Shelter from the Storm

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Zoe is four.

Chapter Nineteen ~ Used to Be

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Ranger

Cocktail party. Who knew having kids meant you'd have to appear at cocktail parties? AKA fundraisers.

This fundraiser was for my daughter Zoë's school and somehow Steph had inveigled my aunt Olivia Stewart—Antonio's mom—into donating one of her paintings for the auction portion of the festivities. And to showcase the art properly, the affair was being held in Manhattan at MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art. Olivia had paintings in their permanent collection and she would be showing new pieces in the Winter Showcase of Current Hotshots, or whatever the right word for critically acclaimed artists is.

Steph also volunteered Rangeman for the security detail, so I was having the amusing view of my so-called Merry Men dressed in expensive tuxedoes with Secret Service-style ear buds and curly ear cords. Binky in a tux! Get out!

Olivia paints huge white canvasses with a few smears of very pale color that somehow evoke her beach and ocean with just a few lines. I told her once, years ago, that if they weren't so white I'd consider buying one myself. Her spectacular series Night Places [Ocean, City, Beach, Star, Surf, Home, etc] was the result. And the only dark series she has even done. Most of the canvasses hang on my walls in the Haywood Street apartment. Perplexing. Stunning. Black, I mused, as I sipped the mediocre champagne and mingled.

I could hear Stephanie across the big room, her laughter a breath of fresh air in the subdued atmosphere of too much money and too much entitlement. She was wearing a black sequined short dress from Vera Wang and killer heels. When she first thought this gig up I asked her why, thinking she just wanted an excuse to dress up. But no. Seems she likes me in an Armani tuxedo, which augurs well for the evening's finale, later at our hotel. I booked us into the newly renovated five-star Pierre Hotel this time, figured I give the Four Seasons a break. They aren't crazy about my armed guards but too bad. They should be used to it, all those Arab sheiks' bodyguards and all….

Looking around the throngs of festive party-goers, I could see that the women of suburban New Jersey, the "moms", had risen to the occasion, all dressed similarly to Stephanie in barely-there dresses and stilettos, defying the frigid winds of wintery NYC and the prediction of significant snowfall by midnight. As Steph had said, it was more important to look good than to stay warm. And these people were beyond thrilled to actually be here in New York at an Event, even a nursery school-needs-cash event.

I completed my circumnav' of the big main floor salon, stopping to say hello to the newly re-elected mayor of New York, the governors of both NY and NJ, and some other bigwigs who came out not because they know me, but because they know Olivia, who—besides being a successful and fashionable painter—is the wife of a martyred (think 9/11)Wall Street honcho financier. Well, martyred if he and my dad aren't playing golf in Maui or whatever. We have our suspicions, ya know? Ex-CIA agents don't die, they just go undercover in trendy beach resorts and wear bad Hawaiian aloha shirts. The good news was that so far, anyone who knew me from my past or from my real life or my undercover work had politely pretended ignorance and deniability.

The security seemed fine, so with my supervisory duties over for the moment, I stood again in front of Olivia's painting. A guy came up beside me and I tensed up a little—balding/ too-flushed face/ okay but not great tux. Carrying at least 30 pounds too many and his tailoring wasn't good enough to hide that fact. I diagnosed high blood pressure or too much champagne and gave him a brief nod of greeting. Hey, I can socialize if I must.

He shook my hand and introduced himself. "William Meyers but everyone calls me Pook."

"Carlos Manoso."

He offered the info that he was a broker with Merrill Lynch and tried to pump me for my financials. Failing at that, he segued into golf, bragging about his game. "I mean, I coulda gone pro if I didn't have to follow in my father's footsteps and be in finance…." M-L brokering is a fine career, but they are NOT in finance, not really. I am part owner of an international private investment bank, I know all about being in finance. He—Pook!—went on, "I have a really great swing for the long balls. Look at my shoulders!"

"Uh huh."

"I've always had a lot of strength in my arms and shoulders, ya know? You look like a guy who works out too, right? Spend time at the gym? Gotta preserve our youth and all that."

"Uh huh." Not an issue.

"I really built myself up in college…"continued Pook.

I could take this guy out permanently with one half-assed kick to the chin. And I might.

"Because I was a Rhodes scholar, went to grad school in England. Man, I used to row for Oxford," Pook bragged.

I said, "Oh, yeah? I used to kill for the CIA. Excuse me, I need to find my wife." I left him gaping, walked over to Steph.

"Babe, we should leave soon."

"But the auction hasn't started! And the press wants pictures of us for Page Three of the Times. And Town and Country and everything!"

Are you out of your mind?

I said, "No pictures."

And I disappeared into the realm of the backstage area and the security detail where I'd be safe and probably not have to kill anyone.

At least not tonight.

the end