Unnatural Acts (13 page)

Dino went into Sardi’s by the front door and made his way back to the table. The two women were headed toward the ladies’ room.

“Any luck?” Stone asked.

Dino shook his head. “She went through the kitchen and out into the alley, then she was gone.”

“You’re going to have to do something about this, you know.”

“I know,” Dino replied. “I just don’t know what.”

THE WOMEN
returned from the ladies’ room.

“It’s getting late,” Stone said to Marla. “Come home with me?”

“Oh, I’m exhausted,” Marla replied. “Just completely drained.”

“Dinner tomorrow?”

“Let me call you after I’ve seen the show again a couple of times.”

Stone sighed. “All right.”

She put her hand on his cheek and kissed him. “Just be patient for a little while.”

SHELLEY GOT
into a cab. “Carlyle Hotel,” she said to the driver. She didn’t look over her shoulder. Dino would be back there somewhere, and she wasn’t ready to see him face-to-face again. The circumstances would have to be more favorable.

SHELLEY GOT
out of the cab and walked into the Carlyle, then turned left into the bar. She could use a drink. She settled on a stool, ordered a cognac, and listened to the jazz trio, who filled the room with sound.

She had been there maybe five minutes when a man came into the bar and took a seat two down from her. He took off his hat and laid it on the bar, and she froze. She knew him; he was FBI. Bob something-or-other. He was assigned to the New York field office, and he had driven her around New York once, when she was on an official visit from Washington.

As casually as she could, she turned slightly away from him and checked out the room in the mirror over the bar. If this was a
bust, there would be other agents backing him up and watching the doors. Then a woman came through the door from the direction of the ladies’ room and sat between Bob and Shelley. Another agent. Was this socializing or a setup?

Shelley drained her glass, put a twenty on the bar, and walked past the jazz group. A man was leaning against the wall beside the door, snapping his fingers to the rhythm of the group, and he gave her a good once-over. She left the hotel and threw herself in front of a passing taxi.

“Lady, you want to watch it,” the driver said. “I nearly clipped you.”

“I know, my fault. Go up to Seventy-ninth, then left on Fifth, then down to Seventy-sixth and take another left.”

The driver stepped on it. “That’s a complete circle,” he said.

“I know, but on Seventy-sixth, cross Madison and let me out at the other hotel entrance on Seventy-sixth.”

“It’s your fare,” he said.

“And let me know if anyone seems to be following us.” She didn’t want to look back herself, exposing her face.

“Jealous lover?” the driver asked.

“Jealous ex-husband,” she said.

“Yeah, I got an ex like that.” He turned left on Seventy-ninth, then again on Fifth Avenue and started downtown, then he made the left on Seventy-sixth, crossed Madison, and stopped at the hotel’s side entrance.

“Here you go,” he said. “Would you like some company tonight?” He turned and looked at her.

He wasn’t bad, she thought: young, good haircut. “You ever been shot by an ex-husband?” she asked.

“Not so far.”

“Let’s not start tonight.” She handed him a ten, got out of the cab, and ran into the hotel, making for the elevator bank. She pressed the button and waited nervously for the car to arrive, forcing herself to look neither to the left nor to the right. Finally, it arrived, and she got in and pressed the button two floors above her room, then she got off and took the fire stairs down two floors and let herself in.

She leaned against the door, breathing hard. Two FBI agents in one evening was too much to take. She hoped to God neither of them had noticed her in the bar. Maybe the hair color would be enough to throw them off.

She undressed, then removed her makeup and checked out her face in the bathroom mirror. She had never liked her nose much; maybe this was the moment to do something about it.

She sat on the bed and picked up a copy of
New York
magazine, remembering an ad she had seen in the back pages. She found it and read it carefully, looking at the before-and-after photos of a woman who had had cosmetic surgery. There was an 800 number and a notation that it was manned at all hours.

“Doctor’s office,” an answering service operator said.

“I’d like to make an appointment for a consultation,” Shelley said. “The sooner, the better.”

“I can give you ten tomorrow morning,” the woman said.

“Perfect.” She gave her traveling name and her cell number.

“Please, how did you hear about the doctor?”

“His ad in
New York
magazine.” She hung up and got ready for bed, calming herself the whole time.

SHELLEY PRESENTED
herself on time at the doctor’s office, which was only a couple of blocks from the Carlyle. It was in a
brownstone, and the reception room was nicely decorated. A nurse came and took her to the doctor’s office.

“Good morning,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Dr. Charles.”

He looked awfully young, she thought.

“I’m thirty-four,” he said, laughing. “That’s always the first question. I’ve been in practice for six years, and I’m board-certified. How can I help you?”

“Well,” she said, tapping her nose with a finger, “I’ve finally decided to do something about this.”

He motioned for her to turn her head. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Let’s photograph you, and then I can give you a very good idea of what changes we might make.” He sat her in front of a camera and took shots of her from ahead and both sides, then he tapped a few computer keys, and her image, in right profile, appeared twice on the screen.

“Now,” he said, using a laser pointer, “my guess is you’d like this bump to go away.”

“Yes,” she said.

He tapped a few more keys, and the bump went away on the right-hand photo.

“Wonderful!” Shelley said. “I’d like my nose to be a bit shorter, too.” She watched as her nose changed. “That’s very good,” she said.

“Perhaps, since we’re shortening your nose, we should make your nostrils slightly smaller, in scale with the new length.” He tapped a few more keys.

“Yes, that’s perfect.”

“One more suggestion,” the doctor said. “We can turn your nose up just a bit. That can be very attractive.” He made the change.

“I like it,” she said. The upturned nose made her look very different from her old self.

“Now, let’s take a look from the left profile and the front.”

Two more shots appeared on the screen.

“I think it looks great from every angle,” Shelley said. “And I’m very impressed with your equipment.”

“Eliminates guesswork, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly does.”

“How quickly would you like to proceed?”

“As soon as possible,” she said.

He opened his diary and flipped through it. “Tomorrow is a surgery day,” he said. “How about two p.m. tomorrow?”

“Very good. How long will I be in the hospital?”

“The hospital won’t be necessary,” he said. “I have a complete operating suite upstairs, and a recovery room where you can spend the night. After that, you can go home, then come back to see me in a week. We’ll remove any stitches at that time, and any swelling will have gone down by then, and you’ll be able to go without the bandage, using makeup to cover any temporary redness or bruising. A month from tomorrow no one will be able to guess that you’ve had the procedure.”

He told her the price. “That includes your recovery and all follow-up visits. The entire fee is payable today.”

She agreed.

“Just give your check or credit card to the receptionist,” he said, “and we’ll expect you at one o’clock tomorrow for prep for the two o’clock surgery.”

She thanked him, then gave her credit card to the receptionist. Twenty minutes later she was back in her room, watching a movie on TV and ordering lunch from room service.

HERBIE FISHER
was sitting in his Eames lounge chair with the plans of Mark Hayes’s renovation in his lap. James Rutledge sat in a chair across the Mies van der Rohe Barcelona table.

“I wanted you to have a look at these, Herb, before I get final approval from Mark,” James said.

Herbie looked at the floor plan of Mark’s projected duplex penthouse, which had four bedrooms, as many baths, living room, dining room, kitchen, a large study with a utility room to one side, to hold unsightly equipment that Mark would need to work at home. “This looks wonderful, but I don’t understand how Mark gets to his apartment,” he said.

“Via a spiral staircase from his offices one floor below.”

“It’s going to be a bitch getting his furniture up a spiral staircase,” Herbie pointed out.

“Oh, we’re going to extend the freight elevator shaft up a floor, so he’ll be able to get anything, up to and including a concert grand piano, in that way.”

“So, let’s say he’s throwing a dinner party for a dozen friends. Are they going to take the freight elevator up to the executive floor, then walk up a flight? That’s awkward. What I think you should do is make a street entrance that opens into a private lobby with an elevator going straight up to both floors of the apartment. You can build a new shaft inside the building. There’s plenty of square footage for that without crowding the space, isn’t there?”

“Great idea!” James said. “And he can lock the elevator electronically, if he’s not expecting guests.” He took the floor plan and drew in the lobby and elevator shaft. “And he’ll still have the freight elevator for bringing up furniture.”

“Just make the private elevator big enough for that,” Herbie suggested. “That way, you won’t have to extend the freight elevator shaft, and it will be in use all during the renovation.”

“Herb, you should have been an architect,” James said.

“I know, I know,” Herbie said. “I’m such a fucking design genius!” They both laughed.

“How long to do the whole job?” Herbie asked.

“We’ll be done with the main building in a month,” James said. “Because of the recession in the building business, I’ve got three shifts working on it, with a foreman for each shift. We’ll be done with the executive floor next week. Right now, Mark and his people are working one floor down. When they move upstairs we can start construction on the penthouse. The lower floors will be finished, but without interior walls, until they’re needed for new staff. The garage is being plastered and painted and is going to look great, and the outside will be stuccoed. Mark has some big paintings that he can hang in the garage. I’ll make an entrance from the garage to the private lobby, so that his guests can park there before going upstairs.” James was sketching very quickly now.

“You should get the finished building in
Architectural Digest
,” Herbie said. James had been the executive art director for the magazine before going out on his own.

“Good idea,” James said. “There won’t be another building like it in the city. We’ll be doing extensive planting on the roof, too, so the apartment will have gardens on four sides.”

Cookie buzzed Herbie. “Marshall Brennan on line one,” she said.

Herbie pressed the button on the phone. “Hello, Marshall.”

“Good morning, Herbie. I want to take you up on your offer to help me into a new wardrobe.”

“I’d be delighted to help,” Herbie said. “What time?”

“How about right after lunch?”

“All right. Meet me at two o’clock, and we’ll get started.” Herbie gave him an address on Lexington Avenue.

“What is this place? I don’t know any stores in that block.”

“It’s my Chinese tailor. You’ll like his work better than expensive off-the-rack stuff, and it’s no more expensive.”

“All right, I’ll see you there at two. How long will this take?”

“We’ll have a couple of other stops to make, so don’t make any appointments for the rest of the day.”

“Whatever you say.” Marshall hung up.

Herbie had a sandwich at his desk, then took a cab to the tailor’s shop. Marshall simultaneously got out of another cab, and they walked up the stairs together. Herbie introduced him to Sam, the tailor, and they went to a wall of fabric books and a rack of bolts.

“You like lightweight or heavier cloth?” Herbie asked.

“Lightweight. I’m always too hot.”

“Yeah, me too. Let’s look at the Loro Piana and Zegna fabrics. I love the Italian stuff.” Herbie picked fabrics for a dozen suits, a
tuxedo, cashmere for a blazer, and four tweeds for jackets and gabardines for trousers. Sam measured Marshall, and Herbie dictated the details of the suits and jackets. They were done in an hour.

“That was quick,” Marshall said.

“You’ll need to come back three times for fittings,” Herbie said. “I know it’s time-consuming, but after that, all you have to do is pick a swatch and Sam can go straight to the finished product, assuming you haven’t gained or lost weight.”

“I still weigh what I weighed when I graduated from Harvard,” Marshall said. “It’s arranged a little differently, though. What’s next?”

“Shirts,” Herbie said, hailing a cab.

“I have to have shirts made, too?”

“You don’t want to let off-the-peg shirts make your suits look bad.” They went into Turnbull & Asser on East Fifty-seventh Street, and Marshall was measured, then Herbie helped him pick two dozen fabrics, then they went downstairs and Herbie picked out two dozen neckties.

“What about shoes?” Marshall said.

“Let’s see if we can get away with ready-made shoes,” Herbie said. They took a cab to Seventy-ninth and Madison, the Ralph Lauren store, where Marshall tried on a lot of shoes. “The workmanship is as good as with custom shoes,” Herbie explained, “as long as they fit properly. And you don’t have to wait for them.” Marshall had ten pairs of shoes sent to his home.