by Wallace Ford
That’s when Cecil started talking. And given the fact that I am writing to you from my private office in that house, you had better believe he was goddamned persuasive.
“Paul, I know what you are thinking …”
“Then let’s just get the fuck out of here.”
“Just listen.”
“You just listen … let’s get the fuck out of here now.”
“A bit of history, brother.”
“Fuck history. Let’s go, now.”
“At the turn of the twentieth century, a French architect was commissioned to design an enclave of suburban town houses. In 1900, the streets that are now in Harlem were considered the rural part of the island. Hell, The Dakota apartment building on 72nd Street got its name in the late 1800s because it was considered so far uptown it might as well be in the Wild West, like the Dakotas, North and South.
“The houses that you are looking at were all built at least one hundred years ago. One hundred years. These buildings are sturdy, well designed and well built. They simply don’t build houses like this anymore.
“As far as I can tell there has been no fire damage or water damage. That means that, structurally speaking, you have before you the same residence that was built over a century ago! You simply can’t walk away from that!”
We walked through the wreck and Cecil helped me to understand the potential for converting it into a palace. By the time we saw some successful rehabilitation jobs, I was ready to buy. And I did. And I hired Cecil to handle the contracting work.
Buying the house was a great idea. Refurbishing the house was a great idea. Hiring Cecil was a terrible idea.
A job that should have taken six months took eighteen. I lived in that furnished studio apartment for so long I forgot what it was like to have more than one room.
After about a year I had to cut Cecil loose as it turned out that my construction loan money was going up his nose to satisfy his growing cocaine habit. Cecil became another ex-friend in my life’s menagerie of ex-friends. But, after eighteen months and three more contractors, I moved into what turned out to be an urban palace, right in the middle of Harlem. Cecil was right about that after all.
When the house was finally finished, it had a formal dining room that could seat sixteen and a professional kitchen with Garland appliances. That was the ground floor. The second floor housed my home office, complete with the paraphernalia of the New Age—computer, modem, fax, scanner, etc.—that I needed for the days that I decided to conduct business from home. There was also a library and mahogany bar with a brass rail and a TV/ movie screening room that could seat a dozen guests quite nicely.
The third floor was dedicated to pure sybaritic indulgence and pleasure. There was actually a guest bedroom and adjoining bath on that floor. But the main feature was a Jacuzzi bathtub that could comfortably seat four settled under a skylight through which the sun or the moon could shine through two stories of the house.
On the top floor, half of the space was dedicated to a complete gym with weights, treadmill, sauna and Nautilus equipment. A smaller skylight illuminated this space.
On the other side was the master bedroom. Another skylight there. Off the bedroom was a master bathroom with a tub six feet in length to accommodate my long legs. The wreck of the house that Cecil had seen did have the soul of a palace after all.
My description of the house is in the past tense due to the fact that since I got married and my son was born, the house has been transfigured once again. The gym is his nursery. The TV/movie theater is now a “family room.” Life changes.
CHAPTER 51
Paul
Something’s cooking
By the time I got to the front door of my house I was thinking about the very long day and getting ready for Samantha, who was coming back into town that night and was coming straight from the airport to have dinner and take me on a short trip to heaven. I closed the last vestibule door behind me and walked into my kitchen, checking voice mail and snail mail.
The rest of the day required a plan and it had been on my mind all day. I had had some fresh red snapper marinating in white wine and garlic oil since early that morning. Another hour of marinating would be perfect before blackening it using a special Cajun recipe that I had picked up on one of my many trips to New Orleans.
Actually, I have enjoyed cooking for years and would have cooked a meal like that for guests or just for myself. However, since Samantha was taking a flight out of Chicago that would put her at my place around 9:15, I had about an hour to work on some lingering office items and projects before preparing a dinner that would be a choreographed culinary prelude to mutual seduction.
When it came to Samantha, I was never quite clear who seduced whom. I just knew that the very thought of her being with me excited me beyond description. This schoolboy reaction always amused me and puzzled me. But who was I to go against the wind?
I set the cooking range on low so that it would be just the right temperature to warm the rice and peas that I would be preparing along with the blackened red snapper. I also selected a bottle of 1990 Far Niente Chardonnay so that it would have time to cool slowly, the way that Samantha liked it. Then I went upstairs to go to work.
It was certainly the end of the day for most human beings but I did not think it out of order to go into my home office with a well-made Belvedere vodka martini. I rarely order martinis when I am out because I am so particular about the way that my favorite cocktail is prepared. So when I am out it’s usually a gin and tonic for me. Plus, it’s hard to mess up a gin and tonic, as long as the gin is Bombay Sapphire and the wedge of lime is fresh.
I know what quality to expect when I prepare a martini for myself. I walked over to that mahogany bar that had been custom-designed for this house, and took out the sterling silver shaker that Samantha had given me for my birthday (Valentine’s Day) and then I got busy.
In 1993 not many people had heard of Belvedere vodka. Quadruple distilled from Poland, it is the smoothest, finest and most expensive vodka that is commercially available. I always keep a bottle in the freezer and, having placed some ice and water and vermouth into a martini glass so that it would be properly chilled, I poured the vodka into the shaker on top of crushed ice and a few slices of fresh lime. I poured some vermouth into the shaker and after some vigorous shaking a perfect martini was born and was poured into a properly chilled glass that had received a last few sprays of vermouth. After a twist of lime (not lemon) was added, the drink was complete. It was now time to catch up with my work of the day.
I have always been blessed with the ability to work quickly and efficiently when I focus my attention. So, with not much time being available, I sat down to my computer with my martini and checked all of my e-mail messages and gave appropriate directions to my three associates and my secretary.
I spent a good bit of time on a memorandum to Byron Cruickshank, my most reliable and trusted associate. Byron was very bright, even brilliant, but he had no sense of self-promotion and had no ability to maintain a relationship with a client. But he was excellent in completing the assignments that I gave him and I tried to fill him in on the details of the Water Club meeting, because Byron would do a lot of the heavy lifting when it came time to draft the inevitable documents.
I reviewed the message to Byron, made a few grammatical changes and pushed the Send button. The making of The Pride into an institution had begun. Byron would start working on the necessary documentation that the Water Club meeting required first thing the next morning.
I checked my watch. It was now going on eight. I knew that I had to start working on the meal for Samantha, but as I took another sip of my rapidly diminishing martini, I knew I had to make one more call. It wouldn’t take that long, that was for sure.
“Sudden” Sammy Groce was one of those mythic New Orleans characters who would have had to have been created if he didn’t already exist. He used to be a disc jockey on the local black radio station and a Freedom Rider
. Rumor had it that he had something to do with the Bay of Pigs fiasco in Cuba but nobody could prove it.
Sammy was one of my best contacts in New Orleans. He knew everyone that mattered and everything about them. He could tell you about high society and he could tell you where to get a bag of reefer and where the “clean” hookers hung out.
Sammy was one of those people without any visible means of support, but he drove a Mercedes Benz and wore Armani and Versace. And he was an excellent source of intelligence of all sorts. All he ever asked of me is that I share with him any New Orleans information that he didn’t already know. It was a pretty good deal for both of us.
I was absolutely certain that Jerome, Diedre, and Gordon did not disclose everything they knew about their respective projects. It would make no sense for them to do so. But I knew better than to ever trust Gordon Perkins. And there was something about his talking about the New Orleans mayoral race that raised my antennae. That’s why it made sense to call Sammy Groce. I dialed his number
“Sammy here. What’s the word?”
“Sammy, it’s Paul, here in New York.”
“My big man in the Big Apple! What’s happening? You must want something or you wouldn’t be calling little ole me. You never call just to say hello.”
“Sammy, you are breaking my little ole heart. Next thing you’ll want to give back the ring I gave you. Just listen up for a minute. To get to the point, what’s the story with Prince Lodrig and Percy Broussard?”
“Point? There ain’t no point! Prince is going to kick Percy’s ass from here to Mardi Gras!”
“That’s it? Don’t bullshit me, Sammy. Tell me what you know.”
I knew in advance that dealing with Sammy Groce required a certain amount of patience and a certain attitude. I took another sip of my martini and leaned back in my chair. This might take a minute. I was glad that I had put John Coltrane’s “Ole” on the house sound system. It provided just the right kind of background for this conversation.
“Well, there is a little bit more. Just a teensy weensy bit more.”
“Sammy, I have to tell you. I am not surprised in the least. What’s up?”
There were times when I felt like taking the next flight down to New Orleans and kicking the living shit out of this Peter Lorre look-alike. But Sammy served a purpose. And the purpose was best served with patience and persistence. I listened.
“Well, Paul. Everyone here figures that Prince is going to flat-out win the election. But there is some word that Percy Broussard has some really wealthy friends, friends with some seriously deep pockets, and that he is planning some kind of surprise just before the election.
“I have to tell you that I have no fucking idea what that surprise could be. Prince is pretty clean. He has had a couple of girlfriends, but no drugs, no bribes, no larceny, no real bullshit. And believe me, I would have heard about it.”
“I know that, Sammy.”
I was speaking the truth. In some ways the scum of the earth could look down on Sammy. However, Sammy was an incredibly reliable source of information, especially the type that people didn’t want known. If Sammy said that Prince Lodrig was bulletproof insofar as an election in New Orleans was concerned, then he was definitely bulletproof.
After all, this was a city in a state where a governor was elected while under indictment. And the man was quoted as saying that the only way he could lose the election was if he was found in bed with a dead woman or a live boy. And he won.
“So what was this goddamned surprise about? Sammy, you know I don’t believe in Santa Claus or bullshit. What the fuck is going on?”
“All I can say is that the word is out that although Prince is kicking Percy’s ass in every poll from Lake Ponchartrain to the Superdome, Percy is supposed to have something up his sleeve that he is going to spring on Prince just before the election.
“Nobody seems to know what the hell it’s all about. But I will tell you something else.”
“I’m all ears, Sammy.” Sometimes, listening to Sammy was like trying to do the New York Times crossword puzzle backwards. The answer was somewhere in what he was saying. But where?
“Like I said, the word is that there is some serious out of town money backing Broussard. And, when the bomb drops on Lodrig, it’s going to be a motherfucker, plain and simple. And that’s all I know.”
I tried to assemble the bits and pieces that Sammy was giving me as he occasionally repeated himself. On the one hand, there was Gordon, saying that the new team should collaborate in the re-election of Lodrig. That strategy seemed to be supported by what Sammy was saying. On the other hand, this talk about a “surprise ” just before the election worried me—a lot. Especially since no one knew who was behind this “out-of-town money.”
“So that’s all, Sammy? Are you sure?”
“Absitively, posilutely! Those of us who know anything are trying like hell to find out what this “surprise” is all about, but I can tell you that Lodrig’s people aren’t losing any sleep over it. He is as strong a candidate as you can get in this part of the world, and he and his people know it for damn sure.”
“Well, Sammy, if that’s all you know, I sure appreciate it. Thanks for now and remember, it’s my treat at Petunia’s when I come to New Orleans.”
“I heard that, brother. Just don’t start getting forgetful on me when you get down here.”
“Don’t worry your nappy head about that. But Sammy, if you hear anything more about this, anything at all, you call me right away, O.K.?”
“You got it, Paul. You take care now. Bye.”
As I put the phone down, I thought more about what Sammy had told me. Sammy was real good when it came to scuttlebutt and backdoor information as he had just given me. Sammy might be comfortable with the scum of the earth, but he could find a pearl of truth in a mud hole.
And, I knew that Gordon Perkins could never be totally trusted. After all, he was Gordon Perkins. If there was a way to use this entire plan to his own advantage at the expense of Jerome, Diedre and myself, I was sure that he would find it and use it, in a heartbeat. That was Gordon, plain and simple.
Gordon was a man with no moral compass at all. His sense of right and wrong was totally self-centered and devoid of concern for anyone else. Once you knew that about Gordon, he should never be able to hurt or disappoint you. At least that was my theory. It was just the kind of person he was. Snakes bite, sharks attack, and Gordon will always scheme and plot. But at the moment, there was nothing to connect Gordon to the plot against Lodrig, and how could that make sense since Gordon was supporting Lodrig? So I just filed that information away. That’s all I could do at the moment.
Checking my watch I realized that Samantha’s plane was about thirty minutes outside of LaGuardia, moving toward New York at about four hundred miles an hour. She would be at my door in about an hour. It was time to start preparing my special meal for her. Heaven would be on the menu for dessert.
CHAPTER 52
Paul
Someone’s in the kitchen …
Among my true confessions, I must admit that cooking is one of my favorite pastimes. It’s so different from what I do for a living it provides me with an escape any time I can get near a stove and some pots and pans. Actually I got into cooking quite by accident, literally.
When I was twelve, my mother was in a car accident—sideswiped by a drunk driver. For eighteen months she was confined to the house, in traction for the entire time. My father had to continue in his work as a traveling sales representative for IBM throughout the entire Northeast. That meant I suddenly became responsible for all housekeeping duties, including grocery shopping and cooking.
During those eighteen months I learned all that I needed to know about what to buy in a supermarket to maintain a household. I learned everything from soap to butter to detergent to eggs and tuna fish and peanut butter. In the process, I learned to do some rudimentary cooking during my mother’s lengthy convalescence.
I us
ed to say that I began cooking as a survival skill. But the truth is that, as a bachelor, married to Diedre and then single again, I learned to enjoy cooking. I tried to mask my enjoyment by telling people that I had to learn to cook “since I end up begging women for so many things, I don’t want to have to beg for food.” It was always a surefire laugh line.
But the truth has always been that the diversion, the opportunity for creativity, the aromas, the spices, the sauces, the avenues of originality limited only by my imagination intrigued and attracted me. And it has attracted and interested me over the years.
To this day, I pride myself on being able to cook three meals a day for a month without ever repeating myself. Crawfish étoufée (when Sammy Groce could get it together to ship some fresh crawfish up from Louisiana), chocolate chip waffles, honey-dipped fried chicken, ichi-ban tuna, Bananas Foster, stir-fried vegetables, pasta sauce with soy grits that takes two days to prepare … these are a few of my favorite things.
A turning point in my attitude toward cooking came about in the late seventies when I began reading the works of Jorge Amado, the Brazilian novelist and author of Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, Shepherds of the Night, Tereza Batista, and many other enjoyable tomes.
Aside from his great writing, I couldn’t help but be entranced by Amado’s continual references to various cooking styles found in Brazil. His descriptions of the spices, the oils, the seasonings, the combinations of fruits and fishes and poultry and vegetables could set a mouth watering after just a few pages.
I like to think that, thanks to Jorge Amado (Obrigado, Senhor) I became a true artist in the kitchen. Palm oil, cloves, coriander and cinnamon have become standard features in my dishes. I now combine cooking wines and Turkish peppers and Mauritian sea salts to create evanescent masterpieces.
I checked my watch and realized that I really needed to start to focus on preparing this meal for Samantha. Any more delays and I would be cutting it close. Samantha was a jewel, my own personal goddess, and I was her most fervent worshipper. And she was a lot of fun.
