Have you ever seen anything more precious?”
“I guess not,” I say.
“I mean, just look how little they are!” Cordelia holds a tiny sandwich between two fingers, all dainty.
“Yeah. Gotta eat a lot to fill up, though. Hey, is that the cucumber?”
“No, the truffled quail egg. Here.” She takes one from the tray. “This is what you want.”
I stare down at my plate. “I don’t remember the last time a woman served me. Besides, like, Rosita. Our cook.”
“Well, I never! That’s just plain strange.”
“Bourgeois is what it is,” mutters the burly guy to her left. He reaches out with his grubby hand, grabs a salmon, and stuffs the whole thing in his face. Then goes back to brooding, the poser.
“But really, aren’t they just something else?” says Cordelia, as though nothing has happened.
Are we still talking about sandwiches?
“I just love the Plaza,” she says, staring up. “Charming, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I say. When you’re looking up. Like, into the stained glass and palm trees. That way, you don’t see all the pretentious robot pricks around you. Did I mention Eurotrash? Them, too. And don’t forget about the asstard to my right, staring off into space. What kind of name is Deuce de la Deuce anyway? Douche is more like it. “My mom used to take me here. When I was a kid.”
“Did you love it?”
“When she went to the bathroom, I guess. I’d drink her sherry.”
“You must have gotten quite the whupping!”
Whupping? Is she for real? “Nah, she never noticed. Just ordered another one. Kinda a hobby for her. That and committees.”
“Junior League?”
“Yeah. Daughters of the American Revolution, Westport Women’s, Save Our Tots . . . a ton of others. I can’t remember them all. But the meetings were all about drinking, I’m pretty sure.”
“So you were a little troublemaker?”
“Nah. Just talked too much. I mean, to the wrong people. Well, not wrong, just NOKD. That’s what she’d call them. ‘Not our kind, dear.’” Be quiet, you fucktard. “See? I still can’t shut the hell up.”
“Try harder,” says Brood-ster.
For the second time since arriving, Deuce de la Deuce has risen from the dead. Showed a flicker of interest. First in the food, and now in being an dick to me. And we’ve only been here twenty minutes. The other ninteen and a half, he’s just sat there. Staring. With a scowl.
Dude thinks he’s James Dean. Like, a really ugly version, maybe. Dean with a potbelly and ’stache. A ’stache with curled ends.
Waxed, curled ends.
I’m not fucking around. You can’t make that shit up.
Heard of a dress code? I think. Heard of business casual, you fuck?
I didn’t want to wear the blazer either, but that’s what you do. It’s the Plaza, right? The place has chandeliers. And here’s jack-off in a Harley jacket and biker boots, pouting like a little bitch. A little bitch with a fucking waxed ’stache.
Deuce de la Deuce: classy motherfucker.
“I don’t do small talk, you get that?” he booms, like reading my mind. He reaches for a scone and shoves the whole sucker in. “I am here to make art.”
He glares at me with crumbs in his beard.
Cordelia doesn’t even flinch. “We sure do!” she says with a big smile. “Aren’t I lucky? A true artiste to guide us! Yessiree, we should be discussing our forthcoming party!”
Yessiree? Is that even a real word? I thought it was some shit they made up for cowboy movies.
“This is not a party,” says Deuce. “This is a Happening. An Event.” He leans in close, breathing through his nose like a bull. “This is a transformative arena in which the spectators will be . . . transported.”
“Like The Hunger Games,” I say.
He narrows his eyes at me.
Not that we didn’t see this attitude coming. He’s the tiniest bit difficult, Cordelia had said on the phone. But really, all bark and no bite. People are just dying to work with him! And if anyone knows about temperamental artists, I’m sure it’s you, Mr. Manager!
Mr. Manager. I liked the sound of it.
And she was right. I do know about temperamental artists. Or artist, singular.
Time to get real, M.C. At this point, you haven’t got shit.
Where is the little songbird? Cordelia had asked when I arrived for tea.
“She’s got a recording session,” I had lied. But she sends her hi. She’s totally pumped!
It isn’t like I could tell her the truth. What would I say? Thanks for the gig, I can’t wait. And PS, the performer is MIA.
Ten texts, six messages, five e-mails, two pokes, one Google chat request, and a dozen roses. And still jack shit.
After that IceCapade thing, I knew I had to act fast. That’s how pissed she’d been. To turn it around, I needed a miracle. Or a stage. For Des.
Sure, April not-a-porn-star Holiday had been a pain in my ass, but I had to give her props for the heads-up.
And when I’d asked, Cordelia had said yes. I’d been shocked as fuck! I mean, I’d barely even got my pitch out.
Desy sounds like a delight! she’d said. I’ll get Jimmy on to schedule her this very instant!
Delight? Not quite accurate. But still, this was big. And Des would forgive everything before I even got the words out. I mean, she lived for this shit. She was gonna be center stage.
By text four, and response zero, I’d started to worry. Time to amp them up, I’d thought.
And I did, each one worse than the last. And the response was silence.
Begging, pleading, sucking up. Not a freaking word. Dead air.
Now the show is in less than a week, and I’m at a production meeting at the Plaza, eating fucking finger sandwiches and shitting my pants at the same time. The reason? There’s. No. Fucking. Act.
This is bad. Really bad.
At least it can’t get worse.
“So tell me what this . . . entertainment presentation requires,” sneers Douche.
Guess it can.
“Yeah,” I say, looking from his fugly mug to Cordelia’s big white smile and thinking, Wow, you really fucked yourself on this one, didn’t ya, M.C.? This is one for the history books. This is failure on an epic scale. Even more epic than Columbia. And your GPA last semester was 1.3.
Lucky Dad endowned that new fellowship. Worst I’d gotten was a very-disappointed-hope-you-will-exert-more-energy-toward-your-academic-success letter.
I rolled a big, fat doobie on it.
“We just need a stage,” I say, racking my brain. “A good sound system. But really, uh, Deuce, I want it to, like, adhere to your vision. Cordelia says your vision is, like, y’know . . . transcendental.”
Wow, Miller. You really pulled that one out of your ass.
“Exactly!” he booms. Douche Rises, Part Three. “You get it! You get me. I knew you would, I just sensed.”
“Yeah. Totally.”
He’s leaning forward now, all up in my grill. Those little waxed curls taunting me.
Don’t tug the ’stache. Don’t tug the ’stache.
“You must tell me your vision,” he says. “Lay yourself bare. This is what Cordelia has done.”
I shoot her a look, eyebrows raised.
Her eyes get wide. “Oh! No, not like that!” She giggles, blushing. “I just told him what matters to me! And he won’t let me see the result until day of, can you believe it? That’s faith, pure and simple. And, lordy, I must have a lot of it!” She beams at him and he takes it, like she’s the UV to his tanning bed. “Helps that Deuce has quite the reputation. I mean, everyone in the free world is rarin’ to hire him! Booked up for months—”
“Years,” says Douche.
“—years! Bless my assistant Jimmy for pulling those strings! So don’t you worry, M.C. Just tell him what you got pictured. What you care about. For instance, I said faith. The Bible, of course—”
“Archetypes are wondrous,” says the Douche to himself.
“And nature! The sun, the beach—”
“Nature as the driving force, both to destroy and renew.”
What the fuck is he talking about?
“I mean, especially the beach! That was pretty much every Kappa event I ever planned! The Life’s a Beach Luau, the Jimmy Buffett Clambake Bonanza. Even the charity events! Limbo for Lupus. Oh, my gosh, we had the cutest little hula-girl costumes for that!”
For a moment, I’m distracted, picturing her with coconut-shell boobs and a grass skirt.
“A vision!” Douche smacks his giant palms on the table. People turn to stare. He moves in close. “Images,” he whispers. “Just give me that.”
Fuck. Think, Miller.
Don’t tug the ’stache. Don’t tug the ’stache.
Get your shit together. Images. How hard is that?
“Maids,” I blurt. “Asian maids. But not, like, the clean-your-house kind. Hot girls. Aprons and short, puffed-out skirts. Pink ones. Everything pink . . . the lights, the chandeliers, the kittens—”
“Do we need a permit for that?” Cordelia types a note in her phone.
“Strike the kittens. Candy instead. Lollipops. That’s it. They’re dancing and sucking lollipops—” I have no idea what I’m saying. Just that it’s getting me kind of hot. “And it’s like, this wonderland. The manga, fetish . . . carnival. That’s it. A big carnival! Like Disney World dipped in pink . . . and on acid.”
I realize they’re staring at me. What the fuck was that? A lollipop carnival? What kind of homo am I?
The Douche nods his head. Up and down, real slow. “Genius.”
Madonna starts singing. “Living in a material world . . . I am a material . . .”
“My phone!” says Cordelia, breaking the spell. Checks the caller ID. “His home number? He never calls from . . .” She smiles at us. “I have to take this. But it’ll be quick, I promise! ’Kay?”
The spell is broken. Cordelia speaks quietly, eyes wide and intense, and Deuce de la Deuce is back in the food. He digs through the tray of little cakes with dirty fingernails. “What are you talking about?” she says, obviously upset. She turns to us. “Let me just run outside, boys. Won’t take me but a lil’ ole second! But that idea, M.C.? Divine. This is going to be the best party—excuse me, happening—in the history of New York City!”
Then I’m alone. With the Douche.
“Candy,” he mutters. He leans back, staring intensely at a white-frosted cake square he’s got between thumb and first finger. “The sweet, dismissible inevitable.”
He pops it in his mouth.
Crumbs. Everywhere.
Three texts, two e-mails, and one phone message. All within the next few hours.
Nope.
But 6:00 a.m. the next morning? Riiiiiiiiiinnnnngggggg . . .
“Miller, you lovebug, where have you been?”
Bitches are crazy, yo.