by Shirley Lord
It was no use relying on anyone except herself.
For the dreaded evening ahead she changed into the khaki military jacket, this time with a thin black cotton turtleneck and black leggings. She also wore a bra. For her, wearing a bra was like wearing armor. It would act as a reminder that with Oz she always had to be on guard.
She hadn’t been back to his studio in nearly two years and as she approached Canal Street, her old lack of self-esteem threatened to surface. She shook her head to chase the feeling away. She was a different person, forced by circumstance to live without dreams, aware of who she was now-and who she was never going to be.
Would the eardrum-bursting racket of Heavy D still engulf her as she climbed the five flights to Sodom and Gomorrah?
Would the studio door still be wide open to the world? Or, in keeping with the confrontation she was sure was about to take place, would it be closed tight, so that she would have to knock humbly for admission, the way it had been the night the gorgeous Jamaican girl had been curled up on the doorstep, the night she’d almost succumbed to Oz, swept off her feet with too much wine and self-pity?
When she turned the corner to arrive at what she remembered as a decrepit, run-down entrance, she thought for a minute she’d come to the wrong address. It was almost impossible to believe that the modern structure she was now looking at was the building housing Oz’s studio. She went back to the corner to check the street sign. It was the right street, the correct address, but it looked as if it had been through the most exacting car wash or dry-cleaning experience and then some.
She couldn’t remember whether there had ever been windows in the building-in those days she hadn’t exactly been paying attention to the architecture--but if there had been windows, they were all gone now, to be replaced by a smooth, soaring sepia stone facade, punctuated only at street level by an immense pair of stainless steel double doors with no apparent handle or doorbell.
She had to look hard to find the doorbell, which together with an intercom, also in stainless steel, was set into the left-hand wall.
It was immensely discreet. Ginny pressed, there were two beeps, and a robotic voice said, “Name please.” She gave her name. There was no response, but in seconds the massive doors slid apart to reveal a long, stark-white hallway from which a jet-black staircase coiled upwards like a snake with no visible means of support.
There was no raucous Heavy D. In a strange way it was worse; there was no sound at all. Chilling. As she was about to start the long climb up, she heard a soft swish and another stainless steel door in the snow-white hall slid open. She couldn’t believe it. An elevator.
Oz obviously had arrived. With no other tenants or names listed anywhere, could this mean he’d arrived to the extent he now owned the building? The whole place shrieked money, tons of money. Was there no justice in the world?
Ginny stepped nervously inside the elevator. It was totally mirrored, the floor, the walls, the ceiling. It made her think of another photographer, recently deceased, who was reputed to have had a small mirror attached to the sole of his shoe, for furtive glimpses up a woman’s skirt She looked down at the floor. She could clearly see a tiny wool thread hanging from the crotch of her leggings. She shivered. It was too creepy.
Which floor? There were no apparent buttons to push. She didn’t need to know. The elevator quickly swished upwards, a blue light signaling each floor until she reached the top. The doors opened immediately onto what she supposed had once been the old studio. Now it looked like a penthouse from Architectural Digest with a sweep of floor so luminous and gleaming it could have been made of porcelain. It was easy to see why: beams of silver-hued light shone down onto it from a skylight in the domed ceiling.
She could imagine how the new faces, those desperate model wannabes, felt as they were precipitated without warning into a sudden, unexpected audition, having to cross what seemed like an acre of floor to the sumptuous sitting room, a few steps down.
There, Buddha-like, Oz sat cross-legged on a low, lush chrome silk-covered divan.
It was so calculated, so pretentious, so over-the-top in its orchestration, Ginny had to fight not to burst into hysterical giggles. Cut it out, Ginny. Show Oz how impressed you are. Don’t lose everything before you’ve even begun.
At the far end of the transformed studio, chiffon sheers gently billowed against floor-to-ceiling windows, the result, Ginny supposed, of a well-positioned but invisible wind machine. She could still see dimly the high cranes of New York Harbor, but the view was all that remained the same.
Oz patted the fat cushion beside him. It was then Ginny smelled the thick sweet scent of pot and saw he was smoking. “So there you are, mystery woman, and exactly on time. D’you like what you see? D’you realize what you missed?”
What was he trying to imply? That she’d missed the boat as a model? That if she’d only persevered, with his brilliant photography she would have finally made it? What a lot of bullshit. He didn’t know what he was talking about and he didn’t care. Facts had nothing to do with the world he inhabited, but Ginny sank down beside him, smiling, nodding, hoping her teeth could still be described as fascinating.
“You see that resin table over there? It cost ten thousand bucks and almost as much to bring here from Istanbul. Come with me.” She’d only just sat down, but Oz pulled her up by her shoulders, and although she showed no sign of resisting, he pushed her roughly over to the back of the loft, where she remembered so long ago she’d timidly joined a gaggle of gorgeous models, advertising men, and Lee Baker Davies helping themselves to a still-life wonder of a buffet supper.
Now a series of curved lacquer screens stood in the buffet’s place. They hid another staircase with frosted glass treads, which led down into what looked like a dark pit of iniquity.
“How… how… decadent.” She’d meant to say decorative, but the true way to describe the scene slipped out.
Oz smiled as if she’d given him a present. “I thought you’d appreciate it. It was Peregalli’s idea to put the bedrooms down there and open up this floor to get there. He usually doesn’t take on small jobs, but this whole area of New York reminded him in a strange way of Milan.” Oz swiveled her around to face him. “You know who Peregalli is, I take it?”
Oz was so intent on showing off, he didn’t notice or probably care that she shrugged, because she hadn’t the slightest idea. “He’s created what he calls a series of metaphysical rooms down there… in extinct volcano lava colors, with wonderful images of past civilizations, chains, slaves, pain and pleasure…” Oz sounded as if he’d memorized everything he was saying from an overwritten catalogue. “Shall we explore now-or later?” He still had her shoulders in a tight grip, but at least it was only her shoulders.
She knew she should be alarmed, perhaps even terrified at what Oz had in mind. Instead she felt sorry for all the little damsels in distress he must have introduced to his “metaphysical” rooms, chaining them to one of his cold lava-colored floors, rather than… Ginny blinked away the memory of collapsing onto the deep pile of Johnny’s sitting-room carpet.
The phone rang. Oz frowned. “Shit, but I better answer it. I’m expecting a call from Steve-Spielberg,” he said over his shoulder. There was a clue in all of this. More than anything, for some inexplicable reason, Oz wanted to impress her. It was probably the same old reason as before. She was one of the few who’d gotten away and he still couldn’t stand it, being the kind of guy who never gave up until he scored, when his fascination would be over instantly, one, two, three.
So what was she to do? Flatter him to death, over and over again, to defuse his hostility and make him think she was weakening-or would weaken eventually.
Ginny went to sit on the divan, waiting to drown him in compliments on his return. It would be easy. The interior space of the loft had been brilliantly redesigned. Ginny had to give Peregilli, or whatever his name was, credit for that. Softly curving walls concealed lighting that created alcoves from shadows wh
ile highlighting certain pieces of unusual furniture; it was a masterpiece of imagery.
From where she was sitting, she couldn’t even see where Oz went to pick up the phone, although she could hear his sharp staccato laugh from time to time.
“This is the most fabulous place I’ve ever seen, Oz,” she breathed as he plonked down beside her. “Do you own the whole enchilada? It’s incredible; such taste; such vision; you’re a genius.”
Had she gone too far? No.
“You’ve never thought so before,” he smirked.
“I was a dumb broad. Forgive?” She gave him her most radiant teeth-filled smile. To her horror he lunged over on top of her, the sickly smell of his breath making her dizzy. “Don’t you want an explanation? Don’t you want to talk?” she cried.
To her surprise and relief he rolled back. Perhaps he was too much on the stuff to do anything. “Of course, I want to talk.” He corrected himself. “I want you to talk, to explain why you hate my guts.”
“I don’t, I never did.” There was a vacant look in his eyes. Ginny thought fast. If she could get him high over dinner, there was a chance the whole evening could go by without a major tussle and she’d do what she could to convince him she thought he was the greatest photographer ever to get behind a lens.
Time was all she needed; time to stall Oz; to keep him from blabbing to the police until her meeting with Alex, when she would decide once and for all whether her cousin was a stupid, easily led fool who’d lost his way, or whether he was a cold-blooded murderer. If Alex kept his word-and at least he’d tried to reach her to make a date-then in no more than forty-eight hours, giving Alex enough time to escape, she should be able to tell her side of the story in order to get Stern released.
“You promised me dinner.” Again Ginny gave Oz a big smile.
“Right, right” Oz ran his hand over her legging-covered knee up to her thigh. “The Tribeca Grill and then back here for brandy and coffee and a touch of the metaphysical for the mystery girl”
It was so easy. She didn’t have to explain anything. She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but over dinner all Oz wanted to do was talk about himself, his success, his new house in Malibu, his endless supply of women, and his new interest in submission. Ginny kept her eye on the time, wondering if Johnny or Alex had called again, wondering with trepidation if either of them would be waiting on her doorstep.
It was still only nine-thirty when, without Oz’s seeming to know or care what was happening, she hailed a cab outside the restaurant and gave the driver her address. Before she could stop him, Oz jumped in beside her, falling asleep on her shoulder. With little traffic, the cab soon arrived at the loft.
She intended to send Oz home in the same cab, but unfortunately he woke up as soon as it stopped and handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill.
“What are we doing here?” he slurred. “I thought you were coming back to my place. Are you up to your usual tricks, mystery woman? Okay, we can start here.” He started to rattle the door handle to her building. “Give me a brandy upstairs.”
There was no way that was going to happen. “Tomorrow,” she cooed. “I promise I’ll come to see your fabulous den of delights tomorrow.”
“Is that second-rate reporter Peet waiting for you upstairs? Is that the problem?”
“I haven’t got anyone, Oz, upstairs, downstairs, anywhere. I promise I really want to see everything, but hey, you fell asleep on me. I don’t think you’re up to being a tour guide tonight.” To Ginny’s relief she saw another cab cruising by. “Taxi!” It scooted to a stop and Oz, only feebly protesting, let her push him inside. She didn’t wait to see the cab drive off. She rushed inside and double-locked the door. As soon as she got upstairs she would leave on Oz’s answering machine a provocative message of something to look forward to. Despite what he thought, she wasn’t very good at playing games, but this one she would play as if her life depended on it, because in a way it did.
It hadn’t started well. In fact, with Sorenson’s inability to beat around any bush for any period of time, it could not have been worse.
He’d hardly finished pouring out Johnny’s scotch and soda before he’d given the game away with a wry grimace.
It wasn’t the little Peet the Sterns wanted to talk to; it wasn’t the pipsqueak Peet they hoped would write the redeeming piece in Next! magazine, which would lead to their salvation. Good God, no. Through Sorenson’s acquaintanceship with the son, the Sterns hoped he would be able to get them to the father.
Johnny congratulated himself on not losing his cool. His self-control had nothing to do with his recently acquired confident frame of mind, all much too new to help him. He couldn’t stop flushing as Sorenson rushed the truth out. At the same time, Johnny knew that his newly noncompetitive self was helping him to con the doctor with feigned willingness to help.
“Well, I can understand that.” Johnny surprised himself with the level of sympathy he heard in his voice. “Of course, it makes perfect sense the Sterns would like to talk to my father, but why haven’t they approached him directly?”
“Their lawyer is dead against it and I’m not sure he’s wrong, but Muriel-Mrs. Stern-she’s not an easy woman to deny. She believes in following her own instincts, and I must say she’s often been right.” Sorenson looked uncomfortable. “She doesn’t know your father at all, but when she learned how much I think of you, she came up with the idea that you might be amenable to acting as some kind of go-between… in a strictly confidential way, of course.”
Johnny plunged right in. “From what I’ve heard about Muriel Stern, I’m not surprised. She appears to be a remarkable woman, but Dr. Sorenson-”
“Oh, David, please. We may not see each other, but I feel as if we’re old friends…”
“Well, then, David, you may remember my father isn’t the easiest of men. I’d be happy…” Johnny paused for effect. “I think I’d have no trouble getting my father to meet them, but I could give no guarantee as to what position he might take. For that reason, er, David, I feel it’s essential I meet the Sterns first, to find out what their expectations are…”
Johnny hoped he looked modest as he added, “I’ve grown more accustomed to assessing people’s motivations, their feelings. I can be more helpful if I hear directly from the Sterns what they are trying to accomplish in meeting my father. After all”—seeing Sorenson was in a quandary, again he paused for effect—“what can I say to my father if I don’t know what the Sterns want from him?”
Johnny was secretly amazed at how little Sorenson appeared to remember after all, especially about the relationship between his father and himself. If the doctor had remembered, he would have known there was no way Johnny would ever think of approaching QP on the Sterns’ behalf. But if Sorenson didn’t remember what made him tick, he thought he could still sum up Sorenson pretty well.
To Johnny’s relief the doctor now acted exactly as he’d hoped and expected him to.
“There isn’t much time to lose, Johnny, but I have to agree, what you say makes sense to me. Let me call Muriel right away and see if she agrees. Can I say, subject to the proper understanding, you are willing to ask your father to meet with them?”
Johnny nodded in what he hoped was a solemn, significant way. “Yes, I am.”
When Sorenson reappeared in a few minutes he looked relieved. Johnny reckoned Muriel must have been nagging him into the ground ever since the hapless Arthur had been released into her formidable custody the week before.
“They’re just about to sit down for dinner…” Sorenson waved his hands about apologetically. “They’re very time-oriented people, always eat early, seven-fifteen dinner. Can you go over there for about fifteen minutes tonight, at, say, eight forty-fiver’
Johnny nodded. “Yes, I can do that.”
There was another grimace as Sorenson asked, “For an off-the-record meeting?”
Whatever that was supposed to mean. Again Sorenson received Johnny’s significant nod. �
�Will you be there?”
The doctor sighed. “I suppose so. I have to run a couple of tests anyway….”
Johnny sensed he would rather be a thousand miles away—or at least out at his Glen Cove house where, Johnny remembered, Sorenson liked nothing better than sitting with his adored golden Labradors beside him as he watched an opera video with his dull wife, who rarely came to the city. He couldn’t blame Sorenson for his reluctance; but he’d also heard that although Muriel Stern was an overbearing, demanding boss, client, and, more than likely patient, too, at least she paid handsomely for the privilege.
He gulped down the whiskey. “I won’t get in your hair any longer. I’ll meet you there. What’s the address?”
“No, no, no, I’ll pick you up.” Sorenson wanted to make sure he’d turn up. Well, that was understandable, too.
A short while later, when they arrived at the Sterns’ apartment house, Johnny felt self-conscious, expecting to see an ink-stained wretch or two and some members of the paparazzi still hovering outside; but no, the wind was too chilly tonight and the story too slow for anyone to be about.
At exactly 8:45 Sorenson and he were announced. After a few minutes, they were allowed upstairs. A gray-faced man in gray livery to match waited at an open door, admitting them into a large marble foyer, which in size, beige tones, and lack of individuality could easily have been compared to the entrance hall of any small, uninspired Manhattan hotel--except for the glistening view of the East River clearly evident through a floor-to-ceiling picture window.
Ignoring Johnny, the servant said quietly, “Dr. Sorenson, Mrs. Stern isn’t feeling too well. Would you come this way, please?”
When Johnny turned to follow, gray face put up a barricading hand. “Please wait here, sir.”
Again David Sorenson shot Johnny his wry there’s-nothing-I-can-do-about-it expression. Johnny indicated he really didn’t care and for the next ten minutes alternately admired the view and shuddered at the huge bowls of artificial flowers on two ormolu hall tables.