by Nan
Alfero’s face still had the remnants of a smile. Steven had spoken so quickly that Alfero’s battered emotional circuitry hadn’t time to respond fully. “I have no green card,” Alfero said. “But I am an American!”
“That is a lie,” Steven said matter-of-factly.
“Señor Steven, I beg you. I love America. I work hard. Please do not fire me.”
Steven reached for Alfero and grabbed him by the wrist. “Don’t blame me,” he said softly. Suddenly, Steven wanted to kiss Alfero. He wanted to put his hands between Alfero’s legs. “It’s not my fault. It’s my mother’s.”
“Please, you let me speak to the Señora. She will understand.”
“The Señora told me to fire you. She told me she wanted you out of here immediately. She told me to report you to the Immigration and Naturalization Service.”
Alfero’s eyes became watery. “But why? Why does she say such things?”
Steven let go of his wrist. “She is a no-good bitch. You cannot trust her. I hate what she is doing to you.”
Tessa was counting coat checks as Steven walked over. He smiled uncomfortably. “Listen . . .”
Tessa rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t shoot the President.”
“I’m not worried. But the big bad Secret Service doesn’t want you here tomorrow.”
“What do you mean they don’t want me here tomorrow?”
“That’s what they said.” Steven shrugged. “Blame not the messenger.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s nothing to get upset about. They found out you were arrested at some protest rallies. They suggested you take a personal day and just not come in tomorrow.”
“The hell I will!”
Steven didn’t want Tessa to get her nose out of joint. He didn’t need any further strain on his relationship with Bud. “You won’t lose any pay.”
“You think I care about the money?”
“Listen, I really want to help. I’ll do whatever you want to ease your upset.”
Tessa smiled. “Good. I want you to tell the Fascist pigs that since, according to them, we live in a democracy, you are not prepared to discriminate against me because I chose to exercise my constitutionally guaranteed right of peaceful assembly.”
“How about I treat you to a shampoo and set instead? What the hell,” he smiled, peeling off bills from his money clip. “Have a facial. The works.” He held out a hundred dollars.
Tessa took the money and tore it up. “You think you can buy and sell everyone, don’t you?”
“Obviously not.”
She took hold of his arm. “Are you going to fight for me?”
“I’m sorry. I left my charger home.”
Tessa let go of him. “You faggot. Bud was right. You don’t have any balls.” She picked up the pile of numbered coat checks and threw them into the air. “I’m not coming in tomorrow or any other day. I quit!”
Alfero was in a hurry to leave. Beneath his street clothes, he still wore his busboy uniform. They could take away the job but, like Pelé, they would have to retire the uniform with him.
There was another reason Alfero was in a hurry. He had stolen all the truffles. Fortunately, the jars were small. He stuffed them into his underwear, inside his shirt, and in his pockets. Alfero knew he was stealing something they would miss. He heard Tessa shout, “I quit!” and stopped. He watched with awe as she threw the coat checks into the air.
“You call this a democracy?” Tessa screamed, grabbing her books. “If I’m not good enough to be here tomorrow, then neither is the President!”
Alfero was astonished. He would never have taken her for an illegal. Walking away quickly, he let himself out the front door. But instead of feeling relief at not having been caught, he was overwhelmed by despair. He looked up at the canopy. He touched the black lacquered panels. Only a few hours ago, Dolores posed with him in front of the door. Carlos had taken pictures that would be proof of his disgrace.
Alfero stood in the sunlight wondering what he would tell Dolores. How could he face his sons? He realized for the first time how much the new shoes hurt his feet.
* * *
It was one o’clock and every table was filled. Cal stood behind Steven at the reservations desk and stared into the room. He wanted to apologize for what he had said the day before. But Steven never accepted apologies. Harsh words were like bad weather to him—they came and went as part of his environment. It hurt Cal that Steven was so willing to accept pain. The only thing he could do was put a hand on Steven’s shoulder as though nothing had happened. “Hey kiddo, how do I get to Janos without taking the scenic route?”
Steven nodded toward Burt Reynolds and Michael Caine. “For starters, avoid Mount Rushmore.”
“Jesus,” Cal said. “Don’t they look great? Who’s at the next table?”
“Sigourney and Chris are back from London. The reviews were terrific.”
“I don’t need that.”
Steven glanced down the other aisle. “Wait a minute. This one is a piece of cake. Zubin and Beverly Sills.”
“He looks terrific, too, doesn’t he? Where is Libby?”
Steven sighed deeply. “When last sighted, she was off the coast of Andre.” He leaned forward. “No. She’s surfaced at Carly Simon.”
Cal watched Libby as she listened in that special way of hers that made people feel there was no one else on earth. Libby used listening the way a lion tamer used a whip. Except last night. Cal didn’t think she’d heard a thing he said.
Steven nudged him. “All you have to worry about in that aisle is Helen Gurley Brown.”
“I wish.” Cal squinted. “Who’s with her?”
“George Hamilton.”
“Shit.” Cal shook his head. “That guy just doesn’t show any wear. He must have a picture in his attic.”
“Take the low road. You can slip by Helen’s table.”
“The hell I can. She’s a friend.” Cal raised his eyebrows. “Cut off at the pass by Helen Gurley Brown.”
Steven turned around. “What’s going on with you?”
Instinctively, Cal smiled. He started knocking himself on the head. “Vell, I tell you, Doctor, it hoits ven I hit myself.”
“I hate to see you like this.”
Cal put his hand on Steven’s shoulder and again stared into the room. “Movie stars to the right of me, movie stars to the left of me.”
“Come on. Stop stalling. Into the valley of glitz.”
“A coward dies many times . . .”
“Yours is not to reason why . . .”
Cal leaned toward Steven and softly sang the opening lines of the march from The Desert Song, “Over the ground, There comes a sound, It is the drum drum drum of hoofbeats in the sand.”
“Hey, Red Shadow?”
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you take your own advice?”
“Such as?”
“Stop hitting yourself on the head.”
Hots had his usual plate of Bumble Bee tuna. Dr. Loren Sawyer had ordered pheasant on rye. They both watched ex-hostage Wanda Fogelman concentrate single-mindedly on her pork chops in beer batter with home-fried yams and creamed onion purée.
“Is it good, Wanda?” Hots asked, raising his voice as though speaking to a dog.
Wanda smiled and nodded. Her mouth was full. She glanced momentarily at Loren and then refocused on her plate.
“I’m handling Wanda’s contract with William Morris,” Hots said, watching as she picked up a pork chop and broke it in two.
“I’m doing it for free.” Hots shrugged. “The kid’s been through a lot.”
Loren leaned forward as Wanda’s tongue circled her lips, licking off a smudge of creamed onion. “Maybe she’d like a free examination.”
“I’ll ask her.”
Loren kept his eyes on the room as he reached slowly into his pocket. “I’ll give her a Pap test, check for any growths in her colon, and make certain there’s no cellular tra
uma to her mammaries.”
Hots put his hand under the table and took the small plastic envelopes filled with cocaine. “Loren, you’re a real patriot.” Hots picked up his phone. While dialing, he asked, “How many extras did you give me?”
“Two was all I could spare,” Loren said.
“Why? Colombia fell into the ocean?”
“Take a little bit from your clients. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Hots raised his eyebrows and spoke into the receiver. “Mama? I could only get two extra. Ma, it’s enough to get you through the weekend. I love you, too.”
Loren couldn’t take his eyes from Wanda. “I’m serious. If there’s anything I can do to help. An examination . . .”
Hots raised his voice. “Wanda, as part of your contract, you need a medical.” He dipped the edge of his napkin into the water goblet and handed it to Wanda, pointing to the gravy stain on her blouse. “I’ve arranged for you to see Dr. Sawyer.” Then Hots turned to Loren and rolled his eyes. “While you’re at it, maybe you can do a charisma implant.”
Loren winked at Wanda. She smiled and waved a pork chop bone at him. It looked as though it had been picked clean by a vulture.
Phyllis turned to Donald. “I’d give a thousand calories to know what that blonde is doing with Hots.”
Donald removed a bone from his smoked trout. “Perhaps he’s covering for Loren.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Prince Valium’s got as much class as a Lotto millionaire.”
“Then let’s just assume she’s Loren’s fuck du jour and get back to what we were talking about.”
Phyllis pushed aside her salmon tartare. “I thought that’s what we were talking about. You were telling me . . .”
“I don’t need subtitles, Phyllis.”
“You were telling me,” she repeated angrily, “that it’s perfectly all right for the earth to move for you and my best friend’s son, but that I’m not allowed to hop onto the Richter Scale with her ex-husband.”
“It loses something in the translation.”
“Do you think Cal is avoiding me? Why the hell would he rush over to Helen? Do you think he’s really going to do the play?” Phyllis lit a cigarette. “Oh God, I need a leading man.”
“Don’t we all, dearie.”
“Cal would be perfect if I could get him to do it.”
Donald nodded. “I’ve thought that many times myself. But you’ve got as much chance getting him into your play as I have getting him into my bed.”
“In that case, there’s only one thing to do.” Phyllis shrugged. “I’ll get him into my bed.”
Donald took her cigarette and stubbed it out. “Shut up, Phyllis, and eat your lunch. Think of all the starving people on Broadway.”
Richard L. Horton was the advance man for the White House Staff. He was very short, very thin, and very smart. It was his job to know exactly what the President wanted, then listen to the Secret Service say it couldn’t be done, and then make certain it was. The perfect job for a very short man.
Birnbaum and Anders watched as Horton took the last breadstick for himself and said, “I’d like some more breadsticks.”
Anders looked at Birnbaum. Birnbaum nodded. He put out his hand and stopped a waiter in the aisle. “More breadsticks, please.”
As soon as the waiter left, Horton reached into his jacket and took out two envelopes. Each contained a single-spaced, twelve-page memo from the White House Staff concerning their requirements for the President from the time Air Force One landed at Newark (0850) to the time it took off less than seven hours later (1540).
Birnbaum shook his head. “Dick, this doesn’t make any sense.”
“Please don’t call me Dick. It sounds like you’re calling me a dick and I don’t like it.” Horton took the last pat of butter and put it on his plate. “I’ll need more butter, too.”
Anders leaned over to Birnbaum and pointed to three items on the first page. The two men nodded. “What the hell’s going on here?” Anders asked Horton. “Why all the layering?”
Birnbaum kept turning pages. “Why the big window in his schedule? How come you guys don’t want anyone to know the President is having lunch here?”
Horton used his butter knife as a pointer. “I am directly responsible to the Chief of Staff and he is responsible to the President. I’d appreciate it if you did not use that tone when you speak to me.”
Birnbaum reached across the table and put his hand around Horton’s hand, squeezing hard until Horton dropped the butter knife. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d kiss my ass. Listen, you short shit, this is not Harvard Yard and I’m not here to park the car. In case you forgot, when the shooting starts, I’m the one who doesn’t duck. Whether you know it or not, and whether you like it or not, you are responsible to me.”
“The reason for the President coming here tomorrow is none of your business,” Horton said flatly. “It is my decision that you do not need to know why he is coming in order to protect him. Furthermore, the fact that you are willing to take a bullet in the head is no more surprising to me than the fact there are millions of people out there who voluntarily listen to Elvis Presley or eat Velveeta cheese. This great nation of ours is filled with idiots.”
For the moment, it wasn’t at all clear to Birnbaum why he should be willing to die for a President who had a Richard L. Horton on his staff. Men like Richard L. Horton were the precise reason Birnbaum had never wanted to be on the White House detail. He didn’t want to see the warts. He didn’t want anything to challenge his memory of those boots reversed in the saddle. The closest Birnbaum had ever been to the President was the night he drew piss patrol outside the men’s room at the Waldorf.
“Before we begin,” Horton said, “I’d like something else understood. In the event there is an incident, or in the event the President is terminated, it is our intention to proceed without alerting the media.”
“That’s impossible,” Anders said. “You’ve got your own press car doing a body watch.”
Horton nodded. “We’ll take care of them. The decision is a news blackout until after three P.M.”
“Until the market closes,” Birnbaum said.
“The economy doesn’t need a jolt right now.” Horton explained. “The market lost eleven billion dollars after Dallas.”
Birnbaum looked at Horton, wondering whether it was possible for the human ear to differentiate between lower case and uppercase letters. “Well, dick, what do you think will happen to the market if I get killed?”
Horton smiled. “I’ll have the networks interrupt every fucking soap opera and announce it myself.”
“Breadsticks!” the waiter announced.
As Horton reached for them, Birnbaum leaned forward, pretending it was an accident as he knocked the basket out of the waiter’s hand. The breadsticks, like mute fireworks, sprayed into the air and fell to the floor.
Cal slid onto the banquette. Janos was on the phone. He looked up, winked, and then turned quickly back to the receiver. “One six!” He smiled at Cal. “I’m bidding against the Met! On a Picasso!”
“They don’t stand a chance.”
“One seven!” Janos slapped a hand against his forehead. “The schmucks are bidding against me even though I told them I’m going to give them my entire collection.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Why? Because they know people don’t pay to get into the Museum of Cheap Paintings. With art, a bargain is no bargain.” He shouted into the receiver. “Enough. I have no more time for this. I have to eat lunch. Tell them two million and get it over with!”
Cal had to smile. Two million for Picasso. Six million for him. He glanced across the room. Libby was still with Carly Simon. But suddenly she looked up as though knowing exactly where he was. Thank God for sunglasses. He pretended not to have seen her.
Janos was flush with victory. He had won the Picasso. “And what about the gonif from the Louvre?” he shouted into the phone. “Can you see his f
ace?”
A waiter was standing in the aisle. Cal couldn’t see Libby’s face. He watched Carly start to laugh and imagined Libby pushing back her bangs, opening her eyes wide and spreading her fingers as she spoke.
“I want a shot of Rikki looking at the painting,” Janos said into the receiver. “Call her in the limo.” He looked at Cal. “She wanted some exercise so she went for a ride in the park.” Then, into the phone. “Give her something to say. Picasso is her favorite artist. Whatever. Just be sure to get her tits in the shot.” He slammed the receiver down.
“I have to talk to you,” Cal said.
“You know, boychik, they all think she’s such a sexpot. But when I found her, she was nothing. Worse than nothing. She was dead. A corpse. Like Dr. Frankenstein, I brought her back to life. I taught her how to be a woman. I taught her how to dress. I taught her how to undress. I taught her what to do to me. I taught her what to do to herself.” Janos leaned close. “I taught her more ways to climax than a symphony by Tchaikovsky.”
“And all this time I thought you were nothing but a dirty old man.”
Janos laughed. “That’s what they all think. Let them think. I know the truth.” He put a hand to his heart and spoke softly, as though quoting the Psalms. “I taught her the poetry of a finger up the ass.”
It wasn’t the vulgarity that upset Cal. Janos was simply being Janos. Cal had heard men say far worse things about their wives on movie sets. In airplanes. Even at their funerals. Cal was upset because he had decided to tell Janos he had changed his mind about the deal. He was going to say it had nothing to do with Rikki. He had finally read the script and it wasn’t for him. That way, no one would be hurt.
“So, boychik, what is it we have to talk about? You getting nervous? You need a little advice from the maestro?”
But then Cal caught sight of Libby again. She was looking at him as though his being Cal Dennis and her being Libby Dennis was strictly an accident. Normally, she would have blown him a kiss and he would have winked at her. They would have shared a smile. But all they did was stare like strangers. Suddenly, just saying no to Janos wasn’t enough.
