The Rothman Scandal (18 page)

“My father did me a wonderful favor when I was a boy,” he once said. “He threw me out of the house. I had to leave Onward. I've been eternally grateful to him ever since.”

Of course that old Lenny was gone now—gone with the thick, muddy accent and the bumpkin manners and the chewed-down fingernails—gone with the wind. That boy had been replaced by the completed Lenny, world traveler, bon vivant, man about town, always in demand by hostesses of the best parties, perennially on the best-dressed lists. This was Lenny of the monogrammed Sulka undershorts. This was the Lenny who, though he had never bothered to register to vote, dined at the White House under three U.S. presidents. This was the Lenny who was master of ceremonies at Bob Hope's last birthday party. This was the finished Lenny Liebling, Lenny at climax, whose musical accent now combined the soft elisions of Charleston and the flattened vowels of what Scott Fitzgerald called the St. Midas schools. This was Lenny at his self-destined rainbow's end—gone onward, and outward, and upward, from Onward.

This was Lenny who lived with Charlie Boxer at the Gainsborough Studios high above the park—one of Manhattan's finest pre-World War I buildings, and Lenny would never live in a building that was not pre-World War I. Lenny and Charlie's apartment was featured in
Architectural Digest
in 1986. The article spoke of their regular Sunday afternoon salons, which had become something of a New York institution. No invitations were ever issued for these soirees. Anyone who wished to could drop in, though Peter, their doorman, had certain discretionary powers, and those who were not welcome knew who they were. Those who were welcome were a glittering array. Last Sunday's guests included Gloria Vanderbilt and Bobby Short, Walter and Betsey Cronkite, Ivana Trump, Melina Mercouri, Rex Reed, Bobby Zarem, Doris Duke, Barbara Walters, Roger Mudd, and Walter and Lee Annenberg. Over in one corner, Candace Bergen and Rudolf Nureyev played backgammon, while the others shared in their hosts' wealth of amusing anecdotes, and pretended to enjoy their not-very-distinguished nouveau Beaujolais, which was all Lenny and Charlie ever served.

Charming Lenny, they said. Delightful Lenny, witty Lenny. This was the Lenny who always knew the inside story of the latest scandal, who always knew the juiciest gossip, particularly when it dealt with the Rothman clan, who always knew who was trying to stab whom in the back, and who just might be going to get away with it.

This was the Lenny who, just that morning, had decided, from bits and pieces of information that he had fitted together, that it might be a good time to pay a little extra attention to Aunt Lily Rothman.

“Secretary! Secretary!” he had called out from his office, clapping his hands, just before leaving to dress for Alex's supper dance. When the latest girl appeared, he said, “Ring up Renny the florist on Sixty-fourth Street, and have him send a
really
nice arrangement to Mrs. H. O. Rothman at seven twenty Park. Tell her on the card that everyone at the office is terribly concerned about Ho's latest illness, and that she's in all our thoughts and prayers. Just sign my name. No, wait—I have a
much
better idea. I'll tell you how to do this, secretary. I know we've got some old Renny boxes lying around, so find one of them. Then go over to West Twenty-seventh Street and the wholesale flower market, pick out some flowers, and arrange them in a Renny box. Then deliver them to Mrs. Rothman—yourself.”

Looking pained, the young woman departed, and Lenny made a little note to put the price of the flowers on one of his radio cab vouchers.

The best place to find a helping hand is at the end of your own arm.

The timer on the tanning bed ticked quietly away, while Lenny Liebling's thoughts swirled to the strains of Mozart. He was listening to
Mitridate, Rè di Ponto
, marveling at Mozart's genius, marveling at the noble pathos of the recitative, and marveling that Mozart was only fourteen when he composed this opera—already a genius composer, singer, master of the harpsichord, organ, and violin, his head already in the heavens of melody, orchestration, vocal and choral style. If only Lenny had been possessed of such genius, who knew to what heights in life he might have climbed. Still, he had climbed far enough with his own particular genius, which was the genius of survival. Aunt Lily had called tonight. There had been a message waiting for him on his answering machine. That meant that Aunt Lily wanted something, and that was good. It was always good when one of them wanted something. Aunt Lily would not have called at midnight to thank him for his flowers. No, she definitely wanted something, and that was another aspect of Lenny's genius, the genius to be wanted.

It might not be the genius of a Mozart, perhaps, or of an André Charles Boulle, inspired cabinetmaker to kings, but it was a genius nonetheless. And, with the thrilling music pounding in his ears, he let his thoughts drift blissfully off to the Isfahan, thirty by forty feet, so marvelously colored, and to the genius of half-naked Persian peasants crouched in the desert sun by the banks of Zaindeh Rud, going blind over their looms tying six hundred knots to the square inch. In his mind, the gnarled brown fingers knotted the bright threads as the music rose. Genius.

The Mozart was just reaching a particularly exciting arpeggio when he realized that Charlie Boxer was trying to say something to him. He removed the earphones and lifted the lid of the tanning bed a fraction of an inch. “Yes, dovey?” he said, mildly annoyed at the interruption.

Charlie was standing by the bed in his pajamas, Mark Cross slippers, and his red silk Sulka robe, looking worried. “I was just saying,” Charlie said, “that if Alex leaves the company, won't that mean that our principal insurance policy will become almost worthless?”

“I had thought about that,” Lenny said. “And I admit there is some risk. But then there is always risk where insurance is involved. Insurance is a business about risks. It is a gamble. You are always betting against the underwriters, who have the statistics in their favor. With insurance, you are always betting against the odds. But, if things work out the way I think they will, our insurance policy may turn out to be worth more than we ever imagined in our very wildest dreams. So don't worry your pretty head about it, dovey-pie. Leave everything to Daddy.” And he replaced the earphones, lowered the lid of the tanning bed, and returned to Mozart and the vision of peasant weavers squatting in the dusty sun. You underestimate the vasty deeps of Herb's bitterness toward her, he thought. So does she.…

9

Once again the telephone at her bedside was ringing, and she reached to pick it up.

“For God's sake, turn that damned thing off,” Mel muttered. “People will be calling you all night if you let them.”

“I'd better see who this is,” she said. “Hello?”

“Lexy!” she heard Lucille Withers's voice exclaim. “I watched it all on television. You know, this Arnold Arms really is a nifty little ole hotel. For two dollars a day extra, they'll let you rent a TV set. Not bad, huh? Anyway, you looked terrific. When ole Herb Rothman let you have it, you had just the right expression on your face—mad, but
tough
. It was the old chin-up look I taught you on the runway. You really did old Lulu proud tonight. So—how's it feel to be the most-sought-after woman in New York?”

“Right now, I feel like the most-shat-upon woman in New York,” she said.

“Oh, but what golden shit! He shat on you with shit of twenty-four-karat gold! Every big shot in this town is going to be after you now, Lexy, and all you have to do is sit back and name your price. Head-hunters' holiday begins at the opening bell tomorrow morning. I can just see them all lining up outside your door, dangling their offers. Well, you just let 'em dangle for a few days, honey, and let the offers get bigger and bigger. Then snap at the biggest one of all. Honey, you-all have got this town by the
balls!
”

“Actually, I haven't quite decided what to do,” she said.

There was a shocked silence at the other end of the connection. Then Lucille Withers said, “Well, you're going to
quit
, aren't you? My God, you've
got
to quit!”

“I haven't decided yet, Lulu.”

“Come
on
, honey. If you don't quit after this, you'll look like a damned
fool
. Right now, Herbert Rothman looks like the damned fool. He's the one out there with shit all over his face.”

“There are other considerations, Lulu. There's a contract, and—”

“Contract, shmontract. Take his contract, and shove it down the little shit's throat. You're about to move into the big time, honey, and I mean the
really
big time. To hell with the chicken-shit Rothmans, who never paid you a tenth of what you're worth. Guess—for one—who's after you right now.”

“Who?”

“Rodney McCulloch, that's who. How does that grab ya? You know who he is, I guess.”

“Yes,” she said. “I've never met him, but I know who he is.”

“We're talking
billions,
” Lucille Withers said. “With Rodney McCulloch, we're talking
really
big bucks. Next to Rodney, the Rothmans look like two-bit pikers. This is Big League, honey, and compared with him the Rothmans are out in the sandlots somewhere. Anyway, Rodney is an old pal of mine from way back, and he knows I know you. And fifteen minutes after that TV show was over, he managed to track me down here at the Arnold Arms, and wanted your private number. He wanted to call you
right now
—tonight—at
midnight!
But of course I wouldn't give it to him. I told him to call you at your office in the morning.”

“Thank you, Lulu. I don't think I could have dealt with Rodney McCulloch tonight.”

“Oh, bullets, honey, don't thank me. I wouldn't give out your private number if it was the Queen of England calling. Don't you think, running a modeling agency, I've had plenty of experience saying no to mashers who want a girl's private number? But, boy, that made him mad! He was so mad at me he slammed the phone down in my ear. But, boy, that really made me feel good, Lexy—saying no to a man like Rodney McCulloch.”

“Thank you, Lulu.”

“Anyway, I thought I'd better warn you. You're going to be hearing from Rodney in the morning. He wants to be the first in the line that's going to be forming on the left outside your door with offers tomorrow morning. Just one word of warning when dealing with Rodney, honey. Don't accept his first offer. Don't even accept his second. Keep him dangling, play hard to get. Believe it or not, Rodney
likes
to be kept dangling. He
likes
people who play hard to get. That's part of the game for him. That's how he gets his jollies. Aw, honey, I'm just so excited for you!”

“But, Lulu,” she said, “you seem to be assuming that I'm going to be leaving
Mode
.”

There was another shocked silence at the other end of the line. “Aw, honey, talk sense to Lulu,” she said finally. “Of
course
you're gonna quit. You gotta quit! But what a way to go! Talk about golden parachutes!”

“I'm considering my options,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, well, let me just tell you one final thing, Lexy honey. There's a lot of women in this town who're gonna be pretty jealous of you, 'cause you're sitting in the catbird seat. But I'm not jealous of you, Lexy. I'm
proud
of you, I really, truly am. You said tonight you wanted to introduce me around as the old belle who discovered you, and I said bullets to that. But when I saw your face on the TV screen tonight when the little shit was trying to dump on you—looking so proud, so
tough
, and I mean the
good
kind of tough—I said to myself: ‘Hey, I'm gonna go around town from now on, and I don't just mean this town, and I don't just mean Kansas City, I mean
every
town, just crowing—shoutin' it from the rooftops—sayin', Hey, I
discovered
that li'l ole gal!'”

“Thank you, Lulu.”

“And give Rodney McCulloch a big kiss for me. Actually, you won't want to give him a kiss—he's the ugliest-looking man you ever met. But when you think of those deep, deep pockets of his, he's Tom Cruise. 'Night, now, honey. Love ya. And congratulations.”

“Love ya too, Lulu,” she said, and replaced the receiver with a sigh.

She lay back against the cool pillows, and pulled the cool sheet up around her neck. “What am I going to do?” she whispered.

But Mel had rolled over on his right shoulder, and was fast asleep. She reached out with one bare arm and turned off the telephone.

In another darkened bedroom not far away, the young woman raised herself on one elbow and whispered, “I shouldn't have let you do this.”

“Do what?” the young man said.

“Let you seduce me.”

“But it was wonderful for me, my darling. I loved it. I love making love to you, and I want to do it all the time. Wasn't it just as wonderful for you?”

“Yes, but … but it was wrong. I know it was wrong. I didn't intend this to happen, but I was so upset. Never in my life—never in my life have I felt so much open hostility from a whole terraceful of people. So much anger, so much envy. So much hatred. I just had to get out of there. And you were kind enough to take me home.”

“And you were clever enough to think of a way for us to do it. Didn't you love it when old Otto whipped out his gun? His piece, he calls it. I loved that. Ha-ha … tra-la … tra-la.” He was laughing, and singing a little tuneless, wordless song at the same time.

“You have a beautiful body,” she said, and with one finger she stroked the light hairs on his chest, and caressed his nipples.

“Now look what you're doing to me again,” he said, and he threw the sheet back and lowered her moving hand to show her what he meant.