Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  “That will feed a lot of Darfurians,” Scarne said.

  She sighed.

  “Whatever they’re called, it will certainly do a lot of good. Come on, let’s find our table. We can look at the list of items to be auctioned. You’ll enjoy Ari’s act. He’s a wizard at wringing money out of these people. You’d never know that some of them are down to their last three or four summer homes.”

  The Shields table was one of several surrounding a small parquet dance floor in the center of the room. In the middle of the floor was a podium.

  “Going to be hard to dance,” Scarne said, hopefully.

  “You’re not off the hook buster,” Emma said. “After the auction they’ll remove it. Ari likes to work the room from the middle. Says it gets everyone involved. No hiding in the back. See the big projection screens at every corner. The items being auctioned will be displayed on all of them simultaneously. They’re also going to show a short film about the starving Darfurians. My God! Now you have me saying it.”

  There were eight people already sitting at the table, three couples and two women. The two women were sitting next to each other and Scarne wondered if they were a couple, but Emma introduced them as Shields employees. They looked slightly dazed to be at such a gala. The three men were clients from out of town who were going to be feted the next day on the Emerald of the Seas, the family’s 200-foot yacht named for Emma. The auction was an added bonus for what was assuredly going to be a New York trip to remember.

  One of the men owned a large meat processing plant someplace in Nebraska, another was the CEO of Canada’s largest bakery. As he was introduced to the third man, Scarne said, “I don’t suppose you make candlesticks.” That earned him a sharp kick in the ankle from Emma. The man looked confused and said, no, he was into hubcaps. But his wife laughed and put her hand on Scarne’s, saying, “I like it. And I’ve been made in the tub, too! Get it?” Scarne said he did, and realized that all the women looked plastered. They had obviously passed up the shrimp in favor of booze, too.

  “You know,” he whispered, holding Emma’s chair as she sat, “I think I’m going to enjoy myself.”

  And he did. The two unattached women turned out to be reporters new to the Shields organization, and New York City. They both covered finance for the company’s local cable station. As soon as they got over their discomfort (“You both look lovely,” Emma said to put them at ease), they proved to be the life of the table and got along famously with the other guests. The men kept the wine flowing to the young girls and Scarne busied himself with the thick and lavishly illustrated auction catalogue. Emma had been right. Short of a human sacrifice, there wasn’t much that couldn’t be bid on. There was, indeed, a Bentley listed: a “2005, 12-cylinder, silver, Continental GT AWD Mulliner Coupe.” The bidding on that would start at $120,000. There were around-the-world cruises, weeks on private islands – even a round of golf with Phil Mickelson! That would cost a lot of hubcaps. Scarne saw the eyes of the other men at the table widen as their wives pointed out various items. The young reporters laughed openly as they riffed through the books.

  “I think we need a raise,” one of them said under her breath.

  “You’re all my guests,” Emma said. “I didn’t invite you here to spend money. I’m going to bid on a few things. With my dad’s money, of course. But there is some interesting and reasonable stuff in the ‘silent auction’ section of the catalogue. Tables are set up all around the room to write down your bids, if you are so inclined. You might get a steal.”

  ***

  Although made cautious by his run-in with the shrimp, Scarne found the dinner, when it finally came, surprisingly good. Emma’s guests got progressively more sloshed, but proved to be good company, even if Scarne learned more about chops, pastries and hubcaps than he needed or wanted. In retaliation for his “candlestick” remark, Emma told everyone he was a “world famous detective,” which got him the undivided attention of the woman sitting next to him, who latched on to his arm while her husband was trying to charm one of the reporters.

  “I wasn’t kiddin’ about bein’ made in the tub, sweetie. I’ve made it everywhere.” She knocked back her wine and Scarne dutifully filled her glass. She was slurring her words slightly and tried to concentrate. “Do you think it counts for the ‘mile high club’ if a plane is still on the ground?”

  “There was a tub on the plane?”

  “No, silly, that wash another time. I’m jush thinkin’ aloud. Are you her bodyguard?” The woman gestured toward Emma with her wine glass, and spilled half its contents on the bread basket. “Oopsh. Sorry ‘bout that. But I’d guess that’s a bod that needs guardin’, if you get my drift. And that necklesh mush be worse a freakin’ fortune.”

  “It’s a fake,” Scarne lied happily. “Green glass.”

  “Tits look real.”

  Scarne was saved from replying by Aristotle Arachne’s arrival at the podium.

  ***

  Emma was right. Arachne was a spirited and funny auctioneer. Using a hand-held microphone, he roamed the room soliciting bids on the spectacular items being flashed on the screens, aided by several assistants who ran down the aisles at the first hint of a raised hand. It was obvious he knew many of the bigwigs at the gala. He embarrassed exaggerated bids from them, and items sold far above their worth. At first Scarne believed that many of the fat cats were just caught up in a charitable mood, but it was soon apparent that the auction was an exercise in ego for many of them. Scarne noted several former CEOs of now-defunct brokerages and investment banks who got into bitter bidding wars egged on by the auctioneer with barely concealed glee. Some of his comments were borderline cruel.

  “Come on, Fred, spend some of that dough. There will be less to hide!”

  “Marty, this Bentley can do 190 miles an hour. The S.E.C. will never catch you!”

  The laughter at some of his remarks became a little strained, but the men kept right on bidding against each other. Their contests did not go unnoticed by some in the room.

  “I wonder if those assholes will take any of the 90,000 people they got fired on one of those vacations,” a man at the table next to Scarne’s said.

  “I don’t know how they have the nerve to show their faces in public,” his wife huffed.

  As Scarne expected, the Mickelson foursome package sparked spirited bidding. It was soon up to $10,000, and the “disgraced” CEOs again squared off against each other. On a lark, Scarne raised his hand and bid $15,000. That earned a wintry smile from Arachne and a startled look from Emma.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. “I just want to say I did it. Those guys aren’t even looking over here. They only have eyes for each other. One can only imagine how they screwed over each other on the street.”

  Sure enough, the package was soon sold at $100,000. That prompted another comment from the man at the next table.

  “Phony bastards. Phil can buy and sell all of them.”

  At the end of the auction, Arachne announced that the night’s pledges had indeed topped the previous year’s record of $7.1 million “and we haven’t yet tallied the proceeds from the silent auction.” That brought a huge round of applause, after which he raised his hands for silence. “Now that you’ve been bled dry, why don’t you enjoy yourselves? You’ve earned it.” With that, he signaled the band, which had quietly set up in a corner, and attendants moved the podium from the dance floor.

  Arachne walked over to their table.

  “Great job, Ari,” Emma said, and Scarne concurred.

  “Thank you. Now I think I deserve a reward, don’t you.” He held out a hand. “May I have this dance? You don’t mind, do you, Jake. You’ve had her all night.”

  “Of course not.”

  But Scarne did feel a twinge of …something…as he watched them. Arachne was such a fine dancer that, even though he was shorter than Emma in her heels, he looked powerful and dominant. For the first time, Scarne studied him closely. Can’t be much taller than five-six,
five-seven. Broad shoulders and a massive head, really too large for that body. Steel-gray hair, cut long and swept back. Bushy eyebrows, prominent nose and chin gave his face the look of the prow of a ship. Reminded Scarne of pictures of another ‘Ari.’ The phrase “ugly handsome” popped into his head. The kind of man who got any woman he wanted. Like Jackie O. Or Emma Shields?

  “Better wash that one?”

  The drunken woman next to him was tugging his sleeve. He turned to her.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I shed, you better wash that one. He’sh after your woman.”

  He was about to reply when to his horror the woman jumped up and pulled him out of his chair.

  “Lesh you and I give her sumpin’ to worry about. I wanna dansh. Last time Henry ashed me, cars didn’t have hubcapsh, they had spokesh.”

  Dancing with the woman was like pushing a supermarket cart that had a bent wheel. It was all Scarne could do to prevent them from careening into the Temple of Dendur. After what seemed like an hour, he finally steered her back to the table, where she discovered a just-opened bottle of wine. Arachne and Emma joined them.

  “Then I’ll see you later,” Arachne said, kissing her hand. He looked at Jake. “Both of you.” He strode off purposefully. The band started up and Scarne, sensing an imminent attack from his recent partner, quickly pulled Emma on to the dance floor.

  “Jake, this is so nice. When do I grab your ass?”

  “Pardon me.”

  “Mrs. Heartland over there had her hand on your ass the whole time you were dancing.” Emma gave him a little squeeze.

  “Cut it out. My whole life was flashing before my eyes. I wouldn’t think you had time to notice. You and Arachne cut quite a figure.”

  “He’s a fascinating man. Great dancer, too. We actually spent quite a bit of time talking about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. He thinks you are quite the interesting fellow. Wanted to know all about you. I had some difficulty steering the conversation back to how wonderful I look.”

  “That couldn’t have been hard. You do look marvelous. But isn’t he married?”

  “There is trouble in paradise.”

  “Isn’t he on his third?”

  “Who’s counting?”

  ***

  Emma and Scarne got to Arachne’s apartment building on East 65th Street around midnight. Upon entering, Scarne commented on the spectacular oval lobby and its 20-foot blue oculus.

  “It’s meant to give the effect of an open sky,” Emma said. “This building was designed by Robert Stern, the Dean of Architecture at Yale.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Sorry, I’m showing off. We own New York Design Magazine and they just did a piece on him.”

  Arachne had apparently invited more than a select few back to his apartment. There was a backup at the elevators. Emma put her hand on Scarne’s arm.

  “Let’s go this way,” she said, and led him down a hallway where they exited onto a side street. Once outside they walked a few feet and into the building’s garage area. At the bottom of a small ramp was a private elevator. Emma punched some numbers into a small keypad next to the door. Nothing happened. She tried again. Nothing.

  “Damn. I never get it right. It’s the day, month and year.”

  “It changes every day?”

  “Yes, Ari is paranoid.” She looked at Scarne. “He’d probably have a canary if he knew I told you that, sweetie.”

  “I’m honored,” Scarne said, with a twinge of annoyance. He had noted the “never get it right” comment. Emma had obviously used the private elevator before. How many times? He suppressed his jealousy. “It’s after midnight, the date probably changed.”

  “Of course!” She punched in the numbers and the doors opened. “Voila!”

  The high-speed lift took them to the penthouse on the 34th floor overlooking Central Park. A servant took their coats in the white-marble entrance hallway and they walked into a living room made stunning by upholstered walls and black lacquer cabinetry. Dozens of guests were lined up at a wet bar that seemed to be made of onyx. Scarne looked up at a coffered gold-covered ceiling.

  “Is that…?”

  “Yes, 24-carat,” Emma said. “Ari never passes up a chance to trump Trump.”

  More guests were hovering around a large buffet in the adjacent dining room, which like the living room, featured a wide-planked antique Versailles floor. The room had Venetian-style fabric walls and a hand-painted ceiling and its large windows offered both park and river views. There were perhaps 40 people in the apartment. Scarne and Emma found Arachne among a group of people on a terrace off the living room admiring the spectacular view of Central Park and the lights of midtown. Many of the men were smoking cigars. Arachne spotted them and walked over.

  “Glad you could make it. Let’s repair to the library.” He laughed. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  He led them down a long hallway lined with black-and-white Ansel Adams photos. He waved them into the library and closed the sliders.

  “I like to come here to think – and drink,” he said, walking over to a sidebar. He picked up a carafe.

  “How about some port? It’s a 1967 Noval Nacional. Portuguese ambassador sent me a couple of bottles after I built a golf course over there.”

  Another Trump-like endeavor, Scarne thought. The Donald creates a reality show, Arachne follows. Golf courses, gold ceilings. Was the man envious, or just insecure? While Arachne fixed their drinks, Scarne continued to look around. The library was dominated by two huge bronze chandeliers. On one wall a maple bookcase rose to the ceiling. The room’s artwork was eclectic, with paintings by Wyeth, Pollack, Prince and Rockwell, as well as a Tang Dynasty horse sculpture.

  Emma and Scarne sat facing a fireplace flanked by diamond-paneled leaded windows. Above the fireplace was a painting by James Nares, whose flowing red ribbon seemed to be an extension of the flames in the hearth.

  “This is a magnificent apartment,” Scarne said.

  “Yes, it is. In some ways I’m going to miss it.”

  “I didn’t know you were moving, Ari,” Emma said.

  Arachne looked up from pouring the drinks.

  “I’m closing next week on the penthouse at 8 Spruce. Should be moving in by the end of next month.”

  Everyone in Manhattan knew about the stunning new apartment building in lower Manhattan near the Brooklyn Bridge. Designed by Frank Gehry, at 76 stories it was said to be the tallest residential building in the Western Hemisphere and had won nearly unanimous praise from the city’s notoriously cantankerous architectural critics, who raved over its shimmering, wavelike metal exterior. Scarne, who had passed it many times, was less impressed. Looking up at its curves and angles gave him a headache.

  “I understand it’s taller than Trump Tower,” Scarne said innocently. “Will it also have a private elevator?”

  Emma shot him a look but Arachne only smiled and gave them their drinks. He placed his own on the mantel above the fireplace and leaned back against one of its sides, crossing his legs.

  “So, what can I do for you, Jake? Emma was very mysterious.”

  “I’m looking into something on Staten Island, which may involve real estate development and NASCAR. Emma thought you might know some people I can talk to, discreetly.”

  “The proposed track?’

  “Yes. You’ve heard about it?”

  “You could say that. I’m thinking about putting some money into the deal, if they’ll let me.”

  “A racetrack, Ari?” It was Emma. “Isn’t that a little off your reservation?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. But you know I dabble in Formula One and have contacts among the NASCAR drivers. And you remember that I own Howland Hook, which isn’t that far from the NASCAR property. I may want to have some say in what’s going on in that part of Staten Island.”

  “Howland Hook is a marine terminal for container ships,” Emma explained to Scarne
.

  “Yes, I know. I spent, or misspent, much of my youth on Staten Island.”

  “Oh, of course, I forgot.”

  “So, you know the borough well, Jake,” Arachne said. “NASCAR is big business. Staten Island would be lucky to get them, don’t you agree?”

  “Some people are worried about the traffic problem.”

  Arachne laughed.

  “Jake, this is New York. There are always traffic problems. Or environmental problems. Or religious problems. We’re the NIMBY capital of the world – ‘Not In My Back Yard.’ It’s amazing anything ever gets built.”

  “You’ve done all right.”

  Arachne nodded at the observation.

  “But I’ve had to step on some toes to do it.”

  “The people I’m after did more than step on toes. They brutally raped and murdered a young girl.”

  Arachne looked incredulous.

  “Good God! I can’t imagine anyone in NASCAR countenancing that sort of thing. It’s preposterous.”

  “I don’t think he means NASCAR is involved,” Emma said quickly, turning to Jake. “Perhaps you should tell Ari what happened.”

  Scarne hesitated, and Arachne noticed.

  “If I’m going to help you, I want some idea of what this is about. I can keep my mouth shut, if that’s what’s worrying you.” He waved airily at his surroundings. “I didn’t get all this by talking out of school. Quite the opposite.”

  “You can trust Ari,” Emma said.

  Scarne gave an abridged version of the events leading up to his investigation and his lack of progress since. His host listened intently and without interruption, occasionally taking a sip of port. When Scarne finished, Arachne quietly filled all their glasses.

  “That may be the most disturbing story I’ve ever heard.”

  “Emma is correct,” Scarne said. “I can’t imagine NASCAR is involved, except perhaps unwittingly. But it’s not exactly something I want to run by their public relations people.”

  “I would think not,” Arachne observed.

  “Have you ever come across a man named Nathan Bimm?”