by Nan
The names entered first on the chart were the regulars. They were the people who regarded Libby’s as a club. They called in only when they wouldn’t be using their tables.
Next came the celebs. They were given maximum visibility—not merely because they wanted it, but to reassure the regulars they had rented space in the right neighborhood. Then, the worker bees were scribbled in, the people in the business of show business. Agents, editors, managers, producers, lawyers. Soldiers of fortune. Mercenaries who traded flags as easily as business cards. Recognized only by one another, they traveled in closed caravans to and from readings, rehearsals, screenings, openings, closings, and memorials. Last, and definitely least, were the great unwashed—those who came to Libby’s for no reason other than to eat. With nothing but food on their minds, they were the Third World of the restaurant scene. People who lunched on the left side of the brain.
* * *
The waiters were never late for the eleven o’clock meeting. Not because they were prompt or cooperative, but because they had no place else to go. Hanging around the kitchen was strictly forbidden.
Maxie the waiter had a cold. It was a Health Department violation for an employee to report to work with a cold. But Maxie, who knew to the penny how much in tips were at stake, used his wife’s makeup to camouflage the reddened corners of his nose. Norm leaned over to him. “Listen, if you have to sneeze, I know a way to stop it.”
“You do?”
Norm whispered into Maxie’s good ear. “If you think you’re going to sneeze, put a finger up each nostril, stick your thumb in your mouth, and fart.”
“I hate fart jokes.”
“You don’t like fart jokes and you don’t like prune jokes! So what do you like?”
The busboys, whispering softly, entered the room in single file. As always, Victor and Paul, the bartenders, sat by themselves. Bud, in his kitchen whites, leaned against the wall.
Steven looked up, avoiding Chickie, and opened his folder. “Good morning.”
Ursula, the expediter, rushed from the kitchen holding a container of yogurt. During service, waiters gave her their orders and she gave them to the cooks. It was her job to see that the waiters got their orders without having any contact with the cook staff. A woman of Wagnerian proportions, Ursula was the ultimate buffer zone. “Sorry,” she said, with her mouth full. “I didn’t have any breakfast.”
Simon, a waiter, looked up from his racing form. “They must have run out of Elephant McMuffins.”
“All right,” Steven said. “Let’s get going.” He picked up the first sheet. “We’re eighty-sixing the smoked salmon soup and the curried mussels. Instead, we have catfish bisque again and grilled oysters wrapped in bacon. Same price. I’m out of the ’80 Chianti. Until the wine list is reprinted, give them the ’78 at the same price. It’s a better wine anyway. But don’t forget the Côte du Rhône. It’s not moving. Let’s give it a little nudge, shall we?” He sighed and picked up the next sheet. “The specials for today are . . .” He paused while the waiters got out their pads. “Grilled duck thighs stuffed with mustard fruits . . .”
“Jesus.”
“Sounds sexy.”
“What the hell is a mustard fruit?”
“A guy who’s queer for Gulden’s.”
“I didn’t know ducks had thighs.”
“Of course they got thighs. How else do they keep up their stockings?”
Steven turned to Bud. “Chef?”
Bud hated the waiters. They were the enemy. Trained seals who performed just to be thrown tips. “We use pickled melon rind, small seedless grapes, candied cherries, and lemon peel in a mustard caramel sauce.”
“Oy vay.”
“You think it’s right to stuff that into the thigh of some poor dead duck?”
“How much?”
“Sixteen-fifty.” Steven continued. “The next special is coconut chili. Same price. We all know what that is.”
“We sure do.”
“I’ll have the duck thighs.”
“You already have duck thighs.”
“And the third special,” Steven said, “is red snapper.”
Bud raised his hand. “We had to send the fish back.”
“Again?” Steven asked. “That’s been happening a hell of a lot lately.”
“Speak to Sonny.”
Steven raised his eyebrows. “Do we have a third special?”
Bud nodded. “Yes. I fill a puff pastry case with sautéed mushrooms, a slice of fresh foie gras, and diced sweetbreads in a champagne cream sauce. On top of that, I put one whole black truffle that has been wrapped in prosciutto and baked. And then I cover it with a pastry lid.”
There was a long silence. One of the waiters asked, “No four and twenty blackbirds?”
Steven smiled. “What is this epic called?”
Bud cleared his throat. “It is called Truffle Pot Pie.”
Simon threw down his racing form. “Goddamn it! How do you expect us to sell that?”
“Listen, I didn’t say a word about the stupid duck thighs,” Stu shouted. “But Truffle Pot Pie? Come on! Gimme a break! Do you call that food?”
“We don’t sell food here!” Libby was back from running. Her cheeks were still flushed as she came into the dining room. “This is a restaurant! We sell lunch and we sell dinner. We sell dreams. You wake them up, Simon, they leave. They find another opium den down the block. You want to sell food, get a job at the A&P.”
Simon raised his hands. “I thought I was a waiter. I didn’t know I was supposed to be the Sandman.”
“Like I said, maybe you’re in the wrong business.”
“You don’t have to take it so personal,” Simon offered.
“I take everything personally. The name of this pit stop is Libby’s. Anything you don’t like about Libby’s, you don’t like about me.”
Simon became nervous. “I just asked a question. Whatever happened to the free speech?”
“The same thing that happened to the free the lunch. Priced out of sight.” She glanced at Steven. “It costs too damn much to tell the truth these days.”
* * *
It was High Noon. It was time to turn up the air conditioning and lower the lights. The waiters, in short black jackets with black ties and white trousers, stopped talking and took their stations. The busboys, in white vests and white trousers, put away their decks of cards.
As usual, Janos Vatsl was first through the front door. Janos left Prague in 1958, deserting his grandparents, his parents, his brothers and sisters, his wife, and his sons. Twenty-five years later he was a billionaire. At sixty, he had tightly curled white hair, a white moustache, a trim physique, and a new young wife who he made certain appeared nude in as many magazines as possible.
“Handsome boychik, these are for you.” Janos handed Steven a box of ties from Missoni. “Rome was so cheap. You could buy the whole city for nothing.” Janos groaned and put a hand to his stomach. “Oh, do I gotta go!” He walked quickly toward the men’s room.
“Ciao, caro.” Rikki Lee, the twenty-two-year-old Mrs. Vatsl, wore tight denim jeans, a tight white silk T-shirt and a tight denim jacket studded with rhinestones. Her long blond hair was hidden under a matching ten-gallon hat.
Steven kissed the air near her cheek. “Thanks for the ties.”
“Forget it, sweetie. They were practically giving Rome away.”
Steven led her down the aisle to Table 43. The worst table in the house. Next to the men’s room. At the entrance to the kitchen. But Janos had a twenty-four-carat behind that left its own stamp of approval. The game of life, for Janos, was using his power and money to make the worst table into the best.
“Bring me a Coke, sweetie,” Rikki said. “There wasn’t a goddamn thing to drink in the limo.”
Fay Fox was next. Without waiting to be escorted, she went to her table. Fay waved hello to Rikki, pointed to her cowboy hat, and then rolled her eyes at Steven. “Where were they? Grace-land?”
“Rome.”
Fay nodded and made a note of it. She picked up her phone and dialed. “Who’s on the menu today, darlin’?”
“Jim Garner, Marlo Thomas, John Irving, Adolph Green . . .”
Fay winked and spoke into the receiver. “This is Dr. Keith’s nurse,” she said. “He wants a report on the condition of one of his patients. Moina Hayle. Sure will.” She pointed a finger at Steven and smiled. “If you tell Hots I know about Moina, I’ll scream cockroach during lunch. Hello?” Fay stopped smiling. “Well, of course, he knows about the biopsy.” She was barely able to control her shock. “But he is still waiting for a prognosis.” Fay sat back in her seat listening without saying a word. She hung up. “That no-good skunk,” she said, staring at Moina’s empty table. “I thought she went in for a face job.”
Even though Phyllis and Donald ate lunch at Libby’s every day, and even though Phyllis had known Steven since he was a little boy, and even though Donald was Steven’s lover, Mr. and Mrs. Elgin waited for the maître d’ to seat them.
“When you’re haute, you’re haute,” Steven said, complimenting Phyllis on her dress.
“You don’t think it’s too Art Drecko?”
“Not at all. It’s very Spider Woman.”
Phyllis put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank God Libby taught you to be a good liar. It is so important in life.”
Donald winked at him. “Forget plastics.”
Steven led them down the aisle. “Well, here’s the story so far. Rikki and Janos were in Rome. Everything was very cheap.” Steven angled the table so that Phyllis could slide in. “It seems,” he whispered, “that all is not well in Moinaland. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
As Steven seated him, Donald said, “That suit looks good on you.”
“This old thing?”
Donald gave him a dirty look. “We’ll have the usual.” He waited until he was alone with Phyllis. “Darling, we’ve always been honest with one another.”
“Lincoln could take lessons.”
“I must talk to you,” he said.
“Uh oh. I feel a wrong coming on.”
“It’s not you, my love. God knows we have a perfect marriage.”
She leaned close. “Is it Steven?”
Donald nodded. “Yes.” He spoke softly. “I hate saying this about your best friend’s son, but he’s become such a tiresome little shit.”
“Dear God.” She put her hand on his. “You don’t think he said anything to Libby?”
“No. Not as long as he wants money from me.”
“We really must find you someone else, Donald.” She kissed his cheek. “You still expect all your young men to love you. If only you weren’t such a hopeless romantic.”
Donald held her hand gently. He smiled. “It’s your fault, darling. You’ve spoiled me.”
* * *
The phone began ringing at Table 104 the moment Hots walked through the door. “They must smell me coming!” He rushed past Steven to answer it. “Hello?” He looked over at the waiter and motioned for something to drink.
It was Fay calling from across the room. “Would you mind telling me just what’s goin’ on with Moina?”
Hots looked over at her. “Jesus.”
“How did she get in and out of Sloan-Kettering so fast?”
“Who the hell told you?”
“Stop stalling, Hots. I’ve hated Moina’s guts for years. She is very important to me.” She was six-figures important. Fay had just sold her unauthorized biography of Moina to Doubleday.
Janos came out of the men’s room clutching a fistful of toilet paper. He was furious. Rikki narrowed her eyes. “Johnny, don’t start.”
“How many times have I told them about this lousy toilet paper?”
Rikki put her hands over her ears. “Johnny, please. I don’t want to hear about your craps.”
Janos shook his head as he picked up the phone and dialed. “You’d think with an ass like yours you’d understand.” He raised his eyebrows and announced himself into the receiver. “Vatsl.”
Rikki took her hands from her head. “Be nice, Johnny.”
“I sign the checks. I don’t have to be nice.” He spoke into the receiver. “Barry? Here is the deal on the picture. My money. My director. My costar. You understand, Barry? You’re going to distribute The Last Cowboy my way. It’s going to play the houses for more than three days. I don’t want her laughed at anymore. Rikki is going to be a star. I’m through flushing my wife down the toilet.”
Andre smiled and raised a glass of Bernkasteler Schlossberg Spätlese ’83. “Well, then, Junior, I’d say we have a deal.”
Junior was Mac Singer, the “No-Good Son” of movie mogul Edgar F. Singer. In the three years since he had unseated Senior as head of the studio, Junior had been unseated as well. He was out in the cold as an independent producer and he was desperate to make a deal.
Andre had been working Junior since the night before, massaging his five-hundred-G-spot for start-up money. Stunned by the PBS decision to pass on Grandma Moses, Andre immediately called the Pritikin Center to tell them he’d be a day late. Then he found out where the A-Group was gathering. Within half an hour, he had been invited to Gloria’s party and met Junior. It was going to be his fastest turnaround ever.
Andre made a toast. “To Anna Mary Robertson Moses!”
Junior glanced across the room to check that Senior was watching before he raised his glass. “To hell with her!”
Andre’s stomach turned over.
“This toast is for Sissy or Goldie,” Junior said.
Andre sighed with relief. “Take no prisoners!”
“I want a young Grandma Moses. At the height of her sexuality. Nobody needs a movie about some old bag with a paintbrush.”
Andre smiled and shook a finger at Junior. “You know, you son of a bitch, you just may be redefining ‘auteur’ as the producer rather than the director.”
Junior nodded. It sounded like a compliment. But with Andre who could tell? The real question was what to do next. There was still plenty of time to pull out of the deal. He kept wondering what Senior would do.
* * *
The New York field office of the United States Secret Service was located at 6 World Trade Center. And, as far as Birnbaum was concerned, it was the only secure place in the city. Not merely physically secure. It was emotionally secure. It was a club. It was the most private club in the world because the membership fee was private parts. You didn’t get in without balls. You didn’t stay in without balls. And balls, unlike happiness, were things money couldn’t buy. They came as standard equipment or they didn’t come at all.
The Secret Service was an elite corps. Gladiators. That was the image Birnbaum liked best. But who the hell ever heard of a Jewish gladiator?
Anders Kane, head of the White House Presidential Protective Detail, sat down next to Birnbaum and said, “I’ve had complaints.”
“You’ve had complaints?”
“Yes.” Anders slapped the file angrily on the desk. “These are the complaints.”
Birnbaum opened the file and glanced quickly at the pages. Meehan, Gordon, Conaway, and Harmon had all made formal statements. He couldn’t resist. He looked up at Anders and slowly, with as much amazement as he could squeeze into his voice, he asked, “These . . . are . . . the . . . complaints?”
“Since I do not speak Yiddish,” Anders said, “would you be kind enough to translate your response?”
Birnbaum didn’t like Anders but he understood him. Premenopausal Hitler Youth. Brainwashed by mayonnaise. “I was not speaking Yiddish. I was speaking New York. If I had hit myself in the head while I was saying it, I would have been speaking Yiddish.”
“What the fuck did you send these guys up to the Bronx for? To Brooklyn? For what?”
Birnbaum smiled. “That’s right! You got it. Now all you have to do is hit yourself in the head and call me a schmuck. I guarantee you’ll have a reformed congregation in Westchester by the end
of the week.” Birnbaum stopped smiling. “You send me four kids trained to catch old ladies who forge Medicaid checks. You expect them to be responsible for the life of the President of the United States? The most danger they’ve ever been in is coming late for the movies. You bet your ass I’m going to subject them to ‘excessive hardship without sufficient cause.’ What the hell do they think this job is?”
Had anyone else said that, Anders would have agreed. But Birnbaum couldn’t be trusted. Birnbaum had never requested a transfer to Washington. That’s what Anders didn’t trust. If you were in the movie business, you wanted to be in LA, publishing meant New York, the Secret Service was the White House. That’s where the power was in his business. The Vice President might be only a heartbeat from the presidency, but Anders Kane was even closer. He was a heartbeat from the President. He respected power and was suspicious of men who didn’t.
“I don’t see any reason to have authorized all-night surveillance. I’m not worried about any of these people.”
“It’s our people I was worried about.”
Anders looked through the file. “Dishwasher, coat check, chef, maître d’. Why those four?”
“I had the IRS in Albany pull the file on the restaurant and give me the names of all employees. I ran the list through the FBI, INS, and National Crime Index. I got four hits. The dishwasher is an illegal alien. The coat check girl was arrested three times for disorderly conduct at anti-Administration protests. The chef was a draft dodger readmitted during amnesty. And the maître d’ was picked up twice for homosexual solicitation.”
“Doesn’t sound to me like any of them are up for the Hinckley Award.”
“I told you, I wasn’t worried about those four,” Birnbaum said. “I was worried about our four.”
“And so now, after one night in the Bronx, Meehan’s ready for a seat in the point car?”
Birnbaum nodded slowly. He shook a finger at Anders. “You know, you’re getting there. You’re going to make one helluva rabbi.”
Anders smiled grudgingly. “I suppose it was better than paying for them to jerk off in their hotel rooms. Get rid of the dishwasher and the girl. I don’t want them near the place on Thursday. I don’t see any problem with the chef or the maître d’.”
