West 57

by B. N. Freeman

  “With TK.”

  “Do we have to discuss this here?” I asked.

  Bree shrugged and called out, “Does anyone here want to know if my friend had sex tonight?”

  There was a general grumble of disinterest. Someone muttered, “Who hasn’t?”

  Bree smirked at me. “How long has it been, by the way?”

  “Is Bush still president?”

  “Funny.”

  “We kissed,” I said. “That’s all.”

  “You slut.”

  “Then you called.”

  “Sorry. No time for a quickie before you caught a cab?”

  I glared at her. Behind me, I felt a hand on my thigh. “Please remove that,” I said loudly.

  The hand disappeared.

  “We’re having dinner the day after tomorrow,” I said.

  “Do you need condoms? I have a variety pack in my purse.”

  “It’s just dinner.”

  “Of course, darling.”

  “He’s a spy from the House of My Mother,” I said.

  “How so?”

  “He and Cherie have formed a production company. They want me to join them on the coast.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “I guess.”

  Maybe it was lucky me. Maybe I was a fool not to jump at it. Maybe I didn’t even know why I was hesitating. It didn’t mean I was going to jump into bed with Thad, and even if I did, it didn’t mean we were re-kindling a relationship. Change doesn’t have to be bad, right? Just different.

  The elevator doors finally opened at the roof. When I got out, I heard singing.

  “That’s King,” Bree said.

  I threaded through the beautiful people drinking multi-colored cocktails in trendy glasses. The doors to the outside loft were open. It was a cold night, but there was a lot of body heat to keep everybody warm. The views of the city and the Hudson were to die for. No one had time for the view, though. They were all watching King Royal serenade the crowd.

  It was quite a show.

  I met a lass named Assy McHattie

  And I asked her how she got her name

  She twinkled at me

  You’ll see, you’ll see

  But that was as close as she came

  I courted a lass named Assy McHattie

  And I asked her how she got her name

  On our nuptial day

  I’ll say, I’ll say

  But that was as close as she came

  I married a lass named Assy McHattie

  And I asked her how she got her name

  Put dicky right here

  In my rear, in my rear

  And shortly thereafter she came

  “Oh, my God!” I said. For good measure, I said it again, even louder: “OH, MY GOD!”

  “Well, he has a nice voice,” Bree said.

  This was a disaster. People had their cell phones out, getting the whole thing on video. I’m sure it was up on YouTube and Facebook by now. It would be tweeted and re-tweeted like a Susan Boyle song, going viral all over the world. By morning, you would Google King Royal’s name and get a link to Assy McHattie instead of Captain Absolute.

  “We have to get him out of here,” I said.

  “Good luck. I tried.”

  King stood on a bench by the very edge of the roof. He was tall enough that two-thirds of his body swayed awkwardly above the railing, and he was drunk and skinny enough that I was worried he might blow away in the cross-breeze. His white silk dress shirt was unbuttoned, exposing a long length of flat chest. The sleeves were rolled past his elbows, and a white flap peeked through his undone zipper. A paisley cravat billowed at his neck like a wind sock. He wore pleated trousers that were a size too big and looked like clown pants. His feet were bare. I saw two forlorn dress shoes on the patio floor.

  He had thick brown hair styled in tight girlish ringlets. His facial features were soft, no hard lines, no bones. He had a prominent nose and waifish, vulnerable eyes, with brows arched in a permanent look of wonder. His skin was creamy, and I would have sworn he was wearing rouge and lipstick, but I think it was just the cast of his complexion. I understood why his Soho cronies called him Lord Byron. He was probably the most feminine man I had ever seen.

  Bree and I pushed our way through the crowd to stand at his feet.

  “King!” I called to him, holding out my hand. “I’m Julie Chavan. Why don’t you come on down from there?”

  “Julie Chavan!” he shouted. “Huzzah!”

  “King, please.”

  “You are the daughter of the great Sonnymonias, and I am the King of Kings. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”

  “That’s Shelley’s Ozymandias,” Bree said mildly. “You have to give him credit, he knows his stuff.”

  “Do I look like I want a lecture on poetry right now?” I snapped.

  “Sorry,” Bree said.

  “Huzzah!” King repeated. He gestured at a scuzzy twenty-something who was holding a bottle of Corona. “Oy, toss me my beer, mate.”

  The guy threw it end over end. Beer sprayed. King grabbed for the bottle and missed it and nearly went over the edge himself. The bottle headed down thirteen stories for Ninth Avenue. I was really hoping no one was on the sidewalk below. “West 57 Author Kills Pedestrian” was not the headline I needed this week.

  “O the bleeding drops of red,” King recited, switching to Walt Whitman, “where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead! O Captain! My Captain!”

  “You have to admit, he’s entertaining,” Bree said.

  “No, he’s not,” I said.

  “EVERYONE!” King bellowed. “O Captain! My Captain!”

  King waited, but no one shouted back at him. They were too amused by the show. He shrugged and spread his arms wide and announced:

  “I once screwed a girl named Rhonda

  Her hair it was ever so blonde-a

  I sucked on her teat

  I nibbled her feet

  And all in the back of my Honda!”

  That was it. I’d had enough.

  I yanked on King’s belt buckle. He came tumbling toward us like a missile, but I grabbed one arm, and Bree grabbed the other, and we prevented him from going face-first onto the floor of the patio. He was dead weight, and we couldn’t hold him for long, so we eased him down, where his nose broke the fall.

  “Up, King,” I said.

  He rolled over on his back. He stared wide-eyed at the night sky. At least he was conscious. “I wandered lonely as a cloud,” he recited, “that floats on high o’er vales and hills.”

  “No more poetry!”

  He put a finger over his lips. “Huzzah!” he whispered.

  “Let’s get him to his room,” I said to Bree.

  “How? Do you have a winch?”

  I gestured at two strapping young men, identical twins, who were drinking chocotinis and were exceptionally well dressed. Is everyone in this city gay except me? I’m sure it’s different out in Los Angeles. Ha ha ha.

  “Hey, guys, can you give us a hand with Liberace here?”

  “Who?” they said.

  “Never mind, just help us get him downstairs, okay?”

  They shrugged and squatted on either side of King. They popped him up like a Jack-in-the-box, and he looked bewildered to be standing again. The two boys (men, boys, it’s a gray area in your early twenties) draped King’s arms over their shoulders and hung on to his waist. I think they copped feels on his backside, but I didn’t care. I grabbed his shoes. The five of us maneuvered him back to the elevator, which was empty going down. We only needed to go two floors. King was in a corner suite.

  He sang more ribald ditties with lyrics that rhymed with words like “pucker” and “blockhead” as he was half-walked, half-dragged down the hotel corridor. Bree and I led the way.

  “What do all these rich guys see in him?” I asked Bree. “Couldn’t Irving Wolfe do better than King Royal?”

  “It’s a mystery, darling,” Bree agreed.r />
  We reached his door. I wasn’t about to fish around in his pocket for his key, but one of the gay twins did that for me without being asked. He obviously found more than the key, because King perked up and said, “Nightcap, boys?”

  “No nightcaps,” I said.

  I gave them each twenty bucks and sent them back to the party upstairs. Bree let King slump on her shoulder, and I opened the door. His suite was larger than my apartment. King squared his shoulders and attempted to walk, and as he did, he peeled off clothes. Shirt. Pants. Bikini briefs. Everything. We got the full rear view. His skin was white enough that his ass had no tan line. Naked except for his cravat, he disappeared through the double-wide doorway into the bedroom, and we heard him throwing up in the toilet. At least I hoped it was the toilet.

  Bree collapsed on the sofa. “Wow,” she said.

  “Pierce Gorgon is going to grind him up tomorrow night,” I said. “King is going to look like he went through a wood chipper.”

  “You can’t embarrass the shameless, darling. I’m a perfect example.”

  “We’re putting this guy on national television.”

  “I’ve seen King on BBC. You’d be surprised. He cleans up all right. He’s actually something of an intellectual. You heard him quoting all the poets.”

  “In between the girls from Nantucket,” I said.

  “He’s a character. Characters sell.”

  “Well, we need to keep him on a short leash.”

  Bree saluted. “Consider it done. I’ll sleep on the sofa and make sure he doesn’t wander into traffic.”

  That sounded more noble than it really was. The sofa in King’s suite could have slept five. It was as soft and plush as a Gund bear.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I was about to leave when a voice called, “Julie Chavan!” It was loud enough to make me jump. I spun around and blushed, as much as an Indian girl can blush.

  Wiping his mouth, King stood in the bedroom doorway. He was still naked, but we got the front view this time. I tried not to stare, but it was hard. Actually, yes, it was hard. Engorged. Bree licked her lips. I am not a particularly reliable judge of male anatomy, based on limited experience, but I feel confident in telling you that King’s equipment was, well, king-sized.

  “Now we know what Wolfe saw in him,” Bree murmured.

  “Hush,” I said.

  “Julie Chavan,” King continued, blithely unconcerned by his nudity, “might I have a word with you in private?”

  “In privates?” I said. “I mean, private. Yes, sure.”

  He turned around, depriving us of our view, and disappeared into the bedroom.

  “It’s been a while, darling,” Bree told me. “You may want to do some Kegel exercises before tackling that thing.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  I followed King into the bedroom. He lay on the bed, hands behind his neck. His eyes were closed. He was absolutely motionless, and I thought he had fallen asleep on top of the covers. I waited, staring at him. I was reminded of my trip to Italy a few years ago. Pisa in particular.

  “Julie Chavan,” he said again, eyes not opening.

  “Just call me Julie,” I said. “And please cover yourself.”

  “Does my robust manhood make you uncomfortable?”

  Tell me he did not say “robust manhood.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  King sighed and took a fistful of blanket and threw it over his mid-section. The red-striped comforter looked like lava descending from the peak of a volcano. “Better?”

  “Thanks.”

  “I need more money,” he said. For a drunk guy, he’d sobered up fast. His eyes were still closed, and he was as frozen as a corpse.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Another million for now would be satisfactory,” he said, “although two would be better.”

  “We’ve already paid you a four million dollar advance.”

  “Mostly spent, I’m afraid.”

  “On what?”

  “Cars. Restaurants. A condo on the Thames. Gifts. I am a generous man. And then, of course, Bree and the government extract their pound of flesh, too. I barely received two million dollars for myself at the end of the day.”

  Poor baby.

  “If we sell a lot of books, you’ll get royalty payments,” I told him. I didn’t mention that we’d have to sell A LOT of books to cover his advance.

  “That isn’t soon enough. The hotel already called with unfortunate news regarding the status of my American Express card.”

  “Sell something,” I suggested acidly.

  “I don’t wish to sacrifice my standard of living.”

  “Well, I’m afraid that’s too bad, King. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Find a way,” he said.

  “It doesn’t work like that.”

  His eyes popped open, blue and hard. I was startled. It was like having one of those Madame Tussaud’s wax figures suddenly move.

  “I know things, Julie Chavan,” King said.

  “Things?”

  “Things you want to keep private. Secrets.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He watched my face, as if to see if I were serious. “He never told you?”

  “Who?”

  “Sonny.”

  “Told me what?”

  He put his finger over his lips. “Shhhh…”

  I had no idea what to say. Part of me wanted to press him for details, and part of me wanted to take a baseball bat and go all A-Rod on his robust manhood. When I didn’t say anything, King closed his eyes again. He looked relaxed and confident. I thought he was sleeping, but then he spoke again.

  “Yes, two million would be better,” he said. “See what you can do, Julie Chavan.”

  I didn’t bother with the taxi line outside the Gansevoort. It was two in the morning, but I’d be standing for half an hour behind the clubbers. Instead, I wandered into the streets, figuring I’d catch a late cab trolling through the meatpacking district. The neighborhood was mostly empty. Mostly. I spotted another person a block behind me, but it was a woman in a brown pants suit, so I wasn’t nervous.

  I wanted to be alone anyway.

  I had no idea what King was talking about. Neither did Bree. I didn’t like the idea of him keeping secrets, and I really didn’t like the idea of him trying to blackmail me. Not that he would be the first author who ran out of cash and came begging his publisher for an advance on royalties.

  What secrets did King know? Probably nothing.

  I thought maybe Sonny would join me, but he stayed away. There was only me and the brunette woman in the brown pants suit, wandering the district at a safe distance from each other.

  I was making something out of nothing. King had learned lessons from Irving Wolfe about how to con people.

  I checked my phone and saw that I’d missed a message while I was in the theatre. It was from Garrett. Call me as soon as you can. I felt bad that I hadn’t seen his note earlier in the evening. It was way too late to call him now. I felt a strange twinge of guilt that I’d been with Thad.

  At the intersection ahead of me, I finally saw a taxi. I waved and ran into the middle of the street to get his attention. Fortunately, this was one of the few New York cabbies who actually stop for paying customers. I gave him the address of my apartment uptown and climbed in the back. His name was Farouk. They’re all named Farouk. Or maybe it was the same driver I had yesterday. That’s pretty likely in New York.

  I passed the brunette in the brown pants suit on the street as we drove away.

  The funny thing is, she looked straight at me. Almost as if she knew who I was.

  12

  “How about that A-Rod?” Lionel the security guard asked me when I arrived at the West 57 building the next morning. It was bright and early, as usual; the difference was that I’d only had three hours of sleep.

  “What?”

&
nbsp; I heard A-Rod, and I was still thinking about King’s robust manhood as I swung for the bleachers.

  “Ninth inning homer. Didn’t you see it?”

  “Oh, no, I missed the game.”

  I staggered for the elevator, but Lionel called me back. “These flowers are for you,” he said.

  “Flowers?”

  Lionel pointed to a gigantic bouquet of two dozen red roses sprinkled with baby’s breath. I hadn’t even noticed them there. “For me?” I said.

  “For you, ma’am. Nice.”

  I peeled the card off the clear plastic wrapped around the flowers. I opened it and read:

  Remember St. Bart’s?

  Oh, damn.

  Of course, I did. How could I forget? Eight months after we began dating, Thad and I took a vacation to the Caribbean island. I’m not sure I’ve ever had, or will have, days that were more magical. I had never seen water so transparent and green. I had never walked nude on a beach at sunset. I had never been so much in love, or so physically satisfied, that I almost lost myself in another human being. I remember Thad saying: “No one can ever take this away from us.”

  However, someone did take it away. I did. Not long after that, I ended us. What scared me in the here and now was that I couldn’t remember exactly why.

  “Julie.”

  I turned around and found Garrett standing next to me. “Oh! Hi.”

  “Beautiful flowers,” he said.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  In the encyclopedia next to “awkward moment,” you will find a picture of this encounter.

  “You really must have a secret admirer,” he said. “First Broadway tickets, now flowers.”

  “I wish.”

  This was the point where a question hangs in the air. Yes, he wanted to know who sent me the flowers; no, he wouldn’t ask me about something personal and private. It was up to me to tell him. For some reason, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want him getting the wrong idea about me and Thad. I also didn’t want him thinking I was keeping secrets from him. Which, sadly, I was.

  “My mother,” I lied.

  “That’s sweet. My mother never sends me roses.” He gave me another of his unbelievably charming smiles. I think that was his way of saying: I don’t believe you, but it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.