Rich Boy

by Sharon Pomerantz

  “You’re having an affair with someone,” she spat.

  “You’re irrational right now,” he said quietly. “There’s no point in this conversation.”

  “If I’m irrational, Robert, or if I’m crazy, then you’ve made me this way. It only took you ten years. Congratulations.” And then she turned off the light and they each retreated to their separate sides of the bed, turning their backs.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  The fall of ’87

  At the end of September, Sally informed him that for once, she’d been wrong. Someone had seen her performance, someone had noticed. And she’d gotten cast as the female lead, Billie Dawn, in a production of Garson Kanin’s play Born Yesterday, at an Equity theater in Hartford that paid a salary, and provided room and board. She would be gone for six weeks. On her last day shining shoes at A, L and W she was glowing with her triumph, seeming to float down the halls as if on a cloud. She looked as if she’d fallen in love, and it was hard to admit that he was jealous. Was he jealous that her attentions were elsewhere, or jealous of her certainty? A little of both.

  “This is good timing, really,” she said, finishing up his shoes, then standing up and adjusting the box. “It was getting old, all that push-pull. For you, too, I think. And I’ll come back.”

  He nodded, trying to look agreeable. Maybe this was the beginning of something for her; maybe she’d go from this into something even bigger. Wasn’t that the way it happened for actors? Didn’t they lead peripatetic lives, going where the work was? But he did not say that because it wouldn’t be fair. What did he even have to offer her? Instead he pointed out that he had a lot of work to distract him.

  “Maybe when I get back you’ll have made partner,” she said, “and we’ll go out and celebrate.” She put her hand on his shoulder and then, looking toward the door, she quickly leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Cheer up.”

  He handed her fifty dollars and she tried to give it back to him, but he would not take it. Then he watched her go, trying not to feel that the air was being let out of his life, that the next few months would be nothing but bland, unending work, domestic squabbles, worry. In short, what it had been before.

  Sally was right about one thing: at Alexander, Lenox and Wardell, a verdict was on the horizon. No one gave a specific day, there was no official meeting, but at some point before December a partner would come into his office and deliver the news. Usually there were hints and rumors beforehand, but Robert had heard nothing. It was the custom in real estate to wait longer to make partner, eight or nine years as opposed to the usual seven. Each passing year was a year wagered in the hopes of a higher-and-higher-stakes happy ending. If you couldn’t see that happy ending, if you were a “bad fit,” then you were smart to bail out early and go to another firm. Wait too long and you became just a failed aging associate in a boom market, when talent and even simple diligence were claimed and elevated; so what was your excuse? Ultimately, politics was the standard answer, or mitigating circumstances, or personality clashes, the endless variations that caused lawyers to be derailed, to not get their names at the top on the stationery. You became a lawyer with a story. And what lawyer wanted to walk around with a story hanging over his head?

  Mario Saldana was certainly a lawyer with a story. At the beginning of September, he had left for Caracas to visit his elderly mother, and by the first week in October it had become clear that he wasn’t returning. The resignation letter arrived by certified international mail, addressed to the partners, and stated that Mario’s mother’s health and his desire to be close to family had influenced his decision to take a very early retirement, at age forty-seven. He wrote a strong case in favor of Robert Vishniak’s candidacy for partner, but it didn’t really matter—now he had no vote.

  On the very same day, Robert received a personal note, addressed to his house. To Robert’s surprise, Mario told him the truth —he was dying of AIDS. He was apologetic, wishing that he could be there to help secure a partnership that he believed Robert deserved. Robert was deeply touched by Mario’s honesty, particularly from such a reserved, proud, and secretive man. But he could not help wondering how all this would affect his own fate.

  In the beginning, the other members of the firm honored the truth, or parts of it—Mario was a man with wonderful priorities, so handsome and exemplary, both in his work ethic and his sense of family, his dedication and decorum—but then, after a few weeks, the mythmaking began. The rumor mill worked both ways—it could tear you down or build you up. First, they talked of a potential Caracas office for the firm: maybe Mario could be coaxed back? Then there were rumors of a fiancée in Caracas, a whole other life invented for him—he had given up the crazy hours to live somewhere beautiful and spend time, not only with his sick mother but with the woman he loved. New York lawyers, working an eighty-hour week, could grasp such a dream to their hearts. It kept them going late at night while they stared at their computer screens. Mario’s portrait, which Robert did not even know existed, was brought out now from a back room and placed in a spot up front. Usually a man did not get a portrait out front until he’d been at the firm thirty years. Or had done something remarkable.

  In October, the firm held a good-bye dinner for Mario Saldana in a large private room at Peter Luger Steakhouse in Brooklyn. That Mario was not there did not really signify—they left an empty chair, as if expecting him, the way Robert’s family did at Passover for the prophet Elijah. All the partners and associates showed up, ordering sixteen-ounce prime rib along with dishes of creamed spinach and corn, which they spooned into their mouths like baby food.

  Robert had not thought people knew enough about Mario to talk about him—and he was right. The speeches were half praise and half speculation. People talked of favors Mario had done them, presents for children’s christenings, jokes he’d made at closings—and Robert was certain that most of what they said never happened. They evoked the phrase worked hard and played hard so much that Robert felt as if he were in a commercial for running shoes. They acted like Mario had not been reserved to a fault, avoiding all intimacy, anxious to interact socially only on the soccer field or tennis court, places where men usually did not talk.

  If the lawyers in that room knew nothing of Mario’s childhood, had never met his family, or even set foot in Venezuela, it did not matter. There were now a series of orphans he had rescued from the streets and was putting through school; a group of soccer players in the South Bronx who had a field to play on and real soccer cleats because of Mario. There was a summa cum laude graduation from Duke, when Robert was certain Mario had said his grades were unimpressive in college. The litigators were the best at these verbal embellishments—few had even worked with Mario, but their speeches brought tears to the eyes of a group of waitresses who’d stopped for a moment to listen.

  The older partners did not say much, though they smiled approvingly and clapped at appropriate intervals, like proud parents. But Phillip Healey, the youngest of the old, got up and told a long anecdote, something to do with trying to keep up with Mario on the tennis court—by now, Robert wasn’t really listening—and then Phillip sat down, and all eyes turned to Robert. He was the logical one to toast his former mentor, and that was clearly what was now expected—his turn had come.

  “Stand up, Robert,” Jack whispered.

  Grasping his glass of scotch in his hand, as if at any moment he might hoist it for a toast, he found that he had no words. After a long, awkward pause, he said Mario’s name aloud. A few lawyers leaned forward in their seats, others smiled—was it with contempt, or the expectation that he was about to do something surprising and witty? But Robert put the glass down, shaking his head. He would not slander the memory of the one lawyer who’d actually been kind to him. Wilton Henry got up from his seat at the next table and approached, put his hand on Robert’s shoulder, and whispered: “Having some trouble?” Robert nodded and then sat down. Henry, first saying a few words about how affected Robert had been by Ma
rio’s leaving, segued quickly into a monologue so entertaining and yet solemn that he received a standing ovation. Liesel MacDuff took off her very thick glasses in public—for the first time anyone could remember—in order to wipe away the mist on her lenses, then stood up and made her own attempt, admitting that she was in an unenviable spot on the roster.

  Robert knew this night might come back to haunt him—he had not done what was expected—but suddenly he did not care. He might have spent more time with Mario than the others, but he could remember only two personal conversations they’d ever had —and only if he counted the first one, when they’d met in the hall in Robert’s first month as a summer associate. The one person who knew Mario intimately was not at this dinner, and had he been there, Robert felt sure that he would have fled in horror.

  When it was over, Robert got quickly into his waiting car, anxious to avoid his colleagues. “Get me the hell out of here,” he told Troy. All the way home, he stared out the window at the aging factories, barren lots, and crumbling row houses of Williamsburg. As the car made its way toward the bridge, it occurred to Robert that Mario’s custom suits had fooled no one; neither had his insistence on working long hours to the end, or even the long line of glamorous women he brought to firm Christmas parties. The dinner was not about Mario’s accomplishments, or even his character—it was an evening created solely to acknowledge what Mario had done for Alexander, Lenox and Wardell. He had kept them from scandal, kept them or any of their competition from ever having to associate A, L and W with the word AIDS.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  The verdict

  When Lola came into Robert’s office just after lunch and said that Mr. Alexander wanted to see him, she looked pleased. Robert wished he could feel so sanguine. He had always told her that if he made partner she’d get a raise. “I don’t think they’re telling us for another month,” he cautioned, not wanting her to get her hopes up. Past trips to Jack’s office had not always yielded positive results. As he walked down the hall, he wondered: was it his imagination, or were lawyers coming out of their offices and secretaries raising their eyes to stare at him?

  Not looking up from her work, Selene told him to go in. He found Jack at his favorite spot at the window, looking out at the view. He turned around and pointed to the chair that faced his desk, then walked over and sat down on the other side. “I don’t want to beat around the bush,” he said, as Robert quickly took his seat. “You’ve put me in a very difficult position.”

  “In what way, exactly?” Robert asked, sitting up straighter.

  “With Mario retired, it’s a good time for us to take on two real estate partners—a case might even be made for three. We’ve had an excellent year and our pool of associates has grown significantly. You worked most closely with Mario’s clients, but as you know, almost all of them have transferred their business to firms with stronger international practices. Many were family members, as I understand, and he was the draw.”

  Robert nodded, anxious for him to get to the point.

  “You’re a solid lawyer, Robert. There’s no question you do your job and have brought in business. I’ve said all along that I’ll abstain from voting this year, so as not to give the impression of nepotism. But with Mario retired and Harold Thoms about to step down, we need all the available real estate partners to participate. You can imagine that though I may caution my colleagues to count me as anyone else, my vote holds significant weight.”

  Spit it out, Robert thought. Say it already.

  “But I’m not supporting your candidacy.”

  Robert could feel his chest getting heavier, and so he reached into his jacket for his inhaler and used it quickly. Jack waited politely, his face inscrutable. When Robert could finally speak, his question came out a hoarse croak. “May I ask why, exactly?”

  “Because being a partner in this firm is about more than just being a good lawyer. A partner sets an example.” He stood up and Robert stood up, too, so that they faced each other across the desk.

  “I think I’ve set a fine example. Are you implying that I haven’t brought in enough business, because —”

  “You’re not hearing what I’m telling you,” Jack said, his voice tight. “The whole firm is talking about you and that shoe-shine girl. You’ve been seen all over the city with her—a group of second-years saw you kissing her under a streetlamp near some downtown bar. You’ve been seen walking arm in arm with her on the Upper West. And you were seen meeting her, more than once, in the lobby of this building, and described as ‘all over each other.’ I don’t condone gossip, but it’s a reality of firm life, and for too long you’ve been the entertainment around here. The fact that you’re not aware of this is shocking in and of itself—and makes me wonder exactly where your head has been these last months, though I suspect I know the answer! But you’re also my son-in-law and, unfair as it may seem, I can’t separate my personal from my professional feelings here.” His voice quivered now. “You will not make my daughter the butt of one more damned joke!”

  “But I’m faithful to Crea,” Robert said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve never slept with the shoe-shine girl,” he said. “And I don’t see what my personal life has to do with my job. I’ve given all I could to this firm.”

  “When you married Crea, your work and personal life ceased to be completely separate.”

  “But you’ve treated me no better because I’m your son-in-law, so why should you treat me worse? I tell you that I have not had sex with Sally Johannson. Don’t you believe me?”

  “Even if I believed you, it wouldn’t be relevant. Because everyone thinks that you have.” He paused. “And given the evidence, I find your claim hard to buy.”

  “Believe whatever you want, but I’m telling you that we’re friends.”

  “I don’t care what they call it nowadays!” he said. “I’m aware that not making partner this year will be very humiliating for you, for the simple reason that everyone expects it.”

  “And because the entire New York legal community will assume I’m too incompetent to make partner even in my own father-in-law’s firm.”

  Jack seemed calmer now, the most unpleasant part over with, and he sat back down. “Go home and tell Crea what’s been going on. The two of you should take a nice vacation. Never see that girl again. In fact you’re going to tell her that she can’t shine shoes here. When the gossip has settled down, perhaps in a year or two, then we’ll reconsider you for partner. But you must tell Crea. If you don’t, I will.”

  “What am I supposed to say?” Robert asked, finally unable to control himself. “That I’m not making partner because the entire firm thinks I’m sleeping with the shoe-shine girl when, in fact, I am not sleeping with the shoe-shine girl?!”

  Robert did not believe that all those lawyers had seen him. Manhattan was too big—on the rare occasions that younger associates got out, they went to bars or restaurants close to the office, and he had avoided those. Had his father-in-law had him followed? Or someone else? Wilton Henry or Liesel MacDuff? Anything was possible. “You never liked me, did you?” Robert asked.

  “Liking or not liking you has nothing to do with this.”

  “But you didn’t think I was good enough for Crea, did you?”

  “That’s irrelevant.”

  “I think it’s extremely relevant.”

  “You have a daughter,” Jack said. “Will anyone ever be good enough for her?”

  There was a knock at the door, and Jack called out that he was not to be disturbed. But the knocking continued, and he was forced to get up and walk across the room. He walked slowly, his back hunched. He was old, and yet Robert knew that he would never give an inch.

  He knew he should leave Jack’s office now, but his father-in-law’s enormous body now blocked the doorway. Lawyers had affairs every day—only he had somehow found a way to have the public censure without the benefit of the actual pleasure.

  Jack whispered to S
elene for a long time. What could this be about? A reprieve? Had something changed? His father-in-law thanked his secretary and squeezed her hand. When he turned around to look at Robert, his face had drained of color.

  “What is it?” Robert asked. “Has someone died?”

  “No,” Jack said, walking quickly to the phone. “There’s been a crash.”

  “A plane crash?” Robert asked. “Are there casualties?”

  Jack sat down at his desk, staring at the lights on his phone, as if to will a call through. Robert cleared his throat and Jack looked up, surprised to see him still standing there.

  “What on earth’s going on?” Robert asked.

  “The stock market’s falling,” Jack said, “and there doesn’t seem to be any end to it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Where is Barry Vishniak?

  A few feet from the entrance, two workmen, their ears plugged and their mouths covered with masks like surgeons, stood on either side of a large jackhammer that burrowed into the earth and filled the street with an endless, pulsing boom and the smell of burning tar. Robert walked past them, rushing through the revolving doors. The lobby looked like the cleanest of ghost towns.

  He had not been able to reach Barry on the phone—nobody could reach his broker today—and so he’d come in person. The market had closed now, down 508 points, the biggest one-day decrease in almost seventy-five years. Getting off the elevators and entering the glass doors of the first-floor entrance, Robert walked up to the receptionist, the same Jennifer who had been so friendly a year ago, but now she did not so much as look up. Multiple phone lines beeped, all flashing red, and she pushed one after the other without ceasing, repeating the same sentence in a chanting monotone: “He’s not available at the moment, may I take a message? He’s not available at the moment, may I take a message? He’s not —” She did not write anything down on the pad in front of her. She did not look up. Her hair, normally teased so high, now lay flat around her shoulders, as if she had wilted.