A Changed Man (15 page)

And then to Nolan, “You better take her home, man. The lady looks fat-
tigued.
”

After that brilliant diagnosis, Dr. Dirtbag laughs, displaying black holes where his teeth should be, then staggers off into the crowd. Nolan should have killed him. The color’s drained from Bonnie’s face. She does look fatigued. Three-quarters dead. She looks as if someone’s slugged her. All because some wino gave her health and beauty advice?

“Do I look that tired?” Bonnie says.

Every day Bonnie must stare in the mirror and see some new wrinkle or splotch. Why didn’t Nolan coldcock the bastard before he could open his mouth? If Raymond and his buddies were here, Nolan could never have let it go. It was exactly the kind of provocation they were always waiting and hoping for, and could never get to happen.

“I don’t know where he got that. I swear to God, I was just thinking you looked great.” In fact, Nolan
was
thinking something like that. Which makes him twice as furious at the homeless motherfucker.

“You were?” It’s sad, how much Bonnie needs his approval. No wonder the husband left. It gets tough, propping someone up. Your own ass is heavy enough. Nolan knows that’s how Margaret felt. She was carrying his dead weight. Margaret’s not having said as much makes Nolan start missing her all over again.

“So help me,” says Nolan. “Great.” They pass a store window in which diamonds hang from gold chains worn by brown eggs in a carton.

“Tiffany’s,” says Bonnie.

Nolan says, “How are we doing?”

“Great,” says Bonnie. “Four more blocks.”

Four more blocks? Nolan needs more time. There are some details he meant to work out. The codeine must be kicking in. He’s getting that drug nausea he hardly ever gets. Doctor, I have a feeling it’s not what I ate for lunch. As long as he knows what it is, he can ride it out. Still, what a drag to show up at Maslow’s, seasick and distracted.

“
Ola,
Jorge!” Bonnie greets Maslow’s doorman. Nolan gets it. She’s a regular. They spin through the revolving doors into the lobby full of monster floral arrangements pumping out funeral-parlor perfume. The elevator is broiling. All the oxygen’s been sucked up by the elevator operator, a swarthy guy with a unibrow, dressed like an organ grinder’s monkey. He nods, then stares ahead as he takes them up, politely ignoring Nolan’s struggle not to puke on his shoes.

Bonnie says, “Oh, my God. I forgot to tell Irene! About your being allergic.”

Her saying this in front of the Rican Jeeves is humiliating. What a pussy the guy must think Nolan is! Oh, dearie me! I’m allergic. Well, let the doormonkey go through a couple of trips to the hospital as
his
throat plays its little game, racing to constrict before the ER interns find the right syringe.

Bonnie says, “It’s become second nature at home. I’m always careful, cooking. But I forgot to tell Irene. I will, as soon as I get there. They’ve got a terrific Indian chef. He can make you something. Meanwhile, not a bite till we get this straight. Stay away from the hors d’oeuvres.”

Bonnie’s acting like Nolan is one of her kids. And he might as well be. Nolan imagines he smells curry. It makes him want to vomit.

The doors open, and Bonnie and Nolan step into the apartment without the chance to collect themselves that a hall would have provided. The long road Nolan thinks he’s traveled from Raymond’s couch to Bonnie’s house shrinks to a footstep along the route that’s brought Maslow here from his hiding place on some pig farm. Well, the guy deserves the good life. Nolan admires Maslow. He’s a real Napoleon, a little king, but you’ve got to give him credit. At this point, Maslow could be cruising on a yacht drinking mai tais and clipping coupons. Instead of which he’s slaving away to get some foreigner out of jail. Nolan likes talking to Maslow. He’s always got something interesting to say, especially if you steer him away from the mystical baloney.

Nolan scans the room for Maslow, but his view is intercepted by a tuxedo holding a tray of wineglasses. White wine. Red wine. Sparkling water with lemon. At the moment, the wine won’t mix with the drugs, though once the sickness disappears the wine could give him a boost.

Indecision makes Nolan spastic. He reaches toward the tray and—instantly
and
in slow motion—dumps a glass of red wine down his shirt. Immediate sobriety. The codeine wears off in a heartbeat. He checks the carpet. Nothing, thank God. His shirt took the entire hit. There’s a wet grapey blotch on his chest, as if he’s been shot. Why couldn’t he have picked white wine if he was going to spill it? He might as well have clocked the sonofabitch who insulted Bonnie, and walked in with blood on his shirt.

“Oh, my,” says Bonnie. She bought him that shirt. But at least she sticks by him and doesn’t rush off into the party, which is what most women would do. Not that Nolan and the women he dated ever went to this kind of party.

The waiter oozes away, then oozes back with a napkin he pokes into Nolan’s chest.

“Watch it,” says Nolan. “Watch it, okay?” A tremor of aggression radiates into the room, creating the kind of atmospheric disturbance that, in any social gathering, can be counted on to pry the host loose from his guests.

Maslow sails out of the living room where he’s been queening around with a half dozen people, all with drinks, pinkies extended. Maslow’s wearing a dark blue silk shirt, open at the neck. Nolan’s overdressed. He’s been overdressed since he got to the city.

“Welcome, welcome.” Maslow kisses Bonnie on both cheeks. He doesn’t do that at the office. Home team rules apply. Nolan sticks out his hand in case Maslow plans to kiss
him.
Maslow takes in the scenario: waiter, spilled wine, splotch. By now their stall has lasted long enough so that even Mrs. Maslow comes over to see what’s up. She starts with Bonnie: a one-cheek kiss.

“Bonnie, dear, it’s been
way
too long.”

“Hi, Irene,” mumbles Bonnie.

“Irene,” says Maslow. “Vincent. Irene Maslow, Vincent Nolan.”

Has Vincent met Irene before? The codeine says maybe. What is it about drugs that make you think you know the person? Could the Maslows have a house in Woodstock? Did Vincent install her pool? Probably he met her clone, and a dozen more like her. Women who size you up so fast it’s like they’re scanning your bar code. Is Nolan worth paying attention to? Only if he comes in with the lowest bid for the chlorine, or if he’s the former Nazi who helped sell all those tickets to the old man’s benefit dinner.

Irene’s sort of attractive. She’s got that European Marlene Dietrich thing going. Part queen, part drag queen. Your vulnerable dominatrix. Sexy for an older woman.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” she says, gracing Nolan with a smile rehearsed to take maximum advantage of the point to which her face has been tightened. All that money, all that pain, to make former beauties like Irene look like the dolls they played with as little girls.

“Don’t believe everything you hear.” Nolan shoots a tracer bullet of flirtation in Irene’s direction, testing to see if anything lights up.

Irene does. “Why shouldn’t I? Is there something else I should know?”

Time for Maslow to break up the love fest. “Irene, darling. What should we do? Vincent’s had a disaster.” Oh-ho-ho. Is that irony? Using a dramatic word to show that you think it’s nothing. Well, it
isn’t
nothing. It
is
a fucking disaster. Irene smiles again. This sophisticated couple has entertained enough to have seen worse go down. As the wife of a world leader, Irene’s learned a sense of proportion. What’s a little spilled wine compared to a starving Ethiopian village? In Meyer’s office, there’s a photo of Irene holding a skeletal baby, regarding it with the horror she must have meant to look like pity.

“Meyer, darling, why don’t you find our guest a shirt?”

Nolan can’t believe that in such a short time you can go from nearly getting kicked off your cousin’s nubbly couch to standing in Meyer Maslow’s penthouse and hearing the great man tell his wife that the two of you can’t possibly wear the same shirt size.

“Cashmere stretches, angel.” Under a gauzy white shawl, Irene’s fleshy shoulders shimmy with impatience. “Men,” she says to Bonnie. “They can save whole populations, but they can’t get the guest a shirt.”

“So it does,” says Maslow, tensely. “Stretches.”

Maslow takes Vincent’s elbow and steers him into the apartment. On the way he flashes Irene a semi-hostile look that she ignores and Nolan pretends not to see. Maslow guides him down the hall and into the massive bedroom where he and the wife do whatever they do, at their age, in a canopied king-size bed.

His closet is a whole room. Maslow hits a button, and a rack of clothes sways toward them. Maslow says, “What was I thinking? No sweaters in the closet. This closet is Irene’s baby. But what should I tell her? Irene, darling, no thank you. I don’t want you to help me keep my clothes neat. You have to choose your battles, in marriage as well as the world. So what if the cost of this closet could feed a whole Ethiopian village?”

Funny. Nolan was just thinking about that Ethiopian village. Every so often he still gets the feeling the old man’s reading his mind. But if he could do that, wouldn’t he know that the info about the closet is more than Nolan needs? Who cares how much the closet cost? Or whether Irene twists Meyer’s arm every time he gets dressed?

Maslow walks over to some open shelves: a sweater mausoleum, each knit item in its own body bag. “My wife’s a shopper, what can you do?” He pulls out a black jersey.

Is Nolan supposed to strip and change? Thanks, but no thanks, he’ll pass. For one thing, he can’t go through the tattoo soap opera again. Maslow points to the bathroom. Nolan slips inside. He gazes longingly at the medicine chest, but with Meyer waiting outside the door, he hasn’t got time to read labels and decide how much he can borrow of Irene’s supply of—he’d guess—Valium and Paxil. Unbuttoning his shirt, he jumps when Maslow calls, “Just leave it on the hamper.” Which one is the hamper? Let’s assume it’s this straw basket. Nolan slips the black sweater over his head. A little tight, but whatever. Wearing it is like being stroked everywhere at once by an expensive call girl. Maybe that’s what the rich do when they get too old to fuck. They put on five-hundred-dollar shirts and have sex with their cashmere sweaters.

Emerging to find Maslow gone, Nolan’s rethinking the medicine chest when Maslow calls him from the next room. Maslow’s study, a clubby affair, dark and manly and rich, has been decorated by the shopper wife in full-blown Ralph Lauren wet dream.

“Would you like a drink? I gather the red wine didn’t work out.”

Maslow’s got a private bar in his study. Good living!

“Actually,” says Nolan, “a shot of tequila would be excellent.” Excellent, though maybe not sensible. Nolan thinks he can risk it. He feels so taken care of, by Bonnie and now by Maslow. They’re not going to let him drown in these shark-infested waters. And already Maslow’s wife digs him. He’ll have someone to talk to. A shot of tequila would take up the slack and may even locate the few grains of codeine still floating around his bloodstream.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think we have tequila….” Maslow’s warm smile is maddening.

Nolan makes a buzzer sound. “Oops. Wrong answer.” Of course they don’t have tequila. Look around. The Jew does not drink. The Jew fears losing control. Not a useful thought right now. But thinking it lets off some pressure.

“How about Scotch?” Maslow says.

“That would be great.” Nolan hates Scotch. But he gratefully gulps it down as Maslow walks him over to the window and they stand, shoulder to shoulder, watching a garbage barge inch up the East River.

Maslow says, “There’s still so much we haven’t had a chance to discuss.” It sounds like something you’d say to a chick. Is Maslow making a pass? A bubble of nausea rises lazily up toward Nolan’s throat. Could it be the codeine? Nolan prays it is.

“Not really,” he agrees.

“It’s been a crazy week,” Maslow says. “I’ve been dealing with a very frustrating case. As you may know, an important cartoonist, a friend, has been arrested in Iran.”

“That’s awful,” says Nolan. “I think I heard about that.”

“I don’t know how much we can do. So far no real progress. As usual there’s nothing to do but make phone calls and hope for the best. Which consumes a lot of time. Plus…” Maslow falls silent, then says, “Have you read Dickens?”

That’s exactly the sort of thing Nolan likes about Maslow. The old man would never assume that Nolan doesn’t know how to read, or might not have read the classics. Or maybe Bonnie’s told him about the Dostoyevsky she thought was so amazing.

“No,” says Vincent. “Can’t say I have. No, wait. That’s not true. We did
Tale of Two Cities
in high school. I should go back and give it another try.”

Something snags Nolan’s attention—a light on the other side of the river. Could someone be signaling him? It’s only the sun hitting a window.

“As I’m sure Bonnie’s told you,” Maslow says, “we really value your help.”

In another lifetime, this would lead to the pink-slip conversation. We value your help, but unfortunately…But that’s not happening here. The view is suddenly sickening. Nolan shuts his eyes. This is how he used to feel when he couldn’t drive over bridges.

“Bonnie Kalen’s a treasure,” says Maslow. Nolan opens his eyes to find Maslow checking him for a reaction.

“She’s a very nice person.” Nolan is not having sex with her, if that’s what’s being asked. Or maybe that’s not what’s being asked. Bonnie
is
a nice person.

“I thought you and Bonnie did a terrific job with that reporter from the
Times.
”

You and Bonnie? Did Bonnie say one word? That was Nolan working his nuts off. “Thanks. I kind of liked her.”

“Don’t. Don’t ever
like
them.”

“Reporters?” Nolan tries that first before they move on to Latin chicks and God knows what else Maslow means by
them.

Maslow nods. “A bad idea. Don’t like them and don’t trust them. Bad mistakes have been made. Anyone would have thought that the woman was going to
join
Brotherhood Watch. Then she gets back to the office, and her editor comes back from lunch, and she cuts us down to a paragraph.”