Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(24)

We meet at Bistro 18 on Prince Street in SoHo. Jack Wilson runs the desk at Chappy that covers our products. Jack is my age and played baseball at Syracuse. We have a few college friends in common since I know some of the lacrosse players from there. He has black hair with premature gray evenly set around his head instead of just at the temples, and I think he’ll be completely white-haired in ten years. He’s about five seven, average build, but his face and neck are swollen from alcohol. The way cookie dough flattens when baked, his features have melted down to be almost flat and unrecognizable. There is enough left to see that it had once been a good-looking face but this now just makes him look unnatural and worse.

He’s very jolly, always backslapping and laughing too loud, head roving around and eyes active, constantly searching for the next excuse to bark another laugh and slap another back. He brought with him his schlep, Tyler Atwood, who goes by Woody. I have William with me. Woody and William are about the same age and regular abusers of the Chappy expense budget. They make the rounds to the strip clubs and massage parlors together, but in this area there is no one like Jack. He makes no pretense of doing actual office work but delegates it to Woody and others. He focuses entirely on forging that special bond of coke and strippers with as many on Wall Street as possible. The more people that join the Jack Wilson Club, the more money he makes.

He’s out to the morning hours four or five times each week. He knows the best coke dealers, and as their best customer, they all know him and give special treatment. They’ll meet him anywhere, anytime, with whatever he wants. If Jack’s with a group, everyone is taken care of. If he runs out, the dealer will send someone to stand on the corner outside the restaurant to deliver more.

Most strip clubs require that you pay real cash for play cash to give to the girls. Monopoly money that the girls cash back in with management at the end of the night. Keeps them honest, I guess. I heard Jack was recorded as having spent the second-largest amount of money in some club last year. First was some billionaire from Moscow.

“Hey, Jack.” His face is looking even puffier and more engorged than when I last saw him. He and Woody are leaning against the bar, vodka drinks in hand.

“Nick, how ya doing, my man? Looking good as always. Haven’t seen you in a few. How ya been? Everything good?” Jack has a way of asking multiple questions in his greetings, none of which requires a response.

“Everything’s good.”

“Good to see you, William!” Jack gives him a push and a laugh.

“Hi, Jack. Good to see you.” William is a little starstruck. We’re the customers, the Chappy guys have to entertain us, but Jack is a sort of legend. No one goes at it harder, and William and his friends have been repeating Jack Wilson stories for the last few years to the point they’ve created a demigod for themselves.

“Cocktails on the table, boys.” Jack turns to the bar, where six more vodka sodas are already poured. Two to me, two to William, and one more each to Jack and Woody so there isn’t a free hand among us. “Michael!” Jack calls to the headwaiter and they exchange nods and we walk to our table in back.

We drop into our seats, go to work on our drinks, and survey the restaurant. For an old New York restaurant known for its steak, this place always has pretty girls, and usually a few doubtful ladies loitering by the bar. “William, I hear you’re engaged.” Jack shakes his head. “You stupid bastard.”

“Yeah, I guess it was time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to get married. She was ready and I’m okay with it. I caved on this one. She’s talking about kids, but I’m not caving on that.”

“No? Never?”

“No way. Never.” William’s emphatic.

“So, you just decided to screw the same woman for the rest of your life?”

The table is quiet for a moment, appreciating the question. Jack has a point. “Well, I just didn’t want anyone else screwing her.”

“Her little sister is just as hot,” Woody says. “When are you setting me up?”

“Not a chance. I have enough to deal with right now.” Apparently William isn’t completely devoid of common sense.

“Yeah, what’s up?” I ask. I know it isn’t anything from the office monopolizing his time.

“Wedding planning. I’m getting pulled into more of it than I thought I would.”

“What kind of stuff?” asks Woody, inquiring about a foreign land.

“You can’t imagine how much. The place, the menu, the invitations, the kind of silverware, napkins, and chairs, the centerpieces, even the kind of doily under the drinks. That’s just part of it. There’s transportation and hotels, photographer, videographer, flowers, minister. All I want to do is the band.”

“Are you guys planning this yourselves?”

“No, we have a guy. Flaming guy. We still need to see stuff and make all the decisions. Every time I show a hint that I don’t care about something, she gets pissed.”

“Let me give you some advice, William,” I say. “Don’t tell her it doesn’t matter to you. They don’t care what your opinion is. Only that you have an opinion. Just pick something, then get out of bounds. She’ll probably pick something else, but she’ll appreciate that you offer an opinion.” I don’t totally believe this, but I do about fifty percent of the time, and it’s safe advice.