"Who gives one shit about what anyone thinks?" Sully said, smiling. "That's the whole point of it."
Was that really the whole point of it? Sully thought. He felt he owed it to them to tell them the truth, once and for all, the whole truth. And then? He wouldn't think about any "and thens." He'd survive somehow. But would it wash away a bad conscience? He hoped it would. Yes, perhaps it would. If so, it would be worth it.
———— *16* THEY were sitting in Mrs. Margolies' living room, waiting for her to finish dressing. It was raining. A gloom had settled over the city. Even Central Park, which stretched before them incongruously, an endless patch of landscape in the midst of steel and glass and concrete, had a somber, colorless aspect.
"When she gets stubborn, she simply gets stubborn," Aram said, pacing the huge living room. The still life, which ordinarily vibrated with the colors of early spring flowers, seemed to hang limply in the grayness. He flicked on a light switch, which suddenly lit all the paintings and a table lamp near one of the sofa groupings.
"It's her property," Marbury said tiredly. His emaciated figure seemed smaller in the huge expanse of the room.
"You didn't have to make such a goddamned big issue of it in the first place," Aram said.
"I'm not in politics, Mr. Yomarian. I'm in property management."
"You could have just said yes or no. What's the point of dragging her out there?"
"That was her decision."
"Since when do you tell her the details of management."
"I assumed it was a special case. Ultimately, at least theoretically, she's the final authority. There are lots of considerations here, fire regulations for one thing. I felt I owed her the protection. Frankly, I never expected this action. All she had to do is say yes or no."
Aram couldn't entirely blame Marbury. The manager had just handed his mother-in-law an opportunity to be important to the campaign, to participate.
"It makes no sense," Aram said. He was edgy, tired. Earlier in the day he had stood in the rain on Fulton Street in the Puerto Rican section, shaking hands, smiling, bleating out his limited Spanish vocabulary to the passing crowd.
_"Me llamo Aram Yomarian."_ _"Mucho gusto!"_ "If you are a
registered Democrat, vote for me in the primaries." He would shake their hands vigorously and give them a little brochure in Spanish. In the background the sound truck blared martial music. Every five minutes the music would be interrupted and a Spanish gaggle would boom out over the street selling the merits and promise of Aram Yomarian. Nearby posters in Spanish proclaimed Yomarian as the man who would help the Puerto Rican people reach dignity.
_"Mucho gusto."_ After three hours his hand ached, his back hurt, and his mouth was uncommonly stiff from smiling. Finally, his stomach growled, and he walked through the nearby storefront headquarters past the group of young women "volunteers," all of whom were paid workers, and pushed open a shabby door into an incredibly ugly little room. Alby was inside making notes and talking into the telephone. Aram slumped into a chair and unwrapped a sandwich marked "Bacon and Tomato."
"Nothing in the papers?" Aram asked, noticing the pile of papers on a rickety bridge table nearby.
"Not a thing. He's apparently chosen not to use it."
"Maybe he's got something to hide." Aram was nervous. "Maybe he was out screwing a broad or something."
"It still would be irrelevant," Alby answered.
"Then why is he holding back? Could it be the telegram we sent him?"
"I doubt that. It merely showed us on the defensive."
"Then what?"
"I'm still not sure."
Aram was searching for an answer. It was nerve-racking to wait. "Maybe he was injured far worse than we've found out. Maybe he's really in bad shape and doesn't want to face anyone."
Alby looked up for a second. "No. He's fine."
"Maybe he's just dumb?"
"Sullivan dumb? He's an old pro. Wily. Clever. He's used to this game. No. He's got another motive."
"Maybe you're overestimating him."
"I doubt it. Besides there's a new wrinkle."
Aram put down his sandwich and looked at Alby, watching the Adam's apple move up and down in his long neck. Alby enjoyed the moment of drama.
"He wants to throw a poli tical rally in the old Dutchman. I've been trying to find out why. It's a shit house. The ballroom hasn't been used for five years. The place is falling apart."
"So let him do it," Aram exclaimed. "How many does the room hold?"
"About three thousand…. That was my reaction, too."
"So what's the problem?"
"A man from the management company contacted your mother-in-law. He told her that the building couldn't take it and that he wouldn't take the responsibility and that he didn't want to call in the fire marshal for fear that the whole building would be condemned."
"So what did my mother-in-law say?"
"She's going to go out and look at it."
"You're kidding," Aram groaned.
"Would I kid you about your mother-in-law?"
"She's on one of her kicks. Probably upset that we've taken her off center stage for awhile. Besides, she doesn't understand that she owns a whole array of crumbling buildings. She may be one of the city's biggest slum owners."
"Wouldn't _that_ be wonderful if it came out," Alby said sarcastically. "Think you could talk her out of it?"
"Never. But maybe Sandra can."
He picked up the telephone and dialed their apartment, where Sandra was working with another group of "volunteers" readying a major mailing designed to hit the homes a day or so before the primary. He explained the situation to her.
"u know my mother," Sandra said. "She's a bitch. If she's made up her mind, it will be hell to make her change it."
"Give it a try. Play on her guilt. Press the right buttons."
"It won't work."
"Try."
Aram was conscious of an uncommon whining, pleading tone. _Is it that important?_ he asked himself after he hung up. But, as always, Alby made it compelling.
When they arrived at the Margolies apartment, Sandra was in the bedroom talking to Mrs. Margolies. They found a fidgety Marbury waiting in the living room.
"You could have worked it out with Handleman," Alby said to him. "Like last time."
"Oh, Handleman talked to her. I tell you it's her decision. It's her property. It's her decision."
Aram motioned Alby to a place near the large window out of earshot of Marbury.
"Are you sure we're not exaggerating the importance of all this?"
"This is all oddsmanship. I'm just trying to keep the odds in our favor. Ordinarily a small affair at a broken-down hotel would have little significance. If she puts a stop to it, Sullivan can make it a cause celebre. And we also don't want your mother-in-law to be revealed as a big slumlord. If she insists on going out there, we'll just have to go along with her and try to keep her from doing anything more foolish."
"Suppose she meets Sullivan and his flunkies?" Aram said. "Hell, he's probably the only guest in the place."
Mrs. Margolies and Sandra came out of the bedroom.
"I'm not being unreasonable," Mrs. Margolies was saying. As usual she wore long thick eyelashes and rows of gold jangles around her arms and neck. On her fingers she wore chunky rings. Both women were in well- tailored expensive pantsuits. "Besides, it's my property. I want to see it. Mr. Marbury was right in calling me."
Mrs. Margolies walked to the far end of the room to a large mirror to check her makeup.
"I tried, Aram," Sandra said. "She's in her 'I'm not simply a stupid woman' stage. I think she's a little jealous of us. Wants to be in on the action. This is her way of getting in on it."
Mrs. Margolies' chauffeured limousine was waiting on Fifty-ninth Street. She sank into "her" seat on the left-hand side while Sandra, Aram, Alby, and Marbury crowded in behind her. The car sped toward Brooklyn. Mrs. Margolies talked compulsively.
"I should take more o
f an interest in these things. My father was always working. It's a responsibility, owning property. I mean, what kind of life do I live? Entertainments all the time. Vacations. A useless existence. You think having money means the end of all responsibilities? It means the beginning of all responsibilities."
"You didn't have to pick right now to have a guilt attack," Sandra said.
"You think I'm trying to hurt your husband?" She turned to Aram. "You think I'm trying to hurt you, Aram?"
"No, I don't, Mother. But you could hurt us inadvertently."
"That's absurd," she said haughtily. "I want to see my property. That's all. I want to look at it."
Apparently, she was enjoying the sudden attention. They would simply have to act out the charade to satisfy her. _She's going through the changes,_ Aram thought. Like all spoiled women, she enjoyed the power of her wealth and influence.
The big car sped down East River Drive, turned into the access road to the Brooklyn Bridge, and rolled across the ancient structure.
"I remember this bridge," Mrs. Margolies said pensively. "My father
would drive me to all his jobs in Brooklyn. I was only a little girl. 'I want to leave my mark,' he said. 'I want to be remembered for my buildings. They are my immortality.' I'll never forget that remark as long as I live. Now do you see, Sandra, why it's important to take an interest? This was my daddy's dream."
Aram looked sideways at Marbury and caught the flicker of a smile. Many of the properties were beyond redemption, Aram knew, rotting like corpses in the sun, doomed to eventual death by the pressures people and economics. Mrs. Margolies had never confronted that reality. It had been broached to be sure, but, as Aram learned from Sandra, she had been shielded from its reality.
The car rolled through increasingly shabby neighborhoods filled with abandoned buildings. Obscene graffiti in huge bold letters were everywhere. "Motherfucker."
"Fuck."
"Shit." It was like a refrain from hell, born of anger and frustration.
"Brooklyn is getting horrible," Mrs. Margolies said. "It's filled with animals." They saw a man pissing in the street, his large pendant organ in full view.
"My God," she said.
The curbs were piled with garbage, which led like an endless trail along the streets to the front of the old Dutchman. The big limousine parked behind a similar car, much shabbier and older, but a genuine limousine. Over the slightly awry marquee a tattered and faded SULLIVAN FOR CONGRESS banner whipped in the breeze. The facade looked beyond repair. A number of panes of colored glass were broken and patched with cardboard, and the once-proud gold-edged revolving door was battered and out of kilter. Under the marquee were rows of broken lights. Only the polished brass sign plate remained in its original state, a relic of past glory.
"I can't believe it," Mrs. Margolies said angrily, her voice shaking. "Is this the way you look after our property, Mr. Marbury? It's a disgrace."
"The building doesn't pay for itself, Mrs. Margolies. It's only a matter of time before it comes down."
"This was a fine hotel," Mrs. Margolies said. "My father would turn over in his grave."
Inside the cavernous lobby, two derelicts sat dozing on a threadbare couch in the corner. The desk clerk was dozing before a television set. Annoyed, Marbury shook him awake and whispered to him. The clerk ran around the front, buttoning his sweater, and tried waking the two drunks.
"Get out of here," he shouted at them. One of them looked up, opening a single red eye. "Take a flying shit."
The black elevator man appeared from a nook where he, too, had been drowsing and, seeing the situation, rushed to help remove the drunks. He bent down, grabbed one by the lapels of a shabby jacket, and bodily lifted him and pushed him out the squeaking door. He returned and followed the same procedure with the other man. Mrs. Margolies watched the scene with horror. Alby smiled and poked Aram in the back.
"She's already sorry she came," he said.
"It's almost worth the risks." Aram smiled.
"Mr. Marbury," Mrs. Margolies said indignantly, "what have you done to my place? I must get Mr. Handleman on the phone. I will insist that you people be fired immediately." Marbury said nothing. She strode imperiously around the large lobby, taking in the whole shabby mess, perhaps remembering how it once was.
"This building is many years old." Marbury tried to reason with her. "It was bought by your father fifty years ago and has returned the original investment ten times over. This is a dead building, Mrs. Margolies, in a dying area."
"I want to see the ballroom," Mrs. Margolies almost shouted. Her voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
They crowded into the elevator, which stank of urine. Aram could see his mother-in-law's face turn white beneath the heavy makeup. He wondered if she would faint. But the elevator ride was short, only a single floor up. They found themselves in a huge hallway, badly lit by a handful of bulbs in a series of elaborate but dusty chandeliers. A shabby carpet stretched the length of an ornate French-style vestibule to the entrance of the large ballroom. Dominating the room were two huge candeliers. A dais and rows of undraped wooden tables sat helter-skelter around the large room, as though there had been a banquet here just a few hours before and it was dawn now.
"The last affair here was five years ago," Marbury offered.
Mrs. Margolies stood in the doorway as Marbury flicked a switch and a few bulbs in the chandeliers lit up, batng the room in half-light.
"My God," Mrs. Margolies said.
"Unused property always conveys that feeling," Mr. Marbury said, as if compelled to say something.
"Why in the name of hell does Sullivan want to have an affair here?" Aram asked of no one in particular.
"It's an absolute hellhole," Sandra said.
They followed Mrs. Margolies to the open doors of the kitchen. It was a large old-fashioned place reeking of mildew and corrosion. Pots lay in piles on the floor. The window of the unused refrigerator was streaked with the remains of dead insects, and the interior seemed a graveyard of rusted cans of vegetables and juices. Mrs. Margolies gagged and rushed for her handkerchief to cover her mouth.
"No man in his right mind would want to have a political rally in this place," Aram said.
"He has a reason," Alby said. "In this business everything has a reason."
"He's lost his mind," Aram said. "Who gives a damn? Let him have his goddamned affair."
They followed Mrs. Margolies out of the kitchen into the ballroom and then back through the vestibule. She seemed paler and shaky. Sandra ran to support her as she began to falter. They swiftly brought a chair, and Sandra fished in her bag for smelling salts and broke open a container, sticking it under Mrs. Margolies' nose. She sniffed deeply and gasped for air.
"I'm all right," she said, waving them away.
"You didn't have to come here," Sandra said.
"My father would have died." She turned again to the ballroom. "Papa," she said, as if she could see him standing somewhere in the ballroom.
"Property is like people, Mrs. Margolies," Marbury said. "Nothing lasts forever. Someday this area will be rebuilt, and in place of this will be some other building. Maybe a great new hotel. Maybe an office building. Buildings aren't forever."
"You wanted to see your property, Mother," Sandra said bitingly.
Mrs. Margolies sat in the broken chair, an incongruous picture in her gold spangles and neckpieces, trying to regain her composure.
"You see, Mrs. Margolies," Marbury said. "You own many properties like this. Many of them are beyond redemption, but most are also without mortgages. We hold them in inventory, and you profit when the land is sold. You must not feel responsible."
At the other end of the hall, they heard voices, and their eyes turned to face that direction. Three men walked toward them. One of them, a big red-faced man, seemed drunk. Aram recognized the pale gray-haired man instantly.
"Sullivan," Marbury whispered.
"This we don't need," Alby said nervous
ly. Mrs. Margolies tried to
stand up.
"There he is," Sullivan said, as he spotted Marbury.
"Congressman?" Marbury answered.
"Just come to check on your facilities." Sully was wearing a gray sport jacket and a crumpled white shirt with a collar open at the neck. His gray hair was dry and unkempt.
"That's Yomarian," Fitz suddenly boomed.
Aram was watching them. _My God_, he thought, _what will we say to each other?_ "Yomarian," Sully said, searching the faces of the people around him. "Ah, yes, Yomarian." He put out his hand briskly, almost as a reflex. Aram took it hesitantly.
Adler, Warren - Banquet Before Dawn Page 19