Despite Wendy’s nine hours a day spent in the pristine classrooms of Marlowe, despite a lifetime of mandatory birthday parties at the lush homes of her Upper East Side classmates, and despite all the years of tiptoeing around a borrowed house far above her family’s means, the lobby of the Four Seasons made her stop and stare. Though the room was bustling, the sound of Wendy’s shoes echoed through the vast space as her soles tapped a nervous rhythm across the chocolate-and-cream marble floor. Wendy ran her fingers along one of the massive ivory-colored columns, then followed John and her father inside, where a sign directed them to the reception. Wendy could see that her father was nervous. He almost bumped into a table holding a vase so huge that it towered above them, bursting with hundreds of blossoms in burnt shades.
The entire restaurant had been converted for the event. The dining tables, covered with silk and decorated with lily centerpieces, held place cards with the names of prominent Marlowe patrons and campaign donors. In the front of the room, a sculpture the shape of a large coral looked out onto the diners. Below the sculpture, a long table was set up with places for Professor Darling, his children, Simon, the governor, and three of her reelection campaign staff.
“Well, helllooooo, Professor Daaaarling!” cooed a slim, designer-clad woman of about fifty whom Wendy immediately recognized as the governor. She said the professor’s name as if it were her pet name for him. Professor, darling. And Wendy, darling. And John, darling. And their darling assistant, Simon.
Professor Darling coughed into his hand and nodded politely to the governor. “Pleasure to be here.” He made to sit down at his assigned seat.
“Oh, no, no,” said the governor, taking his arm. “It’s only the cocktail hour. Let’s go and mingle. Show off your vast knowledge of . . . um . . . Egyptian art.”
“Artifacts.”
“Of course,” said the governor as she pulled the professor away from the head table. “Let’s walk.”
Wendy could tell her father was embarrassed. No one else was seated yet. All the other guests seemed perfectly comfortable, busily mingling in small groups around the room, drinking champagne and observing one another. He’s all wrong for this, Wendy thought, feeling a pang for her father every time he made a clumsy comment or stared timidly into his glass.
A waiter whizzed by them with a tray of drinks.
“Let me guess,” said the governor as she coyly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t do this too often.” She flashed a smile and a sizable sapphire ring on her right hand. Famously single, the governor had devoted her life to politics, but, as Wendy knew, single women of fifty don’t do well with the all-American family-values demographic. The governor eyed the professor’s rented tuxedo, patted his arm, and began to make introductions.
Half an hour later, the professor, moderately relaxed after his third drink, was fending off strings of admiring politicos, most of whom couldn’t name a single Egyptologist other than George Darling and Indiana Jones.
A waiter strutted past, brushing Wendy’s hair from behind. “Salmon tart?” Wendy waved him away.
Professor Darling had started to regale the governor’s friends with the story of Elan the builder when Simon interrupted with a phlegmy clearing of the throat.
“Madam Governor,” he said, “it is such an honor that you’ve decided to give us this prestigious award. We are so very happy to be here.”
“I’m sorry . . .” began the governor. “But you are?”
“Simon Grin. We met before,” he said. “Curator. Director, actually. From the British Museum.” When the governor didn’t respond, he added, “I’m the one who brought the exhibit here.”
Professor Darling coughed into his hand.
Wendy nudged John in the ribs.
The governor went back to schmoozing donors. She turned to a plump man with pasty skin and beady eyes and said, “James, I hear the merger was —”
“Actually,” Simon interrupted, planting himself between Wendy and the governor, “I understand you might be needing your own curator soon, at the capitol.” He winked. The governor smiled the way you would smile at someone else’s child who’s made a mess on your floor. Professor Darling mumbled something about not having given the governor the gift just yet.
“This is insane,” Wendy whispered to John. “We can’t let that book go to the capitol.”
“I know,” said John. “I don’t want that either.”
“Is that because you care about Peter’s quest or because you don’t want Simon to go to Albany?” Wendy asked. “Or do you finally believe me about Simon?”
John shrugged. “I just want to go back in the maze. See more stuff. Hang with Tina and the guys . . .”
“What are we gonna do?” Wendy wondered out loud. “We’re gonna lose the book, and we have no way to contact Peter. And I saw something really weird outside the dorms.”
“Stuffed mushroom?” Wendy heard the waiter call over her shoulder.
She shook her head and kept watching Simon. She sighed and despondently tapped her cheek with her index finger.
“Whipped duck . . . mousse . . . thing?” the waiter pressed.
“Huh?” Wendy turned and gasped.
There he was. Peter was standing in front of her in a tuxedo, a white cloth over his arm, holding a tray of appetizers. He gave a childlike grin and said, “I told you I always think of something.”
Wendy finally took a moment to look around — to really look around. She laughed inside, thinking of all the things that people miss — things that go on all around, all the time, and escape everyone’s attention, though they make all the difference. She had spent the last hour admiring the table settings, marveling at the coral sculpture, gazing with awe at the crystal chandelier that cascaded toward them like an upside-down fountain, but she hadn’t seen the most obvious thing: LBs in tuxedos. They were everywhere. A flawless waitstaff, impeccable in its professionalism, each with big indulgent service-industry smiles . . . Every one of them missing that same tooth: top row, left canine.
A tall Indian boy with a feathered haircut was serving champagne to one of the investors.
A short one with red hair, freckles, and a large headset was explaining the lack of suitable vegetarian options to a woman with tight lips and an upturned nose. He nodded, turned, and called into his headset, “Valet LB12, I need Mrs. Spencer’s car pulled up now.”
The Marlowe principal was tossing his umbrella to a coat checker with cornrows.
Tina was behind the bar in a tiny black cocktail dress, sidling up to a famous banker as she capped a cocktail shaker and explained coyly how you make a really dirty martini.
“How’d you pull this off?” Wendy asked. “I mean, forget the fact that getting those spoiled boarders to work is by itself a miracle, but you were fired and kicked out!”
“Mad skills, that’s how,” said Peter. “I’ve had this gig lined up for weeks. Besides, Marlowe isn’t running this show.”
“They are so freakin’ awesome,” said John, spotting a stocky boy with a German scowl (and platinum hair to match) taking coats and unburdening a few wallets. John shook his head. “That’s it, I’m joining up.”
“LBs are loyal to me,” said Peter, hardening his eyes and glaring at John. “Not to weaselly assistants who try to steal my stuff.”
John ignored that.
Wendy grabbed Peter’s arm and whispered, “Where have you been? You won’t believe what I saw outside the dorms! I think it might be a clue about the next loc —”
“Not here,” Peter warned. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Wendy glanced at Tina. Ever since the conversation with the nurse about Peter and Tina, she felt more confused than ever. “Where are you staying?” she demanded.
“With friends.” Peter flashed a charming grin. “Off campus.”
Wendy breathed out. “I don’t get it,” she said, happy to change the subject away from Peter’s sleeping arrangements. “So none of the faculty membe
rs or parents care that you’re here?” She noticed Tina looking back at her, glowering. Tina accidentally spilled half a cosmopolitan on her hand. When Peter leaned in to whisper in Wendy’s ear, Tina dusted the rim of the governor’s drink with salt instead of sugar.
“I’m union,” Peter whispered, his lips so close that his breath made Wendy’s hair flutter against her cheek. “Now, you better take a salmon tart or I’ll get fired from this gig, too.”
She took a tart.
“We had these jobs before your dad decided to give the book away. My guys knew the second the event was planned. And I always work the Egypt-related stuff — museum openings, book readings, fund-raisers. Have been for ages . . . I told the guys in my hall they had to learn to serve drinks or they’re out. The rest of them aren’t Marlowe kids. Just regular New York LBs without trust funds.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Wendy asked, feeling a pang that Tina knew.
“It didn’t come up. Besides, I leave the paying gigs to the guys to handle. They run it through the network and just let me know where to be.” He opened his jacket and flashed his phone. “They know what I want done . . . where I need to be.”
Wendy imagined all the places Peter had been, all the cities where he had his gangs of boys, just waiting for him to show up. And in each city, it would be the same. Peter would have access to every important event; he would have his ears propped against every door, ready to hear the secrets and happenings of each major metropolis. Not because he was some big shot with money but because he knew how to become invisible, because he was the one who controlled the people you don’t see: the bellboys, the valets, the waiters, and the gas pumpers. The window washers, the delivery guys, and the errand boys — the unseen eyes and ears of the world.
“Simon’s been trying to weasel a job with the book,” said Wendy. She wondered what Peter had planned for getting the book back. Was he just going to steal it?
“Yeah, I saw,” said Peter. “Let him do it. Lucky for you, the book isn’t going anywhere.”
“Lucky for us?” asked John. “See, Wen? He doesn’t appreciate anything. Besides, how do you know it’s not going anywhere?”
“Because I know,” said Peter, irritated. “I won’t let it. And it’s lucky for you, because I don’t need to get the book back. I can follow that book anywhere. Let him schmooze all he wants. There isn’t a job in this world I couldn’t beat that moron out of.”
“What about Egyptology assistant?” said John with a smirk.
Peter shrugged. “I have forty different résumés. A dozen or so degrees. Do you think anyone ever checks on that crap? People don’t need verification once they love you. They’d rather just believe.” Wendy bristled at that remark. It sounded like something her mother would say. Peter didn’t notice. His eyes lit up as he poured John more iced tea.
Still, Wendy could tell that Peter was worried. She could tell by the way his brown eyes darted between Simon and the governor. The way he was shuffling, itching to get closer to the action but not able to for fear of being conspicuous. It was clear that Peter didn’t want the book to go to Albany. And that he knew he needed their help. Wendy wished he’d just admit that, tell her that he needed her around. Instead, he texted one of his boys.
Magnus Unus: 20 on Crocodile Smile?
LB28: I got a 20. Head table, next to gov.
Magnus Unus: I know, numb nuts. Tell me what he says.
Simon was finally getting somewhere with the governor. She had stopped eyeing him as though he were crazy and was laughing at one of his jokes. “Well, dear, I never did think of it like that.” Wendy hung back, chewing her nails, spying on Simon’s conversation.
John watched, fascinated, as the boys circled the room, listening and serving cheese balls.
Even after they were seated and dinner was served, Simon wouldn’t shut up. He was leaning over the governor’s food and whispering things in her ear, and she was lapping it up as he shamelessly complimented her on everything from her gaudy brooch to her purplish hair. Meanwhile, the amiable professor seemed oblivious to Simon’s scheming. The weasel was obviously trying to step over him to get credit for the exhibit, and now he was also asking for the governor’s personal recommendation for a chairmanship at the Met. Most important of all, he was asking her permission to “study” the Book of Gates.
Wendy eyed the book, which was on display in front of the podium. She wanted so badly to be the one to get it for Peter. But she’d never be able to get to it without everyone at the party seeing.
Simon was still going on about his credentials when Professor Darling got up and approached the governor. He whispered something to her and nodded toward the book. Wendy watched as she got up, stroked the cover of the book, and nodded several times, smiling indulgently at the professor. They were probably agreeing when in the program he would present her with the gift. She heard the governor say, “Yes . . . Grin told me of its historic importance . . . yes, thank you very much . . . on loan, of course . . .”
When her father sat down again, Wendy spied Simon lean over and say, “Madam Governor, I really think your offices could use a monthly exhibit. Reports show that incorporating art into the work environment boosts employee productivity by thirty percent. Of course, as I have been saying, you’d need a curator. We could call the position ‘official curator laureate to the state of New York. . . .’”
“Nice,” said John, looking over at Simon. “See, Wen? At least Simon’s proactive. Instead of trying to steal the thing, he’s creating his own opportunities. See?” John had one eyebrow raised as if he thought he was teaching her a really big life lesson. She was getting sick of how much John had picked up from Simon, especially in the self-important-tone category. Lately, everything was all about résumés and credentials and important titles. John had never cared about those things before. In fact, the old John would have thought those things were for posers.
Meanwhile, the governor was blabbering on, giving in to Simon’s oily charms. “Oh, why, thank you, Mr. Grin, I’ve always been proud of my cheekbones. Ha-ha-ha. Blah-blah, ramble, yadda yadda, whatever.”
Wendy couldn’t even bother to register the litter coming out of the governor’s mouth. But then something actually caught her attention: “Curator laureate does sound like a good idea. I’ll speak to my chief of staff about it. It could help with my future campaigns. From the Art House to the White House. How does that sound?”
“Deliciously ambitious,” chirped Simon.
Spew, thought Wendy. Then the alarming part . . .
“I’ll start with a Book of Gates exhibit,” said Simon.
“Sure, sure, whatever you like.”
As the governor went back to schmoozing her donors, Simon looked back across the table at Professor Darling. He caught Wendy’s gaze and smiled. He had made his move, and now Wendy could swear he mouthed “Checkmate” to her.
As Wendy mouthed back, “Loser,” her dad looked up from his speech cards. Wendy buttoned it before he could catch the exchange. She tried to focus on her coq au vin.
“How are you enjoying yourself, Wendy?”
“Umm, great, Dad,” said Wendy. “Good chicken.”
“The situation is under control,” said John from her other side.
“What?” said the professor.
“Nothing,” said Wendy. “John’s quoting a, um, website.”
“Yeah,” said John. “Adventurators dot com backslash divert your attention dot net.”
Wendy turned and burned a hole into John’s face with her glare. The professor went back to his note cards. “You kids and your Internets,” he said.
But Wendy knew that her dad was getting sabotaged at his own gala. She had to do something. John wasn’t much help. Peter was still serving drinks. Every one of the LBs (including Tina) was eyeing the book while passing canapés. Yet not a single opportunity to snatch it presented itself. So it was up to Wendy. As she watched Simon worm his way further and further into the governor’s gr
aces, she knew it had to be drastic.
If the MC got up to the podium and introduced her dad for his speech, it would be next to impossible to make a grab for the book or to figure out some way to ruin Simon with the governor. Her dad would ramble for forty-five minutes, then the night would be over. Some attendant for the governor’s office would take the Book of Gates, Simon wouldn’t let it out of his sight, and they could kiss the rest of the legendary mummies good-bye. No, she had to make her move now.
“Can I refresh your drink, miss?” Wendy snapped out of her fearful musing to see a familiar hand pouring champagne into her glass. Peter. She was about to tell him about her plan to get the book when her dad looked up from his cards and spotted Peter.
“What’s this?” he said. “I thought I asked you two to stay away from him.”
It bothered Wendy that her dad wouldn’t even address Peter directly. Was Peter beneath him? But in true Peter fashion, he took it in stride. He patted Wendy on the shoulder and said, “Just refreshing the lady’s drink,” and walked away.
“I don’t know what that miscreant is doing here,” said the professor, “but we’ll speak about this later.” Wendy was boiling with anger. She wanted to scream that that miscreant was her friend, but she knew he wouldn’t understand.
“I didn’t invite him,” said John.
Wendy whipped around. “Whose side are you on?” She got up from her seat, picked up her glass, and started walking toward the governor.
Wendy strolled across the podium, doing her best to put on a perfect Marlowe-girl fake smile. “Madam Governor,” she squeaked, “would you sign my program?” She placed her champagne on the podium and bounced toward Simon, leaning across his body so he’d be cut off from the conversation. “Ommagosh, you are such a role model for our debate club. We all think the way you handled that labor union strike was totally fierce.”
Another Pan Page 23
