Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(19)

It’s her apartment, but at the moment the bathroom feels like my territory. I dry the last of the water from my face. “What’s up?”

She looks hesitant for the first time. “Where’s William?”

This is not a question I expect. “He’s definitely not hiding in the shower while I go to the bathroom.”

“I think someone brought cocaine here tonight.”

I can neither confirm nor deny this, so I don’t say anything and I hang the hand towel back on the bar.

She looks at me until she’s sure I’m not going to say anything, then walks out angrier than before. I close the door, reclaiming the bathroom for a moment of peace. I decide to take a seat on the toilet and count to sixty. I’d count more but I can’t abandon Julia that long. Before I’m halfway I hear Jen shouting from the living room. It’s time to find Julia and get out of here, so I open the door.

William has his palms up like he’s trying to signal oncoming traffic to stop. “Jesus, Jen. I just showed Conrad the roof deck.”

“And you stuffed cocaine up your nose while you’re at it.”

“No!”

“Don’t lie to me!”

Conrad looks guilty as hell and is too drunk to hide it. He won’t be any help, but he tries. “Hey, Jen. What’s the big deal?”

“Shut up, Conrad. You’re an ass and I want you out of my home!”

If William hadn’t been doing coke on the roof, he would put a stop to that. Instead he raises his eyebrows to Conrad in apology, which is the same as pleading guilty and throwing himself on the mercy of the court.

“William, we need to get going too.” I glance at my watch as I say this, which is pointless since I don’t even see what time it is. Julia is at my arm instantly. We say quick good-byes, get our coats, and are in the elevator even before Conrad can get kicked out.

If this night were a freak occurrence, we’d both be bent over laughing in the elevator, racing home to retell the evening so we each make sure the other caught all the subtle, sick moments. If we were twenty-two years old it might be okay.

“Nick.”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t have another night like that.”





7 | OLIVER AND SYBIL BENNETT


November 23, 2005

THE FOLLOWING WEEK WE’RE OUT TO THE DINNER WITH Oliver and Sybil that puts Julia and me far down the wrong path. Julia had let me know the plan to meet at the 21 Club in Midtown, a favorite with investment bankers for decades. Like all of these places with tradition, the older and uglier the waiters, the nicer the place. When the wealthy bankers aren’t out at their clubs in Long Island getting served by the ugly waiters there, they’re having cocktails at places like the 21 Club.

The restaurant is an old speakeasy and they still have the trapdoors and secret rooms where Hemingway and others would drink during Prohibition. From the sidewalk we have to go down a few steps to get to the unassuming front door that leads to a restaurant much bigger than you would expect from the outside.

The coat check closet is the first thing you come across. I help Julia off with her coat. She was in a great mood on the way over. If this holds, the night could actually be tolerable.

“There they are.” I hand over the coats and turn to see Oliver return Julia’s wave. She has the presence of mind to wait until I get the coat check stub rather than strand me there to go make her hellos across the room in the cocktail lounge, which is a bunch of old sofas and chairs next to a club bar. From there a hallway winds around to the actual restaurant in back.

We start over hand in hand to where Oliver and Sybil are seated in the lounge. Oliver has a slight build with pretty, feminine features and small round glasses like Harry Potter. It crosses my mind that his eyes need no prescription and that he just likes the look. He could be as tall as five ten but seems smaller. It’s not that he slouches but that his manner gives the impression that he’s always sneaking around corners and it shows up in him physically.

Sybil is pleasant enough. She’s quite pretty and quite plain. It’s as though Oliver picked her out based on a written resume of her appearance. Pretty blond hair, pretty blue eyes, perfect lips, cheekbones, and a little button nose, with a nice build. Above-average features everywhere, but when you put it all together and animate it, it is inexplicably plain.

Oliver stands to kiss Julia’s cheek and shake my hand. We cross-pollinate cheek kisses and handshakes all around. “We just put in a drink order,” Oliver tells us. “But they haven’t arrived yet. I’ll have them send the drinks to the table and we can go sit down.”

I resist letting Oliver direct traffic to start the evening. “Don’t bother, there’s no rush. We’ll have a drink here with you first.” I abruptly pull a chair to the back of Julia’s knees and move to sit down myself. It’s a reasonable enough gesture on my part but I can feel it comes from a need to get into a pissing contest. I know Julia sees my pettiness by the way she sits down.

The chairs seem as old as Hemingway too, with worn and fancy fabrics around wood armrests, and wide enough that you have a few spare inches on either side of your hips. They look like the kind of chairs you see in an old Newport mansion. The whole room looks unchanged from when they legalized alcohol.

“Well, I’m so happy this worked out,” Sybil says, smiling as she brings a hand down firmly to the top of her knee for exclamation. “I’ve been telling Oliver what fun it was spending time with you and what good new friends you are. I was so delighted to hear about getting together again.”