“That’s a great name. Full of great stuff, that name.”
She liked this. How could she not? He was a charming fucker. She leaned closer. “Like what?”
“Oh, Connie, well, it’s got all kinds of zip, it’s got—it’s got lipstick in it and, like a ’75 Cadillac convertible, still some fins on there, it’s got the Jersey shore in there and some great music, maybe go back to the sixties, some of that great slow stuff, I mean I could go on all night here, Connie, name like that, you can take that name and shiny things keep coming out of it, money and lipstick and guns and stuff.”
She laughed. “You’re drunk.”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re one of those talking drunks, though.”
“Yeah, I talk a lot when I’m drunk. Like feathers coming out my mouth, floating around.”
She smiled. “No, I like it.”
Go ahead, put the hook in deeper, you fly bitch. “Nah,” he said. “Don’t listen to me.”
“Most guys drink too much, they get mean.”
“Not me. Never mean. Don’t know how to do it.”
“Really?”
“Nope. I’m a pacifist. Feathers everywhere.”
“You’re a sweet guy, huh?” She turned to the bartender, signaled for another drink.
“Yeah.” She knew the bartender; you could see it in his eye. They knew each other and they were setting him up. He’d mentioned Tony Verducci and then in five minutes he’s got action on the bar stool.
“So you’re from out of town?”
“Yes.”
“Where you staying?”
“Hilton midtown.”
“You kind of don’t look like a guy staying at the Hilton.”
“No, I agree.”
She blew a bloom of smoke. “You’re in disguise?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Deep cover.”
“Who you hiding from?”
“Bunch of mob guys I used to know.”
“Real mob guys?”
“Oh yeah, real mob guys.”
She laughed. “You’re full of shit.”
“You’re right. I am. I told you I was, but you didn’t believe me.”
“Come on.”
“What?”
“Tell me. I’m interested.”
“Nah, I’m the most boring guy in the world. You tell me who you are.”
She pushed her red fingernails through her hair. “I work in midtown, work for this big lawyer.”
“What kind of law?”
“Oh, mostly real estate.”
“You know the difference between a co-op and a condo?”
“They’re sort of the same.”
“Really?”
She looked at him. “Well, practically.”
“I always wanted to know.”
“Also, we mostly do like other kinds of law.”
He nodded. Lies, all lies. “Boss a good guy?”
“Pretty good.”
“He screw you on his desk?”
“What?”
“I said does he—”
“I heard you.” She looked down and paid too much attention to her cigarette. This was the proof. Any real woman would be long gone after a line like that. She’d look at him and say fuck you and leave. It was okay now. He knew the score. In fact, he could have one more drink, because it was helping him think clearly. Drinking could do that. He had not been drinking for four years, and now he was drinking and was so drunk that he actually saw everything very clearly. The bartender had called his boss and then they had gotten this woman to slide out from the back somewhere, an office or someplace where they count the money, and she was going to try to get him off where they could grab him. “Hey,” he said to the bartender, “one more for me, and one more for her, if she so desires.”
“So, I think I know why I sat down next to you,” she finally said, her voice a purr of smoke.
He had to figure a way out of there soon. “You were hoping I’d ask some rude-ass questions.”
“Nope. That wasn’t it. I just figured it out. It’s your beard.”
“My beard?”
“You’ve got a great beard.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “It’s so thick, but you keep it trimmed.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve got Superman glasses.”
“Superman with a beard.”
She looked around. “This place gets too crowded.”
“Trendy. Things get trendy, you make a million dollars.”
“You feel like going someplace a little more quiet? Get a nightcap? There’s the Temple and the Fez a few blocks up, and a couple places down a little.” She stared at him with her mouth open and her eyes half closed, yet looking directly into his. Her tongue rested on her bottom lip and then slid outward and stayed out, as if needing something.
He put three twenties down on the bar.
“Did you have a coat?”
“No.” His change came back and he dropped a ten on the counter. A tip before dying.
He had to get out of the place. “I’m just going to use the men’s.”
Fucking drunk, couldn’t walk, feet moving like fish just pulled out of the water, flopping, don’t know anything, dying. He kept one hand on the wall. Look smooth, Rick-o, look like you’re just taking a piss. There had to be a door, fire door, basement door, something. Fire regulations. He pushed through the men’s. Two guys in there, neither of them trouble. Yuppie assholes making half a mil each. He hadn’t punched a guy in years, didn’t even know how to do it anymore. They wouldn’t try anything in the men’s, it could go wrong too easily, they didn’t know if he had a gun or not, which in fact he did not, being a pacifist—no, what they wanted was to just slide him out easy. No scene. It’s a business. Tony Verducci used to get vodka by paying off a liquor distributor employee to tell him when to hijack the delivery trucks. He sold it at half the price of wholesale, and the buyer promised to resell it somewhere Tony wasn’t doing business—Boston, maybe. Tony made so much money that he had a picture of himself shaking hands with Donald Trump hanging in his upstairs bathroom. Rick pissed a long piss, swaying on his feet, forehead against the white tiles. He needed to eat something, a burrito maybe, break up the alcohol, drink some water, too, he was too drunk to run and yet he had the feeling he was going to have to run soon, his mouth had done this to him—three days he’s back and he’s saying the words Tony and Verducci to some—no, no! Too long in the men’s room, get out, they would come looking for him, and so he zipped and skipped the hand-washing, maybe a drop or two on his pants leg, so what, civilization still intact, and then pushed out along the hallway, a door? Give me a door, eyeballs going double, fish-feet going floppety-flop, sway-shouldering along the hall, don’t drop your cigarette, they should turn down the lights, made you squint, can’t see, find the door, but in fact there was no door, not even a back room with some Mexican guy cutting up potatoes, nothing! Mexicans everywhere in the city, doing the real work. And here he was back in the bar. Connie was down at the end smiling at him, great droopy tits under that black silky sweater, big nipples you could twiddle like a locker combination, maybe he would actually get to fuck her, maybe she was willing to do that if it came to it. She looked like she would be one of those wet women, he liked that, slick and slide and stink you up—best thing in the world. He pushed past some Wall Street mojo with a burning log of a cigar in his mouth—the thing looked like some kind of black dick stuck in the guy’s teeth, the message being that he was so fucking fat, he could stick a black dick in his mouth, still be a man—that was the secret logic of cigars, of course. And then past a couple of women who looked like horses wearing lipstick and some guys in Euro-sadist haircuts, careful not to sway too much, people lose respect, and the question was, Where would they try to grab him? Right outside?
“Hi.” She took his hand tightly. “I thought of just the place.”
“How do we get there?”
“Oh, we walk. Just two blocks.”
Outside, people stood lined up, cabs waiting, guys in nice coats, girls looking sexy in dresses and heels. He glanced inside toward the bar. The bartender, back turned, ear in phone. “I can’t, sweetie,” he told her slurrily.
“Why?”
“Can’t walk. You got me drunk, babe. Got to eat something.”
“We’ll take a cab.”
“That’s fine. Somewhere they give you food. Need some air. Taxi air’s the best. Hits your face.”
She flicked her fingers and a cab nosed up. He opened the door for her like a gentleman, and after she sat down, he dropped heavily to the seat as she gave directions. Then she pulled a tiny phone out of her purse, flipped it open, punched in a bunch of numbers: “Sandy? It’s Connie. I know, I know. Yes, baby! I just wanted to know if you would give Warhol his food. Just one can of the beef. What? No, not too late.” She laughed. “Maybe yes and maybe no.” She glanced at Rick, smiling, laid a hand on his knee. “Well, probably it was his beard. Yes, yes. Hmm? I think first the Temple Bar, if we can get in. The Temple, you remember, they have this great little salmon and caviar thing. Right. Okay, Sandy, thanks.” She hung up, popped the phone into her purse. “My poor doggie needs to eat.” She looked at him and squeezed his leg. “You’ll like this place, it’s much quieter. No scene.”
“Great,” he burbled. “Very nice.” And then jolt and speed, one light, two, cabdriver some kind of rag-head terrorist, didn’t kill them all in Desert Storm, and he let his hand fall to Connie’s thigh and she held it affectionately, and he kept thinking of the juicy stink along his belly and legs, up and down, drip it on me, I’ll stick a finger in first, then some tongue, you fly bitch, you’ll like my dick, I promise, they all do, if they don’t see it first it surprises them, one girl put a ruler next to it, get you with your legs up and then—and then the cab lurched up against the curb and of course he would pay, give the guy a ten. Burning the cash from Aunt Eva’s. He needed two tries to get out of the cab. His feet felt loose. The place was just a door, ten or twelve people outside. Too crowded, never get in. The doorman waved them in. The place was dark as a cave. Tables, little candles, very cool atmosphere, people very cool, money flowing every which way. The bar was three deep. A waitress took them toward the back. Try not to knock into people, Clark. How could they have a table? But they did. Just for two. Did Tony Verducci own this place, too? People were looking at them—why? She was good-looking, but so were half the women. He saw a fire door. ALARM WILL SOUND. The menu was classy. He’d eat one of the salmon things and slip out. Run, run, get away. Try to bang Connie some other day. They ordered. The salmon appetizers, please.
“You’re not talking,” she said.
“I’m worried, heh.”
“About what?”
“I had some messages at the hotel I was going to check.”
“important?”
“Not really. Just want to check them.”
“Here.” She pulled the little phone out of her purse. “You just push the green button and dial.”
“Great.” He took it from her.
“And I’ll go pee. Be right back.”
She got up and walked away. He knew from the way she walked that she was thinking about how her butt looked. They all did. They had you coming and going. You chased them and then they caught you. He studied the phone, all of its buttons. The thing was small enough she could slide it up into herself. Phone sex, ha-ha. Man, was he a sly motherfuck! He punched the little green button, heard a dial tone. Then he pushed REDIAL.
“Yeah?” came a man’s voice after two rings.
“Where’s this?”
“This is the kitchen phone.”
Rick nodded. Of course. The place they’d just left. “I’m trying to reach Connie.”
“She’s not around, she’s gone.”
“She told me she could be reached there.”
“She’s busy, she’s working. She’s not supposed to give this number out.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Who is this?”
“Nobody,” he slurred. “Just a—”
“I said who is this?”
“This is the police,” Rick said. “We’re going to kill Tony Verducci.”
He hung up. Then he punched the green button again and dialed randomly. That would be the redial number in case she tried it. He looked up. She was coming back now, and as she passed by the light over the bar, he saw her clearly. She was almost young, but there were old things on her.
“Thanks.” He handed Connie the phone.
“Got through?”
“Perfect.”
The drinks and salmon came. He had maybe three or four minutes. Go ahead and knock it back. It wouldn’t take long. Some guys coming in a cab, maybe right now. Maybe she’d used the pay phone next to the ladies’ room. He ate the salmon. She was looking around, her hand in her bag for a cigarette. Waiting, she was waiting. That was it. Jump off the train.
He stood up.
“Hey,” she said. “Where you headed?”
“I can’t ride the train.”
“What do you mean?”
Heh. Go to the fire door. Excuse me, excuse me, a young couple was moving out of his way, yes, thank you, very civilized, he was almost falling down. “Yes, yes, I know, excuse me. Sorry. Sorry! Please move, what? Hey, fuck you, too.” ALARM will SOUND. That was good. Scare everybody. Connie following him. Two guys, too. He pushed the bar, the door swung open, no alarm sounded, and he was outside, the night air hitting him, and he saw—oh so beautiful—three empty cabs speeding up Lafayette to make the light and the two goombahs and Connie were coming out and he saluted the cab nearest him like an officer and caught the handle as the car jerked to a stop and pulled it and saw to his horror it was still locked and he pounded on the window, click-click, yes, pulled it open, jumped in, but not before one of the guys yanked open the door. “Go, go, go!” he hollered to the cabbie. “They wanna kill me.” But the cabbie was uncertain and didn’t speed up and the goonish guy was jogging alongside, then running alongside, then trying to get in, saying, “You fucking—” which was when Rick finally got two hands on the door handle and yanked it shut like nobody’s business, making the guy’s hand crunch, fingers waggling inside the door frame, and Rick opened the door, making the hand fall away, and slammed it shut for good and looked back through the rear window to see the guy rolling in the street grabbing his bad hand, with the other guy catching up and, back farther, Connie standing on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around herself in the night air, finally looking like what she was, some chick working for the money, which on this evening meant trying to help two goombahs to find out who the big bearded guy was, the guy who said he knew Tony Verducci, the guy she’d pegged from the first as traveling on a fool’s errand.
PARK AVENUE PARTNERS FERTILITY CLINIC
FORTY-EIGHTH STREET AND PARK AVENUE, MANHATTAN
SEPTEMBER 14, 1999
“TWO DOZEN LETTERS ALREADY,” Martha Wainwright hissed at Charlie as he stepped into her office. “They’re just sailing in from every other lonely woman of child-bearing age who reads your advertisement.” He’d slipped away from Teknetrix early, carrying the antique cloisonné bowl for Ellie he’d had sent from Shanghai, walking through the caverns of heat and shadow around Grand Central, trying to avoid the shoeshine men, early-drunk commuters, and sweltering tourists. You could always tell the out-of-towners. They looked like Charlie’s father going to Miami Beach in 1965. Cameras and white socks and floppy hats. Lost with a map in their hands. The wife with an ass like a sack of potatoes, bifocals on chains, terrified by the lanky black men loitering about, massaging their jazz-bo chins. The husband trying to snatch a thrill off the newsstand porn. Get out of my way, you respectable people, Charlie’d thought, I’m a married man trying to father a child out of wedlock with a complete stranger. Who? Who would answer such an advertisement? He wanted to read the letters himself, not only to check that Martha
didn’t weed out the good ones, but also to be sure she didn’t messenger them over to his office, where they might be opened by Karen. Who might possibly mention something to someone—someone like Ellie, who’d called his office too many times that day, with nothing to say. Calling, he realized, with no reference to his schedule, simply to make herself feel better about something, so edgy and irritable that she did not remember phoning him an hour before. As if she knew Charlie was up to something. Probably smelled it in his sweat, saw it in the way he rattled the business page over breakfast.
He’d also gone to the trouble of walking the eight blocks to Martha’s office because her private investigator, a Mr. Towers, never saw anyone outside the offices of the law firm. He would be the one who poked into the candidates’ credit histories and medical files. She’d used him on dozens of insurance and divorce cases, she said, the best in the business.
“There they are,” Martha announced as they entered one of the firm’s conference rooms, waving her thick arm, “your pile of yearning.” The stack included letters, photographs, résumés, even a few videotapes. “Told Ellie yet?”
He ignored her and eased himself into a chair.
“I’m going to leave you alone with your fantasies, Charlie.” Martha put her hand on the doorknob. “Please don’t make too much of a mess.”
“You do this to most of your clients?”
“Most of my clients are trying to avoid trouble.”
She pulled the door shut before he could respond, so he opened the file of letters. They were typewritten, handwritten, word-processed. He marked two folders MAYBE and NO. What was he looking for? Intelligence and character, of course. Health and vigor. Something special. It was not necessary to like the woman, he told himself; more important that she be a strong person. He would choose strength over niceness any day. Niceness could go to hell. Nice people lost market share. Strength and intelligence. Give me someone healthy and intelligent and resolute, he thought. And stable, and drug-free. Pretty eyes and good teeth would be a plus. Here was a woman who was a lawyer for the poor. Here was a woman who danced in a ballet company but had recently injured her knee and saw the end of her performance career coming. Another was a counselor for battered children. Another was a lesbian who thought such an arm’s-length arrangement would be best for her since she wanted a child but had “issues with men.” Didn’t everyone born without testicles have issues with men? Here was a woman who owned a dairy farm in upstate New York. Her young husband had been killed when his tractor tipped over, crushing him, she said, and now she had a beautiful piece of land, a dog, nice neighbors, and plenty of time, because she was renting out the acreage to another farmer. She and her husband had been planning to have a child. Charlie put her letter in the MAYBE folder. What next? A woman who had three children but her husband was terminally ill. Thirty-seven years old. The chance of birth defects was one in three hundred, he knew, too high. He put her letter in the NO file. The next letter was from a gay man who asked that Charlie sponsor the man’s adoption of a Third World child. “Of course, you may be put off by this request,” said the letter. “But my partner and I, both in our late forties, have been together for eleven years. We are both HIV-negative. We are sincere and committed to each other. We are looking for a girl from China, Korea, or Malaysia. Most overseas adoption agencies are wary of gay male couples, and we may have to accept a severely damaged child. But we are willing to do this. We are frankly appalled by the behavior of many gay men, who mock straight people without really contemplating the effort it takes to raise a child. We believe we have the sufficient humility and dedication to do this. Please help.”
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