The Crasher (50 page)

On Sunday, trying to bury her misery, she’d gone over to a new restaurant bar in the Bowery to meet up with the same crowd
she’d met at Marilyn’s opening, including, it turned
out, the Indian psychiatrist. He’d asked for her phone number and told her to call him what sounded like “Chili.” His soft,
purrlike voice and gentle kindness were as soothing as a warm bath, particularly after drinking several glasses of California
chardonnay. All the same she was relieved to discover she had a good excuse for refusing, when he wanted to take her home.
His motorbike was outside, he’d said with a flash of white teeth in his dark, handsome face. “Sorry, not this time,” she’d
said sweetly, pointing out she was wearing her inflexible “tweed” skirt. “And I can’t ride sidesaddle. I’ll get seasick.”

Before “Chili” knew what he was up against, Lee, who never liked to see Ginny getting embroiled with a man, had whisked her
away in her usual Big Apple sedan.

At last there had been a message from Alex on her machine. He’d called at 9:05. Not much of a message. “Really sorry we couldn’t
get together this weekend. I’ve had a small problem to deal with…”

Black pearls, she’d thought bitterly, or diamond and sapphire earrings? Or would they be considered a big problem, as opposed
to a small one?

“By Wednesday, I’ll call you by Wednesday to see what suits you best,” he’d said in a voice she hardly recognized, quiet,
sad, lost.

She’d played the message back twice, each time hearing more suffering in his voice. Of course, he was suffering with his mother
so ill, so far away. Why couldn’t he go to the West Coast to be with her? “I’m in hell,” he’d said the week before. More likely
in hiding. From the police? From avengers of Svank’s death? Whoever he was hiding from must surely now know of their relationship?
Otherwise he could hide out with her.

Ginny agonized over what she could do to save her cousin from more grief. He may have brought everything on himself, but she
couldn’t let him down now.

The more she thought about it, the more she remembered the Alex of other years, always being there for her when she
was growing up, coming to her rescue during childhood dramas, buoying up her hopes, teaching her how to live. Now he needed
her. She couldn’t turn away, not with his mother, Aunt LU, at death’s door.

On Tuesday morning, as Johnny was waking up to his new vision of himself, Ginny found more pictures from Oz in her mailbox.
This time he included a copy of her old contact sheet and shots Ginny had no idea he’d taken of her at Esme’s wedding in the
blush bridesmaid dress, pre-renovation. Her heart beat fast; also in the envelope was a full-length shot of her in the cloak,
looking forlorn as she used the wrong entrance and climbed the steps of the New York Public Library.

When the phone rang around ten, she knew it would be Oz.

“What do you want?” She tried to keep her voice calm, unthreatening, and unthreatened. “Why send me those pictures?”

“You’ve always liked being a woman of mystery, haven’t you, Ginny? When I came back to town over the weekend I wasn’t surprised
to learn you were still playing games, but they’re quite serious games now, aren’t they? I must say you fooled me, and I can’t
understand what you’re playing at even now.”

When she remained silent he snapped, “You owe me and a lot of people some explanations, don’t you? Are you getting a kick,
some kind of weirdo feeling of power outa all this mystery woman stuff?”

Her mind raced, trying to think of a way to placate him without seeing him, to end the conversation without his feeling snubbed
or rejected. Even as she played for time, she knew she was doomed to failure.

“Come over to the studio, tonight, about seven. I’d like to try some new shots of you, mystery woman. Then we’ll go out and
have dinner or something equally interesting.”

“I’m not sure I can, Oz. I’m-”

“You can darling, believe me you can. Be here, no later than seven.” He didn’t add “or else.” His tone of voice said it for
him.

It was blackmail, but she had no alternative. If she didn’t see him, didn’t attempt to explain why she’d gone home without
him that night, quite apart from explaining, as she had to Esme, why she hadn’t claimed the Napoleonic nothing-but-trouble
cloak, who knew what he would do to ruin her? She had to make peace; she had to make nice; she had to act as if she was about
to fall under his spell and be seduced without letting him lay a finger on her.

She was thankful she had such a busy, chaotic day ahead She wouldn’t have much time to think about her problems, finding props
for Lee, who as usual was working on the November issue in May, having to shoot winter scenes, although the sun was beginning
to put in an appearance outside.

Ginny wasn’t so thankful when she raced home to find she’d missed two important calls, one from Johnny at 2:15 from National
Airport, on his way back to New York; one from Alex at 3:40 from-who knew where. Neither message gave her any pleasure. Johnny
would see her sometime soon, thank you very much. Alex didn’t even deliver that much information. “Alex here. I’ll call back
later.”

It was no use relying on anyone except herself.

For the dreaded evening ahead she changed into the khaki military jacket, this time with a thin black cotton turtleneck and
black leggings. She also wore a bra. For her, wearing a bra was like wearing armor. It would act as a reminder that with Oz
she always had to be on guard.

She hadn’t been back to his studio in nearly two years and as she approached Canal Street, her old lack of self-esteem threatened
to surface. She shook her head to chase the feeling away. She was a different person, forced by circumstance to live without
dreams, aware of who she was now-and who she was never going to be.

Would the eardrum-bursting racket of Heavy D still engulf her as she climbed the five flights to Sodom and Gomorrah?

Would the studio door still be wide open to the world? Or, in keeping with the confrontation she was sure was about to take
place, would it be closed tight, so that she would have to
knock humbly for admission, the way it had been the night the gorgeous Jamaican girl had been curled up on the doorstep, the
night she’d almost succumbed to Oz, swept off her feet with too much wine and self-pity?

When she turned the corner to arrive at what she remembered as a decrepit, run-down entrance, she thought for a minute she’d
come to the wrong address. It was almost impossible to believe that the modern structure she was now looking at was the building
housing Oz’s studio. She went back to the corner to check the street sign. It was the right street, the correct address, but
it looked as if it had been through the most exacting car wash or dry-cleaning experience and then some.

She couldn’t remember whether there had ever been windows in the building-in those days she hadn’t exactly been paying attention
to the architecture--but if there had been windows, they were all gone now, to be replaced by a smooth, soaring sepia stone
facade, punctuated only at street level by an immense pair of stainless steel double doors with no apparent handle or doorbell.

She had to look hard to find the doorbell, which together with an intercom, also in stainless steel, was set into the left-hand
wall.

It was immensely discreet. Ginny pressed, there were two beeps, and a robotic voice said, “Name please.” She gave her name.
There was no response, but in seconds the massive doors slid apart to reveal a long, stark-white hallway from which a jet-black
staircase coiled upwards like a snake with no visible means of support.

There was no raucous Heavy D. In a strange way it was worse; there was no sound at all. Chilling. As she was about to start
the long climb up, she heard a soft swish and another stainless steel door in the snow-white hall slid open. She couldn’t
believe it. An elevator.

Oz obviously had arrived. With no other tenants or names listed anywhere, could this mean he’d arrived to the extent he
now owned the building? The whole place shrieked money, tons of money. Was there no justice in the world?

Ginny stepped nervously inside the elevator. It was totally mirrored, the floor, the walls, the ceiling. It made her think
of another photographer, recently deceased, who was reputed to have had a small mirror attached to the sole of his shoe, for
furtive glimpses up a woman’s skirt She looked down at the floor. She could clearly see a tiny wool thread hanging from the
crotch of her leggings. She shivered. It was too creepy.

Which floor? There were no apparent buttons to push. She didn’t need to know. The elevator quickly swished upwards, a blue
light signaling each floor until she reached the top. The doors opened immediately onto what she supposed had once been the
old studio. Now it looked like a penthouse from
Architectural Digest
with a sweep of floor so luminous and gleaming it could have been made of porcelain. It was easy to see why: beams of silver-hued
light shone down onto it from a skylight in the domed ceiling.

She could imagine how the new faces, those desperate model wannabes, felt as they were precipitated without warning into a
sudden, unexpected audition, having to cross what seemed like an acre of floor to the sumptuous sitting room, a few steps
down.

There, Buddha-like, Oz sat cross-legged on a low, lush chrome silk-covered divan.

It was so calculated, so pretentious, so over-the-top in its orchestration, Ginny had to fight not to burst into hysterical
giggles. Cut it out, Ginny. Show Oz how impressed you are. Don’t lose everything before you’ve even begun.

At the far end of the transformed studio, chiffon sheers gently billowed against floor-to-ceiling windows, the result, Ginny
supposed, of a well-positioned but invisible wind machine. She could still see dimly the high cranes of New York Harbor, but
the view was all that remained the same.

Oz patted the fat cushion beside him. It was then Ginny smelled the thick sweet scent of pot and saw he was smoking.
“So there you are, mystery woman, and exactly on time. D’you like what you see? D’you realize what you missed?”

What was he trying to imply? That she’d missed the boat as a model? That if she’d only persevered, with his brilliant photography
she would have finally made it? What a lot of bullshit. He didn’t know what he was talking about and he didn’t care. Facts
had nothing to do with the world he inhabited, but Ginny sank down beside him, smiling, nodding, hoping her teeth could still
be described as fascinating.

“You see that resin table over there? It cost ten thousand bucks and almost as much to bring here from Istanbul. Come with
me.” She’d only just sat down, but Oz pulled her up by her shoulders, and although she showed no sign of resisting, he pushed
her roughly over to the back of the loft, where she remembered so long ago she’d timidly joined a gaggle of gorgeous models,
advertising men, and Lee Baker Davies helping themselves to a still-life wonder of a buffet supper.

Now a series of curved lacquer screens stood in the buffet’s place. They hid another staircase with frosted glass treads,
which led down into what looked like a dark pit of iniquity.

“How… how… decadent.” She’d meant to say decorative, but the true way to describe the scene slipped out.

Oz smiled as if she’d given him a present. “I thought you’d appreciate it. It was Peregalli’s idea to put the bedrooms down
there and open up this floor to get there. He usually doesn’t take on small jobs, but this whole area of New York reminded
him in a strange way of Milan.” Oz swiveled her around to face him. “You know who Peregalli is, I take it?”

Oz was so intent on showing off, he didn’t notice or probably care that she shrugged, because she hadn’t the slightest idea.
“He’s created what he calls a series of metaphysical rooms down there… in extinct volcano lava colors, with wonderful images
of past civilizations, chains, slaves, pain and pleasure…” Oz sounded as if he’d memorized everything he was saying from an
overwritten catalogue. “Shall we explore now-or later?” He still had her shoulders in a tight grip, but at least it was only
her shoulders.

She knew she should be alarmed, perhaps even terrified at what Oz had in mind. Instead she felt sorry for all the little damsels
in distress he must have introduced to his “metaphysical” rooms, chaining them to one of his cold lava-colored floors, rather
than… Ginny blinked away the memory of collapsing onto the deep pile of Johnny’s sitting-room carpet.

The phone rang. Oz frowned. “Shit, but I better answer it. I’m expecting a call from Steve-Spielberg,” he said over his shoulder.
There was a clue in all of this. More than anything, for some inexplicable reason, Oz wanted to impress her. It was probably
the same old reason as before. She was one of the few who’d gotten away and he still couldn’t stand it, being the kind of
guy who never gave up until he scored, when his fascination would be over instantly, one, two, three.

So what was she to do? Flatter him to death, over and over again, to defuse his hostility and make him think she was weakening-or
would weaken eventually.

Ginny went to sit on the divan, waiting to drown him in compliments on his return. It would be easy. The interior space of
the loft had been brilliantly redesigned. Ginny had to give Peregilli, or whatever his name was, credit for that. Softly curving
walls concealed lighting that created alcoves from shadows while highlighting certain pieces of unusual furniture; it was
a masterpiece of imagery.

From where she was sitting, she couldn’t even see where Oz went to pick up the phone, although she could hear his sharp staccato
laugh from time to time.

“This is the most fabulous place I’ve ever seen, Oz,” she breathed as he plonked down beside her. “Do you own the whole enchilada?
It’s incredible; such taste; such vision; you’re a genius.”

Had she gone too far? No.

“You’ve never thought so before,” he smirked.

“I was a dumb broad. Forgive?” She gave him her most radiant teeth-filled smile. To her horror he lunged over on top of
her, the sickly smell of his breath making her dizzy. “Don’t you want an explanation? Don’t you want to talk?” she cried.