THE PRESIDENT IS COMING TO LUNCH

by Nan

  “And my book,” Moina said, pulling her hand away, “will tell all the wonderful things you never wanted them to know about you.”

  Senior nodded his head slowly for emphasis. “Without doubt, there is only one woman beautiful enough to play Glinda.”

  Esther Williams smiled at Libby. “Glinda? I thought you wanted me for the Tin Man!”

  “That William Powell-Myrna Loy crap? Esther, listen to me!” Senior took her hand. “Dorothy—The Woman! We fade in on a clip of Judy singing ‘Over the Rainbow.’ Dissolve to Liza singing it at Auntie Em’s funeral. Hutz klutz, who flies in but her old friend Glinda to help Dorothy save the farm from the shmendriks at the bank.” He leaned close to Esther. “I’m thinking maybe the Aunt could be buried next to the dog. I mean, you couldn’t do it in a Jewish cemetery, but what do they know in Kansas?”

  Esther looked at Libby. “I’m thinking maybe I could use a menu.”

  “You don’t need one,” Libby said. “I have something special put aside for you.”

  “I’m thinking of having the liver,” Senior said.

  Libby shook her head. “Not in front of Esther Williams, you’re not.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I order. I don’t eat it anyway!”

  “Then how about not eating a very expensive fillet?” Libby reached out for a passing waiter.

  Senior nodded. “Perfect. So tell me, what is the President not eating?”

  Libby turned to Norm, but something caught her eye at the reservations desk. A Gothic messenger of doom. As ominous as the caped figure of Salieri, Birnbaum suddenly appeared behind Steven.

  “Ouch!” Norm whispered, trying to loosen Libby’s grip on his arm. “Hey, boss, that hurts!”

  Libby couldn’t take her eyes from Birnbaum. She let go of Norm, patted him absently and started walking up the aisle. Walking through molasses. Each step was labored, slow, thick with apprehension. Birnbaum stood behind the desk, his face frozen as he stared into the dining room.

  “Hi, sailor,” Libby said softly.

  No response.

  “Go to hell!”

  Nothing.

  “Birnbaum, I know you. I understand you. I’ve been closer to you than anyone you’ve ever known. We shared more than sex last night.”

  Still nothing.

  “Don’t hate me, Birnbaum, because you were unfaithful to your wife. Don’t punish me because you finally found out you were human.” She grabbed hold of his arm. He didn’t move or shift his eyes from his prey. “Another hour or two, Birnbaum, and I’ll be out of your life for good.” She tightened her grip on his arm, suddenly aware that he was staring at Steven. “You son of a bitch,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m doing my job.” He turned to face her. “My job is to protect the son of the President of the United States.”

  Junior watched Wanda cut into her grilled breast of Long Island duckling with wild tarragon and pineapple salsa. He glanced over at Senior, to make sure the old man saw that Wanda was having lunch with him. But Senior was deep in conversation with Esther. No matter. Junior had a better way to get him.

  “Be right back, honey.” Junior headed for the other side of the room. He stared directly at Meryl, smiling a steady smile, careful not to accelerate into an open-mouthed grin as Meryl took note and waved her fingers. Junior was determined to position himself as one of the players. He attacked their weakest link. He stood behind the male indieprod and tapped him on the shoulder.

  The male jumped up and greeted him effusively. “Well, well, well! Junior! How are you?”

  Without answering, Junior elbowed the male aside on the pretext of leaning across the table to kiss Meryl.

  “How are you, Junior?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, love. Couldn’t be better now that we’re going to make another picture together. How are you, Sam?” Junior was like an animal spraying his territory. He turned quickly back to Meryl as he sat down in the male indieprod’s chair.

  “We’ve been talking to Junior,” the female said nervously. “He’s been so supportive. Such a good friend.” The indieprods were horrified. Junior had moved in as though occupying Poland.

  “Everybody talks to Junior,” Sam said. “But it’s like praying to Allah. Nothing happens until you’re dead.”

  The male indieprod tugged gently at the chair. Junior wouldn’t budge. A busboy waited impatiently in the aisle, unable to pass. The male smiled self-consciously and flattened himself to let the busboy through. He tapped the female on the shoulder. But, not wanting to weaken her position at the table, she ignored him.

  Junior took Meryl’s hand. “We don’t even have to go on location. I’ve decided we can shoot it in LA.”

  “He’s decided?” Sam picked up the menu. “Don’t put the horse before the à la carte.”

  The female panicked. Junior was parroting their ideas. Suddenly, she felt the male kick her ankle and step on her foot. The yutz still couldn’t find a place to sit down.

  * * *

  Mary Borden sat down opposite Ed Gilbert, the editor who was going to lose millions in sales because she had taken Tully Ireland’s new book away from him. Ed pretended to ignore her. He kept turning pages in a paperback edition of Ulysses.

  Mary signaled Stu for a round of drinks. “Well, I’ve had a morning!” she said, staring at Ed. “I sold Moina’s autobiography for a small fortune. Wait till the ladies of America find out that the woman who’s been dressing them for years has also been undressing them.”

  Ed sighed deeply as he closed Ulysses. He looked at Mary and spoke to her as though they had been deep in conversation. “What pisses me is that Bennett Cerf battles the courts to publish the book and then, after fifty years, Random House has the incredible chutzpah to reissue the damn thing announcing, with pride, that they’ve finally gotten around to correcting the text and catching five thousand errors. Old Bennett must have had some proofreading department! Think of all those academic assholes who’ve been teaching a book with five thousand errors in it. You know what I say? I say, three cheers for Judy Krantz. There’s a woman who puts no period before its time.”

  Mary stared at Ed. “Why don’t you say what you want to say?”

  “There are no words for what I want to say. Not even in the libretto for the Niebelungen. But, let me tell you this, the one and only performance of my passion play would make an evening at Oberammergau look like an episode of ‘I Love Lucy.’ ”

  “God, you’re attractive when you’re desperate.”

  Stu brought a Perrier for Mary, another Pernod for Ed. She raised her glass and then her eyebrow, waiting for him to offer a toast.

  “May you rot in hell!” he said, clinking glasses with her.

  Mary smiled. “You know, I think I might have made a mistake throwing you back.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I meant it in the pejorative.”

  She leaned close. “I think the pejorative is vastly underrated.”

  “I worked with Tully for fourteen years. I baby-sat that anal retentive son of a bitch through eight crappy manuscripts that I edited into eight crappy bestsellers.”

  Mary took a deep breath. “It’s exciting to watch you suffer. You’re almost irresistible.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. You’ve got the hots because you did a deal this morning. You want to pull your pants down to celebrate.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about pulling your pants down,” she said.

  “You already did.”

  Stu brought a phone to the table. “Which one of us was saved by the bell?” Mary smiled as she picked up the receiver.

  It was Senior. “I thought my no-good son was interested in some book about Germans,” he shouted.

  Mary looked over at Senior as she spoke into the phone. “He was. But he lost it.”

  Senior was furious. “What do you mean he lost it? Lost it to who?”

  “
Janos. But I have a hunch Rikki isn’t going to let him do anything that doesn’t have a part for her. Calm down, Senior. What do you care?”

  “I care because I don’t want my son to lose to anybody except to me.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation,” Mary said with an exasperated sigh, “I have a hunch Junior can get it back if he wants.”

  “The hell he can!” Senior slammed down the receiver. He hated doing anything definitive except standing by his decision not to make any decisions. However, where it concerned Junior, there were no lengths to which he wouldn’t go. He dialed Janos. “Those were some pictures of your wife in that magazine.”

  “You ever see such tits?”

  “I even got my own copy.”

  Janos smiled. He poked Rikki. “He got his own copy.”

  “I understand you bought some cockamamie book about Germans.”

  Janos smelled a deal. “Such a book! It bought me! I couldn’t put it down. I tell you, between the two of us, I overpaid but it was very hard to get away from Junior. You got some smart little pisher.”

  There was a long pause. “How much you want for it?”

  “You bum! I thought you were calling to congratulate me on my wife’s tits, not insult me!” Janos slammed down the receiver and said to Rikki, “He’ll call back in two minutes.”

  “What’s he going to offer you, Johnny?”

  “Who cares? All I want is six dollars for stopping my check.”

  “That’s not enough,” Rikki said.

  “I told you I wouldn’t let Junior get Cal. I told you that he’d never make that movie and that I wouldn’t lose a penny.” Janos sat back. “Jesus Christ! You’re right! Let him pay me fifty thousand! Why shouldn’t I make fifty thousand dollars on that schlemiel? Fifty. That’s what I want.”

  “What about what I want?” Rikki asked.

  Janos was stunned. “You? You’re too stupid to know what you want. I’m the dealmaker!”

  “Wrong, buster!” Rikki put her hand under the table and grabbed Janos by the crotch. “As of right now, I’m the dealmaker!”

  Janos began to laugh. “You think you’re the first person who had me by the balls?”

  Rikki took her hand away. “I’ve got you by a lot more than that, Johnny. I’m pregnant.”

  “With a baby?” He smiled and hugged her. “Wait a minute. You sure it’s mine?”

  “I guess we’ll have to wait and see if he’s got a real small pecker.”

  Janos slapped his hand on the table and began to laugh. “So maybe I’m not such an old man after all!” He kissed Rikki. The phone lit up. Janos reached for it. “I’m going to have a baby! A son!”

  Senior paused. “I’m sorry.”

  Janos laughed. “You’re sorry?”

  “A daughter maybe you have a chance. But, then again, a lot of good a daughter did Joanie Crawford. Don’t talk to me about sons. About sons, I’ll write a book.”

  “That’s what you called to tell me?”

  “Did I know you were pregnant when I dialed?”

  Janos put his hand over the receiver. “He wants to make a deal.”

  Rikki said, “Tell him no deal.”

  “You think I should ask a hundred?” Janos whispered. “Why not? It’ll pay for college already. The kid will be free.”

  “Hello?” Senior asked.

  “Hello,” Janos said.

  Rikki put her hand over the receiver. “Tell him no deal and hang up.”

  “So where were you when I sold Polaroid?” Janos nodded and Rikki took her hand away. “Listen, I already told you. No deal. Absolutely not.” Janos hung up. He smiled and rubbed Rikki’s stomach. “So. I did what you wanted?”

  Rikki sat back. “Not yet. I want you to buy me Dorothy—The Woman.” She held tight to his arm. “I want to be Judy Garland. I want to sing. I want people to stop laughing at me. I want them to cry, Johnny. I want them to be thrilled. I don’t want to be your toy anymore. Now call Senior back, Mr. Dealmaker, and you get me what I want.” She leaned over and kissed Janos gently on the lips. “Or else I’ll kill your baby.”

  Alfero looked at his watch but he couldn’t tell what time it was. Miguel had given him a watch with two faces. A rich man’s watch. One face for New York and one for Bolivia. Not that it mattered whether he died on New York time or Bolivian time.

  Alfero was not afraid to die for something in which he believed. And Carlos had promised that no matter what happened, he would take care of Dolores and the niños. Alfero was doing it for them. The niños would know that even if their father never became a busboy, he was, at least, a fighter for justice.

  Esteban slid a bread tray onto Alfero’s table, slapped down a crystal butter dish, and splashed water into the goblet. Alfero shook his head from side to side. “How dare you?”

  A look of horror tightened the flesh on Esteban’s face. No customer had ever spoken directly to him. He looked around nervously for Norm.

  “You think I do not know how a table should be set?” Alfero snarled. “You do not become the richest man in South America if you are too stupid to know that the butter plate is in the wrong place, that the silverware handles do not line up, and that there is supposed to be ice in the water.”

  “Your drink, sir,” Norm said brightly. He had seen what was happening as he approached the table. “One rum and Classic Coke.”

  Alfero waved the drink aside. He sat back and pointed to a fingerprint on the black service plate as though identifying the guilty man in a lineup.

  Norm nodded, picked up the offending plate and gave it to Esteban. “A clean service platter right away.” Norm shook his head as he straightened the silverware. “I am sorry,” he whispered, “but you wouldn’t believe how stupid busboys are!”

  “Not all busboys!”

  “I’ve put away a couple of Truffle Pot Pies for you and Mr. Pérez. Just in case we run low.”

  Alfero waved his hand. “Truffles? They are terrible! I try to eat some of them last night. Nothing helped. Ketchup, mustard, salsa, nothing!”

  “Perhaps you’d like a nice piece of melon while you’re waiting for Mr. Pérez?”

  “Melon is for peasants!”

  “How about some of the best Beluga caviar you’ve ever tasted?”

  Alfero nodded. “¡Si!” He tapped his finger on the table for emphasis. “While I wait, bring me a bowl of caviar and a cup of coffee.”

  “I should not be drinking,” Moina said, holding her martini with both hands.

  Hots shook his head. “Would you like to tell me what’s going on here?”

  “Harold, the only thing I would like to tell you is how much I hate the Jews.”

  “What?”

  “I wish I didn’t hate the Jews,” Moina said. “For a few years, I managed to convince myself I didn’t. Even after being married to Edgar. But I do. And that’s all there is to it! Oh, don’t look at me that way. I don’t mean final-solution type hate. I mean your ordinary everyday elitist prejudice. You’ve been to parties where someone tells you how much they hate the Swiss or the French. That sort of thing. Deep down, I feel the same way about the Jews.”

  Hots took her hand. “Shut up, Moina. You need your friends.”

  “Desperately.” She smiled sadly. “That’s why I had to tell you. I need you more than ever, Harold. I’ve decided to have the surgery.”

  “Thank God.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I was planning to increase my retainer. It annoyed the hell out of me that you were going to die at the old rate.”

  “Die? I haven’t felt this good since Persepolis.” She thought her glass was resting on the table. But as she let go, it fell into her lap. “The Shah’s people had the best opium since Victorian England.” She took the glass and turned it upside down. “God, what a dry martini.”

  Ashanti stopped in front of the table. “I haven’t slept a wink all night.”

  Hots motioned her away, but Moina stopped him. “Harold, I can handle this. Alone.�
��

  As soon as Hots left, Ashanti sat down. “You put me through hell yesterday.”

  “Poor darling.”

  “Seeing you with Fay again drove me over the edge.”

  “And what drove you back?”

  Ashanti leaned close. “Pussy,” she whispered, “what am I going to do?”

  “I thought you were going to sue me.”

  “That’s just what I was afraid you thought. I never intended to sue you.” Ashanti put her hand on Moina’s. “I was going to sue your estate.” She lowered her eyes. “Afterwards.” Ashanti kissed Moina’s hand. “Oh, pussy, I respect you so much for what you’re doing. If you were in a hetero mode, it would be so easy. One breast, two breasts, no breasts, to a man you’re still a woman. What do they know? But for us, making love is like looking into a mirror.”

  “You agree, then. I should die rather than have the surgery.”

  She put Moina’s hand to her cheek. “I couldn’t live with a distortion of myself in the mirror.”

  Moina smiled. “I’ve always been ugly. But what will it be like for you to watch yourself grow old?”

  “Please! You know how paranoid I am about my old age.”

  Moina leaned over and kissed Ashanti goodbye. “Not to worry. I’ll take care of you before I die.”

  “Then I won’t have to sue? Oh, pussy. I knew you’d understand. Shit. Suddenly, I feel so sad.”

  “Later.” Moina patted her hand. “You’ll have plenty of time to be sad later.”

  “How can you be so brave?” Ashanti got up to leave, then hesitated. “You wouldn’t want to do an Oprah with me, would you?” She answered her own question. “No. I told her I didn’t think you would.”

  Hots came back to the table. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Unfinished business.” Her voice was weak. “Before checking into the hospital, I want to go back to the apartment for an hour.”

  “But, Moina . . .”

  She put a hand on his arm. There were tears in her eyes. “I know it sounds foolish, Harold. But I want to enjoy one last bath.”

  Libby had no place to hide. Meehan and Conaway were on either side of her. Roth and Taylor were at the door. There were agents in the dining room, in the service areas, in the kitchen. The street out front, the street out back. She sat like a prisoner. At the bar.