The First Wives Club (30 page)

So now Larry stood at the buffet alone, nibbling on cold shrimp.

Staring moodily at one of the canvases, Larry was thinking it might be time to go home when he noticed the gallery hostess, or whatever she was called, coming out of one of the private rooms. Larry wondered what was in there. People had been in and out with the woman all night. Maybe it was the VIP lounge. Larry decided to give it a try.

Looking as blank as possible, he wandered over to the door. He tried it, and it wasn’t locked. He turned the knob and slipped in.

The room was relatively dark, with smaller pictures illuminated by recessed lights. In a moment his eyes adjusted, and he saw the incredible obscenity of the stuff. And then, in another moment, he saw them.

Jon Rosen stood with his back toward the door, his arms braced against the far wall, facing it. For a moment, from the way he was hunched over, Larry thought perhaps the guy was sick. But then he saw Phoebe Van Gelder, almost hidden by him, sandwiched between his body and the wall. She was there, on her knees, her own red mouth open, taking Jon Rosen’s dick deep into her throat. I wonder if ArtNews would be interested in a shot of this, Larry joked to himself as he backed silently out of the room.

The Debacle.

Aaron reached out to answer the phane that was ringing beside his ear, interrupting his dream. It was a good dream, too. Big, with lots of colors.

And a girl. Too bad, he thought, and had to let it go.

“Yeah?” His voice was hoarse. He turned to see if Leslie was beside him in bed, but she was gone—up already and probably at the gym by now. She was amazing. He glanced at the clock. It was seventhirty.

Who’d be calling him now?

“Look, we got a situation.” It was Morty Cushman’s voice, loud and upset.

Christ, was there a problem with the new series of Morty the Madman commercials? Aaron wondered. What did the guy want? He’d taken Jerry off the account, for chrissake. Had Drew and Julie fucked up?

“What is it?” Aaron sat up, reached for a cigarette. Leslie didn’t like him to smoke in the bedroom, but she wasn’t here now.

“The shares,” Morty said.

Aaron sat up straighter. Yes. What about them?”

“Oh, Christ,” Morty groaned. “Have you seen the Journal?”’ “No.”

Jesus, it was 7,32 in the fucking morning! Aaron was never a morning person. His hours, now that he was the boss, were usually ten to ten.

He’d supervised a presentation rehearsal last night until sometime past eleven. He’d had to scream at Karen and his son Chris because of a stupid mistake. If he didn’t check on every goddamn thing, it would all go wrong. So now, how the fuck could he have seen the Journal?

And what did it say? Was this some kind of a fucking guessing game?

“Well, this schmuck Asa Ewell ran a column this morning and took a crap all over me. All over us, I should say. Listen to this,” Morty said.

” As The dust settles from the public sale of Morty the Madman stock, chinks in the corporate armor are now becoming visible. Once a pioneer in automated invento-y control at point-of-sale, Morty the Madman now appears to be stuck in an overautomated system too complicated for POS control. That coupled with a bad cash-flow problem makes the stock at its current rate per share overvalued.” Jesus Christ, he fuckin’ nailed us.”

Was that all? Some two-bit columnist giving old Morty some bad press?

Morty was all worked up over nothing. “Don’t worry, Mort, we’ll make it up in the new ads. Everyone will love you.”

“Aaron, will you listen, for Christ’s sake? You don’t understand. I’m not talking about my fuckin’ public image. I’m talking business, not PR. It’s all true. And it’s going to affect the stock prices.

Christ, it probably already has.”

Aaron felt his heart lurch in his chest. “How did the guy get hold of this stuff?”

“I don’t know, but I have a good guess. I think it was that prick Griffin.

He’s the only one outside my firm who knew this.”

“But he took you public.”

”Yeah, and he must have sold me short.” Morty explained about overhearing the phone call, and about his idea to buy more stock because of it.

“I figured Ewell would be giving it a glowing recommendation and that we’d cash in on Griffin’s shirttails. That cocksucker! He must have sold short. He knew in advance, he set it up. Then he bailed out, and he’s made another fortune, and he’s movin’ on. Meanwhile, I’m bleeding.”

“Shit, Morty. You mean we lost the money?” Aaron felt his heart pounding. He hadn’t even told Annie about the trade yet. He’d been ducking her calls for more than a week.

”Not yet, but we will. Place a sell order as fast as you can. Get out.

Meanwhile, my net worth is going to go into the toilet. Fuck that bastard. He used me like a twenty-dollar whore.”

“But the loss, Morty. How much will we lose? I can’t afford to lose that money, Morty. It isn’t all mine.” Christ, Aaron thought, panicking. None of it was his. Only the profits would have been.

Shit, he should have known. There was no free lunch.

How could he have been so fucking stupid? Had he started to believe his own fucking PR? Years ago, he had given up on the market. He’d never wanted something for nothing. How could he have trusted aputz like Morty? And gambled his daughter’s money? And Annie’s?

It was the pressure. His support payments to Sylvie, carrying the weight of the business on his shoulders alone, and his new life. It was always something. Leslie expected to live a full cultural life.

And a sexual one. He hadn’t even been up to see Sylvie yet.

Christ, how could he have let Morty talk him into it? What could he do now?

He’d like to grab Morty by the neck, if he could find it under his chins, and snap it like a match. He listened to Morty’s breathing and wished he could make it stop. The asshole was still talking.

“Okay, so call your broker. Tell him to sell. And I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Just get that call in.”’ “Sure. Sure.” Aaron heard Morty hang up. He sat up, nervously running his hand across his brow, he was covered with sweat. Christ, that bastard Gil Grifffin was unbelievable. Playing both sides of the fence. And paying off that Ewell jerk, too. Wasn’t it typical that Morty would get stuck with his dick in the wringer? But my dick, too, he thought, wincing. Well, he’d call John Reamer at Federated Funds right away.

He sprang out of bed. But it was still only twenty to eight. There was nothing he could do until Reamer’s office opened. He went into the bathroom, showered, and brushed his teeth.

It was still only five to eight when he was through. He dressed, made himself a pot of coffee. As he lifted the cup, he noticed his hand shaking and put it down abruptly. He checked his watch. Still, it was only a quarter after eight.

Already wired, he drank cup after cup. Visions of murder danced in his head.

But who should he kill? Morty, Gil, Sylvie, himself? Jesus, it wasn’t that bad, he told himself. Get a grip. Get a sense of perspective.

At last, at five to nine he got through the switchboard to Reamer’s office.

“John, it’s Aaron Paradise.”

“Yes, Aaron?” The broker’s voice was cool. Probably pissed off that I went over his head on the trade. Well, he’d fix it now. He knew how to ingratiate himself when he had to.

“John, I’ve miscalculated a bit. Could you sell off the Madman stock I bought and repurchase CDs?”

“Well, I’d be relieved to. But I can’t. I got a call from Annie and I must say she was adamant. Apparently she didn’t know about the transaction. Neither did I.” He sounded frosty. “Frankly, I was taken off guard. Anyway, we can’t make a trade without her approval.

Does she approve of this, Aaron?”

Aaron tried to think. How had Annie found out? Oh, Christ, the trade notification! He should have gotten to her before it did. He had been ducking her calls for three days now. He had meant to call her to explain. Well, what now? He could try to bluff John, but he had the feeling that a bluff wouldn’t work at this point. Christ, didn’t Morty say the stock would go into the toilet? How long did he have?

“No, no. But she will approve. I’d like to have all the shares sold, as soon as possible. She’ll call you right back with a confirmation.”

Snotty little fuck, he thought. Aaron wondered if he had the nerve to call Gil again, decided he didn’t, and picked up the phone.

It was five after nine. He dialed their old number. One ring. Two.

Then three, four, five. Aaron imagined the four extensions ringing in all the empty rooms.

Jesus Christ, where was Annie? Was she sleeping out? A man in her life?

Couldn’t be. But where was she? How long would it take to track her down? And what would happen to the portfolio in the meantime?

A Bill of Divorcement Elise sat at the desk in her office, the letter from Larry Cochran crumpled on the desk before her. She smoothed it out and read it again carefully.

Dear Miss Elliot, I met you on Memorial Day weekend at the Carlyle, and I felt that I had to write you to let you know how much I valued our brief time together. I did, however, do something I am very sorry for, necessity forced me to sell your picture. I was working on the enclosed, which you inspired. It is a piece of me. I hope both that you’ll like it and forgive me, though both are unlikely.

Larry Cochran Elise crumpled the note again, for the tenth time. She didn’t know what to do.

Was he blackmailing her? He certainly must know about her pending divorce. Was he threatening her? Did he want money? Were there more pictures? Were there pictures of the two of them at the Carlyle? If only she could remember. How much had she had to drink?

She was getting a headache, one of those awful ones with needles that mercilessly drilled her behind her left eye. If only Chessie, her maid, were here, she’d bring a cool cloth and close the curtains, and after some Valium and a rest, Elise would feel better.

But here there was no one to look after her and no one to talk to.

Although she loved Annie, and was even coming to like Brenda, she could never talk about this sordid liaison with a stranger. She was from a generation where nice girls did it, but never admitted it, and her own sexual appetite, once loosened, had frightened her. She had stopped herself back in Hollywood, she had seen what those promiscuous marriages had done to other women. Elise had sworn it would never happen to her. Yet this indiscretion, this single awful event, could ruin her. What if Bill found out? Could it stop the divorce proceedings? What if this Cochran person sold pictures to the Enquirer? And a story? Was she still hot enough news to matter?

Now, this letter, the photo, and some kind of a screenplay he had sent lay before her on the desk. She couldn’t even bear to touch them. Was he trying to force her to put up production money? She shivered and felt her headache intensifying. She remembered her mother’s stricture, “Never back a production, never support a husband.” Well, so far she hadn’t stooped to either, but her mother hadn’t said, “Never pay off a blackmailer,” and she didn’t know what to do. Unfortunately, her mother, in her addled state, couldn’t help her now. But maybe Annie and Brenda could, she thought, as she reached for the phone.

Brenda had spent hours each day at Elise’s office, rooting around in Elise’s files and her own, looking for anything that would help them in getting even with the four pricks. Surprisingly, she found that she liked it. Her bookkeeping skills—taught by Mrs. Goldman back at Julia Richman High—were coming back to her. Plus it was interesting.

Slowly, slowly, from papers and memos and tax returns and financial statements, she was disinterring the bones of the skeleton in Morty’s closet.

Today, as she walked as briskly as she could to the Algonquin Hotel to meet Annie and Elise for drinks, she mentally went through some of the findings. It should be a good meeting. Elise said she had news. and Brenda couldn’t wait to spring all the dirt she’d unearthed.

And if she did it with Morty’s stuff, why not with Bill’s or Gil’s or Aaron’s?

She wondered whose financial files she could get her hands on and how.

Columns of numbers, receipts, tax claims, all those bits and pieces of paper were under her control. They couldn’t yell or pout or hit you the way men could.

Those men, those big, powerful, scary men—they weren’t so tough or invincible, not when you really looked at the facts. Sure, they ran the courts, the crime, the corporations, but you could, Brenda was starting to believe, you could, perhaps, use their own institutions to bring them down.

Because Brenda, staring at Morty’s confused and confusing paper trail, could clearly see malfeasance.

Maybe these guys weren’t perfect, invincible. Maybe they were just schmucks with good haircuts. And maybe she, Brenda, was good at something. Maybe she could be more than just a fat ex-wife. But what?

That was where she got stuck. Because going back to school, getting her CPA or some other stupid series of initials behind her name, wasn’t for her. The idea of doing other people’s tax returns revolted her.

Nah, she’d like to manage a little business, handle the accounts payable, deal with the tax boys, manage cash flow. But what business would hire a fat, middleaged housewife without a degree or a resume?

Brenda sighed as she stepped into the Algonquin’s dowdy lobby. In a quiet corner, she saw Annie and a pale and agitated Elise.

“What’s up?” Brenda asked brightly, shocked at how upset the usually unflappable Elise appeared. Annie silently handed Brenda a crumpled piece of paper.

“What nerve!” Brenda said after reading Larry Cochran’s note. “He takes your picture, sells it to People, then sends you a screenplay to read? I don’t know, Elise, but it doesn’t sound kosher to me.”

“It’s not, Brenda,” Elise agreed. She took a sip of her martini.

“What do I do about it, is the question. I couldn’t bear to go to the police.”

Elise noticed Annie lean into the upholstered arm of her chair. “First things first, Elise,” she said. “Maybe you should give him a call.

I’m sure if you talked to him, he would be reasonable.” She picked up her San Pellegrino and held it in her hand. “After all,” she continued, “what harm could be done by just talking to him?”