"Gunther? Bailed to a younger-skewing magazine in Dallas. Said that was going to be the next hot place. Lots of clubs and stuff. Did you know that Lindsay Lohan bought a place out there? It's about to jump off."
"Darling," Fiona said, "don't you own an oil field there?"
"Two," I said.
"Oil is cool," the receptionist said.
"Like black gold," I said.
The receptionist got up and walked us over to a twelve-foot-tall smoked-glass door and flashed an ID card to unlock it, then held it open as we walked past. Used to be the only places with decent security actually had something to protect. What were they protecting here? The good life?
"I just love your nails," Fiona said, tapping her finger on the ring dangling off the girl's right pinky. "That style is ready to jump off."
James Dimon's office was decorated in Bekins- boxes stacked up in every corner, a desk covered in packing popcorn-but the walls were covered in framed covers of Palm Life, some dating as far back as the eighties. The weird thing about the 1980s is that even though that's when I grew up, I don't actually remember everyone looking like they'd just been cut out of a Nagle painting. I also don't remember seeing so many people wearing shoulder pads. But there they were.
"You'll have to excuse the mess," James said. He'd taken a seat behind his desk in a leather chair that looked brand-new after he cleared a spot for Fiona and me on an equally pristine-looking sofa, but kept getting up and moving around. Less nervous twitch, more Red Bull. "I'm still unpacking. Crazy move. I'm going to get these photos down, too. We're really changing the whole image of the magazine. Embracing the now." He wore tight, narrow-legged jeans that had a strategic tear along the left hip that revealed a splash of too-white skin. Of all the things not to be pink. He had on a black-and-silver pinstriped shirt that was unbuttoned one button too low and revealed a clammy-looking chest completely devoid of hair. His office smelled like an eighth-grade dance: too much cologne, nebulous sexuality.
"Where are you down from?" I asked. I wasn't trying to sound like Jay Gatz, but it was working for me, so I figured I'd ride it. Plus, I've always wanted to use down in that way, but always felt like it wouldn't come off unless I had a sweater tied over my shoulders or a sailor's cap on my head.
"Across, technically," he said. "I was working for a magazine in LA LA Land. Thought I'd give the Right Coast a try." When he said Right Coast, he made an air-quote gesture with his fingers. "I had an offer to roll in"-air quote-"the Hampty Hamps. Another shot in"-air quote-"Hot Lanta. Had another chance to go to"-air quote-"Vegas, baby"- here he laughed, because that's what guys like James Dimon do: They laugh when they say Vegas, baby — "but in the end, it's all about South Beach. Being present in the moment."
I expected that, at any moment, he'd refer to New York as the Apple, Paris as the City of Light and Beirut as the Paris of the Middle East, and that he'd use air quotes each time. I also expected that if we somehow got back to his job in Los Angeles, he'd drop City of Angels and Tinseltown in the mix, as if La La wasn't enough. If he managed to work his way to Reno being the Biggest Little City in the World, I was going to throw him off the building.
"Yeah," I said. I had to gather myself a little. The air quotes had me dizzy. "Listen. Daisy and I appreciate your time. Gunther was always so helpful, and we've had such a great relationship with the magazine over the years, and so I hope you can do me the smallest favor."
"Mr. Gatz, I'm happy to do anything you need. It's just an honor to meet you. I'm a fan of all that you do," he said. "And even though we're changing the direction of the rag, we'll always have space for you and your-" James stopped midsentence, as if he wasn't quite sure where he was going in his conversation with me, which was possible, since he had already professed to being my fan. He looked at Fiona. He looked back at me. Had some cosmic convergence, continued on. "And your"-air quote- "lady"-air quote-"as long as I'm in charge of the art. Though, candidly, we're going to be moving more toward a photojournalism vibe… toward a feeling of…" He started searching for words again, but I was afraid he was only given to one cosmic convergence a day, my sense being that James Dimon only knew about a hundred, hundred and fifty independent words, and the rest were catchphrases.
"Being present in the moment?" Fiona suggested.
James Dimon snapped. As in, he actually started snapping. "Yes! Yes! That certain pate de foie gras you just can't find in other magazines out here. Gritty. Real. That's where I'm headed with Palm."
"Wonderful," I said. And I meant it, so I put air quotes around it, let James know we were of the same mind-set.
"Stunning," Fiona said.
Fiona turned and gave me a coy glance that, in the past, has meant that the fuse is lit and we have twenty seconds to get out of the building before it comes crashing down around us. I figured it was more of an interior fuse in this case, so I said, "Wonderful," again, because if James Dimon truly hated everything that had come before his arrival-and I suspected his stay would be short enough that he'd probably want to hold on to the boxes, lest he announce that anyone or anything else had a pate de fois gras-he probably would have no problem whatsoever letting me look through the photos of Cricket O'Connor tripping the light fantastic for literacy. In fact, I suspected that if I said tripping the light fantas tic, he'd start snapping again, which was something I wanted to avoid until I really needed it, as an idea was beginning to take shape in my mind about how I might use someone of James Dimon's particular… skill… down the line. If he wanted gritty, realistic, present in the moment shots of South Beach's glitterati, I thought there'd be some opportunities for us both to benefit. "About that favor, sport," I said.
"Anything, Mr. Gatz."
Once you've infiltrated a hostile enemy environment, the best way to find out if anyone cares about anything is to be as general as possible. Have specifics ready in case the conversation should devolve, but on the strong chance you're dealing with someone who clearly only has eyes for themselves- which, in the civil world (or the world not possessed by top secret documents, locations of missing nuclear warheads, stashes of drugs and guns) is the majority of the population-all you'll need is earnest banality rendered in the blandest colors.
"There was a benefit we attended last year; and Daisy just adored the ice sculpture. We were hoping we might take a look through your file photos, perhaps make a copy or two, so that Daisy can show it to an artist she has in mind for our own event." I reached over and put my hand on Fiona's, to let James know this was all her fault, that we were just two guys who knew that when our ladies wanted something, well, we did what we could.
"What was the gig?"
The gig. I wondered if I was on camera somewhere. "A fund-raiser for literacy held at Love/ Blue," I said.
"Yeah, yeah," James said. "What month was that?"
"May," Fiona said.
"May, and they had an ice sculpture?" James said. He shook his head like he was trying to get water out of his ears. "Cuh-razy." James gave us both an incredulous smile.
"Tell you what," I said. I was pretty much done being Jay Gatz. "Why don't you go get that magazine, figure out where you keep the photos and maybe bring me and my lady a bottle of water?" A yogurt wouldn't hurt, but I figured I shouldn't push it. Not that James Dimon would feel the push. He wouldn't have known if I broke two of his ribs. He'd just keep on keeping on. I added, "Please," however, just to be cordial.
"Hey, pas de probleme, Mr. Gatz." James stepped outside his office for a moment and came back in with the issue in hand. A moment later, an assistant walked in with water for both of us. I wasn't thirsty, but I liked asking James to get us water. "Yeah, yeah," he said. He had the magazine open and was scanning each image, commenting page by page. "Lighting was all wrong. Can't tell if it was a party or a funeral. Too many saggy-baggies. Gunther, always an F-stop off."