Ritchie stood nervously as he watched what he thought were his co-workers descend on the Mayor. He felt a rise of anger. “What the hell?” Were all of them going to start screaming, leaving him standing alone, silent and abandoned in the center of it all?
Lee stared, his mouth dropped open, watching Kevin, Carissa and the others swiftly evolve into charged, pointing, yelling demonstrators. For a moment, he felt confused, afraid to join in. He’d planned it with them, gone along with the meeting decisions, and now he choked. His stack of flyers lay sprawled out on the floor where Brian, Trish Fuller and Ida Pomerantz were struggling to get up. He expected a bullet to penetrate his spine at any moment. Then he thought,
What’s stopping me?
He felt the surge again. All he had to do was drop his tray and join them.
He took a step toward the Mayor, when Neil Pynchon appeared behind him. “Help them up, goddammit!” he growled and moved on, swiftly commanding the other waiters to follow instructions until order was retained. Lee was silent as the flustered Trish Fuller grabbed at his sleeve.
“Oh, god. They’ve done it,” she sighed.
“You people!” The Mayor’s voice boomed into the microphone, echoing through the mumbled outcries. The Mayor loomed over the podium. He shook a finger at Kevin, who began shouting, “Shame! Shame! Shame!” as Carissa struggled with a guest trying to pry the last few flyers from her hands.
“You people don’t know who your friends are!” the Mayor shouted..
“You don’t remember who reelected you!” A tall thin man, a guest this time, stood and shouted, the people at his table lurching back in shock. The usual low din of chat rose to a sea of shouts and screech of shifting chair legs against the marble floor.
Ed watched as some commotion went on behind the Mayor, who stood a moment glaring at Kevin, Carissa, and the others as they chanted. People rose and shouted back in Kevin’s face. One man threw a drink at him, yet he continued. Ed rushed to the man who gripped Kevin’s arm.
“Sir, sir, please, please be seated.”
The man glared at Ed, ready to punch him, his eyes bloodshot. Ed retreated a bit and pleaded to Kevin, “C’mon, that’s enough. Stop! Give it up! This isn’t the right way!”
Kevin turned aside for a sliver of time, blurted to Ed, “Not for you, maybe,” and stepped closer to the podium, shouting at Hizzoner.
“You fucking idiot!” Brian seethed at Lee, who stood defenseless and confused.
After dashing into the kitchen to get a wet towel, Brian flashed forward to the ensuing embarrassment. The entire incident would be blamed on him. He glanced back to the dining room. What in the hell was Kevin Rook doing? Why hadn’t Lee told him what was going to happen?
He looked around the kitchen while the chefs raced past him to peek out and see what the commotion was about.
“Stay back!” Philipe snarled as he faced Brian. “How could you do ziss?”
“I think she burned my nose,” Brian replied, wiping what he realized was blood mixed with gravy.
“Get a towel!”
“I’m doin’ that, dammit! Goddam bitch.”
“What did you say?” Philipe’s normally emotionless face flushed with anger.
“It was her fault! She stuck her cigarette right in my face!”
“I dun believe you. Your suit iz a mess. You kennot go beck out there.”
“Fine.” Brian wiped his coat.
A large man in a suit and a small wire in one ear pulled Philipe aside.
“The mayor is leaving, considering the situation. We’ve called in some police. You better go on with your dinner, sir.”
As Philipe stood by, and Brian leaned over to wipe his shoes.
“Do you see what you have done?” Philipe screamed after the entourage passed. Brian stood watching them go. “Tell Lenny to get a mop. No, stay here. Do not go beck out there. Just leave.”
“Fine by me.” Brian’s heart thudded madly. But instead of fulfilling his own destruction, as he had been for years it seemed, in small increments, he diverted it for a moment, saving his pretty little ass by waiting for the right moment until he knew exactly what to do with the extra jewel in his pants.
Kevin, Carissa and the other demonstrators were led outside, handcuffed by policemen, and down the Museum stairs. Dozens of demonstrators had been marching in a circle in a tiny rectangle made of blue police barricades, carrying signs depicting the Mayor and Winston Fuller in blow-up black and white photos. They cheered as Kevin, Carissa, Bob and the Davids emerged like political prisoners released from the Bastille.
Inside, an attempt at order had been quickly restored. Several dozen guests had fled the party in fear and outrage. Lee was being watched carefully by Neil Pynchon, seething quietly as he served scoops of pastel sorbet.
“What the hell was that all about?” a table guest blurted. “Did they think they were communicating anything?” The man glared up at Lee, searching for an answer. He didn’t find it in the averted eyes of his waiter.
Lee’s movements were on automatic, lost in the shadows of the more experienced activists. It would take all his resolve to simply get through the evening. His insides felt as if they had completely caved in. His moment of glory, thwarted by his base fear of poverty, lay knotted in his gut.
Trish Fuller and Ida Pomerantz were escorted to the ladies room by a trio of female waiters who helped them clean their gowns.
“Club soda! Get more club soda!” Trish demanded. One of the women rushed out.
Trish examined the large stain that spread down the front of her dress. A large puddle of squishy brown goo had soaked through her Bruno de la Selle. She picked carefully at a few broken glass shards, and at a darker blotch amidst the juice.
“What is this?” she cried as Ida glanced back from the mirror.
“What, dear?”
“This! My god, it’s blood! They did it! They threw blood on me! No, I’m bleeding!”
Of course, the blood was sauce, but she didn’t know that at first. She quickly made a move to unzip her dress and inspect herself in the mirror. In all the confusion, it wasn’t until that moment that she realized she looked a bit ... exposed.
“My necklace! Where the hell is my necklace?”
“Did you lose it, dear?” Ida queried. Despite the fact that her dress was completely ruined, she remained calm while Trish became unhinged. She glanced at the floor and then suspiciously at the two women waiters, who stood back in shock, unsure how to help.
“Call the police! Get security! Oh, christalmighty, how could this happen! Those stupid goddam faggots and that faggot mayor.” She glared at the waiters, then suddenly became calm. “Girls, would you please get Philipe to send a policeman around?”
The women scooted out.
“Karen,” one said as they rushed down the hallway past glass cases filled with two thousand-year-old pottery.
“Yes, Theresa?” Her co-worker said.
“Remind me never to marry a power dyke.”
33
Detective Martin Riceman did not prefer the company of homosexuals.
Although somewhat liberal, he had spent too many years in the less glamorous levels of the NYPD to particularly care for the antics of the wealthy that lay siege to the museum on a more frequent scale.
So when he was alerted that a group of waiters, for chrissakes, started screaming and yelling at the mayor, plus the hostess, probably half-crocked, drops her pearls and yells Thief, he knew he was in for a late night.
When he realized that the group of possible culprits consisted of a crew of effete waiters prancing around museums, added to the fact that they also had a bunch of radical queers with AIDS, or at least screaming about AIDS, he heaved a heavy sigh. Another round with the gaybos, he thought. Compounded by Mrs. Fuller’s irate behavior, he longed to get his business over with, get the right fag locked up and the rich bitch forgotten.
Why was she so upset?
He wondered as he listened to her account a second time. She probably had more rocks hidden away at home than most people have Christmas ornaments. Couldn’t these people get enough? The damned necklace was probably worth a year of his pay, pay given to protect rich folk like these from the rest of the world, and to keep the sniveling poor ones from eating each other alive.
Riceman surveyed the massive museum hall, ignoring the many glances he received. Despite the chaos, the shouting waiters had been escorted out, the mess cleaned up, and the party resumed. Delicate servings of raspberry mousse with imported berries in a light sauce were eaten while every guest remarked on the fiasco. The waiters not involved in the demonstration quickly tried to fill the gaps by pouring coffee to abandoned tables. Dozens of them answered terse questions, each denying and damning “those people” as if they were traitors.
“I think it’s awful what they did.”
“They don’t understand at all.”
“It’s the way they do these things. You’re right. It just hurts the cause.”
Behind a chintz-covered partition, Trish Fuller shrilly harped at the detectives, dreading the moment when she’d have to return to her guests. The Mayor had already left in a huff. Her party was a shambles. She’d have to get to the columnists quickly, beg them to downplay the incident before they hightailed it to their editors.
Winston scolded his wife. “Love, you remember I suggested you wear the costume jewels. You know, when the help is a bunch of strangers–”
“To my own benefit? Oh, please, Win. Don’t start!” She glared at her portly semi-soused husband.
Detective Riceman surmised that he’d just discovered who really wore the pants in the Fuller house. “We’ll get back to you after the party, Mrs. Fuller. Now if we may have a word with Mister, uh Bare-gay?”
“Ber-szhay,” Philipe stepped forward, correcting him. “Madame Fuller, please, go back to your guests. I am most sorry for ze problem.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow, Philipe.” Trish’s eyes practically bulged from the dark rings of her mascara.
“Yes, I must apologize. We had no idea zeez employees would stoop to such a stunt.” He waved his hands softly, attempting to calm her.
“Come, dear.” Winston took her arm. Closing her mouth tightly, she left the men and stormed off.
Detective Riceman glanced off to the dining area, eyeing the flock of standing waiters. Any of them could have done it. He’d have to go through the company’s files to be sure, and check up on those demonstrators.
“Now, Mr. Ber–Bershay. What was the name of that waiter that ran into Mrs. Fuller?”
34
Knowing full well that he’d be followed, perhaps arrested, Brian sped
home in a cab. The view across the Manhattan Bridge, usually magical at night, and worth the fifteen-dollar fare, now seemed to loom over his shoulder. He had to get home.
Brian tensed. Pacing around the loft, he realized his predicament, the little gravy-covered necklace still in his breast pocket. He scanned Ritchie’s rows of unbaked vases in on a plywood shelf. A stout half-finished vase sat in the center, one of his coffee cup/vase series.
Brian grazed his fingers over the pottery, and then, in a moment of panic, dug his hands into Ritchie’s tub of clay. He clutched the cool muddy slab, digging his fingers into it, pulling, and squeezing it. The carefully manicured hands that served so many meals and deftly attended to the whims of those monsters were finally as dirty and mud-brown as a farmhand. It felt good.
He suddenly knew what to do. He grabbed a clot of the clay and carefully pressed the necklace into it, then smoothed the mound of clay along the inside wall of one of the unbaked vases, kneading it to smoothness so that Ritchie wouldn’t notice.