This time the Chef recoiled in his seat, as if I were crazy for even asking such a thing. I had expected that; after all, my question was highly inappropriate, wasn't it? Apparently not, because the Chef then said, “Of course you can! How's next week for you?”
“Next week is perfect,” I replied.
Without further prompting, the Chef immediately plunged into the various ways I could filter my cash back to the United States once we had it safely tucked away in numbered accounts in Switzerland and the Orient. In fact, he seemed to relish the opportunity to explain this to me, as if the whole thing were a giant game of cat and mouse, with no serious consequences if the cat won.
Afterward, when I met OCD in yet another random parking lot, I handed him the tape and said, “You have to listen to it yourself, Greg, to believe it.” I shook my head slowly, still in disbelief over the Chef's recklessness. “It's totally off the charts.”
“Why—what's on it?”
“Everything,” I replied, “including Brennan's head on a platter.” I shrugged, not feeling so pleased with myself suddenly. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. All men betray! Dave Beall! Elliot Lavigne! My own wife! “Anyway, I gotta roll. It's my weekend with the kids and I wanna beat the traffic out to the Hamptons.”
“All right, I'll call you Monday and we'll see what's what.”
“Sounds good,” I said, although I had a sneaking suspicion we'd be speaking before that. In point of fact, he called me later that night, while I was lying awake in bed with the kids sleeping next to me.
His first three words were: “Jesus f**king Christ!” Then he said, “Has Gaito lost his mind?”
“I told you,” I said softly. “It's like he has a death wish or something. I don't know, it's f**king mind-boggling. Anyway, what comes next? Do I set a meeting with James Loo?”
“Of course you do! In fact, we need to memorialize it on videotape! But we'll talk on Monday. I know you have your kids, so I don't want to keep you. Have a good weekend; you've earned it.”
Yeah, I thought, another worthless weekend of model-mongering and one-night stands. I've earned it. It was all so sad and so very lonely. What I really needed was to find a nice girl and fall in love again.
Alas, only half my wish was about to come true.
CHAPTER 21
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
t's f**king ridiculous!” I muttered to Gwynne, as she walked one step behind me through the living room. “How could she just disappear?”
“Did ya check out by the tennis court?”
“Yeah,” I replied quickly. “I checked everywhere, and she's nowhere to be found.”
It was Sunday afternoon, and the party was in full swing. Outside, on the other side of the plate-glass wall, a merry band of fifty or sixty people—few of whom I knew and none of whom I cared about—were scattered on my rear deck, partying like rock stars and devouring the last vestiges of my crumbling empire. Most of them were young females—tall, lean, and gorgeous—and not one of them seemed to have a care in the world.
Just then something caught my eye: br**sts—two pair, very young, perfect in every way. One pair belonged to a lithe blonde with a dazzling head of curls; the other belonged to a curvy brunette with a luxurious mane of waves that went down to the crack of her ass. They were dancing away their afternoon—shaking their little booties, with their palms up to the sky, raising the roof, so to speak.
I shook my head gravely. “You see that, Gwynne?” I pointed to the two young girls with their gravity-defying boobs. “They shouldn't have their tops off while my kids are around. It's not f**king right.”
Gwynne nodded sadly. “I think thair druhnk.”
“They're not drunk, Gwynne; they're stoned, probably on Ecstasy. See how they're rubbing against each other? It's the first sign.”
Gwynne nodded without speaking.
I kept scanning my deck, astonished. Christ-who were all these people? They were eating my food and drinking my wine and swimming in my pool and lounging in Carter's Hacuddi and—another wave of panic! Carter!
I ran into the TV room, and there he was, safe and sound. He was lying on the couch watching a video. He was dressed like me, in blue nylon swimming trunks and no shirt. He looked rather content right now, with his head resting on a young girl's lap. She was a blonde, no older than twenty. And she was gorgeous. She had on a sky-blue bikini the size of kite string. Her cl**vage was terrific. Someone had dimmed the lights, probably the girl, and she was tickling Carter's back, as he relished a Power Rangers episode from a side angle.
“Carter James!” I said urgently. “Have you seen your sister?”
He ignored me and kept watching. The girl, however, looked up, and she flashed me a thousand-watt model smile. “Ohhhh,” she said, twirling her finger through Carter's loose blond curls, “he's soooo cute, your son! I could eat him up alive!”
I smiled warmly at the young blonde. “I know. He's really beautiful,” I agreed, “but right now I can't find my daughter. You haven't seen her around by any chance, have you?”
The blonde shook her head nervously. “No, I'm sorry.” Then she suddenly perked up. “But I could help you look if you want!” She pursed her lips like a goldfish.
I stared at her for a moment, thinking dark thoughts. “No, it's fine,” I said. “But could you keep an eye on my son, please? I'd hate to lose them both at once.”
Another thousand-watt smile: “Oh, I'd love to! But he better be verrrry careful or I might try to steal his eyelashes!” She looked down at Carter. “Right, Carter? You gonna let me steal your eyelashes?”
He ignored her.
“Carter!” I snapped. “Have you seen your sister anywhere?”
He ignored me too.
Carter's new babysitter began rubbing his cheek softly. “Carrrrrrrter,” she nearly sung. “You have to answer your daddy when he asks you a question!”
Without averting his gaze even one millimeter from the TV screen, Carter whined: “ IIIIIIIIIIIIII'm watching!”
Carter's babysitter looked at me and shrugged. “He said he's watching.”
I shook my head in disbelief and walked back into the living room. I looked around—nothing but unfamiliar faces, those thousand-watt model grins. I found them wholly depressing. It was like the Roman Empire before the fall. All this would be gone soon, save the mansion, which would be the ruins and…
There! Just before the plate-glass wall, one of the towering floor-to-ceiling curtains had a suspiciously large bump at the bottom. I stared at the bump for a moment, watching, with relief, as it resolved into the shape of a mischievous six-year-old girl. I walked over and peeked behind the curtain, and there she was: my daughter. She was down on both knees, in a white bikini, staring out at the deck. I followed her line of sight… right to the topless girls!
“Chandler!” I snapped. “What are you doing down there?”
She looked up, her face a mask of bewilderment and embarrassment. Those fabulous blue eyes she'd inherited from her mother were as wide as saucers. She opened her mouth for a moment—as if getting ready to say something—but then she compressed her lips and looked back outside at the topless girls.
“What are you doing down there, silly? Gwynne and I were looking all over for you!” I reached down and picked her up gently and gave her a warm kiss on the cheek.
“I lost my dolly,” she said innocently. “I thought it fell behind the curtain.” She looked down at the curtain, searching her mind for a way to support her white lie. “But it wasn't there.”
I nodded suspiciously. “You lost your dolly, huh?”
She nodded sadly.
“And which dolly was that?”
A surprisingly quick response: “A Barbie. One of my favorites.”
“And you weren't by any chance doing a little bit of spying while you were down there, were you?”
At first she didn't answer; she darted her eyes around the room, to see if anyone was in earshot. Then, in the tone of the tattletale, she said, “Those girls are showing their boobies, Daddy! Look…” She lifted her arm to point to the half-naked girls.
I gently pushed it back down. “Okay, sweetie; it's not nice to point.”
I was ransacking my mind for something to say, when she said, “Why do they have their boobies out in public?”
I was appalled, aghast. How could these girls expose my six-year-old daughter to such a thing? (Their fault, not mine.) There was a certain decorum, wasn't there? “Those girls are French,” I said casually. “And in France, girls take their tops off when they go to the beach.” It was sort of true, at least.
Wondrously: “They do?”
I nodded eagerly. “Yeah, they do, sweetie. That's their custom.”
Chandler looked at the girls again, her lips twisted in thought. Then she looked back at me and said, “But we're not in France, Daddy; we're in America.”
I was bowled over. My daughter was brilliant! Even at the tender age of six she knew inappropriate behavior when she saw it. With a little bit of luck, I thought, she wouldn't report it to her mother. “Well, you're right,” I said, “we are in America, but I think the French girls might've forgotten.” I kissed her on the cheek again. “Come on, let's go take a walk on the beach together. We can remind them on the way.”
“Okay!” she said happily. “I'll remind them.”
Outside on the deck, I beat Chandler to the punch. “Okay!” I yelled to the bare-breasted duo, as Chandler and I hurried past. “You gotta keep your tops on while you're visiting our country! Save that for St. Tropez!”
They smiled and flashed us the thumbs-up sign, seeming to understand.
Chandler said, “They got big boobies—like Mommy's!“
“That's true,” I said, and it's because they all use the same doctor, “but I think you should just pretend you never saw them.” Better to discuss this with your therapist down the road, when you're a troubled teen trying to make sense of the insanity your soon-to-be-jailed father exposed you to during his final days of freedom.
With that thought, I reached down to my innocent daughter and said, “Come on, I'll carry you to the beach, silly goose!” She jumped into my arms, and off we went, father and daughter, enjoying our last days together on Meadow Lane.
As sweltering as it was on the streets of Manhattan, it was perfectly comfortable at the edge of the ocean. It was as if every last drop of humidity had been sucked out of the atmosphere, replaced by an air mass so pleasant and inspiring that it felt like a gift from God Himself. As Chandler and I walked along the water's edge, her tiny hand in mine, the insanity of my life seemed to be held in harness. Every so often a middle-aged couple or a stray jogger would pass by and smile approvingly, to which I would smile back.
There was so much I wanted to tell Chandler, and so much I knew I couldn't. One day, of course, I would tell her everything— about all the mistakes I'd made and how the greed and drugs had all but destroyed me—but not until many years from now, when she was old enough to understand. So we spoke only of simple things today—of the seashells on the beach, of the dozens of sand castles we'd built over the years, and of all the holes we'd dug to China, only to give up after hitting water a few feet down. Then she nearly knocked the wind out of me when she said, “Guess what, Daddy? My sisters are coming into town tomorrow,” and she kept right on walking.
For a split second I didn't know what she was talking about, or at least that's what I told myself. Deep down, though, I knew: She had been referring to John's daughters, Nicky and Allie. Nicky was a few years older than Chandler, but Allie was exactly the same age. The perfect playmate, I thought.
John Macaluso: I was hearing more and more about him lately, and not just from the kids but also from the handful of friends the Duchess and I still shared. Thankfully, I was hearing only good things—that he was a very decent guy, that he'd been divorced twice himself, and that he didn't do drugs. Most important, however, was that my kids liked him. So I liked him too. As long as he treated them well, he would be aces with me—always.
With that thought, I said, “Do you mean John's daughters, sweetie?”
“Yes!” she said eagerly. “They're flying in from California tomorrow, and they're coming out to the beach!”
A lovely thought: the Duchess gallivanting around the Hamptons with another man. Then a darker thought: If, after only a few months of knowing them, Chandler was already referring to John's daughters as her “sisters,” might she one day refer to John as her father? For a moment I felt very concerned—but only for a moment.
I would always be my children's daddy, and there could be no other. Besides, the ability to love was not mutually exclusive. So let them be loved by anyone and everyone, and let them return that love in spades. There was enough to go around for everyone.
“Well, that's great,” I said warmly. “That's really great. I'm sure you'll have a ball with them this week. Maybe one day I'll get to meet them.”
She nodded happily, and we spent a few more minutes walking and talking. Then we headed back to the mansion. A long mahogany walkway, bounded by thick dock ropes on either side, led you over the dunes to the rear deck. As I carried Chandler along the walkway, my spirits sank lower with each step.
The Romans were waiting.
Why did I subject myself to this? I wondered. Was all this self-torture in the simple name of getting laid? It couldn't be, could it? I mean, I wasn't really that shallow, was I? In fact, that was just what I was thinking when I first laid eyes on her.
She was tall and blond, and she stood out among the Romans like a diamond among rhinestones. She seemed to sway to the music, in perfect time and rhythm. She seemed aloof to the Scene, as if she was a casual observer and not a member.
At first glance she struck me as the sort of girl I would never dare approach in a nightclub and ask to dance. She was the better part of five-nine, and her blond hair gleamed like polished gold. She was wearing a white cotton skirt, very short, a good six inches above the knee, revealing her long bare legs, which were flawless. She wore a light-pink baby-T that hugged her luscious br**sts like a second skin and exposed her perfectly toned tummy and belly button. Her feet were shod in the merest of white sandals, although it was obvious, even at a glance, that they had cost a fortune.
Then—a terrible shock!
From behind the blond vision emerged a horrendous-looking creature. It was short and squat and had the face of a bulldog. Its body seemed to be comprised of thick cylindrical stubs, glued together in haste by nothing but God's good humor. The Creature had burnt-orange hair, pale skin, thick fleshy features, the nose of a prizefighter, and a very wide jaw. It wore a short purple sundress, which hung on its stout frame like a printer's smock. The smock was very low-cut, exposing all but the tips of its sagging D-cups. The Creature grabbed the blond vision by the hand and came waddling. I felt Chandler recoil in my arms.
“Come, Yulichka,” the Creature snapped to the blond vision, in a gravelly voice that reeked of Brooklyn, Russia, the gutter, whiskey, the Teamsters’ Union, and late-stage throat cancer. “This is the owner of the house. I want you to meet him.”
I was shocked—and awed. Beauty and the Beast, I thought.
“You must be Jordan,” growled the Creature, who then looked at Chandler and said, “Oh, cute-cute, very cute.”
I felt Chandler shudder in my arms, as the Creature grabbed her hand and muttered, “Hi, munchkin! I am Inna, and this here is Yulia.” With that she nearly swung Yulia into the forefront, as if she were a blond peace offering.
It seemed clear the two came as a package.
Yulia smiled, and her teeth were as white as porcelain. Her features were fine and even and chiseled to near perfection. She had pale blue eyes shaped like a cat's, which revealed something that the rest of Yulia's appearance otherwise camouflaged: that somewhere along the way, perhaps five hundred years ago, an invading Tartar had raped one of her ancestors.
Daintily, Yulia reached forward to shake Chandler's hand. “Alloa,” she said with a surprisingly thick accent. “I am Yulia. What is your name, beautiful?”
“Chandler,” my daughter said in a shy voice, and then I waited for her to attack—to say something like, “Oh, another stupid blonde, eh?” or, more likely, “My daddy already has a girlfriend and he cheats on her all the time!” But, instead, all she said was, “You have very nice hair, Yulia,” to which we all started laughing.
Yulia said, “Well, you are very sweet, Chandler,” and then she turned to Inna and started saying something in rapid-fire Russian. Her voice was soft and sweet, almost melodic, in fact, but the only word I could recognize was krasavitza, which meant beautiful.
We spent another minute or so making small talk, but Chandler was growing restless. In fact, just what little gem of poison she might choose to sputter in Yulia's direction was anyone's guess, so I excused myself with a wink and a smile.
As I was leaving, I said to them, “Make yourself at home. My house is your house,” to which Yulia smiled warmly and said thank you. Inna, however, didn't smile at all and didn't say a word. She simply nodded her head once, as if to say, “Of course I will!” After all, in her own mind, she had done her job well. She had come to Meadow Lane bearing gifts, so she was entitled now to devour anything and everything in sight.
While there was no denying that Inna was a world-class eyesore, I would have never guessed how adept she was at earning her keep. Later that evening, after the Duchess had picked up the kids and the party was winding down, Inna suggested that the few remaining Romans, eight of us in all, take a ride to East Hampton to catch a movie. It struck me as a reasonable idea at first, which quickly became a fabulous idea before we even made it out of the driveway.
“Come on,” Inna growled to Yulia. “Let's drive with Jordan. We'll pick up the car later.”
“That's a great idea!” I agreed quickly, and indeed it was.
Amid all the madness, Yulia and I had hardly had a chance to speak. Complicating matters, her English was borderline horrific, so any meaningful conversation would have to take place in silence, without distractions. The only problem was that Inna would now be sitting in my rear passenger seat with us.
But, once again, she was one step ahead.
The moment Yulia had climbed into the front passenger seat of my Mercedes the Creature growled, “I gotta go pischka. You two go on ahead; I'll catch up with you at the theater.” And, just like that, Inna turned on her thick, calloused heel and waddled back up the stairs.