“Tiff,” she said, taking away his drink. “Why don’t I call room service and get you some coffee?”
He sniffled, patting her hand. “Thank you, dear. Thank you. So glad you’re here. You’re a real mensch. What do they call a girl-mensch? A womensch? A wench? Listen, sweetheart: any time you want to leave that slick bastard and come work for me, you’ve got a job. Pay you twice what he gives you. But you’ve got to take care of yourself, Lisanne.” He went and stood before the mirror. “Know what my friend Feibleman said? Do you know Peter Feibleman? I love him — brilliant writer. You should eat his fuckin paella. One day he’ll make us all dinner. Sylvia Plath was a huge fan. Not his cooking — his novels. He just went through the prostrate thing too. Said the radiation took away the ‘punctuation’ of sex. And that’s true. All the commas and semicolons are gone. There’s no catharsis. You’re chemically fucking castrated. That moment where life used to hang in the balance — that ‘little death’— gone. You come, or think you do, and then you say, Was that it? Feibleman says, ‘I don’t have that seizure anymore, that paroxysm. I go right to wanting the cheeseburger.’ Don’t you love that? The cheeseburger! But I’ll tell you something, Lisanne: I always wanted the fuhcocktuh cheeseburger. I wanted it before the shtup. Know what I’m addicted to? Know what sex is for me now? Tributes. The cancer took away food and sex and left me with tributes. I’m worse than Quincy — Jesus! They can’t stop giving and he can’t stop getting. Did you know he got a Grammy for Spoken Word? For reading his autobiography out loud! Is that not genius? King Coon goes to Cancún,” he said nonsensically. “A sweet sweet man. Beautiful spirit. We’re supposed to go to Africa in September with Bono. Next month we’ve got Sting and the Poitiers and Medavoys at the Kofi Annan dinner. I got the Ark Trust Genesis in two weeks at the Hilton. (In my honor.) Then the ‘Starlight Dream’ gala-thing at the Kodak — for me and Quincy. Then Roslynn and I have the cervical thing — what’s it called? — whatever, at the Peninsula. Would you go with me, Lisanne? Unless some miracle happens with Roslynn by then, which appears doubtful. Kittie’s flying out for that, you’ll love her. A funny funny lady. And that’s all in one weekend!” He laid upon the bed and sighed. “You wade through crap all day and then you put on a tux and feel less like a putz. Hey, that rhymes. And you know what? The applause ain’t so bad either. But I wanna tell ya, I’m seriously addicted. Does that make me a terrible man, Lisanne?” he asked tearfully. “Does it? Does that make me terrible?”
A Beachside Reunion
KIT WAS IN the trailer with Xanthe, his assistant. He was at the beach opposite Temescal Canyon, shooting a film with Jennifer Lopez and Anthony Hopkins. Alf and Cameron Diaz, sometime flames, dropped by the set.
“Thought you might like a little orgy to start your day,” said Alf.
“Hope you like to watch,” said Kit to Alf, then belched.
“Ready-teddy,” said Cameron. “That’s what I’m here for. To be fucked like a righteous animal.”
“Careful what you say around the Man, Cam,” said Alf. “There have been some fairly ugly rumors about Mr. Raffles.”
Kit gave Alf the evil eye.
“Oh yeah? Who’s Mr. Raffles?” she asked.
“His dog. Mr. Raffles seems to have that certain je ne sais ménage à trois quoi.”
Cameron laughed, and Kit got off the subject by asking if next week they wanted to go to Harrison’s ranch in Jackson Hole with Callista, Ben, and Jennifer. Cameron couldn’t because she had to be in Monaco for an AIDS costume ball.
Xanthe answered a knock at the door. She took Kit aside and said his father was there to see him.
• • •
BURKE LIGHTFOOT SAT at the end of a catering table. He stood when he saw his son approach. The waves crashed weakly a few hundred yards off, lending the reunion a petty dramatic touch.