City of Dreams (51 page)

“But they continue to accrue,” she said. “That’s Alexander Hamilton’s opinion.”

Meadows picked up the copy, studied it front and back, dropped it onto the desk. “You’ll need more of an argument than that to collect what amounts to”—he tapped a few figures into the electronic calculator on his desk—“two million, four hundred thirty-three thousand, two hundred thirty-nine dollars.”

“And seventy-eight cents,” added Jennifer. “Times two.”

“Two times zero is still zero.”

Maybe she was just twenty-six, on a legal wild-goose chase, but at that moment, she was backed not only by Magee & Magee and Alexander Hamilton, but by the full faith and credit of the United States government. So she maintained her calm, raised her chin, and said, “Perhaps we should call in one of your superiors.”

“They’re all in a meeting.”

“But of course they are.” She stood. “Discuss the matter with them. Talk to Treasury. Talk to Justice. But it would be better if we did not have to go to litigation.”

Meadows said, “My superiors will want to know on what basis your claim rests.”

Obviously, thought Jennifer, Mr. Meadows had no legal training. Otherwise he would have known that you didn’t ask a question unless you already knew the answer.

She, on the other hand, had an answer all planned. She pulled out a booklet copy of the United States Constitution. “Article Six: ‘All Debts contracted and Engagements entered into, before the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be valid against the United States under this Constitution, as under the Confederation.’” She returned the booklet to her pocket and said, “The government backing that bond was organized under the Articles of Confederation, which were—”

“I
know
what they were,” said the government’s man.

ii.

The Dow had fallen, but Jennifer’s stock was rising rapidly.

Owen T. Magee took her twice to dinner to discuss “minding” Dr. Smith, and he gave her three more clients. He told her he liked her touch . . . with them.

She expected that at some point, he would try to touch her, but it never happened. She wondered if he was gay. She didn’t think so.

When Dr. Gary Smith came to town to visit his money again on the third Monday of December, he asked that they invite that “smart young Miss Wilson.”

Owen T. Magee informed Jennifer that he had to go out of town. “So you’ll get to deliver the bad news alone. See it as part of the learning experience.”

The market was headed to a positive finish for the year, despite the October crash, so Dr. Smith and Austin Arsenault were waiting upstairs at “21”, where the tablecloths were white, the silverware silver, the service discreet, and the prices astronomical . . . at least to Jennifer.

They began with chitchat . . . about Christmas in New York . . . about the Giants, slumping badly after their Super Bowl . . . about the prospects for the ’88 election.

And Jennifer had something to say on each topic, even the football. Part of being a good “minder,” Magee had told her, was to know what a client liked to talk about and learn to talk about it. Dr. Smith had season tickets.

He seemed nowhere near as depressed as two months earlier. Amazing what some holiday cheer and a healthier portfolio could do for a man’s spirits. As he ordered his third Manhattan, the portly doctor looked like he could party all night. Then he asked Jennifer, “What news do you have of the bonds?”

Arsenault leaned forward. “Yes. I’d love to manage a few million dollars for the Museum of the American Revolution. Conservatively, of course.”

At that moment, the waiters brought the first course, a mussel soup called billi-bi, Arsenault’s recommendation. “Craig Claiborne calls it the most elegant and delicious soup ever created.”

Jennifer hadn’t wanted to appear ignorant by admitting she didn’t know who Craig Claiborne was, so she had allowed Arsenault to order without protest.

Now the dishes were placed steaming before them. She picked up her spoon, tasted the subtle seafood flavor, said how delicious it was . . . stalling for time.

But the doctor ignored his soup. “The
bonds
, Miss Wilson. The New Emission Money. Has the Treasury responded?”

Her mother always told her never to bring up bad news early in the meal, but both men were waiting over their soup, so she took the envelope of bonds out of her purse and placed it on the table.

Dr. Smith did not even look at it. “The news is not good?”

She shook her head.

Arsenault dipped into his soup.

Dr. Smith kept his eyes on Jennifer. “What did they say?”

“They countered all our arguments regarding the Constitution, the validity of the bonds, Hamilton’s opinions, the redemption practices of the states that bundled them when the national debt was first securitized—”

“Well, the billi-bi is wonderful, at least.” Arsenault took another spoonful. “Did the Treasury finally fall back on sovereign immunity?”

“That was the last part of the letter,” said Jennifer. “The government determines who can sue them. And they said we can’t.”

“Doesn’t seem fair.” Arsenault took a sip of wine.

“Mr. Magee thinks that unless we got lucky with a strict constructionist court prepared to rule that Article Six validates the bonds, it could take ten lawyers ten years to get this case advanced,” she said. “And it’s not something to win on the angles.”

“If that goddamn Ted Kennedy hadn’t torpedoed Judge Bork,” said Arsenault, “we’d have a strict constructionist on the Supreme Court right now.”

Jennifer said nothing to that. She had grown up in a house where all three Kennedy brothers had been idolized.

Dr. Gary Smith took the envelope and put it into his pocket. “At least you tried. And I liked the job you did. So, I’m telling Owen that I want you in on the redrafting.”

Arsenault’s soup spoon stopped in midair. “Redrafting?”

“My estate. I have a grandson. He needs money. He has a dream, a dream of being in computers.”

“Like Bill Gates?” asked Arsenault.

“Who’s he?” said Dr. Gary Smith.

“Y
OU MENTION
B
ILL
Gates and he asks, ‘Who’s he?’” Arsenault laughed. “It makes me wonder if this high-tech business has a future.”

“Dr. Smith comes from another generation,” said Jennifer. “And thank you for the ride home, only—”

“Only what?”

“We’re headed uptown.”

They were in a black limo sleeking north on Madison Avenue. She had often imagined herself in the back of a black limo with a man like Austin Arsenault. But in some things she was still a small-town girl . . . or a grownup cynic. She had looked at his ring finger during dinner, but the tan line had faded, so she was still wondering about his marital status. Owen T. Magee had been notably silent on the subject. She was also wondering what she would do if he made a move. She did not have long to find out.

He leaned back and unbuttoned his overcoat. “I thought you’d like to see how we live uptown. Along the way, we can admire the Christmas lights. New York’s magical at Christmas, don’t you think?”

She looked out at the light snowfall. “Yes. Magical. But—”

“What are you doing over the holidays?”

“My mother’s coming to town. She has a sister in L.A. But—”

Arsenault reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blue box. “My gift to a young attorney. I handle the investments for the Smith trust, as you know, so your ‘minding’ has been a boon to me, too.”

A blue box
. Tiffany’s. Whatever was happening was happening way too fast.

He said, “Go ahead, open it.”

So she did. Inside was a pair of white gold earrings with blue stones.

“Sapphires,” he said. “Your birth month.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything.” As the limo turned on Fifty-ninth Street, he slid across the seat and kissed her, just like that, just gently enough to show that he knew what he was doing.

When she did not respond, he pulled back, but only a bit.

Her eyes flicked toward the front seat.

He reached up and closed the Plexiglas window, sealing them in. Then he brought out a flask. He took a sip and handed it to her. The silver flashed in the moonlight. “Cognac. Courvoisier.”

She took a sip. It burned but it warmed. Part of her wanted to go along for this ride. But another part of her said that she was supposed to be on business. And a young businesswoman shouldn’t be taking gifts like this . . . or rides like this.

He kissed her again, another gentle touch, but this time, he parted his lips.

She kept hers closed.

He pulled back and said, “I like your boots.”

In the winter, she wore boots, calf-high, leather. She liked how men looked at her when she wore them into the office . . . or into “21”.

The limo was heading north now, along snowy Central Park West.

Arsenault placed a gentle hand on her cheek and kissed her again.

She couldn’t deny it. He was good at this. She had always heard that older men knew what they were doing, and he was about forty, so . . . what the hell?

She brought her hands to his face and tasted the cognac on his lips.

After the kiss, he pulled away and said, “That’s more like it.”

He took another swallow from the flask and handed it to her. After she sipped, he placed it in a convenient little mesh holder on the door.

Then he kissed her again and unbuttoned her coat and slipped a hand in around her waist. “Let’s get more comfortable.”

Too fast, she thought. She twitched subtly and leaned herself against the door, so that the hand couldn’t slide up to her bra.

Another kiss and the hand withdrew. He said, “Hard to get. That’s good.”

Her response was to kiss him again. Now that the game had begun, she did not want to seem
that
hard to get, but she was not giving it up in the backseat.

He had other ideas. And the hand dropped now to the boots. “I like the leather,” he said. “I like the way it feels.” And he lowered his face toward her thighs. “I even like the way it smells.” He inhaled deeply, then he kissed her thigh through the nylon.

At least he didn’t kiss the boots, she thought.

But he brought his lips to hers again, this time with less delicacy. Then she felt his hand on her boot, heading upstream, over her knees, over her thigh—

She brought her legs together.

But that didn’t stop his hand. He pushed it all the way up and pressed against her crotch. And he said, “Panty hose. I hate panty hose.”

She pulled away from his kiss and from his hand.

First the dinner, then the gift, then the flask, and the old close-the-slider signal: it’s a go, so drive slow. Arsenault and his driver had done this all many times before.

And she was realizing that she didn’t like being the Monday-night conquest, the little piece of knockoff before he went home to listen to Howard Cosell and Dandy Don.

But Austin Arsenault had other ideas. “Take them off.” Something new crept into his voice, something deep and elemental . . . and a bit scary.

“Take what off?”

“The panty hose. I told you, I don’t like panty hose. Take them off. But leave the boots on. I like the boots.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“Why do you think Owen T. stayed home?” he growled.

“Stayed home?”

“All right. Leave the fuckin’ panty hose on.”

“I will, and—” She was so shocked at his next move that the words caught in her throat.

He opened his overcoat and unzipped his fly. “Come here.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

It was standing up from the folds of fabric like a white stalagmite in a cashmere cave. And he pulled her toward it.

“Mr. Arsenault, no.” She tried to resist. So he pulled harder. And he was stronger. It struck her chin and pointed toward her mouth, but she turned her head so it struck her cheek, then her other cheek, and finally he let her go.

She fell backward against the front seat and turned and slammed her hand on the Plexiglas, “Stop! Stop the car!”

But the driver kept his eyes and the limo heading straight into the snow.

“Jennifer”—Arsenault leaned toward her—“this is supposed to be fun. I am
not
having fun.”

She looked again at that white prick, now a little less certain of itself. Then she looked at the face, now contorted with anger and lust and painted strangely with the remnants of her lipstick. And she said, “Let me out right now.”

“We’re almost to 110th Street. You want to get mugged?”

“I’ve
been
mugged,” she said. “Let me out.”

He cursed and pulled up his fly and called to his driver.

The limo screeched to a halt. The locks popped. She jumped out.

Austin Arsenault pulled a fifty from his pocket and threw it at her. “Cab fare. I could have made you rich. And you blew it. . . . Or didn’t.”

The big Lincoln growled on through the snow. And for a moment, Jennifer Wilson felt completely alone. She hadn’t been raped. But it felt like it.

What would she do? Think on it. And walk the dog. Little Bits loved the snow.

She looked around for a cab, then she cursed. She had left her briefcase in the limo.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, the briefcase was on her desk, along with a bouquet of red carnations, poinsettias, and evergreens.
A Christmas bouquet
.

She almost threw the flowers in the wastebasket. But now that they had been delivered, tossing them would prompt more gossip among the paralegals than if she kept them on the windowsill.

She opened her briefcase and inside was the blue box with a note: “You forgot these. Thanks for your good counsel last evening. Your well-considered responses remind me of the things that are always more valuable.”

Like what? His marriage? She still hadn’t figured that one out.

“I look forward to further conversation about estates, markets, or anything else.”

So, it was going to be like that, was it?

She had spent the night considering her options vis-à-vis Austin Arsenault. And she didn’t think she had any. She had done a turn with the DA’s office. She had seen how a good defense attorney, representing a well-heeled gentleman of a certain age, could shred the testimony of any young woman: “And after he bought dinner, he gave you a Tiffany’s box in the back of a limo, and so you kissed him, and then . . .”