Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “Ah, Miss Sizemore,” he asked, “the usual?”

  Lara nodded and closed the large menu and set it aside, not sure why she’d opened it in the first place. The waiter turned toward Scott.

  “I’ll have the Cobb, but can I have the blue cheese dressing on the side, no, not blue cheese, could it just be balsamic, yes, great, and only chicken breast, no bacon, if you could just use spray, do you have spray? A side of spinach, but no butter on it, I’ll have it steamed, okay, a little olive oil. And a Diet Coke. No ice.”

  Angel nodded.

  “And all at once.”

  Angel nodded.

  “No ice, but ice on the side. A large glass of ice.”

  Again, Angel nodded.

  “And all at once, please. Can you take the bread basket away? Thanks.”

  Could you hate someone, Lara wondered, after just one food order?

  She glanced at a nearby table, where two businessmen, older than Jacks (but not by as much as their countenances insisted) sat. Probably on their third martinis. Their faces were bloated and flushed. One was hunched over, balanced on his elbows, describing something, maybe telling a dirty joke. Lara could taste the liquor in their mouths. She thought about the way a good martini wrapped itself around her tongue.

  “Straight up, twist?” Angel was asking.

  “Olives,” she responded. “I need my vegetables.”

  Later, she’d ordered another and had barely sampled her creamy, buttery appetizer. Meanwhile, Scott had finished his abstemious lunch and two more Diet Cokes, ice on the side. He had done all the talking, but Lara was content to listen for now, to wait on her courage. She knew it was in there somewhere; all it needed was a little time. And one more drink. Always one more drink.

  “I know I’m a rookie at this game,” Scott said. He’d pushed away his plate, leaving three good-size bites.

  “I figure there’s a couple plays I’ve got to make,” he continued. “Number one, we’ve got to take down the top team. Number two, that means I’ve got to get my best players on the field.”

  She looked at him. What the fuck was he talking about?

  “So here’s my pitch,” he said.

  She waited. Should she duck?

  “I’m pulling Georgia out of the game. I’m benching her and putting you in.”

  Oh, shit. Oh shit, shit, shit. SHIT.

  “Georgia’s old,” he said. Georgia was maybe forty-four, a crone, a wizened grandmotherly type.

  “She has six months left on her contract,” Lara stammered. “If you fire her, you’ll screw up her negotiations for the nightly.”

  Georgia was heading to the lead anchor seat, nightly news. Better hours, more prestige. Scott leaned back, tilted his head. His bemused expression made her want to slap him.

  “1989. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. He could have played one more year. He had knee problems, a bad disc. But people loved watching him play, they couldn’t get enough of the skyhook. You seen the skyhook? Money in the fucking bank. And those big glasses. He was the first one with the goggles. Plus, he had class.”

  He paused. Lara found herself staring at her drink, look at the shape of the glass, like a tit on a stick. Calling her with smooth, sexy, soulful, hypnotic notes: Edith Piaf, straight up.

  “And along comes Earvin ‘Magic’ Johnson. There was no one bigger than Kareem. Until there was Magic.” Beat. “I don’t need two stars. Not when I got a young, hot one who can do it all, pass, shoot, score—and look fucking awesome in a bikini.”

  Sing to me, martini, Lara prayed to her drink. Sing your silvery song.

  “That bathtub segment was one of our top-five all-time pieces, by the way, the network fucking flipped for it,” he said. “We’re going to stick you in a bikini so often, the audience is going to think we’re the Playboy Channel. It’s good that you’re not eating.”

  Lara’s eyes led her back to where the businessmen were on their next round of drinks.

  “I quit,” she heard herself say.

  “Pregame jitters,” he said. “It’s natural. I’m handing you the ball, and you’re going to run with that fucker. This is a slam-fucking-dunk.”

  “Please,” Lara said. “I want to go overseas. I want to be in the story. I want to be in khakis, not a thong. You could help me, make me Yasmeen Ali, Christiane Amanpour, Anderson Cooper. I’ll do great, I promise.” Anderson doesn’t have to wear trunks and oil up his chest before an on-air.

  “Anderson Cooper?” Scott snorted. “He’s like the Ryan Seacrest of anchors.”

  “Look, I want a demotion,” Lara said. “No more bathtubs and carb-free diets. I want to be where the action is.”

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  “What?” Lara’s hand went to her cheek, as though she’d been slapped.

  “I’ll tell you when you can have that job. In ten years, when the drinking has finally caught up with you. Then you can go to whatever fucking desert mountain secret towelhead hideout cave you want. But right now I’m using up your last good years in a studio with fucking lighting and fucking hair and makeup and wardrobe, and you’re fucking going to love it.”

  “I’ll tear up the contract,” Lara said. “I am a human being—”

  Scott snorted. “You’re not a human being, you’re a tool, and you work for me. You think I didn’t see this coming? The walls have ears, sweetheart, they have ears and pie holes. You try to get out of your contract, we’ll sue you. Nah. We will literally kill you, because you won’t be able to handle the pressure. If you don’t do what I tell you, if you don’t drive when I say go for the fucking basket, you’re a fucking corpse.”

  Scott stood up and brushed away imaginary bread crumbs from the imaginary piece of bread he hadn’t eaten.

  “Oh,” he continued, “and don’t bother crying to your boyfriend or fiancé or whatever the fuck you call him, I could give a shit. No matter what the tabs say about your drinking and that asshole, you and your bikini are a ratings darling. That’s all I care about. Do I look like Don Hewitt to you? It’s called entertainment programming, and no stupid bitch is going to fuck this up for me.”

  Scott suddenly smiled. “Have a great rest of the day,” he said. “If you want to go on a run sometime, let me know. We’ll have to do this again soon.”

  He turned and walked out the double doors.

  Lara sat there. She waited as Angel came by to tell her the bill had been paid by the gentleman, and to offer her another drink. She waited as plates were scooped up and the tablecloth cleared. She waited as her BlackBerry vibrated, and she waited until all of the other customers had left, save the two sitting directly in her eyeline. She waited until there was one left.

  She stood, cradling her purse, drink in hand, careful not to spill, but spilling all the same. She sat down next to him.

  “Shitty lunch?” the businessman asked, sizing her up.

  “I’ve had better,” Lara said. “Actually, the company was shitty. But the martinis were delish.”

  “Cheers,” he said. Their glasses touched. She was struck by the color of his eyes, the thickness of his hair, his mustache, his wedding ring. She wondered if he was good at eating pussy.

  She watched him over the rim of her glass.

  “You’re that girl,” he said. “My buddy and I, we recognized you.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m that girl. That’s what I am.”

  “I gotta tell you,” he said, “you look frikkin’ hot in a bikini. You could be a Hooters waitress. Seriously.”

  She stared at him. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Are your tits real? My buddy and I, we had a bet going,” he said. “I said they were.” His face veered closer to hers. She could taste his breath. Can you smell heart disease on a person?

  Can he smell me spiraling out of control?

  Maybe Scott was smarter than she’d given him credit for. She’d seen her future in women in their fifties, crossing quickly on the street, buying dry soup at the Korean market, loitering at the old
Italian coffee shop; women with their cigarettes and their wrinkles and a ring not on their ring finger but on their thumbs, their hair gray and wiry, because what’s the point. More often then not, they were walking their beloved dachshunds. They always knew where you could still sneak a cigarette in a bar. They went after five, after they’d walked their dogs, and they told themselves that at least it was after five, and after five wasn’t so bad, and if they weren’t picked up by eight o’clock, it wasn’t such a huge loss, after all, Survivor was on at eight. Maybe they had rich ex-husbands, kids they didn’t talk to. Lara stared at them as though she had a crush. The pretty ones killed her, the ones whose falls were steepest. No one looked at them twice now, except Lara. She coveted the curve of a cheekbone swathed in pale, wrinkled flesh, the faded almond eyes hooded by age, by gravity, by the lasting impression, like a thumbprint, made by disappointment. The teenage models who roamed the streets like vacant-eyed antelope didn’t interest Lara. Nothing was as fascinating as the specter of what she could become: one bad choice led to this face, to that body, to those hands, that tremor.

  Lara excused herself from the table, but not fast enough, and not with enough equilibrium. The table seemed to hurtle toward her as she attempted to stand. The businessman had suddenly multiplied and was screaming at her, his florid-faced clones yelling, too.

  Angel grabbed Lara under the arms as she began to retch, and carried her into the bathroom. Lara burrowed her head into his chest. Her stomach felt better; it was time for her mind to feel the worst of it.

  “Do you think I got my point across?” she asked Angel as she turned the water on and washed the last of herself into the sink.

  31

  GAME ON

  THUMP THUMP THUMP. Artemus Power’s footsteps on the Aubusson echoed the throbbing in Jackson’s brain. His office door flew open.

  “Idiot!” his father yelled.

  “Now wait a minute.” Jacks stood to take the blow.

  “YouTube? You have made a complete mockery of my name. Who did I raise, Paris Hilton? Your mother would roll over in her grave!”

  “Dad. Just calm down. I’ve already had the video taken down and fired the kitchen staff,” Jacks said. “I’m suing countless assholes. Everything’s under control.”

  “Everything is out of control. I’m taking over the Bowery,” his father spit. “I’ve gone over our quarterlies. We can’t afford to blow this deal because your head’s up your ass or up that news reader’s ass—I’m meeting with Krach today and telling him I’m the Power to speak to. You’re out.”

  He exited, slamming the door before Jackson could reply.

  Jackson massaged his temples. He’d spent countless hours sweet-talking Krach, hoping the mayor would sign off on ordinances and tax incentives so they could break ground. His father had not only muscled his way to the negotiating table, he was shoving Jackson out altogether.

  Caprice knocked at the door. “Your one o’clock is here. Should I set up the conference room?”

  The conference room was glassed in. No, thanks.

  “I’ll take it in here.”

  “It’s messy,” she said. “Chinese. Lots of containers.”

  “I’ll take it in here, Caprice,” he repeated. “Just send him in—without the food.” He didn’t want to say Adrian’s name out loud. What if they needed to create another identity? Already his plan was complicated, even before any useful information had been exchanged. And why’d he ask Adrian to come to his office? Jacks, the Lord of Loutishness, the Duke of Deception, was bungling like an innocent. Too late to change his mind; Jacks was pinned to his office with meetings and calls. This would be the first and last time he would invite Adrian up to the tower.

  Fuck all. And why’d he offer a hundred thousand? Why not fifty? The guy was unemployed, for crying out loud. He’d have to talk Adrian’s price down—

  “Okay, Big Man, I’ve had a few thoughts since we last spoke,” Adrian said, materializing in front of him. Was this guy some sort of magician? He’d have to be, to get Cynthia wet.

  “Took you long enough,” Jacks said.

  Adrian had cleaned up. He’d shaved, was wearing a black leather jacket, crisp white shirt. Jeans. Black shoes. A good make, pricey for a bartender.

  What kind of game was this kid running?

  “You’re a prick,” Adrian said as he sat down and folded his arms across his chest. “I wanted to get that out on the table. But I’m taking you up on your sleazy offer, which means I’m a prick, too. Given that, I’ll do the best job possible. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Jackson stared at him. The kid’s audacity took nothing away from his looks. Annoying.

  Caprice poked her head in. “May I take your drink order?” she asked.

  “The gentleman and I will just have water. Flat. No ice. And no interruptions.”

  Caprice nodded. If she found this particular summit unusual, you couldn’t decipher it in her eyes or the tone of her voice. Thank God I can rely on one person in my life, Jacks thought.

  The water was delivered. Adrian started in. “I’ve made a list of questions,” he said, taking a piece of paper from the leather jacket that still reeked of the cheap cigar preference of its previous owner.

  “What is this?” Jackson said. “You don’t ask for shit, kid. I ask for shit.”

  Adrian smiled and handed the sheet to Jackson, who was forced to put on his reading glasses (he hated having to put on his reading glasses).

  “The Cynthia List,” Adrian said.

  “Favorite color?” Jacks read out loud. “Favorite fruit?” What is this? “Favorite season? Favorite time of day?” Makes no sense, no sense at all. “What side of the bed does she sleep on? Favorite flower?” Easy one. “Favorite perfume?” Another easy one. “For daytime/nighttime?” Ridiculous. “Pet peeves?” Me, Jacks Power. “Childhood fears? Secret sexual desires?” This guy’s dead.

  “I need to know everything about your wife,” said Adrian. “I need to live inside her brain, to know her intimately without ever having met her.”

  “Fuck you,” Jacks said, “I’m not answering these—”

  Adrian had touched a nerve, and found that he liked it. “Why not? You’re her husband. You saying you don’t know her?”

  Jacks suppressed a smile and his blood pressure. It was a good play by the kid, but he didn’t want to upset the power balance by showing appreciation.

  “This is what I have so far,” Adrian continued. “Cynthia Power née Hunsaker, born in Aurora, Missouri. Parents deceased. Father left when she was eight—you know that’s a crucial year in a child’s growth, eight years old—especially between a daughter and father. Kids never get over that sort of thing. Right in the middle of her Electra complex—” Adrian paused. “That’s harsh.”

  “Cry me a fucking river,” Jacks said. “I would’ve liked to be rid of my dad at eight.”

  “Nice. I can see why she likes you so much,” Adrian said. “Okay, Cynthia danced since the age of four, became professional at eighteen, moved to New York.”

  “How did you find all this out?” Jackson asked him.

  “Google, phone calls. I don’t use computers when I write. Bad for the artistic process. Words should be written by hand, pencil to paper. Take that away, you lose the experience of the word, the life of the word.” Adrian paused.

  Jackson was lost, thinking about Cynthia when he met her. How could he describe her skin? An untouched canvas. No freckled shoulders left by carefree days in the sun, no scars from climbing fences or falling off a bike, no impressions left by earlier lovers. Her skin carried the somber tone of her early years, the adultlike child, no fun, no play, but the sacrifice she’d made gave birth to perfection.

  “You want to marry your sweetheart?” Adrian pushed. “You want to get on with your life?”

  “Yes,” Jackson said. He thought about Lara, every piece of her a testament to living. She was a verb, his girl.

  “Good. Answer those questions,” Adrian s
aid. “I’ll have more tomorrow. And I’m going to need some cash. I need a new wardrobe, and enough money to take your wife to the best places. Oh, I need a BlackBerry. I hate ’em, but if I’m on a date with your wife, or in bed or something, and I need info—”

  “Stop,” Jackson said, holding up his hand.

  “Hey, that’s what we’re hoping for, right?” Adrian asked. “I need an apartment for six months—that should be enough time—”

  “You’ll need to work faster than that.”

  “I will,” Adrian said. “But I’ll need a quiet place to rest my head afterward.”

  “Not a problem.” He’d had to get rid of the “love nests” scattered throughout his buildings in Manhattan when reporters got too nosy, but he could borrow the show apartment he’d used to lock in sales on the latest Power Tower. “So we have a deal.”

  “We have a deal,” Adrian said, and stood up. “I need a good, personal photograph of your wife, clear and close-up, something that captures her essence. I’ve seen the Google stuff—like, I want a picture you’ve taken.”

  “Her essence. That’s rich,” Jackson said. He opened his desk drawer and slid a photo in a silver frame across to Adrian. It was one of Cynthia, alone. Staring into the lens. The hint of a smile.

  Hello, Mona Lisa.

  How long ago had he taken it? And when had it found its way from proud display on his desk to inside a desk drawer? Adrian stared at the photo, slipped it from the frame, and put it inside his jacket.

  “Let’s meet tomorrow,” he said to Jackson. “I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll call you,” Jackson corrected.

  ADRIAN walked out of the office. His hand brushed his jacket, feeling for the photograph. Seeing Cynthia’s face made him feel dirty. She was attractive and sophisticated, but what struck him was the vulnerability in her eyes.

  I’m going straight to hell, he thought. I’d better give her a good time.

  He tapped the elevator button several times. Office buildings made him nervous; he’d avoided the nine-to-five life as though it were a communicable disease.