Twelve Rooms with a View (30 page)

“Our understanding is that there is a competing claim on the apartment from the Livingston heirs,” someone called from the back of the room. I couldn’t see who it was because the lights were in my eyes, but it was a woman and she wasn’t kidding around. No one else was either; in the front you could see everyone stop scribbling and look up at us expectantly. This was the real show as far as they were concerned. Lucy looked over her shoulder, supremely confident, and Ira Grossman stepped forward, joining her and Leonard. Lucy, in her little gray outfit, was framed by two handsome men in pinstripe suits. It made an extremely reassuring picture.

“The apartment was legally bequeathed to Mrs. Drinan, who bequeathed it to her daughters,” Grossman said simply. “The sons of the first Mrs. Drinan are investigating the terms of their father’s will, as is their right. But as of now there is no reason to believe that there are any legal grounds upon which the will might be set aside. Our expectation is that everyone’s concerns will be addressed expeditiously and that the sale of the apartment will not be affected.”

“Is there a cloud on the title?” the invisible woman in the back continued.

“As of this moment there is no cloud on the title.” I had no idea what that meant, but they all bent their heads and dutifully scribbled it down. It all sounded so reassuring. I found myself
feeling effortlessly confident, standing there in a pretty dress and listening to it all. My peculiar and precarious life seemed a million miles away.

“Is it true that one of the heirs is being harassed by the NYPD at the request of one of the counterclaimants?” asked the persistent guy in the first row. Grossman nodded, all disappointed and concerned now, not wanting to spread the bad news in the middle of this elegant party but only too willing to do it. “One of the heirs, Christina Finn, is currently living in the apartment, and she has experienced several harassing incidents,” he admitted. “One specific incident is of particular concern, as it seems that one of the counterclaimants, who is associated with the police department, used illegal influence to have Ms. Finn arrested and held unlawfully in an attempt to intimidate and humiliate her.” All of this was so bizarrely phrased that at first I didn’t even know they were talking about me.

“Would you care to comment, Miss Finn?” the man in the corduroy jacket pursued. Everybody turned to look at me. This is when I got a clue. Daniel, who was standing next to me, gave me a look that said,
Tina, pay attention and don’t fuck this up, please
.

“Oh,” I said, stepping up quickly and unfortunately, tripping slightly because I forgot for a moment that I was wearing heels. “I’m sorry, what’s the question? What do I think of getting arrested? I think it sucks.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lucy’s smile stiffen slightly in annoyance, but I was pretty sure that was because I got the only laugh of the afternoon, and it was my first line.

“Can you describe what happened?” Corduroy Jacket asked.

“Well,” I started. Grossman had actually drilled a little speech into my head in case this did come up, so I was not completely unprepared. The guy waited, expectant, his crummy ballpoint in his left hand hovering over the narrow reporter’s notebook in his right. The spill light from the stage hit him at a harsh angle, illuminating the lines of the wale in the dark brown corduroy and the furry edges of the suede patch on the elbow of his sleeve, and for a moment he almost looked like a statue hovering in front of me, the light glistening off the wide place on his forehead where his hairline was receding. He wasn’t even looking at
me. That’s what tipped me off—the way he was waiting without looking, like he wasn’t all that curious because he already knew the answer.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Who do you write for?”

Lucy turned her head at this.

“Who do I write for?” he asked, surprised.

“No, no, don’t tell me, let me guess,” I said. “You write for the city page of the
New York Times
, right?”

We were under the lights, so Lucy couldn’t snap, “What does it matter, Tina,” even under her breath. She just stood next to me and smiled, with a little perplexed look on her face, which said to both the audience and Grossman, isn’t my sister silly and adorable. This guy was Lucy’s friend. She’d told me about him. He was a plant. If I gave good answers, they’d all get into the
New York Times
.

“Yes, I write for the city page of the
New York Times
, is that all right?” he asked smugly.

“Oh, that’s sensational,” I told him. “As far as being arrested, let me tell you, that was my fourth time, and honestly the other ones were a lot more spectacular. The one in Hoboken, in 2003, I actually slugged a cop! Although that was a complete misunderstanding. Anyway, I’d give this one two stars, it was a little boring by comparison.”

The reporter nodded and wrote this down, smiling to himself. I got another laugh, but it was a tad uncomfortable as laughs go. Several flashes went off at once. Leonard leaned forward and spoke into the microphone, fluidly edging me the slightest bit out of the way with his shoulder.

“Are there more questions about the property itself?” he asked. Someone in another unlit corner raised her hand.

“What is it listing for?” she asked. And with that, my part of the song and dance was over.

“N
ICE DRESS,” SAID THE NOTE
. T
HAT WAS ALL, JUST THE TWO WORDS,
“nice dress.”

“Where did this come from?” I asked Frank.

He glanced up from his copy of Spanish
People
, but just barely. “Vince Masterson, he came by for his mail and then he left that, said for me to give it to you. He said you were on television.” He went back to his magazine, but you could tell he wasn’t really reading it. He had dark rings under his eyes, and his uniform didn’t quite fit him anymore. The corny epaulets hung way too far over his shoulders, as if he had started to shrink inside it. There was no question that Frank was deteriorating.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Sure, I’m fine,” he said, not much interested in the question. “I didn’t get any sleep last night because my stupid brother was up watching wrestling on the television and drinking beer until three in the morning. Other than that, no problem.” It sounded to me like there was a problem.

“You look thin,” I told him. “Your uniform’s falling off you, Frank.”

“My uniform?” He looked down at his clothes, completely annoyed now. “It’s not mine. Mine’s at the dry cleaners. This is the extra one they keep in the storage closet.”

“Well, that’s a relief, but I’m not kidding, you look like you’re not eating.”

“Tina, you maybe should worry about yourself, huh?” Frank said, going back to his magazine but again not reading it. “Vince said to remind you he’s in 5B.”

I could have ignored this summons from the problematic Vince Masterson, but I was pretty curious about Vince having seen me on
television. I knew there were news cameras, but the possibility that we would get on the evening news had seemed pretty far-fetched. I mean, I know that New Yorkers are a little nutty about real estate, but is the sale of an apartment something you would put on the evening news? I decided to go see Vince, partly because I wanted to find out about that, and partly because I was relieved that someone in the building would actually invite me over.

Apparently a press conference about real estate is actually big enough news to put on television in New York City. New York One, the local public-access news station, broadcasts things like city council meetings and roundtables about real estate developments in Brooklyn. They also have strange overwrought talk shows with slightly crazy-looking people screaming at each other about off-Broadway theater. That was the program Vince and his friends were looking for when my turn in front of the cameras popped up.

“Well, we cheered, as you can imagine,” Vince told me, pouring an icy and perfect vodka gimlet from a silver bar shaker and expertly twisting a lime wedge over it. “I said wait wait wait that’s the
girl!
The one who’s squatting in the fifteen-million-dollar apartment! No one believed me. And then you started talking about how many times you’d been arrested, and you were wearing that incredible dress, and I thought, what have you been up to, Tina, and why haven’t you come by to visit me?”

“I’ve been busy,” I said, taking my gimlet from him with both hands so I wouldn’t spill it.

“So I gather, darling,” he said, smiling. “Come and meet my friends!”

He took me by the hand and led me like a prize from the perfectly appointed black marble kitchen and into the equally well-appointed living room of his father’s apartment. The walls of this room—what you could see of them behind the floor-to-ceiling bookcases—were painted a deep maroon. There was an enormous blue-and-gold Turkish rug on the floor, plus a leather couch, a coffee table, coffee-table books, two dark brown leather chairs, and eleven gay men. Which would have been intimidating in any room, but it was particularly daunting in this one because in contrast to my apartment, which was cavernous and fascinating
and incoherent, Vince’s father’s apartment was gorgeous, coherent, and quite small.

“We’re so excited to meet you, Vince has told us all about you,” one of the men announced, standing and reaching to shake my hand.

“Not
everything
, I hope,” I said, trying to laugh and feeling completely out of my element. I took a sip of my gimlet. It was, no surprise, perfect.

“That dress is amazing, is it a Chanel? It looks antique,” said a second man.

“It’s pretty old,” I said. “But not Chanel. The tag says Ballen-something.”

“Oh my god it’s Balenciaga,” someone sighed. “Of course it is.”

“Where did you find it?” asked a fourth.

“In a closet,” I said, wondering how long I might be able to just tell the truth to these guys and get away with it.

“And the alligator clutch was just tucked away in there as well? Look at this, Lyle, how much is this worth?” A fifth guy took it from my hand and held it up, waving it to someone across the room.

“Stop it!” said Lyle, making his way over to eye the clutch.

“You were hilarious at that press conference,” said a sixth. “Have you really been arrested?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Could someone show some manners here?” said a seventh, walking over to me. “Hi, my name’s Jonathan.” He stopped, shook my hand, put his arm around me, and steered me toward one of the chairs. “Could one of you ladies be a gentleman and offer her a seat?” Two men leapt up and offered me one of the leather chairs. I sat down, and they took my shoes off, handed me another gimlet when I finished the first, and we watched the recording of the Sotheby’s press conference six times. Every time I announced, on television, “The one in Hoboken, in 2003? I actually slugged a cop!” everybody cheered, and then, when I said, “Anyway, I’d give this one two stars, it was a little boring by comparison,” they cheered again. I do think most of them were drunk—I certainly was, after my second gimlet—but they were fun and excitable and happy to have me at their party.

“Vincent says your place is completely gorgeous, twelve-foot ceilings and marble arches and mirrors everywhere and square footage galore,” said one of them.

“That’s actually pretty accurate. Except the arches aren’t marble, they’re more that kind of dark red wood.”

“Cherry?” asked another.

“Walnut,” Vince observed, and three of these guys moaned, like walnut door frames were some especially appealing kind of pornography.

“Yeah, they’re pretty nice,” I admitted. “Can I have one of those?” There was a bag of fancy potato chips behind Jonathan’s arm, on the floor.

“Absolutely, have you not eaten?” he said, handing the bag over.

“Sotheby’s didn’t feed you?” Vince tossed over his shoulder. “Shame on them.” He went off to the kitchen with the authority of someone who knew there was really good food in there, but all he came back with was a cell phone. “How about sushi?” he asked, dialing. The men murmured some kind of assent, but he wasn’t really paying attention; he was already talking to some underling. “Hi, I’m over at the Edgewood and we’re going to need a couple platters,” he announced. “Just some of those big ones that you do, tell the chef omakase is fine. Oh, and some of those little fried chicken appetizers. Do people want Japanese fried chicken?” he asked the room. Then he went right back to the phone, without waiting for an answer. “Just bring some of the fried chicken,” he ordered.

“Christ, he is such a young god,” Jonathan said under his breath. I watched him watch Vince with a kind of deeply amused wonder. Vince was leaning in the doorway with his head down, listening to the guy at the sushi joint repeat back his chaotic order, and then he turned, untucking his pale blue oxford shirt from his dark blue wool trousers, like it was suddenly too hot or something. Oblivious to the fact that every guy in the room was staring at him—or maybe not so oblivious—Vince tapped the phone off and went back into the kitchen. “Twenty minutes,” he called back to us.

“Ooh la la,” someone sighed. “I need a cigarette. I’m going out on the balcony. Tina, do you want to come?”

“Vince has a balcony?”

“It isn’t a balcony; it’s a fire escape, darling,” my new friend informed me. “Although I like the competitive nature of the question. Come on, let me show you Vincent’s apartment. His
father
’s apartment, that is,” he said casually but loud, so that Vince, returning from the kitchen, could hear him all the way across the room. Vince wagged a finger in our direction, which made everyone laugh, although it was a pretty edgy joke. I didn’t have time to register whether Vince really was annoyed, because my guide was already narrating in my ear.

“I know he hates that, but please, how many people get to live in the Edge for
free
. He should just count his blessings, of which he has
quite a few
. Check out the closet, he has a walk-in
closet
that is bigger than my entire apartment, and look at this. Somebody painted the woodwork sage, it’s genius, don’t you think?”