Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  Then the lead contractor mutinied, taking his crew with him. Something about “never fucking been fucking talked to like that since fucking graduating fucking PS fucking Thirty-fucking-three.”

  At the 7:00 A.M. meeting with the lawyers (bunch of idiots, he thought, bending to the whims of his father), Artemus railed against the tenant association and the preservationists in the East Village. Jacks knew how to handle tenants; he’d listen and talk and listen and answer questions and listen. Then he’d do exactly what he wanted.

  Worked every time.

  Even those who hated everything he was and stood for could be won over with a few choice words, a few thousand bucks if necessary.

  Except here now was his father, determined to steamroll over the Bowery tenants.

  Artemus’s thinking was old school, before frivolous lawsuits and Murdoch’s media octopus—“You don’t want to move? Fine, I got someone here to have a nice talk with your kneecaps.” Or, simple, pay someone to burn the building down. Then, send the insurance inspector away on a Caribbean vacation. He’d set his son back years in tenant relations. There would be a lot more pockets to line come Christmas.

  Jacks’s meeting with the tenant/preservationist association was a free-for-all. They were carrying picket signs with bloodred commands: DOWN WITH POWER and POWER’S OUT! and TAX THE POWER, HOUSE THE POWERLESS! They were angrier and uglier than usual. Thanks to Artemus.

  An old woman—Jacks made out her name to be Ellie Mae or Mae Ellen—started hollering: “I will not be moved, scum lord!”

  Jacks tried for humble. “Well, actually, Mrs. Mae—I own that corner, I bought it fair and square—”

  More screaming and hooting from the peanut gallery. The usual: “Tax breaks!” “Cronyism!” “Bribery…!”

  Yawn. He’d been here before.

  “And I’ve made Mrs. Mae a very nice deal, tell them, Mrs. Mae. You remember the deal my lawyers offered just last week? And you and I, we had that very nice chat—” (And all he was thinking was Please shut your lice-ridden mouth, you disgusting riffraff, where is the decency?)

  Through it all, his father just sat back in the chair next to him. Jacks could hear his breathing, clear through the maelstrom. He could feel the old leopard smiling lazily, as though he were toying with his prey—and the prey didn’t even know it yet. He couldn’t tell—was he, Jacks, the prey? Was his father just hoping, willing, that his son should fail?

  The press was there, with the usual questions.

  “What do you say to your detractors who claim that you’re breaking the law by making this a condominium/hotel project?” one of them shouted from the back.

  “Well, Larry, it’s not their fault. They don’t understand the letter of the law, here. It’s all about percentages. Sure, if I were making every unit into a condo, we’d have an issue. We aren’t and we don’t. Nice tie, by the way.”

  Jacks had called them in just like he’d done for the past twenty-five years. Just a few good members of the fourth estate in their cheap sports coats, the morning sun bright on their bloodshot eyes; Jacks noticed…a few more. Odd. He pointed at the next outstretched hand signaling his attention. “Hector, you had a question?”

  “Is it true you’re planning on using blue glass on this forty-six-story monster? Is that in keeping with the historic flavor of the Bowery district?”

  Monster? thought Jacks. Fuckin’ Village Voice. “Historic flavor? It’s called the friggin’ Bowery for a reason, Hector, you know that. Come on. I’m an agent for change. I’m a master improver. I improve, by great leaps and bounds, on the dilapidated, the old, the tired. I guarantee you, Hector, this Power Tower will be by far the most beautiful piece of architecture to hit the Lower East Side in a hundred years. And that’s a fact!”

  More reporters filtered into the room. Several had camera crews. Strange; Power hadn’t requested local news camera crews. He didn’t mind, though. Why not?

  “Who’s next?” Jacks asked.

  Then, an energy shift in the room. He felt it, everyone felt it. Hands sprung out from the sea of faces. A hundred arrows in the form of questions shot through the air; their target, Jacks.

  “…any comment on her complete meltdown on national television this morning?”

  “People are saying she’s had a nervous breakdown—”

  “…alcoholic…”

  “How do you feel about what happened this morning?”

  “…pill-popper…”.

  “The press is calling this the biggest disaster on a morning news show in an age—”

  “Is your girlfriend on hallucinogens?”

  Jacks saw big cameras, with big guys grunting beneath their weight. Forget the Daily News, the Post—these were national television cameras, the kind that captured and molded public opinion.

  Jacks smoothed his jacket. Ran a hand through his hair. Sucked in his gut. No matter; he’d get through this. He smiled.

  The tenants were quieting down. All eyes were still on him but instead of anger, he saw something else—confusion. Well, he wasn’t going to look confused. Confusion was for pussies. He offered another confident smile. “Gentlemen, you’ll have to bring me up to—”

  More arrows fired, quickly slicing the air.

  “Lara Sizemore’s meltdown on national TV. Do you think she’ll be fired? Do you think she’ll be sued?”

  “Is it true you’ve asked her to marry you?”

  “Just how unstable is she?”

  “What about her going into an Arizona rehab this afternoon?”

  “Will she ever work in network television again?”

  “Have you talked to her since the incident?”

  Jacks smiled the practiced, benevolent smile of the People’s Billionaire. “It’s all going to work out,” he said. “Everyone’s going to be happy. I promise. People, this is a win-win situation.” He could feel the eyes of the lawyers on him—why were they just staring at him? Why wasn’t anyone talking? Then he could feel their eyes shift and latch on to their BlackBerries. What didn’t he know? What the hell had Lara done?

  Jacks’s smile remained on his face, severing itself from the rest of his features. “And that’s a fact!” he said.

  “Are you still picking up your award tonight?” someone shouted.

  Get your hands off of me, Jacks wanted to shout, although no one was touching him; no one had come close to touching him. The blows still felt physical.

  “Of course,” Jacks said, his smile speaking for him, “why wouldn’t I go on?”

  “Jacks, is Lara Sizemore another Jessica Savitch?”

  “Do you regret leaving your longtime wife, Cynthia?”

  A woman’s voice.

  Finally, a lawyer jumped up. “That’s all Mr. Power has to say on the subject. This meeting will adjourn and we will continue our talks at a later date…”

  Jacks was already in the elevator, punching numbers and praying for the doors to close before the next assault.

  But not before he caught a glimpse of Artemus, smirking as his prey fled the premises.

  JACKS wasn’t supposed to be out for another half hour. If Harry was surprised to see him, or anxious that he’d been “caught” smoking a cigarette, his ass up against the car door, nothing showed. He merely flicked the cigarette to the street and opened the door for Jacks as though he’d been expecting him, then and there.

  “Lara’s place,” Jacks said, watching his BlackBerry for clues…Nothing. She hadn’t written.

  Was this another sign of the Apocalypse of their relationship? What the hell had happened? Jacks stared out the window at the people scurrying to appointments: businessmen and women, secretaries, security, food service workers, nurses, kings of finance. How could they not know his world was coming apart at the seams? That all the gold thread in the world couldn’t keep it together? Didn’t they care?

  Tonight. Another awards dinner, this one at the Waldorf for the Big Brothers and Sisters of America. Krach himself was giving him the award
. Any other day, he’d be excited. He loved trophies—he had an entire case, specially built and lit to highlight all the ones he’d received—there was this forgotten charity and that, the police academy, the New York State Builder’s Association. All told there were forty of them. He could say he didn’t care, could walk right past the trophy case when people gathered in his sumptuous home with the fourteen-foot ceilings and the art collection that rivaled his father’s. But the trophy case would be properly lighted for the occasion. (He winced at the memory of yelling at Cynthia once for not turning on the light before their annual Christmas party.) And everyone, of course, would notice the gold and silver and marble constructs winking at them from behind glass…

  The car wove lazily in and out of traffic, and Jacks’s mind wandered with gravitational force toward the mayor’s speech: What would he say about Jacks? Jacks had sent over his bio, the youngest this, the most successful that, the billions won (and lost, never mind) over the years…he’d sent the list of awards, the proud father stuff. (Oh God, got to call Vivienne, was she coming tonight?)

  He e-mailed his daughter.

  He wondered…if she showed up, what would she be wearing? It hurt him that his daughter didn’t seem to care more about appearance. It hurt him because he could see judgment in other people. When she was small and chubby, and loved horses and looked like a kielbasa wrapped in white breeches when the other girls were petite, upright, dancing sticks, he’d wanted to shout, But her IQ is phenomenal! She read my press releases at three and a half! She’s funny! She can beat her father at chess—and I’ve beaten a master! She’s got one-liners! Stop sneering at her pudgy thighs! And don’t look at me; I don’t know where she got them! Of course, she hadn’t ridden for long. What’s meaner than a snarling pack of real estate developers? Prepubescent girls in white breeches.

  Vivienne was supposed to be his trophy daughter; she and those goddamn cowboy boots had turned out to be only too human. And what about Chase, he thought, Who would he have been?

  The car pulled up to Lara’s apartment. Jacks was feeling better now. He could count on the mayor to come up with the proper superlatives, elide over whatever unpleasantness hovered over Lara. And if not, he could talk to him before the speech just to make sure. In fact, he would give him a call this afternoon. And this Lara thing, how bad could it be? Lara was a smart girl—she’d know how to pull an ace from a bad hand. Whatever it was she’d done, it’d probably blow over by tonight.

  THERE were already two news vans outside Lara’s apartment. The doorman was trying to wave them off. Jacks took a deep breath, as though he were diving underwater, and walked past quickly, his head partially hidden by his collar, ignoring the shouted questions hurled at him, the lights popping—

  Lara’s apartment was in a postwar building on the Upper West Side. Jacks hated it because it wasn’t one of his, and no matter how much he’d cajoled, bribed, begged, he couldn’t get Lara to move.

  He had just finished his crown jewel, Power Pavilion, a mixed-use tower on Fifth and Fifty-sixth. Breccia Pernice marble and brass made the interior look like a sultan’s palace. Lara wasn’t having any of it.

  “I’m not a big fan of marble everything,” she’d said.

  “Then you’re in a very small minority, young lady,” he’d said to her.

  Maybe that’s why he’d liked her best. Maybe that’s why he’d fallen in love. After Chase died, he’d kept his heart wrapped in aluminum foil and put it in a special drawer in a hidden compartment in a lockbox in a safe in a vault in a fortress made of steel on an island in the middle of the ocean accessible only by air and even then you’d need a special code—

  And here, this girl had turned his offer into a bit of dust that settled on her jacket that she’d brushed off with a hand that could use a manicure. Would his heart fit into that hand? His eyes reached hers and he was embarrassed because within minutes of meeting her, his eyes were already translating for his heart, imploring…

  Be gentle, because I’ve just handed you something that I haven’t given in so long I wasn’t even sure it existed anymore…

  Jacks was thinking about that moment, which made him forget who he was and what he’d done to get here and then he was standing in front of Lara’s apartment, ringing the doorbell. He didn’t hear any sound. He opened the door with his key.

  “Lara,” he called. The apartment depressed him. She’d been here since she first came to the city and never upgraded. The apartment didn’t reflect her standing in the world. There was nothing on the walls, no photos of loved ones displayed, no sign of a human being residing here. His love lived like a spy. Was there anything of him in this apartment? Anything besides a change of underwear, a few ties?

  “Lara?” he called out. Trying to keep panic over here and his voice over there. What if she’d hurt herself, he thought suddenly, sharply, the words frozen in his head.

  He ran into her bedroom. Oh God. Water running. Water running in a bathtub after a bad morning: never a good sign. He threw open the bathroom door.

  Lara’s eyes were closed, her head leaning back against the tub. An arm draped over the side. She looked as though she was sleeping. The prescription bottle tipped on its side on the bath mat, open.

  “Oh God, oh God!” he cried out. Jacks cradled her head in his hands. His heart burst and flooded his eyes. “Why?” he sobbed.

  “Why what?” Lara said, lazily opening her eyes. “Jacks, what are you doing?” Her eyes all gray and hazely and what color were they anyway, they were lit and shooting signals all awry, what was she saying? Was she talking?

  “Honey?”

  He wiped his nose. On his sleeve! On his sleeve!

  “Are you okay?” Lara asked. Her eyes were level now, the lights had faded and were merely glowing warm. Oh what he saw there—shock and annoyance had flamed out and all that was left was concern.

  “I thought you were—I thought you had—” Jacks said.

  “Taken a hot bath?” Lara asked.

  “How many of these did you swallow?” He grabbed the prescription bottle.

  She reached up and snatched it from his hand, not bothering to cover herself. “None of your business,” she said. “I needed to calm down.”

  “What the hell happened to you! I heard you completely self-destructed. On air.”

  “You can see it for yourself on YouTube,” she said. Shame made no impression on her voice.

  “What did you do?”

  “I interrupted a previously scheduled segment for a retrospective of an internationally renowned news figure.” She sounded as though she were rehearsing. “I was fired.”

  “In the middle of the show?”

  “During the commercial break, so yes, in the middle of the show.”

  “You don’t seem…upset.” Upset? She didn’t seem…alive.

  “I was shaking when I got here. That’s why I took one of those things…” The pills.

  Jacks took the bottle, shook one into his hand, and swallowed.

  “I actually feel relieved,” she said, smiling now. Then tears started spilling from her eyes, landing on her cheekbones. Line up the most beautiful women in the world, show me the girl in those Bollywood movies and every Playboy model from the seventies when they were really hot and that crazy movie star with the crazy eyes with all the children and her husband, also beautiful like a girl, line them all up, and maybe those tropical fish you see when you’re scuba diving in Aruba, and then, maybe you’ll come close to the beauty of this crying, smiling woman. Who is driving him mad.

  “I’m so happy,” she said.

  He hugged her wet head to his chest; he didn’t hesitate even though he was wearing one of his favorite suits. That’s love, he thought.

  “I’m happy you’re so happy,” he lied.

  “I’m just so proud of myself,” she said, and then, “You want to fuck?”

  “Only if you dry off first,” he said. Maybe he couldn’t get rid of this insane happiness right away. Maybe he c
ould fuck it out of her. If he couldn’t get rid of her happiness, he could at least enjoy the ancillary benefits.

  He thought of Adrian. And the Deal. And how that little bastard had better be holding up his end, or at least his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s end.

  “Let’s set a date,” he said. “I want to get married. Soon.” Soon, even though I don’t know you at all.

  40

  DRAWING LINE

  MY GOD, she looked luminous. Is that the word? Like when you’ve stared at a lightbulb a moment too long and all you see is the ghost of its filament when you close your eyes. That’s what Adrian was thinking about Cynthia Hunsaker Power.

  She was standing outside Raoul’s. Looked like she was smoking a cigarette but when he came up he saw she had ditched it. He liked seeing a part of her that was ashamed, as though she’d flashed him her underwear by accident or revealed the name she was called in eighth grade when everyone thought she was a freak. (With those legs, he guessed “Stork.”)

  Adrian went in like he was kissing her cheek but instead passed her and opened the door for her to enter—let her wait a little longer, he thought. I’m still in control of this situation; she just doesn’t know it. He fingered the note cards in his pocket. Just in case he forgot anything. Just in case he drank too much. Just in case.

  They were seated at a banquette, he’d called ahead, then tipped the host, they squeezed past the crowded bar, slid onto the weathered leather cushions, and he watched as her eyes ate at the walls, at the art (if you could call it that), at the clientele—here was a young girl dining with her grandparents, here was a couple choking each other with their tongues, here were models with eerie faces and their sponsors, practically peeing on their legs to mark territory. Her eyes ate and ate and then turned back to Adrian.