Chuckie Lamb pressed his lips together and said, “Yes, Councilman,” before ducking away from the table to find a waiter. This would be our fourth bottle, and though the plan had been to grab a quick dinner before heading back to join the Talbott, Kittredge team at work, the champagne had successfully numbed our desire to deal with the piles of paper waiting for us at Prescott’s office.
“What kind of name is Carl?” asked Moore, turning his attention at me.
“My family is Jewish,” I said.
“So you’re a Jew,” he said in a voice so loud I shrunk from it. He might as well have been a druggist asking for the whole store to hear whether I wanted ribbed or lubricated.
“I’m sort of nothing, but my family is Jewish.”
“It’s good we have some diversity now. Prescott’s a fine lawyer but WASPs have such thin blood. It’s that northern heritage, all those millennia shivering atop Scandinavian glaciers. There’s no passion bubbling through his veins, just cool calculation. But the Jews are a Semitic people, your blood was thickened in the heat of the Egyptian desert and the centuries settling beside the Mediterranean.”
“My grandfather came over from Russia,” I said.
“You’ll provide the passion in our defense,” said Moore.
Chuckie Lamb slipped back into his seat and said, “Just don’t spill all that passion until after the trial.”
“Victor will do just fine,” said Chet Concannon.
“No doubt,” said Prescott.
“I’m tired,” said Mrs. Moore, draining what was left of her champagne. “Renee and I would like to go home.”
“Why are we leaving so soon?” asked Renee.
The waiter just then brought another bottle of champagne and loosed the cork at the table. It shot into the napkin he held with a festive smack and bright white lather streamed down the bottle’s sides.
“The car will take you home,” said Moore. Concannon stood as the women readied to leave. Prescott and I joined him.
The waiter had poured a small amount of the champagne into Moore’s glass and was waiting for a sign to pour it generally. Renee grabbed the bottle from his hand and poured it into her glass, taking a quick gulp.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Victor,” said Leslie Moore.
“Thank you, Mrs. Moore,” I said. “But the pleasure was mine.”
“I’ll walk you out,” said Moore.
“No need,” said Leslie.
“I insist,” said Jimmy.
“Something’s wrong with that bottle,” said Renee, pouring another glass for herself.
“Let me see that,” said Jimmy. He pulled the bottle from her hand and examined the label. “Who bought this crap?”
“It was our fourth bottle,” said Chuckie. “I thought…”
“Don’t think too much, okay, Chuckie? That’s not why I pay you. You think too much, you’ll end up back in that shithole I dug you out of. I don’t care how much it costs, always get the best. I’ve told you that before.”
“But I just…”
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it. You buy another crappy bottle of champagne and I’ll can your butt, understand?”
“I understand,” said Chuckie.
“Now give this California piss to some homeless voter and buy us another bottle of the real thing.”
“Yes, Councilman,” said Chuckie, his head down and his barking voice now pale and small.
As Jimmy and his wife walked to the restaurant’s exit, Renee took another quick swallow before following the others.
“I guess Jimmy prefers the imports,” said Prescott.
“The councilman can’t tell the difference after one bottle,” said Concannon, “but Renee’s got a taste for the best the councilman can buy. Sit down, Charles. I’ll take care of it.” He called a waiter over. “Dom Perignon, seventy-eight. And take this bottle away, please.”
The waiter bent a little lower and put on an expression. “Is something unsatisfactory, sir?” he said.
“You mean other than your breath?” said Chuckie, slumped in his seat.
“The wine was a bit too insouciant,” said Concannon calmly. “The sommelier knows our tastes. Tell him we were disappointed.”
“Of course, sir,” said the waiter, whisking the offending bottle from the table.
Concannon mussed Chuckie’s hair. “It’s just the trial,” he said. “Jimmy’s on edge.”
“Too bad it’s not a knife’s edge,” said Chuckie.
“Leslie looked good tonight,” said Prescott, changing the subject.
“Therapy four times a week,” said Concannon.
“She seemed almost cheery.”
“For the amount of money that doctor costs,” said Chuckie Lamb, “she should be damn joyful. She should be a fucking Santa Claus.”
“Well, it’s working, then,” said Prescott.
“I don’t know about you,” I said, “but that is as sad a woman as I have ever seen.”
“And still,” said Prescott, “the improvement is startling.”
He pushed his length out of his chair. “I see Senator Specter over there. Chester, why don’t we give our regards before I head home. When Jimmy comes back,” he commanded me, “tell him I’ll talk to him in the morning.” Off he strode with Concannon to the other end of the dining room.
“Mrs. Moore is upset about the indictment, I guess,” I said to Chuckie.
“Shit. Look at the bar,” he said. “As soon as the councilman finishes escorting his wife out of the restaurant the councilman’s girlfriend will step away from it and join us.”
I scanned the bar, crowded with couples waiting for tables and singles, dressed as if they were in New York, waiting for something else. On one of the stools at the end of the bar an aggressively curved woman sat alone, drinking. From the angle we could see the breadth of her cheekbones and the swell of her chest. She turned her head to look at us for a moment.
“She’s been here the whole time?” I asked.
“Just waiting for Leslie to get lost.”
“Does Mrs. Moore know?”
“She knows,” said Chuckie Lamb. “She knows every last thing, that’s her problem.” He stood. “I’ll be back,” he said. “I got to pee.”
Chuckie Lamb left for the bathroom and I was left alone like a geek at that large, now empty table to concentrate on the woman at the bar, Moore’s mistress. From the way she was turned I could see just enough. Where do these women come from, I wondered, thinking of Moore’s mistress, thinking of the receptionist at Talbott, Kittredge and Chase, thinking of the new Miss Jersey Tomato, whose picture in the Daily News that morning I couldn’t help but admire. How do their breasts grow so? Some sort of growth rub? Who does their hair and how do they get it to stay model-perfect, as if it had just been teased by a stylist before the photo shoot? How many cases of Aqua Net? Is there a finishing school for these women, a Barbizon trade school, do they have their own professional association? And if there are so damn many of them, spread across the country like overripe peaches on a tree, why do they always end the night in someone else’s bed? Maybe I should move to Georgia, improve my chances.
As I stared at the curve of her back and my feeling of deprivation grew, I noticed another woman walking up the aisle that ran past our table. She was Audrey Hepburn to the Marilyn Monroe at the bar. She was beautiful too, but in a 180-degree different way. Tall, with shoulder-length, straight brown hair. Her thin hips shifted as she walked. Her shoulders were marine straight, but her head hung low, with pale blue eyes, big and just slightly limpid, subtle cheekbones, a soft, round nose. She wore a short black dress with thin shoulder straps and she was looking at me as she walked up that aisle. I wondered if everyone else saw the beauty lurking there, hoped they hadn’t, hoped she had a mother who always told her how homely she was, hoped she was insecure about her slight breasts, hoped she had been a high school outcast. Guys like me know that things like that can help. She saw me looking at her, possibly read the hope in my eyes, and she smiled at me. Her smile was incandescent.