chapter      23

Joan Coddington had never walked faster in her life. Perspiration was dripping down her underarms and nesting in the nook of her cleavage. She was even panting a little. She could feel the blisters bursting on her heels. With every new step in her frenzied pace, her chunky gold necklace and bracelets clanked against her body with the same pulsing movements that they make on a rapper performing on stage, minus the Mercedes logo. It was never so urgent to get to Orsay on Seventy-fifth Street to meet Wendy. Never.

Joan burst into the restaurant, practically throwing her camel-hair coat at the coat-check girl, and made a beeline for Wendy, who was innocently sipping Perrier at a front table.

“OH! I’m dying! Do I have goodies for you!” said Joan, untangling her Hermès scarf and sitting down dramatically.

Wendy at once gauged the situation’s urgency by the glint in Joan’s eye and immediately implored her friend to get down to business. “Don’t make me wait! Spill it!”

“You’re going to die,” said Joan, nodding to the waiter, who poured her a glass of the Perrier. “I’d also like a glass of chardonnay, and please, I’d like a lemon with the mineral water, not a lime. If I have even a drop of lime on the rim of the glass, I will turn purple, so please, lemon.” She turned back to Wendy.

“What is it?” asked Wendy, practically panting in anticipation.

Joan, who had been waiting for this moment for seven blocks, when she would inform Wendy of the latest hot gossip, suddenly paused, realizing that once she told her captive audience this dish it would no longer be her secret. And secrets were like currency for Joan, valuable when fewer people had them. But, oh well, it wouldn’t be worth anything unless others knew you had it.

“I almost want to savor this morsel . . .” said Joan, drawing it out.

“Spit it out, Joan!”

“So. Last night my daughter was out with some friends, including one of the Vance boys . . .”

“Drew or John?”

“Drew. They went to some faddish club downtown.”

“I get nosebleeds if I go below Fifty-seventh Street.”

“Who doesn’t? But they’re young . . .”

“Continue.”

“So, who does Whitney see sitting at the bar with some exotic woman?”

“Ted Wingate?”

“No.”

“Gustave Strauss?”

“No.”

“That man from the Goodyears’ . . .”

“Morgan Vance,” said Joan, sitting back in her chair with an air of benevolence, as if having endowed her best friend with something more important than a kidney.

“NO!”

“Yes. And they were obviously together.”

“What did she do?”

“Well, naturally Whitney is a pearl of discretion—she really is her mother’s daughter if I do say so myself. She herded the group off to the side so Drew wouldn’t see his father with some south-of-the-border slut. Can you imagine?”

“I’m in shock,” said Wendy, mentally going through the list of people she could get to quickly in order to relay this information before Joan did.

“Whitney. Always thinking.”

“Thank god. Drew doesn’t know how lucky he is.”

“My question is, what was Morgan thinking?”

“He’s really lost it.”

“Gallivanting around with some trollop . . .”

“Do we know who the woman was?”

“Very ethnic is all Whitney said. Dressed like a harlot.”

“Interesting. I wonder who it could be.”

“We have to find out, just to be prepared, of course.”

“Of course. If we know her, we want to make it clear to her that we disapprove.”

“It’s bad form.”

“Nauseating.”

“Poor Cordelia.”

“Yes, poor Cordelia.”

Not that either lady could have cared.

   

Morgan had been forced to go to great lengths to deceive Cordelia last night, as Maria had staged a first-class temper tantrum, forcing him to cancel with the Powells at the very last minute, pleading a work crisis. When Morgan finally acquiesced to Maria’s demand to go out, he insisted on finding some obscure place listed in the Village Voice that no one he knew would frequent. Maria was jovial and victorious as he led her into the bar, only elevating Morgan’s wrath.

“This is my first night out dancing since the baby. All she does is cry. She’s a real pain in the neck. I get no sleep!” Maria had whined.

“Well, you’re the one who wanted her,” said Morgan, downing two drinks in a row.

“I’m a Catholic! What did you want me to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“I so sick of your complaining—you think you did me a favor! You are lucky to have me! You get all the sex you want!”

Morgan tuned her out and glanced around the bar. It was dark and dank and seemed like the type of place where rats would set up camp. There was a scraggly band putting up their instruments on a small, sticky stage and some punky-looking twenty-somethings swigging beers. The whole place stank of a fraternity basement and kitty litter. In fact, come to think of it, the band was called Kitty Litter. Morgan couldn’t wait to bolt. It was at that moment that all the color drained from his face. Of all the places in the world! It was his son Drew, with the Coddington girl and two other kids who looked familiar.

“Oh my lord, Maria, we’ve got to get out of here,” said Morgan, slamming down his drink on the bar and grabbing Maria’s elbow in an effort to push her toward the door. Maria jerked free from his clutch.

“We just got here! I’m not going anywhere!”

“Maria,” said Morgan leaning in with urgency. “I see people I know. We have to go.”

“If you see people you know, you have to introduce me. You introduce your wife. I’m just as important as her—I have your child!”

Morgan’s palms were getting sweaty. He looked over at Drew, who was lodged now in a grimy, ripped red leather booth, doing shots with his friends. Morgan pulled Maria behind a pillar.

“Maria, please. Let’s go. I’ll take you to Peter Luger instead,” begged Morgan.

Maria was enjoying making Morgan squirm. She folded her arms. “I won’t go. Introduce me!”

“Maria, I’ll get you that diamond bracelet you want.”

“If you don’t tell people the truth soon I will send a birth announcement to everyone you know!” Maria turned on her heel and stormed into the bathroom. Morgan took a deep breath, glanced back at Drew, who was totally engrossed in the band, and took a seat on a bar stool in the corner behind the pillar. As Morgan sat down, he noticed a man with a slight smile sitting two stools down, who had obviously heard the whole interaction between him and Maria. How embarrassing. Discretion had always been one of Morgan’s mantras, and Maria was slowly tearing that apart. The man, who was about forty-five, with greased-back hair and a black leather jacket, looked over at Morgan and nodded. Morgan nodded back as he took a shot that the bartender placed in front of him. Morgan looked around again to make sure Drew didn’t see him.

“I see you’re having a little problem,” said the guy, lighting a cigarette.

“It’s okay.”

“Doesn’t look okay to me,” said the guy, leaning back in his stool. “Looks pretty bad.”

Normally Morgan would have avoided any form of conversation with a stranger in which he would reveal anything about his emotional state, but for some reason—maybe because Maria had worn him down—he decided to open up.

“It is.”

“You know, a guy like me can help a guy like you in a situation like this.”

“That sounds very cryptic,” said Morgan, taking another sip of his drink. He wanted to drink the whole bar and cloud away his nightmarish errors.

The man slid across the bar stool between him and Morgan and sat down next to him. He had very large hands, Morgan noticed, and a big blue and gold signet pinkie ring.

“It’s not cryptic. I’m a problem solver, you see. You’ve got a problem; I can help you.”

“What are you implying?”

“You know what I’m implying.”

There was a pause. Morgan wasn’t sure that this guy could possibly be talking about what he thought he was. Perhaps the liquor was getting to his head. Either that or he was having a full-on Tony Soprano moment.

The man looked Morgan up and down. Expensive pinstriped suit, sterling silver monogrammed cufflinks, horn-rimmed glasses, steel gray full head of hair. This guy had probably never stepped foot in a joint like this. He realized that he would have to spell it out for him. “Difficult mistress, twisting your nuts. Wants it all. I can tell you’re a successful guy. You don’t need this shit.”

“What ‘shit’ are you referring to?”

“Come on, don’t insult me. I wasn’t born yesterday. But let me tell you, don’t beat yourself up. I’ve seen a lot of guys like you—feeling old, not getting any, some tramp comes along and wags her pussy in your face and you can’t resist. Next thing you know, you’re roped in. She’s got you by the balls.”

Morgan chuckled. “Isn’t everybody roped in?”

The guy glanced toward the bathroom and saw Maria bang open the swinging door. He stood up.

“They don’t have to be,” he said, handing Morgan a card. “Here’s my business card. Give me a call, and I’ll make your life a whole lot easier.”

He walked off.

Maria came up and tugged on Morgan’s suit. “Well, let’s go if we’re going to go! Those bathrooms were dirty. What kind of a place did you bring me to? Take me to the Pierre. I want caviar.”

“You wouldn’t even like caviar if it wasn’t expensive.”

“What?” said Maria, straightening out the sides of her satin skirt. “Did you say something nasty? You better not have!”

“You know what, darling?” said Morgan, leading her by the arm. “I’ve had enough of you. We’re going home.”