my gravlax and curried oysters?”

  “Fuck you!” Ursula screamed. “Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you!”

  Louie began to giggle. “Oh, boy, boss. We in big trouble now. I never hear wide woman speak curses.”

  “Shut up, you little yellow shit!” Ursula jumped off her stool. She made a full turn, a goldfish in a leaky bowl. “What are you bastards staring at?” she screamed. “I forget one gravlax and one curried oysters and you all gang up on me?”

  Norm shook his head. “Let’s not forget the duck breast.” He turned back to Special Agent Mitchell. “You notice how forgetful she’s getting?”

  Ursula picked up her stool and banged it on the floor. “I didn’t forget the duck breast!”

  “You no say duck breast! You say chicken liver!” Louie slammed down the plate.

  Ursula took the livers and threw them to the floor. “Duck! Duck! Duck!”

  “Quack! Quack! Quack!”

  “Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!”

  “Oink! Oink! Oink!”

  Bud banged a pot lid on the table. “Shut up, you morons! Get the hell back to work. This isn’t a zoo. This is lunch!”

  “Today very important,” Louie shouted. “You give correct order, big lady. Today important because of President!”

  “The hell it is!” Bud snapped. “Today is important because of me. The President is coming to eat my food. This is my lunch!”

  At the other end of the restaurant, Special Agents Meehan and Conaway were seated at the bar. Taylor and Roth stood at the door. Taylor, wearing a red pin with a horizontal white stripe, had a clipboard against which to check names as people arrived. Roth, wearing a rectangular orange pin and holding a metal detector, checked the people. He was on the bomb squad.

  Libby, who felt like the bomb, was working the front door. She hadn’t worked the front door in years. But it was her responsibility to be there to welcome the President. Casting by Kafka. Libby Dennis, well-known restaurant roach, awoke one morning to find she had turned into Josephine K, the quintessential eighties victim. The unanswered question was no longer that old chestnut, what did I do? Or even the somewhat more provocative, do they know? It was, instead, the very trendy, will he tell?

  Will Birnbaum tell?

  Maxie rushed up to the bar. “I need two aspirin for Calvin Klein’s headache,” he shouted. “And two for mine.” He turned to Libby. “I put all my money on the tartare but now I’m not so sure. I have a terrible feeling he’s going to order the swordfish.”

  Libby put a hand to her stomach. “Me too.”

  “You think he’s going to order the swordfish?”

  “No. I have a terrible feeling.”

  Maxie turned back to the bar. “A Perrier for Calvin and a seltzer for me.”

  Victor, the bartender, shook his head. “I’m out of aspirin.”

  “How could you be out of aspirin?”

  “I could be out of aspirin because I’m not running Mount Sinai.”

  Paul, the second bartender, said, “The only pills we got is somebody’s birth control pills.”

  “Let me see.” Maxie leaned across the bar. “Do they look like aspirin?”

  Libby reached over and took the pills. “Ask Sonny for aspirin. He always . . .”

  “Sonny?”

  Libby nodded. “Right, I forgot.” Sonny had been the first casualty in The War Against Birnbaum. She pointed a finger defensively at Maxie. “Sonny didn’t cheat me. He cheated himself.”

  Maxie shrugged. “As long as he didn’t cheat me.”

  “It’s always worse on the person who does the cheating.” Libby turned to Meehan as though he had been part of the conversation. “You know I’m right about that.”

  Meehan didn’t answer.

  “Never mind! What the hell do you know anyway?” Libby shouted. “I can’t imagine why Birnbaum left you in charge.”

  As though that were the only thing she couldn’t imagine. The last time Libby had seen Birnbaum was the middle of the night. He was sitting up in bed, staring into space. He didn’t say a word while she got dressed. He didn’t say goodbye as she leaned over to kiss him. He didn’t call when she got home. He didn’t call in the morning. He hadn’t even shown up with the other men. Where the hell was he?

  Al rushed to the bar. “Two white wines. One red. One Perrier, hold the pickles. So? Where’s the President?”

  Meehan leaned forward, cupping a hand over what looked like a hearing aid in his ear.

  “Is that him?” Al asked.

  Meehan picked up his transmitter and said, “Affirmative. Please copy.”

  Victor stopped pouring. “Oh, my God! It’s the President!”

  “He’s here!” Paul said.

  Meehan cupped his ear again as he listened to the reply.

  Libby glanced anxiously in the mirror. Pink silk suit. Peach satin blouse. Strands of antique Bohemian garnets. She sniffed her wrists, suddenly afraid she was wearing too much perfume. She reached in front of Meehan for a twist of lime. She saw him glance across the bar and nod at Conaway. “Who is it?” She rubbed the peel onto her wrists, hoping to neutralize the perfume. Conaway turned to the door and nodded at Taylor. “Is it the President?” Taylor nodded at Roth. “Is it Birnbaum?”

  Roth put one hand on the door.

  “Oh, my God!” Libby held out her arms. “Now I smell like a goddamn gin and tonic! Meehan, is it Birnbaum or is it the President?”

  Meehan said, “It’s Meryl Streep.”

  Libby began to laugh. She opened her arms and shouted, “Circle the wagons, men! It’s Meryl Streep!”

  The door pushed open, nearly knocking Libby off her feet. Sam Cohn, Meryl’s agent, peeked inside. “Who the hell are you expecting? Springsteen?”

  “Not unless he can sing ‘Hail to the Chief’!”

  Meryl stood in the doorway. “Hi?”

  “Hold your fire!” Libby said. “She’s a star!”

  “Is the President really here?” Sam said.

  Meryl smiled. “Th
e President?”

  “Excuse me.” Roth held up the magnetometer. “May I see your purse, ma’am?”

  Meryl smiled and put a hand to her forehead. “Oh, my God. Do you know how much junk I have in here?”

  Libby embraced Meryl as Roth took the purse. “That’s what you get for carrying your Oscars around.”

  Meryl kissed her. “I’m so sorry about Cal.”

  “He’s fine.” Libby said. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.” She led the way into the dining room, aware of the noise for the first time. Like a nervous coloratura, the pitch was too high. Libby glanced around the room, her eyes fixed on the agents who were supposed to blend in with the lunch crowd. They were as unobtrusive as graffiti on the Taj Mahal.

  The male indieprod, with an earring that once belonged to the Duchess of Windsor, stood up. “Oh, God!” he muttered. “It’s her. It’s her.”

  “Watch it, Sparky!” the female indieprod whispered. She wore a Bond Street suit. “It’s testosterone time. Be strong. Be macho.”

  “Stop playing Cecily B. DeMille!”

  “And for God’s sake, don’t say anything stupid!”

  As Meryl came close, the male smiled and held out his hand. “I had a farm in Africa,” he said, mimicking her Isak Dinesen accent, “at the foot of the Ngong Hills.”

  Meryl began to laugh. “You, too?”

  Libby angled the table. “Now listen up,” she said. “I gave you the best seats in the house. I expect you to order expensive.” Libby turned to leave. “One more thing . . .”

  Meryl and Sam and the indieprods all leaned forward and said in unison, “The laughs are on the house!”

  Libby smiled. That was the perfect title for her memoirs. She’d have plenty of time to write them. Once she disappeared. To become a bag lady. What a tearjerker. Required reading with every blue rinse. If only Shirley MacLaine wouldn’t go off into some other life, she’d be dynamite in the role. The real problem was who would they get to play Birnbaum now that Boris Karloff was dead?

  Steven was waiting for Libby at the bar. They had been dodging each other for hours. Like tango dancers, they had sidestepped words, translating their emotions into furtive glances and silent sighs. But it was impossible to avoid each other any longer.

  “I called you last night,” he said.

  “Last night?”

  “I waited for you at the hospital. I kept calling.”

  “Really? I was here.”

  “You weren’t here.”

  “I went upstairs for a few Z’s. I guess I must have conked out. You can ask Cal.”

  “I don’t have to ask him.”

  Libby was puzzled. She pushed back her bangs. What was he trying to tell her? Something was different about Steven. Something had replaced the contempt she usually saw in his eyes. Or had something replaced the love in hers? It hurt Libby to look at Steven. He barely resembled the son she remembered. And by the time lunch was over, he was likely to have changed again.

  “Where were you last night?” he asked. “I thought we might have a drink.”

  “Aha! The old poison drink trick!” She smiled and put her hand out to brush a wisp of hair from his forehead. He didn’t pull back. Something was different. Libby held her hand to his cheek. She knew what it was. He needed her. “Steven, it’s not your fault Cal was shot.”

  His eyes filled with tears.

  At the other end of the bar, Meehan suddenly leaned forward. He nodded as he spoke into the transmitter. “Affirmative. Please copy.”

  Libby grabbed hold of him. “Listen, you son of a bitch, I want some answers and I want them now! Where the hell is Birnbaum? And don’t tell me he already left for Los Angeles because I don’t believe it!”

  Meehan gently moved her aside. He nodded to Conaway. Conaway nodded to Taylor. Taylor put a hand to the receiver in his ear and said, “Goldberg. Harold Goldberg.”

  “Harold who?” Libby asked. “I don’t know any . . . Hots!” She turned to Meehan, shaking her fist. “Now you’re in for it!”

  Hots opened the front door. His face was drawn. Suddenly, the beeper went off. Before Hots knew it, he was staring into Roth’s Smith & Wesson. “It’s under my left arm.”

  Taylor reached in for the gun while Roth outlined Hots with the magnetometer and then gave him a quick pat search.

  As soon as he was finished, Libby threw her arms around Hots. “I have to talk to you.”

  “It can wait. First I have to talk to you.”

  “Excuse me,” Taylor said to Hots. “May I have your permit, please?”

  “What the hell are you doing with a gun?” Libby asked.

  “You think I’m going to step into a taxi unarmed? Let me tell you, if Bernie Goetz shot a cab driver, they’d have given him the key to the city.”

  “Hots, please. Let’s sit down.”

  He shook his head. “Not at my table. It must have more bugs than a Chinese restaurant.”

  Libby had never seen Hots as worried. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be upset.”

  “You will be.”

  Taylor gave Hots a receipt. “We have to keep the weapon until you leave.”

  “A lot you know about lunch if you think a gun is dangerous. You should have everybody check their mouths at the door.” Hots led Libby to a corner of the vestibule. He took a deep breath and whispered, “I told Birnbaum about Steven.”

  Libby put a hand to her heart. “You what?”

  “I couldn’t help it! He had me by the gazongas. He was going to put me away for years. Sweetheart, do you think I was about to let Steve Rubell visit me in prison?”

  “When did you tell him?”

  “Yesterday. I called you last night but you didn’t answer. I’ve been in court all morning.”

  “What time yesterday?”

  “How do I know? What am I? Big Ben? It was late afternoon.”

  Libby pulled away from Hots. She gasped. “Son of a bitch!”

  “It’s all right. Call me anything you want. I deserve it. I feel so bad I won’t even bill you for the time I spent with him.”

  “The son of a bitch already knew!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Libby was talking about the look on Birnbaum’s face when he said, “Why did you have to tell me?” She finally understood what he meant. He didn’t want her to know that he knew. Libby began to cry. “If only I hadn’t told him.”

  “You did what?”

  “I told him after you did.” She saw Hots stiffen. Pull back. Ice.

  “How could you do that to me? I thought I could trust you! Don’t you have any respect for lawyer-client confidentiality?”

  “Shut up,” she whispered. “You told first.”

  Hots put his arms around her. “What did he threaten you with?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean nothing? He must have done something to make you talk.”

  Libby nodded. “He listened.” She saw the look of disbelief on Hots’s face. “He’s an incredible listener.”

  Hots stared at her. “Should you live long enough to experience midlife crisis, do not make a career shift into espionage.”

  She tried smiling. “If only I had kept my mouth shut everything would have been all right.”

  “Stop blaming yourself. That’s what friends are for. Besides, I told him first.”

  “But I forced his hand. He wasn’t going to say anything as long as I didn’t know he knew. Don’t you see?”

  “All I see is that he’s going to tell.”

  She began to cry. “I thought I could trust him.”

  Hots put his arms around her. “Are you crazy? You don’t understand who we’re dealing with. Bubeleh, this is a man who loves Milk Duds!”

  As she wiped the tears away, an enormous smile blossomed on Libby’s face. The National Geographic could have done an entire issue on the flowering of that one smile. Suddenly, she knew exactly who she was dealing with. “But this is also a man who lo
ves chicken chow mein!”

  * * *

  The white limousine edged over into the right-hand lane as it approached Fifth Avenue and Fifty-fifth Street. The uniformed chauffeur leaned forward to see what was going on at the corner. Police barricades. Mounted police. Police with walkie-talkies. He narrowed his eyes and looked into the rearview mirror at his passenger. “¿Qué el fuck?”

  “Yo no sé.” The man in the back seat wore a thick dark handlebar moustache under a white Panama hat with a broad yellow silk band. A three-piece vanilla linen suit. A white silk tie and a bright yellow silk shirt.

  The chauffeur ignored the traffic cop’s hand signal to move on. Instead, he pulled over toward the barricade, muttering, “¡Fuck usted!”

  “¡Cáliate!”

  A police officer came over to the driver’s side. “I’m sorry. The block is closed to traffic.”

  The chauffeur glanced nervously into the rearview mirror. “El señor tiene una reserva.”

  “¿Dónde?” asked the officer.

  “Libby’s.”

  “Gracias.” The officer motioned to Special Agent Keller.

  The passenger smoothed his moustache. “Dice nada. Hace nada.”

  Keller, who wore a round yellow pin in his lapel, knocked politely on the passenger window.

  The man in the back seat moaned, “¡Madre de Dios!” Frantically, he began pressing buttons on the panel to find the right one. After turning on the air conditioner, the television, the stereo, and the weather report, he found the button that opened the window. “Buenos días,” he shouted above the music.

  “Buenos días.” Keller leaned his head inside to see who and what was in the car. “For security reasons,” he said loudly, trying to be heard above the noise, “we must confirm all reservations.”

  The man in the white suit nodded. “Me llamo José Ensesa.”

  “Thank you, Señor Ensesa. I’m sorry for the delay.” Keller pulled his head out of the car. He checked the list and then turned on his walkie-talkie. “Fifth Avenue to Barfly. Ensesa. White limo. Party of one. Do you copy?” Keller glanced back through the open window and smiled. “It’ll just take a minute.”

  As he waited, the passenger looked nervously out the window. He saw dozens of angry demonstrators. They marched in a circle, wheeling baby carriages and carrying signs. SCREW SAFE SEX. MAKE BABIES, NOT CONDOMS. LET MY PENIS GO!