The Deal (13 page)

A harp started to play George Michael’s “Careless Whisper.” We both laughed.

“Are you here alone tonight, Angie?”

“Actually, I am. My father got held up out west on business, so he and my mother were unable to get back in time. I’m representing the whole family.”

“Whole family, meaning you’re an only child,” I mentioned. “So am I.”

We paused and both immediately focused again on the ridiculous song. More laughter.

“Nothing like the classics,” she quipped.

The setting for the party was definitely happening, yet far from standard. It was very Sam Archmont. Very in line with a financially loaded sixty-nine-year-old party machine marrying his sixth wife, a twenty-three-year-old dancer from Scores. The huge pool had been covered over with Plexiglas, acting as the dance floor, while the surrounding terrace was where the tables were placed. No assigned seating, just tables to casually sit at whenever you felt like eating. There was to be no set dinner, just trays of mouthwatering hors d’oeuvres to be passed throughout the entire evening. Very chic. The actual ceremony was to take place by the water.

We started to walk together as we talked, and I noticed a few people slow dancing over the turquoise water as the sun continued to lower. The sky was starting to melt into neon streaks of pink and orange.

“Care to dance? I think we still have a little bit of time before the ceremony.”

“You don’t stop with the charm, do you? Are you as good with your feet as you seem to be with your mouth?”

Now we were getting somewhere. We stepped on to the edge of the dance floor, and casually, gently pulled each other close around the waist with our left arms as we held our champagne glasses with our right. I could feel her tight lower back muscles underneath the soft material acting as her second skin. I was so close that I could see the tiny yellow speckles scattered within the color of her eyes. Her subtle, flowery smell was intoxicating.

“I never asked,” she continued, “which side of the marriage are you here for? You better not say you know the bride through work.”

“Very cute. Actually I’m here with Sam as well. I came out of the city for a quick business meeting earlier, and he asked me to stay for the party.”

“You seem young to be riding out to Sam Archmont’s Hamptons house for a private business meeting right before he gets married. Should I be impressed?”

“I don’t know. That depends on what impresses you.”

At that moment a waiter appeared carrying a tray of chilled vodka shots in assorted flavors.

“Interested?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.”

I was. I took one straight up.

“Why not,” she decided. “We’re celebrating, aren’t we? I’ll have one of the vanilla.”

We clinked our tiny glasses and drank the shots, immediately placing them back on the tray of the waiting penguin. By this time the harp player had moved into Billy Ocean’s “Suddenly,” and we were again dancing ever so slowly. It was at this time that I noticed a crowd gathering on the opposite side of the terrace. We once again cleaved our way through the sea of guests. As we approached, we looked at each other as the thick, unmistakable smell of marijuana became stronger with each step.

Like I said, not your run-of-the-mill wedding. A crowd had gathered around a table that had a hookah in its center, a hookah being a water pipe with the extraordinary capability of letting five different people smoke from it at the same time. The apparatus is quite simple. In the center is the main water chamber and bowl where the weed is actually lit. Around it, extending from the center like tentacles from an octopus, are five equidistant, thin rubber hoses each with a mouthpiece.

This was classic. In spot number one was an older man wearing an Armani tuxedo, balding and holding a Jack Daniels in his free hand. I would have never guessed his profession if it hadn’t been for one of his buddies yelling, ‘Hey, counselor! You learn to smoke that shit at Harvard?’ In spot number two was a very distinguished looking woman, slender and tall wearing some of the finest jewelry I have ever seen to go along with her black evening dress. She appeared to be a socialite type, the kind who seemed like she ran a large philanthropic organization or sat on the board of one of the museums. In spot number three was Teddy, one of the waiters and the crowd favorite. In spot number four was the bride-to-be wearing, believe it or not, something that resembled a barely-there wedding dress made mostly of Lycra. In spot number five was Timmy, the florist for the affair and a man gayer than a pastel rainbow.

Everyone got ready and another waiter, standing on a chair in order to reach the center chamber, lit the bowl perched atop. Through the brown glass we could see the small pile of pot flare up as smoke funneled into the five participants’ lungs. Ms. Socialite, coughing, was the first to pull away.

“Who’s up next?” asked the man whose job was to ignite the giant pot instrument.

“We are,” Angie chimed in.

“We are?” I responded, surprised.

“Trust me, charm boy,” she continued half-jokingly, “I’m not half as innocent as you think.”

The crowd, drawn to Angie’s sexiness just as I was, started to clap and hoot, egging us on. Truth is I didn’t need any coaxing. I had simply been trying to be a gentleman and, I must admit, I was genuinely shocked by her versatility. Something that, for better or worse, immediately reminded me of myself. We took our places, and within moments were drawing the delicious smoke for ourselves, our eyes teasingly glancing at each other the whole time.

Eventually it was time for the wedding. Rows of chairs were set up facing the water. An ornate chuppah, made from what seemed to be a million different types of flowers, stood where the sea and shore met. A bit loopy from probably the wildest cocktail hour anyone had ever seen, all of the guests boisterously took their seats against the mixed sounds of the settling waves and the purring breeze. What was left of a beautiful day was creating a magical night. Soon the harp from up by the pool was once again playing, only now it had been brought down to the sand along with someone playing the violin.

I briefly turned around and admired the rear view of Sam Archmont’s house. Then my eyes started to again come forward, stopping at the sight of Angie’s striking profile. I glanced down, unable to control my eyes, at the blue satin spaghetti strap lying across her perfectly contoured shoulder. I lifted my eyes. Angie had turned toward me. Busted. She loved it. Again, the lip curl.

At this moment a man wearing what seemed to be a tight, white tuxedo with gold trim began making his way down the aisle. He was very tall and very tan, stuck somewhere between bronze and orange as a result of all the time he had spent at the tanning salon. The odd thing was that not only was he wearing a tallis, he was carrying what appeared to be the ketubah, or Jewish marriage certificate.

“What is that?” I asked.

“That’s Rabbi Frank. He’s the hottest thing out East. He’s been doing all the weddings.”

A telling sign of the apocalypse. The “in” rabbi.

“That’s a rabbi? The way this party’s been going I figured he was the stripper.”

Angie started laughing.

As we made our way deeper and deeper into the evening, Angie and I never left the other’s side. A band showed up by the pool and we did some dancing, inching closer physically with each passing song. The pool was lit with bulbs underneath the glass, light shooting up into the night’s darkness from below us. I ran into a few people here and there I knew from the industry, introducing her almost as if she were, in fact, my significant other. There was that kind of a comfort level going on. What I still can’t decide on is whether everything was really happening as it seemed or if on some subconscious level I was seeing everything as I ideally wanted to. She was definitely hot, oozing with sexiness, reassuringly confident, the whole thing. But on the other hand, I was definitely fucked up.

After yet another chilled vodka shot on the dance floor, Angie put her mouth up to my ear so I could hear her over the music. As her warm words hit me I could sense that her lips were only a hair away from my skin.

“I need to excuse myself,” she said.

“Of course.”

She gracefully pressed her lips against the corner of mine as she softly put her hand on my cheek.

“Meet me in one of the upstairs bathrooms in five minutes. When you get to the top of the stairs just make a right and keep going. It will be the one farthest down.”

I went over to the bar and ordered what must have been my hundred and fiftieth drink, a chilled shot of Grey Goose to go with all of the others. Then I sent off a member of Sam’s staff to fetch my briefcase. I still had some last minute items to go over before the morning’s team meeting and my instinct was to head for the limo. But my sense of reason found itself trying, unsuccessfully, to get past the image planted in my brain. The one of Angie walking away from me on the dance floor, the rippling water’s reflection bouncing aimlessly off the shiny material covering her perfect body.

Within a minute the staff member returned with my briefcase, placing it at my feet. I immediately lifted it up, placed it on one of the bar stools, opened it and took out my cigar case. Even just a few minutes are enough for a couple satisfying puffs. Inside were three fresh Monte Cristo #2s. I pulled one out and rested the large, three-chamber leather carrier on the bar as I clipped and began lighting the thick, wide end. I began to savor the moment, eyes closed, when a guy abruptly rumbled up to the bar beside me. I reopened my eyes just as he picked up my cigar case, lifting it to his nose for a nice, long whiff.

“Pal . . . do you mind?” I started.

“Monte Cristo #2. Fantastic cigar.”

The guy turned to me.

“John Robie. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself once I smelled the aroma.”

John Robie was tall and in shape. His necktie was folded and in his shirt chest pocket. His top two buttons were undone. He was drinking a Diet Coke and reeked of way too much aftershave. Beads of sweat dotted his hairline. Again, he took my case and passed it underneath his nose. After another second’s thought I figured there was no harm done. The guy seemed on the level.

“Not a problem. You’ve got good taste.”

Truth is he did. There’s nothing better to smoke, that’s legal, than a Monte Cristo #2. But I only had these last three. Carolyn had ordered more that hadn’t arrived yet so I wasn’t feeling all that generous.

“How much you spend on a box of these?” John asked.

“Too much,” I responded. “But I’d pay even more.”

John ordered another Diet Coke. But as the bartender was pouring it, all of a sudden John started to nervously survey his surroundings. Like he was looking for someone, or something.

“You all right, man?” I asked.

“Yeah...I’m...yeah...”

He was answering me, even though he wasn’t really paying attention to me.

“My cell phone—” he continued.

His eyes finally settled on mine.

“I left my cell phone!”

Then, in a flash, John Robie went running toward the house weaving in and out of guests like some crazed lunatic. I looked at the bartender who was placing his fresh drink on the bar.

“You think he’s coming back?”

I looked at the bar next to the glass of soda where my cigar case had been placed. It was gone along with John Robie. All that remained was the small leather cap that slid on top.

“He’d better be—” I started.

I looked at my watch. It was almost five minutes, almost time for my post-party encounter with Angie.

“— and it better be soon. I’ve got an appointment.”

I wasn’t happy, but the truth is that what was waiting for me upstairs smelled a hell of a lot nicer than even those cigars. So, realizing that Robie was pretty jittery, which meant he could have run off with the case and not even realized it, I prepared to let it go. A couple of minutes later, I again looked at my watch. Eight minutes. I took one last slow-motion puff of my cigar and started to put it out in the ash tray.

All of a sudden Robie reappeared.

“Hey, sorry, man. I almost stole these from you by accident.”

“Don’t sweat it. You find your phone?”

Like I gave a shit. As I looked at the case in his hand I could see that one of the two remaining cigars, the one in the center chamber, was sticking up in its slot higher than the other. Almost like he had thought about pulling it out for himself before stopping. Mother Fucker I thought to myself.

“Yeah, yeah, I left it inside. I took off so quick because I put it down like an hour ago. But it was still there. Guess I got lucky.”

“Figured you were just running from the cops,” I joked.

I had noticed cops patrolling the beach after he ran. At that point I had run out of time for small talk. With my eyes I motioned to the stool beside me. Robie lifted the cigar case cover from the bar, recovered the two remaining Monte Cristo #2s and, as I turned back to the bar for one final swig, he placed the complete cigar case back in my briefcase. I turned back, shut it, and headed into the house.

It wasn’t long until I found myself on the stairs. Instead of crashing in the car and working for an hour or so before freshening up and heading to the office, there would be no sleep. There would strictly be work, once back in the limo, followed by a quick shower and my usual walk to the office. I got to the top and turned right, just as I was told. Looking back on it now, the time I spent walking down that dark hallway could have been ten seconds or ten minutes. I can’t quite remember.

Eventually I came upon a door that was closed but had light escaping out into the hallway from underneath. I knocked.

“Who’s there?”

The sexy voice was Angie.

“Rabbi Frank,” I replied.

“Come on in rabbi.”

I turned the knob and opened the door. Inside Angie was wearing nothing except a pale blue thong and her Jimmy Choos. Her feet were firmly planted on the floor and her strong, perfect legs were spread as she leaned, far, over the sink. Her head was turned back toward the door as she spoke to me.

“The party’s just about to get started.”