THE PRESIDENT IS COMING TO LUNCH

by Nan

  Birnbaum was a pro. He could recognize danger. And, for him, danger was always accompanied by the scent of sex. At that moment, Libby Dennis smelled better than the entire South of France. She dazzled him. Not with her bravado. With her vulnerability. For all the armor Libby thought she was wearing, Birnbaum saw her stark naked. Stark naked in his bed. “Why don’t we go somewhere and have a drink?”

  Somewhere was a corner of the living room floor. Two Barcelona chairs on a carpet of newspapers. The drink was milk.

  “Tell me about your wife.”

  “My wife orders English muffins from a bakery in Missouri. She likes witty furniture. Insolent wines. She likes to read reviews of new buildings. We were in the middle of renovating. She decided that walls were a medieval concept. When she left, she wrote me a farewell memo with her Mont Blanc pen.”

  “Definitely not a contender for well-done burgers,” Libby said.

  “Definitely not. Now suppose you tell me something.”

  “Sure.”

  “What the hell are you so worried about?”

  “Nothing special. The same things everyone is worried about. Killer bees. The Shroud of Turin. Going metric. You know.”

  They stared at one another, sipping their milk. “You want some cookies?” he asked. “I have Oreos and Fig Newtons. After my wife left, I went back to shopping at Grand Union.”

  Libby looked unsmiling into his eyes. “You know what I used to like? Those marshmallow things covered in chocolate.”

  “Mallomars!”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Mallomars.”

  “No cookies, Mrs. Dennis?”

  Libby shook her head. “No cookies, Birnbaum.”

  “More milk?”

  “I hate milk.” She gave him her glass. Their hands touched.

  “You drank milk at lunch.”

  “Not me. I never drink milk.”

  “You did. You drank all my milk.”

  “Impossible. Even as a kid, I lied my way out of my milk.”

  “Well,” he said, holding up her half-empty glass, “you can’t lie your way out of this milk.”

  “Don’t bet on it, Birnbaum.”

  “Funny the things we did when we were kids.” He leaned forward in his chair. “You know, I used to steal comic books.”

  Libby smiled. He had handed her a loaded gun. He was playing Russian Roulette using truth instead of bullets. “I used to sneak into Radio City Music Hall,” she said. “I’d go right up to the usher and say I had to find my mother because someone had died. The idea was to storm the place as though you owned it. That way they’d never suspect you.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.”

  Libby sat back in her chair. “It works every time.”

  “You know what else I used to do?” he said. “I used to take ice cream from the freezer case and hide it behind the canned goods.”

  “Did you get caught?”

  “No.”

  Libby leaned forward. “I stole lipsticks from Woolworths.”

  “Did you get caught?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I once cheated on a chemistry exam.”

  “I cut school all the time,” she said.

  “I stood Florence Zitomer up at the Senior Prom.”

  “I slept with the President.”

  Birnbaum smiled. “I know. Page twenty-three. Paragraph two.”

  And that was it. I know. Page twenty-three. Paragraph two. Over and out. Libby took a deep breath. “He was only a senator at the time. How was I supposed to know he’d become President?”

  Birnbaum shook his head. “God knows what happened to Florence Zitomer.”

  After a long pause, Libby asked, “What do you mean, page twenty-three, paragraph two?”

  “Mrs. Dennis, your senator was being groomed.”

  “You mean followed.”

  “Whatever.”

  “How long have I been page twenty-three, paragraph two?”

  “Since you spent the night together.”

  “Are you serious? You mean my name has been floating around Washington for over twenty years?”

  “Not floating, Mrs. Dennis. Your name has been in a top secret file, not on a bathroom wall.”

  “Let me tell you something, Birnbaum. It would have been seen by a better class of people.” Libby took a deep breath. “You asked me this afternoon whether I’d met the President. But you already knew the answer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did you ask me?”

  “You think the only reason people ask questions is because they don’t know the answers?”

  “I lied to you.”

  “Everybody lies. You weren’t under oath.”

  “It’s just that I didn’t want Cal to find out. It would ruin everything.”

  “Ruin what? You’re not married to him anymore.”

  “That’s the whole point! Birnbaum, I have too good a divorce to louse it up now.”

  “Mrs. Dennis . . .”

  “Libby.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “Birnbaum, I never saw him again after that night. It must be in your report.” She waited for him to respond.

  “Why did you come here?” he repeated.

  “I want to see the report.”

  “The report is classified.”

  “How do I know what else you have in there?”

  “You don’t.”

  Libby cleared her throat. “I want to see it. I have rights under the Freedom of Information Act.”

  Birnbaum smiled. “All such requests must be made in writing. However, I can tell you in advance that Secret Service files on the President are exempt from any and all provisions of the Freedom of Information Act.”

  Libby reached across and put her hand on his. She spoke intently. “Birnbaum, what do I have to do?”

  He took hold of her arm. “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t take bribes and I don’t fuck for favors.”

  Libby got up and began edging toward the door. “You son of a bitch! That’s not what I meant! You could really mess things up for me right now. How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Trust me? I’m the one who’s supposed to be worried about trusting you!”

  “Well, then, we have no problem, do we? I mean, I never could keep anything hidden. What you see is what you get.” Libby gasped, realizing her back was up against the door.

  Birnbaum was close enough to kiss her. “I’m sorry I shot my mouth off before. I was cooking dinner and I was edgy. I hate to eat alone. You shouldn’t take what I say too seriously.”

  “I won’t.”

  He smiled. “Especially the part about not fucking for favors.”

  Libby reached for the door knob. “I promise not to tell anyone the President is coming to lunch.”

  He leaned close. “Do I have your word?”

  “Birnbaum! Would I lie to the Secret Service?”

  * * *

  By two o’clock in the morning, the white roses had been refrigerated. Vases and ashtrays and salt cellars were lined up on the service counters. Chairs were stacked on top of tables. The linen had been carefully counted and bundled.

  Libby and Steven sat alone in the empty dining room. He was rescheduling staff while she pretended to be checking the day’s receipts. Their cups of coffee had long since gone cold. Steven picked at a slice of caramel pie.

  “Talk about the shoemaker’s children,” Libby said.

  Steven looked up at her. Expressionless. “What?”

  “That’s no dinner for you to be eating.”

  “It’s my just desserts.”

  Libby took hold of his arm. “I have an idea. Let’s go on a real splashy vacation. Just the two of us. My treat. Anywhere in the world.”

  “Whose world?”

  She let go of him. “You still seeing that architect?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  Steven looked down at his papers. �
��You ever think about minding your own business?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you liked him that much.”

  “You want a list of all the things you didn’t realize?” Steven sighed. “As it happens, I can provide you with such information in a variety of formats. By subject or chronologically. In twenty-three annual volumes.”

  Libby knew all twenty-three volumes. Chapter and verse. Steven blamed her for everything. Most of all, for losing Cal when he was a child. She thought he’d grow out of it once he was old enough to understand. Then, once he was through adolescence. Then, once he found himself. Or once he found someone else. “If you’re not seeing anyone, what’s to stop us from sneaking away?”

  “The tables may be empty, but the management still reserves the right to refuse admittance.”

  Loving Steven was like putting letters into a mailbox that no one ever opened. Dialing a disconnected number. Taking pictures without film. Whatever she tried, there was no way to get through. “Steven, I’m worried about you.”

  “Me too.”

  She leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”

  Steven pushed aside his papers. “You really want to know?”

  “Of course I do.”

  He took a deep breath. “Well, Mom, it’s just no fun being a homo these days. You’re not supposed to suck cock. You’re not supposed to get it up the ass. You’re not supposed to give it up the ass. Everybody’s supposed to find fulfillment making love to a condom. Now, I ask you?”

  Libby grabbed hold of Steven with both hands. “Goddamn it, I didn’t deserve that.” She spoke very softly. “I know I’ve always said that I didn’t care whether you preferred men or women. Well, that’s a lie. I do care. But I care much more about your being happy.”

  “Whatever happened to happy?”

  “Steven, why can’t you find someone to love?”

  He looked at her coldly. “Because I hate all fags.” He shuffled his papers and spoke in a thin, emotionless voice. “I’m moving Dan over to Marty’s station until he’s back. Everyone can take an extra table until I break Chickie in. He’s smart. He looks good. He’ll work out.”

  “The hell he will. It’s one thing when you trash all over me because I’m your mother. But the same rules do not apply during business hours. I want you to get rid of Chickie first thing tomorrow. I know all about the two of you. Dan stays where he is.”

  Steven stared at her. “Thus spake The Great Libby.”

  “Steven. I love you.”

  “Why don’t you just fuck off?”

  Thus spake The President’s Son.

  TUESDAY

  IT WAS THE MOUSE THAT AWAKENED ALFERO THE dishwasher.

  The mouse was standing on his chest, staring into his face. Alfero looked over at Dolores. She was asleep. ¡Mira! The mouse had the cheese from the trap. He was eating it as he stood on top of the man who had tried to kill him. The dishwasher smiled. Truly, a New York mouse.

  Alfero glanced at the ticking alarm clock. Five forty-five. He still had fifteen minutes. He nudged Dolores. She moaned. The mouse looked up and stopped eating. Alfero nudged Dolores again. She turned away, pleading, “Por favor.”

  “Tonight,” he whispered to the mouse. And to Dolores.

  Alfero threw back the Eastern Airlines blanket, stood up, and stepped over Tía Rosa. She was snoring. Tío was sprawled on the floor, having slipped off his mattress again. Alfero glanced enviously at Carlos and his girlfriend asleep in each other’s arms. They never slipped off their mattress, what was left of it. The niños, Humberto and Felix, were in a large sleeping bag littered with potato chips. Alfero leaned over to touch them gently on the head, then went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Damp underwear and socks hung from a criss-cross of rope over the bathtub. He reached for a pair of Carlos’s red briefs, pleased that at thirty-six he was still as trim as his nephew. Then, brushing aside a roach, he turned on the cold water.

  Dolores was already in the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator. “What do you want?” she asked. Alfero smiled and slid his hand between her legs. “Por favor!” she snapped, moving away. “What do you want to eat?” She held up a plate. “You want lobster?”

  “No.”

  “Gravlax?”

  “No.”

  “Foie gras?”

  “No.”

  Dolores slammed the refrigerator door shut. “You want something else, you bring it home.”

  “I bring home a woman.”

  “Querido,” she said softly. “The doctor said we must wait.”

  Alfero put his arms around her. “I am tired of waiting. My whole life I wait. When I was a boy, I wait to be a man.”

  “You are a man.”

  “Then I wait to come to America.”

  “You are in America.”

  “What good is it to be in America if I have no green card? What good is it to be a man if I have no woman? I am illegal. Illegal alien.” Bitterly, he snapped the elastic on his borrowed underwear. “Illegal man.”

  Dolores put a hand to his face. “Querido. God has many children left. When it is time, he will give us another.”

  Alfero pushed himself tight against her. “You do not get things in this world by waiting for God. If we want another child, we will have to fuck for it.” He pushed his pelvis back and forth against her. “That is the American way. Whatever you want, you must fuck for it!”

  Alfero walked along Tremont Avenue toward the subway. It was still dark. The streets of the South Bronx were nearly deserted, silent except for the rustling of old newspapers in a chill October wind. As Alfero waited on the corner for the light to change, he picked up the handful of papers that circled his feet. I will not wait for God to make me a busboy, he thought. Then he bent down again, clearing the garbage from the sidewalk as though clearing the best table in the house. I will ask Libby! Defiantly, he waved the papers over his head for God to see.

  But someone else was watching. Special Agent Tom Meehan of the United States Secret Service ducked into a doorway and took a regulation Motorola two-way walkie-talkie from his pocket. “Meehan to Control. Is everybody crazy in New York?”

  It was seven o’clock by the time Alfero surfaced from the subway on West Fifty-seventh Street. He stopped into a coffee shop for “uno bagel con schmeer” before turning off Sixth Avenue onto Fifty-fifth Street. The first thing Alfero saw was the black-and-white striped awning half a block away toward Fifth. It was the first thing everyone saw. There was no name on the awning. Not even a number. A frosted glass insert over the doorway had “Libby’s” etched discreetly in order to keep the wrong people out.

  Alfero stuck a finger through the metal gate that protected the entrance. He rang the bell for the night porter, never noticing Special Agents Harmon and Davis watching from a gray Plymouth station wagon across the street. Special Agent Meehan, who had followed Alfero from the Bronx, took out his two-way. “Meehan to Control. He’s all yours.”

  Sonny was busy checking pages on his clipboard while carrots, then potatoes, were loaded onto the receiving scale. Every item had to be weighed and inspected before it went into storage. As back-of-the-house manager, Sonny did the ordering and kept all inventories. He let Alfero work an extra shift as porter.

  “Onions!” Sonny shouted. To look at him, no one would have guessed Sonny had started out as a chorus boy. He was bald, fat, and fifty. His face frozen with disdain. Years ago, when Libby still filed a short form, he had done her taxes. To repay the favor, Libby brought him clients from the restaurants she worked in between chorus jobs. Then he repaid the favor. He came to work for her.

  “Onions!” Alfero confirmed. “Fifty pound.” He lifted the sack off the scale. “I speak to Libby today.”

  “Times two?”

  Alfero weighed the second sack. “Sí.”

  “About what?”

  “I want to be a busboy.”

  Sonny shook his head. “You españols don’t know when you’re well off. They�
��re not going to let you have two shifts in the front of the house.”

  “I want to get tips.”

  Sonny motioned for Alfero to slit the sacks, and then he looked inside and sniffed. He picked up one, two, three onions, checking for firmness. Dry skins. No sprouts. Even sizes. “You want to be a busboy, talk to Steven.”

  “I talk to Miss Libby.”

  “You habla inglés? I told you, talk to Steven.”

  “But she is a nice lady.”

  “I don’t want you bothering Libby. You talk to Steven. He’s a nice lady, too.”

  Louie, the Vietnamese sous-chef, stood near the dry storage room. Cartons of tomatoes were piled in front of the door. “Where mushroom?” shouted Louie.

  Sonny ignored him. “Broccoli? Ten two-pound cases?”

  “Si.”

  “You no got mushroom?” Louie yelled.

  “I got mushroom! I got mushroom!” Sonny flipped the pages of his inventory. “Where the fuck are the mushrooms?”

  “Six three-pound baskets,” Alfero said triumphantly, putting them on the scale.

  As Louie reached for the top basket, Sonny pushed his hand away. “You know, it would be a helluva lot easier if you let me get through checking in.”

  Louie narrowed his eyes. “My job not to make life easy for you. My job to get food ready.”

  “Your job to be pain in the ass!” Sonny handed Louie a basket.

  “More!” Louie grabbed two more baskets.

  Sonny shook his head at Louie. “Fungus!”

  Louie giggled. “Fungus you, too.”

  A delivery man wheeled in six large boxes. “Flowers!”

  “You I want to see!” Sonny said, pointing an angry finger at the man. He held the door open to the walk-in refrigerator. As the man followed him, Sonny shouted, “What the hell kind of shit did you send me on Friday?” He closed the door behind them.

  The man smiled. “You shoulda been an actor.”

  “You shoulda been here earlier,” he said softly. “There are too many people around.”

  The man shrugged. “I don’t see nobody.” He tossed Sonny a small plastic bag. “Nobody here but us and a couple of steaks that ain’t gonna be missed. If you catch my drift.”

  Sonny opened the bag and sniffed the white powder. He took some between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed it gently. Then he brought it to his nose, inhaled deeply and fought to keep from sneezing. “What the hell is in this?”