He eased closer to McKennah, who had moved on and was cruising slowly through the crowded room.
A young couple double-teamed the developer by the beluga table.
“Nice, Roger,” the husband said, looking around. “Very nice. Know what this room reminds me of? That place in Cap d’Antibes. On the Point? L’Hermitage. That’s where Beth and I always stay.”
“You know it?” the woman, presumably Beth, asked McKennah. “It’s
so
wonderful.”
The developer demurred with a faint pout. “’Fraid I don’t,” he said, to their delight. Then he added, “When I’m over there I usually stay with the prince in Monaco. It’s just easier. You know.”
“I hear you,” the husband said, hearing nothing really. The couple pasted glazed smiles on their faces, evidence of how snugly their hearts had been nailed by the chubby Roger McKennah.
The substantial crowd milled and hovered over the tables filled with caviar like black snowdrifts and sushi like white jewels, while a tuxedoed pianist played Fats Waller.
“But he didn’t
go
to Choate,” Pellam overheard someone whisper. “Read it carefully. He gives them money, he lectures there, but he didn’t
go
there. He went to some parochial school on the West Side. In his old neighborhood.”
“Hell’s Kitchen?” Pellam asked, breaking into the circle.
“That’s it, yes,” responded the woman, whose face-lift was remarkably good.
So, McKennah was a Kitchen pup himself. It must’ve taken years to polish off the rough edges.
Then suddenly Pellam himself became the prey. The crowd had momentarily parted like the Red Sea and
McKennah was staring directly at him, fifty feet away. A memory came back to Pellam—the limousine in front of Ettie’s building. It had probably been McKennah’s.
But the developer gave no greeting. And as the crowd swept back together McKennah turned and stepped into a cluster of guests and turned his attention on them like klieg lights on a movie set. Then the developer was moving again, on stage, always questioning, poking, probing.
Ambition’s a bitch, ain’t it?
He was about to follow when, from behind him, a woman’s voice said in a very Northeastern accent, “Howdy, partner.”
Pellam turned to see an attractive blonde woman in her forties, holding a champagne flute. Her eyes were faded, but not from drinking, merely from exhaustion. With a sequined shoe she tapped Pellam’s boot, explaining the greeting.
“Hi,” he said.
Her eyes flitted to McKennah. Pellam followed her gaze. She said, “Which one?”
“I’m sorry?” Pellam asked.
“You a betting man?”
He said, “To paraphrase Mark Twain, there are only two times a man shouldn’t gamble. One, when he can’t afford to lose money. And two, when he can.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“Yep, I’m a gambling man,” Pellam said.
“You see those two women. The brunette and the redhead?”
Pellam spotted them easily. They stood by the sweeping staircase, chatting with McKennah. Both in their late twenties, good figures, attractive. The redhead was
by far the sexier and more voluptuous. The brunette had a colder face and she seemed distracted, almost bored.
“In about five minutes, Roger’ll disappear upstairs. That’s where the bedrooms are. Five minutes after that, one of those women will follow. Which one do you think it’ll be?”
“Does he know either of them?”
“Probably not. You on?”
Pellam studied the redhead: The extreme
V
of her neckline, revealing the upper slope of white breasts. Hair tumbling around her shoulders. A seductive smile. And freckles. Pellam loved freckles.
“The redhead,” he said, thinking: Eight months, eight months. Eight goddamn months.
The woman laughed. “You’re wrong.”
“What’re we betting?”
“A glass of our host’s champagne. As Mark Twain also said, it’s always better to gamble with somebody else’s money than your own.”
They tapped glasses.
Her name was Jolie and it seemed that she was unaccompanied. He followed her to the window in the corner of the room, where it was quieter.
“You’re John Pellam.”
He gave a perplexed smile.
“I heard somebody mention your name.”
Who? he wondered. It didn’t seem likely that the Word on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen would rise all the way into this stratosphere.
“I saw one of your films,” she said. “About an alchemist. It was very good. I can’t say I completely understood it. But that’s a compliment.”
“Is it?” he asked, looking at her steady, green eyes.
She continued. “Think about Kubrick’s
2001.
It’s not a very good movie. So why did it endure? The Blue Danube with the space ship? Anybody could’ve thought of that. The monkeys beating each other up? No. Special effects? Of course not. It was the
ending.
Nobody knew what the hell it was about. We forget the obvious. We remember the uncertain.”
He laughed. “I do love my ambiguity,” Pellam said, eyes on McKennah. “So, okay, I’ll consider it a compliment.”
“Are you making a film here?”
“Yes,” he answered.
Across the room McKennah glanced around, trying to look casual, then trotted up the stairs.
Maybe he was just going to take a pee, Pellam thought. They hadn’t considered the contingency of a draw. Pellam didn’t care; he was enjoying her company. Jolie had a
V
-shaped neckline that held its own with the redhead’s very admirably. Pellam even thought he saw a few freckles where the white flesh disappeared beneath black sequins.
“What’s it about?” Jolie asked. “Your new film?”
“It’s not a feature. It’s a documentary. About Hell’s Kitchen.”
“That fire’s an interesting metaphor, isn’t it?” She nodded out the window. There was a faint smile on her face. “It’d be a good motif for your film.” She added cryptically, “Whatever it’s
really
about.”
“How do you know McKennah?” he asked. Then the words registered:
Really about . . .
Across the room the sullen brunette stubbed out a cigarette and, lifting her slinky skirt a few inches,
looked around discreetly. She climbed the stairs in the tracks of the developer.
“Good guess,” Pellam said.
“Wasn’t a guess,” Jolie responded. “I know my husband pretty well. Now get me the champagne you owe me. Get one for yourself too. Then let’s go in there and drink it.” She nodded toward a small den off the main room. And smiled as the piano player launched into
Stormy Weather.
* * *
“You know, one of our cleaning ladies sells what she finds in our trash cans to the government. IRS, SEC. Competitors, too, I’m sure. Roger has fun putting phoney info in the trash along with Tampax wrappers and condoms.”
“The IRS pays for that?” Pellam asked.
“Yep.”
“So that’d be
my
tax dollars at work?” Pellam asked.
“You don’t really pay tax, do you?” she seemed surprised. “If you do I’ll give you the name of my accountant.”
They sat in the teak-paneled den, the sounds of the party and the music filtering through the walls. Pellam picked up a picture of McKennah with his arm around a large Mickey Mouse.
“A few years ago,” Jolie said, entranced by the frantic bubbles in her champagne, “he was really into Euro Disney. He took a bad hit there. I told him it was a bad idea. I just couldn’t see French people wearing big black ears.”
“Why are you so cool about what just happened? With your husband?”
“You’re from Hollywood, I assume you know the difference between being cool and acting cool.”
“Touché. How’d you figure the brunette?”
“She was the tougher one. More of a challenge. Roger never takes the easy way. His office is on the seventieth floor of this building. He walks up every one of those flights in the morning.”
“Quite a view,” Pellam said, walking to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He gazed out over dusky Manhattan. Jolie pointed out several buildings that bore McKennah’s name and several more, older ones, that she explained were owned or operated by his companies.
Pellam lifted his hands and pressed the cold glass with his fingers. Because of the faint light in the den his reflection appeared to be an angel floating outside, touching Pellam’s fingertips with its own.
“Your film, it’s about Roger, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s about the old West Side.”
“Then why are you spying on him?”
He said nothing.
Jolie said, “We’re getting divorced, Roger and I.”
Pellam continued to stare at the lights of the city. Was this a setup? Was
she
spying on him? Hollywood made you paranoid for your job; Hell’s Kitchen, your life.
But he had a vague sense that he should trust her. He recalled the look in her eyes when she saw the brunette lift her skirt and start up the stairs. Pellam had worked with many actresses, some of them excellent, but very few had enough command of the Method to summon up that kind of pain.
“There’s talk about you,” Jolie McKennah said.
In the distance the fire on the West Side had been mostly extinguished. Still, you could see a hundred
lights from the emergency vehicles, flashing like lasers in a tawdry disco.
“Did he say anything?” Pellam didn’t know whether nodding at the ceiling, where McKennah was bedding the tough brunette, was appropriate.
“No, but he knows about you. He’s been watching you.”
“So, why are we here? Talk to me.”
She sipped then smiled mournfully. “We never had any secrets, Roger and I. None. It got to the point where I even knew his girlfriends’ bra sizes. But then something happened.”
“Attrition?”
“That’s good, Pellam. Yes, exactly. Little by little things got worn down. We haven’t been in love for a long time. Oh, ages. But we were close and we were friends. But then that went away. That friendship part. He began lying to me. That broke the rules. We decided to get divorced.”
He
decided to get divorced, she meant.
“And you feel betrayed.”
She considered refuting this. But she said, “Yes, I felt betrayed.”
He was gazing out the window, past his reflection. “The arson on Thirty-sixth Street? Some of the men who work for his company were nearby that building just before the fire.”
This got her attention.
“So, you’re a crusader, are you?”
“Not hardly. I just want to know who was behind it.”
“I don’t think Roger would ever do anything like that.”
“‘Think.’”
He could see she wasn’t sure. She held the champagne beneath her nose and inhaled. “You find me attractive?”
“Yes.” It was true and had nothing to do with the glacial eight months.
“You want to make love to me?”
“Another time, another place, yes, I would.”
This satisfied her. How fragile is our vanity and how recklessly we wear it for all to crush.
“Tell me what you’re really after and maybe I can help you.”
And maybe she can cut me off at the knees.
“Ah, you’re hesitating,” she continued. “Think I’ll report back to him. Think I’m a spy?”
“Maybe.”
“I thought you were a gambling man.”
“The stakes’re high.”
“How much? One billion? Two?”
“Ten years of an old woman’s life.”
She hesitated. “I don’t have any power over him anymore. Not like I did.” She nodded toward the party but the gesture was aimed like a sniper rifle at all the brunettes and redheads and blondes in the room. “And I’ll never get that back. He’s won, hands down, in that arena—the bedroom, our home. So I have to hurt him the only way I still can. In his business.”
He said, “That woman I mentioned. She was a tenant in the building that burned down. She’s been arrested for the arson and she didn’t do it.”
“Washington’s her name,” Jolie said. “I read about that. An insurance scam or something.”
Pellam nodded. “Did your husband burn the place down?”
Jolie thought for a long moment, staring again at the needlepoint bubbles. “Not the old Roger. No, he wouldn’t. The new Roger . . . all I can say is he’s become a stranger. He doesn’t talk to me anymore. He’s just not the same man I married. I
will
tell you he’s been going out a couple times a week. At night. He’s never done that before—I’m mean, not without telling me. And he’s never lied to me about it. He’ll get a phone call then leave.”
“You know who’s calling?”
“I did that star 69 thing on the phone. To dial back the call that just came in? It was a law firm. Not one that I’ve ever heard of before.”
“What was the name?”
“Pillsbury, Millbank & Hogue,” she said. Pellam heard an edge in the woman’s otherwise controlled voice. It quavered. She continued. “The chauffeur drops him off on Ninth Avenue and Fiftieth. He meets someone, some man. The meetings are secret.”
“The chauffeur,” Pellam asked delicately, “could he be more informative?”
“He’d be willing to,” she said. “But Roger makes sure he leaves after he drops him off.”
Pellam jotted down the name of the firm and the address.
She said, “You know, he has good qualities. He gives money to charities.”
So presumably do some serial killers. At least those who need write-offs.
Jolie took his glass from the table and sipped it. Hers was empty. Pellam said, “What you just told me could cost him a lot. And it could cost you a lot too.”
“Me?”
“The divorce? Isn’t he going to be paying you a settlement, alimony?”
Laughter. “You dear man, why you really
do
pay taxes, don’t you? Let’s just say, I’ve looked out for myself. Whatever happens to Roger won’t affect me in any fiscal way.”
Pellam glanced down at her taut, tanned skin. Eight months. A hell of a long time.
“To another time, another place,” she said, lifting the glass.
He remained at the window for a moment, gazing at the radiant buildings of Manhattan, then stepped toward the door, while outside, reflected in the window, Pellam’s angel also turned, lowered his ghostly arms and faded into the night above the city.
* * *