When the glowing spaceship form of the Superdome comes into view, even with our escort, the limo is forced to a crawl.
At the first lull in their talk I lean forward and say, “Hey, before I forget, let me get you guys’ numbers for when I get to New York.”
They both say sure. Debray hands me a card and I jot down Allen’s numbers on the back.
“We’ll have to get together,” I say. “I don’t really know anyone.”
“Kidding, right?” Allen says.
I force a smile and say, “No. I haven’t spent much time there. I bought the team more as an investment.”
Allen turns to Debray and says, “Can you imagine him doing funnels with Benny Cohen?”
“I know at least one certain blonde who would be all over him,” Debray says, the freckles around his wrinkled nose dancing up and down as he snickers.
“The last people you’re going to want to meet is our crew,” Allen says.
The two of them laugh and Bert joins in, looking at me from the corners of his eyes. He makes a gun with his fingers and fires it into the air.
“When the Jets sale hits the papers,” Debray says, “people are going to be taking numbers and getting in line to meet you.”
“We’ll be lucky if you remember us,” Allen says.
“Of course I will,” I say, taking out my Palm Pilot. “You know what? Let’s set up a lunch.”
“Well, I’m in school,” Allen says.
“When do you get back?”
“Middle of May.”
I look down and scroll through the calendar.
“How about June tenth?” I say. “It’s a Thursday.”
Allen shrugs and says, “Sure.”
“Le Cirque all right? One o’clock?”
“Okay,” Allen says. “We’ll be there if you will.”
“I will,” I say. “It’s in the book. And don’t underestimate the people you know. It’s always better to meet people through someone you know.”
“We just don’t know that many people,” Allen says.
“You already mentioned one important person I’d like to meet,” I say.
“Who?”
“Your father.”
“That’s easy,” Allen says. “When big mouth here tells everyone what happened last night, my mom and dad are going to want to meet you anyway.”
“Good.”
I look over at Bert. His finger gun is out again, but the boys are looking at me, and neither one of them can see it. He points it at the back of Allen’s head, closes one eye, and lets his thumb drop.
40
I HAVE A LOT TO DO in four months’ time, but money is like industrial grease, and things, even big things, slide into place. On the tenth of June I check my watch as I step up to the wrought iron gates and into the courtyard outside Le Cirque. It is five minutes to one and I slow my pace and stop to admire the brass poles and the zebras and the bold circus colors so that when I walk through the door on the second floor, the big hand is on twelve.
The room is wood-paneled and trimmed with crown molding carved by hand a hundred years ago. At the long, linen-covered table in the center of the room, Allen and Martin’s faces turn toward me in obvious surprise. Even the black-tied waiters look expectantly at me. There is an uncorked bottle of champagne on the table and Martin is filling his glass.
Allen jumps up from his chair and says, “Seth. I told him.”
“Unbelievable,” says Martin with a dumb smile.
“I told you,” Allen says, grasping my hand and looking me in the eye. “Means what he says and says what he means.”
To me he says, “I wouldn’t let him eat. I said you’d be here.”
“I’m not late,” I say.
“He always is,” Allen says, nodding at his friend. “I told him twelve-thirty so he’d be here on time.”
“I’m sitting right here, you know,” Martin says, raising his glass. “And who could blame me? I was telling Allen that it wouldn’t surprise me if you turned out to be a phantasm that we both imagined.”
“No,” I say, “I’m very real.”
“There was nothing in the papers about the Jets,” Martin says. “I told everyone and they said I was crazy. I guess it didn’t go through?”
“Actually,” I say, looking at my watch, “I sign the papers at four o’clock today. We agreed to keep it confidential until then.”
Allen is beaming.
“Told you about that too,” he says.
In my pocket, I keep an emerald the size of a walnut. After we eat, I take it out and pop a powerful little mint into my mouth, offering one to Allen and Martin.
“What kind of a case is that?” Allen asks, removing a mint with his fingertips.
“It’s one of three identical stones,” I tell him. “At one time they were the crown jewels of the grand sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Each one priceless, actually.”
“You’re kidding,” says Martin.
“No,” I say.
“What happened to the other two?” he asks.
“One I used to finance the down payment on the Jets,” I say, looking straight at him. “The other I used to buy enough shares of EMI to get a seat on their board. And this one?”
I snap it shut, shrug, and turn it over in my hand before slipping it back into my pocket. “I just liked the idea of being able to take something that valuable and turning it into… well, really, a piece of junk.”
“Junk?” Allen says. “You just said it was priceless.”
“Was,” I say, taking it back out and holding it up between my finger and thumb. “But it’s not a crown jewel anymore. It’s empty inside and it has these little hinges. When you take the core out of something, it stops being what it was.”
“And it’s worthless? That’s incredible.”
“It’s not worthless to me, though,” I say. “I like it this way. It’s functional.”
I look down the table. They are leaning forward so they can see my face.
“Any interest in the concert tonight?” I ask.
“Helena?” Martin asks, sitting up nearly straight. “No tickets. That thing sold out before it was announced… But I see by the look on your face that you’ve got a box. At the Garden. Am I right?”
“You’re both welcome.”
“You got any of those same girls from Vegas that you had in the box at the Super Bowl?” Martin asks.
“Jesus,” Allen says, rolling his eyes.
“Allen has to be careful,” Martin says. “Dani Rangle has a ring through his nose.”
I smile at Martin and say, “Not this time, but I might be able to arrange for you to meet her dancers.”
“Goddamn,” Martin says, his face growing red like his hair. “Talk about fine things. I’d take any one of them.”
The five backup singers for Helena are also dancers whose bodies have earned them cover space and photo spreads in magazines like Maxim and FHM.
“Martin,” I say, “speaking of Bob Rangle’s daughter, I’d like to meet him. I’m looking for a fund to invest in. I heard you work with him.”
“That’s easy,” he says. “I’ll talk to him and set it up. Soon?”
“Sometime over the next couple weeks,” I say, rising from the table. “Something casual.”
“How about the Hamptons?” Martin says as we walk down the stairs. “They’re out there every weekend. We could have lunch.”
I tell him that’s good and stop at the door to thank Allen for lunch.
“Are you going uptown or down?” he asks.
“Up,” I say, “to the NFL offices. I was going to walk. Do you need my car?”
“No, not this time,” he says. “But if you could take one minute, my parents’ place is right on the way.”
My stomach twists.
“You said you’d meet them,” he says, looking at me as he holds open the door.
We step out into the sunlight and the sound of a blaring fire truck. My plan was to meet Frank on my own ground, but I put on my sunglasses, turn my face toward his. Over the sirens I say, “Sure, let’s go.”
The apartment takes up the entire top floor of an old stone building that faces Park Avenue. In a massive circular foyer, columns of polished black granite rise to the vaulted ceiling. High above, the shadows of trees from a rooftop garden flicker down through a dome of leaded glass. The white marble floor is shot through with veins of red, reminding me of animal fat. Between the radius of columns are either vaulted doorways or recessed alcoves where the broken marble busts stand on four-foot-high Ionic pedestals.