"Well, I'm happy to say that your husband is doing just fine," Richard says. "His EKG and his chest X rays came back normal, so all I can say is since you never know what’s in this stuff, stay away. If you have to indulge in illegal substances, smoke a joint. Okay? I don't want to see you guys in here again.”
"Believe me, Richard, this was a complete fluke," Winnie says. "James and I never—”
"I'm not your mother," Richard says. "By the way, we found this in Mr. Dieke's pocket. You might want to keep this." He hands Winnie a small brown vial. If s half full of white powder. He winks.
"Oh," Winnie says. "Thank you." She puts it in her purse. Glares at James. Now she's a drug addict too. What if she gets caught with this stuff?
Richard pats James on the leg. "I've read your stuff in Esquire. You must lead a wild life.”
"Untamed," James says. He doesn't look at Winnie.
"I've got a column in X," Winnie says, naming the magazine she works for.
"Oh, we always knew you would succeed," Richard says.
"Let’s get together sometime," Winnie says, cocking her head to the side and smiling. "Are you married?”
"Me? Nah. Listen guys, I've got rounds. Nice to see you, Winnie," Richard says. He points at James. "Can't wait to read your next piece. Stay alive, huh, big guy?”
Richard walks out of the room. Winnie turns to James. "Untamed?" she says. "Oh James, now I've heard everything.”
James looks at her. He feels like sticking his tongue out. But he doesn't. Instead, he smiles.
James slips into the back of the grand ballroom in the Hilton Hotel just in time for the commotion in the front of the room.
An attractive (on second thought, make that very attractive) dark-haired girl in a tight-fitting purple top (her breasts look like they could spill out at any second) is waving her arm frantically. "Hey, Danny.
Danny!" she says in a raspy voice. "Where were the customs agents in all this?”
Danny Pico, the head of customs, a greasy-haired balding guy in a cheap navy blazer, glares at her. "Not today, Amber," he says. "Not today. “
Amber! James can imagine what her breasts would look like. Full and soft. And quivering. He hasn't had breasts like that in a long time.
"Please, Danny," Amber says. "Why are taxpayer dollars being wasted on completely irrelevant scientific experiments?”
"Next," Danny says.
"Hello. The fourth amendment," Amber says, waving a hand with blue fingernail polish.
(The fourth amendment?) "This press conference is over!" Danny Pico says. The room erupts. Amber turns and clomps toward the door on a pair of four-inch platform sandals. She's wearing a short skirt. Leather. White. She's headed straight for James.
"Excuse me," he says, touching her arm as she passes.
She stops and turns. "Huh?" she says. "Do I know you?”
"I'm James Dieke.”
Her face lights up. "James Dieke. Ohmigod," she says. "You're one of my heroes.”
"I am?" (He is?) "Sure. I loved your piece on satellites. You're the only writer who could make magnesium sulfide interesting. Important. You know?”
"Really," James says. (Magnesium sulfide?) She switches some papers from one arm to another. She holds out her hand. "Amber Anders.”
"Wow," James says. "Wow?" she says.
"Your name. It's great." (It sounds like a porno star's.) "You think so? I always thought it was a good name for a byline. I write for X, " she says, naming the same magazine Winnie works for. "I'm a staffer. But I hope not a lifer." She leans closer. "Some people never get out of there, you know? I swear, there are dead editors in obscure offices hidden behind piles of back issues.”
"I'll tell you something," James says. "There are always dead editors. Lurking in obscure little offices. Torturing writers.”
"Hey, you're funny, you know that. Nobody ever said you were funny.”
"Maybe they don't know me," James says. He wonders if she knows Winnie. (He wonders if she knows he has a hard-on.) "Who are you covering this for?" she asks.
"The Sunday Times Magazine, " he says.
"Cool," she says. She sticks her finger in her mouth and nibbles at her nail. She looks up at him. Her eyes are large and brown. Uncreased. "These guys aren't talking. But it doesn't matter. I've got the address of the warehouse in Brooklyn where they're hiding these monkey fuckers.”
"Monkey fuckers?" James says.
"The monkeys. The chimps. The chimps they're doing the secret government experiments on. Get it?”
James can't help it (how could he help it?), he follows her right out of the hotel and onto Fifty-sixth Street. "And you'll never believe where I got the address," she says. "Danny Pico's driver. Can you believe that?" They're on the sidewalk, walking toward Fifth. "Got a cigarette? No? Well, never mind. I didn't figure you for a smoker. Hey, why don't you come with me?”
"Come with you?" James says.
"To the warehouse, dummy. The warehouse in Brooklyn. I've got the address, remember?”
“Oh, right. The address," James says. "But how are we going to get to Brooklyn?”
Amber stops and looks at him. "Company car service. How else?”
"Car service?" James says.
"Well, I'm not taking the IRT in this outfit.”
Fifteen minutes later, she says, "Hey, James. I have an idea. Why don't we cover the story together? Like Woodward and Bernstein. Only I don't want to be the short one. What’s his name again?”
"Who?" James says, looking at her breasts. "Woodward? Bernstein?”
"Yeah," Amber says. "That's the one." They're sitting in the back of a Big Apple town car. Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. Amber leans across the seat and puts her hand over his. "Isn't this a blast?”
"Have I told you my theory about alpha males?" James asks.
Winnie wants to be loved.
She wants to be cherished. She wants to be valued. (She doesn't really know what "cherished" means. Does anyone?) She wants a man to say, "I love you, Winnie. You're so beautiful.”
She wants him to give her a nice piece of jewelry. Is that asking too much?
Was she ever really loved? Her mother loved her. (She would rush home from school to see her mother. They would go to the supermarket together. And to Ann Taylor. Her mother bought her sweaters and skirts in bright colors. Kneesocks. She wore kneesocks even in college. Headbands too.) Her father criticized her. A lot. About everything she did. (If she got straight A's, and she did get straight A's most of the time, he said, "That's what I expect. That's what I expect from a child of mine.") Her father made her feel like she wasn't good enough. Like she was missing something (maybe some brain cells). That was his favorite trick. "Winnie," he would say. "What’s your address?”
“One, one, one ...”
"You're so stupid.”
She was three and a half. And she could read. How can you be stupid when you're three and a half?
"Winnie? Which is bigger? The sun or the moon?" It was a trick question, and she had known it was a trick question. (She knew that she wasn't good at trick questions. She always overtricked herself). "The moon?”
"You're so stupid." (She was four.) Her father didn't understand her. (Neither does James.) She couldn't understand him (her father. And James). Couldn't understand why everything she did was wrong. (What did he want? What did men want? Nothing. Maybe to be left alone.) Couldn't understand why whatever her father said was law, even if he was wrong. (Why did she have to listen to him? Why couldn't he listen to her?) And he often was wrong. He let their French poodle run without a leash, and he got attacked by a German shepherd. ("I knew he would," Winnie sobbed. "Shut up," he said.) "I'm tough on you, Winnie," he said. "I have to be. You're lazy. If I'm not hard on you, I don't know how you'll turn out.”