Trump Tower (21 page)

Zoey headed back to the house. “I like Spago.”

“I'm sure you do,” Zeke said.

“That's fine with me,” Max waved and followed his sister inside.

“Why not,” Birgitta agreed, unwrapping the towel and drying her hair again.

Zeke looked at his naked wife, then reached for his beer and said softly, “Spago it is.”

For most people, getting a table at Spago this late on a Saturday would be impossible. But Zeke had a special unlisted number for last-minute reservations—a number that was handed out to fewer than one hundred of the restaurant's best customers and friends—so when Zeke asked, “Tonight, table for four?” the answer was, “What time?”

A lot of people who eat there regularly like the front tables because they want to be seen. Or they like the patio because it's a pleasant place to have dinner. But Zeke always took a table at the back because he liked walking through the place and seeing who else was there.

They arrived at quarter to seven, which is early even for LA, and there were still empty tables. But Orlando Bloom was there with friends and happy to introduce Zeke to them, and Eddie Murphy hugged Zeke, and Julia Roberts said she couldn't get over how grown up Zoey and Max were.

Then Max spotted Kareem Abdul-Jabbar sitting with a small group of people.

Tugging at his father's arm, Max nodded toward the basketball great. His father looked over and decided Kareem was too busy talking to the people at his table.

“Aw, come on,” Max pleaded.

“No,” Zeke said. “You know the rules.”

Just then, Kareem looked up, spotted Zeke, and waved. Zeke waved back, and Max took that as a sign of approval. He hurried over to Kareem's table to shake hands and get an autograph.

Courteney Cox, who'd followed Zeke in with three other adults and half a dozen kids, was seated at the next table. She made a point of telling the maître d', “We'll have whatever Mr. Gimbel and his family are having, and be sure to put it on Mr. Gimbel's bill.”

Zeke sent her and her friends a bottle of wine.

Max came back, proudly showing everyone the autographed napkin.

The waiter took their order, and as a way of saying thanks, Zeke also sent a bottle of wine to Kareem's table.

Zeke, Birgitta, Zoey, and Max all started with the hamachi and sashimi. Zeke and Birgitta had the steamed loup de mer, Zoey had the rack of lamb, and Max had the spicy beef goulash. Zeke ordered a bottle of French Gewürztraminer for Birgitta and himself and offered some to both his kids, but Zoey insisted she couldn't possibly drink white wine with lamb, and Max said he'd prefer a Coke, which his father refused to order because, “Coke doesn't go with anything in restaurants that don't have drive-through windows.”

Zoey and Max had to settle for sparkling water.

After their main course, the waiter brought the dessert menu.

The four of them were studying it when Zeke wondered, “Who's having the peach dessert?”

Birgitta announced, “No dessert for me. But I want a divorce.”

SUNDAY

A
licia stirred, looked over to the other side of the bed for Carson . . . and found Cyndi.

At the same time, Cyndi turned from one side to the other, opened her eyes, and saw Alicia. “What happened?” she said groggily.

“Firenzi,” Alicia reminded her.

“What time is it?”

Alicia glanced at her clock radio. “Nine fifteen.”

“Want to go to a movie? We can still catch . . .”

“In the morning.”

Cyndi's eyes opened wide. “In the morning? I hate Firenzi,” she said, lifting the sheets to look at herself and then at Alicia. “I don't even leave these things on all night when I'm with a guy.”

Alicia laughed. “Want breakfast?”

Cyndi pointed to Alicia's thong. “Those really candies?”

Alicia told her, “I was thinking, something more like coffee and toast.”

“Nine fifteen in the morning?” Suddenly, Cyndi jumped out of bed. “Oh my God!” She raced around to the side of it to fetch her clothes. “I've got to be someplace at ten.”

“Where?”

“I have two dates.” Cyndi pulled on her jeans over her garter belt and stockings.

“Two?”

“At ten and eleven.”

“With who?”

“You know.”

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do.”

“For breakfast?”

“For . . . you know.”

Alicia assured her, “No, I don't.”

Throwing on her top, she headed out the door. “Bye. It's been lovely sleeping with you.” Cyndi stopped, came back to grab her packages from Firenzi,
leaned over and kissed Alicia. “I promise to call you, darlin', if I'm ever in town again.”

T
INA OPENED
her eyes, saw the other side of her bed was empty, smiled and wrapped her arms around one of her many pillows.

The best thing about mornings, she thought, is waking up alone.

Second best, she decided, is going back to sleep alone.

She hadn't always thought this way. When she was in school, and even when she started working, she loved waking up with some guy wrapped around her, turning him on, then climbing on top of him.

Those were, as she called them, her better-than-cornflakes mornings.

And in the beginning with David, who was always ready whenever she was, mornings suited her. When he wasn't around, if she wanted to, it was easy to find someone else. That suited her too.

But now, being older and wiser than she was when she was younger and just as eager—and with a lot more miles on the clock—waking up alone, then going back to sleep, and waking up alone again, was the new better-than-cornflakes.

T
HERE WERE
plenty of other churches downtown, but he particularly liked Most Precious Blood, which backed onto Mulberry Street in Little Italy, because it reminded him of the churches he'd known in Europe.

The priest's voice rang out in prayer. And the congregation answered in unison.

Every Sunday morning, early, Pierre Belasco would walk there, no matter what the weather was like, and get there before mass so that he could light two candles. He would then take a seat in the back of the large room with the gorgeous altar and sit there alone with his eyes closed, breathing in the incense and thinking about what might have been.

C
ARSON STOOD
on the baseline, tossed the ball high into the air, reached and jumped to get it, slamming his racket through the ball, and watched as it screamed across the net to land inside the box on the other side, clipping the line.

The young black boy standing at the net said, “Great serve.”

“Strike one.” Carson picked up another ball, readied himself by bouncing it several times, got set, tossed it in the air and slammed it across the net in exactly the same place.

“Wow,” the boy said.

“Strike two,” Carson nodded. Then he did it a third time, placing the ball within an inch of where the other two had landed.

“Awesome.”

“Strike three.” Carson pointed to the boy. “And that is how it's done.”

“But . . . come on, those were fast balls. Anyone can serve fastballs. How's your curve?”

“Okay,” Carson said. “Go stand at the corner of the box. Inside the service area . . . there at the corner of the baseline.”

The boy rushed to the other side of the net and stood where Carson told him.

“Now,” Carson said bouncing the ball, “don't move.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I'm aiming for your feet.”

The boy nodded.

Carson bounced the ball a few more times, looked at the boy's feet, threw the ball high in the air, leaped into his serve, and sent the ball heading directly for the boy's feet, but as it crossed the net it began to curve away and wound up hitting inside the service area, but on the other side.

“Wow,” the boy screamed, “did you see that damn thing curve?”

“You like that?”

The boy fetched the several dozen balls Carson had served during his practice session and put them back in the wire basket. “How fast do you reckon?”

Carson put his racket in the sleeve and zipped it up. “Not as fast as I used to be.” He walked to the other side of the net and took a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. “Thanks.”

The boy took the money and smiled, “Thank you. I mean, that curve you put on it . . . where'd you ever learn . . .”

“Takes a lot of practice,” Carson said. “I think we're on Court Two in an hour. You want to work the game?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” the boy said, then added, “Hey, Mr. Haynes? Will you sign a ball for me?”

“Sure. Got a pen?”

“No. You got one?”

“No.”

“Promise you'll do it later?”

“Promise.” He looked at the boy. “You play?”

“I'm trying. They let us warm up if we get here real early, you know, before the members and guests.”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Where's your racket?”

The boy explained, “I got my brother's old racket at home, and if no one's around, I can usually borrow one from the locker room . . .”

“Here.” Carson handed him the racket he'd been using. “Go on over there. Let's see what you can do.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Carson took out another racket, and for the next hour—until Tony Arcarro and Lee-Jay Wesley Elkins showed up with Elkins' partner in tow—Carson volleyed with the boy, shouting at him from across the net, “Plant your feet first . . . keep your head down . . . arm straight . . . go for the passing shot . . . swing through the ball . . . quick, come into the net . . . great shot . . . don't stand still . . . move, quick, move . . .”

“So now you're a teaching pro,” Arcarro called to him.

Carson had worked up a little sweat. “Come on in,” he said to the boy, and walked over to where Arcarro was standing with the two other men. “Doing my good deed.”

Arcarro told the others, “Carson is the oldest Boy Scout in America.”

“Hey, thanks,” the boy said. “That was great.” He handed the racket back to Carson.

“Keep it.”

The boy's eyes opened very wide. “Keep it?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I can keep the racket?” The boy kept saying, “Thank you . . . thank you . . . this is awesome . . . wow . . . thank you . . .”

“You ready?” Arcarro asked Carson.

“I still have time for breakfast?”

“Nope,” Elkins said. “Maybe now I'll stand half a chance.”

Carson said, “Maybe.”

But the fourteen-year-old boy, still standing there admiring his gift, mumbled, “No way.”

And he was right.

D
AVID PLANTED
his feet firmly in the grass, looked again at the green some eighty yards away, wiggled his pitching wedge, steadied himself, brought the club back slowly, and swung through the ball, sending it high into the air.

“That's good,” his caddy said.

“Y'all better believe it,” David said, watching the ball hit the green about nine feet past the pin, bounce, then spin back, rolling nearly five feet toward the hole before finally stopping. “Better believe it.” He handed the caddy his club, who exchanged it for a putter.

“Ah . . . horseshit,” David said when he saw it.

“What?” the caddy asked.

“Damn. I'll never make the putt with this thing. I left my good putter on the plane. Damn.”