12.03.09
She was the kind of dame who could get a nun to strip at a speakeasy. The kind of dame who could scam a Reverend into a life of joy riding, pill popping, and bank robbing. The kind of dame who could convince Glenn Beck to shill for universal healthcare—and like it.
She was trouble spelled R-E-G-I-N-A.
* * *
Gumtree. I need you
She slouched in the doorway, fedora pulled low, cigarette between her lips. The smoke swirled into my Brooklyn loft, and I thought about grabbing it from her and stubbing it out. But the scent of tar and ash was better than the smell of week-old dishes, instant coffee, and despair. And definitely preferable to the odor of the canvas-bagged clothes waiting by the door for my once-monthly visit to the Laundromat.
Embers. Didn't think I'd see your face around here again.
I didn't think I'd want to—not those wide eyes and that pale-and-pink skin and that smile like something out of a goddamned Rossetti painting, sweet and vicious all at once.
She stubbed her smoke against my doorframe and strolled into the room.
Consider yourself doubly blessed, because I never planned to see yours again, either. But some Intel's come to light, and you're the only one I can trust with it.
Me? You want help from me? And you think I'll give it to you?
She leaned a hip against my desk and ran her fingers along the plane of my laptop screen. I snapped it shut. She smiled like she knew something. Like she'd read the bumbling prose, read the references to movie stars and silver screens, read Love's Labours Lost according to Lonelyboy and found it all just terribly fucking amusing.
Well, maybe she had.
You'll help me when you hear what I have to say.
No, Regina, I won't. Because you're a psycho. You drug people's girlfriends and blackmail people's friends and try to ruin perfectly nice people's weddings. That, I might add, they spent a lot of money to plan on short notice, So forgive me, but you've had about eight chances too many, and I'm not going to give you anymore. So leave. Just leave. Just get off my desk and go out the door and leave. Leave.
It was one "leave" too many. I always oversold the theme.
Gumtree, you are completely adorable when you try to act tough.
Those long fingers didn't belong in my hair or on my collar. They belonged around a shot glass or crack pipe or against the trigger of a revolver. I batted them away.
I'm not playing games, Regina.
Neither am I, Sam. You'll help because as much as you love to look down that Gumtree nose at me, you love the scent of a good cover-up even more.
A stack of papers dropped in my lap: an Infinite Jest of legal-brief-sized photocopies and computer printouts.
And this one's a doozy.
* * *
She had scrawled her hotel room number on the last page in lip pencil—tortured red like the coals of her name. Regina Embers, the Queen of Fire, Mistress of Death and Destruction and of nights you'd be grateful to have forgotten if only you'd come by your intoxication honestly.
It took me six hours to work my way through the pile of cashier's checks and withdrawal slips and lease agreements and hospital release forms. It took me six hours to reach the "Carlyle 320 7:30" flaming beneath a list of Trout Corporation properties in the Cayman Islands.
As the implications of what she'd dropped in my lap rang like an alarm through my sleep-deprived mind, the lingering smell of her smoke slowly faded.
* * *
She opened the door in a robe that barely skimmed her thighs, peacock blue silk cinched at the waist with a black tie, hair falling casually over one shoulder. She beckoned me into the room with an unlit cigarette.
This can't be true, Regina.
Why not? You think the Trouts are incorruptible? The St. Regis family above reproach? Don't be naïve.
She grabbed a gold lighter from the nightstand and threw herself on the bed, robe bunching, legs splaying, ass bouncing on the mattress. Another filthy rich girl perpetually assured of her safety net. I refused to watch. I went to the window and looked down on the street where cabs made dirt-and-garbage slushies from drifts of melting city snow.
Her long, thin thighs were perfectly framed by the gilt-edged mirror to my left. She had an awful sense of humor.
I'm far from naïve. Which is why I don't buy what you're trying to sell me. This list of documents? If half this stuff was true it would mean—it would mean corruption on a massive scale!
I heard the slippery whoosh of her silk robe sliding against the satin covers, heard a click and then a nicotine-fueled exhalation.
And I repeat my question. Are you that naïve? Do you think the Trouts aren't capable of corruption?
Of course they are! I know that better than anyone. I know Mark Trout was the worst kind of capitalist pig, and his son isn't any better. But this…
I tapped the binder-clipped stack of papers against my thigh.
This is widespread bribery of public officials. This is election tampering. This is a secret cabal pulling the strings of democracy. This is—
This is your stepmother right in the middle of it all.
Her bright blue robe filled the frame of the window, blotting out the evening glow of Madison Avenue streetlamps and shop signs. It grew bigger, darker as she approached me from behind.
Face it, Gumtree. You don't want to admit that Daisy Von Forrester is drowning up to her eyeballs in this pool of filth. But the facts don't lie.
Well, they must. Because Daisy is a good person. She's been good to my dad, and good to my sister, and good to me. And, yes, she's prissy sometimes, and doesn't always have the best track record as a mom, but she's also—
Mark Trout's widow? The controlling interest on the board at Trout Corporation?
I threw the papers on the desk. I missed. They fell to the floor, bursting the binder clip and blanketing the room with scarlet letters of guilt and corruption. Regina stared at me. She didn't look down, not to see her blue marabou slippers buried in culpatory evidence. Not to see the trail of guilt and corruption she'd forced into my life. She took a drag of her cigarette, lips dark red against white paper.
This is about money and power, Gumtree, not good and evil. These people have both and will do anything to keep them. Morality is a side issue.
For Charlie Trout, yes. But not for Daisy. She's not like them. And anyway, I'm pretty sure this is a no-smoking hotel.
She smiled, leaned past me, paper crunching beneath her slippers as she shifted, and dropped the lit cigarette in a half-empty glass of water on the desk.
Typical. You come down hard on the little sins, but the big ones you'll let slide. For enough money.
What does that mean?
It means you've been bought, Gumtree.
Red-tipped nails traipsed up my arm. My hand clenched against the desk, my arm stiffened at the gentle touch of those treacherous fingers. When they reached my neck, I flinched and was rewarded with another smile, red lips peeling back to reveal the kind of predatory white grin only produced by world-class orthodontia and a lifetime of bleaching.
She gripped my collar and tugged. The seam of my shirt dug into my neck as I strained away from her grasping hands.
Face it, Sam, you're Upper East Side all over, despite the plaid shirts and Brooklyn zip code. And you can keep up your truth-to-power stance all you want. We both know it's a poor substitute for the Trout billions. I don't even blame you. It's human nature. To succumb. I'd do it, too.
Succumb to what, Regina?
Wealth
Her voice caressed the word, her lips teasing the opening consonant, her tongue curling lasciviously around the vowels.
I haven't been bought. I'm exactly the same.
I suspected she'd bring up the expensive platinum watch on my left wrist, or the $450 price of my artfully frayed flannel shirt, or the movie star girlfriend on location in Australia. But all she said was:
Prove it.
I don't need to show you anything.
Not to me. To yourself.
Her hand released my collar, and she stepped back to sink onto the bed again. I rubbed the feeling into my neck as she retrieved a pack of cigarettes from under her pillow and lit another.
You're good at this, Gumtree. You uncovered Mark Trout's warehouse fire. Manslaughter, insurance fraud. You can handle this, too.
Before I could ask, she answered my unspoken question with one of her own.
Haven't you learned yet? I know everything.
Some glossy fashion magazine the width and weight of a concrete block sat on her bedside table. She pulled it onto her lap and began flipping pages. They rushed by in a flurry of saturated color and docile black-and-white pouts.
Show yourself the Gumtree name still means something.
She gestured toward the door with her cigarette. Her eyes never lifted from the magazine.
You can leave now.
The temperature had dropped while I was in her room. Or maybe she kept her room too hot. Either way, my blood rushed to my cheeks when the first hit of bracing winter air swirled in through the rotating glass lobby door.
Snowflakes crunched under my feet all the way down Madison Avenue.
* * *
My first stop was the Palatial Hotel on Park Avenue. Charlie Trout kept a suite there, a dank cave of debauchery and privilege, with long-haired virgins tied to the bedposts and foreign-looking serving men willing to procure poisons or kidnap politicians or cook a full English breakfast in a heartbeat. Or so I imagined. I hadn't ever been invited past the door.
But now, thanks to our mutual stepmother Daisy, he summoned me into the sitting room with a tilt of his scotch-filled glass.
His girlfriend, Adair St. Regis, lounged on the couch wearing nothing but a peignoir set—long and high-necked, but sheer enough to make a sailor weep. Did every girl on the Upper East Side spend all afternoon in bedroom attire?
She leafed through the same massive magazine I'd last seen in Regina's hands—or so I assumed. I had to think the fashion industry could only support one publication hefty enough to use as building material per month.
Gumtree. You know I don't like to see you outside of Econ. I'm going to pretend I don't see you now.
If Adair had lived during the Reign of Terror, she would have thrown herself on a passing tumbrel just to make sure everyone in the mob knew she was rich enough to get her head chopped off.
Now, now, Adair. We haven't heard what he came to say. There's always a chance it could be amusing.
Trout, on the other hand, would have bribed every member of the Committee for Public Safety, sneaked his ass to Switzerland, scattering gold sous all the way, and come back ten years later with even more money.
Which reminded me of my reason for being there.
I need info about a name. Scott McKendrick.
Trout poured a second glass of scotch from a decanter by the window. He looked relaxed, controlled, unshaken. He walked toward me with both snifters. And then gave the second to Adair. Just so I knew where I stood with him.
Why are you asking about my father's accountant?
It's a personal matter. I'm looking into something for a friend.
No. It's a Trout matter. And you have no connection to it.
Was it my imagination, or did his hand steal nervously to the knot of his tie before settling on Adair's leg, stroking her thigh through the peignoir's fabric?
Well, all due respect, Charlie—
All due disrespect, Gumtree, keep your grubby, Moleskine-stained fingers out of my family's concerns. Trout Corporation is none of your Brooklyn business.
I had a stack of documents hidden in my messenger bag that said otherwise, that spun a web of deceit and depravity stretching back two generations, with the hulled out carcasses of innocent bystanders like Daisy and my father strewn like flies throughout.
I didn't mention them. I tapped my grubby fingers against my leg.
Well, thanks for your help. As usual, an evening with the two of you has taught me plenty.
Stay a while, Gumtree. You might learn a few things more.
As I turned to leave, I saw the twin demons of the Upper East Side eying each other like pair of praying mantises ready to start feasting from the heads down. I didn't say goodbye. And I let the door slam behind me.
* * *
The Manhattan streets were wide, cold, and calm, deserted even at this early winter hour. Dark had settled, and the slush had frozen, and expensive a. testonis and Christian Louboutins knew better than to risk the salt of the city streets.
I wandered uptown past darkened storefronts with headless mannequins hawking children's clothing from Italy and wedding dresses from France.
Charlie Trout could never be trusted. The man breathed secrets and drank lies. And he was certainly prickly enough when asked about McKendrick. The customary crowing of a territorial rooster—or a guilty conscience afraid of being caught?
Before I could make up my mind, I found myself in front of the Von Forrester building on Fifth. Lights shone from the glass-walled apartments, a Tetris game of lavish transparent boxes stacked one over the other. I counted up to the 14th floor and over to the corner residence. My parents were home.
* * *
Samuel? We didn't expect to see you tonight.
My stepmother found me in her late husband's study, standing in front of the bookcase I knew concealed a top-of-the-line safe and security system. The answers to all the questions Regina had forced on me lay behind a false wall of leather bound books, a blinking red light, and a keypad. My hands itched to tear down that wall and plumb those secret depths.
I turned and faced Daisy instead.
Yeah, well, skype cut out during my call with Carolina, so I figured I'd come over here and see what Janie and Derek were up to.
Daisy held her reading classes in one hand and a sheaf of paper and a checkbook in the other. Typical—she'd been methodically ticking another bill or charity contribution of her to-do list while my dad noodled around on his guitar and indulged in online recording equipment shopping in another room. Or so past experience would suggest.
She dropped the papers on the desk.
You and Carolina are still together? The kids were telling me about some tabloid report of a break-up, but I'm very glad to hear they were mistaken.
I knew exactly which tabloid report she meant. It lay on the floor next to my bed in Brooklyn, creases and tearstains marring my beautiful girlfriend's topless torso as she lounged on a yacht off the coast of Australia with her equally famous co-star. Though it was rather optimistic of me to call her my girlfriend, since she hadn't returned any of the 25 voicemails and texts I'd left her since the issue hit the newsstands on Monday.
Oh, you know the tabloids. You can't trust a word in 'em.
No, you can't.
Daisy patted my shoulder as she walked to the door.
Stay as long as you'd like, Samuel. Your father and I have a dinner engagement this evening, but you're welcome to treat the apartment as your own.
Daisy?
She stopped by the door.
I've got something I'm…worried about. Something I need to ask you.
With her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, she looked more like a scientist or a Freudian psychoanalyst than the bubbly, sophisticated socialite the world took her to be. She observed my shuffling posture and stumbling attempt to get my words out with a clear-eyed impassivity.
Daisy, I've heard some things about Trout Corporation. Not about you, but… Well, I was wondering if you ever saw—or thought you saw—or heard—or, you know, when Mark was alive if he ever said anything—well, not said, but maybe hinted—or maybe Charlie brought something up—or maybe…
Samuel, is there a question buried somewhere in there?
She looked concerned, in a motherly way. Her blue eyes—magnified by the glasses—reflected with good-natured solicitude. She was the perfect stepmother. How could I insult her with the questions I was so close to asking?
I remembered another pair of blue eyes, sulky and unquiet. Both mocking and vulnerable. They laughed at me. They called me a patsy, a sap. A toady to riches and privilege.
Yeah. I was wondering if Mark had a copy of Wealth of Nations. I need it for Econ.
I'm sure he did. Take a look on the shelves. Borrow whatever you want.
* * *
For three hours I roamed the city. My messenger bag cut a groove in my shoulder, weighed down with Regina's stack of papers and Mark Trout's first edition copy of Adam Smith. My steps took me from the Upper East Side to Greenwich Village: Past the boozy post-collegiate watering holes filled with overgrown frat boys in Murray Hill. Around the gated garden in Gramercy and its rings of key-holding townhouses. Through the skateboarders and war protestors and dog walkers of Union Square. Over to the benches beneath the stark white arch of Washington Square Park.
I felt like one of those medieval dreamers who walks through a landscape both familiar and strange. Beset by a devil and an angel, I couldn't tell them apart. Maybe they were both good? Maybe they were both evil.
On one side, Regina pointed to my messenger bag. She told me that the evidence didn't lie. She begged me to stand up for my integrity. For honor. For democracy. For truth.
And on the other, Daisy waited, not speaking, just watching me with calm, caring eyes. Reminding me that family was important too. That loyalty was a virtue of its own.
How was I any different than the business exec who makes his incompetent son vice president? How was I any different than Mark Trout?
I got up off my bench without waking my homeless seat companion and headed in the direction of the nearest Kinko's.
* * *
Regina found me when it was all over. I had placed one copy of her documents with the 6th Precinct, another in the mail slot at the Village Voice. The third sat in my bag. It was either a badge of honor or of shame, and—back with Lonely Joe on his bench—I was tired of trying to determine which.
You did the right thing, Sam.
Her belted coat hung open. Looking beyond the black wool, I could see she was dressed for a night of drink scamming and identity-swapping in a tight, shiny dress with big, shiny hair. Her happiness made me sicker than the sleeping Joe after one too many boxes of wine. She didn't deserve to be happy.
Then why do I feel like the worst person alive right now?
Because you betrayed your friends and family and you're worried they'll never forgive you when they find out. But you still did the right thing.
A tiny shoot of something green and vital—pride? self-respect?—poked it's feeble head through the muck of my guilt and frustration.
That's one thing at least I don't need to be upset about. I dropped the packages anonymously. My name's clear.
She shifted from one high silver heel to the other, graceful and feline despite the goose bumps rising on her bare legs.
Now, Gumtree, that's just not right. You did all the legwork and you're going to give the credit for this scoop to some hack at the Village Voice? I can't let that happen.
I was tired. Tired of her, tired of this.
There's nothing you can do about it, Regina.
I was afraid you'd feel this way. So I took the liberty of having my lawyer draft up some documents and sent them over to the newspaper. Don't worry, your name will be listed right under whichever third-rate City desk cast-off they get to draft the piece. And I sent a time sensitive blast to Gossip Girl, just in case our friends miss the Voice tomorrow. You're not getting out of this without your kudos!
What?
Her lips looked strange without a cigarette touching the glossy rose. They seemed crueler as she smiled.
No fucking way, Gumtree. No fucking way do you get out of this with your skin intact. Payback's a bitch, and so am I.
Payback? Of course, I should have guessed. You are Regina Embers. You exposed a massive scheme of corporate bribery for the sake of revenge on a couple of old high school frenemies. You know, Regina, I don't think psychopharmaceuticals are going to do it for you. You need electric shock therapy. Or a full frontal lobotomy. I'll gladly administer it myself.
Her laughter floated over the guitar strumming of the weed-smoke-encircled hippies one bench over.
Gumtree, you still don't get it. Charlie and Adair and I are like the sun and moon and stars. We'll always be in each other's orbit, whether we want to be or not.
She hoisted her foot on the bench beside me and leaned over her long bare leg. Her big blue eyes stared out of her pale oval face.
But no one dumps me and gets away with it. Especially not you.
I hate to break it to you, but I think I already did.
She leaned closer. Her nose quivered two inches from mine. The fog of her breath touched my cheeks.
I made it all up, Gumtree. It was fake, the whole packet. The story's going to break tomorrow. The NYPD's going to put Charlie and Daisy and Adair through hell before they figure out the scam. The whole Upper East Side will know that Sam Gumtree dropped a dime on his own family. And I'll be long gone.
The cold seeped through my jacket, penetrating my bones and soaking into my muscles. Her icy whisper raked down my back.
You're back where you belong, Lonelyboy. Enjoy your exile.
She strode from the park like a model on a catwalk, long legs shining white in the moonlight beneath her short black coat as they trekked toward a waiting town car on Washington Square West.
I watched her go, the bum beside me filling the night with his snores, the phone in my pocket silent.
Alone.
*The End*