The First Wives Club (43 page)

Please just give me some time.”’ ”Yes, Mrs. Paradise, I can do that.”

Dr. Gancher’s face relaxed. ‘I’ll explain to the bursar. But we will need a letter from you with a payment schedule. And some idea of Sylvie’s financial future.”

“Of course.” Just let me out of here, dear Lord. It was worse than I imagined.

Let me out without crying like a little victim. ‘Thank you,” she said, standing.

Annie headed out the front door so she wouldn’t run into Miguel or Sylvie until she had time to collect herself. Just a few deep breaths, she thought.

She walked along the drive, breathing in the crisp, cold air, staring at the wide, empty white lawn. All right. That was done. But she would never forgive Aaron. Never. And she would do whatever it took to keep Sylvie here.

She would spend the afternoon with Sylvie. She would play with Pangor, see Sylvie’s room, take her out to lunch, watch Sylvie open the gifts she had brought. She would enjoy her new, grown-up daughter.

And then there would only be Miguel to contend with. She wondered how much he liked her, and if that might help him indict Gil. Because now the gloves were off. She’d give Miguel De Los Santos everything she had. And if Aaron was implicated, so be it.

She turned and began walking back to the parking lot. In the distance, outside the canteen, she could see Miguel and her daughter sitting, throwing snowballs at a plane tree and talking. Sylvie seemed to be laughing. Annie smiled. She would keep her laughing, whatever the cost.

As they drove home in the winter twilight, the silence between Miguel and Annie deepened.

”She’s a nice girl, Annie,” Miguel said. “Funny, too.”’ “Yes,” Annie agreed. Sylvie had a host of faces that she used to express herself.

When she had seen Miguel’s poached perch at lunch, served with its head, she had wrinkled up her nose and made a fish face.

“The school seems a good one.”

“Yes. Too bad I can’t afford it.” She took a deep breath. “Miguel, I have some more information for you. I don’t know if it will help in the Gil Griffin investigation, but …” She took another deep breath. “We think Aaron invested in Morty the Madman because of a tip from Morty Cushman, the owner.

But we have no proof. Then the stock took a nose dive. Something happened, Miguel, but we don’t know what. And we also know that Morty Cushman may be in trouble with the IRS. We think there might have been collusion between Gil and Morty and Aaron.”

“Good. Maybe I can use that. I’ll see Mr. Cushman. Meanwhile, what are you going to do?”

“About what?”’ “About Sylvie’s school. It can’t be cheap.”

“I don’t know.”’ Tears began to fill Annie’s eyes. “I don’t know,” she repeated, and then, despite herself, her sobbing began. Miguel pulled the car to the side of the highway. It was almost dark. He took out a folded white handkerchief, handed it to her, and she wiped her eyes, but the tears kept coming. He leaned toward her, putting his arm awkwardly around the back of her seat. At his touch, Annie put her head on his shoulder and sobbed. He held her for a long, long time.

Mor Suffers a Setback.

Morty settled back into the plush seat of the limousine and lit a cigar.

“Christ, what a day,” he said, then took a long pull of smoke. His cigars were his one real luxury. They were Havana, of course, same brand as Castro smoked and purportedly handrolled by teenage girls, on the inside of their virgin thighs. Guys swore it gave them a special sweetness.

“What a night.” He leaned forward to get a can of seltzer from the compact refrigerator and felt the ache in his back muscles brought on by the twisting and turning of the sleepless night before. Just age, he thought, but his mind leaped back to the parade of money grabbers on his tail who had nipped at his heels every time he closed his eyes.

Jesus, Thanksgiving with Tony and Angela in Aruba had cost him a bundle. And they both hated Shelby. His gaze fell on the driver’s copy of the New York Post with the headline, “Leona Helmsley Denies Tax Evasion Charges” and a picture of Leona being escorted in tears out of court by her gaggle of lawyers.

Morty snorted. Poor bitch, he thought. He was probably the only person in the city who pitied her. Why don’t they leave her alone?

Evade taxes! Didn’t she pay more than $3 million? How the fuck much more does she have to pay? When is enough going to be enough?

He tossed the paper aside, took a gulp of seltzer, and continued to work on the cigar while scanning the crowded streets through the smoked glass. “Enough is fuckin’ enough!” he said out loud.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cushman?” the driver said.

“Forget about it,” Morty told him roughly.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to calm down. He didn’t want to spoil Shelby’s cocktail party and the play—no, what was it?-performance art. Right. Whatever. She had maneuvered the grants committee of the Museum of Modern Art into attending this party, to be followed by a “living sculpture” piece of performance art. If the committee takes the hook on this one, Shelby will have made a real splash in the art world. That’s what she says, anyway. But, Morty had to admit, all this stuff bored the shit out of him. He and Shelby were donating a painting to the museum, and it would have his name on it.

“Donated from the Morton B. Cushman Collection.” Somehow, it didn’t thrill him as much as he had expected. And the gallery wasn’t doing any business. Shelby couldn’t get the social crowd in, but she could sure as shit pull in bills.

“Enough,” escaped his lips involuntarily. Enough for Leona and me.

When are they going to leave us alone? They think I’m a bottomless pit of money. Well, they’re wrong! There’s not enough to go round, he thought resentfully.

Someone’s going to come up holding the short end of the stick and it ain’t going to be me.

Why not Brenda? Two million dollars to “reevaluate” their divorce settlement?

Thanks, Leo, you asshole. Why should she get one more dime? Two checks, a million each. His stock was depressed right now, and so was he. Well she can fuckin’ die waiting for the second check. Fuck her, and fuck Leo.

“She got a signed contract, Morty. Signed, sealed, and delivered,” Leo had sputtered in anger. “Okay, Leo,” Morty had said, “let her sue me.

You’re a good lawyer, right? Just tell her and the dyke that I want to re-reevaluate’ the agreement.”

They’re all over me, he thought, as he fanned himself with Leona’s picture.

And now Aaron. I’m going to have to increase my advertising and cover my losses with Aaron. Plus bail him out? All right, so Aaron’s not so bad. But more money going out. Shit!

Everywhere he turned, he felt the grabbing hands. Except, of course, Shelby’s.

He didn’t like to think about whether Shelby would have married him if he hadn’t bought her the gallery, but if he was honest with himself, he would have to say no. Fat Jew bastid. ‘I Wouldn’t fuck a poor one, either,” he said, and laughed.

The limousine turned onto Fiftyseventh Street from Madison Avenue and slowed to a halt in front of Shelby’s gallery near Fifth Avenue, .

half a block past Tiffany’s. The crossroads of the world, Morty thought, and it’s costing me a fucking bundle.

But this was one of those rich men’s moments that he loved. Limos could double-park anywhere in this city, he knew. So, as his came to a halt, he savored the moment. The chauffeur went around the car and opened Morty’s door.

Over his shoulder, he called to his driver, ‘I’ll be a while, so stick around.” The security guard greeted him by name as he ushered Morty into the cool, rich, marble-faced interior. Then Morty stepped into the elevator and pressed the button.

When the doors opened, Morty stepped out, then stood still for a minute and took it all in, the expensive paintings on the walls, the deep-piled carpet underfoot, knots of sedately but expensively dressed people holding drinks and talking in suitably hushed tones, waiters noiselessly passing drinks and hors d’oeuvres among the crowd. Morty grabbed a drink from the tray of a passing waiter and continued to eye the room for Shelby.

Not seeing her, he made his way reluctantly toward Josiah Phelps and the rest of the museum committee. Forcing a smile, he surprised himself by remembering to greet each one of them by name.

I’m getting good at this shit, he thought. His father, Sy, would never believe it. Me, Morty Cushman, grandson of Russian Jew pogrom survivors, standing in one of the most expensive cocktail circles in America. Morty figured there was over $3 billion net worth in that small group. At least that much. He wondered if they felt the money grabbers as bad as he did.

Nah, he thought, they don’t feel nothin’. After three generations with money, ‘go fuck yourself” comes very easy. These bastids don’t bend.

Well, neither will I, he thought.

Just then, from the door to her office in the middle of the near wall, he saw Shelby beckon to him. He began to excuse himself from the group when two men in nondescript suits pushed past her coming out of her office and began to walk purposefully toward Morty. Shelby nervously followed them, until all three of them came to a stop in front of Morty.

Shelby hurriedly said, “Morton, these gentlemen would like a word with you.

Why not come back into my office?”’ She looked imploringly at the two strangers. “So you can discuss this in private.”’ Her voice had risen, and the entire room, guests and waiters, turned to face her.

Morty was confused and pissed. These guys better not rain on my parade, he thought. Clenching his teeth, he said, ‘What can I do for you gentlemen?”’

The first suit said, “Are you Morton Cushman?”

Morty barely got out, “I am,” when the second guy took a laminated card from his jacket pocket and began to read. “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Morty gasped. “What do you mean under arrest’?”

“You have the right to have an attorney present when questioned.” The second G-man had pulled Morty’s arms back and was putting cuffs on his wrists. Oh, Jesus, not this, he thought. This couldn’t be happening.

Sweat started to roll down his sides from his armpits.

And handcuffed behind my back? Morty thought. What the fuck’s happening here.

Like I’m some sc?vartzer pocketbook thief.

“Wait, there’s some mistake.”

“You have the right to court-appointed counsel if you can’t afford your own.”’ “Morton, what should I do? Morty?” Shelby, now shrill, said, “Morty, what’s this about?” forgetting the roomful of people all watching this event as if it were performance art.

“Anything you say can and will be held against you.”

Shelby’s high-pitched voice caused Morty to begin to regain his composure.

“It’s okay, Shelby, just call Leo Gilman. He’ll take care of everything. Just a misunderstanding, honey.”

Turning to the arresting officers, he said, ‘It’s just a misunderstanding, right, guys?”

“No, Mr. Cushman, you’re under arrest for tax evasion.”’ Leaning toward Morty’s ear, the fed whispered,“This is big time, Morty,” and stood back and grinned complacently. Then he gave him a little poke and took him by the elbow, steering him from the room.

Shelby ran up to Morty, tears streaming down her face. ‘Morty, how could you do this to me? After how hard I’ve worked. We’re ruined, Morty.” She took a deep breath. “Tell me everything’s going to be okay.”

“Honey”—Morty was straining now, forcing out the last wisp of bravado left in him—”just remember this, once indicted, always invited.

We’re going to be able to dine out on this story for years.”

Shelby began to collect herself and tried to smile.

The two officers tugged on Morty’s cuffed arms and kept him walking to the door, while the crowd of guests parted for them as if they were afraid arrest were contagious.

Morty caught a glimpse of Josiah Phelps and made a huge effort to smile nonchalantly. Josiah dropped his eyes and turned away.

Morty was hustled into the elevator, then past the astonished security guard, and Morty could see his chauffeur run to open the door to his limousine, while trying to make sense of the scene of two men and Morty walking toward a plain brown Chevy sedan.

The two men pushed Morty into the backseat, then they got in the front.

The Chevy pulled out around the limousine and headed toward Fifth Avenue.

Morty turned painfully on the seat and saw Shelby, composed and in control once again, emerge from the building and walk briskly toward his limousine and get in. Then the car turned downtown and he lost her. Well, Morty thought, I guess the party is over.

Chopped Mitsui.

Gil stepped on the gas of the Jaguar XKE and thrilled to its great thrust of speed as it accelerated past the snow-dusted delivery van.

He felt the familiar quickening in his groin in response to the car’s acceleration. The 1962 XKE had been his first “rich-man’s toy.” He had seen one for the first time parked in front of Doney’s on the Via Veneto in Rome that year. His parents had given him the family’s traditional college graduation present when he got his bachelor’s degree from the University of Virginia—the grand tour of Europe for three months. Not too grand, actually, with a Eurailpass for travel and an International Youth Hostel membership for shelter, but it had been the best the family could do. Since the crash of 29, his father’s reaction to adversity had been a glass of bourbon. Gil had been grateful for any trip at all.

And he’d had his eyes opened in Europe. By the women, the luxury, the cars.

There the XKE had sat, shiny fire-engine red, seemingly in motion even as it sat parked at the curb.

He had taken a table at Doney’s, ordered a Negroni, and sat staring at her.

The car had become ‘her” the moment he had seen it. I want that baby, he had thought, knowing with all the certainty that was the most outstanding characteristic of his youthful but defined personality that he’d have one someday. Smiling to himself, he promised that as soon as he got his first million, a car like it would be his reward.

And he had gotten the car with his first million, only it wasn’t technically his. It had been his wife’s money. But what the hell, he thought now with a grim smile to himself. I didn’t say I was going to make it, just get it, and he chuckled again as he usually did at this thought. He lost his wife, but kept his car. He’d rather lose five wives than his XKE. He drove in every morning alone. Mary took the limo.