by Evan Dara
Ferzoco paused, stroked his knees, snorted – gently, a final shake-down of the thermometer – then continued …
I hied back to the Doubletree, and dosed myself good with Pernod Fils, and stretched out to writhe for the night. And the next day – so be it! – I moved out of the Doubletree. And into another place, so be it, somewhat less expensive.
—But the Essex Inn was OK, pretty comfy, and right across from Grant Park, and at that point good walks were good. Because I had to muse. Ambulate and muse. And when I walked around that damn park twenty-two times over the next ten days and still couldn’t begin to abate my rage, to tap the carny furnace, which does not help one bit when it comes to strategizing, I paid a visit to my spiritual underwriter, Karaprentu. Whom you may remember from when he went under the name Darryl Dragon …
In his bureau/ashram, Karaprentu sat down in his perennial wicker chair, sigh-light and squeaking, and drew a circle of black scrim-cloth all around himself. He bade me talk. And so I did: I pulled a cushion up to the dark cylinder, and I sat, and leaned forward, and told him about my preceding domestic grief, my disappointment, my rankling. And I told him about my idea, my deal with Marty – you see, I told him everything – and about how the deal had flipped. Then I told him about my rage. At length, I told him about my rage. And I was halfway into telling him about my rage all over again, as if I were receiving a nickel for every time I mewled the word me, when the inner chair squeaked and the black cloth rippled. So I stopped. I hushed. I leaned back. And there was a pause, and in this pause I heard Karaprentu breathing, and into this breathing my anticipatory faculties flew. And soon, over my heart’s bounding, I heard Karaprentu bid me forward. And I did, I leaned forward, I bore my eager ear forth and heard good Karaprentu say: Granulate …
Well, I looped out of there clutching this little glowing globe to my chest. How fragile it seemed, yet how forceful. And by the time I got back to the Essex Inn, I knew what I had to do: Rebuild. Reconstruct. Make for myself another home. Move on, and move in. I would deal with Karaprentu’s wisdom in due course, when the fullness of its pith had flowered forth. You really shouldn’t trust these guys all that much, but he had somehow bequeathed to me the certainty of my next step. Maybe that was his wisdom right there …
So I plunged into work. I struck deals like a mad Hephaestus, leveraging funds like no tomorrow, selling tragic percentages for next-day cash, touching advances at Odessan-mob rates, borrowing against a career’s worth of good will. Nothing illegal, but nothing advisable. Still, soon I had stockpile enough to proceed. I bought a lot in Highland Park almost exactly the size and shape of our 1.7 acres in Winnetka, then laid in herbaceous borders until the usable tract was a perfect match. I then got back in touch with the architect who had made the original manse, hereinafter the House of Origins. She let me make a copy of the final blueprints – hmph, let me: greasing happened to the tune of one-and-a-half K – and I couriered the rolls to a contractor the same day. And by the end of that very week, we were off …
Quickly, but so slowly, my new place, hereinafter the House of War, started shaping the spring terrain: staking, fencing, materials-delivery, footprint, foundation. Like a mirage of a memory, skeletons, then planar solids, rose from chewed earth. Work went real good: I brought the crew and foreman poppyseed bagels every Tuesday and Thursday mornings, and some onion …
And about a week later, I had a surprise: an envelope, sent return receipt requested, containing the transfer of title to my parents’ old home in Dayton, available for the purchase price of one sawbuck. Well, now. Some slight coming to conscience. True, the ticket had been set at 200 percent of what the slug had paid – i.e., the initial fin – but maybe he had handling costs. I signed immediately …
And with that signature, the thunderbolt struck. Karaprentu came crashing through, with cyclotron force. Suddenly, galvanically, I saw his drift, his thrust, his gist, the full prowess of his counsel. So right then, right there, while sitting with pen in hand at my century-old Duke of Cornwald desk, I turned into a white, superfine powder, the ardent sand of an impossibly beautiful beach. And I started to blow, to gale, to sift up from my office, and then I torrented out over façade and sidewalk, and in-between high-tension wires, and over the shamming tumble of city streets. And apace I surged down byways, and along causeways, and over driveways, and then sailed through the interstices of the window frames and wood-seams of the evil couple’s safety-sealed home, and poured through the orbital gaps in the atom-fast walls they’d put around themselves as eternal protection. And I landed on them, I sprinkled them imperceptibly yet unmissably as they lifted their Turkish Delight to their lunching lips, as they cracked low cupboards to get the next generation of garbage bag, as they listed around wall-juts to talk of needed bathroom caulking. Do you see? I became their everpresent, personal, designer dust-storm, coating them, layering them with talcic silt, while they were indoors and out – as they added bobble to socially observed steps, as they applied expertise to tangelo selection – and they did not know and they did not say, but profoundly soon they were entirely floured, and within two months, only two, additional deeds began to arrive at my office by mail – to mutual funds, to vacation properties, to Mercedes – as, inevitably, inescapably, my gusting salt made their choice, their circumstance, unworkable, untenable, unbearable …
And, brother, it felt good …
And while the ongoing retransmission of titles helped keep my GobiWorks going, I – systematically, methodically – was assembling, through rigorous purchase, exact duplicates of all the fixtures, props and furnishings that had filled and characterized the House of Origins. Every couch and planter, every throw rug and tine-fork and watercourse was remembered, found, and magically recreated through bottom-line suasions. And when the foreman finally walked away from my new-built palace in Highland Park, the house wrath built could rightfully be considered a miracle revenant of the one from which yours truly had been so rudely booted …
Did I tell you I also took up backgammon during this time? A wonderful game: skill and random. Dragooned underlings in the office to play …
But: Quickly, then, I quit the Essex Inn, now seen as excellent in its accommodations, and moved into the House of War. The place was comfortable in the extreme, clean, familiar and fresh-smelling. And all during this time, counterpunching back through the continuing spray of my solid mist, paperwork arrived – by messenger, by fax drop, by signatured post – bearing quitclaims to pieces of my misappropriated world. Bond certificates, land rights, merchandise receipts, more. Yeah, that stinker Marty continued to ask for mark-ups of at least 10%, but again: human nature. I gave it gladly. And then, at last, no more than four months later, the document came, the one that returned to me full and unfettered ownership of the House of Origins. All of it, every scurf and plank. The ugly couple, it seemed, had called it quits …
Ever, ever so slightly above my celestial laughter, I could make out the cronk of slamming suitcases. No doubt in a hailstorm of recrimination, the loser duo was moving out. Snotball Marty, world-class plutopath, went back to work, and darling wifie went who the hell cares. Both knew I had keys. Nine days later – after evacuation, wall-to-wall cleaning, then spot cleaning all over again – I moved back into the House of Origins. With one thought windsailing over my brain: Thank you, Karaprentu …
Thank you, sir …
Ferzoco looked away. Then looked back …
Assuredly, justice had won the day, he said …
Completion was complete …
Shut down the molar spigot, too …
Ferzoco cleared his throat. But what had Mr. K. so justly seen, and therefore advocated?, Ferzoco said …
Simple: let time fulfill its urge as ally …
But to do that …
Ferzoco looked into the dark window …
True, he said after a moment. My new old home, now reclaimed, seemed somewhat derivative. When, in fact, the other place – the new new one – should have felt
that way …
But still: my victory was total …
I had won …
I had won …
I had won …
Ferzoco closed his eyes, angled his non-gaze slightly upward. Produced a sound that was something like a snort …
So, today, that is where I am, he said, reopening and looking at the car’s dividing glass. And I am grateful. Truly so. Life equals good. Heat warms, and cold cools. Trees. Tacos. I am truly grateful …
Ferzoco twisted in his seat. He took a pause …
Is the question ever there?, he then said. Well, yes. Occasionally …
Where is my best friend … ?
And even, very occasionally …
Where is my wife … ?
Yes. They’re there. Occasionally …
Why deny …
And backgammon, now, is a little less fun …
And asparagus still not so good …
But I had won …
I most assuredly had won …
Now let’s talk business …
Lincoln turned towards Auran, who smiled back. He remained looking at her, and she looked down to documents. So Lincoln pivoted back to Guy Ferzoco, and found that he had fallen asleep. Silently, Ferzoco had ratcheted down into his own body, hands curled on melon belly, chins squished over tie-knot and collar, eyelashes kissing atop up-puffed cheeks. Lincoln again glanced at Auran …
Then the car stopped. This time, though, after a beat, the engine cut off. Lincoln heard someone up front, presumably the driver, crack open the left-front door; this person then stepped out and paused. The outsider walked around the car, opened the door at Ferzoco’s right, and bent his head in. He was big-armed and strong, in black suit, thin tie, and beaked cap. And beaked nose: he looked to be from Eastern Europe …
End of the line, he said to Lincoln and Auran. Don’t worry, I’ll get you back to your car.
—The driver knelt and inserted one arm behind Ferzoco’s back, another under his knees. A little, gentle Ferzoco-rocking ensued, to gain purchase and leverage. Then the driver hupped, and started to hoist. In one smooth pull, he lifted the sleeping man from the low seat …
Yep, the driver said, reaching vertical outside, balancing his charge on his hinged arms. Just goes back and forth. Back and forth. All day long. Then all night. Between the two places. Until he nods off. Every single day. Shit, makes no – whew, watch it there my man, stay up straight – makes no difference to me. I just get him indoors and throw him on a bed. Hardest part is remembering where to pick him up in the morning …
The driver, broad arms full, walked across the manicured lawn, into moon-glazed night.
—And he traced and followed, traced and followed, keeping the green string between his fingers as it led around corners, past banisters, through the rubbered slit splitting a set of swinging doors, then down a black-clad corridor, then around another corner—
—And past a shell-sconce upruffling brightness, then forward through a gathering nimbus of ceiling glow and into, right into …
Reception.
—And the DJ that they—
—The trays—!
—And by that time, you see, Lincoln had started to work for—
—He was moonlighting for—
—Brilliantly, I’m told, just—
—Creating all these opportunities for—
—And when he finally came clean, when he dispelled the—
—And finally, finally we could see—
—It – a treasure! How does anyone find such a treasure?
—He must have used his old leads. Well, more power to him. His new place was tremendous—
—And he gave this great, just this really great midnight reception to present—
—This penthouse overlooking Lake Shore Drive with a direct view back to Charnley House and roof access and valet parking and—
—And a health club in the base—
—And this like whole-apartment Bolton stereo system, with like speakers and faders behind, hidden—
—And like invisible track-lights—
—And a Pontorosso air-purifying system, ironizing, ionizing—
—And climate control, full-floor—
—And this great, on the bathroom floor, this mosaic made of Persian tiles, can you believe a mosaic of a bathmat that’s draped over the step into the shower—
—The walk-in shower, and a water-sculpture by Zinfarelli—
—With—
—And lots of—
—Lots of—
—What was it – four thousand square feet?
—Six thouse—?
—And I only saw part of it. I mean, I have no idea how much more there was to—
—And like views of the lake—
—And views of—!
—Lincoln’s assistant, that Auran, she led a few small groups in to see, snuck them in, in the afternoon when Lincoln wasn’t there, to show people the—
—The—
—And there was something, I think, by—
—And something by—
—And—!
—Can I tell you something? When all is said and done, I think Lincoln has another gift. It’s hardly ever talked about, but it may be his real, his biggest asset. Want to know? The guy really has an eye – his own eye – for style. Really good. Really different and innovative. It’s subtle, sometimes you can hardly notice, but there are often these little, little details that really mark him as his own man. As a man doing bold things, things no one else would even think of. And he’s gotten better at it, more daring, as he goes up in the world – as he gets more comfortable with himself. I always look forward to seeing if he’ll be trying something new.
—I mean, some of them get a little, y’know, out there for my taste.
I mean, he began wearing burgundy shirts with cocoa-brown pants, or once, I mean, I saw him in this, like, really nice Armani black suit with like this pink and yellow shirt underneath … And, and – check it – one time, I’m sure of it – but don’t quote me – I saw he was wearing unmatching socks. One striped, one not. I, I mean—
—Hey: he’s earned the right. If that’s his thing, God bless. Let him do what he wants. Special earns special.
—Ah, but what we see here, what we see over and over again, Mr. Coons, is that Zink—
—Auran was waiting when Lincoln plunked down in his chair. It was a Friday, a Friday afternoon, and she had called their bi-weekly strat session at Prairie for a change – but in the back, where they could pull a curtain. She had letters and envelopes and clippings and schedule-grids already set out on the table, and looked up over catchy new violet eyeliner, eyeliner that set off her irises, made them bright …
She smiled a greeting, then descended to documents. Lincoln’s glass of sodawater was waiting for him. They went over the next week’s events – media, social, and charitable, in correct 4-2–1 distribution. She had the list of people to talk about, the thank-you notes ready for signature. She had taken care of the flowers for his housekeeper’s daughter’s birthday, and was grateful for the increase in salary. She was looking into a more reliable car service …
Now, Auran said. Let’s talk numbers. Remember: call 22 people a day. Even if you have nothing to say. That’s the magic figure for a city with Chicago’s population. So find the time. Make your play, make them want. Then get out …
And another number. Sorry to return to this. Think of narrowing down. Your paramours. Think of only going with one of them. After all, one is a nice number. Easy to remember. Sounds like the past tense of a fine verb.
—Really, Lincoln, think about this. Yes, you have to have a gorgeous girlfriend. It’s necessary. Absolutely so. It’s, in a way, your proof. We call it the factor irrefutable. The twist-tie to the happy sack. But Lincoln, only one. You see what I’m saying? You’re not so much interested in a good girlfriend, but in a good girlfriend brand. Don’t confuse the two,
OK? Keep it clean. Excuse me—<
br />
Auran went off to the ladies’ room, taking a twisty path. Inadvertently, on the way there, she knocked over a glass of champagne, standing on a table’s edge. The diners startled, and eyed, and raised shoulders. Auran did not look back.
—And when he got to his building – and oh yeah it was 4 AM, and oh yeah Cindy was with him, and they were swayin’, you know, just a little bit ankle-loose – and their night clothes were so, so fine, and the doorman, standing at that marble desk in his suit and cap, working papers, well he just smiled and said Good evening, Mr. Selwyn. And you know Lincoln smiled and said Hey, Tony, and took Cindy round, and they continued by. And then the doorman, he said Yes, Sir for no apparent reason. So Lincoln and Cindy are approaching the elevator, and the doorman then said Something here for you, Sir. So Lincoln separated from Cindy, let that arm trail as he stepped away from his lady, and walked back to the doorman who gave him a card, a little orange one, and it said Notice of Delivery. And it had a name on it like Anderson O’Leary, but Lincoln didn’t know who that was, so he put the card in his jacket pocket and took Cindy around and by the time they got on the elevator – for that slow ride, mm hm, up to PH – the card was on marble, on the lobby floor.
—LAHP dihum dihup dihoo. LAHP diwup dihud diHEY. Hey! Howrya doin’? Mr. Selwyn! It’s Touvil … ! It’s Touvil checkin’ in again. Checkin’ in again with – amazing – more good news! I’ve been promoted! No – again! They made me an editor! An assistant story editor in City! Yeah! Amaze … ! A full-fledged, well, assistant editor! They needed somebody, so now they’re letting me make the decisions! Some of them, anyway …
And again, Mr. Selwyn, I gotta say like a lot of it is really because of you. Really! I’m thankful, man. You let me in on the leads, the deep poop, then I got veal chops for my kid. And not unsold Ick Bluk Eek. Wow. I love you, man. Really, gotta say it. And even more than that, Ohnal, my kid – he loves you, too!
—It was a nice spring storm, one of the good ones, where the sudden blacksky and pelting rain isn’t just, like, y’know, yick, but where you feel the coming of summer – and better, the curtain on winter – in the washingdown torrent, you know?: you sense systems clanging systems, weather systems. So when Auran drove up, and Lincoln mad-dashed from the overhang at the front of his building – there were other cars, like, seriously unbudging in the dry spaces – she shoulda been cool. But she just said Hey when L got in, and then grimaced though the wipers at the gloop-all-over wet as she maneuvered around the standing cars, and she was all quiet during the trip, face-pushed to the windshield, braking—