by Tim Green
“Happy to do it,” I say, grunting as I pull off his shoes.
“That was some stuff,” he says, his hands chopping at the air, sound effects squirting through his lips until they roll into a merry chuckle. “Bruce Lee stuff, right?”
“Something like it,” I say, backing away from him, feeling for the door.
“And now I owe you a life,” he says, holding a fingertip up in the air, his eyes directed toward the crystal fixture over the bed and losing their focus. “That’s how they do it over there in Japan or whatever, you know. A life.”
I tell him I know, and then say good night. His eyes are already closed when I let myself out into the hall.
Bert is standing at the bar in my suite with a beer in his hand.
“Everything go well?” he asks.
“Clockwork,” I say.
When I ask him what he’s doing, he looks across the broad living room at my bedroom door. It’s closed and I left it open. Bert shrugs, but he’s smiling.
“What?” I say.
“Not telling,” he says. “Can’t.”
I cross through the overstuffed furniture and grab the brass lion head handle, turning it. Inside it’s dark, but as my eyes adjust, I see the shape of a woman in front of the open tall glass doors that lead out onto the balcony. I feel my heart tighten. Moonlight spills through and a breeze moves the ghostly curtains, making me think for an instant that it’s my imagination. Helena has been in L.A. finishing up another video and wasn’t supposed to have arrived until tomorrow. Her first single went to number one in its second week and never came down, so it wasn’t a huge surprise when she was asked to sing at halftime of the big game.
I step softly and feel the breeze on my face as I reach out for her bare shoulders. She’s straight-backed in a white silk slip. Her hair is different now, wavy and glowing with highlights, even more beautiful than before. Since I’ve only seen her occasionally over the past few months I’ve been able to marvel at her rapid evolution since our talk on the beach.
Frilly lace borders the swell of her breasts and the soft upper regions of her legs. I moisten my lips and put them to the groove between her collarbone and neck. The tangy scent of a perfume I told her I liked sends a charge from my nose down through the center of my chest.
Without looking, she finds my fingers and laces her own tight between them. When she sighs, I feel her shudder.
“What’s wrong?” I say in a whisper, dragging my lips up her long neck to the bottom of her ear. “Nervous about tomorrow?”
She shakes her head no and says, “You kiss me and you hold me and then it always stops. Don’t you want me?”
She even speaks differently now. Her words are soft but clearly enunciated with the timbre of a flute. My hands feel a sudden chill. My muscles tighten. That ache in my chest.
“Is it because of what they did to me?” she asks quietly. “Or is there someone else?”
“What they did is done,” I say. “That’s another life. A bad dream.”
“Someone else?”
“It’s not like that.”
“But there is someone,” she says, turning to me now and clasping her hands around my neck. “Something. It’s in New York. I can feel it, but I don’t care.”
She sniffs. Tears are spilling down her cheeks.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” I say, holding her close.
“I want this.”
She takes my hand and leads me away from the window and the moonlight and under the canopy of the high bronze bed. We kiss and on her tongue I can taste the salt from her tears. Her fingers work quickly to unbutton my shirt and plunge inside, sweeping softly up under my arms, stripping my upper body. Bumps rise on my skin in the small breeze from the open doors, but wherever her hands are I’m warm.
I pluck the straps free from her shoulders and roll the silk slowly down her torso, brushing the curves with my nose and lips, breasts, stomach, hip. The slip falls to her feet in a wavy pile. I kneel, dabbing my tongue so that a small tremor runs through her frame. She clenches my hair close to the scalp and shudders.
When I rise her hands find my belt. Undone, my pants and shorts fall to the floor-partners to her slip-and our naked bodies mesh together, feeding off each other’s warmth in the night air. Helena grasps my shoulders and climbs my torso, shimmying up with her long muscular legs. Velvet around my lower back. When I lower her onto the bed, we’re already one.
She lets out a small groan and it casts my mind loose to swim in an electric sea.
39
HELENA AND I DON’T TALK about last night, but the sun seems to shine brighter, the chicory coffee seems to taste less bitter, and the voices of the busy city around us seem to ring. After making love again, we have a late breakfast on the terrace, then spend some time doing tourist things. The streetcar out to Tulane. Antique shopping on Royal. A visit to Faulkner’s old apartment. Café Du Monde. All with Helena under a broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses to avoid attention.
At three we’re back in the room, making love and taking a short nap before she has to leave to get ready for the show. After she’s gone, I sit on the terrace with my feet up on the iron railing and a cup of café au lait on my lap. I’m not really thinking. I’m just feeling the warm air and the close comfort of belonging to someone after all the emptiness. I close my eyes.
How could I describe this to Lester? I think maybe a Renoir. The Ball at the Moulin de la Galette.
I draw a deep breath and let it go.
Bert clears his throat behind me and I turn my head slow enough so that I can feel the warmth of the sunshine moving across my face.
“They want to know when we go,” he says.
I look at my watch and say, “I lost track. I’ll get a shower and change and we’ll go in, say, forty minutes.”
I see his face and say, “What now?”
Bert shrugs and folds his arms across the barrel of his chest.
“There was this farmer south of the reservation-down by Malone-who raised a bunch of pheasants,” he says. “The whites would come up from Utica and Albany and go on hunts. They’d put the birds out and spin them around so when they came back later with the dogs they’d still be there.”
I narrow my eyes at him and crimp my lips.
He shrugs and says, “I just never thought it was that much fun. That’s all.”
“You still have to shoot straight,” I say, taking my feet from the railing, the afternoon now gone.
The lobby swarms with beaming chatty people. A real holiday. Allen and Martin are no exception. They slide into the limo after me, grinning stupidly and scrambling to pull bottles of Abita beer from the ice chest. Bert rides backward facing me. The boys sit sideways on the long seat across from the bar. Their talk is fast and pitched. Who will win and by how much. How much they bet. Overs. Unders. Point spreads. Even Bert takes a fifty out of his wallet and answers Debray’s bet on who will be the first team to score.
The only person in the whole city who sees tonight the same as me is Helena. A business opportunity. Her CD is already platinum with two number one music videos. The halftime show will throw gas on the flames. And if I shoot straight, I’ll infiltrate the lives of my enemies in a very personal way.
The limo moves slowly along the teeming streets behind a motorcycle cop, and people crane their necks to see inside. Allen offers me a beer and I take it. He’s talking to me.
“-much did you bet?”
“I’m not big on it,” I say, taking the beer and clinking the mouth of the bottle against his. “When I win, I don’t really enjoy it and when I lose it makes me sick.”
“Well,” he says, “I’m not all that big on it, but it pays the bills in my house.”
“How’s that?”
“My dad is in the casino business.”
“Really?” I say, letting the word hang.
“Yeah,” Allen says, then turns to Debray. “I don’t know how you think Atlanta won’t score first with Michael Vick.
”
They launch into a debate where words are fired back and forth between big mouthfuls of beer.
Bert is doing a bad job of holding back his smile.
“Missed,” he says quietly, cracking open fresh bottles of beer.
When the glowing spaceship form of the Superdome comes into view, even with our escort, the limo is forced to a crawl.
At the first lull in their talk I lean forward and say, “Hey, before I forget, let me get you guys’ numbers for when I get to New York.”
They both say sure. Debray hands me a card and I jot down Allen’s numbers on the back.
“We’ll have to get together,” I say. “I don’t really know anyone.”
“Kidding, right?” Allen says.
I force a smile and say, “No. I haven’t spent much time there. I bought the team more as an investment.”
Allen turns to Debray and says, “Can you imagine him doing funnels with Benny Cohen?”
“I know at least one certain blonde who would be all over him,” Debray says, the freckles around his wrinkled nose dancing up and down as he snickers.
“The last people you’re going to want to meet is our crew,” Allen says.
The two of them laugh and Bert joins in, looking at me from the corners of his eyes. He makes a gun with his fingers and fires it into the air.
“When the Jets sale hits the papers,” Debray says, “people are going to be taking numbers and getting in line to meet you.”
“We’ll be lucky if you remember us,” Allen says.
“Of course I will,” I say, taking out my Palm Pilot. “You know what? Let’s set up a lunch.”
“Well, I’m in school,” Allen says.
“When do you get back?”
“Middle of May.”
I look down and scroll through the calendar.
“How about June tenth?” I say. “It’s a Thursday.”
Allen shrugs and says, “Sure.”
“Le Cirque all right? One o’clock?”
“Okay,” Allen says. “We’ll be there if you will.”
“I will,” I say. “It’s in the book. And don’t underestimate the people you know. It’s always better to meet people through someone you know.”
“We just don’t know that many people,” Allen says.
“You already mentioned one important person I’d like to meet,” I say.
“Who?”
“Your father.”
“That’s easy,” Allen says. “When big mouth here tells everyone what happened last night, my mom and dad are going to want to meet you anyway.”
“Good.”
I look over at Bert. His finger gun is out again, but the boys are looking at me, and neither one of them can see it. He points it at the back of Allen’s head, closes one eye, and lets his thumb drop.
40
I HAVE A LOT TO DO in four months’ time, but money is like industrial grease, and things, even big things, slide into place. On the tenth of June I check my watch as I step up to the wrought iron gates and into the courtyard outside Le Cirque. It is five minutes to one and I slow my pace and stop to admire the brass poles and the zebras and the bold circus colors so that when I walk through the door on the second floor, the big hand is on twelve.
The room is wood-paneled and trimmed with crown molding carved by hand a hundred years ago. At the long, linen-covered table in the center of the room, Allen and Martin’s faces turn toward me in obvious surprise. Even the black-tied waiters look expectantly at me. There is an uncorked bottle of champagne on the table and Martin is filling his glass.
Allen jumps up from his chair and says, “Seth. I told him.”
“Unbelievable,” says Martin with a dumb smile.
“I told you,” Allen says, grasping my hand and looking me in the eye. “Means what he says and says what he means.”
To me he says, “I wouldn’t let him eat. I said you’d be here.”
“I’m not late,” I say.
“He always is,” Allen says, nodding at his friend. “I told him twelve-thirty so he’d be here on time.”
“I’m sitting right here, you know,” Martin says, raising his glass. “And who could blame me? I was telling Allen that it wouldn’t surprise me if you turned out to be a phantasm that we both imagined.”
“No,” I say, “I’m very real.”
“There was nothing in the papers about the Jets,” Martin says. “I told everyone and they said I was crazy. I guess it didn’t go through?”
“Actually,” I say, looking at my watch, “I sign the papers at four o’clock today. We agreed to keep it confidential until then.”
Allen is beaming.
“Told you about that too,” he says.
In my pocket, I keep an emerald the size of a walnut. After we eat, I take it out and pop a powerful little mint into my mouth, offering one to Allen and Martin.
“What kind of a case is that?” Allen asks, removing a mint with his fingertips.
“It’s one of three identical stones,” I tell him. “At one time they were the crown jewels of the grand sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Each one priceless, actually.”
“You’re kidding,” says Martin.
“No,” I say.
“What happened to the other two?” he asks.
“One I used to finance the down payment on the Jets,” I say, looking straight at him. “The other I used to buy enough shares of EMI to get a seat on their board. And this one?”
I snap it shut, shrug, and turn it over in my hand before slipping it back into my pocket. “I just liked the idea of being able to take something that valuable and turning it into… well, really, a piece of junk.”
“Junk?” Allen says. “You just said it was priceless.”
“Was,” I say, taking it back out and holding it up between my finger and thumb. “But it’s not a crown jewel anymore. It’s empty inside and it has these little hinges. When you take the core out of something, it stops being what it was.”
“And it’s worthless? That’s incredible.”
“It’s not worthless to me, though,” I say. “I like it this way. It’s functional.”
I look down the table. They are leaning forward so they can see my face.
“Any interest in the concert tonight?” I ask.
“Helena?” Martin asks, sitting up nearly straight. “No tickets. That thing sold out before it was announced… But I see by the look on your face that you’ve got a box. At the Garden. Am I right?”
“You’re both welcome.”
“You got any of those same girls from Vegas that you had in the box at the Super Bowl?” Martin asks.
“Jesus,” Allen says, rolling his eyes.
“Allen has to be careful,” Martin says. “Dani Rangle has a ring through his nose.”
I smile at Martin and say, “Not this time, but I might be able to arrange for you to meet her dancers.”
“Goddamn,” Martin says, his face growing red like his hair. “Talk about fine things. I’d take any one of them.”
The five backup singers for Helena are also dancers whose bodies have earned them cover space and photo spreads in magazines like Maxim and FHM.
“Martin,” I say, “speaking of Bob Rangle’s daughter, I’d like to meet him. I’m looking for a fund to invest in. I heard you work with him.”
“That’s easy,” he says. “I’ll talk to him and set it up. Soon?”
“Sometime over the next couple weeks,” I say, rising from the table. “Something casual.”
“How about the Hamptons?” Martin says as we walk down the stairs. “They’re out there every weekend. We could have lunch.”
I tell him that’s good and stop at the door to thank Allen for lunch.
“Are you going uptown or down?” he asks.
“Up,” I say, “to the NFL offices. I was going to walk. Do you need my car?”
“No, not this time,” he says. “But if you could take one minute, my parents’ place is right
on the way.”
My stomach twists.
“You said you’d meet them,” he says, looking at me as he holds open the door.
We step out into the sunlight and the sound of a blaring fire truck. My plan was to meet Frank on my own ground, but I put on my sunglasses, turn my face toward his. Over the sirens I say, “Sure, let’s go.”
The apartment takes up the entire top floor of an old stone building that faces Park Avenue. In a massive circular foyer, columns of polished black granite rise to the vaulted ceiling. High above, the shadows of trees from a rooftop garden flicker down through a dome of leaded glass. The white marble floor is shot through with veins of red, reminding me of animal fat. Between the radius of columns are either vaulted doorways or recessed alcoves where the broken marble busts stand on four-foot-high Ionic pedestals.
I see a noseless Caesar, then a shadow fills the adjacent doorway. Frank has grown big. His feet look almost dainty in their shiny leather pumps. A fat man in a glossy suit coat. The three-hundred-pound mark looks like a distant memory.
The jowls of his face spill out over the edge of his stiff white collar, and their color matches his blood-red tie. His dark curly hair is swept back and sleek from a gel that disguises much of the white. His eyes seem to have receded into his head like licorice jelly beans sunken in dough. His mouth is the same, still small and fat, and he still holds his chin high. He blinks at me before stepping forward and extending a hand with gleaming manicured nails.
I’m suddenly light-headed. A thin sheen of sweat rises to the surface of my skin. I can see my hands sinking into his fleshy neck and me wringing the life out of him. I feel confused, maybe even afraid. My mind drifts for a second, but my hatred is an anchor.
“Mr. Cole,” he says in a gruff tone that has taken on a hint of Brooklyn. “I’ve been waitin’ for the chance to say thanks for helpin’ out the kid.”
The air fills with a hint of cigar smoke, peppermint, Cool Water cologne, and the inky smell of fresh money. I hesitate before taking his hand, and when I do, my eyes are frozen on his, looking for some sign of recognition.
“My pleasure,” I say, gripping his hand and trying to focus the rapid pounding of my heart into the tendons of my forearm. My words come out like an ice machine dumping its cubes. I could cave in his skull with the bronze figurine of a centaur resting on the closest column. “He’s a fine young man.”
