The Ancient Nine

by Ian K. Smith, M. D.

  “Here he comes,” Hutch said. He cuffed his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Way to go, Cards, my boy!”

  I was happy to see him also. A familiar face might help untangle the knots in my stomach. I felt sure that Cards and I were destined to become friends. We had too much in common not to be. Two guys from the wrong part of town who had no business getting mixed up in this world of secret codes and blue bloods.

  Cards was out of breath when he reached us. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Thanks for waiting. Practice was a bitch today. But I’m here and ready to go.”

  “Almost left you,” Claybrooke said. “For the record, it’s usually not good form for a punchee to keep the members waiting.”

  “Cut the shit, Clay,” Hutch said, grabbing Cards in a semi–bear hug around his shoulders. “We’re all here to have fun. The team is assembled, so let’s go off to war.”

  And with that pronouncement, we loaded into the back of the limousine, where plenty of beer and iced champagne awaited us. Not surprisingly, Hutch snapped off a beer cap with his teeth, while Claybrooke went directly for the bottle of champagne. Cards and I begged off, but Hutch assured us that when we got to New York, our abstinence would be short-lived. As the limo driver whipped us down Storrow Drive, I looked at the Harvard buildings growing smaller in the distance and felt a creeping guilt over the fact that my family thought I was tucked away in the corner of some library, studying to make the dean’s list, when here I was in a limousine heading to some fancy dinner in New York City. As excited as I was, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Sunday-night FBT discussion. My emotions were at war. Was I somehow betraying the many generations before me, thousands of nameless people who fought and sacrificed to break down barriers so that I could attend Harvard? Now, here I was—excited and participating in a night like this, which was based on the very principles of exclusion they had sacrificed so much of their lives to bring to an end. I wondered what my father would think. These were the times that I really missed him. Usually I could figure things out on my own, but there were moments that I longed for his counsel, a steady hand to show me the way.

  The limo driver squeezed into the small artery streets that fed into the Sumner Tunnel. We made it to the airport with forty minutes to spare, and a uniformed airport official met us as we got out of the limousine. He personally escorted us ahead of other waiting passengers and through the security checkpoint. Exhausted from practice and anxiety, the only thing I remember about that flight was putting on my seat belt before we took off and leaning back against the headrest. The next thing I knew, we were skidding into LaGuardia Airport.

  22

  MY LOVE AFFAIR with New York City began the second I stepped off the plane. Before I even saw my first building or my first New York City taxicab, I knew I would live there for the rest of my life. Even in the airport, everything was fast and fashionable, men in pin-striped suits and leather trenches, women wearing flamboyant hats and big jewelry. New Yorkers were their own breed and brand. They looked confident and savvy, people who could survive anything, anywhere, anytime. Even the shoeshine boy had attitude, standing there against his chair, hands hanging out of his pockets, his head cocked to the side with a toothpick rotating in the corner of his mouth.

  We walked down the steps to baggage claim, and were met by a sea of drivers, most of them foreign looking. Hovering above the others, however, was a giant. Dark-skinned, with closely cropped hair, he had shoulders so wide, they looked like someone had stuffed tires in his sleeves. This mountain of muscle held a sign that had CLAYBROOKE written across it. We all gathered around him, and he introduced himself as Hugh Samuels, but preferred to be called by his nickname, Tiny. He offered to take all our bags at once—which I’m sure he could’ve done, along with every other bag in the airport—but we declined and followed him outside. An entire row of taxis was lined up along the curb, picking up passengers, then speeding off toward the exit. It was surreal, standing there and looking at a classic New York symbol that I had seen only in pictures. I wanted to jump into the back of one and yell out the address through the glass partition like I had seen actors do in the movies. But dreams of a wild taxi ride would have to wait as Tiny led us to a stretch limousine that was even longer and shinier than the one we rode in Boston.

  The limo had three televisions, a full bar, enough champagne to open a liquor store, and panels of lights that could change from red to green to white with just the flick of a switch.

  “Welcome to the Big Apple, men,” Claybrooke said, a glass of champagne teetering in his hand. “I want to tell you a little about our host tonight. Mr. Weld Bickerstaff, class of ’53, is third-generation Harvard and descends from a long line of prominent Gas men. Until last year, he was the chairman of Merrill Lynch. A couple of years ago, Forbes magazine listed him as the sixth-wealthiest man in the country. But even more impressive, an article in Playboy claimed his fourth wife, Dominique, to be his greatest asset. Bickerstaff is one of our most loyal alums and has thrown the New York punch dinner for the last ten years. He’s a great man with a heart as deep as his wallet. He bleeds Delphic blue, so you have him to thank for everything that happens on this trip. He’s given us Tiny for the night as well as the influence he wields in this great city. Forget about Harvard and term papers and anything else that’ll distract you from the adventures that await us. Tonight is all about networking with one of the country’s wealthiest men and taking New York for all it’s worth. But remember one thing, lads—what happens in New York, stays in New York. So, raise your glasses to Bickers, the Big Apple, voluptuous Dominique, and the eternal life of the Gas.”

  The roar that erupted threatened to blow the sunroof off the limo. We all knocked back our glasses of bubbly, and the bottle made another round.

  “What’s up with this Dominique?” Buzz asked Brandon Pollack, the member sitting between us. Pollack was the son of a famous movie director who had also gone to Harvard, but had been a member of the Fly Club. Pollack had seen and heard it all, whether playing basketball in the backyard of his family’s Beverly Hills estate or watching Sharon Stone lie topless by his family’s pool.

  “If sex were an artist and painted a self-portrait, it would look like Dominique Cardona Bickerstaff,” Pollack said. “He found her down in Venezuela on a trip with his third wife to see Angel Falls.”

  The limo pulled onto the Triborough Bridge, and I had my first real look at the world’s most famous skyline. It was breathtaking, more concrete and glass in one condensed area than I had ever seen in my life. The lights flickered against the sky like fireflies on a clear summer night. Then I saw the building that would forever come to symbolize the city for me. It was in midtown, much taller and different from the others around it. Its lighted gothic arcades, symmetrical and iconoclastic, lined the spire all the way up to its highest point. While I knew nothing of architecture, I was certain that this was an important building. It looked like a lithe ballerina compared to the others that were masculine and clunky. I had seen it several times in a movie, but I never knew its name.

  “What’s that building over there?” I asked Hutch. “The one with the lighted spire.”

  “The Chrysler Building,” he said. “Isn’t she a beauty? Built by the automotive tycoon Walter Chrysler in the 1930s and at one point the tallest building in the world.”

  “Until General Motors got in the picture,” Claybrooke interjected. “One of the GM executives hated Walt Chrysler, so he changed the plans on his own building that was under construction and beat the Chrysler by just over two hundred feet. It’s over there with the red, white, and blue lights on the tower. The Empire State Building.” It was an impressive building, lurking there in the sky like a bully in a crowded schoolyard. But I couldn’t keep my eyes off the Chrysler.

  We finally made it into Manhattan, where the yellow taxis zipped around us, cutting each other off as they dipped and dived to pick up passengers. The first thing that hit me about New York was all the concrete. It was nothi
ng like Chicago, a city of parks and trees built around the expanse of Lake Michigan. Instead, New York was a grid of long, broad avenues running in parallel lines up and down the island with narrow horizontal streets connecting them. The city looked old and dirty with large garbage bags piled up on the curb, waiting to be picked up in the morning, graffiti-scarred edifices crumbling onto the sidewalks, and rusted fire escapes zigzagging beneath rows of smoky windows. I was struck by how each block seemed to be different from the next. A row of immaculate brownstones with artistic lighting fixtures might sit adjacent to a street full of dilapidated tenements with broken doors and taped-up windows.

  “Mr. Bickerstaff has been nice enough to offer us the entire suite of bedrooms on the third floor of his apartment,” Claybrooke announced. “So, we’ll put our things away, have dinner, and then go back upstairs to change for our night out. And as a legal precaution for the club, I must remind all of those who are underage that we do not encourage the consumption of alcoholic beverage amongst minors.” He winked at us and smiled, and we downed another round of drinks.

  The limousine turned onto storied Fifth Avenue. To the right stood a wall of darkness as the tree-lined border of Central Park broke only for a few blocks to showcase the imperious Metropolitan Museum of Art and its colorful exhibit of banners flapping in the night breeze. To our left, towering apartment buildings loomed, and ornately uniformed doormen peered behind tall glass doors, assisting residents out of dark sedans, dutifully carrying leather-strapped shopping bags and large packages into the well-appointed buildings. Most of the lobbies boasted impressive crystal chandeliers, polished wood, and elaborately designed wallpaper. Mercedes and BMWs and other foreign cars sat double-parked against the curb, their hazard lights blinking, their drivers standing outside at the ready.

  The limo pulled up to a gray marble-tiled building with a long green awning that reached from the lobby to the curb. No sooner had Tiny stopped than two doormen in matching uniforms opened our doors and then stepped aside, their white-gloved hands bent behind their backs, their heads bowing each time one of us climbed out of the backseat. Their deference was embarrassing, and I looked at the others to see if they too felt uncomfortable. Claybrooke, of course, was out front, nose in the air, acknowledging the men only by handing off his overnight bag, while the rest of us gladly carried our own.

  “I’ll be here when you’re done with dinner, Mr. Claybrooke,” Tiny said. “Shall I restock the bar in the meantime?”

  “A few more bottles of Dom Pérignon would be great,” Claybrooke said. Then he turned and looked at Hutch. “And a couple of cases of Amstel Light for the brute.”

  We followed Claybrooke into the shiny, wood-paneled lobby. Everything looked expensive, from the slip-covered furniture surrounding the long glass table to the marble sculptures resting in the mahogany niches. The concierge picked up a phone behind his desk and said something into it before escorting us into an elevator. The lift operator welcomed us and already knew our destination. A large mural of angels and rolling hills covered the ceiling, and a velvet couch sat along the back wall. I wasn’t sure if the couch was meant to sit on or if it was just there for decoration, so I took a cue from the others and remained standing.

  Within seconds, we were in the foyer of what can only be described as a mansion in the sky. A chandelier large enough to light up a football stadium hung from the ceiling in front of a peach marble staircase that disappeared somewhere near the domed ceiling. An enormous painting hung on the left wall, and a fresco half its size occupied most of the right wall. It was the most intimidating display of opulence I had ever seen.

  “Hey, boys!” a voice echoed from the other end of the long hall. A dark figure made its way toward us while two others trailed behind. “Mi casa es su casa,” the man said as he reached us, letting out a boisterous laugh that raced around the foyer, then rattled up the stairs.

  Weld Bickerstaff was nothing like I had imagined. His long red hair, tinged with streaks of gray, was neatly tucked behind his ears and curled just above his shoulders. An army of freckles poked through his deep tan and spread across his cheeks. He had heavy bags under his eyes, as if miniature pillows had been slipped under his skin. He was military stocky and wore a pair of jeans that looked tight enough to constipate him. Under his deep chocolate suede blazer, he wore a French blue shirt opened enough to show a mat of red whiskers crawling up his chest. He held a tumbler full of what looked like vodka and soda and three olives. A man’s man. A young Vietnamese man and woman who looked like they could pass as brother and sister stood behind him with welcoming smiles.

  Claybrooke stepped forward. “Good evening, Mr. Bickerstaff,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Mr. Bickerstaff?” the man said, looking wide-eyed over his shoulder. “Who’s that?” He let out another howl that sent a flash of red across his cheeks and said, “I’m Mr. Bickerstaff to these two behind me. But to my fellow brothers of the Gas, I’m Bickers.”

  Claybrooke nodded and smiled, as did the rest of us. I already liked the man.

  “Haven’t we met before?” Bickerstaff said, stepping closer to Claybrooke and looking him over.

  “Yes, sir, I was here two years ago for my punch dinner. I’m Thaddeus Claybrooke, ’89.”

  “That’s right, I remember,” he said. “You told me about your great something or other crossing over on the Mayflower.” Claybrooke released one of his smug grins. “Your people were upstairs eating filet mignon while mine were down below, knifing each other for greasy scraps,” he said. “Last time you were here, you were a little uptight.” He reached up and pulled Claybrooke’s bow tie until it unraveled. “This time, loosen up a bit. You’re a member now, so no need to kiss anyone’s ass.”

  The rest of us, feeling safe with Bickerstaff as a buffer, joined him in another hearty laugh, then introduced ourselves to him in order.

  “Leave all your bags right here,” he said. “Tran and Huang will take them up to your rooms. We’re gonna set you up on the third floor. Each of you will have your own room to accommodate any company you might have later.” He winked and laughed, then said, “Now, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”

  We followed him down a series of wide hallways and through a cluster of sumptuous rooms that had been tastefully decorated with sleek furniture and expensive art. We finally reached a large dining room dominated by a long pink marble table. The combination of polished silverware and brilliant light made the table look like it was littered with diamonds. Two black women in uniforms different from the ones worn by Tran and Huang showed us to our seats and began fussing over us right away. I was terrified that I was going to do something embarrassing, like use the incorrect fork or pick up a dinner roll from the wrong plate. So, I resorted to my safety plan—follow the movements of someone I knew would do everything right. I scoped out Claybrooke, who, of course, was prominently seated to Bickerstaff’s right, his bow tie gone, but his shirt still closed to the top button.

  “I hope you boys are hungry,” Bickerstaff said, nursing a fresh drink. “I had them search halfway around the world to get you some quality meat. We got some beef from Argentina and lamb from Australia. Have one or both. It’s your choice. And don’t be shy. We ordered enough to feed an entire battalion.”

  I didn’t doubt it. I leaned over to Hutch. “Where’s Dominique?” I whispered.

  “Oh, don’t worry.” He smiled with a slow nod. “She’ll show.”

  There was the sound of silver on glass, and we all turned to see Bickerstaff standing at his seat. “First round of jokes of the night, fellows,” he said. “A young woman brings her fiancé Marcus home and is excited to introduce him to her parents. The father is sitting in his study smoking a cigar and reading the newspaper. Like any good father, he says to Marcus. ‘So what exactly is it that you do?’”

  “‘I’m a biblical scholar with a special focus on translations of the New Testament,’ Marcus says.”

  “The father replies, �
�That is commendable, Marcus, but you plan on marrying my daughter. How are you going to buy her a house and feed her?’”

  “‘Not a problem at all,’ Marcus says. ‘I study the Bible and Scripture assures me that God will provide.’”

  “The father puts down his newspaper and says, ‘That is well and good, but I’m sure you plan on giving me grandchildren. How do you plan on paying for their education?’”

  “‘Not a problem at all,’ Marcus says. ‘I study the Bible and Scripture assures me that God will provide.’”

  “The father sits upright in his chair. ‘A young family needs things like health insurance and a steady supply of food and other household items. How will you pay for all of this?’”

  “‘Not a problem at all,’ Marcus replies. ‘I study the Bible and Scripture assures me that God will provide.’”

  “The father has had enough and goes into the kitchen where his wife is putting the finishing touches on dinner.”

  “‘So what’s he like?’ the wife asks anxiously.”

  “‘Well, he seems to be a fine boy,’ the father says. ‘I just met him and he already thinks I’m God.’”

  We picked up the heavy silverware and got down to the business of eating.

  Hutch elbowed me in the side. She walked toward us in a silver, shimmery, formfitting dress with a plunging neckline that showed off the bronzed skin of her ample cleavage. Her long black hair had been pulled back from her sun-soaked face, exposing a pair of large teardrop diamond earrings that shone like mini flashlights. The first two words that instantly popped into my mind—flawless and goddess.

  Bickerstaff stood and the rest of us followed.

  Bickerstaff cleared his throat and said, “Gentlemen, my lovely wife, Dominique Cardona Bickerstaff. My most valuable treasure.”

  She smiled, and I swear I had to hold on to the back of my chair to keep myself from falling. Those turquoise green eyes set against that dark skin was like God saying, “If you ever doubted my ability to perform miracles, you will never doubt me again.”