"Then I shacked with him and he was broke and I was, too, and groceries were our only luxury and—well, I haven't touched anything since he married me. And don't want to; I feel grand. New woman."
"You certainly look happy and healthy. Uh, this ‘Big Sam,' did he have a habit?"
"Not a habit. But Sam would eat, drink, or smoke anything somebody else paid for. Oh, he didn't mainline—doesn't fit the image for a guru and needle marks show—and he was proud of his body."
"What did you do before you were his chela?"
"His meal ticket, you mean. Same thing—model and whore. What else is there to do? Babysat. Served drinks in my skin for a while but they let me go when they found a girl who could write—discrimination and I could have fought it as I never got my orders mixed up; my memory is better than people who have to write things down. But, hell, no use trying to hang on when they don't want you. Joan, you said you'd been giving money away all your life."
"I exaggerated, Gigi. Never had much until after World War Two. I just meant I wasn't stingy even as a kid, when every nickel came the hard way."
"‘Nickel'?"
"A five-cent piece. They used to be minted from a nickel alloy and were called that. Dimes and even dollars used to be silver. We actually had gold money when I was a kid. Then during the Great Depression I was flat broke for about six months—and other people helped me—and then later I helped some, sometimes the same people. But giving money away on a large scale I didn't start until I had more money than I could spend or wanted to invest, and the tax laws at that time fixed it so that you could do more giving it away than by keeping it."
"Seems a funny way to run things. But of course I've never paid taxes."
"You just think you haven't. You started the day you were born. We may eliminate death someday but I doubt if we'll ever eliminate taxes."
"Well... I won't argue it, Joan, you must know more about it than I do. How much money have you given away?"
"Oh, it didn't amount to more than a few thousand until after War Two and most of that was loans I knew I would never collect. Kept records for years—then one day I burned the record book and felt easier. Since then—I'd have to consult my accountant. Several millions."
"Several millions! Dollars?"
"Look, cuddly, don't be impressed. After a certain point money isn't money, it's just bookkeeping figures or magnetized dots in a computer."
"I wasn't exactly impressed. Confused. Joan, I don't have any feeling of any sort for that much money. A
hundred dollars I understand. Even a thousand. But that much is like the National Debt; it doesn't mean anything to me."
"Nor does it to me, Gigi; it's like a chess game—a game played just for itself, and one I'm tired of. Look, you wouldn't let me buy groceries even though I am helping to eat them. Would you accept a million dollars from me?"
"Uh... no! It would scare me."
"That's an even wiser decision than the one you made before breakfast. But page Diogenes!"
"Who's he?"
"Greek philosopher who went around searching for an honest man. Never found him."
Gigi looked thoughtful. "I'm not very honest, Joan. But I think I've found an honest man. Joe."
"I think so, too. But, Gigi, may I say why I think you were smart to say No? Oh, it was a gag, sort of, but if you had said Yes, I would not have welched. But I would hate to do it to you. May I tell you why?—what's wrong with being rich?"
"I thought being rich was supposed to be fun."
"It's fun, some ways. When you're really wealthy—and I am—money is power. I'm not saying that power isn't worth having. Take me, if I hadn't had that much raw power, I wouldn't be here chatting with you; I'd be dead. And I like it here, with your arms around me and Joe painting a picture of us because he thinks we're beautiful—and we are. But power works both ways; the man—or woman—who has it can't escape it. Gigi, when you're rich, you don't have friends; you just have endless acquaintances."
"Ten minutes," said Joe.
"Rest time," said Gigi.
"Huh? But we've been resting."
"So get up and stretch, it'll be a long day. If Joe says we've posed fifty minutes, we have; he uses a timer. And have a cup of coffee; I'm going to have one. Coffee, Joe?"
"Yes."
"Can we look?"
"No. Lunch break, maybe."
"Must be going well, Joan, or Joe wouldn't even make a guess. Joe, Joan tells me that a rich person can't have friends."
"Hey, wait, I didn't finish. Gigi, a rich person can have friends. But it has to be someone who isn't interested in his money. Like you. Like Joe. Even that doesn't mean he's a friend. First you have to find him. Then you have to know this about him, which may be—is!—hard to find out. There aren't many such people; even other rich people aren't likely to qualify. Then you have to win his friendship, and that's harder for a rich man than it is for other people.
A rich man gets suspicious and puts on a false face to strangers—and that's no way to win friends. So in general, it's true—if you're rich, you don't have friends. Just acquaintances, kept at arm's length because you've been hurt before."
Gigi suddenly turned around from the kitchen unit.
"Joan. We're your friends."
"I hope so." Joan looked soberly from Gigi to her husband. "I felt your love in our Circle. But it won't be easy, Gigi. Joe looks at me and can't help remembering Eunice—and you look at me and can't help wondering what effect it has on Joe."
"We don't! Tell her, Joe."
"Gigi's right," Joe said gently. "Eunice dead. She wanted you to have what you got. Me—over my gut ache, all done in t' Circle." (Boss, do you mind if I get out for a moment and trot around in my bones? A girl likes to be missed a little.) (Eunice, we must not hurt him. It was all we could manage to heal him.) (I know. But the next time he kisses us I'm going to be tempted to speak up and tell him I'm here.) (Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Om Mani Padme Hum—and kark on you and Diogenes both. Let's go home and phone Roberto.) (Sweetheart, we'll stay here until we've cracked the bone and eaten the marrow.) (Okay, okay. That Gigi is as cuddly as Winsome, isn't she?)
"Joe, I want us three to be friends and never break our Circle in our hearts. But I'm not going to put too much strain on it. Not fair to you, not fair to Gigi—not even fair to me. Gigi, I wasn't saying I didn't have any friends. I do have. You two. A doctor who took care of me and honestly doesn't give a damn about money. The nurse he is about to marry who is the nearest thing to a sister I've ever had. My four driving guards—I've tried very hard with those four, Joe, because I knew they were your friends and Eunice's. But that's an odd situation; I'm more their baby they take care of than I am either employer or friend. And one, just one, friend left over from the days when I was Johann Smith—rich and powerful and mostly hated."
Joe Branca said softly, "Eunice loved you."
"I know she did, Joe. God knows why. Except that Eunice had so much love in her that it spilled over onto anyone around her. If I had been a stray kitten, Eunice would have picked me up and loved me." (More than that, Boss.) (Sweetheart.) "And Joe, you know, or at least have met, my one friend who carried over. Jake Salomon."
Joe nodded. "Jake okay!"
"You got to know Jake?"
"Close. Good aura."
Gigi said, "Joe, is he the one you told me about? The fixer?"
"Same." Joe looked back at Joan Eunice. "Ask Jake. Throne now."
"Come on, Joan. He bites if you don't pose the instant rest period is over."