by Nan
Al nodded. “A superb choice, sir.”
Andre reached for a slice of bread. “Forgive me, Mark, but I’ve always been a perfectionist.” He buttered it evenly. “I guess that’s why I’m so impressed with the level of your work at GNF.”
Mark van Heuven was head of GNF’s Breakfast Cereals Group. He nodded appreciatively. “Andre, just between du and ich, any schmuck can spend his life jacking off premium offers and line extensions. I’m not that kind of caballero. I don’t get my kicks out of decoder rings or adding a handful of raisins to a box of kiddie kibble.” He raised his very blond eyebrows. “After all, that’s not why I spent four bloody years at the Technische Hoogeschool in Delft. Is it?”
Andre forced a laugh designed to set new standards for male bonding. He handed Mark a menu. “Why don’t we get this out of the way so that we don’t have to be interrupted?”
Mark nodded toward the President’s table. “I’d love to know what he eats for breakfast.”
Andre didn’t care what the President ate. It was his last lunch and he had to make it count. Andre had lost the deal with PBS. He had lost the movie deal with Junior. He lost the deal for a musical. If he lost Mark, all that lay ahead was a one-way trip to the Pritikin Center. Once there, he would have to find a way to finance the rest of his life. The only cash he had left was $300 in small bills. For tips. Andre had no money to pay his hotel bill, the plan being to walk out bequeathing Leona Helmsley the fat suits for which he would have no future use.
“I can recommend the curried oysters,” Andre said.
“You know, it takes three years on a cereal,” Mark said. “You can’t roll out any sooner than that.”
“As well as the barbecued foie gras. All I need is your letter of intent.” Andre leaned over toward Mark and spoke sincerely. “Foie gras for me.”
Mark shook his head. “Historically, licensed character cereals have never done as well as generics like Corn Flakes or Shredded Wheat.”
Andre didn’t look up from the menu. “Listen, Hans Brinker, you can’t kid me. You’ve got your finger in a three-billion-dollar dike. One share point in the cereal market is worth thirty million. Even if Cheerios has only a five share, that’s a hundred and fifty mil.” Andre put his menu aside. “I’d say we’re talking somewhere between one and five shares. Somewhere between thirty and a hundred and fifty million. Of course, I’ve always been partial to the salmon tartare with sliced figs.”
Mark shrugged. “What I like is that even though character cereals are usually kid-driven products, we’re talking a mom-buy. Jesus. I’m a sucker for smoked fresh tuna.” He smiled at Andre. “But since you’re paying, I just might join you in the foie gras.” Mark took the letter of intent out of his pocket. “After all, I’m going to make you a very rich man, Andre.”
Andre pretended to read the menu while Al opened the Corton-Charlemagne. But all he could see was the envelope Mark was holding. Andre broke into a cold sweat. His mouth became incredibly dry. Al poured a sip of the green-gold wine into his glass. Andre swallowed quickly, not even tasting it. His mouth was like blotting paper.
When both glasses were full, Mark smiled. “A toast.” He opened the envelope and handed Andre the signed letter of intent. “To ‘Grannie’s Brannies’!”
Andre clinked glasses with Mark, knowing that the letter in his hand meant he could stop worrying at last. He was rich!
Mark sipped the wine and sat back. “Superb. Deep. Flowery. And yet, with a rather surprising finish.”
Andre didn’t hear him. Andre just stared into space. Andre was dead.
* * *
Cal stood near the limo at the corner of Fifty-fifth. He looked up the block toward the restaurant, waiting for a signal from Libby to come ahead. Traffic on Fifth Avenue was near a standstill. Horns honked angrily as cars jammed together fender to fender. Cal shouted at Special Agent Mason. “You do realize how dumb this is?”
“No.”
“Do you really think I’m going to kill the President?” Mason smiled. “No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“No one is allowed in or out while the President is there.”
“I thought this was a democracy! Whatever happened to freedom of lunch?”
“Mr. Dennis, I know you’re a big movie star . . .”
“I’ve got a deal waiting! If I don’t get there now, I could lose it. You know how Hollywood people are. You can’t trust them!” Cal smiled his million-dollar smile. He pointed to the sling around his arm. “With a clipped wing, yet! What harm could I do?”
“The basic principle of effective security is eliminating the element of surprise. If everything is planned, with no adjustments allowed, then security can be maintained. One single unexpected moment can undermine the entire effort. I’m sure it’s the same in your business, sir. The director says . . .”
“Oh, shit!” As Cal walked back to the limo, he heard a woman call his name.
“Mr. Dennis! Mr. Dennis! Hi! Over here! It’s me! Remember me?”
Cal looked across the street. A young blonde carrying a sign saying SCREW SAFE SEX was waving at him.
“It’s me! Tessa! The coatroom?”
Cal walked over, suddenly finding himself in the midst of the protesters. “Sure!” he said. “Listen, I’ve got to get in there. Can you help me?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t set foot in that piss pot!”
Cal was furious. “You looking for a lawsuit or a smack in the mouth?”
“Oh, God! I’d kill for a good smack in the mouth!”
The driver brought Cal the car phone. “It’s Mr. Smith.”
Ignoring Tessa, he shouted into the receiver, “Smitty? Where the hell are you?”
“The pilot says we’re still circling Kansas City. Where are you?”
“I’m on Fifth Avenue. Meryl and Sam are having lunch at Libby’s. They want to talk to me about The Last Cowboy.”
“So talk to them. But remember, don’t say anything.”
“Smitty, I can’t get in! The Secret Service won’t let me through. I’m standing here in the middle of some protest group and damn it, there’s a CBS camera crew heading right toward me.”
“What kind of protest group?”
Cal read the posters. “BETTER WED THAN DEAD. MAKE BABIES, NOT CONDOMS.”
“Great! Join the group.”
“You want me to get involved with a bunch of nuts?”
“You want to get into the restaurant?”
Cal tossed the phone back to the driver. He rushed across the street, dodging baby carriages to find Tessa. “What did you say your name was?”
Before either of them realized what was happening, the CBS crew had started to shoot. Someone held a microphone in front of Cal. “What is it you’re protesting, Mr. Dennis?”
Cal looked around uneasily, trying to translate the signs into something intelligible. He felt the heat of the lights on him. Instinctively, he looked into the camera, glanced down momentarily, then giving coast-to-coast sincere, put his arm around Tessa. “This young girl wants to make love. I don’t think that’s a crime. I don’t think she should have to die because of it. But is the President of the United States listening?”
The protesters started to chant. “No! No! No!”
“And you know why he’s not listening?” Cal shouted. “Because he’s having lunch!”
* * *
Al, the waiter, staggered toward the bar. “Oh, my God. You’re not going to believe this!”
Birnbaum turned immediately. Meehan put a hand over his gun but never took his eyes from the dining room.
“Andre Riley just dropped dead.”
Conaway checked his list for Andre’s table number. “One-oh-three.”
“Only he didn’t drop dead,” Al continued. “He’s too fat to drop. He’s just sitting there like his batteries ran out.”
Steven hung up the phone without finishing his conversation. “What do we do?”
Birnbaum picked up his walkie-talk
ie. “Medic alert. Spare to one-oh-three. Immediate.”
“I think the guy he’s with is dead, too,” Al said. “I haven’t seen him blink an eye.”
They all watched from the vestibule as Special Agent Davis went over to Andre’s table. It looked as though he was whispering into Andre’s ear.
Libby came back into the vestibule after circling the room. She winked at Steven. “So far, so good.”
He groaned. “Brace yourself. Andre is dead.”
“Oh no, what a shame!” Libby shook her head. “He was counting on that deal. What the hell is he going to do now?”
“I mean, Andre is dead.”
Libby pointed toward the dining room. She opened her mouth, then looked at Steven. He nodded yes. She nodded no. She pointed again.
Steven raised his eyes to the heavens. “Mother, he is somewhere out there with Ishtar.”
“Oh, my God!”
Birnbaum was listening to his earphone. “It appears to have been a stroke. Massive. Instantaneous. Nothing could have been done.”
Libby put a hand to her forehead. “We have to get him out of there.”
“No, we don’t,” Birnbaum said.
“What do you mean, no we don’t?”
“Nobody in, nobody out,” Birnbaum repeated.
“This isn’t nobody!” Libby whispered angrily. “This is a dead body! In case you forgot, I run a restaurant, not a funeral home!”
“I’ve got men flanking him on both sides,” Birnbaum said. “The table on his right is filled with our people. They’ll sit close and talk to him as though nothing had happened.”
“The man who makes time stand still.” Libby shook her head. “Thank God it’s only Harriet Moss at the next table. She’ll never notice.”
Al walked over to Libby. “You expect me to serve a dead man?”
“For God’s sake, Al, bring him something he really liked.”
Anders rushed up the steps into the vestibule. He grabbed hold of Birnbaum. “What the hell is going on here?”
Libby looked at Birnbaum. “I told you they’d find out.”
“You know?” Anders asked.
“Of course I know!” Libby stopped, trying to hold back the tears. “Poor guy . . .”
“Poor guy, nothing!” Anders said. “CBS is giving him whatever he wants.”
“What’s CBS got to do with it?” Libby asked.
“Mrs. Dennis, I’m not blaming you. I’m asking for your help. I don’t think you want to embarrass the President any more than I do.”
She pointed to Birnbaum. “He’s the one! He said no one in and no one out. I pleaded with him to make an exception to the rule.”
Anders looked as though steam were about to come out of his ears. Heading toward the bar, he spoke into his walkie-talkie. “This is Charger. Fifth Avenue, please copy. Immediate. Have Midtown arrest all demonstrators. Suspicion of subversion. My authorization. Exception: Cal Dennis. Immediate. Bring him to the restaurant. There is to be no incident. Velvet glove CBS. Please copy.”
Libby stood close to Birnbaum, unable to hear what Anders was saying. “You see? I told you,” she whispered. “You can’t keep a dead man sitting in a restaurant without someone noticing. Birnbaum, you dope, sometimes you have to break the rules.”
Anders motioned Birnbaum over. “Personally, I don’t give a shit,” Anders said softly. “But Grumpy and the other dwarfs built this window into his schedule so that lunch would be a nonevent. You knew that. Apparently, you also knew that Dennis was out there taking pot shots at the President. So the question I’m going to have to answer back in D.C. is why the head of the New York detail went AC?” His tone changed suddenly. “You dumb bastard! Sometimes you have to break the rules.”
Al left the kitchen carrying three orders of Truffle Pot Pie. He walked up the aisle as ceremoniously as a Son of Sparta carrying the Olympic torch to its final destination.
Special Agent Cornwell, sitting next to the dumbfounded Mark van Heuven, smiled as he talked about his home town, Joplin, and how proud he was of his two boys and how he always wanted to go to Holland because he really liked windmills and tulips. Periodically, Special Agent Cornwell would look over at Andre and smile.
Al cleared his throat as he arrived at the table. Maxie, who was following Al, slowed down to take a quick peek at the deceased.
“Lunch!” Cornwell said. “I’m starving to death!”
Mark closed his eyes. “You’re not really going to eat?”
“I am. And so are you.”
“You are crazy,” Mark said.
“Oh, God!” Al muttered as he put the plate in front of Andre. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Cornwell picked up his fork and broke into the crust. “Wow!” he exclaimed looking straight at Andre. “Smell that!”
Mark shook his head. “It must be me. Maybe I’m the one who died. I must have gone to Hell for not putting enough nuts in Crazy Flakes.”
Harriet Moss had been watching from the next table. She leaned over to J. “Look at that! The bitch said she was out of Truffle Pot Pie. But she had enough for Andre Riley. You can bet that bastard wouldn’t be caught dead eating crap like this!” Harriet pushed her plate aside. “He’s not even eating it. I’m going to ask him for a taste.”
“Harriet, you’ll do no such thing. I’m not sitting here while you beg for table scraps.”
“What really pisses me,” Harriet said, “is that I have to write a rave for this rat trap.”
“Oh, put a lid on it, Harriet! Everyone who comes here enjoys themselves enormously. For heaven’s sake, just look at Andre. He’s having the time of his life.”
Cal rushed through the front door, only to be stopped by Taylor and Roth. “Babe, I made it!”
Libby reached out to him as though Taylor and Roth were quicksand. “I love you, Cal. Whatever I’ve done, I never wanted to hurt you.”
Cal stepped back as Roth raised the magnetometer. “Not so much as a hand on me. What the hell kind of fascist tactic is this?”
Libby tried to get closer but Taylor was in the way. “I’ve never loved anyone but you. I have to know you believe me.”
Cal looked worried. “You made that bad a deal with Junior?”
“I made a great deal. Cal, I need to know that you trust me.”
“Of course I trust you. It’s Junior I’m worried about. All that guy knows are basement budgets. He’s worse than his old man.”
“Cal, do you love me?”
The question stopped him. “You mean, in general or right now?”
“I mean from now on. No matter what.”
Cal smiled. “You got a deal!”
Libby began to laugh nervously. “Hey, movie star,” she said as Roth stepped aside. “What do I have to do to get a kiss?”
He kissed her quickly, turning to check himself in the mirror. “Jesus, I look like I’ve been run over.” Cal winced as he lifted his arm out of the sling.
“What are you doing?”
“You don’t think I’m going to let them see me with this?” Cal hesitated. He took Libby’s hand. “I’ve been thinking.”
She was terrified he was going to ask her to marry him, but if he did she had decided to say yes.
“I’m not going to let Junior write off his staff on my tab. I want my own driver, my own RV . . .”
“Oh, Cal,” she whispered.
He stopped short. “What is it, babe?”
Libby bit her lip to stop the tears. “Is that all you can think about? Limos and RV’s?”
He was suddenly angry with her for being right. Or angry with himself for being wrong. It didn’t matter which. In true Hollywood tradition, he didn’t dare respond to either. “Who’s in charge here?” he shouted.
Birnbaum walked slowly toward him. “I am.”
“You’ve got one hell of a nerve not letting me in!”
“Cal, it’s all right,” Libby said. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
“The hell it was
! If he’s in charge, then it’s his fault.”
Birnbaum nodded, never taking his eyes from Cal. “You’re right. I’m in charge here.”
Cal leaned close. “What’s your name?”
Without skipping a beat, Birnbaum replied, “Jeanette Mac-Donald.”
There was a stunned silence. Libby didn’t know whether Cal was going to laugh or punch him in the mouth. She worked fast, leading Cal toward the steps. “Hurry up. They’re already talking directors.”
“Not without me, they’re not.”
Libby glanced back at Birnbaum, suddenly aware that she had never been in the same room with two of her lovers. She smiled. Not at the thought, but at the realization that the President made three.
Mary Borden looked at the menu while Ed flicked his fingernail nervously against the glass. “Are you still sweating?” she asked.
He nodded.
Mary put down the menu. “Is your shirt all sticky against your back?”
Ed leaned across the table. “There’s a trickle of sweat from my armpit . . .”
“God, you know what this reminds me of? That week in Barbados when you forgot your deodorant and I forgot my Valium.”
“I liked you better nervous,” he said.
“I liked you better smelly.”
Without taking his eyes from Mary, he put a hand just beneath his armpit and rubbed gently. He sat back. “Now, I’m the one who’s nervous and you’re the one who stinks.”
She looked down at the menu. “Have you decided what you want?.”
He continued staring at her. “I’ll have your heart. On toast.”
Mary smiled. “You could starve on that.”
Ed leaned close. “Why the lunch? You want to explain it was nothing personal your taking Tully away?”
“It was very personal.” She reached for his hand. “I had to get your attention somehow.”
“By trying to destroy me?”
“You didn’t return my calls.”
“Such a vengeful God.”
“I began thinking you didn’t need me anymore.”
“Funny. That’s what I began thinking, too. I even switched from jockey shorts to a left-side hang.”
“Why didn’t you call me back?”
“I thought about it. I even discussed it with Irene.”