“I told you, he’s Jordan Ainsworth, he…. No, I guess I don’t know who he is. I don’t know him at all!”
“You look pretty chummy in this shot,” he said as he held up the paper.
She ripped it out of his hand.
“Damn it, Sam, this isn’t funny. This guy’s a dead man. How soon can we train Farnsworth and Milo to be attack dogs?”
“Not in this lifetime. That’ll teach you to love esoteric, gentle breeds, although the puppy really let his rubber hedgehog have it the other day. You should’ve heard it screeching. You’re gonna have to find a different route. How ’bout reaching into your bag of Brooklyn?”
It’s true. You can’t take Brooklyn out of the girl, and she was about to go all Bensonhurst on Jordan Ainsworth.
To his credit, for having discovered his girlfriend in bed with another man, Sam was remarkably calm. But then, he really did know Coco. And this wasn’t her style; he knew she was being set up.
“I’m really losing my touch. I can’t believe I was hoodwinked.”
“I can’t believe you just used the word hoodwinked. ”
“Where’s my fucking phone? Rory’s going to rue the day he brought that guy on. Damn it!”
Sam stopped her. “Wait. I think you owe me an explanation before you call Rory. Why were you in a hotel room passed out with some guy you barely know? You were supposed to be there for an awards ceremony. And why was this CJ guy there?”
“An explanation?” she said. “Okay, here’s your explanation. There was a sexual revolution going on over the past ten years, and I totally missed it. Do you even know what a rabbit is? Did you know that everyone is having butt sex now? And I’m not even talking about the gays. Women are more sexually liberated than ever before, people are having one-night stands but are calling them ‘hookups,’ and nobody is mad at you the next day if you don’t call them. And this isn’t just in New York, it’s all over the country. Sam, we are missing all of this!” Coco didn’t know this was all pent up inside her, but it came tumbling out.
“What. The. Fuck? What the fuck are you talking about?” Sam asked, astonished. He looked at her closely, as if checking on her health.
“Just…. just forget it.”
“No, no. You can’t just let that out and let it drop. No way. I want to know what you’re talking about and what this has to do with your being passed out in a hotel room with, apparently, two men. Did you fuck them?” Sam was getting testy now.
“I’m talking about a decade, a whole generation that we missed because you and I are stuck in the nineties sexually. Nothing happened with Jordan Asshole, period; and CJ was there as my friend and stylist, okay? And he’s really, really gay, and even if he weren’t, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t sleep with him. But if you want to marry me, you are gonna need to step up your game, mister.”
“Let me get this straight. You won’t marry me unless I have a threesome with you and some, I don’t know, random third person?”
“God, no! Nobody said threesomes. Have you been talking to CJ? No! I just mean that while the whole world is out there doing god knows what and loving it, we nearly have bed death. I would like us to have some sexual exploration. CJ and I have discussed it, and we agree that this is what you and I need most. Okay? Can we?”
“Oh…. so…. you talked to your new gay best friend about my sex life? Thank you for your respect and privacy.”
“No, it’s not like that.” Coco knew she’d really stepped in it.
“And you made decisions for me?”
“No, for us. I just needed someone to…. Forget it. Forget I ever brought it up.”
“No, you tell me. Why is our sex life a discussion point between you and CJ?”
“Honey, girls talk more about sex together than you’ll ever know.” She was calm now.
“But he’s…. Never mind. Okay, fine. I am willing to talk about our sex life,” he relented.
“Thank you. That’s all I’m asking.”
“You’re not going to try to pee on me or anything weird like that, are you?”
“Eww.”
“Okay, I guess if that’s what you feel like you need, then that’s what we have to do. So where do we start?”
“Good question, I’m not sure because I don’t know what we’re into. Let’s go to one of those feminist, professionally run sex shops, like Toys in Babeland, and look at things. See what jumps out.”
“Okay, fine. If that’s going to make you happy. Just as long as there’s nothing, you know, weird.” He still wore a perplexed look, but also one of relief. Considering Sam’s blue state, Coco was relieved to see that he was at least game for some change. She didn’t expect much discussion. She knew he wanted to do what he could to make her happy so she wouldn’t belabor the point.
“I’m sorry, I have to call Rory.”
“Go get ’em, tiger.”
That night couldn’t come soon enough for CJ. He needed to find out if Malcolm had any useful information for them or if he knew anything about the case at all. He had to tread lightly.
CJ showed up at Malcolm’s apartment with a bottle of wine and some snacks from Citarella. He’d had an intern make a special trip between tapings; he wanted to have every advantage to get Malcolm to talk. After the usual pleasantries, CJ started to produce the conversation.
“You don’t talk about work all that much, but I’m very curious about what you do. Do you mind?” He knew that a narcissist like Malcolm would enjoy talking about himself, especially because he vaguely remembered him referring to himself in the third person once or twice.
“Sure. What do you want to know?” Malcolm said.
“How do you become something as important as a mayor’s aide?” CJ was smooth. Of course he knew all this, but he had to play the naïf to draw Malcolm out.
“I worked with the press team on the mayor’s first campaign, in 2001. He saw how dedicated and hardworking I was, even more than the people who were getting paid.”
“You didn’t get paid?”
“Oh no, I was a volunteer. I needed it for my résumé, of course,” Malcolm said, as if CJ should know that. He was such a dick sometimes.
“Then, even though we lost,” Malcolm continued, “he offered me a job as a paralegal at his law firm. I took it, made myself invaluable, worked my ass off until he made me his campaign manager on his next run for office. And, naturally, that’s why we won.”
CJ tried to contain his amazement that this guy had the balls to take credit for the mayor’s win. But he sucked up and pressed on.
“And how is the mayor? You know…. as a person?” CJ asked, as smooth as Oprah.
“Oh, he is such a vulgarian. He thinks Bach is something a terrier does,” Malcolm said, prompting CJ to wonder if he’d been schtupping Henny Youngman. “When I said I run his office, I meant it. I force-feed every bit of information to him; and sometimes I have to do it several times. The guy has a mind like an Etch-A-Sketch.”
“I take it you don’t like him much,” CJ said.
Malcolm thought for a second and drank a sip of wine. “It isn’t about that. It’s about whether he’s the right man for the job and the man who can help me get to the next level. Get me to where I want to be. Don’t get me wrong, I’d sell the fucker out on a moment’s notice if I thought anything he was doing would get out and ruin my reputation. In this business all you have is your reputation, and as you well know—and experienced, sorry—I protect mine like it’s Tiffany glass.”
CJ knew this was his opening. Malcolm didn’t care about the mayor, just about himself. Good narcissist, good boy.
“You may want to finish that glass of wine, because I’m guessing you’ll want another. I have something to tell you,” said CJ confidently, since now he had the upper hand.
“You’re scaring me. What?” Malcolm said as he did what CJ suggested.
“You haven’t met my friends yet, but we witnessed your boss kill someone on Halloween.” CJ waited a second before he continued. He knew
he had to let the thought sink in.
“What? No, no, c’mon, you’re putting me on. No way is that possible. You have to be mistaken.” Malcolm sounded sure of himself.
“It’s true. We were at a party next door and went wandering around the property. We saw the whole thing, all four of us.”
“There were four eyewitnesses to the mayor murdering someone? Wait, is this the—”
“Yes.”
“But if this were true, why wouldn’t you go to the police? Why wouldn’t there be an investigation? You don’t witness a murder and just ignore it,” Malcolm said. He liked to win arguments. He thought he had with that point, so he sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
“We did go to the police. Of course we did. But Chief Bruno convinced us that what we saw was a prank,” CJ said.
“Ah, well, there ya go.” Malcolm was relieved.
“We don’t believe for a second that it was a prank. Besides there being no reason to pull a prank like that since there was no intended audience, we have evidence. Trust me, it really happened,” CJ assured him.
“Proof? What kind of proof?” Malcolm was curious again.
“First off, there was DNA on an envelope my friend received. Yours. It was a letter blackmailing her so she would never tell what she saw. We all received letters like this.”
“An…. envelope?” CJ could see Malcolm’s mind working. “Holy shit. Are you—Is CJ short for Charlton Jeffre?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my god,” Malcolm said as he dropped his head into his hands. “How much trouble am I in? Who else knows? I swear I didn’t really think he’d actually killed someone. I thought he was just worried about the S and M stuff.” CJ had played his cards correctly. Clearly, Malcolm really didn’t give a shit about the mayor.
“Just the four of us…. and Detective Rob Casey. But don’t worry, he’s on our side,” CJ reassured him. “Oh, and possibly Saul from that ‘Problem Saulving’ TV show.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. As long as you cooperate, everything should be fine for you.”
“Please believe me when I tell you that I had no idea what was in those envelopes. The mayor told me they were going to degenerates who were trying to threaten him. I typed up the letters for him. I thought he was being a bully to get some annoying people to shut up about a petty white-collar crime.” Malcolm was certainly covering all his bases. “Part of doing my job well sometimes is not asking questions. I had no idea, I’m so sorry. Tell me what I can do to help,” he pleaded, since now it was clear his own aspirations could be on the line.
CJ looked sympathetically at the wounded Malcolm. Inside, though, he was grinning like that cat that ate every canary in the pet shop.
Game. Set. Match.
Sixteen
The Gert Locker
Coco was excited about her shopping excursion with Olivia. Truth be told, she’d let her friendships go over the years. The more successful she became, the fewer friends she had. She resented the fact that her level of success seemed commensurate with a dearth of female companionship. Nothing had happened per se between her and her old friends, it was just that when you are a woman in a male-dominated business, you have to dedicate yourself to your work in a way men never have to. Often Coco would be the only woman at a table full of male buyers and decision makers, and she’d become a chameleon. If they expected a sultry seductress, she was not above using her feminine charms; if they were looking for one of the boys, she was always ready with a dirty story; when they would go out on a bender, she’d use whatever trick she could to make them think she could drink them under the table.
When you live in a world like that, you have to sacrifice something. It wasn’t going to be her relationship with Sam, and it wasn’t going to be the pups; so it was her female friendships, and in the long run she’d suffered for it. A woman without her girls is like a dress without Spanx. You don’t need a pair of Spanx in order to wear that dress, but the support is everlasting, you feel much more secure, and you hold your head just a little higher knowing you have them.
Olivia suggested they shop in SoHo. Neither of them had been there for some time, but from what they could remember from their twenties, it was a place where fashion was eternally au courant. Certainly, it was the place to go if you were a person, like Olivia, who needed to step up her outfit game now that she was back in the dating pool.
What you wear while you shop is almost as important as what you buy when you shop. Since it was nearly wintertime in trendville, Coco wore a simple but chic, long black Bur-berry coat; because of where she was, she wore it as if it were armor. It wasn’t until they walked into the Catherine Malandrino store that Olivia got a peek at what was lurking underneath Coco’s cashmere. For some reason Coco was wearing the most dazzling Diane Von Furstenberg chiffon kimono dress with bell sleeves that Olivia had ever seen. It was as if she were at a movie premiere. Olivia stared at Coco as if she had just revealed a clown costume.
“My god, that’s beautiful. But why on earth are you so dressed up?” Olivia asked.
“Honey, I used to live around here. What if I run into someone I know? I don’t want them going back and telling the rest of the neighbors that I moved out of the city and let myself go. They’re already judging me for moving to the burbs,” she said.
“But you live in Greenwich. It’s not like you moved to New Jersey!”
“You don’t understand, sweetie,” Coco explained. “When you’re out of the city, people who stayed here make you feel like you lost the war. Like you couldn’t hack it, so you retreated. That isn’t a white picket fence around your house, it’s a white flag. It screams, I give up! Uncle! You win!”
“That isn’t true!” Olivia was practically pleading, like a child who’d been told there is no Santa Claus. But then she thought about it and doubt crept in. “It’s not true, is it?” she half whimpered.
“Yes, and it’s our fault. We give our friends who didn’t leave Manhattan power every time we see them. We always say that we would like to come back here one day, or we vow to get a pied-à-terre to keep a foot in New York’s door. We just can’t sever that tie. Manhattan is like that guy you just had really bad timing with, or maybe it’s a codependent, unhealthy relationship. Either way, we miss it and just can’t get over it,” Coco said.
“Not me. I’m happy to be out of a big city. Besides, you can’t be single in New York after the age of thirty. It’s just not possible,” Olivia concluded.
“Really? Why is that?” Coco asked.
“Well, it’s an awkward age. The men your age want younger women, and the older men want still younger women. Let’s face it, unless you’re willing to be a trophy wife to some eighty-year-old, you’ve got no shot.”
“Oh, honey,” Coco said patronizingly, “that’s pitiful.”
As they left Malandrino, Coco noticed Alessi, the designer Italian housewares store, across the street.
“Oh, can we run in there for a sec? I have a cousin who just got engaged, and she’s registered there,” Coco said.
“Sure. What were you thinking about getting for her?” Olivia said.
“Dunno, a gravy boat perhaps? Something weddingy.”
The girls walked in and began looking at some of the bizarre, novel items. They took turns picking up things they did not readily recognize and mouthing, “What’s this?” across the aisles, which was repetitively met with a big shoulder shrug.
“This place is turning objects back into objets, isn’t it?” Olivia said. “Look at these wacky spoons!”
“They aren’t just spoons, dear. It’s a ‘collection.’ Aren’t they just precious?” Coco said mockingly, sounding suspiciously like Lois Thomson.
Then she stopped a well-dressed salesperson midswagger. “Excuse me, where is your bridal registry?” she asked, and the woman pointed toward the back of the store. Coco went to a computer in the last aisle and looked up her cousin’s name, then began poking around the vases. She c
arefully scrutinized the four the bride-to-be had chosen.
“Just pick one. What’s the difference, she wants all of them,” Olivia said.
“I’m trying to decide which one will look best smashing up against her wall,” Coco replied.
“Why, is she hot-blooded?”
“Oh, that’s an understatement. She once took out an entire stack of dishes over a guy she caught kissing another girl at a bar. Next day, turned out, it was some other guy she mistook for her boyfriend. She only likes volatile relationships. She does it for the makeup sex, you know. Says it’s the hottest sex you’ll ever have.”
“Ah,” Olivia replied.
Coco held the vase up to the light, thoroughly analyzing every inch and angle.
“I want to get her a vase, but I don’t have the heart to tell her that it’s a stupid gift since she’ll never get flowers again,” Coco said.
Olivia thought for a moment. “Yeah, that’s true, isn’t it?”
Coco continued. “And you know, everybody makes the biggest deal out of you when you are first engaged. But then as soon as the wedding is over, you’re just some married lady nobody invites to parties anymore.”
“Same thing happens when you have a baby. At the baby shower you’re the hero having the child, but as soon as he turns one, you’re just some annoying mother who can’t keep her kid quiet on the bus,” Olivia told her. “You get all those onesies that first year, then by age three you’ve got nothing for the kid to wear and no time to go out and buy it.”
“I really don’t know why Sam is so eager to get married,” Coco said.
“Oh, you should do it! Marriage is great. You have that one person you’ll be with the rest of your life! It’s so romantic, you’re a team, and it’s the two of you against the world. All of that,” Olivia said dreamily.
“But we have all of that. Why ruin things with legalities? And if CJ can’t, why should I be able to?” Coco’s voice trailed off as she put the vase back on the shelf and noticed other customers staring and pointing subtly just over her shoulder. SoHo was known for celebrities, so she was sure there was some major star standing behind her. It had just been in the papers that Beyoncé and Jay-Z were shopping in the area; Leonardo DiCaprio sightings were almost de rigueur there. But when she turned around to see Graham Shore, she was doubly surprised. First, because she assumed he was with Bailey that day, and second because he was playing tonsil hockey with some hot little redhead in a micromini.
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