Agnes Among the Gargoyles (7 page)

   Bezel finishes his cigarette. Across the street they are building a high-rise. Now it is only a skeleton of girders. Strings of work lights hang on several floors. The effect is quite lovely. It starts him thinking about Christmas, about the Christmases of old Liverpool, when he'd come out of church in the middle of the night thinking of presents and hungry for currant cake.

   Suddenly, Father Christmas is before him. Bezel cries out with surprise. Red face, bushy white beard, lips like cherries, daft smile—no, it's not Father Christmas at all. It's the Frenchman.

   "Did I frighten you?" says the Frenchman hopefully.

   "Certainly not," says Bezel. "What are you skulking 'round the back way for?"

   The Frenchman grins like an idiot monkey. He knows that he has caught Bezel with his guard down, and it delights him. The Frenchman loves human frailty; let a burp escape unmuffled and he'll gloat for a week.

   Bezel returns to the dining room. His party left him a scant eight percent tip. He busses the table. He takes off his apron and jacket and gets ready to leave.

   The Frenchman is seated at the bar. He works as a hand on the cargo ships, when he can find work. Bezel has known him for years and years. The Frenchman watches greedily as Gary, the manager, pours him a Cognac. Gary is an amiable sort, a failed actor or something, tall and gaunt and silent. His moustache appears to sprout from inside his nostrils.

   Bezel hesitates at the corner of the bar. He wonders whether he should join the Frenchman.

   The Frenchman raises his glass.

   "Aqua
vitae,"
says the Frenchman. "Fire of the gods.
Spiritus Frumenti.
The sweat of Jesus. Bezel, will you sit down with me?"

   Bezel says yes. "For one only."

   Gary pours him a Scotch. The Frenchman natters on about the attack on Ronald Wegeman's life. He once worked as a bodyguard somewhere in Canada, and considers himself an expert on these matters.

   "The way to take out a man like Wegeman is to find what we call the rent in the fabric," says the Frenchman. He gulps his drink. "What happened to the bodyguards? Did they die?"

   "One is recovering," says Gary. "One critical."

   The Frenchman smiles. "Sentries answer for their mistakes in heaven, eh? Now that women, the jujitsatrix—she was an incalculable."

   The Frenchman goes on and on. Bezel drinks contentedly. He hasn't touched alcohol in months, but now he can't imagine why not. There are times when you have to sample the cure to know for certain that you are ill. Gary fills his glass promptly. He's a good man, Gary. He doesn't drink anymore, but he doesn't judge those who do. His sad smile seems to say: drink on, my friends, and think of me; had I not abused the privilege I'd be right there with you.

   "The bullet missed Wegeman's heart by an inch," says Gary. "He's lucky that guy didn't get off another shot."

   The Frenchman raps his glass on the bar. "It wouldn't have mattered. They would have frozen the body until they could figure out what to do. The rich, they always have something up their sleeves."

   Bezel disagrees. If there's one thing he knows it's that there will never be a cure for a well-placed slug. The order of the universe depends on it.

   The Frenchman leaves the restaurant. Bezel hangs back and has a word with Gary.

   "He's in a bad way, you know," says Bezel.

   "The Frog?"

   "It's his mother, I'm afraid."

   Gary rolls his eyes. "I never think of him
having
a mother."

   "He won't for much longer."

   "Oh."

   "He's staying with me," says Bezel impulsively. "I'll need some time off."

   "Take it," says Gary.

   "It doesn't put you out terribly?"

   "No. It looks slow this week, anyway."

   Bezel catches up with the Frenchman. They turn onto 45th Street, which is jammed with people coming out of the theaters. Bezel and the Frenchman make their way through the crowd. The Frenchman is given a wide berth. Snatches of conversation ring in Bezel's ears. The street seems ablaze with good fellowship. By the time they reach Eighth Avenue, the Frenchman has lifted a wallet.

   "You shameless dog," says Bezel. "You contemptible bastard."

   "Yes, yes," says the Frenchman. "And the wallet of a child at that. Twelve sad little dollars. One picture—a baseball player. And look at this Medic Alert card. Our benefactor is a hemophiliac."

   "How could you?"

   The Frenchman tosses the wallet into a dumpster. He looks down at Bezel's feet.

   "Your shoelace is undone," he says merrily. "Come, Bezel. Let us drink until we can drink no more."

Agnes knows this place.

   On this spot once stood the Lexington Avenue Exhibition Rotunda. It had a marquee and looked no bigger than a neighborhood movie house. Agnes was amazed how large it was on the inside.

   Agnes's father, Johnny Travertine, was a union official: secretary-treasurer for Local 177, Special Officers & Guards, which provided security for Madison Square Garden, the ballparks, the Eastern Parkway Arena and Lexington Hall. Lexington Hall had the trade shows: the shoe show, the restaurant show, the boat show. Agnes loved nothing more than going to Lexington Hall with her father. She loved the way her voice echoed in the dreary backstage tunnels. There was in illicit quality to life in Lexington Hall, something of the carnival or the road show. Everybody seemed to want to see her father, to ask him for a favor, and they pressed dollar bills into Agnes's hand, as though she could exert some influence over him.

   Across the street from Lexington Hall was a row of frayed old stores— luncheonette, Salvation Army mission, second-hand bookstore, like that. The stores are gone, naturally, replaced by a concrete plaza built by Ronald Wegeman. It has flowerbeds and a waterfall and a gazebo where they sell ice cream. This is where the workers from the nearby office towers eat their lunches. When it was dedicated, Wegeman was asked why he was squandering such a prime piece of real estate on a project that would generate no revenue.

   "Three reasons," he said. "Number one: the workers deserve a place of peace, or at least as much peace as we can give them. Number two: we need a little empty space to keep this city livable. And number three: I'm building fifty stories of luxury condominiums across the street, and this is the best way I know of to preserve the view."

   Tollivetti, smirking, asked him, "Would you mind telling us which is the main reason?"

   Wegeman rocked back on his heels then swooped down on the microphone. "The beauty of capitalism is that it doesn't matter to the man eating lunch, you ignorant fucking pinhead."

   Agnes enters the Wegeman Tower atrium. Her heels click on the pink marble floor. Fountains whoosh and gush as a pianist plays Gershwin. Agnes passes the shops: Harris and Forrester, La Dacquoise, Marjorie Jermain, Juan Gris, Carter Stockton Ltd. The shops are lavishly appointed and conspicuously empty. but then again all they need to sell is one kayak or one box of pastry to make their rent for the month.

   Reluctantly, Agnes presents herself at the front desk. She is escorted to Mr. Wegeman's elevator by four men dressed in military regalia of green polyester. They all wear pith helmets except the one in the tall white shako.

   The Great Man's Palace Guard.

* * *

No one has ever had a nicer sickroom than Ronald Wegeman. It is an enormous sun-drenched expanse, all soft blues and cool greens. It overlooks the swimming pool.

   The Great Man lies propped up on a canopy bed. Madelaine is at his side. He is attended by two starched, crisp, immaculate West Indian nurses.

   "You shouldn't have done it," says Wegeman. "You should have minded your own fucking business. You should have let them finish me off."

   His face is unshaven and drawn. His hair is not in its famous pompadour. It hangs down limply from a crooked center part, giving him the look of a demented preacher. A single hair peeps out of one nostril, curling up and around like a treble clef.

   "I keep reading how fucking lucky I was," he snarls. "Lucky my big fat pimply ass."

   "Ron...." says Madelaine.

   "Most people go through a whole lifetime without getting shot, and I'm supposed to be lucky."

   Madelaine clears her throat. Her smile is Arctic. "Ron, Agnes didn't come here to listen to a lot of silly whining, did she?

   "Whining! Is that what I'm doing?"

   "You might as least say thank you."

   "Thank you, Agnes, for prolonging my miserable life."

   Madelaine sighs. "You can do better than that."

   "I'll do better when I write her reward check."

   "Ron has decided that he's a hated man," Madelaine tells Agnes.

   "I am," says Wegeman.

   "Don't be absurd," says Madelaine, laughing. "Agnes, is this a hated man?"

   Agnes hesitates, and Madelaine pounces.

   "Surely you don't agree with Ron," she says.

   Agnes stammers. "Well, I mean, just look at him. It's right there, isn't it? If anyone in New York is hated, he is."

   "I told you," says Wegeman triumphantly.

   Madelaine is aghast. "How can you say that?"

   "I'm just telling the truth," says Agnes. "He throws old ladies into the streets and blights the landscape with skyscrapers. And he's delighted with himself."

   Madelaine is puzzled. "What's he supposed to be?"

   "Not honest, that's for sure," rasps Wegeman. "Fuck. I knew it. Fuck. Fuck."

   "I would think people would be happy
for
him," says Madelaine.

   Agnes almost bursts out laughing at the women's saucer-eyed innocence.

   "Fat fucking chance," says the Great Man. "I've got it, and they don't, and they hate me for it. Agnes is right."

   Madelaine is dubious. She strokes her husband's hair. He probes his leg wound with a back scratcher. "It's just so hard to believe, Ron. You're such a mild little soul. Remember, you weren't shot by just anyone. That horrible man Geister had a grudge."

   One of the nurses fluffs the Great Man's pillow. He opens his pajama top and presses his palms against the dressing. He cries out in anguish.

   "Stop fiddling with it!" barks the nurse.

   Two beautiful women in matching zebra-striped bathing suits appear at the edge of the pool. They dive in and begin swimming laps. Two equally beautiful representatives from Holly Days, Inc., appear in the sickroom with stepladders and what looks like a laundry cart. They start removing Christmas decorations.

   Wegeman grimaces. "I want to show you something," he says to Agnes. "Imagine you're in New York for the first time. You're a tourist. What do you want to see first?"

   "That's easy," says Agnes. "The City Hall subway station. The original. It's closed now—the Lexington Avenue line uses it as a turnaround loop. But it's supposed to be beautiful. It's got these Moorish, sweeping tiled vaults. I've seen pictures of it. It looks like a chapel, or a mosque."

   Wegeman flashes the same look of contempt Agnes has seen him give to attorneys and anchormen and the mayor. His big catfish lips curl with gusto.

   "The City Hall station, eh?" he says mockingly. He tries to control his temper. "How about something a more typical tourist would be interested in?"

   "The Circle Line," says Agnes.

   He smiles. He picks up the telephone and asks his secretary to get him the Circle Line. He waits for a moment, then smiles again. He hands the receiver to Agnes. She hears a busy signal.

   He takes back the telephone and speaks to the secretary. "Try the NBC tour."

   Busy.

   "Try the advance ticket window at Yankee Stadium."

   It takes the secretary a minute to place the call.

   "What'd you think of the gorilla?" Wegeman asks Agnes.

   "It was quite a surprise," says Agnes. "I didn't think anybody actually liked that sort of thing."

   "Well excuse me for fucking living," he says.

   "Ron...." says Madelaine.

   "I like that sort of thing," says the Great Man haughtily. His face twists into a sour little smile. "Were you embarrassed?"

   "Yes."

   "Did you want to jump out of your skin?"

   "Yes."

   "You're a stiff, Travertine," he says, delighted with the pain he has inflicted. "GorillaGrams were made for people like you. Excellent."

   A recorded voice issues from the telephone receiver. "I'm sorry, all ticket agents are busy at the moment. Please hold on, your call will be answered by the first available representative...."

   "Hah!" says the Great Man. "In the middle of winter, no less."

   "I don't get it," says Agnes.

   "He's been doing this parlor trick all week," says Madelaine. She pours herself some Evian. She is dressed in a red velvet suit, and some of the "fun" jewelry that is her trademark: a brooch depicting three quizzical fish with gold fins and rubies for eyes, and earrings that are hexagonal bars of lapis lazuli. She seems too dressed up, Agnes thinks, considering her husband's condition. Agnes has always gone by the rule for proper sickroom etiquette that visitors, too, should look as though they bathed with a sponge. Madelaine's life is obviously going on with a minimum of interruption. "I've had enough, Ron," she says. "You just want to be miserable. Agnes, I'll see you later."

   Agnes and the Great Man watch Madelaine leave the room.