“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get back to you last night,” I apologized.
“I understand. Bree Cox. ’Nuff said.”
He walked with me to the elevator. The three of us got inside. Garrett, me, and my flowers. The bag was almost as tall as I was. The plastic kept crinkling, calling attention to the roses.
“I met King Royal last night,” I told him.
Garrett rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’ve had the pleasure.”
“We had to rescue him from the rooftop bar.”
“Singing?”
“Yeah.”
“Limericks?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s King.” He added, “How was the play?”
“Fine. Good.” Don’t ask me about the male lead. Don’t ask me, don’t ask me, don’t ask me.
“No cat fights with Bree during the show?”
“No,” I said. “We were very civil.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“What did you want me to call you about?” I asked. “It sounded important.”
“It is. We have a problem.”
Another one?
Everybody had problems. Sonny was dead. Libby had writer’s block and was leaving Manhattan. Bree was Bree, and that’s always a problem. Me? I had my ex-fiancé and my mother luring me to a job in L.A. I had my father’s ghost badgering me to hang on to a publishing house that was bleeding money and in danger of a blitzkrieg by the Germans. I had a book launch this week with an author who was trying to blackmail me.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
The elevator doors opened at the floor for West 57. We got out. Garrett put a hand on my shoulder as we let ourselves into the office. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t good. I had an odd premonition. I rushed past the lobby to Sonny’s office – my office – and I clapped my hand over my mouth in horror as I saw the damage.
Someone had broken in. The office was trashed. The books that had lined the shelves were spilled on the floor, many of the spines slashed open. Prized first editions, ruined. Every drawer in the desk and in the file cabinets had been emptied, contracts and documents strewn like garbage. Worst of all, there was a different smell. I didn’t smell Sonny anymore, the smoke, the cologne. He was gone. In his place was a foreign mix of leather, paper, and sweat from someone intruding on my space.
I backed up, bumping against the wall. Garrett’s face was dark with concern. He took the flowers from me, as if he knew I didn’t even have the strength to hold them. I sank down to the floor, biting my lower lip, wrapping my hands around my knees. My hair spilled across my face, and I left it there.
“It could be my fault,” Garrett said. “I went to dinner late last night. Maybe I forgot to lock the office door.”
I looked at him. “You didn’t forget.”
He shrugged. “No, I don’t think I did.”
“Somebody picked the lock,” I said.
“Well, they got in somehow, and they knew what they were doing. I wasn’t gone more than half an hour, but I never saw anybody. They were in and out fast.”
“They probably had someone on the street watching for you.” I added, “Did Lionel see anyone?”
Garrett shook his head. “It wasn’t his shift yet. The other guard couldn’t tell me anything.”
“Police?”
“I called them,” he said. “You know how it is with things like this. Not much they can do.”
I examined the damage from the floor. I saw the mug that I had made Sonny years ago in school; it had fallen or been thrown, and the handle had broken, and a jagged chunk of ceramic had split from the lip. That was the one that made me cry. It was the most worthless thing in the whole office, and I stared at it, and fat tears formed a parade out of my eyes. It was like losing him all over again and realizing he was never coming back.
Garrett slid down next to me. He wiped my face with his hand. “I’m so sorry, Julie.”
I leaned into his shoulder. His arm slid behind my back, pulling me closer. I felt him kiss the top of my head. It was a safe feeling, and I liked it.
“I’m just glad you weren’t hurt,” I said.
“Thugs know better than to mess with a book editor,” he said. “Particularly one with a doctorate in Ralph Waldo Emerson.”
I laughed. “You would have quoted Self-Reliance to them?”
“While I was kicking the crap out of them, yes.”
It was hard to imagine Garrett fighting, but I believe there were things he would defend to the death. Sonny. West 57. The First Amendment. John’s Pizza.
Me.
I wasn’t sure there was anyone else in my life who would say the same thing.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“For what?”
“For being here.” I twisted around in his arms, and I looked into those warm eyes. “I mean it.”
“I’ve always been here.”
Suddenly, there was something strange between us. Something new. Or maybe it wasn’t new at all. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to lay him down and make love to him. I wanted to hold on and never let go. I saw his face, his longing, his care, and I knew he wanted all those things, too. I thought: Touch me. Kiss me. Tell me you love me. Here I was, only a day after being in Thad’s arms, and I didn’t care.
We were walking on air, but we were mature (there’s that awful word again), and we didn’t fall. It was as if we were on that skywalk over the Grand Canyon, staring straight down. I could have made the first move, and I didn’t. He could have made the first move, and he didn’t. Between us, somehow, there was a wall of glass.
I separated myself. The moment passed. I felt a sense of loss, even worse than when I had first walked into the office. I knew we had made a mistake between us, but I didn’t know whether the mistake was doing something or doing nothing.
“I suppose we should clean up,” I said. I checked my watch. “I have to meet with the banker in an hour.”
“I’ll take care of this,” Garrett said. “You have enough to worry about. Go take a walk or get some coffee.”
“No, I’ll help.” The first thing I did was pick up the broken pieces of the mug. I simply stared at them in my hands. “Bastards,” I added. “Why do this?”
“They were looking for something,” he said.
“Are you sure it wasn’t just vandals?”
“I don’t think so. They were starting to go through files in accounting, too. I must have gotten back earlier than they expected, because they didn’t get far. Vandals don’t usually bother with financial records. This was a search, Julie.”
I heard what he said, but in my mind, all I could think about was King Royal.
I know things. Secrets. Didn’t Sonny tell you?
Garrett was right. Someone out there was searching for something.
Something they thought Sonny was hiding.
What?
II
13
I don’t like the coffee at Sonny’s bank.
It’s not that it’s bad. No, it’s great. They serve me cappuccino with exactly the right swirl of golden foam, with dense espresso underneath, in a Lenox china cup that should have been on display at the Hermitage museum. It is the Oxycontin of coffee. However, I would prefer that my banker serve me brown tap water with a plastic spoonful of Folger’s in a Styrofoam cup. I want him to feel my pain.
You have to admire today’s banking biz. They’ve given up that silly old “invest in our community” model. Today they take your money, pay you .00003% interest, buy government bonds with your cash, and go golfing. There are fees for everything today. Checks. ATMs. Doing business at a branch. Not doing business at a branch. Want to talk to a human being? That’ll be ten dollars, please. I’m pretty sure they charge the Girl Scouts a percentage for selling Thin Mints on the sidewalk outside.
Do I sound cynical? I’m sorry. I never got my free toaster when I opened a checking account in 1994. It still stings.
Sonny’s banker was a small rou
nd man with a gray suit and unusually large ears. His name was Gordon Barnes, but I referred to him in my head as Dumbo. When I arrived for my appointment, Dumbo left me alone in his office to enjoy my cappuccino, probably so he could consult on my situation with Timothy Q. Mouse. He returned ten minutes later and buzzed the desk a few times, ears flapping, before coming in for a landing in his chair.
“I’m so sorry, I wanted to have the most current numbers on hand when we talked,” he told me.
Flap flap, went his ears.
“Of course.”
Dumbo looked uncomfortable. To his credit, he probably also looked uncomfortable when he was kicking eighty-year-old widows out of their houses. Foreclosures are a pain in the backside when you have an early tee time.
“Let me assure you that I feel as strongly about West 57 as you do,” he assured me. “Sonny was one of my earliest customers. He and I sweated the ups and downs of the book business together all these years.”
This was supposed to be comforting, I guess, because I knew that today’s meeting was more of a “down” than an “up.” Even so, I was polite. I said, “I know Sonny valued his relationship with you and the bank, Mr. Barnes.”
“Thank you.” Dumbo scratched his neck with his trunk. I smelled peanuts on his breath. “I wish I could tell you Sonny always took my advice about financial matters.”
“Sonny took Sonny’s advice,” I said.
“Indeed. Well. I’m sorry he didn’t listen to me as the market went south a few years ago. I told him changes needed to be made. I warned him of the consequences of inaction.”
“I know what my father was like, Mr. Barnes. I don’t blame you or the bank.” But I still want my toaster.
“Yes, of course. I appreciate that. I know you’re handling the resolution of his personal affairs as well as attending to the management of West 57. There isn’t much in the way of usable assets in either instance. Sonny had already leveraged most of his personal wealth back into West 57, despite my recommendations to the contrary.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t mean to be blunt, but one thing I always respected about Sonny is that he didn’t like me sugarcoating bad news.”
“Neither do I.”
“Good, good. Then let me fly right to the bottom line, as difficult as it may be.” Saying that, Dumbo flapped his way out of his chair, spun around a few times above the desk, and landed like a helicopter.
“Please do.”
“West 57 is facing a major liquidity crisis,” he informed me sadly. “The house is bleeding cash and will soon be unable to meet its debt obligations or its payroll. I’m very sorry.”
“How long do we have?” I asked.
“Two months at the outside. Maybe less. After that, the circus will be bankrupt.”
Okay, he may have said “house,” not “circus.”
“What about our credit line?”
“I’m afraid the credit line is maxed out. It has been for some time. I wish I could be encouraging about the prospect of some kind of bridge financing, but to be honest with you, no one on our loan committee sees a path by which West 57 can return to profitability.”
Dumbo blinked sympathetically at me. He had very long eyelashes.
“You do realize we’re in the process of launching one of our biggest books in years,” I reminded him.
“The Irving Wolfe bio? Of course. The advance orders bought the house a few weeks, but it won’t be enough on its own to change the overall financial picture.”
“I see.”
“Oh, by the way, I loved the Assy McHattie video on YouTube,” he said.
No, he didn’t say that.
“I wish the situation were different,” he said.
“What are my options?” I asked.
“Again, let me be blunt. First, you can declare bankruptcy and attempt a restructuring of the house’s debt. I’m not a bankruptcy attorney, but I’m not optimistic that a restructuring would be successful. You would be dealing with the same business relationships as before, and I doubt your creditors would want to take their chances on the future of the house without a more promising business plan. Second, you could simply close the doors and liquidate your assets. Any ongoing cash flow from book sales would be put toward paying down the remaining debts.”
“So I could close down the house,” I said, “or I could close down the house. Is that it?”
“Barring a significant infusion of cash, yes,” Dumbo said.
“How significant?”
“Oh, tens of millions.”
That’s pretty significant.
“Without that kind of investment, West 57 is dead?” I said.
“Unfortunately, that’s the reality you face. I wish it were different.”
There must be other options. I thought about robbing the bank. They might have a Renoir in their vault. Or I could kidnap Dumbo and hold him for ransom. Then I realized I’d have to cut off one of his ears to prove I was serious. He’d never fly again. No, that wasn’t a plan.
“Do you have any suggestions about how I might go about raising that kind of money?”
“Only one,” Dumbo told me, and I knew what he was going to say. “Assuming you can find a buyer, you could sell the house.”
“You left me quite a mess,” I told Sonny.
I sat by myself at a hole-in-the-wall dim sum restaurant in Chinatown, but I wasn’t alone. Sonny was with me. This was always one of his favorite places to meet me for lunch. He loved the deep fried chicken feet. Tastes just like chicken, he always said, being funny.
A little Chinese girl pushed a cart of food next to my table. She began whipping the lids off plates and describing the items in broken English. “Pawr dunlin,” she said.
Allow me to translate. That means pork dumpling. Shu mei. “Yes,” I said. They’re my favorite, little pasta purses stuffed with ground pork and black mushrooms.
“Shimbawls.”
Shrimp balls. This might give me pause, but to my knowledge, shrimp don’t have actual balls. These are har gow, and they’re delicious. “Yes,” I said.
“Brawly.”
Chinese broccoli in oyster sauce. “Yes,” I said.
“Chin feed.”
She held the plate of chicken feet so I could see them. When they are fried, they still look like, well, chicken feet. It made me happy that beak is not considered a delicacy. “No, thanks.”
“Chin feed?” She was persistent.
“No chin feed.”
She grinned at me and made a little claw with her fingers and wiggled them. She knew me, and she knew my father always ordered chicken feet when we came here, over my objections. On the other side of the table, Sonny winked at her, and I half-hoped she would put the plate down in front of him. If she saw him sitting there, that would prove I wasn’t crazy. Instead, she punched my bill and pushed her cart to the next table.
“You should really try them, darling girl,” Sonny told me.
“No, thanks.”
“You need to be more adventurous. You’re a Chavan. We’re risk-takers.” He added, “Tongue. You should try tongue, too.”
“I don’t like the idea of licking something that can lick me back.”
He laughed at that one. A big, shoulders-bouncing Sonny laugh. I liked hearing it again.
I remembered the last time we’d been here together. It was the week before he died. By then, he must have known the truth. Dumbo would have given him the numbers, just like me. He would have realized the end of West 57 was near. His dream was collapsing. If he’d been worried, he hadn’t shown it at all. He’d been the way he always was, irrepressibly confident.
“What were you going to do, Sonny?” I asked him. “How were you going to get out of this one?”
He waved his cigarette as if I were talking about silly things. “I would have thought of something. I always did.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t bother me with details, darling girl! Details are for littl
e bald people who wear glasses. Think big.”
I began to get angry, but how can you get angry with a ghost? I was actually angry with myself. I should have been able to think of something. I should have been just like Sonny. Instead, I felt helpless.
“Would you have let the house go?” I asked. “Would you really have let West 57 disappear?”
Before he could answer me, my phone rang.
“Ah, Julie,” said a wealthy Germanic voice. “It is Helmut at Gernestier.”
Naturally. The timing of his phone call wasn’t an accident. I suspected Helmut had a pipeline to Dumbo and all of the financial records for West 57. He knew what I needed. Cash and lots of it. He knew the only alternative to selling the house was liquidation.
“Hello, Helmut.”
“I really did enjoy our dinner the other night,” he told me. “I hope you did, too.”
“I did, thank you.”
“I see that your author King Royal is going to be on the Pierce Gorgon show tonight. Congratulations.”
“Yes, and he’ll be on Good Morning America on Friday,” I said.
“It’s obvious that the book will be a big bestseller. This is good news.”
“It is.”
“Sonny would be proud of you. You have taken over with considerable aptitude in just a short period of time.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You are modest, Julie. With your background in the agency, I am not surprised you would have tremendous talent for the business side of publishing. That is what all my scouts have told me.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Well, the purpose of my call is merely to wish you well on the launch of Captain Absolute.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t want to put any pressure on you regarding our earlier discussion. Take your time. Think about it. Naturally, our offer is still on the table. That goes for West 57 and for yourself, too.”
“I appreciate that. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“I’m glad. Goodbye for now.”
I hung up the phone. My har gow was cold, but I’d lost my appetite anyway. I looked across the table, and Sonny was gone. I was alone again, just when I really needed his advice, but it didn’t matter. All Sonny would tell me were things that didn’t help me decide what to do. Be a risk-taker. Think big. That was fine, but none of that paid the bills. None of that changed what I had to do.
West 57 Page 9
