by Nan
“Unless he makes a pass at the President.”
o
The key to people-watching in a restaurant was to keep an eye on the maître d’. But no one needed an advance man to spot Ashanti Kama. She was her own brass band. Ashanti’s appearance in a cosmetics ad or fashion layout netted her an outrageous $5,000 a day, $10,000 minimum. Six feet tall, with skin the color of a Stradivarius, she was the most ravishing woman to leave Africa since Cleopatra. At thirty-eight, Ashanti still refused to wear makeup or underwear.
On seeing Junior, she stopped dead in the aisle. “Steven,” she gasped. “I thought it was illegal to expose a prick in public.”
Junior stood up. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“You’ll get hair on your palms.” She glanced at Andre. “What happened? You look pregnant!”
“Junior and I have just made a deal.”
Ashanti rolled her eyes. “Well, I may not know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ babies, but I sure do know you been fucked.”
Junior leaned close to her. “When can we get together?”
She whispered, “When I run out of bananas.” Ashanti loped over to Hots’s table.
“So how was the shoot?” he asked. “Tell me what happened.”
“What could happen?” She shrugged, sitting down. “Everyone in LA is bisexual. They like men and they like boys.”
Hots smiled. “Not Junior.”
“I was never alone with the guy long enough to find out. In New York, two people can still go to a restaurant or to the movies. Out there, you play fill-the-limo. Hotsy, I’ve got to be by myself for a while. Totally alone. That’s why I’ve decided to marry Bill Perry.”
“But he’s already married.”
“I didn’t say the wedding was tomorrow.”
“The divorce can’t even be tomorrow,” Hots said.
Ashanti leaned toward Hots. “Old models never die, they just get poor. I need someone to take care of me. Especially now. I’ve been calling Moina all morning. They said she checked out.”
The phone rang. Hots picked it up. “Yeah?”
It was Fay calling again from across the room. “Let me speak to Ashanti. She must know all about Moina.”
Hots hung up.
“Your table is ready, Miss Borden.” Steven led the slender woman down the aisle.
“Is Mr. Sessions here?” she asked.
“No.”
“Where’s Libby?”
Steven shrugged. “Missing in action.”
Mary Borden, at forty-five, was the most powerful agent in publishing. When she left messages, she was called back immediately. When she sent a manuscript, it was moved to the top of the pile. When she asked for best offers, she got them. Mary was one of the few people in the industry who were above reproach. Not because she refused to peddle garbage. She refused to mislabel it. Mary was compulsively, transparently honest. She found passion in pragmatism, strength in truth.
Mary stopped at Junior’s table. “I’ve got a book for you. Before Dawn. World War II. Behind enemy lines. Good Germans versus Bad Germans. Right up your alley.”
“I’d love to see it,” Junior said.
Andre began to cough. The last thing he needed was some other project to blow his deal. It had taken all night to get Junior on the launching pad and then Typhoid Mary had to show up.
Janos waved Fay over. He nudged Rikki. “You let me do the talking.” Rikki folded her arms and stared angrily at the ceiling.
Fay smiled the moment she saw Rikki’s expression. “Darlin’, you look like you’re goin’ to cry.”
Rikki stared into space. “Rikki Lee is not here. She is gone. I have no idea when she will return.”
Janos patted the empty seat next to him. “Fay darling, tell me something.” As she sat down, he asked, “Who needs money?”
Fay began to laugh. “Who doesn’t?”
“I want a big star. She can’t carry this picture herself.”
Fay nodded. As though Rikki could carry any picture aside from an eight-by-ten glossy. “Let me chew on it, sweetie.”
“Oh, Johnny,” Rikki squealed. “There he is! There’s our last cowboy!”
Everyone turned. It was Cal.
Mary leaned over and kissed Edgar F. Singer on the cheek. “I’ve got something for you, Senior. Right up your alley.”
He motioned toward Junior’s table. “The last thing that was up my alley is sitting over there. Have you met Wanda?”
Mary extended her hand but Wanda was busy with her soup spoon.
“She was one of the hostages,” Senior said. “I’m thinking of using her in Dorothy—The Woman.” He smiled at her. “It’s a pleasure to see a broad eat these days.”
“I’ve got a book for you,” Mary said. “World War II. Behind enemy lines. Good Germans versus Bad Germans.”
“The only good German is a poor German. Besides, I’ve had enough war movies. Mrs. Miniver. The White Cliffs of Dover. To Each His Own. How much can the public take?”
Mary patted his hand. “You can’t blame me for trying.”
“You’re not the only one. Some computer nudnik is ready to bankroll a picture called December Seventh. He figures it’s the only way to stop people from buying Japanese.” He turned to Wanda. “Don’t worry, darling. Libby will know how to get the soup off your blouse.”
Janos had sent Rikki on an errand. Ordinarily, she would have protested, but she wanted him to make a deal with Cal.
“You know how much money I have?” Janos asked.
“No,” Cal said.
“So guess.”
“I can’t guess.”
Janos smiled. “I have six billion dollars.” Janos didn’t like to ask for anything. And so before he asked, he had to establish that asking was a mere formality.
Cal looked Janos straight in the eye. “You know how big my cock is?”
“No.”
“So guess!”
Janos laughed. He brought out his copy of High Life. “You see the new pictures?”
Cal lied. “No.”
Janos opened to a nude photo of Rikki with a chinchilla coat draped over her shoulders. “Did you ever see tits like that?” Janos licked his finger quickly and turned the page. “Look at that ass and tell me you don’t believe in God.” He closed the magazine and flung it on the table in front of Cal. “I’ll tell you something only a few people know. Rikki is a very rich woman. I made investments for her. She has five million of her own. So, Mr. Big Cock, she doesn’t stay with me for my money.”
Cal picked up the magazine. He was hardly in a bargaining position. They had taken the picture away from him. And all his agent could come up with was The Desert Song. Not that he couldn’t have found a better picture. But it wasn’t enough anymore to get a better picture. You had to get the right picture at the right price. For the moment, there were no right pictures. The only solution was the wrong picture at an extraordinary price. From what Fay had told him, Janos was willing to pay. The smart thing would be to take the money and run. But as desperate as Cal was, he had to run before he took the money. He threw the magazine across the table. “Why the hell do you make Rikki do this kind of crap?”
“I know you’re angry with me for being late.” John Sessions sat down opposite Mary. She said nothing and handed him a menu. “I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t get it together this morning. After you left, I watched Donahue. I was really enjoying myself, too, until I got depressed because I was watching Donahue and really enjoying myself. You think I’m a wimp for taping Donahue, don’t you? Never mind. You don’t have to answer. I can hear you. I heard you while I was watching. I heard you louder than the caller from Detroit. Either watch Donahue and enjoy it or turn it off! Then that despairing half laugh of yours. It’s so simple for you. Black. White. Right. Wrong. I lunch, therefore, I am. Not so with writers, Madame de la Ten Percent. With writers it is, I lunch, but why? Why the fuck don’t you say something and shut me up?”
Mary stared at the me
nu thinking how much it reminded her of John. There was nothing on it she wanted.
“What excites you?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“No,” he said, pretending she had misunderstood him. “I mean on the menu.”
“John . . .”
“But as long as you brought it up, what is it about me that excites you? Just what is it that’s kept us together from one Joyce Carol Oates book to the next? Admittedly, not a long time. But long enough. Surely not the doggie position alone?”
“John, I invited you to lunch to talk business.”
Al, the waiter, smiled at Mary. “Would you like something to drink, Miss Borden?”
Mary answered before John could say anything. “Two Perriers, please.”
“And I’ll have two scotches.” He smiled. “Chivas. Neat.” After the waiter left, John said, “Something must have happened to make me deductible.”
“Abner likes Before Dawn.”
John sat back. “You didn’t tell me you sent it to Abner. He really liked it?” Then sharply, “Answer me!”
Mary stared at John. She nodded. With success came the end of the rhetorical question. John had crossed the threshold. She was about to close the deal on his first novel, thereby shutting the door on their personal relationship. There was no one she hated more than a successful author. Aspiring, struggling, frustrated, wretched—that’s when writers were wonderful. It was the only time they were powerless.
“When are you going to speak to him again?”
“Tomorrow. At lunch.”
“He really liked the book?”
“He loved the book.”
“How much?”
“I think I can get him up to forty thousand.”
“Forty thousand?”
“With a guaranteed ad campaign.” She smiled. “And an author tour.”
“I’m going to go on tour?”
“Yes.”
John was ecstatic. “My God! You know what this means?”
“Yes.” Mary leaned forward. “I want you out of my apartment by the end of the week.”
Hots never looked at a menu. He had the same thing for lunch every day. A small can of Bumble Bee tuna fish. A dollop of mayonnaise. Some iceberg lettuce. A single thick center slice of tomato. A cup of Lipton tea. Just like his mother used to make.
“. . . and the truffle,” recited Norm, “is wrapped in prosciutto . . .”
“Oh, my God,” Ashanti moaned. “To die!”
“. . . and cooked in a champagne cream sauce.”
She slapped Hots. “Are you listening? I want you to take all this down. This is exactly how I want to be buried.” She turned to the waiter. “Be sure to tell them it’s for me. But first I want some jalapeño pasta. Tell them to make it spicy. Tell them I want my insides to sizzle. Oh, where is Libby? She knows how I like it. But before you bring the pasta, be a good boy and get me a nice glass of champagne.”
“Yes, Miss Kama.”
“And maybe some shrimp while I’m waiting.” Ashanti put a hand to her stomach. “Hurry up! Haven’t you heard about the starving Africans?”
Fay sat down next to Hots. “Okay. Now listen up. I’m not leavin’ here till you tell me about Moina.”
“Off the record?” Hots asked.
“No deals.” Fay was serious. She was three-quarters finished with Moina’s book. “I want to know what she was doin’ at the hospital.”
Ashanti rolled her eyes. “How did Bertha Bigmouth find out?”
“So you know about it,” Fay said.
“Of course I know about it,” Ashanti answered. “Who the hell do you think found the lump?”
* * *
Birnbaum and Anders had moved into the conference room. Now that “the White House” had arrived, Birnbaum was no longer in charge. It was time for the official transfer of power. It was Anders’s show and he wasn’t going to play it in Birnbaum’s office.
Anders sat at the head of the table as though the chair had his name on it. He opened his file and took out a copy of the memo on New York Comet. Comet was the Service’s code name for the President. “We discussed all the points you raised,” Anders said, “but I want him to land at Newark. Not Kennedy. I don’t like anything with the name Kennedy.”
Birnbaum smiled. “That’s the reason for Newark?” He knew there was nothing more to be said on the matter. But at least he had ended with a question.
“The President will congratulate the customs inspectors vis-à-vis the recent drug arrests. I want him on his merry way before the FBI has time to get insulted because they weren’t invited.”
Birnbaum shook his head. “You’ve got him greeted by the Governor of New Jersey, then going to Customs, then a press conference . . .”
“We’ve already staffed it out. I’m here to liaise, not network. You can’t handle it, I’ll call in the Girl Scouts.”
“You think I can’t handle it?” Birnbaum asked with a smile, quickly opening his folder. He relished the look of disgust on Anders’s face before clearing his throat and getting down to business. “I spoke to the Commissioner, then to Captain Metzenberg of Midtown. We’ll get a tactical plan in the morning. He’s requisitioning men from adjacent precincts. I estimate he’ll need a couple of thousand to cover the route from the heliport to the UN and up to Fifty-fifth.”
“Let Metzenberg do the estimating,” Anders said. “The streets will be closed fifteen minutes prior?”
Birnbaum shrugged. “I asked for fifteen. Metzenberg said five. We compromised on ten.”
“No compromises,” Anders said. “Nothing is negotiable.”
“Listen, you close a street in New York for fifteen minutes and you’ll have every son of a bitch out there trying to kill the President. And I don’t think you’d find a judge downtown who would even ask bail.”
“I want the streets closed for a full fifteen minutes,” Anders said. “I want to drive the route five or six times myself. I want minesweepers and mounties. I want choppers following me. I want videocams in the choppers feeding into the Command Van. I want open communication with all mobile units. I am personally going to work the man from the fucking UN to that fucking restaurant and I need fifteen minutes’ advance to do it in.”
“You got it.”
Anders looked at the next item on his checklist. “Fire.”
“Agnello will have trucks on either side of the restaurant. Men will be on adjoining roofs all hosed up.”
“Inspection of the premises?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’ll be there.”
“Health?”
“Same time.”
“Hospitals?”
“Beekman Downtown for the heliport area. University for the UN and along First Avenue. Roosevelt while he’s at the restaurant. I’ve spoken to all three administrators. We have chiefs of staff, heads of surgery, live donors, plasma, suites, and situation rooms at each location. They’ve all been given work-ups on the President.”
“You’ve gone through the nut box?”
“Protective Intelligence interviewed all the lookouts even if they haven’t made any threats against the President this year. We locked up four of them. The others were too incoherent to swat a fly.”
Anders nodded. “White House Communications is arranging for phone lines. I need a radio setup and a holding room for staff. I want the explosives unit and the bomb dogs in as soon as possible. What about the site?”
“Surrounding area shouldn’t be difficult to control,” Birnbaum said. “I’ve checked out each roof myself. Fifty men should secure the block.”
“I need portable generators for emergency lighting.”
“Con Ed will send some tomorrow.”
Anders sat back. “You call the FDA?”
“They’re coming, but they said they don’t provide tasters.”
Anders shook his head. “You met this Libby?”
“Yes.”
“She worth it?”
“Worth what?”
/> “Dying for.” Anders leaned across the desk toward Birnbaum and smiled. “That’s the business we’re in.”
* * *
Phyllis poked disconsolately at her Southern fried chicken salad. “Chickens,” she muttered. “Here, chick-chick.”
Donald looked up from his Truffle Pot Pie. “What did you say?”
Phyllis put down her fork. She sat back. “Donald, I’m out of my mind with anxiety. I’ve never made as much money. I’ve got more clothes than Princess Di. Not to mention the most wonderful husband in the entire world.”
“But?”
She smiled. “I don’t think this Bud’s for me.”
“You’ll pardon moi, but I never understood your infatuation with someone who cooks the dead.”
“I feel like such a failure.”
Donald took her hand. “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk, Phyllis. Not from a ballbuster like you. Goddamn it, I thought he’d at least give you a decent fuck.”
“So did I. But, Donald, he’s become the Evelyn Wood of sex!”
“Darling, you mustn’t get upset.”
“Perhaps it’s my fault. I can’t seem to do anything right.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing you can’t do. Surely you haven’t forgotten the night on Rainier’s yacht. For God’s sake, Phyllis, you nearly gave me an erection!”
“Oh, Donald, is it any wonder I love you?”
He took a glass of Latour ’66 and brought it to Phyllis’s lips. She sighed and took a sip. He lit a cigarette and handed it to her. “Now tell Donald everything that happened. And don’t leave out a single gory detail.”
Rikki Lee walked into the room strutting her stuff as though stuff were going out of style. As immune to fashion and good taste as she was to talent, Rikki was a genetic triumph in the field of lust. She was the nectarine of sex. Perpetually ripe. The kindest thing to be said for Rikki, as she swung a shopping bag filled with six rolls of toilet paper from the Hotel Pierre, was that she just couldn’t help it.
Cal’s heart sank at the sight of her. Never had a woman been so totally unappealing. There were dozens of reasons why she offended his sensibilities, but most important was the fact that he needed her.
“Is he going to do it, Johnny?” She stared at Cal while handing Janos the shopping bag.
