by Nan
“There you are.” The President held up his glass as Libby approached. “I wanted you to join us for some champagne.”
She spoke quietly. “Thank you, Mr. President. But if I had a drink on every deal that was made here today . . .”
“How do you know about my deal?”
“Just between the two of us, I’ve got a better spy network than the CIA. Next time you need to find something out, hire a waiter.”
The President laughed. “Is that the secret of your success?”
“No. The secret of my success is keeping the hell away from the Hotel Willard.” Libby hadn’t expected to blurt that out. She turned to Steven. “I was in that show in Washington,” she added quickly. “It was such a bomb I swore I’d never go back.” She turned to the President. “Did I introduce my son, Steven? Of course, I did.” Libby couldn’t resist looking from one to the other. “His father is Cal Dennis.”
The President nodded. “Now that you mention it, I see the resemblance.”
Now that he mentioned it, so did Libby. For the first time. The smile on Steven’s face was pure Cal. The way he stood. Even his speech pattern. Steven’s acquired characteristics had finally triumphed over his genes.
“Well,” Libby said, as though coming to the end of a very long story, “I have a surprise for you.” Anders looked up at Libby from the next table. “I had my chef create something special in your honor. It’s called, “Red, White, and Bluefish.” And, I want you to know I selected the fish myself.” Anders watched her suspiciously. “It’s steamed in rice paper, and served with a red pepper purée and a julienne of white turnips.”
“No,” said the President.
Libby was startled by the tone in his voice. “Well, then, how do you feel about chicken livers?”
“No chicken livers.”
“If you like duck . . .”
“I don’t.”
She couldn’t understand the game he was playing. Her heart began to beat rapidly. “Okay. We have this giant truffle . . .”
The President reached out for her hand. “I want an Apple Pie Omelette.”
Libby stared at him. He held tight. And he wouldn’t let go.
Alfero had stuffed Ensesa’s clothes under the pink velvet bench. He was wearing the busboy uniform that he had stolen when he was fired. He put Esteban’s square red pin into his lapel. Checking himself in the mirror, he peeled away the fake moustache and took off the wig. He held his breath, for a moment seeing himself as he most wanted to be. He could have been a great busboy, if they had let him.
Then, very carefully, he opened his jacket. Around his waist Miguel had folded a half-inch-thick band of sponge rubber filled with gunpowder. Two matchbooks had been glued to the ends of the band as a makeshift trigger. When pulled from his waist, it would ignite immediately. All he needed was one free hand and thirty seconds.
As soon as Libby entered the kitchen, everyone stopped talking.
“Well?” Maxie asked. “Who won?”
She smiled and sat down on a chair. “I think I did.”
Stu waved the cash he had collected for the pool. “What did he order?”
Libby couldn’t stop smiling. “He ordered an Apple Pie Omelette.”
“A what?”
“Oh, shit!”
“Are you kidding?”
“What the hell is that?” Bud stormed around the chef’s table. “Why didn’t he order from the menu? You expect me to believe you couldn’t sell any of my dishes to the President?”
“All bets are off,” Libby said. “I’m as surprised as you are.”
“When do I get my money back?”
“Boy, am I glad I didn’t vote for that son of a bitch!”
“Why he order that, lady?”
She put her hand on Louie’s. “He must have had it somewhere before. I guess he really liked it.”
“What we do now, boss?”
Libby took an apron and shouted to the cold station. “Liang! Two green apples, cored, peeled, sliced paper thin. Pour on some heavy cream.”
“Wait a minute!” Bud said. “What the hell are you doing?”
Libby pushed him aside and batted her eyes. “I am making lunch for the President of the United States!”
Special Agents Davis and Conroy walked down the aisle toward the ladies’ room. Agent Scott, who had been posted near the door, came toward them. “What’s the deal on Ensesa?”
Davis shrugged, unbuttoning his jacket so that he could reach easily for his gun. “Cooley’s got some bug up his ass. Says Ensesa made a phone call that sounded peculiar. He says detain him when he comes out.”
The bathroom door opened. All three men were surprised to see a busboy come out.
“You see him go in?” Davis asked.
“No,” Scott said, checking to be sure the busboy was wearing a pin.
“Let’s go,” Davis said.
Alfero nodded at the agent posted outside the kitchen and then stepped inside.
“Stop the busboy!” Scott yelled.
But by the time Robbins, on the inside of the kitchen door, grabbed hold of his arm, Alfero had already pulled the sponge rubber tube from around his waist. It ignited instantly. A sudden burst of flame. Billows of thick black smoke.
“Halloween! Halloween! Clear Comet!”
Ursula began to scream. Liang jumped over the cold station table. Louie shouted, “Boss! Fire!”
“Urgent Urgent! Do you copy?”
Libby started pushing everyone away from the smoke and toward the store room. She was trying to reach the back door. “Out! Move it, Maxie!”
“I can’t see!”
“Secure the kitchen!” Davis shouted.
“Círu tôi vói!”
“Who’s got the money?”
“Bomb squad. Copy!”
“Lady! Lady! Where she go?”
“Do you copy?”
“Mau lên! Mau lên!”
“Are we all clear? Before it explodes!”
“Lady? You okay?”
Within one minute, before alerting anyone else in the dining room, the White House party was evacuated.
There was no smoke in the room, only the vague sense that something had been lit. Nothing more distracting than the aroma of a cheap cigar. The swinging doors had been insulated the day before to prevent smoke escaping in the event of a kitchen fire. Even those who noticed the President’s hasty departure had no reason to believe there was any danger.
Before the presidential limousine had pulled away, Birnbaum assigned Meehan to move Steven off premises into a secure location. He looked over at Meryl’s table. No one was moving. They were listening intently to Cal tell a joke. They hadn’t yet noticed the activity in the room. “Excuse me,” Birnbaum said, interrupting Cal as he was about to reach the punch line.
“Oh, shit,” Cal said. “Not you again.”
“I’m sorry, but you have to leave immediately.”
“The hell I do!” Cal banged his fist on the table. “First, you jokers won’t let me in and now you want to throw me out!”
“Mr. Dennis . . .”
Cal stood up. “Get out of my way, you jerk. Where the hell is Libby?”
Birnbaum had never hit anyone. He had shot a couple of people but he had never used his fists. He grabbed Cal’s tie and brought him close.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Birnbaum hit Cal right on the chin, knocking him to the floor. “I’m breaking the rules!”
Special Agent Davis ordered everyone in the kitchen down on their hands and knees. The smoke was too thick to see through and the air was nearly impossible to breathe. Everyone formed a human chain, feeling the floor until Libby found the corridor that led to the storage area and the back door.
Alfero’s bomb had only enough gunpowder to keep the rubber burning. It never exploded. Intended to disrupt the President’s lunch, la bomba had succeeded. “I am a man!” Alfero shouted. “All men are equal in America! I am as good as El Presidente!” Six agents f
ormed a double circle as they surrounded Alfero. They had to be sure nothing happened to him before they got the names of everyone involved in the incident. Suspect, criminal, victim—it didn’t matter which he was. He had information that would help protect the President next time and that was all they cared about. “I was to be a busboy!”
By the time Libby reached the alley, she looked as though she had just crawled out of a coal mine. She had lost a shoe. Her pink silk suit was torn and covered with soot. Her face and hands were black. She refused oxygen while helping those behind her to their feet. Ursula and Louie were rushed to the hospital for smoke inhalation. The rest of the staff had only cuts and bruises.
Handcuffed, crying, and calling for Dolores, Alfero was pushed into a waiting car that took him to Secret Service headquarters. Libby turned to Davis. “I know he didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
Davis, who was out of breath, shrugged as they watched Alfero being driven away. “Pardon my French, ma’am, but you just can’t fuck around with the President.”
Libby stared at him. “You’re telling me!”
Someone had radioed from the Command Van that Steven was unhurt. Cal was in one of the ambulances having his shoulder dressing changed. All Davis would tell Libby was that he had fallen and torn his stitches. She nodded, wiped her nose with her hand and asked, “What about Birnbaum?”
Libby listened as Special Agent Robbins reassured her that Birnbaum was fine. Without warning, she grabbed Robbins by the lapels and shouted, “You tell them at the White House, the next time the President wants lunch, he should order in!”
Robbins freed himself. He held Libby gently by the shoulders. “Mrs. Dennis,” he shouted, trying to get through to her, “would you like a lift around the block?”
Libby nodded and began to cry. Robbins helped her into the unmarked car parked on the sidewalk. She hesitated, watching the kitchen staff, despite their protests, being led into a police bus to be fingerprinted and have their ID’s checked. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking at them.
Robbins sat down next to her and turned on the ignition. “Do you want me to take you to Mr. Dennis or Agent Birnbaum?”
Libby ignored the question as Robbins drove slowly along the sidewalk. He went up Fifty-sixth Street and onto Sixth Avenue where all traffic had been stopped and two more police buses were parked. She slid down in her seat as she saw Fay and Loren arguing with officers who refused to let them leave. “Crazy, isn’t it?” Robbins looked at her. “All this just for lunch.”
Libby tried to control her tears. “You know, lunch is a relatively recent phenomenon. As late as the 1820s, the midday meal was known as dinner and the evening meal was called supper.”
Robbins made a right onto Fifty-fifth, heading toward the restaurant. “But then everything changed with the Industrial Revolution.” She sniffed and dried her eyes. “Factory workers had no time for an elaborate ‘dinner’ in the middle of the day, so instead, they ate a light meal called luncheon. Their big meal was moved to the evening.” She put a hand to her forehead, unable to stop crying. “And poor little supper was moved somewhere close to midnight.”
“Mrs. Dennis, you want Mr. Dennis or Agent Birnbaum?”
Libby could barely speak. “I want my son.”
Steven sat waiting in the Command Van. Cooley was fielding calls from all over the city. The presidential party had taken off from the West Side Heliport. The suspect was on his way downtown. The Secret Service, the Police Department, the Fire Department, the FBI, and two bomb dogs were checking the premises for further evidence linking Alfero to a possible conspiracy.
Roth unlocked the door to the van. Libby and Steven stared at one another. She opened her mouth as if to say something. She raised her arms but then thought twice about reaching out for him. Instead, she posed glamorously, rolled her eyes and lifted her shoeless foot. “Makeup by Mount Vesuvius,” she announced. They both began to laugh. Libby flopped down onto a folding chair. “I was so worried about you.”
“Only the good die young.” Steven glanced at Libby, then looked away, just as Cal always did. “I think you should hear this from me before you read it in tomorrow’s paper.”
Libby put a hand to her forehead. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. I can’t take any more. It’s been a day, Steven.”
“I blackmailed Phyllis into producing the play for Pop. I figured that if he stayed in New York for a while you two might finally get back together.”
Libby put a hand to her nose and sniffed. Steven handed her a handkerchief. She blew her nose, taking as long as possible. She sat back, shook her head, and sighed, “Where is O. Henry when you need him? I just made a deal with Janos to open a Libby’s in LA.”
He was stunned. “You’re going to LA?”
“As soon as I can,” Libby giggled.
“But what are you going to do about . . .”
“Oh, that? I’m giving it to you.”
A long pause. “You’re giving me Libby’s? After what I was going to do?”
She became serious. “Steven, you’re my son. I’m your mother. You’ve been a little shit ever since kindergarten and I’ve never carried a grudge. Besides, you know me. Once I make up my mind. That’s it. Libby’s is yours.”
“Just like that?”
She turned away. “Well, there is one catch.” She took a deep breath. “There’s still a lot of Libby left in Libby’s.”
Steven nodded. “I know. It could take years to get you out. He smiled. “And then again, I might never get rid of you completely.”
“Can you live with that?”
“I can live with that.”
Libby thought it was the most wonderful thing Steven had ever said to her. She was afraid to let herself cry. She might never stop.
“But,” Steven said with mock melodrama, “lest you think my life will be a bed of roses, now hear this! Phyllis’s final act of vengeance was to tell Bud she would back him in his own restaurant.”
Libby began to laugh. “Isn’t Phyllis wonderful? Oh, God, I’m really going to miss her.”
Steven leaned forward. “Can I ask you something?”
“You know I have no secrets from you.”
“Why aren’t you upset?”
“About Bud?”
“About Pop. About his being in New York while you go to LA. How come all of a sudden you decided on LA?”
Roth opened the door. “We’re still working, but you can go back in if you want.”
Libby got up. “Steven, I want to go in alone.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m your mother and I say so.”
“But . . .”
“And because I just gave you a very expensive restaurant!”
Steven nodded and sat down. He watched as Libby straightened her skirt and tried puffing up her bangs. “Hey!” he called out.
She turned back. “What?”
“You’re gorgeous.”
Black cinders were still floating in the air as Libby opened the front door. There was no damage to the vestibule or the bar or, as far as she could see, to the dining room itself. There were a few overturned chairs, some food spattered onto the floor, but nothing that a good cleaning, a paint job, and, most of all, Steven couldn’t handle.
Libby went behind the bar and opened the refrigerator. She took out a champagne glass. It immediately clouded with frost. She reached for a bottle of Dom Pérignon. She’d think of something to celebrate.
The foil over the cork came off easily. Next she removed the wire frame that kept the cork in place. She held the bottle in one hand, turning slightly while her other hand gripped the cork. You held the cork and turned the bottle. Champagne 101. But she had no strength left. She put the bottle down.
“Give it to me.”
Libby looked up like a little girl caught raiding the cookie jar. It was Birnbaum.
“Do you have another glass?” he asked.
“I thought you couldn’t drink on duty.”
“I’m not on duty anymore.”
“Swell.” She brought out another glass.
He reached over and took the bottle from her. “I mean as in, ‘Quoth the raven, not anymore!’ ”
“Nevermore.”
“Whatever.” The cork popped.
“Goddamn it, Birnbaum!” she shouted. “You don’t pop the cork! You pop the cork and you let out all the bubbles at once. They’ve been building up for years. You’re supposed to open champagne with a sigh.”
He shook his head. “I’m through sighing.” He filled both glasses. They overflowed onto the bar.
“Look at that! Just look at that! Who the hell taught you how to pour champagne?”
“No one.”
“You’re supposed to pour a little in the first glass and while it rises up you pour a little in the second. Then the first. Then the second. You keep going back and forth.”
“I don’t want to go back and forth anymore.” He handed a glass to her. “Nevermore?”
“You’re not supposed to fill it to the top like cream soda,” Libby said. “You’re supposed to fill it two-thirds full.”
Birnbaum picked up his glass. “Are we going to toast each other or not?”
Libby raised her glass. She was terrified. “To us.”
They clinked glasses. Neither of them drank. He leaned forward and kissed her. They lingered, breathing onto one another’s lips. “About what happened in the phone booth . . .”he whispered.
She nodded. “About what happened in your apartment . . .”
Birnbaum smiled. “North Pole.”
“South Pole.”
He took out his wallet and showed it to her. The badge was gone. “No more secrets.”
Libby reached for his hand. “Whose secrets? Yours or mine?”
“I just quit.”
“Birnbaum . . .”
“And I called my wife.”
Libby took a deep breath. “Birnbaum, I hate to interrupt your becoming a butterfly. . .”
“She wasn’t there. She has this answering machine with English movie star voices. Ronald Colman. Rex Harrison. Olivier. I gave them all the same message.”
Libby put a hand to her stomach. “Birnbaum, did you tell? Yes or no?”
“No.”
“No? What does no mean?”
