Queen Takes King
Page 33
Adrian opened his eyes. He hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep in the last couple of days—truth is, he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since he’d taken that lousy job.
“I work here,” he croaked.
“You work here.” The doorman looked at him. “Right. Come on, get up, get the fuck outta here before I call the cops.”
Adrian found his feet, roped his duffel around his shoulder.
“Hey, kid,” a voice said.
Adrian looked up.
“You know this guy, Lionel?” the doorman asked.
Lionel assessed the situation. Adrian could see the wheels turn behind that big, mopey façade.
“Yeah. He works here.”
“Well—tell him this ain’t no fleabag motel. He ain’t supposed to be sleeping here. He does it again, I’m reporting him.”
“Thanks for your understanding,” Adrian said.
The doorman looked at him, disgusted, and walked away.
Adrian eyed Lionel, squinting in the light. “I’ve done some bad things, Lionel,” Adrian said. “I’m ready to come back. I missed the hell out of this place. I missed the hell out of you.”
“It ain’t what it was, kid,” Lionel said, and beckoned for him to come in from the cold.
“That makes no sense, Lionel.”
“Don’t you think I know that, kid?” Lionel asked. “Look,” he said, putting his big hand on Adrian’s shoulder, “you’re gonna be a real bartender, you have to have your line ready. The one line that sums everything up. Find your line, you’ll have work for the rest of your life.”
“What’s my line?” Adrian asked.
“I can’t find it for you, kid.” He walked Adrian inside. “You have to find it yourself.”
Adrian thought about this. He thought about it for the next ten hours—all of them on his feet, pouring drinks, the usual and not-so-usual, for the old, the young, the rich, the desperate, the tired, the energetic, the happy and unhappy.
And finally, it came to him.
“The slower you go, the faster you get there.” That’s fuckin’ beautiful, he thought, as he watched a head nod in response. That works. That’ll work for the rest of my life.
VIVI burrowed inside her coat as she studied the board, oblivious to the sea of strollers, pot dealers, and NYU students rushing past the chess tables.
Her opponent, a regular, gave her an appraising look, then grinned as he deftly captured her knight with his bishop. He peered at her through his steel-rimmed sunglasses as he slapped the button on top of the timing clock. “Your move.”
He’d fallen for it. He’d actually fallen for it. Vivi made her move, no hesitation. “Queen takes king,” she said.
The grin melted off the opponent’s face. “Good game,” he said thinly, folding his arms across his chest.
“Congratulations.” A woman’s voice came from behind Vivi. She turned. Wavy black cap of hair. Pale skin. Blue, blue eyes.
Vivi felt the color rush to her cheeks. “I’ve never beaten him before. Never.”
“Maybe I’m your good luck charm,” the woman said, her smile large and bright.
“Oh, you think so?” Vivi teased.
“In which case, you can at least buy me a green tea before my next class.”
“Green tea,” Vivi said, “the drink of choice for the downtown lesbian.”
“It’s too early for a Lone Star.” The woman smiled.
Vivi smiled back and rose from her seat. The woman was just as tall as she. “Are you a student?” Vivi asked.
“Professor. Greek mythology. My name’s Zoe,” she said. “Have you heard of Caïssa?” Zoe gestured toward the chessboard.
“The goddess of chess,” Vivi said. “She’s hot.”
“Read the Jones poem,” Zoe said. “She’s even hotter than you think. You’ll never play chess the same way.”
“You’ll have to read it to me,” Vivi said, smiling. Together, they turned to walk down Sullivan.
53
SOME TIME LATER
WHAT DO you mean, you can’t make the press conference, of course you can make the conference.” Jacks barked into the phone, then paused. “Harry, take a right here, a right, a right…”
Harry ignored him.
“Goddamn it, I’ve gotta fire my driver. Russian diphead. I swear to God…”
Harry turned up the next street. “Is faster, idiot.”
Jacks waved him off. “So listen, listen, I’ve got to get the mayor on the line, he’ll deal with this—I want the groundbreaking to be…world class…something this town has never seen before. I want it to be like a movie premiere. I want every movie star in town. You got that? Good.”
Jacks hung up, grabbed the newspapers. The Journal, check, Times, fucking rag, check, the Post. He quickly flipped to Page Six; maybe there was something new on him? On his upcoming nuptials? Who’d been invited, who was rejected—Jacks loved this stuff. Hold on. What the hell?
“Stop!” Jacks yelled at Harry.
“I am stopped,” Harry yelled back.
“Did you know about this?” Jacks yelled, waving the paper in Harry’s face.
“What? What I know? I am only Russian diphead.”
“You know I didn’t mean that. I love you, you’re my best friend. You’re my best man, for God’s sake. Look—did you see this? I know you read this before I do—did you see this?!”
Harry looked over his shoulder at the offending item. And shrugged. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.
Jacks was already dialing. “Penn! I don’t care if you’re dropping off your kid—you have a kid?—did you see the Post—you don’t read the Post—well fuck you, you do now—Cynthia—Cynthia is selling 740—she’s selling it!” Beat. “I know she’s allowed to sell it—I mean…is she allowed to sell it?” Beat. “Well, I want it. I don’t care what you have to do—I want it, I don’t want to pay full asking—Jesus, she’s selling the furniture, too—and artwork! Holy Christ! What, is she out of her mind? Has she finally lost her mind?! Penn, get me 740 back!”
Jacks threw the phone. Then looked out the window.
“I can’t believe she’s selling,” he said. “I can’t believe she has the nerve…” His eye went up, catching the spire at the top of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, piercing the morning sky.
“Oh, I got to give you this,” Harry said, handing him a small box.
Jacks took it. “What is it?” he asked, sourly.
“How do I know? I open your gifts?” Harry said. “It’s from ex-wife. Miss Cynthia. She asked I should give to you, other morning.”
Jacks looked at the box, then shook it by his ear. “It’s not ticking,” he said.
He opened it, and took out a small item and held it. First, Jackson Power looked baffled.
Then, he smiled.
“Good for her,” he said, looking back up at the spire.
Harry honked a few times, and the limo was moving again. “Why you think she give you old chess piece, boss?” Harry asked.
“Harry, you didn’t—” Jacks said.
“The queen,” Harry continued. “What is significance?”
“Harry!”
THE ORANGE sun was climbing out from behind jagged, snowcapped mountains.
“So, what do you think?” Vivienne asked. “Is it everything you’ve ever dreamed of?”
Kathmandu, Nepal.
Gazing at terrain treacherous enough to fend off invaders for five hundred years were two privileged women and one ragged yak.
“Ah, Vivi. I never really dreamed of Nepal,” Cynthia said, holding on to the yak’s mangy hair. Vivienne was seated behind her, arms around Cynthia’s waist, cheek against her back, eyes on those perilous mountains.
Six more days, Cynthia thought, six more days of interesting culture, amazing views, mountain air…and Max the Yak. She’d never make it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Vivienne said. “I know you, Mom.”
“I wasn’t thinking about him,” Cynthia lied.
“You can’t just jump into another serious relationship,” Vivienne said.
“I know, I know,” Cynthia said.
“Fred Plotzicki was your archenemy just a few months ago, if I may be so bold to remind you,” Vivienne said.
“I know,” Cynthia responded dreamily.
“You’ll never learn,” Vivienne said.
The yak stopped in its tracks. Cynthia looked out at the mountains. And wondered which she would climb next. And had no doubt she could.
“I know,” Cynthia replied.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’LL TRY not to turn this into a bad Oscar speech, but there are a lot of people I wish to thank: my invaluable team, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, David Rosenthal, Marysue Rucci, Stephanie Davis, Sylvie Rabineau, Jason Sloane, Elizabeth Rapoport, and Sophie Epstein. I am grateful to Mark Kriegel for his love and sage advice, and to Brian Grazer, for his friendship and our beautiful boys.
A heartfelt thank-you to my family: my parents, Phillipa Costa Brown and Frank Levangie; my sisters, Suzanne Levangie Kurtz, Mimi Levangie, and Julie Levangie Purcell; my brothers-in-law, Ron Kurtz and Mark Purcell; my nephews, Frankie Levangie, Jonathan Sanchez, and John Henry Kurtz; my niece, Angelina Garcia; and my extended family—Brad Golden, Gladys Perdomo, and Ana and Wilson Ramirez. I have the deepest appreciation for Dr. David Hoffman and all the nurses at Tower Oncology. Thank you to Jessie, Sierra, Seza, and Karen at the George Michael Salon. I am indebted to Wade Gasque and Aleks Horvat at the Office in Santa Monica and the staff at the Writers Room in Manhattan.
Finally, I thank Mimi James, Julie Jaffe, Suzanne Todd, Jennifer Todd, Helen Fielding, Josh Gilbert, Robin Ruzan, Michael Smith, James Costos, Stacy Title, Laura Day, and The Tomb, for their support, encouragement and inspiration.
And Goldie, I miss you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GIGI LEVANGIE GRAZER is the author of three prior novels: Rescue Me (2000), Maneater (2003), and The Starter Wife (2006). The Starter Wife was adapted for an Emmy Award–winning USA Network miniseries starring Debra Messing, and later for a television series; Maneater was adapted for a Lifetime miniseries starring Sarah Chalke in May 2009. In addition, Gigi wrote the screenplay for Stepmom, starring Julia Roberts and Susan Sarandon. Gigi’s articles have appeared in Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, and Glamour. She lives in L.A. with her two children and three miniature dachshunds.