THE PRESIDENT IS COMING TO LUNCH

by Nan

  The man in the back seat gasped. Leading the demonstration, carrying a bouquet of helium-inflated condoms, was Tessa. He wanted to call out to her. Alfero wanted to tell her what he was going to do.

  Keller responded, “Affirmative”, into the walkie-talkie and then turned to Ensesa. “May I see your ID?”

  “¿Qué?”

  The chauffeur translated. “Identificación.”

  Alfero, in one grand gesture, pointed to the limo.

  Keller smiled. “Cartas, por favor.” After approving the phoney ID, he motioned the limo to proceed up the block. Barricades lined both sides of the street. Uniformed police were stationed every twenty feet. People who lived or had business on the block were allowed access only after showing identification and being checked through the FBI’s computer for prior arrests or suspicion of instability. The large Command Van in the middle of the street spewed thick black cables into the restaurant. A fire truck, a city ambulance, and a military ambulance were parked just past the entrance.

  A police officer waved the limo across the street. “Pull over, please,” he said. “No vehicles in front of the restaurant.”

  The chauffeur got out, walked around the back of the car, and opened the door for his passenger. Alfero stepped from the limo looking like a Bacardi ad. Hesitating momentarily, he cleared his throat and moistened his lips. The passenger and the chauffeur stared at one another. Alfero knew he might never see Miguel again. “Gracias,” he whispered. Then, waving his hand at the policeman, he shouted, “¡Vamos!”

  As they approached the door, Alfero thought of Dolores and the niños standing there only the day before.

  “Señor?”

  Alfero waved a hand in front of his face. Chasing flies. It was the response he remembered as a child when anyone spoke to El Patrón.

  “Are you carrying any weapons, señor?”

  Alfero waved his hand as though the man were a fly. “¡Está loco?”

  “Just one minute, sir.” Roth brought the magnetometer in close.

  Nervously, Alfero glanced at the mirror over the bar. Even if he got through security, as his nephew Carlos had promised, he was terrified that he would be recognized. The moustache, the wig, the borrowed clothes wouldn’t fool anyone.

  “Señor Ensesa!” Libby smiled as she held out her hand. She was sure Ensesa would see right through her. It was all an act. Libby wasn’t happy to see him. There was only one person she wanted to see. “¡Bienvenido!”

  Alfero was afraid to breathe. He hadn’t expected Libby to greet him at the door, no less offer him her hand. No woman had ever done that in his entire life. He stared at the hand, too soft and too pink to be real. For that one moment, he allowed himself to believe he was El Patrón. He took her hand and bowed, closing his eyes as he kissed it. The scent of lime filled his nostrils. He would have done anything if only he could feel her tits.

  “Welcome to Libby’s,” she said nervously. Wealthy men like Ensesa could sniff out phonies as easily as they avoided taxes. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Everyone’s on pins and needles until the President arrives.”

  “He is not here?”

  She brought Ensesa to the reservations desk. “Not to worry. Any moment now.” Any moment now the earth would stop, the skies would darken, and the air would no longer support human life.

  “Señor Ensesa!” Steven nodded briskly and extended his arm toward the dining room. “Mr. Pérez should be here shortly.”

  “Mr. Pérez?”

  “I’m sure it’s the traffic,” Libby said. She leaned close. “Don’t order dessert,” she whispered. “I’ve got something special put aside for you.”

  Alfero couldn’t believe it. She was practically begging him to do it to her! Yet all he could think about was this Pérez. Who was Pérez? Pérez would know that he was not Ensesa.

  Once Alfero was seated, Steven asked, “Would you like an apéritif?”

  He waved his hand. “No. I want something to drink.”

  “Of course. What would you like?”

  “Champagne. One bottle of the best South American champagne. And do not open it before you get to the table.”

  Steven hesitated. “I’m afraid we don’t have any South American champagne. I have French . . .”

  Another wave of the hand. “No! Then I have rum and Coke.” Alfero leaned forward and tapped his index finger on the table. “Classic Coke!”

  Steven nodded. “The perfect choice.”

  Pérez. Pérez. Pérez. Carlos had called Ensesa. He said he was the maître d’ and that there had been a fire at Libby’s. Ensesa must have called Pérez. But what if he hadn’t? What if Pérez showed up?

  Thursday was Jessica Stanford’s favorite day of the week. No starving tigers, no trendy diseases, no earthquake victims. It was her day for charity to begin at home. The masseuse appeared at seven, the stylist at eight, the interior decorator at nine. The exterior decorator arrived at ten with a rack of clothes borrowed from the city’s most expensive boutiques. J’s wardrobe moved in and out of her dressing room as though it were Filene’s basement. She couldn’t risk being seen in the same outfit twice. Especially not at lunch.

  Every dress was tagged—where it had been worn and who was there. Nothing but the most personal of items survived three tags. Fortunately, there was someone in Grosse Pointe who, through J’s attorney, bought—sight unseen—all of J’s clothes at fifty percent off. There were but two unbreakable conditions: each dress had to be tagged for the vicarious pleasure of Ms. Grosse Pointe; and neither woman could ever know the identity of the other. J loved it. It was so Dickensian. How many sleepless nights had flown by as she forged provenances for clothes that were never worn.

  The phone call from college chum Harriet Moss, restaurant critic for The Wall Street Journal, was frantic enough that J couldn’t possibly say no. Harriet had nearly burst the stitches in her intestinal bypass after reading the rave about Truffle Pot Pie. She had been trashing the kitchen at Libby’s for years—not because she didn’t like the food, but strictly as a career tactic. She believed the best way for a food critic to stay on top was to take pot shots at a sacred chow.

  Harriet’s problem was that she had to get into Libby’s, order Truffle Pot Pie, and hate it before it was reviewed by her arch rival, Mimi Sheraton. But there wasn’t a reservation to be had. How could J refuse? It simply meant canceling her lunch with Estée Lauder. Or was it Germaine Monteil? One of those women.

  However, no one anticipated a police barricade on Fifth Avenue. J’s chauffeur thought fast and gave Harriet’s name as Adrien Arpel as per the original reservation.

  Harriet, who refused to wear glasses, was allergic to makeup, and had trouble finding dresses to fit, squinted her piggy little eyes and looked out the window. “This is worse than the opening of Le Bernardin. Did you have his grilled monkfish? What a laugh!”

  J looked worriedly at the police lining the block. “Harriet darling, do you think they found out it was you?”

  Harriet ignored her. She was busy inserting new batteries into her hidden microphone. “If you really want to talk overrated, I could tell you a few things about the phyllo crumple at The Quilted Giraffe.”

  “They’ve got guns, Harriet!”

  She looked up. “Which reminds me. Did you read what I said about the half-moon ravioli at Palio? Let me tell you, that had me steamed for a week.”

  “Harriet, I’m frightened!”

  “Relax. You get me through this and I’ll let you in on a filthy little hole-in-the-wall in Spanish Harlem that does chicken like your mother never made.”

  J’s eyes brightened. “Oh, I bet that’s the place Tom Brokaw went to with the Wyeths. How soon can we go?”

  Harriet looked at her watch. “Depends on how fast you can eat. After Libby’s, I’ve got to cover some dump Bryan Miller claims has great tapas. I can x that out fast. Let’s make it my last lunch of the day.”

  J began to laugh. “I’m afraid one lunch is my limit.”
/>   Harriet whispered into the mike hidden in her bosom. “Thursday. Libby’s.” She stepped out of the limo, oblivious to the police, the sharpshooters on the roofs, and the helicopter circling overhead as she spoke into her dress. “Lunch at Libby’s is about as much fun as watching your stocks slide. This week’s inside-trader rip-off is called Truffle Pot Pie.”

  “Ma’am.” Roth held the door open.

  “Thank you,” J said nervously.

  “About as classy as penny stocks,” Harriet continued into the mike, “and with a comparable payoff . . .” She looked up as the magnetometer began to beep.

  Libby rushed over, shaking a finger in Harriet’s face. “She’s not Adrien Arpel! Meehan, get ten of your best men and surround this woman. She doesn’t know her aspic from her elbow!”

  Harriet narrowed her eyes angrily. “You can forget the strong-arm tactics. They won’t work. The chicken livers were frozen and I still say your cranberry mayonnaise is boring. I’ll go to my grave saying that!”

  Libby smiled. “What a lovely thought.” Not that Harriet’s reviews mattered anymore. What mattered was the review in Birnbaum’s file. He was the only one who had the power to close her down.

  J reached toward Libby and the magnetometer went off again. “I have a permit,” she said defensively as Taylor took her purse.

  Libby kissed the air on both sides of J’s cheeks. “Poor darling,” Libby cooed, watching Conaway take Harriet aside for questioning. “I didn’t know you were into lost causes.”

  While they checked Harriet against the FBI files and the National Crime Information Center, Roth withdrew the gun from J’s purse. She warned him, “I don’t want one scratch on that handle.” He put the gun into a plastic bag. “That’s carved Burmese jade. A wedding gift that’s been passed down from mother to daughter for generations.” J took Libby’s arm. “You’ve certainly made Harriet feel like a million. I had no idea you were such a practical joker.”

  “Don’t be silly. I couldn’t resist teasing Mighty Mouth. The fuss is because the President is coming to lunch.”

  Harriet gasped. “Holy shit! The President?” She unhooked the microphone from her bra and tossed it to Roth. “To hell with Truffle Pot Pie! The President’s lunch is going to put me right on page one!”

  Libby sat down next to Fay. “Time out,” she groaned. “If anyone asks me another question about the President, I’m going to scream.”

  Fay smiled and reached for her hand. “Honey, just why is the President comin’ here?”

  Libby opened her mouth and whispered, “Scream!”

  “I’ve got every stringer I know tryin’ to find out but, for some mysterious reason, the jungle drums they are silent. Except for all that unidentified flyin’ fertilizer comin’ out of Phyllis since Cal was shot.”

  Libby looked down at the table. “Tell me the truth. How much do they know about what happened?”

  “Lucky for you, they only know what Rapunzel of Trump Tower told the police. Cal was accidentally winged by Donald. And that’s all they’re goin’ to get from yours truly.”

  “How much do you know?”

  Fay laughed. “If I was Nick Dunne, I’d have a book contract even before Dick Snyder said his first Fuck You of the mornin’.”

  “Fay . . .”

  “Darlin’, I’m only sayin’ you got to be careful. There are lots of animals in the forest who know different parts of this little saga. And since everybody pees under the same tree, you can’t get rid of one stink until a bigger one comes along.” She held up a pile of pink memo slips. “I got more callbacks than the casting director of Gone With the Wind. Tell me what you want me to say.” Fay smiled. “But, remember, I can’t let my blue-haired ladies down.” She dialed quickly, staring at Libby all the time. “What I really want to know is why the President is comin’ here for lunch.”

  Libby leaned close. “That makes two of us.” She slid out of the banquette deciding it was time to move to a different tree. As she headed quickly for the reservations desk, Marvin Hamlisch reached out and grabbed her arm.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said.

  Libby kissed him on the cheek. “Could you be more specific?”

  Marvin laughed. “Cal. How is he?”

  “A scratch. Gunfight at the O.K. Salad Bar. He’ll be here any minute,” she said, glancing at the entrance. “Uh-oh.”

  Marvin turned quickly, squinting. “Is it the President?”

  “Worse,” Libby said. “It’s janos and Rikki.” She patted Marvin’s shoulder. “The agony and the ecstasy.” By the time she reached Janos, the magnetometer was beeping loudly.

  “Beep beep yourself!” Janos shouted. He opened his arms, nodding toward the left side. “My gun is in there.”

  Rikki stepped back. “Johnny, I’ll meet you. I forgot something in the car.”

  “I told you, stupid, you could go to jail if you don’t carry your permit!”

  “Stop calling me stupid!” Rikki screamed. She reached into her purse and took out a gun. Roth and Taylor quickly pulled their weapons and adopted a firing stance as they targeted Rikki. “Don’t be stupid.” She rolled her eyes. “The goddamn permit’s in the fourth chamber.”

  Janos grabbed hold of Libby. “So, I hear your good friend Phyllis is not such a good friend.”

  She pushed Janos’s hand away as though he were holding the six million dollars. “I’ve been hearing lots of things, too.”

  “With me, everything is above board. No secrets. A deal is a deal. Nothing personal.”

  Libby shook her head. “You’re right. Business is business. The President is going to sit at your table.”

  “Fine,” Janos said. “After all the money I contributed . . .”

  Libby began to laugh. She couldn’t have planned it any better. “They want your table. Not you.”

  “They said that? Or you put them up to it?”

  “Janos,” she said, enunciating each syllable. “Business is business. Nothing personal.”

  “The hell it is! So where do I sit?”

  Libby took his arm. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to make do. Be brave, Janos. The only thing I can give you is a really good table.”

  “How good?”

  Libby leaned close, pausing to savor the punch line. She whispered, “The best.”

  Janos put a hand to his stomach. “I’d rather eat my lunch in the toilet.”

  “They took that away, too.” Still clutching Janos’s arm, Libby threw her head back and filled the vestibule with laughter.

  Janos turned angrily to Rikki. “If you had your permit, you stupid ass, what was the crap about forgetting something in the car?”

  Rikki’s eyes narrowed. “I forgot your goddamn toilet paper and I’m not going back for it either. Tell that to your stupid ass!” Nearly knocking Janos off his feet, she pushed ahead of him. “Libby, sorry about Cal. I want you to know I don’t carry a grudge. Love your suit.”

  Dr. Loren Sawyer reached for Moina’s hand. “You want me to stay?” he asked, as Fay headed toward the table.

  “No.”

  “What are you going to tell her?”

  Moina pulled her hand away and reached for her martini. “That’s none of your business.”

  “I mean, I’d appreciate your keeping my name out of it.” Loren held the glass down. “That drink is only for show. You promised.”

  “Go away,” Moina whispered.

  As he pulled back his chair, Fay leaned across the table to Moina. “What the hell is goin’ on? I don’t like wakin’ up with little notes on my pillow.”

  Moina stared into the room. “I had to see a doctor.”

  Fay pointed to Loren. “You don’t mean him? You’re not goin’ to see him?”

  “Only for matters of life and death.”

  As Loren left, he whispered to Fay, “Go easy.”

  Moina’s hand shook as she brought the glass to her lips. The martini dripped onto her dress. Cocaine had muddled her coordination, but n
ot her priorities. She looked up at Fay. “How much are you being paid to write a book about me?”

  Fay sat down slowly. “Who told you?”

  “You hillbilly!” Moina continued dripping martini on herself. “You shouldn’t have given the nurse so much money. People will do all sorts of dreadful things for next to nothing. They assume that if they were really doing something terrible, they’d be paid more. You should have checked prices with the Mafia, love of my life. You could have had me bumped off for less.”

  Fay sat back. “How did that quack find out?”

  “The penis is mightier than the sword. One of his nooners is your Nurse Parker.” Moina began to laugh. “I did have a wonderful smile, didn’t I?”

  Fay turned away. She shut her eyes for a moment, remembering the Moina who stuck her tongue out at King Farouk. Moina perched atop Cole Porter’s piano at the Waldorf Towers. Moina, on Dali’s arm, shocking the first-night crowd at the Met by showing up with only half her lips and one eye made up.

  Moina stared at the stain on her dress. “I want you to be the first to know. I’ve decided to have the operation.” Fay reached for Moina’s hand. Moina pulled back, then stopped. She needed to hold Fay’s hand one last time.

  “Oh, darlin’, I am so happy.”

  “Liar!”

  “I wanted to write your biography because I love you.”

  “Thief! My life belongs to me. I own it. You may not have it!”

  “Darlin’, you’re in no condition to talk about this now.”

  “Never put off until tomorrow’s lunch what you can do today.”

  “I suppose Doctor Do Little gave you some of his happy dust.”

  “I am allowing them to cut off my tit so that I will live long enough to write my own book.” Moina realized she was still holding onto Fay’s hand but she couldn’t let go. “Biography lends to death a new terror,” she quoted, raising her glass unsteadily. The rest of her drink spilled onto the table. “Oscar Wilde.”

  “My book,” Fay said, “is not about us. It’s all about you, the wonderful things I wanted everyone to know about you.”