A minute later it does and Mary is staring up (staring up! he notes happily) into Jakob’s face, her eyes as wide as Tweety Bird’s.
‘You need to pee?’ she asks.
‘No,’ says Jakob. He presses forward, backing her up, and closes the door behind him. The bathroom is black-walled and lit by a single blue bulb.
‘Hi?’ asks Mary, her teeth glowing in the eerie light, and Jakob grabs her by the shoulders and kisses her hard on the mouth. It’s a great and guilty kiss, a blue kiss, a shock of a kiss. Jakob’s toes curl upward; his eyelids stay closed long after the kiss is done. It seems necessary that his hands move to her breasts, and they do, fingers pressed to the underwire of her bra.
Blame it on the champagne, he tells himself, a thousand little bubbles rising through my veins, aerating my brain. Good, she’s very good, soft where she should be soft and firm where she should be firm. Blame it on the champagne. Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends.
Only now does Jakob realize that she’s not kissing him back, that her tongue is still, her hands open and lax by her side. He jerks away from her, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. The Yankees cap sits crookedly on her head. She stares at the floor and Jakob’s mouth is open; he turns around and rams through the bathroom door, shoves past cigar smokers and dancing women; he’s running now. He pushes through the velvet curtain and runs.
Seventeen
The women Monty knew growing up were loud, cursed boisterously, and gnawed on chicken bones. Not like the fragile girls he met from Manhattan’s prep schools, who looked ready to shatter if you yelled at them, to lie inert and crystalline on the hardwood floors of their duplex apartments. Naturelle was just right, a neighborhood girl who could play the uptown game.
He met her in the playground of Carl Schurz Park, two blocks from her high school, on a hot September afternoon. She and a friend were sitting on the swings, smoking cigarettes, when Monty walked past, holding a dripping cone of vanilla soft-serve with chocolate jimmies. He was twenty years old. He had just sold fifty decks of black tar to an Englishman for two thousand dollars. The Englishman could have bought the same amount for five hundred dollars if he had walked two miles uptown, but he didn’t know he was overspending or else he didn’t want to explore the streets of Harlem, and either way Monty’s silver money clip was now jammed with hundreds.
Monty sat on a green park bench and licked his ice-cream cone, watching the two girls swing higher and higher. They wore their school uniforms: white blouses embroidered with the school’s initials and green plaid skirts over black tights. Monty wondered if the black tights were part of the dress code; he thought they were a bad idea. As the girls kicked forward, legs held straight in front, all he could see beneath their skirts was black, a censor’s blot hiding all the fun.
They knew he was watching them and they knew they looked good, their athletic legs straight, then bent, straight, then bent, their long hair falling beneath them as they kicked higher. Monty gave the blonde high marks for her long thighs, but he focused on the brunette. While the blonde kept her cigarette clenched in one hand as she started swinging high, the brunette never stopped taking reckless drags, the crook of her elbow holding the chain lightly as she soared skyward. Her disdain for the danger thrilled Monty; he expected her to fly off the edge of her seat at any second, fly off over the East River to land with a bang in Queens. But she didn’t; she swung and smoked and chatted with her friend, all of it effortless, a gentle pumping of the legs.
A little boy cried as his mother dragged him by the wrist away from the slides. The sandboxes were filled with children building a skyscraper, a bucketful of sand balanced on top of another bucketful of sand on top of another, up and up, until the whole thing collapsed and the kids screamed and laughed and started again. The bigger boys played dodge ball in a sunken court where the sprinklers sprayed during the summer.
Monty swallowed the last of his cone and wiped his lips with a paper napkin. He walked over to the girls and sat on the free swing. Puerto Rican, he decided, watching the brunette. A scholarship girl. She whizzed by him on the way to the top of her arc.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘could I bum a smoke?’
She whizzed by again. ‘What?’
‘A smoke,’ said Monty. He thought asking the girl for a cigarette would force her to stop for a minute, but it didn’t.
‘This is my last one,’ she told him, whizzing by.
‘You go to Chapin, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You know a girl named Ella Butterfield?’
The blonde braked with her feet and skidded to a halt. ‘I’ve met you before, haven’t I?’
Monty nodded, though he was sure he had never seen the girl before in his life. ‘Yeah, I thought you looked familiar. Are you friends with Ella Butterfield?’
‘I know who you are. Come on, Nat, we’ve got practice.’
‘You know who I am?’ asked Monty. The brunette began slowing down, watching him. ‘Who am I?’
But the blonde said nothing. She jumped off her swing, picked up her bookbag, and walked away without looking to see if her friend was following.
Monty turned to the brunette. ‘So you’re Natalie?’
‘Naturelle.’
‘Really? Naturelle. I like that. Naturelle. So what’s your friend’s problem?’
‘You’re the one who got thrown out of Campbell-Sawyer for knifing some guy during a basketball game, right?’
Monty laughed. ‘Now I knifed him. No, that’s not why I got kicked out. How come you didn’t follow Blondie to practice?’
She shrugged. ‘I want to finish my cigarette.’
‘Where you from, anyway?’
‘The Bronx.’
‘Yeah, I figured you were F.A. What’s your name?’
‘How do you know I’m F.A.? How do you know I’m not from Riverdale?’
‘Because the only Puerto Ricans in Riverdale are there to wax the floors.’
She flicked her burning butt over the fence, stood up, and began walking away.
Monty jumped off his swing and chased after her. ‘Wait, hey, hey, I’m sorry. I’m insulting Riverdale, not Puerto Ricans. I was F.A. too.’
‘Go away.’
‘I’m not insulting you; it’s a neighborhood thing. Hey, come on, I’m sorry. I can make it up to you. Dinner anywhere you want, you pick the place. Come on, at least look at me. You’re kind of mean-looking when you want to be, you know that? You look a little like that guy on Sesame Street, what’s his name? The Cookie Bandit. You look like the Cookie Bandit. Hey, talk to me, Cookie Bandit. Come on, I said I was sorry.’
‘Cookie Monster.’
‘Right! Cookie Monster. You’re smart too. So come on, you talking to me again? Are we friends again?’
‘You’re too old to be hanging out in playgrounds,’ she told him, and left him standing there.
‘All right,’ said Monty. ‘Same time tomorrow?’
Not the smoothest first meeting, he thought, but Monty was blessed with cockiness – he was sure the girl liked him despite all signs to the contrary. So he borrowed Ella Butterfield’s yearbook, found the only Naturelle and her last name, and began leaving gifts for her with the school’s receptionist. Platinum bracelet, pair of amber earrings, chinchilla vest: one a week, the receptionist now a grinning co-conspirator. Naturelle accepted the gifts but never phoned the number prominently written on every accompanying note after the first line, which always read: Give me a chance. Finally Monty hit on inspiration: he left her a single Knicks’ ticket, courtside seat, first home game of the season.
That night he wore his brand-new midnight-blue suit and a wildly expensive pair of Italian suede cap-toe boots, carefully slicked his hair back from his widow’s peak, arranged his silver rings, and surveyed the crowd at Madison Square Garden. I own this town, he told himself. Someday I’ll own this team and make myself the starting point guard. He winked at the usher and walked down the concrete
steps to courtside. One of his seats was occupied by a fat man in an orange T-shirt sipping Coca-Cola through a straw.
‘Time to go,’ said Monty. ‘Let’s go, out.’
‘Fuck you,’ said the fat man. ‘This is my seat.’ He waved his ticket at Monty.
‘Where the fuck did you get that?’
‘My sister. She told me to say hi, and she’s sorry she couldn’t make it tonight. She’s waxing floors in Riverdale.’
Monty grinned and sat down. ‘Let me buy you a beer.’
The next ticket Monty left for Naturelle was to a modern dance recital at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. His note read: Tell Hector the curtain goes up at eight sharp and they won’t let him in after that. And tell him not to wear the orange shirt. He got mustard stains all over it. And at five to eight, in the lucky borough of Brooklyn, Naturelle Rosario walked down the aisle and took her seat next to Montgomery Brogan.
In VelVet, early in the morning of the last Friday in January, Monty watches as a pretty woman unzips his fly and slowly runs a long fingernail along the underside of his cock.
‘What’s your name?’ he asks her.
‘Maggie.’
‘Maggie, huh? I like that. Maggie.’
‘Short for Marguerite,’ she tells him, smiling.
She is kneeling now on the blue cushions and Monty shuts his eyes, gives himself over to her skill, to the undeniable solace of a good blow job. Behind closed eyes he is stripping the clothes off Naturelle: the black tights, the green plaid skirt, the white blouse. He is running his hands down the smooth swell of her flanks, gripping her to him, this body he knows so well, the smell of it, the taste of it. Then it begins to break down. His hands are on the slick Naugahyde of the sofa, not Naturelle’s skin. The smell in the air is from old cigarettes and spilled alcohol. He opens his eyes and stares at the blue walls and when he tries to imagine Naturelle again her face is blurred, refusing to take form. He feels himself weakening in Marguerite’s mouth even as she bobs her head with increased vigor, doing her best to stimulate him. He shuts his eyes again and tries to will Naturelle into life but it’s not working. Naturelle is gone from his mind; now he is traveling north through the cold countryside, on the long bus ride to Otisville. Monty has never lived anywhere but the city; he has never left for more than a week. He counts the telephone poles, the depressed little towns that line the highway, the snow-covered fields.
Finally he taps Marguerite gently on the shoulders and she backs away from him, looking up at his face for a moment before blinking and licking her lips.
‘It’s my fault,’ he says. ‘You’re very beautiful.’
‘You’re very handsome,’ says Maggie, after taking a long swallow of champagne. ‘Are you an actor?’
‘Yeah,’ says Monty, zipping his fly. ‘I’m a star.’
When the woman leaves he raises his glass of champagne to his eye, turning the blue walls green. Somewhere in this city children are screaming and nobody can hear them. Somewhere in this city a fire is burning and nobody is there to put it out, no wonderful fireman to douse the flames.
Eighteen
Naturelle finds Slattery sitting at a bar in a tucked-away corner of the club, hunched over his whiskey, a blue handkerchief pressed against his face with one hand, his black cashmere coat draped over the neighboring stool. The room is meant to look like the library of an English country manor: dark wood paneling, walls lined with bookshelves filled with old leather-bound books, flickering sconce lights mimicking gas lamps. Two men with dreadlocks sit facing each other over a chessboard in the middle of the room; one taps his queen’s crown thoughtfully while his friend shakes his long hair back and forth in time to D. J. Dusk’s beat.
‘Francis Xavier,’ says Naturelle, squeezing the back of his neck, ‘what kind of party is this?’
Slattery wipes the handkerchief over his eyes, folds it, stuffs it in his pocket. He sits up and smiles at her, his eyes red, and Naturelle feels a shock of guilt. Before this moment she could not have imagined Slattery crying.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Saw you dancing before.’
‘Why are you all alone?’ She sits on the stool next to him and touches his shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’
He nods. ‘I couldn’t sit in that goddamn red room anymore. It’s a mob scene. I don’t know any of them. These are Monty’s friends?’
‘I guess so. They’re around a lot, anyway.’
Slattery nods and tilts his glass, watching the whiskey lap up against the rim. Each time he turns his wrist the whiskey seems sure to spill over, but it never does. Naturelle stares at the rolling whiskey, mesmerized, until Slattery puts the glass to his lips and finishes it.
‘I hate this place,’ he says. ‘That’s the gap between me and your man. I hate places like this and he loves them. Also, he’s better looking.’
She laughs. ‘Now you’re getting all Irish, drinking whiskey and feeling sorry for yourself. Have you seen him around?’
‘Wasn’t he dancing with you?’ Slattery checks his watch and curses. ‘I’m supposed to be at work in an hour. Jesus, I can’t even imagine working today. You just gave me the flu, okay? I’m calling in sick.’
‘I wish Monty could call in sick,’ she says, looking at Slattery’s empty glass. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s around somewhere. He’s probably saying goodbye to all the bouncers. And the manager, what’s his name? Saying his goodbyes.’ Slattery turns to check on the chess players. ‘I’ve been sitting here for forty-five minutes and that guy still hasn’t moved.’
Naturelle smiles. ‘Haven’t you noticed something strange about that game?’
‘He ought to center his rooks, for one thing. They’re no use to him sitting in the corners.’
She jabs him in the ribs with her finger. ‘All the pieces are black, Frank.’
Slattery blinks and then widens his eyes. ‘What are they doing? They’re both playing black? Who went first?’
‘I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter. They’re all on the same side.’
‘So what’s the game?’ asks Slattery. ‘Where’s the fun? The bishops fondle the pawns?’
‘Listen, I wanted to ask you, can you do me a favor?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Keep an eye on Monty, would you? Try to stick with him tonight. He’s making me nervous.’
Slattery turns away from the chess game and studies Naturelle’s face. ‘What happened?’
‘Monty’s not Monty right now. This is killing him, the waiting. I don’t think he really understands fear, you know? I think this is the first time in his life he’s scared, and he doesn’t get it; he doesn’t know what’s happening.’
Slattery shakes his head. ‘He’s been scared before. How old was he when his mother got sick, seven? He told me he didn’t sleep the whole time she was in the hospital. You know how long she was in the hospital?’
‘Three months.’
‘This is all so stupid,’ says Slattery, the blood coming to his face. ‘It’s so stupid. He’s got so much going on, he’s so smart, and what does he do? He throws it all away. And here I am, his supposed best friend – I mean, right? I’m his best friend?’
‘He loves you, Frank. You know that.’
‘His best friend, and what do I do to stop it? Nothing. Never a word. When he started selling pot to kids in Campbell-Sawyer, did I say anything? When everyone’s talking about buying from Monty, the whole school, and I knew they were going to nail him, knew it, did I say a word? The last ten years, I watch him get deeper and deeper, and these friends of his, these fucks you wouldn’t want petting your dog, did I say, Hey, Monty. Careful now. Get out of this? Nothing, not a word. His best friend. Goddamn, Naturelle, I’m his best friend and I just sat there and watched him ruin his life. And you did too. Both of us, all of us, we just sat there and let him.’
Naturelle runs a fingernail down her forearm and inspects the faint white trail. ‘Monty never listens. You know that; you know how stubborn he
is. I told him he should quit a hundred times—;’
‘Did you? Was that before or after moving into his apartment?’
She knows the signs of a Slattery periodical: the slitted eyelids, the thick-knuckled fingers twitching. Still, she’s always been able to calm him before. ‘Don’t start,’ she says quietly, touching his knee. ‘Not tonight, Frank.’
‘Was that before or after he gave you those diamond earrings? Or let you drive his Corvette around town so you wouldn’t have to carry shopping bags on the subway? Were you confused about where that money was coming from? What paid for those earrings, Nat? The two of you fly down to San Juan – hey, great time, introduce him to your grandmother – did you pay for the tickets? First class all the way, right? What paid for Puerto Rico? You told him to quit? The hell you told him to quit. Come on, that whole bullshit story about how he got you to go out with him, the gifts, the courtside seats – what paid for it? You knew then what he was, everyone in every private school in Manhattan knew what he was. You didn’t complain then, did you? You’ve never had a real job in your life. You’ve been living off the fat, Naturelle, and you never said a goddamn word.’
Naturelle stares at him, her nostrils flared. ‘Who are you to get all righteous with me? Did you disown him? You’re his best friend and you never said a thing, but this is my fault? I’m the evil one?’
‘I never took his money.’
‘How long have you been saving this? One minute ago I thought you were my friend. I sat down thinking, There’s Frank, my friend, I want to talk to him. Are you drunk, Frank? Tell me you’re drunk. Tell me you’re sorry, you’ve been drinking too much, you don’t know what you’re saying.’