Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “I’m busy,” Jackson said. He sat straighter, like a dog who hears the report of the shotgun behind him, eagerly checking the sky for falling birds.

  Falling birds. Like his marriage.

  “Two o’clock,” Penn said.

  “I have a two o’clock,” Jackson said.

  “So do I,” Penn said. “So does everyone in the city. So, I’m guessing, does your wife. With her attorney.”

  “I’ll see you at two,” Jackson said.

  “Good man,” Penn replied.

  12

  PLAYING THE BOARD

  CYNTHIA DASHED up the stairs to Brooke Astor Hall. She’d missed a full day of meetings, meetings that COULD NOT TAKE PLACE WITHOUT HER PRESENCE. Her first official day running the board, and she’d blown it off. She hadn’t answered her phone, had ignored it with vigor, until it had finally, pathetically, issued its last mechanical cry before the battery drained.

  Margot Ashford, premiere ballet mistress of the NYBT, greeted her in the rehearsal hall like the old friend she was. “Well, Princess Grace, nice of you to show up. Where the hell have you been?”

  And then she coughed. Margot’s voice sounded like one part Dame Judi Dench, two parts Harvey Fierstein.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Cynthia asked. She watched as the dancers were put through their steps.

  “Am I okay? Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Cough. “Are you okay? That’s what the board wanted to know,” Margot said. “You could have saved me from the truffle pigs. Once again, they know nothing.”

  Cynthia checked her watch.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy getting divorced.”

  “Yes. I saw the photograph. Photographs, I should say. Très French, oui?” More coughing. Margot and Cynthia had roomed and danced together when they arrived in New York—both from small towns, though Margot’s was north of London. As baby ballerinas, they’d sized each other up and hated each other immediately. Margot was muscular and dark, her black hair cropped short (shocking for a ballerina) with thick bangs. She was the Patti Smith of classical ballet. Cynthia, with her perfect dancer’s profile, her signature mane, her unparalleled extension, was Snow White to her Evil Queen. Margot’s self-destructiveness was her calling card, smoking cocaine and screwing everything, including the married, bisexual head of the NYBT. She was, by far, the most promising ballerina in the company; there was no more exciting dancer than Margot, no one with more explosive raw talent.

  And no one who would waste more of that talent.

  When Margot’s latest “beau” beat the hell out of her and left her face a purple, swollen mess, Cynthia covered for her and nursed Margot back to health. There’d never been two stronger rivals or two closer friends.

  “Was it the big topic of conversation?” Cynthia asked.

  “Of course. I told them to shut the fuck up.”

  “In the most polite way possible.”

  “Bruce’s got his nut hairs in a knot over the idea of you taking over. I told him to go wax his sphincter.” Bruce Harold Raymond was the artistic director of the NYBT.

  “So he’s Team Fred.”

  “He’s snug as a homo bug in the big man’s pocket, Princess, of course he’s Team Fred.” Margot did not fuck around with niceties.

  “Where is he?” Cynthia looked around nervously.

  “Upstairs. In his office. Relax. I’m sure he’s busy staring in a mirror.”

  “The rest of the board?” Cynthia inquired, bracing herself.

  “You’re good. You’ve got Bartlet, Reynolds, Kitty, Morris, of course, Margaret Lord Foster…who else? Jasper. You have a clear majority.” She paused. “It’s exciting.”

  “Then why do I feel like throwing up? And I don’t mean like the fun throwing up. Two things I’ve avoided for years: running the board and getting a divorce. Now I have to do both? I’m going to resign before I have a nervous breakdown.”

  Margot waited.

  “And to this, you reply…?” Cynthia asked.

  “Cynthia. Princess. If you don’t embrace this position, you are a gutless cipher.”

  “Thank you,” Cynthia said.

  “You’ve been kept under glass long enough. When are you going to take Cynthia seriously? When are you going to grow up?”

  “What’s my timetable?” Cynthia asked.

  “That’s all I’ll say on the matter. I don’t like being nice. It doesn’t agree with my stomach.”

  “That was nice?”

  As they spoke, the line was put through their paces onstage. Margot grimaced at them, then turned to Cynthia.

  “I’ll bring over some Chinese tonight. I’m famished. Along with the bronchitis, I had the flu. Haven’t eaten in three days. I’ve never looked better. Look at these hip bones. You could cut paper with them.”

  “I need some alone time tonight,” Cynthia said.

  “Alone time? Fine. I’m calling Rafael. Someone’s got to bear witness to my wasting away.”

  “Rafael?” Cynthia gestured toward the stage. “He’s nineteen!”

  “He’s on a steep learning curve.” Margot smiled. “Can I just say one more thing about divorce?”

  “Can I stop you?”

  “Divorce is the new Retirement Plan.”

  “Love you,” Cynthia said, shaking her head.

  “Beyond,” Margot replied.

  13

  THE KING’S PAWN

  THAT DRINK is not going to mix itself,” the man in the suit said. They all wore suits, of course. This was Midtown.

  Adrian West was supposed to be simply mixing a drink. Supposed to be, but what he was actually doing was far more interesting than measuring the exact one-third/two-thirds ratio of amber liquid to clear. Any monkey could mix a drink. But could a monkey scrutinize the process? Could a monkey watch himself mix the drink, examine how his hands moved, how the mind directed the mouth to form words: “I’ll add it to the tab, you like some nuts, can I get you anything else, think you’ve had enough, sir?”

  Could a monkey ponder the history of that liquor? Where did the corn that made up 51 percent of the bourbon grow? The Blue Mountains of Kentucky? A lord’s bog in Scotland? How many hands did the bottle pass through on the way to its home behind this antique bar? How much pain, sorrow, happiness, tragedy had that bottle touched?

  Welcome to Method Bartending.

  “Can I see the bottle?”

  Adrian shrugged, handed it over. Let the guy play the Big Man.

  “That’s not the year.”

  Adrian looked up, his six-foot-two ex-track-star physique cutting a silhouette on tricky Old King Cole himself in the bar’s mural.

  Like hell it’s not the year. Adrian smiled. A smile, happy. A smile, a celebration. A smile, warmth. This smile—steel and granite and diamonds and titanium.

  The man tried the drink. “It’s good,” he said.

  Adrian dropped the smile. Fuckin’ amateurs. Think they’re experts in all things because they’re king of one—money. Big deal. Money. Great men did not care about money; great men cared about ideas. Adrian West, ex–juvenile delinquent and South Jersey boy, was about to have his shot at greatness. His first play, Jersey Hearts, was about to debut. Off-Off-Off-Broadway, sure, but still, Adrian would prove he was no monkey. And his girlfriend, the luscious Miss Tracy Bing, was playing the lead. Adrian’s long days and nights of mixing drinks and debating years on bottles, they were fucking numbered.

  “If it isn’t the starving artist,” the voice said. Unmistakable. And that’s a fact.

  The crowd drew back and watched with furtive eyes as he slid onto his stool. The man pretended not to notice the attention. The familiar crooked smile gave him away.

  “If it isn’t Mr. Famous,” Adrian said.

  “Fuck you and get my bottle,” Jackson said, as he always had since Adrian had made the mistake of pouring the house Scotch for him once, during his first week on the job.

  Adrian reached down for the special bottle they kept far away from sharp eyes an
d questions. The 1937 Glenfiddich, property of Mr. Jackson Power.

  Adrian set the bottle up on the bar in front of Power, who always managed to clear an area on the right-hand side, second stool in.

  From that stool, one could see, reflected in the mirror hanging behind the bar, the faces of every customer; the round tables in the darkened corners; everything and everyone in the bar.

  And more important, everyone could see you.

  “How goes the raping and pillaging?” Adrian asked. Same question, every time. Jackson came to the bar at least once a week, always with an eye toward Adrian. Although twenty years apart, they had an understanding. If either of them had been gay, they probably would have fucked already.

  “How goes the fag business?” Jacks countered.

  “I believe it’s called ‘theater,’” Adrian said. “You know, like one of those quaint turn-of-the-century halls you keep tearing down and turning into stacks of shiny boxes.”

  “You’ll always be poor, kid,” Jacks said.

  “Nothing wrong with being poor,” Adrian said. “Poor but honest.”

  Jackson snorted. “A regular Abe Lincoln, that’s what you are.”

  “Let’s hope I don’t get shot during my first production.”

  Jackson pushed that drink back fast, Adrian noticed. His hand tightened on the bottle to pour another. But then he stopped himself. Give it a beat, don’t want Jacks to think his alcohol intake is being monitored.

  Adrian closed his eyes. Twelve hours on his feet, wearing the shoes his girlfriend had bought him as a good-luck gift. Black leather lace-ups that radiated a rich man’s gleam even in the dark of the hotel bar. He’d kept wearing the Italian instruments of torture because Miss Tracy Bing had chosen them for him. And he wanted nothing more in the world but to keep Miss Tracy Bing happy.

  Another customer walked in. She was in her forties, alone, diamond ring now on the right hand, skittish eyes. She would order a cosmopolitan because somehow it made her feel younger. Lighter. Adrian sorely wanted to mix her a Manhattan.

  “Cosmopolitan, please,” she said. She unwound the scarf from her neck and ventured to look around. She was meeting someone she didn’t know.

  Adrian could feel Jackson’s eyes on him. He made his way back to him.

  “When’s the play open?” Jackson asked.

  “Next week,” Adrian said. “I’ve got three more nights here, then I’m done. You’ll have to pick on some other sucker.”

  “Least I won’t have to tip him like a high-priced hooker,” Jackson said.

  Adrian laughed. Like Jackson Power would ever need to be attended to by a hooker. “You’ll be the first person I thank at the Tonys,” Adrian said.

  “You picked a tough road, pal,” Jackson said. “Haven’t you heard? Art died in 1983. Nobody cares about artists, not even the artists themselves.”

  It was their favorite subject: Art vs. Commerce.

  “But commerce lives on, in all its soul-sucking glory,” Adrian said.

  “Commerce is necessity, kid,” Jackson said. “Commerce is food, clothes, shelter. Commerce is life itself. Commerce, barkeep, is noble.”

  Adrian’s laugh barreled out, then stopped short when he saw the expression on Jackson’s face.

  “When are you getting married?” Jackson suddenly asked.

  “Soon, I hope,” Adrian said, surprising even himself. “If she’ll have me.”

  He’d never said those words out loud. But there they were, true as the night, as the murmuring crowd, as the bottle in his hand. Was there a vision more delicious than Miss Tracy Bing? Skin like white chocolate. Black licorice hair. The perfectly formed triangle of soft pinks and cream. He would lay his head between her legs for hours, he would sleep there, he would awaken in her softness in the morning. And her smell…roses were too strong, vanilla too sweet. Her scent was simply a reason to live.

  “Women. Are. A fucking mystery,” Jackson groused. “I’m not telling you anything ‘new.’” He scraped the air with his blunt fingertips. “What I’m saying, it’s not profound. Men are stupid. And women, unknowable.” He winked at his reflection, behind Adrian. “Face it,” Jacks lumbered on, “you marry a stranger in white lace.” His thick yet usually nimble fingers, smooth and manicured, were betraying him as the Scotch tumbler trembled in his grip.

  “And that’s a fact.”

  Adrian detected something in Jackson he hadn’t seen before—defeat? Weariness? He’d never pried into Jackson’s personal life; why would he need to when his every move was all over the papers? The guy couldn’t take a shit without alarms going off. Adrian poured him another drink.

  “It’s going to be all right, my man,” Adrian said.

  “Fuck it,” Jackson said. “To your opening.” He raised his glass and nodded toward Adrian to grab one for himself. Adrian poured himself two fingers of Scotch that cost more than a used Lexus and met Jackson’s glass with his own.

  “To Art,” Adrian said. They drank their Scotches silently.

  “Damn,” Adrian said. He was bitch-slapped by how good the Glenfiddich felt. Like being seduced by a beautiful woman throwing bundles of hundred-dollar bills at his feet.

  “Commerce bought that, my friend,” Jackson said. He was smiling again.

  14

  CRITICAL POSITION

  TWENTY MINUTES later Jackson and Lara were at the room at the Plaza, fucking. The Plaza, that was novelty. The fucking part; this wasn’t unusual. She was on top. This wasn’t unusual, either. She’d entered him—no, no, that’s not right, he thought, what is wrong with you?

  He’d entered her.

  She was going to kill him.

  Sound. Panting. Short staccato breaths, an aggressive aria, free of cumbersome notes. We never play music, he thought. Maybe we should play a little music. Did she know Chet Baker? Billie Holiday? Or would he have to play Aerosmith?

  Lara’s legs were bent at the knee; her thighs clutched his sides, squeezing out his breath. His hands held on to those thighs, slick with her moisture, smooth and strong. She gripped his shoulders, hurling herself forward and back, and then she screamed, her head whipping side to side, her hair flying, fanning the room, and there was no time to think about all the chest hairs she was pulling out, the nails that were burrowing into his skin, but the pain made this moment even more exciting.

  He held her, his hands assisting her. Can I get you anything? Will you be requiring anything else this evening? How many orgasms could a woman have? This must be her third, her fourth—he would hold on. It was his pride, of course it was his pride. He wanted her to come again. He wanted her to need him as much as he needed her. Who can make you come the most? That soap actor you used to date? The hockey player? The huge black sports reporter? Who?

  Me, I make you come the most, don’t I, honey?

  Don’t I?

  She screamed, the final one. Raging and wild, the note of it ribboned through the air and flew around the room. He thought of Chinese acrobats doing floor exercises, strips of red satin streaking the room with color.

  Then her laughter. He felt her fold into him, her cheek, her chin, breasts, torso. He could feel her shuddering, as though her body had been suffocating, suppressing this laugh just for this moment when it could roll out from way deep inside until it was freed, dancing in a room that was once silent and waiting.

  Lara rolled off him at last and Jackson leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His dick hung to the side, limp, a little wary, dark brown in this light, a baby wallaby tucked into his mother’s pouch, blind and hairless.

  He thought of that Viagra commercial, idiots playing banjos and singing about hard-ons. Viva Viagra. Cheers, Cialis!

  He knew his cock’s days were numbered. Look at it. It had been grabbed, pulled, squeezed, pinched, licked, sucked, mounted, bent, drained, drained again, curled, singed, peeled, gorged, kissed, tickled, and detonated.

  Don’t you see, his dick said to him. She’s going to kill you. I’m the weapon she’ll us
e against you. You and I could be happy with lesser things. We don’t need so much. We could retire with our memories, you and I. Remember, Jacks, remember that Bulgarian model, halfway through dinner at Babbo she opened your zipper with her foot? Her foot! She had to finish us off in the bathroom, just as Charlie Rose was walking in. Did she care? No!

  Jacks wasn’t listening to his guilty appendage. You can’t ask a man in love to listen to Reason, even if Reason is coming from a foremost part of your body. Lara had stopped him cold. He didn’t even know he loved her until it was too late. It had been so long since he’d been in love that he hadn’t recognized the signs.

  Jacks met Lara at a major function for Alzheimer’s. Tuxes and feathers, smiles and bullshit (bread and circuses!). They were seated at the same table, across from each other. He’d tried to catch Lara’s eye—he knew who she was—and even if he hadn’t known, she would have stood out in this or any crowd. Jackson had watched her walk to the table, shoulders flung back, long strides. Like she was walking onto Centre Court at Wimbledon. He’d been in the midst of an affair with a thing wispy and boring and teeth-gnashingly beautiful. He was trying to get out of it after a month. Jacks’s affairs were getting shorter and shorter; his attention span for limp, shiny objects was diminishing.

  Lara wouldn’t look at him. She seemed to find the mousy magazine publisher and his hausfrau wife more fascinating than a live sex show.

  Jackson stopped her as she was leaving. Stood and introduced himself, essentially blocking her exit. (Stomach in, check, palms dry, check, bedroom eyes, the promise of a great fuck in the Power grin, check and check.)

  “Jacks Power.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “If you know, why didn’t you acknowledge me? I’ve been staring at you all night.”