by Adam Gittlin
Eventually it was time for the wedding. Rows of chairs were set up facing the water. An ornate chuppah, made from what seemed to be a million different types of flowers, stood where the sea and shore met. A bit loopy from probably the wildest cocktail hour anyone had ever seen, all of the guests boisterously took their seats against the mixed sounds of the settling waves and the purring breeze. What was left of a beautiful day was creating a magical night. Soon the harp from up by the pool was once again playing, only now it had been brought down to the sand along with someone playing the violin.
I briefly turned around and admired the rear view of Sam Archmont’s house. Then my eyes started to again come forward, stopping at the sight of Angie’s striking profile. I glanced down, unable to control my eyes, at the blue satin spaghetti strap lying across her perfectly contoured shoulder. I lifted my eyes. Angie had turned toward me. Busted. She loved it. Again, the lip curl.
At this moment a man wearing what seemed to be a tight, white tuxedo with gold trim began making his way down the aisle. He was very tall and very tan, stuck somewhere between bronze and orange as a result of all the time he had spent at the tanning salon. The odd thing was that not only was he wearing a tallis, he was carrying what appeared to be the ketubah, or Jewish marriage certificate.
“What is that?” I asked.
“That’s Rabbi Frank. He’s the hottest thing out East. He’s been doing all the weddings.”
A telling sign of the apocalypse. The “in” rabbi.
“That’s a rabbi? The way this party’s been going I figured he was the stripper.”
Angie started laughing.
As we made our way deeper and deeper into the evening, Angie and I never left the other’s side. A band showed up by the pool and we did some dancing, inching closer physically with each passing song. The pool was lit with bulbs underneath the glass, light shooting up into the night’s darkness from below us. I ran into a few people here and there I knew from the industry, introducing her almost as if she were, in fact, my significant other. There was that kind of a comfort level going on. What I still can’t decide on is whether everything was really happening as it seemed or if on some subconscious level I was seeing everything as I ideally wanted to. She was definitely hot, oozing with sexiness, reassuringly confident, the whole thing. But on the other hand, I was definitely fucked up.
After yet another chilled vodka shot on the dance floor, Angie put her mouth up to my ear so I could hear her over the music. As her warm words hit me I could sense that her lips were only a hair away from my skin.
“I need to excuse myself,” she said.
“Of course.”
She gracefully pressed her lips against the corner of mine as she softly put her hand on my cheek.
“Meet me in one of the upstairs bathrooms in five minutes. When you get to the top of the stairs just make a right and keep going. It will be the one farthest down.”
I went over to the bar and ordered what must have been my hundred and fiftieth drink, a chilled shot of Grey Goose to go with all of the others. Then I sent off a member of Sam’s staff to fetch my briefcase. I still had some last minute items to go over before the morning’s team meeting and my instinct was to head for the limo. But my sense of reason found itself trying, unsuccessfully, to get past the image planted in my brain. The one of Angie walking away from me on the dance floor, the rippling water’s reflection bouncing aimlessly off the shiny material covering her perfect body.
Within a minute the staff member returned with my briefcase, placing it at my feet. I immediately lifted it up, placed it on one of the bar stools, opened it and took out my cigar case. Even just a few minutes are enough for a couple satisfying puffs. Inside were three fresh Monte Cristo #2s. I pulled one out and rested the large, three-chamber leather carrier on the bar as I clipped and began lighting the thick, wide end. I began to savor the moment, eyes closed, when a guy abruptly rumbled up to the bar beside me. I reopened my eyes just as he picked up my cigar case, lifting it to his nose for a nice, long whiff.
“Pal . . . do you mind?” I started.
“Monte Cristo #2. Fantastic cigar.”
The guy turned to me.
“John Robie. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself once I smelled the aroma.”
John Robie was tall and in shape. His necktie was folded and in his shirt chest pocket. His top two buttons were undone. He was drinking a Diet Coke and reeked of way too much aftershave. Beads of sweat dotted his hairline. Again, he took my case and passed it underneath his nose. After another second’s thought I figured there was no harm done. The guy seemed on the level.
“Not a problem. You’ve got good taste.”
Truth is he did. There’s nothing better to smoke, that’s legal, than a Monte Cristo #2. But I only had these last three. Carolyn had ordered more that hadn’t arrived yet so I wasn’t feeling all that generous.
“How much you spend on a box of these?” John asked.
“Too much,” I responded. “But I’d pay even more.”
John ordered another Diet Coke. But as the bartender was pouring it, all of a sudden John started to nervously survey his surroundings. Like he was looking for someone, or something.
“You all right, man?” I asked.
“Yeah...I’m...yeah...”
He was answering me, even though he wasn’t really paying attention to me.
“My cell phone—” he continued.
His eyes finally settled on mine.
“I left my cell phone!”
Then, in a flash, John Robie went running toward the house weaving in and out of guests like some crazed lunatic. I looked at the bartender who was placing his fresh drink on the bar.
“You think he’s coming back?”
I looked at the bar next to the glass of soda where my cigar case had been placed. It was gone along with John Robie. All that remained was the small leather cap that slid on top.
“He’d better be—” I started.
I looked at my watch. It was almost five minutes, almost time for my post-party encounter with Angie.
“— and it better be soon. I’ve got an appointment.”
I wasn’t happy, but the truth is that what was waiting for me upstairs smelled a hell of a lot nicer than even those cigars. So, realizing that Robie was pretty jittery, which meant he could have run off with the case and not even realized it, I prepared to let it go. A couple of minutes later, I again looked at my watch. Eight minutes. I took one last slow-motion puff of my cigar and started to put it out in the ash tray.
All of a sudden Robie reappeared.
“Hey, sorry, man. I almost stole these from you by accident.”
“Don’t sweat it. You find your phone?”
Like I gave a shit. As I looked at the case in his hand I could see that one of the two remaining cigars, the one in the center chamber, was sticking up in its slot higher than the other. Almost like he had thought about pulling it out for himself before stopping. Mother Fucker I thought to myself.
“Yeah, yeah, I left it inside. I took off so quick because I put it down like an hour ago. But it was still there. Guess I got lucky.”
“Figured you were just running from the cops,” I joked.
I had noticed cops patrolling the beach after he ran. At that point I had run out of time for small talk. With my eyes I motioned to the stool beside me. Robie lifted the cigar case cover from the bar, recovered the two remaining Monte Cristo #2s and, as I turned back to the bar for one final swig, he placed the complete cigar case back in my briefcase. I turned back, shut it, and headed into the house.
It wasn’t long until I found myself on the stairs. Instead of crashing in the car and working for an hour or so before freshening up and heading to the office, there would be no sleep. There would strictly be work, once back in the limo, followed by a quick shower and my usual walk to the office. I got to the top and turned right, just as I was told. Looking back
on it now, the time I spent walking down that dark hallway could have been ten seconds or ten minutes. I can’t quite remember.
Eventually I came upon a door that was closed but had light escaping out into the hallway from underneath. I knocked.
“Who’s there?”
The sexy voice was Angie.
“Rabbi Frank,” I replied.
“Come on in rabbi.”
I turned the knob and opened the door. Inside Angie was wearing nothing except a pale blue thong and her Jimmy Choos. Her feet were firmly planted on the floor and her strong, perfect legs were spread as she leaned, far, over the sink. Her head was turned back toward the door as she spoke to me.
“The party’s just about to get started.”
She motioned with her eyes for me to look down to her right. On the black marble counter surrounding the sink were two thick, long lines of coke.
I went inside and closed the door.
Chapter 14
I fell into the backseat of the limo at about three thirty a.m. My skin glazed over, I smelled of a mix of booze and Angie’s scent. I opened the sunroof and leaned my head back as the chauffeur slowly pulled out of the driveway. I listened to the gravel underneath the tires as each pebble was spit backward as the rubber gripped the surface. The sky looked like smooth black granite. The stars popped like Christmas lights.
Once we eased our way onto the highway, I pulled my attention back into the car. The top two buttons on my shirt undone, my suit jacket folded on the seat next to me, I leaned forward and walked, crouched and fumbling, a few steps to the bar. My legs were further apart than normal as I tried to maintain my balance. I poured myself some Sapphire straight up over a couple of rocks.
Before I retook my seat, I reached into my briefcase and grabbed a CD, Rage Against The Machine’s The Battle of Los Angeles, one of three emergency albums I keep with me at all times simply because one never knows what may arise. In case you’re wondering, the other two albums are Coldplay’s A Rush of Blood to the Head and the Beastie Boys’ Hello Nasty. I popped the disc into the limo’s Harman Kardon CD player then fell backward into my seat keeping my left hand, the one holding the cocktail, high in the air so as not to spill. With my right hand I grabbed the audio system’s remote control and immediately hit play. From the crushing, precise sound of the opening drum beat I knew two things. I needed to skip three songs forward and I needed to turn up the volume.
I dropped the small remote on the seat next to me as “Mic Check,” or track 4, started to pulse all around me. I took a healthy sip of my gin then lowered the windows, reaching my hand outside to feel the force of the air as it whisked by, extending into the passing night like ribbon from a “Just Married” sign.
Straining my eyes, I tried to make out where the earth and sky met in the distant blackness. As the world continued to furiously race by I became dizzy, so I returned my attention to inside the vehicle. Once I did I saw an image suspended in the air. Everything else had disappeared. It was a woman, seemingly Angie, just standing there at the exact moment we met with that perfect, sexy posture. Her tight shape covered by the same exquisite dress. Again I lifted the glass in my left hand to my mouth. The smooth crystal gently met my lips as I slowly took a careful, savoring sip.
Once the clear, cold liquid made its way past the back of my throat, I graciously accepted the satisfied smile that eased its way across my face. My eyes, moving consciously slow in order to soak in each detail, began to make their way up her enticing form. Her delicate, tanned feet strapped into those spiked Jimmy Choos. Her smooth, defined calves that so easily, gracefully blended into her athletic knees. Her beautifully proportioned thighs as they met the silky material of her dress. And so on. When I finally reached her neck I could feel the excitement of just a little while earlier, in Sam Archmont’s bathroom, as nerve endings throughout my body were connected through bursts of desire. I was eager for just one more look into her eyes. Then—
I got to her face. Or should I say, lack thereof. This was the exact moment I realized just how much my drunken mind was fucking with me. The vision before me was faceless. Was it supposed to be Angie? I quickly rescanned her form. Was it Perry?
By six thirty Friday morning, showered, clean shaven, and rejuvenated, I was already hard at it when Jake came into my office. He was drinking from a Starbucks cup. A New York Post, folded in half, was under his arm.
“So, how’d it go?”
Jake has this innate ability to intertwine weather and fashion. His tie always reflects the mood of the day outside. That Friday morning was gray and dreary. Jake was wearing a Gucci tie with a simple pattern of brown and black.
“My meeting with Sam or the wedding?”
“Both.”
“Productive for the meeting. Wild for the wedding.”
“I’m sure. Let me guess. His wife stormed down the aisle, chest out and full of purpose, to Motley Crue’s “Girls, Girls, Girls” like she was at work gunning down the catwalk for the pole.”
“Not quite.”
“Really.”
“Nope. The song was Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.”
Jake took a sip of his coffee and sat down. At that moment rain could be heard starting to fall. We both glanced at the window as diagonal streaks of water began to fill up the glass.
“Tell me about the meeting with Sam. You get what you were looking for?”
“I absolutely did. Even though Sam stopped short of telling me that buy-back terms had been discussed, if not set, before title was transferred, he did tell me who’s handling the deal internally. A guy named Jack Merrill. Once I told him why I was asking he told me he’d call the guy personally, ASAP, to see if he’s willing to field any offers. Or at least listen.”
“Who’d you tell him the buyer was?”
“I just let him know that he would have to trust me on their strength. Let’s also say it didn’t hurt for those old, big-ass ears to hear I was talking all cash.”
We both paused as Jake absorbed my words.
“I should hear from him no later than ten this morning,” I added. “How about you? How was lunch with Jagger?”
“As expected. The due diligence scenario freaked him out. He said it was out of the question, even assuming his family was willing to discuss parting ways with any of their interests. ”
“He actually knows what the word diligence means?”
“Unfortunately, all too well. And you know how stupid people are. He lives his life in this constant state of paranoia that everyone and their mother are trying to put one over on him.”
“Were you able to ease his concerns?”
“I told it to him straight. That we’d be willing to offer financial considerations for operating under such unusual circumstances. So he goes on to ask me what kind of considerations I’m talking about.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Easy there, young Jagger. You don’t just expect me to empty my pockets, do you? You let me know that your family is at least willing to listen to what I have to say, I explain what type of consideration. It’s that simple.’ ”
Jake took another sip of his coffee.
“That’s when the moron missed his mouth and ruined his tie with dill sauce.”
“So, what was the outcome?”
“Said he’d mention our conversation to his cousin Leo this morning.”
“Ah, Leo. The other cheek of the ass.”
“Their fathers are due back in town this weekend. They’re golfing at Pebble Beach. No matter the general sentiment of all parties, Jagger said I can expect to hear from him first thing Monday morning.”
“You think the two dickheads will actually tell the old men?”
“Of course not.”
Jake began to lift himself out of the chair.
“Which is fine with me.”
I knew exactly where he was going.
“Jagger and Leo don’t
tell them, it only confirms what we’ve known all along.”
Jake’s back was now to me. He was walking toward the door.
“That the old boys really are looking to sell,” I responded.
Jake stopped in the doorway and turned around.
“You’re not as stupid as you look, pretty boy. Sad, isn’t it? How easy they are to read? You put the four of them together, you get one big fucking piece of Saran Wrap.”
Jake sipped more of his coffee. Although he had intended on going back to his office, we ended up talking about Archmont’s wedding for about ten minutes as he leaned against the frame of the doorway. I gave him all of the details from the hookah to the harp music to Angie. At one point he was laughing so hard he farted.
“Now, if that’s not a sign of getting older.” he cackled.
“Anything interesting in the paper?” I asked.
“Aside from the front page moving on from the drug addict actor who’s missing?”
Jake took the paper from under his arm, took a few steps back into my office and threw it on one of my chairs.
“Take it. I already read it. Hey, what do you think of this?”
Here it comes, I thought. Jake’s idea du jour. He may be a hard worker, but that doesn’t necessarily mean because he wants to be. What he really wants is to come up with an idea that allows him to live off the royalties, and then kick back in a silk evening robe a la Hugh Hefner.
“Little miniscreens in coffins, right above the dead person’s face. You send in a signal through a satellite, they spend eternity with their favorite channel.”
I couldn’t even respond to this one. I just stared at him as though I could see right through him. He turned and left my office.
“Rich people will pay for anything, you know that—” he said, his voice fading.
After he disappeared, I put my nose right back to it.
At about nine fifteen, we all met in Tommy’s office to discuss how each of us had fared in the initial stages of the plan. As for Perry, she too had made solid headway. She had received a very clear message from James Auerbach. He fully believed the board was ready to play ball. He gave his word he would do everything he could to expedite any potential deal. His game plan was to speak with as many decision makers as possible, then report his initial findings and plan of direction back to Perry.
