Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  She looked at her daughter. “And Vivi, I feel terrible about this,” Cynthia said, clasping her daughter’s hand as she straightened what was left of her chignon. “I had no idea he was the boy you kissed.”

  Vivienne looked into her mother’s eyes. “How could you know?” she asked. “Were you supposed to ask him if he’d made out with your daughter recently?”

  Cynthia smiled.

  “Do you love him?” Vivienne asked.

  “God, no,” Cynthia said.

  “Good,” Vivienne said.

  “Vivi,” Cynthia said, “are you in love with him?”

  “Well, no,” Vivienne said, shaking her mane. “I’m not. But that moment…our kiss. It was important. He made me feel attractive. Like I could go out and just be myself and somewhere, someone would love me again.”

  She turned to her mother. “How crazy is that?”

  “Well,” Cynthia said, “they’d be crazy not to love you. Shall we get a drink?”

  “You beat me to it, Mom,” Vivienne said, as she nodded and held out her elbow. Cynthia slipped her arm through, and the two of them, fresh as schoolgirls, stepped through the debris, strewn with yellow rose petals, oblivious to the onlookers.

  49

  THE CORNERED KING: CHECK

  ADRIAN AND Jacks were tossed in a holding cell. “What are the charges?” Jacks demanded from the retreating police officer. “You’re going to pay for this! What’s your name, captain?! Do you know who I am? I’m Jackson Fucking Power!”

  “Save your breath,” Adrian muttered, looking for a comfortable spot to sit. “They’re laughing at you.”

  “Fuck you. You are nothing, you understand me? Nothing. When I get out of here—”

  “I’m just saying,” Adrian said, “you landed in the one place where your name means shit.”

  “Fuck you, you know what?” Jackson said, pulling at his lapel. “If I’ve ever met something that was not worth one nickel—it’s you.”

  “You paid me a bit more than that, my friend,” Adrian pointed out.

  “I can’t believe Cynthia would lower herself—” Jacks said.

  “What did you think would happen? You put the wheels in motion—I just went along for the ride!”

  “Watch it, buddy,” Jacks said. “You watch your mouth!”

  “You know what? Let me give you some armchair therapy—you’re not even mad at me—you’re mad at yourself!” Adrian said. “It’s you who’s the asshole. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m an asshole, too.”

  He fished something out of his pocket.

  “I want to give this back to you,” Adrian said. “I don’t need it. I mean, I need it, but I can’t accept it.”

  Jackson looked over his shoulder. Adrian was handing back his check.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Jacks grunted.

  “Take it,” Adrian said, and he shoved it into Jacks’s pocket.

  “You’re never going to get anywhere in life, you know that?” Jacks said.

  “That’s fine,” Adrian said. “Frankly, I’ve seen what getting somewhere gets you. And it fucking stinks. I hope to God I can get my job back. I would kill to just be a bartender again.”

  AN HOUR later, Jackson had his hands on the bars, staring down the empty hallway. Adrian was seated in a crouched position in the corner. Several more visitors had arrived, in varying stages of inebriation. All had recognized the People’s Billionaire.

  A group of Columbia students who’d been caught trying to pry a mailbox from its corner home immediately launched into a medley of Jacks’s most famous quotes—

  “No means later!”

  “Later means now!”

  “Never means I’m working on it!”

  A lump in the corner added his own “Jacks-isms”: “WRONG BE ELASTIC! AND THAT’S A FACT!”

  At which point, the college students laughed so hard that two of the three threw up on their Pumas.

  “Wrong is elastic,” Jacks muttered to himself. Adrian cracked his knuckles against his head and laughed.

  AT 6:00 IN the morning, Penn Stewart marched down the hallway, dressed in a mushroom-colored Burberry overcoat and carrying his briefcase. His spic was so span, he looked for all the world like noon in front of a judge, not early morning in front of a dreary holding tank smelling of vomit.

  “About goddamned time, Miss America,” Jackson grumbled. “What, did it take you that long to put on your makeup?”

  “I came as soon as possible. There was another situation.” Penn smoothed the front of his lapel. “I’ll escort you home.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Power,” one of the college students asked. “Are you still giving your big speech this morning?”

  Jacks shot him a confused look.

  “At the Learning Annex,” the boy said. “I bought two passes. They’re having a buffet breakfast in an hour. My dad promised to get me out in time.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake!” Jacks said. “Penn, you have to cancel this.”

  “If you cancel,” Penn droned, “you have to give back your fee, plus expenses.”

  “It’s completely sold out, the entire auditorium,” the boy said—“That’s over two thousand people, right? I’ll see you there. Can’t wait to hear your pearls!”

  Adrian chuckled and waved to Jackson as he growled and turned and pounded his way down the linoleum hallway.

  Penn and Jacks made their way outside the police station, where a phalanx of reporters huddled behind a line of policemen.

  “Of course, they’re waiting for me. Fucking embarrassing,” Jacks said to Penn. “How does my hair look?”

  Penn took hold of Jacks’s sleeve. “Before we head down the stairs, there’s something I haven’t told you,” he said above the rush of sound. “I was late because I have some bad news. About your father.”

  HARRY was idling outside in the Town Car in front of 740, as usual, as Jacks raced downstairs after a quick shower and change. The Post was waiting for Jacks, as usual, in the backseat. Open me, it cooed. Jacks smoothed his hair, then reached over with tentative fingers, as though the paper were a used tissue.

  Slowly, he thumbed through the pages, barely looking out of the corner of his eye. First, there was the inevitable: ARTEMUS POWER ARRESTED ON BRIBERY CHARGES screamed a headline. Then, the whopper: “Fight the Power” read the caption.

  The first photo was taken right before he and Cynthia entered the ballroom. His arm circling Cynthia’s waist, brilliant smiles (though Cynthia’s eyes were trained off-camera). Typical red-carpet shot. The great news? They each looked like they’d been mainlining youth serum; that’s what was important.

  The second photo was taken as he and Mr. Shit-for-Brains were escorted from the premises—Jacks’s hair askew, tuxedo ripped open, his tie nowhere to be seen—probably left on the ballroom floor.

  “Get rid of this shit!” Jacks threw the Post at Harry’s shoulder as they turned from the West Side Highway onto Twelfth, into the Jacob K. Javits Convention Center parking lot.

  The huge electronic sign outside the center mocked Jacks: his giant head floated fifty feet above them in mega-wattage, his teeth lit up like planets:

  JACKSON POWER—POWER UP YOUR WEALTH!

  REAL ESTATE EXPO FINALE!

  POWER BREAKFAST!

  “You bring this shit into my car again, you’re fired!” Jacks yelled. Harry ignored him and stopped the car in front of an attendant, who peered inside, then whisked them through to the underground parking lot.

  THE PRESS swarm was waiting, along with the usual suspects—crazy fans who’d sneaked in past security.

  Jackson headed to the green room behind a greeter with the Power YES!!! stretched across her white tank top; she’d be perfect parading around a boxing ring between rounds. Miss Seventh Round at his side, Jacks valiantly batted away the questions, shot at him like machine gun rounds—

  “Mr. Power! Mr. Power! Did you see the Post this morning?”

  “Mr. Power, I hear you’re doing a
talk show! I have a daughter who sings!”

  “Mr. Power, can I have just five minutes of your time?”

  “Mr. Power, my card—”

  “Mr. Power, the Daily News would like to talk to you about your father’s arrest on bribery charges—”

  “Care to make a statement, Mr. Power?”

  Jackson flashed his smile and waved. “The only statement I have to make is how terrifically happy I am to be here in the greatest city on earth, telling normal people how to make money and live like kings—”

  It helped that the Learning Annex had recently bumped his fee to a cool million per appearance.

  The green room door was five feet away—

  “Think Artemus is gonna do prison time?”

  “Is it true that kid kicked your ass?”

  Two feet—

  “That’s a good one, my friend,” Jacks couldn’t help responding. “You live in a fantasy world.”

  The door opened, beckoning. Here was safety among the croissants and melon balls. And a tub full of iced Power Waters.

  And there was Caprice, Jacks’s Angel of Mercy, with her satchel over her shoulder.

  “Nice of you to show up,” Jacks said to her. He was gruff, but he actually meant it. Seeing Caprice was like eyeing a Coke dispenser in the Sahara. Except she was the only thing about his life that wasn’t a mirage.

  Could she and Harry be his only friends?

  “You look terrible,” Caprice clucked at him. “Prison life does not agree with you, Mr. Power.”

  “How’s my lip?” he asked. He stuck out his lower lip, as self-conscious of the minor cut on it as a teenager with a pimple.

  “Caprice’ll take care of that, Mr. Power,” Caprice said. A small jar of ointment emerged from her bag. She dabbed at his lip like a doting mother. Oh, if only he’d had a mother like Caprice! How different would his life have been?

  “Thank you, Caprice,” he managed.

  “I have your talking points,” Caprice said, pressing a crisp folder into his hand. “I was delayed momentarily. I was just with the elder Mr. Power—”

  “You saw my father?” Jacks asked.

  Caprice began tidying Jackson—patting down his suit, tucking his shirt in a little more. “Mr. Stewart wanted me to escort him home,” she answered while straightening his tie.

  “He’s okay?”

  “He offered Caprice twenty dollars for an indecent act, Mr. Jackson.” She circled her hand in the air, as though driving the father’s words away from her body.

  “The man gets arrested, and he’s out looking for more trouble,” Jacks said.

  Caprice raised her eyebrow while she took hold of his collar, pressing the stiff white triangles with the flat of her capable hand—

  “He’s unaffected, Mr. Jackson. Artemus Power has not changed a whit. And he never will,” Caprice said, in her lilt. “But will the son?”

  A low roar was building—it sounded as though the A/C/E train was making an unplanned stop in the auditorium of the convention center.

  “Hear that, Mr. Power?” Miss Seventh Round squealed, her breasts appearing at his side. “It’s the sound of thousands of your biggest fans! They’re ready for you!”

  “Showtime,” Jacks said, as Caprice gave his arm a light squeeze. Miss Seventh Round escorted him out; when the door opened, Jacks was hit by the ocean of sound.

  Seconds later, he was onstage, drowning in confetti and surrounded by dancing girls wearing tank tops with the word YES!!! screaming from their ample chests. Jacks held his hands aloft, pressed his face to the sky, and let himself be baptized by the paper deluge; he could have fallen forward and been caught by the roar of the crowd.

  Jacks opened his mouth to speak. Words streamed out as though nothing at all unusual had happened to him in the last days. As though he hadn’t lost his fiancée, then his wife (again). As though he hadn’t been jailed. As though he hadn’t finally grasped that his wife had slept with that idiot (though it was his own fault). His reputation had suffered and his business would suffer, especially in the wake of his father’s arrest. His world, the world of New York real estate, had peaked. The housing market would plummet. What happens in Vegas doesn’t stay in Vegas. Not with mortgages. Developers would go bankrupt. Good friends (“friends”) would be out of the business forever. Jacks could hear the phone calls now, reaching through the din of the masses quivering before him—“Hey, pal,” they’d say, “let’s do lunch. I’ve got some new ideas, maybe I can help you out.”

  Jacks waved to the crowd. They rose in response. This was Mecca and he was Mohammed. He could have walked them all out of the auditorium and onto the West Side Highway in rush hour traffic and they would have followed.

  Lara had left him; Cynthia had left him. But these people, with real problems and small hopes, they were his and they would never leave him, the People’s Billionaire; they needed him exactly as much as he needed them. Jacks’s relationship with his fans was equitable. He would never again make the same mistake with a woman—from now on, he would always pick the girl who needed him more than he needed her. Look around, Jacks thought, start with the YES!!! dancers and work from there.

  “Do you want to know how to make money?!” Jacks screamed. All the colossal faces of Jackson Power on all the JumboTrons screamed in concert.

  Jacks Power was in the building. “My friends!”

  Jacks Power was back.

  50

  ENDGAME

  THE INVITATION read:

  “In Honor of Goldie, think Zorba, and dress accordingly. To Life!”

  There was no name on the invite; just a phone number for the RSVP (private address upon response). Cynthia arrived at the town house, a few blocks east of 740, teetering like a newborn calf in red Louboutins. She looked up at the elegant, understated brownstone and wondered why the address felt familiar. Goldie had never discussed his other clients with her; she couldn’t have known if they were Crowned Kings of Finance, Tweedy Intellectuals, or Junkie Artist types. Whose place was this?

  Cynthia had spent an hour in her dressing room before settling on a full skirt and pirate-sleeved de la Renta blouse from three seasons past, her hair pulled back with an Hermès scarf, and those sexy shoes—it was the closest Cynthia would ever come to the Greek peasant girl look—if the girl could swing a hundred thousand drachmas, or euros, or whatever, for a pair of Louboutins. Cynthia felt like a fool, but was happy to play foolish for Goldie.

  Cynthia ran her hand over her hair, straightened her skirt, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell. A butler answered before the buzzer stopped. Cynthia stepped past him and was hit by a feeling of déjà vu. She looked around the entryway, at the familiar marble staircase, the carved oak paneling. Everywhere she looked were patterns, colors, shapes that were elegant yet warm. Everything she would have chosen for herself. Cynthia exhaled and turned to give her coat to the butler, and there she was, hanging on the wall—a Kahlo, peering at her as though annoyed Cynthia hadn’t bought her twenty years ago, when she’d had the chance.

  Is this home? Cynthia thought.

  Cynthia followed the butler into the parlor, where cheery voices and laughs belied a memorial service.

  The first person she saw, wearing a black gaucho hat, black cape, eye mask, and sword, was unmistakably Fred Plotzicki.

  “Fred!” Cynthia gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here.” Fred grinned.

  “But—you knew Goldie?” she asked.

  “Sure. I was his patient. Twice a week, for the last ten years—one divorce, five mergers, twenty diets, and countless neuroses. I’ve got the hugging scars to prove it.”

  “I can’t get over it,” Cynthia said. “I never suspected—does this mean he wasn’t such a great therapist after all?”

  Fred laughed. “Well, don’t blame Goldie! He tried his best—I mean, even Wall Street Kings, or should I say ‘reformed’ Wall Street Kings need love, too.”

  Cynthia stared at him, as though l
ooking for the first time. “Fred. The theme is Zorba…why are you dressed like Zorro?”

  Fred touched Cynthia’s elbow as he guided her to the party. “My butler, the Brit, picked it up. It’s the language barrier, I’m from the Bronx, he’s from the Mother Country.” He laughed, then stopped suddenly. “Cynthia, what are we going to do without him?”

  Nat King Cole’s “Mona Lisa” beckoned from the formal living room.

  “Dance,” Cynthia said as she took Fred’s hand.

  THE INTRO (ten minutes). Walk to center stage, perform a few high kicks with YES!!! Girls (watch that groin muscle! ), toss out a few popular Power phrases (“Power is Money!”), wait for standing ovation(s) to subside; incorporate charming, self-deprecating mannerisms as cheers rage (palm to chest—“Who, me?”; hand to ear: “I can’t hear you!”).

  THE MAKING OF THE POWER PERSONA (twenty minutes). Jackson Power as child: the Creation of a Work Ethic. Jacks loved this topic. Loved it. The main obstacle to total success? The horrendous lack of work ethic! From day laborers to his coterie of executive VPs, hardly anyone felt the need to come in early or, God forbid, be the one turning out the lights. Jacks hadn’t taken a day off (a lunch off!) since his honeymoon. When the children were born, he’d taken two hours off to welcome them into the world.

  THE POWER PRINCIPLE: THE ROAD TO HAPPINESS AND FORTUNE (twenty minutes). People stood hours in line for this twenty minutes. This is what placed Jacks’s books on the number one and two spots on the New York Times bestseller list twelve weeks in a row (never done before—never!). How could the huddled masses attain the Power Persona? How could they convert meager coffers into pyramids of gold? Trade peanut butter for Kobe steak? The old wife for the trophy? The old husband for the trainer?

  If Jackson Power himself was convinced they could do it—could they argue against him? They were mere mortals; Jacks Power was Ramses II, building temples to the gods.