by Lenox Parker
I finished my drink and it had started to drizzle again outside. I realized that not only was my umbrella back at the Duck House, but that my suitcase was, too. It was late and I didn’t think the place would still be open and I panicked. I jogged down the street in the rain back to the restaurant. The lights out front weren’t on, but the front door was still open so I went inside hoping I could just grab my stuff and go. The headwaiter was there and remembered me and my bag, so he told me to wait just a minute while he got the keys from the manager to unlock the back closet where they had put it. I peered around the bar and saw that the table we were at earlier wasn’t empty. I stayed out of site to try to hear what was being said.
“I dunno, I mean, it was a long night but what do we really know about the guy at this point? Will she even have enough to go on?” I think that was Art, whose voice was recognizable because he was the only one of the bunch without a terribly thick Brooklyn accent.
“She’s good, I promise you, she’s very good. Investigative, I’m not sure you—us—are the only sources she’ll have,” said Punch, whom I could see in the reflection of the mirror on the wall.
“I trust that, sure, she’s really got it together and I’ve read some of her other pieces,” Art said.
“Look, if she’s not careful, she could be in a lot of trouble,” and that was most definitely Mo.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” asked Punch.
These guys really don’t trust each other, I thought.
“No what I mean is, she puts an article out there, good or bad or otherwise, and this guy has an army of PR people, they could crush her and the magazine this thing is printed in,” Mo clarified.
“Mo, you’re absolutely right. I deal with the press all the time, and the PR people that the players hire. They are sharks. It’s a game to them,” Art said, slamming his large hand down on the table.
“She’s a big girl, she can handle it. If it’s not a good piece, her editor won’t let it out,” said Punch.
“What a night. If I didn’t say it earlier, I’m really glad we put this together, despite everything. Mo, I’m sorry about you and Frank,” Art said.
“Eh, look, I don’t care how many years it’s been, if I could go back and undo whatever I could to take away those years in prison, I would. To hear it from Frank’s mouth that he informed the Feds, I mean, I knew it all along, but he said it. It’s heartbreaking, really,” Mo said. “But listen, I’m glad we got together, too, so let’s stay in touch. Punch, I think what your kid is doing is great and I wish her the best of luck. I hope she gets the thing published everywhere. Good for her.”
Chapter 19
Howard’s Honeymoon is Over
Meanwhile, Howard’s bottomless drink at the seedy bar in Chinatown finally came to an end and he had them call a car service for him. He got in the backseat of the Towncar and didn’t respond when the driver asked him where his destination was. He leaned forward and said, “I have nowhere to go. I have nowhere to go. Just drive around for a little while, we’ll figure it out.”
When the driver turned around to kick him out of his car, he recognized him. He put the car in drive and proceeded to drive around Manhattan. Howard eventually passed out in the back seat, though, and the driver was given no directions. He called his dispatcher to tell him he had Howard Kessler in the back of his car passed out at 1:30am. This wasn’t L.A. No one knew who his agent was, no one was calling his publicist to come pick him up and get him out of the press’ way. This was a Queens-based car service with mostly Dominican immigrant drivers who didn’t particularly care about Howard Kessler’s VIP status. They wanted the fare, and didn’t want any trouble.
“Well I don’t have no fucking idea what to do with this fucking guy, Jose, I don’t know why you fucking call me,” said Naheem, the dispatcher for CitySite Car Service. “Why don’t you just drop him out the fucking car, man, and you can be at your next pickup early, for the clubs.”
“That ain’t going to work, man, this is a celebrity, I can’t just drop him out. Plus I been driving for half an hour and the tank’s half-full. This guy got millions of dollars, and I ain’t going to be responsible for it, man, Naheem, you hear me?” Jose said assertively.
“Just take him to a hotel then, and let them handle it. Get his credit card number,” Naheem said.
“Which hotel?”
“Take him to the fucking Soho Grand or something like that. You’re down there now, right? Fucking Jose, man, why you get these crazy motherfuckers all the time, man?”
Jose drove a few blocks west to the hotel Naheem mentioned. He prayed they would have room for him, or at least know what to do for him. He pulled up in front of a doorman who scowled at him. He put the car in park and got out to speak to the doorman.
“Yo I got Howard Kessler in the back of my car, man. You gotta help me. He’s passed out drunk, or something. Ain’t making no sense. I don’t know where he staying or where he live, I got no idea,” Jose pleaded to the doorman.
“He got bags with him?” he asked.
“No, man, nothing. He ain’t got nothing with him.”
“Where’d you pick him up? Anyone with him?”
“We got the call from a nasty bar or restaurant in Chinatown. He come stumbling out the place hanging on to an old Chinese guy who push him in my car. And that’s all. I got nothing else.”
“Hold on a minute, lemme see what we can do. Stay here, man,” the doorman said, who had perked up and was interested in helping if only because of the marquee name slumped over in the back seat.
Jose lit a cigarette and paced under the overhang in front of the hotel to stay out of the drizzle. The doorman came back a few minutes later with a young woman in a black suit and stilettos, holding a phone/organizer into which she was typing furiously.
She leaned over to peer into the back seat and put the phone to her ear. Emotionless and speaking in hushed tones, she ended her call and typed more into the device. The doorman stood like a watchguard over the car while Jose paced and smoked like a first-time father in the maternity ward awaiting news of the new arrival.
She disappeared into the hotel again and came out a few minutes later with a man in a suit who also peered into the back seat of the car. They stepped back under the heat lamps and conferred for a few minutes. They each got on their cellphones. She ended her call and walked back into the hotel. He ended his call and walked over to the doorman.
“Take him inside, but tell the driver to go to the back delivery entrance in the 2nd bay. Stay with him, don’ t take your eyes off this guy until you drop him in room 1545 and close the door behind you. Above all, make sure no one is following you.”
The doorman conveyed this to the driver who quickly jumped in the car, with the doorman, and sped around the corner.
It turns out the woman in the suit is the hotel’s VIP concierge who knows every publicist and agent who is important. She was able to locate and speak to one of Howard’s publicists in L.A. who had been seeking Howard’s location for nearly 2 months since his disappearance from L.A.
And like that, Howard’s honeymoon was over.
Chapter 20
Frank
“Honey, that you?” Dee said.
“Why are you up? It’s 2am.”
“Why are you so late? Everything ok? You have fun?”
“That was three questions with three distinctly different answers. What do you want to know?”
“Well that answered one of the questions. By you standing here and giving me attitude in the middle of the night answered the other. And by this point I really don’t care why you’re late, so I guess we’re done.”
“I’m sorry. It was a shitty night. I mean, it started good. Howie showed up and that was great. I mean, the guy hasn’t changed—” I realized as I spoke, right in mid-sentence, that all the memories I had retained purposefully were good ones. A healthy choice, I think. But in stating that Howie hasn’t changed, I experienc
ed a flood of not so great memories triggered by his instigating tonight.
I stopped for a moment and thought about those memories. Why was I only holding on to the good ones?
“How do you mean?” Dee asked, I suspect not-so-innocently.
“He’s an instigator. He likes seeing people go at it. Like he goes for the jugular every time. No one can have a conversation around him without him turning everything around to the negative. I’m not saying it right. I’m tired.”
“You’re just figuring this out now? Jesus, Frank, I couldn’t stand the guy when we were in high school for that reason. Why would you think that 50 years of cocaine, Hollywood, and famous people would turn him into a pussycat?” Dee said, as if she was finally saying what she wanted to when we were 17 years old.
“Mo was there and that didn’t go well, either. That’s what basically ended the night. The guy is still hot about the D.A. stuff.”
“You didn’t tell me Mo would be there—that was to be expected, you know,” she said.
“I didn’t know he would show up. He’s been like a ghost for years.”
The night left a bad taste in my mouth. Seeing the other guys was nice. It’s sad about Punch; I always liked him a lot and it seems like he’s just had so many health problems. And he was the most athletic and in the best shape out of all of us. He could have played basketball for Brooklyn College, but he chose to leave and go to college far away. I don’t even know where he disappeared to. And I enjoyed talking to Art about baseball. I knew about him; his name is occasionally in the sports pages. The last I saw Art was when he walked into the club room late one night, and I was in there with a girl. I had her up on the table in a very compromising position and she didn’t see Art walk in. He stood there for a second and looked at me, and then turned and slowly walked out of the room. I heard him lock the door behind him. I never bothered going to the reunions after—I knew who I wanted to stay in touch with and if we couldn’t, then it was fate. Life goes on.
We woke up in the morning to my daughter banging on the bedroom door yelling about someone at the door.
It turned out to be Punch’s daughter, Jessica, the writer.
She had good timing, since I was just in the mood to talk about Howie.
“So what happened last night? I can’t get the words out of my dad, who pretty much organized everything—nothing dramatic, I hope?” she asked sincerely.
I poured us both some coffee and sat her down at the breakfast table off the kitchen. I stared out the kitchen window, my robe hanging drably, and tried to figure it all out before I said anything.
Dee came down and introduced herself to the girl. She touched her hair and complemented the coloring. Only Dee could get away with that. Total strangers, she touches their hair.
“Frank, you can’t put clothes on? Look at you, you look like a hobo, we have a guest.”
Jessica laughed and tried to cover it unsuccessfully.
“I’ll tell you what happened. Howie came back and stirred up shit, as he always had, and then sat back and watched the storm.”
I looked at Dee who stared at me like I grew ten heads.
“It’s true, Dee, I mean, I love the guy, and I’ve admired him in the movies and stuff over the years, but spending last night with him just reminded me of all the resentment I had. The other guys, too, probably, though I don’t really know that anyone else had the friendship I had with Howie back then.”
“So you’re saying that Howie mistreated his friends by instigating arguments or by exploiting fissures?” Jessica asked.
“Whatever you said it probably is right. I don’t know.”
We spoke for about a couple of hours. I did more re-thinking than I did recounting, so I’m not sure how helpful it was to Jessica who is writing a story about our relationships as kids, I think, related to Howie.
“Sounds difficult. But it’s over now, right? Or are you seeing him again?”
“I don’t know. We all exchanged information. I don’t know what’s next, if anything. I got my own problems, you know what I mean?” I said, half hoping that the whole episode was behind us. “I don’t even know what you have to write about, but—”
“Oh I have plenty to write about, don’t you worry about that, you’ve been very helpful,” she said.
“You’re not turning this into something ugly, are you?” I said after I thought about what she just said.
“I’m just documenting what things were years ago according to your collective memories, and then an account of Howard Kessler’s re-emergence in your lives, if even for a few short hours.”
It sounded legit, so I gave her my blessing and went back to bed.
** *
A few days later my cell rings, it was pretty late.
It was Howie asking to get together to talk.
Because I was overwhelmed I guess from hearing from him, I agreed to meet.
So he comes by the following afternoon when the house was empty, oddly. I didn’t know for how long my parasitic kids would be out of the house and I never know where my wife is, but at least we could have some peace together. Maybe I could get my head straight about all this. I’m confused and I don’t think you can blame me for that. I feel betrayed in a way, but I can’t put my finger on what, since it was my own memories that betrayed me, not Howie. So I tried not to be mad at him. I had to be honest—I didn’t even know the guy. I mean, he’s talking at the dinner about yoga and traveling to India and having dinner with Sylvester Stallone. What do we have in common anymore? I’ve been laying bricks and contracting construction my whole life, surrounded by people from Brooklyn. Howie? He’s been living in a different world, with different things, a different perspective, and different people. I can’t put my finger on it; I just don’t know how to articulate how strange it is to revisit this part of my life.
I had been hanging on to a memory of Howie since grade school. When in all honesty, the guy has been an asshole to me, my friends, and most of all, my wife. Even back then. I don’t know who I was kidding.
It’s all very disorienting, really. I spend my life looking up to him. Now, all of a sudden, over some fried rice and moo shu pork, I realize that my idol, my oldest friend, my childhood friend, is a selfish asshole and I never meant a thing to him?
It can’t be true. I have to be experiencing some sort of late midlife crisis.
** *
The leaves were wet and they hadn’t come to scoop them up from the street yet. With last night’s wind and today’s rain, the streets were a mess. I could hear skidding up and down the hill all morning. So it’s no wonder that Howie, who’s been living in rainless California for years, has no idea how to drive in this weather.
I was sitting in the front room reading Newsday when I heard the thud of two cars colliding. There was no screech of brakes, just the thud. I peered out the front window and saw two guys arguing standing out in the rain. One car was a large, black Escalade and the other was a tricked-out late-model Accord. I tried to see if I knew anyone, but neither car rang a bell to me. I sat back down and continued reading for a moment.
I stood up to look out the window once more and sure enough, it was Howie. I hesitated for a second before putting my shoes on and grabbing an umbrella, just to see him interact with the little thug whose car he punished. I ran down the driveway and over to the accident. There was plenty of broken glass and ugly dents, but nothing serious, since both guys had the energy to stand toe to toe shouting at each other. By this time a few other cars were stopped and everyone had their cellphones out. They recognized Howie.
This couldn’t be good.
I tried to intervene, but I don’t exactly have the best temper, either. I tried to pull the kid away from Howie and do the old “do you know who this guy is” routine, but he wasn’t from this neighborhood and was already defensive. Plus I didn’t know if he had a gun on him.
I tried then to get Howie to back down. T
hough he was more obliging, I think it may actually have been the kid’s fault, with the direction of the car, he looked to be speeding down the hill and Howie was coming up. Either way, neither was backing down. People started to crowd around at this point despite the rain and they were taking pictures of Howie and this whole scene. I told Howie he should just play down who he is, I think the kid was so hepped up on adrenaline that he didn’t recognize him, and that he should throw a couple hundred bucks and walk away.
The next thing I know, fists are flying and three other people are in the mix. In no time flat, the kid was on the ground, bloody nose dripping down into the mess of flattened leaves, leaking oil, and rain. Howie takes out a wad of cash from his pocket and throws it at the kid on the ground, gets into his truck, and drives it up my driveway. He told me to close the gate. I think he finally realized the size of the crowd around the scene and the implications of cellphone cameras.
We walked inside and heard the police siren.
“Oh, come one, I didn’t hurt that kid, I just knocked him a little. He threw the first punch.”
“He’s a black kid, Howie, and this is Bay Ridge. What the fuck do you think people are going to make of this?”
“Jesus, it was just a little fender bender and the kid was shooting down the hill and didn’t stop or stay on his side of the road.”
“I hear you. It still don’t look good,” I said.
“Eh, let’s wait and see. I didn’t get you in any trouble, did I?”
I wasn’t sure he meant that, but I realized I couldn’t be suspicious of everything he said. I was already being more standoffish than I wanted to be. I wanted to keep more of an open mind today.
“So what’s on your mind?” I asked, pretending not to hear the commotion outside since I really wanted to get to the bottom of things with Howie and get some closure, as my wife calls it.
“I came back here, you know, to, uh, to find out what I’ve been missing all these years. I’m looking around at your house, and pictures of you and your kids and stuff and it’s something I don’t have—”
“Oh, shit, Howie, you can take my fucking kids. I don’t know what happened, but these kids—”
