We're in the main Dining Room of the Frankfurter Hof. I've always felt I owned this place. Tonight I'm stuck in aspic, events in motion not in my control. The only thing going down faster than the sweat on my back is the price of our stock. I've got to get Keays' check. Stem the tide. I have ten fingers and a thousand holes to plug. I turn toward Keays and square myself, ready to yank his arm off if I have to when Jeanette speaks low. "Larry. Let's us take a little walk. I doubt that we'll be missed. When he's like this he doesn't know I'm here."
I wonder -- nah, impossible. And yet who knows? I get up, hardly inconspicuous, big as I am, but he's wrapped up with Feffer. I look around the room. Heads of Houses everywhere. I nod to those I know. We are incestuous, our little club. We move toward the revolving door and step outside, the weather balmy for mid-September. She takes my hand -- right there, the Book Fair heavy hitters milling about on the street, making their deals. Snyder and Rosenthal -- that pair of piranhas. "L'air fraiche," she whispers. "Comme j'en aime." She flips her sari over her shoulder like a gypsy woman at a dance. "C'est trop to comprehend. One needs some moments to escape from it, n'est ce pas?"
"A drink, Jeanette?" I ask. Not really what I want, but what I say. There's Jeanette to want if she'd a mind -- but that's unlikely at the best.
"I'd like that. Yes. A drink. Not at the bar. But why not in your suite -- away from all the brouhaha?"
I can't believe that she has asked. We push through throngs and take a lift. I've got 1001 again. Big enough to throw a banquet in. She looks out toward the Park from the palladium windows. I make the call. "Two Tanqueray martinis? Very dry with a twist. 1001. Marchuk. Thanks."
I move behind her at the window, take her shoulders in my hands and pull her back toward me. She melts like she's been waiting all her life. Her head against my chest, hair whispers on my chin. Her perfume is a floral and I'm sweating like a pig. Hell of a note. I bend and kiss her neck. She twists about so that she's facing me. Her eyes are sad. "We mustn't Larry." She strokes my face. "There will be other times. Keays is right downstairs." She tilts her face up, kisses me. A second and a half, that's all. "I use your john now," she says. "I love that phrase of you Americans. Your john."
I pace the rug. Come on man, show some couth. You don't play grabass with a classy lady like Jeanette. How delicate she was as she removed herself. So diplomatic and so young. She's right of course. She's forty-eight hours of unhurried, empty time. She's fireplace and apres ski. If I get out of this alive and she's still for it as she seems to be. Although right now would not be bad. But now I'm back inside the "this," my falling stock, announcements I will have to make, the sour taste of what's ahead, the flak, the flak that is awaiting me. Oh Lord, I've got to get Keays' check. What am I doing in my suite? I must get back, and yet. Jeanette's a possible. I need a win of any kind.
When she gets out of the john at last, she's radiant and glides to me like a Vassar senior on the town, stands before me, her head against my chest as though she's made her mind up, let the chips fall where they may. I take her small breasts in my hands and bend to kiss her when the knock comes. "Bitte?"
Shit. I open for the Room Service waiter and as I do Jeanette is passing, tilts her head to kiss me quick. "Keays might be wondering. I'd better leave."
I clench my fists, about to throw the tray and all across the room. Steady on. I sign and add a tip. I take a swig of dry martini, looking out the window, calming down. No more Mr. Niceguy. Six months for crissakes. I've got to get his check tonight. And off I go.
I step purposefully through all the gleaming napery, the candleshine, past faces I know well. When I get to our table only Feffer is there. "Where are they all?" I ask. "Where's everyone?"
He inhales sharply, a habit I detest. "The strangest thing. He told me something had come up and whisked them all away. He said he'd be in touch."
*
I finish with self-loathing in the 1st Class window seat. The bitch! To let herself be used to decoy me.
Heathrow Customs never a hard time. They've memorized my face by now. The skycap carries all my baggage in both hands. We push through exiting travelers to the loading area. There's Jack, boot yawning open, dressed up in a chauffeur's hat. Come on!
I tip the skycap in marks. Jack begins to load. "What's happenin' man?" I ask. "Why the get-up? You're not-so-subtle way of telling me the guy who runs my London branch is not my flunkey? That what you have in mind?" I tower over him and him six feet or just about.
"Hello Larry." He is a handsome man. A disappointment doubling as an acquisitions editor, but handsome, yes. Fair skin, blue eyes, blond hair. Good bones. Fantastic accent. Resume said Oxford grad but I'd heard whispers of expulsion, scandals, rugby scores. Too embarrassing to ask direct and not enough to change my mind if true.
"Did you have a smooth flight, Larry?" he asks. That's what he looks like. An airplane pilot. Steward, maybe. And yet there's more to him. A ruthlessness. It's why I hired him.
"Uneventful trip, Jack. Shitty night, last night. No sleep at all. The Frankfurter Hof's a zoo." He hefts the last valise. "Things OK here? Why the cap?"
"I felt it to be fitting, sir," he smiles beatifically. "Peter sent a present. Waiting for you on the seat. Anything to make you happy, boss." Come on!
He slams the boot and opens up the back door. He's got the glass divider pulled. A woman in a white veil is sitting cater-corner on the other end. Jeanette? Impossible! I sit and study her. The figure's wrong -- too full. A present from Peter? A woman? Jack starts us toward the M-1.
"Madame," I incline my head. "We've met before?"
Her voice is a surprise, it's Janice Joplin at her sandiest, accent pure American. "I've heard stories of you but we haven't met."
"What have you heard?"
"It made me blush."
"What's with the veil?"
"A lady's secret. Only that."
"May I move closer?"
"You're lord and master in this car."
I move to sit beside her, raise hands to the veil but she takes them, brings them down to my thighs, then keeps her hands there as we speed along, stirring gently against the fabric, pressure minimal, until with minutes flying by, she takes my hands in hers as though it's me guiding her fingers. They work the inside of my thigh. I'm like blue steel a second and a half. She feels it gingerly through the cloth as though her fingers are so curious they must. They reassure themselves. Again. A little pressure. Friction. Press again. My head is back. I'm in her hands. She touches then withdraws. Lifts cloth away. We'll be three years at this. I'm ready to explode right now. I'm hers. Her fingers at my fly, the zipper down part way, the air against me, Lord, I've got to get it free! She holds it down, reverses course, then change, she zips it slowly down again. I hurtle out and now she's on her knees. Veil raised, tongue caresses it, rough velvet, suction like a vacuum pulling out my guts. I'm hers! I grab her head. The hat and veil fall off. I'm coming, hands wrapped round her face. It's over. Thirty seconds tops. I catch my breath. I lift her face up for a better look.
The shock. The shock. Don't notice features, anything. The only thing I see is this great shiner, right eye, staring up at me black and green and gray. All that I can do to keep from throwing up. Damn! I twist her face away from me, her on her knees. I grab the intercom. "Pull over, Jack."
We stop and I get out, my zipper open, I don't care. He grins. I don't. "What's Peter got in mind? Idea of fun? I want her out of here."
*
"So let me see your signs."
"Larry. Neither Rome nor London was built up in a single day. We have any number of titles in the talking stage, some in the negotiation stage, but none signed, sealed."
Come on! I glance around his corner office overlooking Fitzroy Square. Too big. I shouldn't have agreed. Would have been just as accessible in Crystal Palace as I had it planned at half the price. All this space, no signs to show for it? This fancy furniture? I should have kept a tighter rein. Too many mistakes. It's what happens every time I'm going down.
"The market here is strong, Larry, very strong. It's not too early for expansion plans. Beginnings are the hardest part." The accent -- never know he's Liverpuddlian, his father a mason. He sounds so British, so opaque.
"Beginnings, Jack? It's been ten months."
"Ten months can go like that, Larry, as you know. Ten months. It's where we'll be ten years from now that counts."
Ten years!? I might not have ten days. "OK, Jack, no signs. I'll have to live with that. It's where we were my last time here. Let's see your folders on the titles that you have in progress, talks already under way."
"I'm not terribly familiar, Larry, with how you run your editors in New York, you only flew me over the once, but things don't move at quite a New York pace on Fitzroy Square. We talk. We take some lunch. We lead the author gently on. We're not the only publisher on earth. My authors do have other possibilities."
Come on! "What is it that you have to show then, Jack?"
"You're so American. You mean some document about a lunch, a talk? How many files do you have in New York full to bursting where you've got nothing but an outline, and even that unsatisfactory? You're certainly aware of that." His blue eyes concentrate on mine defiantly.
And suddenly I feel disheveled as I had when I stepped out of the car two hours ago, off-balance, clutching for some fixed-point spar. My ship is sinking fast. I'd had time at the Savoy for just some coffee and a quick two minutes with the Wall Street Journal. 17 1/2! Down two points since yesterday. From 30 just three weeks ago. I can't put steady fingers anywhere -- what's real is turning into mush before my eyes. Events are overwhelming me. I'm not controlling this. I square my shoulders. Bring my weight to bear. "You have the cash?"
"A word about that, Larry." He rises, goes to the closed door. Opens it and cranes his neck both ways as though there might be someone listening. He's slim, but muscular. A rugby natural. He sits on the corner of the desk facing me. His leg swings, shows blue socks. "I've been sleepless with it, Larry, these two weeks. Just sleepless. Eva's quite put out, although I've told her nothing, Heaven knows, but still she'd have to be blind not to notice my, quite frankly, Larry, my agitation over it. 10,000 pounds. In cash. I'd be your accomplice, wouldn't I? I don't know how your guys'll fudge it in New York, but here in Blighty there's a dim view taken -- cash that's unexplained. You follow what I'm saying, Larry?"
Here's unexpected flak. What is he going on about? He's been top man before. Surely someone must have asked for cash.
"I'm sure you follow me. In any case it's made me jumpy as a cat. I run too great a risk. Remember we already pay your tab at the Savoy and all your not so petty cash. I can't. You understand? Of course you do. You have the right to sack me, disobeying orders, I know that. But there it is. It's too one-sided. I take the risk. You take the cash. It's just no go."
"What are you talking, Jack? This is my company."
"A public company, Larry. And I'm titular head of London branch. The responsibility is mine. And the blame as well, if fingers point."
"I need walking-around money, Jack, no attribution."
He nods as though considering, like I'm an author and he is balking at the royalties. He looks at me head on. "Since I'm the one who has to take the heat suppose we share?"
The brazen SOB. My host of problems rushes in before I can react. Call my solicitors? Say what? I want to tap the till and he won't let me? Sack him? Close this operation down? It all takes time. I need a chunk of spending money anyway. "Share? What kind of share?" If I get out of this I swear I'll live more orderly a life.
"The standard 50-50 I presume."
My options flash before me. Take the ten plus five for him? I can't. Fifteen would make too large a dent, attract some notice, if not my own then someone else's auditors. He's right to be so cocky. Has me good. I have no choice. "OK." What comes of my mistakes. Oh, Lord. I do repent. Put me back to where I was last year. I'll never sin again.
"You are a reasonable person, Larry, no matter what they say." He picks up the receiver and punches up a number. "Sanjee. Bring that envelope in here." He returns to his chair. His face is much too pleasant for the way I feel. He says, "I'm sorry Peter's present didn't please. I was just delivering. Not my idea."
"I've got a date with Peter later on. I'll give him my reaction then. Threw me, all it was, her beat up like that. But you -- I liked the way you handled it. A minute and a half."
He nods acknowledgement. "You'll be visiting Lord Lapidus? Top flight. The right solicitor is crucial for a House like ours."
At least there's something I've done right. "We're used to big-name lawyers in the States, some more prestigious than others. Hiring a Lord to represent you, though, is something else again."
Sanjee knocks and enters. He's stocky, looks like Ben Kingsley playing Gandhi. He peers warily around as though there might be someone that he doesn't see. We shake. He bobs his head, then wags it side to side, inhales. "It's most irregular, Mr. Marchuk, sir," he says, more choppily than usual, the accent southern, Hyderabad perhaps. Smells of curry just a little bit.
"What's that?"
"This cash you asked me to prepare. I run enormous risks. Professional, you know."
"Life is risk, Sanjee."
"This is over and above what my position calls for, sir."
"No, Sanjee. This is exactly what you were hired for. To run finances for me in my London branch."
"Begging your pardon sir, but not these kinds of dealings, no. You've frightened me for fair. If I was questioned -- this is not defensible."
Jack speaks up. "Would a thousand quid go some small way toward easing your anxiety?"
I motion to protest, but protest what? Cancel now? I still need money anyway. Nothing's going right! Are they working in cahoots?
"Fifteen hundred, with all respect, Mr. Rice."
Jack looks at me questioningly. I weigh alternatives real quick. There are none! Bastards! Damn! Kick me when I'm down. I will remember that. I nod OK. Jack holds out his hand. Sanjee takes an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. Jack takes it, opens it, and counts. He nods agreement that it's right. "Then here's 3500 pounds sterling, Mr. Marchuk, sir. The membership at the Curzon Club is still active of course. I use it frequently. Why not take some time to have some fun tonight, relieve the strain? The roulette odds are good as anywhere in town. No double zero. The chef's a magician. And the wine list is superb."
*
"A spot of sherry, Larry, while we await the proofs?"
"I'll drink to that."
Old-line Houses sit on parcels worth untold millions. Value's in the property alone -- forget the publishing. Stodgy as they are their real estate goes up, up, up. Another way to play the game. On the twentieth floor we dominate King's Road. This is a power House, two hundred years old. Astonishingly, no presence in the New World. This deal with me will get them markets in the Western Hemisphere. As well as save my ass. We wait for pages of his new all-Britain catalog -- to join our names officially, to launch my distribution of his list.
David's Louis XIV escritoire serves as his bar. Fire-flashing old crystal decanters. Sherry. Brandy. Port. The pony that he hands me wears his personal monogram, DV. What risks has David ever run to reach this eminence? From Eton to be Junior Editor here. Not too many years later -- a Director of the Company. Do I envy him? For just this minute, yes. My crooked, twisted road had no such ease. Led me to success it's true. And from success to where I am right now.
"To us," we touch glasses with a pleasant chime.
His secretary bustles in. The presentation. Ah! I read the intro -- glowing prose. I leaf the titles idly. For nothing in particular. To gain familiarity. I stop. There's something wrong! What am I seeing here? It hits me like a moving freight. "David! What the hell is this?"
"A typo, Larry?"
"No simple typo, David. When we made our deal you were charging an average price of under two cents a page."
"That's true, Larry. So we were."
"We're buying at 55% off. That made our raw cost less than a penny a page including transportation. We charge four cents. The difference pays for advertising, overheads, discounts to jobbers, profits. Your prices in this catalog are at four cents a page. You doubled your list price overnight. Now how can I make money on a deal like that? David! What have you done to me?"
"Calm, Larry, calm. If you'll read our contract which I have right here it says nowhere that our prices are fixed forever and a day so you can reap a harvest, but not us. Pricing flexibility remains our province of course. We felt this was the ideal time, a new relationship. It was lopsided if we didn't raise our prices, Larry, don't you see? We give you our books, our ancient name, and you make all the profit at the end of the day. That didn't seem quite fair to us. There's nothing we have done that violates our contract, as you'll read. It's here in case you have no copy with you of your own."
I vetted it. Lord Lapidus vetted it. I'd raised the point of specifying price but Lapidus pointed to their name emblazoned on their catalog, their weighty name. "It isn't done," he'd said. "You must assume good faith."
My House is caving in. "I'll break this contract, David. This will ruin me."
"Larry, my dear friend. On that the contract is quite clear. We are joined for good or ill for one year minimum. We'll hold your Company to that."
*
I stand on King's Road in the sun. Must wash the taste of David from my mouth. Defeats. They're coming at me from all sides. My date with Peter is at 5:00 for drinks. I've got one hour plus to take my mind off losing. I take a hack to Portobello Road. Perhaps I'll find a win.
There are ten dealers more or less who get my trade. They carry everything -- that's why I deal with them. I like eclectic -- otherwise you have to give your life to specialties. Just not my style.
In Frankel's, second stop, I find two things. A Heuvelman virgin and child. Nine inches high if that. Bronze Art Nouveau. The face and baby are in ivory. £150. First rate. The other is satsuma from the Edo period. A vase, a scene of courtesans and lords, the gilt around the heads as brilliant as though painted yesterday. £230. I pay £250 for them both. Len wraps them separately, and then together in a single parcel. I feel a little better as I leave. I go toward Cartwright's. The sun is marvelously bright.
She isn't looking well. Dispirited in fact, sagging, slumped behind the counter. Wispy gray hair, granny glasses, a mole at the lower left-hand corner of her mouth. "Mrs. C." I incline my head.
"Mr. Marchuk. Back so soon?" Her zest has seeped away.
"Two months, Mrs. C. Doesn't seem so soon to me."
"Dear, dear. Two months. I didn't realize. My mind's been taken up."
"Business?"
"I wish it were. My health, dear Lord. It's failing me."
"Sorry to hear that, Mrs. C." She's looking poorly, pasty-faced. "Any special objects I should keep in mind?"
"In my office, Mr. Marchuk. Spot new they are -- I've never offered them. I've had them in my home for years. Pre-war. They aren't everybody's cup of tea -- but I do love them so. John helped me bring them in today -- I haven't even priced them yet. But you go right ahead. In there."
They're all memento mori, Victoriana, wreaths and such made out of human hair and cloth. The light shines indirectly on the piece beside the file. I bend to see it better. I'm transfixed. It's stump-work of museum quality. A sea-scape, beach collage of sand and shell. The figures fashioned out of batting, silk and hair, raised from the surface, sewn in place. Last one of these I saw was at the Met. Two inches deep at least and fifteen inches square. I put my parcel down so I can take it in my hands. I turn it over -- the paper backing is intact. There is no signature, initials, anything, but then there never are.
I take it out to her. "There's this," I say.
Even smiling she looks grim. "It is a beauty, isn't it? I hate to part with it. But I go into hospital on Monday and there's bills to pay. You know what you are holding, Mr. Marchuk?"
"I do. Rare to find in this condition."
"Oh dear," she sighs. "It isn't priced." She looks at me direct but there's weakness there, ambivalence. "I'll entertain an offer if you'd care to make me one."
She's losing. Just like me. I need a win. I need one desperately. "One hundred pounds."
"You said one hundred, Mr. Marchuk? Did I hear you right?"
I nod.
"You do know what it is you're looking at?"
"I do."
She seems to melt back there as if the world has come and gone and left her stranded where she is. She takes the piece from me, looks at it, shakes her head, perhaps remembering it in place. "I need whatever I can raise. Be back in half an hour. If it hasn't sold the piece is yours."
My tour continues, parcel under arm. I hold some objects, appraise them fitfully, but I'm not concentrating, eyes still filled with that amazing construct of a century ago, tasting my small victory to come as if I'm eating gravlax in the River Room.
Half hour's done. Return to Mrs. C. She nods to me. And then I see she's wrapped it. Has it ready there. It's mine! I use precaution anyway against a bait and switch. "Could I see it one more time, Mrs. C.?"
She undoes the masking tape. We both admire it. "You'll put it on your wall?" she asks. "You know its worth?"
"It has a meaning to me more than you can know."
*
"Larry, m'boy. I'm so pleased to see you here again. We have a such a much to talk about, so much I have to tell."
He is a Jewish leprechaun. How does a leprechaun keep occupied? Nothing I can name. He's part of things. Knows people, rockers, artists, royalty. Married to Giulietta, world famous sculptor, doesn't hurt. I put him into London on a six month trial to rustle up some special projects. Not a one so far, unless he has them up his sleeve to dazzle me. "My pleasure, Peter. Glad to see you looking fit." And so he does; cardigan and turtle neck, men who earn a living without seeming to.
"I've been impatient for you, lad. The thing is," he lowers his voice conspiratorially, "I've found a Clos Vougeot, from the Cote d'Or you know, in a grocer's, of all places, sitting in the window inoffensively, less than two guineas the bottle. I bought a case. I stole it I should say. He says he knows a place to get me more. I decanted this very first bottle at noon today against our renunion. And now you're here. I feel we're celebrating. Yes I do. Like making love to someone for the first time. I'm pins and needles till you tell me what you think of it."
Giulietta's work is all over the large living room. The light is none too good. Comes from living in a Mews. On the other hand the space is huge for London. Upstairs has a skylight. Sturdy floors. The offer of my job enabled him to take this shot. Independent now of living off her work. Employed, he could live anywhere. And she of course. I don't know what he'll do when I have severed him.
Giulietta joins us. I've heard she was a beauty when she worked in Giacometti's studio. Now she's two hundred fifty pounds, a blown peach, distorted, exploded capillaries near her nose, eyebrows bushy, dark. Commanding as Balzac at MOMA. Forceful as her statuary, the busts of movers, shakers of this world. We kiss.
"Giulietta, my bride. I was about to offer Larry the Clos Vougeot. Would that please, or would you prefer Lilac?" Effervescent always. Voice seems cracked if only to allow the laughter through.
She has a mezzo-soprano with just a trace of Andalusian ancestry. "Larry. I heard the bell and stopped, but only to add 'welcome here'. I'm in the midst of firing. Ten minutes? Perhaps fifteen? We'll drink together then."
"Of course." The stairs creak under her weight. He pours as if he is an alchemist, awaiting the result of this latest of his experiments. He sniffs for bouquet before he hands my glass to me. "Na zdorovnye," he says, raising his glass.
"A votre santé." I sniff and sip. "Quite wonderful. You lead an interesting life. Find dirty bottles in a grocery store. Pick up stray beaten ladies. Tell me what was that about?"
He's smiling still. "Larry, lad. Jack called me afterward. Do you know who she is?" I shake my head. "You know the group Daemon Lover? She's a groupie that they share with me. I didn't know about the eye. Greta gets a little worn sometimes."
God bless. He must be sixty-two. Greta has lost all interest for me in any case. "And in the special projects biz? Is Clos Vougeot your big success?"
"No, Larry, no." He smiles an elfin smile. "Greta wasn't altogether hopeless, was she lad?"
I shrug and take another sip. A feeling is returning that I'm in control. I'm glowing still with my stump-work acquisition. My win.
"Actually there are a number of projects I'm working on simultaneously. Julia Margaret Cameron. Christie's will be auctioning her album. She got Tennyson to sit for her. Reverend Charles Dodgson -- that's Lewis Carroll, you know. Lots of angelic Raphaelite little pre-pubescent girls. I'm keeping an eye on that. Lord and Lady Braith -- they have a collection of Redouté florals -- pristine. I think Redouté could have a vogue as large as Odilon Redon. I keep in touch -- so far they'll only let me look. It's out of copyright. If I can convince them to let me have their copy to publish from I think they'd make a splash, a slipcase, maybe Hilton Kramer for a foreword. And so much more. A million things afoot. It's all in my report which I keep promising myself I'll get typed up and send to you."
All bullshit, as I thought. He could have made it work! What did it take? "I could beat around the bush or tell you straight. I'll have to trim some sail," I say.
"How so?"
"We're going through a sticky patch, old boy. Unfortunately it has direct relationship to you. Not really any time for notice, Peter, I'm afraid. Finish up the week. I'll have Sanjee prepare a check for two weeks severance."
His face caves in, goes bloodless, when it had been florid. Glass still raised. "Greta's not the cause of this, is she?" His eyes are wild as if imploring someone to nail things back in place.
"No, no. It's business only, Peter."
"I should have sent you my report."
"You should have. Yes."
Giulietta descends. She walks to us majestically, sees Peter in distress. "What's wrong, mi caro, what?" she asks.
"I'm sacked, Giulietta. Larry's given me the boot." He's crumpled back against the cushions.
She flamethrows a look my way and pours herself some wine. "You said six months," she says.
"Conditions change."
"Not for Peter. They remain the same." She arches her back as though with firing done she's ready to take his burden on. "There are still two months to go."
"I'm giving Peter two weeks severance."
"That's not enough. A month is more appropriate."
She might have asked for transportation. I might have agreed. "OK. A month."
"Larry." His voice no longer laughed. "I took you for a different sort of man. A man who never counted beans and hated those who did. Did you mislead?"
"No, Peter. Not mislead. To learn is to survive."
She looks at me with angry, hurtful eyes. "You learned? From who? I studied under Alberto Giacometti. Who did you study under?"
*
6 black. The croupier clears the losers with his rake. He pushes stacks of chips to me. Get off the 6? When it's worked hard for me? It's almost personal, my 6. I place three heavy greens on it as its reward. Go with the flow. "Faites vos jeux, mesdames, messieurs. Faites vos jeux." The croupier takes the white ball in his fingers, left hand on the spokes. A hunch! I move a stack to premiere douzaine, another stack to 4, 5, 6. My stacks are islands. Everyone else with little whites on twenties, thirties, zero, red. The jeweled woman across from me is studying my pile. She puts a green one on the 6 as well. "Rien ne va plus, mesdames, messieurs. Rien ne va plus." All the players seated, standing, have their hot eyes on the ball between his index finger and his thumb. The wheel sails round. The croupier flicks the white ball, counter to the spin. It leaps and clatters, rattles, rolls and tries to find a spot like all of us, and dives. 6 black! Right on! I nailed it good!
He pushes stacks and stacks to me. I toss a green one to his waiting hand. "Pour les employées," I say. "Tu as un truc?" He produces a tray from somewhere at his feet. I load it with my chips and rise. Supper now and I'll be back.
I cash in, hands full of £100 notes. Not the answer to my overwhelming problems. But I begin to feel the power surging back.
A single couple tête-a-tête at the window table, facing on the Doric porticos across the street. I read the wine list. As a matter of curiosity I scan to see if Clos Vougeot is there. A '79 it was. Their '82 is close enough. £25. I smile sardonically.
Before I choose there's Blaustein, beefy hand on my shoulder. "Larry!" Like I'm his long-lost son.
"Lou! Have you had supper yet? Join me."
He sits, a Buddha always. Rumors place him with the CIA, privy to the machinations of the Trilateral Commission. He represents perhaps three hundred tiny publishers and charges them the earth. Provides a distribution they could never have but sucks out all the profit from the deal, plus plays the currencies. He got cash out of Indonesia for his clients six days before the coup. He frees frozen zloty from the Poles via art and gold. "Done your business at the Fair?" he asks.
"Have you?" Slow and steady with this guy. I realize I am almost back in form. It's what a win or two will do for me. I am alert to everything. A jungle cat.
"My deals are consummated Larry, long before I land in Frankfurt." He studies the list. "You make your choice?"
"I plan a simple meal tonight, Lou. Fish eggs and champagney wine. I'll share if that appeals to you."
"Why not? Perhaps we'll think of something we can toast. I hear your guys are slow out of the gate at Fitzroy Square."
I shrug non-committally. He does know everything. How does the information come to him? "The Middle East is still a crap-shoot, Lou? I've had a nibble from an un-named go-between."
"Abood? Stay away. But I do well there. It's a strength of mine."
"Of course."
Harkins at my elbow. "Mr. Marchuk, sir. A pleasure to see you. Staying for a while this time?"
"A few days only. You've been well? You weren't last we spoke."
"I had the operation, sir. I'm good as new."
I think of Mrs. C. with just a twinge. Was I too harsh? £100? Come on! She had the right to turn me down. Giulietta? Peter? No. Don't spoil it now. I may be on a roll.
"You have beluga, Harkins?"
"Yes indeed, Mr. Marchuk. Sky-high these days. Supply is undependable, but then we have our ways."
"250 grams. A little egg, the onion fine, toast points . . . "
"Leave it all to me, Mr. Marchuk, sir."
"And a bottle of Dom Perignon. Vintage if you have it. We'll share, my friend and I."
"I didn't say good evening to you, Mr. Blaustein. Good evening."
Lou nods as Harkins turns away. "I hear it's official now with David and you." His expression bland as ever. But that was just this afternoon! He continues, "A wrinkle you may not have thought of, Larry. If I know David you did not do well. On the other hand he won't like it if you bleed to death. How can you serve him if you die? It's my belief he'd let you carve geography from him. To sweeten it. Keep you alive."
Every cell is concentrating on the here and now. Is Blaustein in the Curzon Club by chance? Is there a message one inch down if I knew where to dig for it? "But those are Third World countries, Lou, the ones he'd let me have, some not the population of Vermont. Why would that be interesting for me? I don't even sell there now."
"I do."
I'm blown away. He does. Game within a game. Harkins sets the pewter bucket up, presents the bottle. I nod absently, my mind leap-frogging, searching for the 6. Harkins removes the foil and the wire. With a deft turn he pops the cork without a sound and pours a taste into my crystal flute. Good Lord. Is this a plan I see before me? My 6? My shot? Reprieve? I taste the champagne. I nod approval and he pours.
We touch our glasses. My body throbs as though I have a quart of extra blood. "You'd like to represent me, wouldn't you? A major player in with all the schlock?"
"No secret. Anybody would."
I am on fire. When I'm like this God speaks through me. Whatever I propose is right. If I did science I'd find penicillin now. "In principle I'm not opposed. But there are details if you're serious." He nods. "If we do a deal here's how the world divides." I pick my spoon up and make a line on the linen tablecloth. "For my books I have the Western Hemisphere, you have the rest. If David yields some countries you will represent me there."
"Sounds good."
"There's more. You make your money playing games with currency but your operation doesn't sell for shit. I will place my salesman in your Amsterdam office. You'll pay for him. Max of fifty grand. But he'll report to me, not you."
"Can we talk discount structure first, Larry? I have to know my profit margin before I can agree to that."
I'm on a roll! "Are you serious?" He nods. "Of least importance is your profit margin. You'll make money on this deal. We'll see to that. Next! My man will need promotional material. Max of fifty grand. You'll pay." I watch him like a hawk. It doesn't matter that he hasn't bitten hard. He's hot to trot.
He purses his lips as if savoring the wine. He thinks a second and a half. "OK. The discount structure, Larry? Now?"
"Hold the phone. There's more. Much more. I'll start with this. Your cash flow's always good. Mine's terrible just now. I need two million in advance. We'll work it off. Two years, let's say."
He nods his head thoughtfully and takes a swallow of champagne. "Exact, Larry? Two million on the nose? One million wouldn't do?" He stares me down.
Nerves of steel. This is my 6! "To be secure Lou, two million two hundred fifty thou."
The caviar comes. The toast points are still warm. Harkins refills our flutes, sees we're deep in thought, backs off. The spoons are sterling. Lou helps himself. Face impassive as a stone. "I can manage that, Larry. But just one thing. Do we get to discounts soon? Everything's contingent on that, Larry."
I think I've died and gone to heaven. It's a win. A giant win! What does it matter if I jump the track from time to time? What does it matter if I place myself in jeopardy, go to the edge? I am invincible! Each defeat leads but to victory! When I sit down again they'd better lock away the roulette bank! My roar inside is deafening. Tora, tora, tora! It drowns one nagging doubt -- is he my 6?
