Two Jakes (55 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 CEOs 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” CEOs 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.”