Madman's Thirst (14 page)

CHAPTER 17 – THE TEMPLE OF DENDUR

Their cab was jockeying for
position amid the other taxis and limos outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Emma was on her cell phone. (“Yes, Becky, if her mom says it’s OK, then it’s
fine with me. But you know that I talk to Becky’s mom, sweetie, so don’t con
me. OK. Love you, too.”) She put her cell in her bag and removed a small
compact that looked just like it. She powdered her nose and saw Scarne’s
amusement.

“In case you are wondering, I’ve
come close to calling someone on this compact and got powder all over my ear.
I’m going to change colors, I think.”

The “charity thing” at the Met was
a fundraiser for Darfur famine relief. If things held true to form, Scarne reflected,
the food at the cocktail party alone would be enough to eliminate hunger on the
entire African continent. He said as much.

“Don’t be such a cynic, Jake.
There are some very nice people here, and they have their hearts in the right
places. Just be grateful that at $1,000 a head they don’t serve only bread and
soup like they did at the Catholic Charities dinner for the homeless I went to
last month. The idea was to show solidarity with the downtrodden. It must have
sounded like a noble idea, but they should have closed the open bar. Everyone
got smashed, including the Cardinal.”

They were just entering the
Sackler Wing of the museum, a place popular with the city’s fundraising elite
because it housed the famous Temple of Dendur, donated by Egypt in 1965 for
America’s help in saving the temple and other artifacts from submersion by the
Aswan Dam. The huge room, which could seat 500 for dinner, was already filling
up. Scarne’s progression toward the nearest of eight bars set up strategically
on the outskirts was slowed by several couples who greeted Emma. He smiled
politely and made small talk when she introduced him. He could feel himself
being sized up by the women. Date? Lover? The men were cordial, but their eyes
were on Emma, who was wearing a simple black cocktail dress, with a modestly
plunging neckline. A pear-shaped emerald pendant hung from her neck on a
platinum chain. Scarne knew it was her favorite piece and was worth more than
$200,000. Matching diamond and emerald earrings peeked out from behind her
shoulder-length hair. The women complimented the pendant, and the men happily
concurred, as it gave them an excuse to gaze upon Emma’s breasts.

“Lovely,” one of the men murmured
appreciatively.

Emma finally extricated herself
and put her arm through Scarne’s.

“Sorry about that. Part of the
job. They are friends, and more important, potential advertisers. I want a
drink just as much as you do. I know you hate this kind of thing.”

“Not really. I often enjoy myself.
The secret is going as infrequently as I do. I’m usually stag, so I bail out at
my leisure. But I will persevere, and behave. Your company is not hard to take.
I enjoy being envied. Those guys really liked your necklace.”

“They liked my boobs,” Emma said.

“They are museum quality.”

Emma laughed as they reached the
bar, on which sat some trays of champagne and wine, red and white. She rolled
her eyes and looked at Scarne, who took the cue.

“Two Beefeater martinis, very dry,
straight up, olives.”

They took their cocktails and
started walking toward the Temple, which sat on a raised platform overlooking
the room where the tables for the upcoming dinner were set up. A reflecting
pool in front of the Temple, plus strategically placed diffused floodlights and
stippled glass ceiling and walls lent the ancient sandstone monument an air of
magnificence that dominated its surroundings.

“You know, it’s not that big,”
Scarne said. “Maybe 20 feet tall and, what, 75 feet from front to back.” A
waitress stopped by them with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Without the lighting,
it wouldn’t be very impressive.”

“It dates from 15 B.C., Jake.”

“So does this shrimp.” Scarne
looked for someplace to dump the mushy crustacean, finally settling for a
waiter walking by with a tray of empty glasses. 

“Emma!”

They turned away from the Temple
as Aristotle Arachne strode up, smiling broadly. He took her free hand and
kissed her on both cheeks.

“Ari. It’s so nice to see you.”

Arachne stood back and held her at
arm’s length, looking her up and down.

“Good Lord, Emma, you look like a
priestess who just stepped out of that temple. Isis reincarnated. You are
stunning!” He turned to Scarne. “We mere mortals are at a disadvantage, don’t
you think so.” He stuck out his hand. “You must be Jake Scarne. Emma has told
me a lot about you. I appreciate your coming tonight.” Arachne’s handshake was
firm, without being intimidating.

“My pleasure. Anything for the
Darfurians.”

That brought a sharp glance from
Emma, who then turned back to Arachne.

“Is Daphne here?”

“No, she couldn’t make it. She’s
in Florida. I’m on my own tonight.”

Scarne had read about the rocky
state of Arachne’s marriage and his frequent sightings with various models,
actresses and anchorwomen.

“That’s a shame,” Emma said
smoothly, “but I’m sure you will survive. But, listen, Ari, I had an ulterior
motive for bringing Jake tonight. I thought there was something you might be
able to help him with. It’s kind of delicate. Is this a bad time?”

Arachne looked distressed.
“Actually, it is. I don’t even have a minute. I just wanted to say hello before
I talk to the auction committee. I like to know what I’m hawking. But why don’t
you both come by my place afterwards? I’m having some people back for drinks
and something edible. We can talk then. In private.”

With that, Arachne pecked Emma on
the cheek again, patted Scarne on the arm and sailed off into a crowd of people
who parted at his passing.

“What kind of auction is it?”

“Oh, a little bit of everything,”
Emma said. “From vacations to Bentleys. People donate the craziest things. That’s
where the real money is. The thousand bucks a ticket represents a fraction of
what this shindig will bring in. Last year they cleared $7 million.”

“That will feed a lot of
Darfurians,” Scarne said.

She sighed.

“Whatever they’re called, it will
certainly do a lot of good. Come on, let’s find our table. We can look at the
list of items to be auctioned. You’ll enjoy Ari’s act. He’s a wizard at
wringing money out of these people. You’d never know that some of them are down
to their last three or four summer homes.”

The Shields table was one of
several surrounding a small parquet dance floor in the center of the room. In
the middle of the floor was a podium.

“Going to be hard to dance,”
Scarne said, hopefully.  

“You’re not off the hook buster,”
Emma said. “After the auction they’ll remove it. Ari likes to work the room
from the middle. Says it gets everyone involved. No hiding in the back. See the
big projection screens at every corner. The items being auctioned will be
displayed on all of them simultaneously. They’re also going to show a short
film about the starving Darfurians. My God! Now you have me saying it.”

There were eight people already
sitting at the table, three couples and two women. The two women were sitting
next to each other and Scarne wondered if they were a couple, but Emma
introduced them as Shields employees. They looked slightly dazed to be at such
a gala. The three men were clients from out of town who were going to be feted
the next day on the
Emerald of the Seas,
the family’s 200-foot yacht
named for Emma. The auction was an added bonus for what was assuredly going to
be a New York trip to remember.

One of the men owned a large meat
processing plant someplace in Nebraska, another was the CEO of Canada’s largest
bakery. As he was introduced to the third man, Scarne said, “I don’t suppose
you make candlesticks.” That earned him a sharp kick in the ankle from Emma.
The man looked confused and said, no, he was into hubcaps. But his wife laughed
and put her hand on Scarne’s, saying, “I like it. And I’ve been made in the
tub, too! Get it?” Scarne said he did, and realized that all the women looked
plastered. They had obviously passed up the shrimp in favor of booze, too.

“You know,” he whispered, holding
Emma’s chair as she sat, “I think I’m going to enjoy myself.”

And he did. The two unattached
women turned out to be reporters new to the Shields organization, and New York
City. They both covered finance for the company’s local cable station. As soon
as they got over their discomfort (“You both look lovely,” Emma said to put
them at ease), they proved to be the life of the table and got along famously
with the other guests. The men kept the wine flowing to the young girls and
Scarne busied himself with the thick and lavishly illustrated auction
catalogue. Emma had been right. Short of a human sacrifice, there wasn’t much
that couldn’t be bid on. There was, indeed, a Bentley listed: a “2005,
12-cylinder, silver, Continental GT AWD Mulliner Coupe.”  The bidding on that
would start at $120,000.  There were around-the-world cruises, weeks on private
islands – even a round of golf with Phil Mickelson! That would cost a lot of
hubcaps. Scarne saw the eyes of the other men at the table widen as their wives
pointed out various items. The young reporters laughed openly as they riffed
through the books.

“I think we need a raise,” one of
them said under her breath.

“You’re all my guests,” Emma said.
“I didn’t invite you here to spend money. I’m going to bid on a few things. With
my dad’s money, of course. But there is some interesting and reasonable stuff
in the ‘silent auction’ section of the catalogue. Tables are set up all around
the room to write down your bids, if you are so inclined. You might get a
steal.” 

***

Although made cautious by his
run-in with the shrimp, Scarne found the dinner, when it finally came,
surprisingly good. Emma’s guests got progressively more sloshed, but proved to
be good company, even if Scarne learned more about chops, pastries and hubcaps
than he needed or wanted. In retaliation for his “candlestick” remark, Emma
told everyone he was a “world famous detective,” which got him the undivided
attention of the woman sitting next to him, who latched on to his arm while her
husband was trying to charm one of the reporters.

“I wasn’t kiddin’ about bein’ made
in the tub, sweetie. I’ve made it everywhere.” She knocked back her wine and
Scarne dutifully filled her glass. She was slurring her words slightly and tried
to concentrate. “Do you think it counts for the ‘mile high club’ if a plane is
still on the ground?”

“There was a tub on the plane?”

“No, silly, that wash another
time. I’m jush thinkin’ aloud. Are you her bodyguard?” The woman gestured
toward Emma with her wine glass, and spilled half its contents on the bread
basket. “Oopsh. Sorry ‘bout that. But I’d guess that’s a bod that needs
guardin’, if you get my drift. And that necklesh mush be worse a freakin’
fortune.”

“It’s a fake,” Scarne lied
happily. “Green glass.”

“Tits look real.”

Scarne was saved from replying by
Aristotle Arachne’s arrival at the podium. 

***

Emma was right. Arachne was a
spirited and funny auctioneer. Using a hand-held microphone, he roamed the room
soliciting bids on the spectacular items being flashed on the screens, aided by
several assistants who ran down the aisles at the first hint of a raised hand.
It was obvious he knew many of the bigwigs at the gala. He embarrassed
exaggerated bids from them, and items sold far above their worth. At first
Scarne believed that many of the fat cats were just caught up in a charitable
mood, but it was soon apparent that the auction was an exercise in ego for many
of them. Scarne noted several former CEO’s of now-defunct brokerages and
investment banks who got into bitter bidding wars egged on by the auctioneer
with barely concealed glee. Some of his comments were borderline cruel.

“Come on, Fred, spend some of that
dough. There will be less to hide!”

“Marty, this Bentley can do 190
miles an hour. The S.E.C. will never catch you!”

The laughter at some of his
remarks became a little strained, but the men kept right on bidding against
each other. Their contests did not go unnoticed by some in the room.

“I wonder if those assholes will
take any of the 90,000 people they got fired on one of those vacations,” a man
at the table next to Scarne’s said.

“I don’t know how they have the
nerve to show their faces in public,” his wife huffed.

As Scarne expected, the Mickelson
foursome package sparked spirited bidding. It was soon up to $10,000, and the
“disgraced” CEO’s again squared off against each other. On a lark, Scarne
raised his hand and bid $15,000. That earned a wintry smile from Arachne and a
startled look from Emma.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I
just want to say I did it. Those guys aren’t even looking over here. They only
have eyes for each other. One can only imagine how they screwed over each other
on the street.”

Sure enough, the package was soon
sold at $100,000. That prompted another comment from the man at the next table.

“Phony bastards. Phil can buy and
sell all of them.”

At the end of the auction, Arachne
announced that the night’s pledges had indeed topped the previous year’s record
of $7.1 million “and we haven’t yet tallied the proceeds from the silent
auction.” That brought a huge round of applause, after which he raised his
hands for silence. “Now that you’ve been bled dry, why don’t you enjoy
yourselves? You’ve earned it.” With that, he signaled the band, which had
quietly set up in a corner, and attendants moved the podium from the dance
floor.

Arachne walked over to their
table.

“Great job, Ari,” Emma said, and
Scarne concurred.