Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  What have I done?

  The enormous windows seemed to loom over him now, closing in, the receptive sky turning claustrophobic.

  How could he…?

  A clear, high-pitched ringing punctuated his thoughts.

  Adrian swiveled and picked up the phone on the black coffee table.

  “Hello?” No one there. The ringing continued.

  Adrian followed the shrill tone past the pantry, guest bedroom, powder room, to the fax machine in the small office at the end of the long hallway. A paper peeked through the roller on the top of the machine and then showed itself. The answers were coming.

  Adrian picked up the first sheet and began to read. He was impressed; they were more detailed than he had anticipated. He was halfway through when his cell vibrated.

  “Hello,” he said, then paused. “You want to meet me where?”

  ADRIAN walked to the corner of Seventieth and West End, where he summoned the nerve to look up at the huge black spider, straight out of a Japanese horror film, but with steel legs and a web of metal and alloy and girders and long plates of smoked glass. The spider was extremely loud, a wall of sound, so that the men crawling up its legs and onto its back could communicate only two ways: shout or gesture. The construction worker who’d handed him the orange hard hat merely waved for Adrian to follow him.

  They stepped onto a metal plate and the man semaphored for Adrian to hold on, and the thing jerked and before Adrian could scream he was hoisted up into the belly of the spider, tunneling through until he was sure he was going to faint. The man finally put on his own orange hard hat and gave Adrian a half smile lacking sympathy. Maybe this was the line of demarcation between men: those who could handle heights and those who could not.

  “This way,” he mouthed to Adrian once the metal plate had stopped. Adrian’s legs would not move and he was in agreement with them. Who was he to argue with his appendages?

  “Come on!” the man shouted. Adrian unclenched his hands and wiped them on his pants and somehow moved forward until he saw Jackson Power talking to a few workers, gesturing wildly, his arms wheeling away from his body, his face clenched, hair whipping in the wind.

  When he spotted Adrian, he put his arms out and strode toward him as though they were in the lobby of the Pierre. Jesus Christ, what is this, Adrian thought, a test?

  “Damn guy’s trying to screw me on the glass. I know what he’s doing. You see there, you see that?!” Jacks pointed to a building across Seventieth. Adrian didn’t shift his eyes.

  “Forty-second floor, see, the panels don’t match up. That looks cheap to me. Does that look cheap to you?”

  Adrian just nodded, pinned by abject fear to the top of the heaving metal spider. Glass panels? Who cares? We’re going to die, don’t you see, you crazy rich fuck? One false step, and our intestines will be lacing someone’s boots!

  “Okay, so we’re good. You got my answers, you’re ready to go!” Jacks shouted.

  “I’m good!” Adrian shouted back.

  “Don’t fuck this up!” Jacks shouted.

  Adrian looked across a breach where the metal plate had dropped him. Silhouetted by the sun bouncing off the turgid river, he saw an angel, wings outstretched, light dashing around his body. Adrian blinked. The angel’s wings folded, and he barked. “Who told these guys to take a break? I don’t take a break, they don’t take a break! Screw the union!”

  The orange-haired lion in winter: Artemus Power. Adrian watched the old man step along a steel beam as though he were walking on the beach at daybreak.

  The whole family is fucking crazy, Adrian thought.

  “You need an identity!” Jacks was shouting, ignoring the fact that his father was doing a mean imitation of a high-wire act. “A job. You can’t just be a bartender, or actor or writer…it has to have substance and when I say substance, I mean money.”

  Adrian deflected the rub. “How about an architect? Artistic, yet has some dough?”

  “No,” said Jacks, waving away the notion like a virus. “First of all, I hate architects. They all think they’re fuckin’ Picasso or something. The guy who did the plans for this place—he almost had a seizure when I moved a line. One line, okay, so I erased it—and this brick, you see this brick?” Jacks picked up a mustard-colored piece of brick. “Beautiful, right? It’s beautiful, there’s no doubting its beauty. Mr. Harvard School of Archishmarcitecture hated it. I fired him.”

  “It looks like puke,” Adrian said.

  “Shut the fuck up, you don’t know.” Jacks tossed the brick to the side. The thing came this close to sliding off the edge and ruining someone’s Christmas. “These people, they don’t have vision, and on top of that, they think they’re geniuses.” Jacks took a breath. “You want to know how many geniuses I’ve fired in my lifetime? You couldn’t count that high, my friend.” Jacks pointed a finger at Adrian’s chest. “You’re a hedge fund manager.”

  “Hedge funds?” Adrian said. “Aren’t they passé?”

  “Hedge fund manager and trust fund brat. She’ll never even question it. No one does, except other bottom-feeders. Get yourself business cards, buy a few suits. And get a haircut. You need a haircut.”

  “My hair is fine.”

  “Of course it is. If you’re a chick.”

  “My girlfriend loved my hair. The only chance I have to get her back is that Mr. Wall Street’s going bald. Why would she like him?” Adrian willed himself to stop speaking.

  Jacks stared at him. “Don’t make me answer that. You really want me to answer that?”

  “Money. Right. Money.” Adrian sighed.

  “You go here”—Jackson flipped him a business card—“you talk to this guy, tell him you’re my long-lost nephew of the cousin I don’t speak to, he’ll take care of your mop. I need you up and running by the end of the week.

  “Did you watch TV this morning?” Jacks added suddenly. “My fiancée. She’s on Sunrise America. She’s like the fucking lead anchor now. She did it. My girl.”

  “Good, good for you,” Adrian said, sullen.

  “Good? You know how many morning anchors there are?”

  “No idea. Nine, ten? A hundred?”

  “Fuck you. Oh, I got something else for you. You’re going to this thing, you’ll sit next to Cynthia, it’ll be a big fucking surprise.”

  He pressed an envelope into Adrian’s hand.

  “And that, barkeep,” Jacks said, pointing at the brick, “that’s called ‘Bloom.’ There are few things in this life more beautiful than that brick. And that’s a fact.”

  Jacks turned and stepped away from Adrian, leaving him alone in the fretful sky.

  CYNTHIA knew she was about to enter a shit storm without a poncho. How would personalities collide? Who would be left standing once the ego dust settled? She took a last look back and let the cool gray of the early afternoon satiate her. Then she stepped inside the Brooke Astor Hall.

  Bruce Harold Raymond, the artistic director of the New York Ballet Theater, greeted Cynthia with his back turned.

  Ah, the un-welcoming committee, Cynthia thought.

  “You’re the first to arrive,” he said, not bothering to rotate his perfectly oval bald head. He watched the dancers move as though he longed to be onstage again. He was tall, still admirably slim, and so studiously hygienic that some whispered he hadn’t had sex in decades. Cynthia thought about the first time they’d met, when they shared a company—his aloofness even then commensurate with his unremarkable talent. He was an average artistic director—always choosing the safe options, never challenging the audience or the critics. But he was canny. He’d survived several board regimes by making himself just useful enough, and just dangerous enough. He knew where the bodies were buried and he could dig them up: overdoses, affairs, bribes, eating disorders, AIDS, theft, alcoholism, kinky sex, extortion. The behind-the-scenes shenanigans at the NYBT would make the Desperate Housewives blush.

  Cynthia smiled, almost appreciating his frank rudeness.

>   “Lovely,” Cynthia said flatly, appraising the La Bayadère. She’d come early on purpose; she’d wanted to catch Bruce alone, to get an accurate temperature reading: Freezing.

  One for Team Fred.

  Cynthia wondered what promises had been made to B.H.R. by Fred the Manatee. A co-op on Gramercy Park? A hundred thousand in an offshore account? A Bermuda vacation? Cynthia would have to lace up her old toe shoes to maneuver around Bruce Harold Raymond and his questionable judgment.

  Margot emerged from the stage, where she’d been squatting on her heels, her spine erect as a two-by-four. “Princess!” Margot, Ballet Mistress and Captainess of Team Cynthia, said, embracing her. “You look thin and drawn. How do I look?”

  She twirled, lithe as a butterfly.

  “Thin and drawn,” Cynthia said.

  “Thank you!” Margot exclaimed. “What’d you think?”

  “As exquisite as last year. And the year before.”

  “And the year before that. I do my best,” Margot said, glancing at Bruce Harold. “Within my confines.”

  Bruce Harold Raymond’s eyes remained glued to the stage, though Cynthia knew he was listening with his entire undefiled body.

  While the conductor murmured quietly to the musicians tuning up in the orchestra, other board members were starting to file in. “Where’s my dancer?” asked a stout woman made stouter by a fox fur brought out prematurely. “I don’t see my dancer.”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars to sponsor, and she thinks she owns the poor girl,” Margot muttered.

  “There she is!” the woman exclaimed. A tall, athletic redhead was standing off to the side of the stage, watching a principal dancer lift a ballerina above his head.

  “Come over here!” the woman demanded as she made her way to the foot of the stage. “I own you, come talk to me!”

  “Cruella de Bitch,” Margot said. “I could kill her.”

  Amazing, Cynthia thought, looking at the dancer with the porcelain skin, that mortification doesn’t make a sound. The redhead had captured Cynthia’s imagination when she first signed on with the company several years ago. Her athleticism made her stand out among her peers, perhaps too much, as Bruce Harold Raymond had not seen fit to promote her. Cynthia had tried talking to him about the girl. Wouldn’t she be great in the role of Medora in Le Corsaire? She could even dance the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker? Or perhaps Odette in Swan Lake? Her suggestions had fallen on deaf ears.

  “Let’s begin,” Cynthia said. “That’ll cut her off.”

  “Avoiding bloodshed?” Margot smiled, then headed up to the stage. The board members took their seats. The orchestra quieted down with a final, plaintive blast of horn. The dancers hit their marks.

  Cynthia felt a stir in her chest. But this time, her excitement wasn’t about art, it was about business. The business of saving art.

  Maybe I can do this, she thought. She’d pursued meetings with potential investors. One or two sounded promising, a young hotshot hedge fund manager in particular. Younger people would be open to new ideas—to my new ideas. Maybe the NYBT would meet their budget this year.

  Maybe.

  “Cynthia Power?” a man called out. “Is there a Cynthia Power here?”

  The conductor’s chin shot up, the dancers lifted their heads, still beautifully in character. Cynthia caught the moment as though it had weight. She turned in her seat, feeling every eye upon her. A man was charging down the aisle, his khaki overcoat billowing out behind him.

  “Are you Cynthia Power?” he said.

  “Yes,” Cynthia stood, holding the back of her chair.

  “You’ve been served.” He slapped a folded paper into her outstretched hand.

  Cynthia didn’t sit back down until after he’d left, his rapid, heavy footsteps marking each beat of her heart.

  “THAT FAT motherfucker!” Margot remarked. She had leapt from the stage to Cynthia’s side, and was reading the summons. “Who does he think he is?”

  Cynthia was being sued by Fred Plotzicki for libel. Libel? The article in the Times announcing her appointment hadn’t helped, but Cynthia couldn’t have been more circumspect in the interview. “We’ve had our problems in the past, any board has, but I’m looking forward to a new year of growth for the NYBT” was much more kind than “The maniac is not only screwing the talent, he’s screwing the company.” The NYBT lawyer had informed her of the possibility of a nuisance lawsuit; Fred Plotzicki would not go quietly.

  Cynthia swiveled in her chair. “Nothing terribly dire, I assure you,” she told the board members. “Bruce, let’s begin.” Bruce Harold gave her a basilisk stare, then nodded at the conductor, who raised his baton. The board members settled in. The music started. Soon they were treated to a rendition of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. Cynthia’s heart quieted and her breath found its meter. A graceful, playful demonstration of innocent first love was the perfect antidote to being served with a subpoena.

  Even if she’d seen it a million times before.

  “I DON’T like my seat for the opening night,” the fox fur woman bellowed from across the conference table. The official agenda of the board meeting was to tie up last-minute plans for the fall opening-night gala. Cynthia’s agenda? Exit polling. Who remained enthusiastic about her ascendancy, and who had jumped ship? Too late to change anything about opening night, she told herself. The fall lineup had been chosen by Bruce Harold and the executive board months ago. There would be no disappointments. And no victories. The gala after-party at the Plaza would be filled with bland superlatives.

  “The performances were very nice,” Cynthia said to Bruce Harold, seated next to her. He bowed his head.

  If you want to take a nap, she thought.

  “I need to be seated front and center. I can’t have people in front of me. I get sick,” the fox fur woman complained.

  “I was allergic to the centerpieces last year,” Morris Stegler clicked. “Pollen. I had to leave early.” Click.

  Screwzenka, whom Fred had appointed to represent the dancers, waltzed in late, then drew her chair fitfully across the floor, making a screeching sound.

  Which was all Cynthia needed to know that Screwzenka was still screwzing Fred Plotzicki. Cynthia eyed the dancer. Where was Tonya Harding when you needed her?

  Cynthia got down to the budget. “I’ve touched on this before, but we are treading water. Our audience is, let’s be frank, old. The board has to woo the younger crowd who’ve spent millions on paintings and planes and designer drugs and are looking for a new hobby. The NYBT should be their baby. It’s the only way we can stay alive.”

  She checked. They were listening. Now: Artistic Vision. NYBT was the stolid workhorse of the New York City companies. Nutcracker, Romeo and Juliet, Coppélia, Cinderella, and Don Quixote year after year, season after season. “We need to utilize our star power,” Cynthia told her captive audience. “We need danger and excitement. We need, for lack of a better term, sexuality. This year, I’d like to try new things—new dances, different choreographers. I don’t want to say we’re tired—but I think we could mix it up a bit.”

  Cynthia assessed the board at 35 percent Plotzicki, 65 percent Power. The signs were on their faces—and in their nodding heads.

  After the board filed out, Cynthia leaned back in her chair, stretched her arms over her head, and exhaled as though she’d been holding her breath for years. Then she stood and levitated an ankle onto the windowsill, a makeshift barre. She stretched over, pushing out her chest; her nose kissed her knee.

  She still had it.

  “Nice,” a voice said, the interruption as unwelcome as the one earlier that day. Cynthia looked up, annoyed. The man in the doorway was young and striking. Too tall and good-looking for a financier, Cynthia thought. But his easy, five-hundred-dollar haircut, his suit with its silk pocket square (a bespoke Tom Ford?), and his Italian loafers screamed “Help, I’ve been kidnapped and forced to work on Wall Street.” Was he as self-assured as he appeared? H
is confidence reminded Cynthia of someone; it became clear a few moments later that that someone was her husband. Her ex-husband. Her soon-to-be-ex-husband. Wasband. Has-band.

  “May I help you?” Cynthia asked, as devoid of emotion as metal.

  Adrian had to bite his tongue to keep from saying “With that extension, I think we could work something out.” Oh, he couldn’t believe his luck. No denying it, Cynthia Power was hot. The silver-framed photo of the ice queen hadn’t done the flesh-and-blood woman justice. Cynthia pulled her full form up to standing while he stared. “I said, may I help you?”

  “I’m here to help you,” he said. “Cynthia Power?”

  “For the second time today, yes,” she said, making sure he could measure her annoyance in her eyes, the tilt of her chin.

  Fine, Adrian thought. You think I haven’t seen bitchy before? I can do bitchy, honey. You try shoveling liquor into people like you. “Jordan,” he said, “Robert Jordan.” Oh, Adrian felt guilty even saying the name out loud. Robert Jordan, the doomed romantic hero in Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. One of the few books he’d read in high school—one of the few characters to whose traits he could aspire. “I believe we had a meeting,” Adrian said, “but if you’re not up for it, I can take my money elsewhere.”

  Remember, you’re a hedge fund guy, Adrian told himself. This is how they speak. They’re assholes. That’s why women love them. They love talking about money, about how much they paid for that painting, that car, that driver, that house, that nanny, that school, that landscaping, that illegal rooftop structure, those shoes…that wife.

  That girlfriend.

  “I’m sorry,” Cynthia said. “I’ve had a rough morning.”

  “Really?” Adrian said. “I can’t say the same. I had a particularly good morning. I made two million in the time it would take to take a leak, pardon me.” Bitchy enough for you, Princess? “I’ve got twenty”—check your Panerai, Adrian, check it—“and then I’m on the helicopter to the Delaware for fly-fishing.”