Boy, Snow, Bird(8)
“Not terrible, but not great,” a girl in my group commented. “The hardest thing is staying awake long enough to give the coats back at the end.”
“Yeah, I think I heard Mr. Ramsey say that this thing’s gonna go on ’til six in the morning,” someone else said. We were sitting in the belly of the boat, looking over the deck plan. We’d already padded around the velvet-draped suites making sure the fire extinguishers were where they were supposed to be. We’d already stood silhouetted by the sunset, letting the lake breeze blow our hair into a golden haze around our heads as we tested the outer railings on all three levels. We checked the escape hatches and made each other locate them blindfolded, because the two more experienced girls said that sometimes the lights cut before the alarm went off. “When rich folks get drunk . . .” Betty began, and Dinah finished: “They burn money. Handfuls of dollar bills.”
I said I found that hard to believe.
Dinah sniffed, “Don’t, then,” but Betty said kindly: “Sweetie, I didn’t believe it either until I saw ’em do it.”
“Businessmen do all kinds of things we wouldn’t be able to understand,” Dinah said.
“It’s all the pressure they’re under,” Betty agreed.
I listened in silence, hoping that they’d say more. They were women so determined to think well of people that they made it seem effortless, and I hadn’t really come across their kind before.
“Baloney. We’re all under pressure. If these guys really do set dollar bills alight, they’re a bunch of devils,” said the girl beside me. She put a napkin around her neck and another one on her lap, took a sandwich out of her handbag and sank her teeth into it. She was a tidy eater, and like me, she had very dark eyes for a blonde. I’d also noticed her looking exasperated when the event director said it was his birthday.
Her name was Mia Cabrini, and I was paired with her at the coat check; we were on for the first three hours. I’d thought there’d be a busy period of checking in coats and then a slow period until it was time to give all the coats back, but the coat check never stopped being busy. These big shots were indecisive; they couldn’t make up their minds whether they were cold or not. Mia had a notepad and filled pages of it with shorthand. I didn’t ask her why.
When our first three hours were up, we switched with Dinah and Betty and “mingled” with the guests. Well, Mia mingled. I went out onto the top deck and smoked my leisure time away. The boat was going pretty fast; the solid brick and earth of the waterfront lagged stubbornly, it seemed to be having a hard time keeping up. We left streaks of light on the dark water behind us. Canapés were brought around, but the girls with the trays didn’t offer me any. The same went for wine; we weren’t supposed to drink. I watched wealthy men and their wives and dates dancing and playing cards and making deals: I will admire you exactly as much, no more or less, as you admire me. I will love you in the strictest moderation. Some couples seemed pleased with their negotiations and others were in despair. They looked around with drained faces and drank less than their friends did, barely wetting their lips so as to keep their secrets. Merchant families, mostly, descendants of Englishmen who’d gotten rich trading with the tsars and sultans and rajahs of long ago, then come over to America because all their money didn’t stop the aristocrats from snubbing them. Now their great-grandchildren just made a few investments here and there, and kept charitable institutions the way an average Joe keeps a pet. I’d read quite a number of lifestyle magazines over the years; you’ve got to have some sort of setting for your daydreams. At the end of the interview about the redecoration of a nursery or the refurbishment of a mansion, the reporter never failed to ask the price of a loaf of bread and a pint of milk at the nearest corner store, and the interviewee always knew the answer, down to the last cent—it reeked of research. So I got a kick out of seeing the stars of the show close up. Some of them even knew how to jitterbug. But I remembered my manners. I didn’t let anyone catch me staring. I reminded myself over and over again that I wasn’t at the zoo.
Mia came and found me when the band started playing “Pico and Sepulveda.” She grabbed both my hands and I let her lead our quickstep, trying to match the swing of her hips as we mouthed the names of Los Angeles streets at each other, streets neither of us had ever been on. Doheny . . . Cahuenga . . . La Brea . . . Tar Pits!
The thing about dancing when you’re hungry is that at the end of the song you find yourself sitting on the floor, or the nearest knee, whichever happens to be more readily available. I settled for a knee, and its owner got overfamiliar, put a hand to my waist, and said in my ear: “So she loves me.” It was Arturo Whitman, got up in all his finery, managing to look both drowsy and savage at once, as a bear might if forced to wear a tuxedo.
I said: “Arturo Whitman, are you . . . rich?”
He held both hands up in the air. “I’m not. I swear I’m not. Ask the guys I came in with. I’m just here to amuse them.” He gave me the once-over. “Same as you. What would you do if I kissed you right now?”
“Sock you in the solar plexus.”
“Do you even know where to find the solar plexus?”
“No, but I’d keep going ’til I got there.”
“Aw, she loves me not . . .”
I opened my mouth with that reckless joy that comes just before you give someone a genuine piece of your mind, but Mia pounced on us before I got started, crying, “Dr. Whitman!” They gave each other an odd, fleeting look with some kind of question in it. Arturo said: “Mia Cabrini. How the hell are you? Still involved in passionate love affairs with long-dead German philosophers?”