by Nan
“This,” he said solemnly, “is a very important hamburger.”
“I don’t serve hamburgers.”
“I know. But I once read an article that said you could go into any good restaurant and order whatever you wanted. Within reason.”
Libby looked at the shriveled burger. “That came out of my kitchen?”
“Reluctantly. I had to send it back twice before they got it right. Not that I’m complaining. It’s the same story everywhere. Even on the Upper West Side. There’s almost no one left who remembers well-done burgers or chicken chow mein.”
All she could do was smile. “Looks like you’ve been stood up.”
“No, I haven’t. You just arrived.” He pointed to the empty chair.
Libby shook her head. “Okay. What are you selling? Wine? Linens?”
He took out his ID. There was a badge on the outside, a plastic laminated card with his photo inside. “Special Agent Birnbaum. United States Secret Service.”
“Am I under arrest?”
Birnbaum smiled. “Only if you won’t sit down.”
Libby’s stomach started doing tricks. She looked around the room for support systems. Cal was talking to Mike Nichols. Hots was having an intense conversation with Phyllis. “Sure. My feet are killing me anyway.”
As soon as she was seated, Birnbaum leaned over and spoke softly. “Mrs. Dennis, the President is going to be in New York on Thursday and would like to have lunch here.”
“The president of what?”
“The President of the United States.”
Without taking her eyes from him, Libby reached for Birnbaum’s glass of milk and drank it all. “Why?”
“I don’t know why. I’m here to tell you that he would like to have lunch on Thursday and to find out whether it’s all right.”
“This just isn’t funny.” Libby stood up. “Listen, I’m sorry. I have to go. I haven’t said two words to Gloria yet.”
“Mrs. Dennis . . .”
She hesitated and then sat down again. “Everyone calls me Libby.”
“Libby. If for any reason you’d rather not have the President to lunch on Thursday, it’s perfectly all right. You’re under no obligation. There won’t be any questions asked. You don’t even have to give us an explanation.”
She spoke softly. Without conviction. “Why wouldn’t I want the President here?”
“For one thing, it will require a great deal of preparation.”
“He’ll eat whatever we have.”
Birnbaum started to laugh. “Mrs. . . .”
“Libby.”
“Libby. What I meant was, we have to coordinate with the FBI, the Police Department, the Fire Department, the Health Department, and the Department of Hospitals. We’re going to have to bring in our own phone lines, emergency power lines, medical staff, and the White House people. We have to search and secure the premises and, of course, run security checks.”
There was a long silence. “Who’s going to pay for this circus?”
“The White House.”
Libby reached for his plate as though grabbing the trapeze in mid-air. “Don’t eat that. We’ve got a terrific special. Lamb chops in a basil cream sauce . . .”
“I’m not much of a gourmet.”
“You don’t have to be. Nobody is. Raw meat. Raw fish. That’s all they eat here. Shark food.” Reluctantly, she put his plate down.
“Mrs. Dennis . . .”
“Libby.”
“Libby. I have to be honest. A presidential visit can be up-setting.”
“Listen, Birnbaum. You think you’re dealing with an amateur? I’m the one who had Elizabeth Taylor and Debbie Reynolds here on the same night. What’s a little President after that?”
Birnbaum started to laugh. “Have you ever met the President?”
“No.”
They stared at one another, smiles fading as her answer reverberated in the sudden silence between them.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“I’d like you to keep this confidential. Don’t tell your staff about it yet.”
“But they’re going to see . . .”
“I’d prefer they didn’t know anything until our security checks have been completed.”
“But I know.”
He smiled. “I can’t imagine we’ll come up with anything on you, Mrs. Dennis.”
The man on the flying trapeze had just let go. Libby was plummeting to earth.
As soon as Birnbaum left, Libby headed for the phone room in the vestibule. She closed the door and dialed Hots at Table 104. The minute he picked up, she said, “Don’t let anyone know this is me.”
“Who is me?”
“Me! Libby!”
“I remember you.”
“Hold the phone close to your ear.”
“You going to talk dirty?”
“Hots, I’m in trouble.”
“Let me be the judge.”
“There was a Secret Service agent here. He asked me if I had ever met the President. I said no.”
“You’re right. You’re in trouble.”
“Can they lock me up for lying to the Secret Service?”
“Listen, sweetheart, I have an even better question. Where are you calling from?”
“The phone room. Why?”
“Don’t say another word. Just hang up. Ten to one they have the lines tapped.”
Libby gasped. Narrowing her eyes, she shouted into the phone, “Birnbaum, you son of a bitch! I’ll get you for this!”
* * *
The President of the United States sat alone in the Oval Office. He turned pages in a looseleaf notebook, comparing his intelligence files with a report from the Secretary of State. Unlike the photographs that always showed his desk clean, it was littered with papers.
On hearing the helicopter, he took off his steel-frame aviator glasses. He rose quickly and pushed aside the curtains. The helicopter had landed on the South Lawn. His aides, hands over their ears, waited for the motor to stop. Amid the protective surround of the Secret Service, he could not catch sight of the passenger they hurried down the steps and in through the South Portico. Finally, there was a knock on the door and it opened.
“Mr. President,” said the agent.
“Thank you.”
Libby entered the Oval Office. The door closed behind her. They were alone. “Why?” she asked.
“I couldn’t wait until Thursday.”
She spoke softly. “I thought you had forgotten about me.”
The President of the United States walked slowly toward her. “I can order armies into battle, send men to their deaths, destroy entire nations, but I can’t forget about you.” Barely touching her lips, he said, “I am the most powerful man in the world.” He kissed her. “I am the weakest man in the world.”
Libby felt his breath on her face. She closed her eyes. His fingers traced the outline of her mouth so delicately she dared not breathe. He put his arms around her. His body pressed close. He began to undress her.
She wanted to say no, to pull away from him, but she felt submerged, as though her clothes had been swept away amid a wave of rapture. His hands fondled her breasts, then slid to the soft swell beneath her stomach. She gasped as he picked her up in his arms.
“Where are you taking me?”
As lithe and sinewy as the ancient kings who fought naked on smoldering battlefields, the President of the United States carried Libby to the altar of his power. The Oval Office desk was covered with papers awaiting his signature. He swept aside the budget proposal to Congress, the trade agreement with Honduras, the satellite memo from the Kremlin. Libby felt her senses erupt. She was on fire.
“You’re on fire!” Cal whispered, thrusting deep. “Tiger, tiger, burning bright.” As he raised his head from her breast, the words caught in his throat. “Hey, tiger! Open your eyes!”
Libby sighed. “Don’t stop,” she said to the President.
“Uh uh,” Cal replied. “I never shoot u
ntil I see the whites of their eyes.”
Libby stared at him. “Cal!” Then she added quickly, “Darling.”
Before she could stop him, Cal withdrew. He sat on the edge of the bed. “I saw that look on your face. You were somewhere else.” He lowered himself to the floor. “Goddamn it, Libby. You’re the only woman who ever rejected me, and you’re still doing it.”
Libby slid off the bed. She put her arms around him, her mind racing for an explanation. “Babe, I was thinking about the first time you made love to me.”
“That was almost twenty-five years ago. Damn it, Libby. The only man I can’t compete with is myself. You’re not thinking about me. You’re thinking about a young Cal Dennis. You know the joke. Who is Cal Dennis? Get me Cal Dennis. Get me a young Cal Dennis. You’re doing the same thing the studio is.”
Libby reached for a glass of champagne and poured it over Cal’s head. He didn’t move. Massaging it into his golden hair, she whispered, “Hey, movie star. You want to know what I’m really thinking?” As the champagne dripped onto his shoulders, she rubbed it across his chest. “I’m really thinking that your tiny little titties drive me crazy.”
Cal pulled her onto his lap. He took his glass and emptied it over her breasts. He licked off the champagne, pausing to suck gently on her nipples. “There isn’t a woman I haven’t compared to you.”
Libby leaned over and bit his shoulder. “Bullshit.”
“Say that again.”
Nose to nose, pressing her lips against his, she said, “Bullshit.”
“That’s what I thought you said.” Cal reached for the bottle. Then he cupped his hand between her legs, pouring champagne as his fingers pushed inside to create a path for the wine.
Libby gasped as she realized what he was doing. She pulled him on top of her. “Are you crazy?” she asked, holding tight as he eased inside her. “It’s supposed to be red wine with meat.”
“Fuck you,” he whispered, biting her ear.
“Fuck you.” She bit his chin.
“Say that again.”
Libby grabbed hold of his face with both her hands. She stared lovingly into his eyes. “Fuck you.”
He wrapped his arms around her as he pushed forward. “That’s what I thought you said.”
* * *
Libby lay back on the pillow. Silk sheets and champagne. Cal sprawled across a pink satin quilt. Everything just the way she said she wanted it. Except for one thing. Birnbaum. Table 51. “Somebody” Birnbaum had changed everything.
Her open palm moved gently across Cal’s chest. Even that had changed. “I liked you better with hair.”
“I had no choice. They decided to shave everything from my sideburns down to my pubes. Even the hair on my ass.” Cal started to laugh. “Would you believe the insurance company brought their own barber?”
“I don’t know why you did a scene like that.”
“I had to. If I said no, they’d have thought I couldn’t. That I had turned to flab. Or was too old. But it’s okay. I didn’t embarrass the family. It’s not a cock shot.”
Libby kissed him. “It should have been.” She pushed Cal onto his stomach and stared at his behind. “All those nice little hairs are gone.”
“They’ll grow back.”
Libby rubbed her hand over his buttocks. “You should have asked me first.”
“Oh, sure. I have half the world staring up my kazoo and I’m supposed to say, ‘Excuse me, but I have to call my ex-wife to get her permission.’ ”
“Your what?”
“Your permission.”
“No. What did you call me?”
“Oh, babe. Come on.”
She slapped his behind as hard as she could. “Your ex-wife? Which ex-wife?”
Cal turned around. He smiled and took her in his arms. “Ex marks the spot.”
Libby leaned her head against his shoulder. She felt the tears well up in her eyes. “I want to do it over, Cal. I need another take. All we have to reshoot is twenty-five years.”
He kissed her gently. “You know what happens. You shoot it over and over. But in the end, you always stay with the first take.”
“That’s exactly what I want to do. I want to stay with the first take.”
“What is it, babe?” He slid his hand to her breast. “We’ve never kept secrets from one another.”
Libby was afraid he could feel her heart pounding. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”
He pulled back. “What have you heard?”
“Actors!” Libby smiled. “Stop worrying. It has nothing to do with you.” She touched his face. “What the hell! All they can do is shoot me.” A deep sigh. “It seems the President wants to have lunch here on Thursday.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why.” She resented his question. “Why the hell not?”
“Well, let’s face it, babe. The son of a bitch must be coming here for more than a meal.”
“All right. You dragged it out of me. He’s holding a summit conference. Disarmament. World peace. The whole thing. He wanted to use Mamma Leone’s but they were closed.”
Cal was upset. “When did all this happen?”
“Today. While you were playing lunchus interruptus. A guy came from the Secret Service.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I am telling you. Please, Cal, spare me your political paranoia. Libby’s is famous. Everybody comes to Libby’s. Why shouldn’t the President?”
“No reason. Except he never came before. Why now? He’s not up for reelection. Uh uh. He’s got something on his mind. This guy’s a user. He wants to use you. His coming here is no accident.”
“Cal . . .”
“Guatemala was no accident. The Confidentiality Act was no accident. What did you say?”
“What do you think I said?” Libby began to laugh. “Oh, now I get it. I was supposed to ask you first. I was supposed to say, ‘Excuse me, but I have to ask my ex-husband . . .’ ”
“You know what you’re letting yourself in for? You know what those guys are going to do?” He took her by the shoulders. “I hope you’ve paid all your parking tickets, kiddo. There’s nothing those bastards can’t find out.”
Libby held tight to Cal. “Don’t be silly. I don’t even have a car.”
Cal picked her up in his arms. As lithe and sinewy as the ancient kings who fought on smoldering battlefields, he carried her to the bed.
* * *
At five o’clock, Libby stood on the corner of Fifty-seventh and Sixth. She put a quarter into the phone and dialed Hots. “It’s me again.”
“Where are you calling from this time?”
“A street phone.”
“Don’t say a word. I’m going to turn on the scrambler.” There were two beeps. “Okay, sweetheart.”
“Hots, my whole world is collapsing. I don’t know how to hold on anymore.”
“Did you call just to schmooze or do you really have a problem?”
“I don’t know what to do!”
“Buy a big roll of adhesive tape. Start at the left corner of your mouth . . .”
“Hots!”
“I told you what to do. Do nothing. Most of all, say nothing. Not to Cal. Not to anyone. If that schlimazel from the Secret Service comes back, tell him you’re busy. Tell him you’ll speak to him tomorrow. It is vital you do not say anything more to him. Not one word. Promise?”
“I promise.”
* * *
There were over one hundred and fifty Birnbaums in the Manhattan phone book. But since he had mentioned the Upper West Side, that narrowed the list considerably. Libby sat at the bar, dialing two telephones simultaneously while the bartenders exchanged puzzled glances.
“Hello, Mr. Birnbaum?” she said. “Hold on. Hello, Mr. Birnbaum? This is Libby Dennis. Do you know me? Oh, yeah? Same to you! Mr. Birnbaum? This is Libby Dennis.”
“Libby?”
“Is this you?” she gasped.
“Is this you?”
“It’s you, all right,” he said.
“You live at 609 West End Avenue?”
“Is this an obscene phone call?”
“Birnbaum,” she whispered excitedly.
“Yes?”
“Don’t move a muscle!”
* * *
Libby wore a man-tailored gray flannel suit, white shirt, and a bright pink tie. As she stepped off the elevator, Birnbaum was waiting in the doorway to his apartment. Over his shirt and jeans, he wore a black-and-white polka-dot apron. Without saying a word, she edged past him and walked inside.
It was a typically large prewar West Side apartment. The décor, however, was in the midst of battle. Half the walls had been broken through prior to being removed. Chunks of ceiling were gone, exposing overhead wires and wooden lathe. There were piles of molding and chipped plaster. Portions of the floor had been ripped up. A path of newspapers led the way from room to room.
“Who’s your decorator?”
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t like Early Stalingrad?”
Libby followed the line of papers and headed toward the bedroom. It, too, was filled with rubble and dust. The king-size bed was unmade. There was only one pillow on it. “You’re not married?”
“Separated.”
“What happened?”
“My wife was seeing someone else.”
“You caught her?”
“No. She told me.”
“She want to marry the guy?”
“No. She only wanted to sleep with him.”
Libby opened the closet door. It was filled with Birnbaum’s clothes. She reached in for a suit and checked the label. “Sears?”
“What can I do? I’m fashion’s plaything.”
Libby tossed the suit to Birnbaum. “You have kids?”
“No.”
She walked into the bathroom. “Why not?”
Birnbaum smiled. “Listen, Libby . . .”
She opened the medicine chest. “Mrs. Dennis.”
He stopped smiling. “Mrs. Dennis.”
“You ever cheat on your wife?”
Birnbaum stood in the doorway. He was angry. “I don’t like playing Trivial Pursuit.”
Libby pushed back her bangs. “There’s nothing trivial about me, Birnbaum.” She tapped him gently, waiting for him to step aside. “You know, two can play this game.”
