Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(40)

“I love you so much, Julia.”





PART III


Nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future.

—ALEXANDER SUPERTRAMP





15 | SOHO GRAND


January 20, 2006

CHAPPY CAN BROKER A SINGLE TRADE THAT GENERATES enough commission to warrant a celebration. These types of trades can come together over a period of days or in an instant. Celebrating only in response to a big commission would make Chappy seem cheap, so there are also arbitrary parties. Celebrating without cause is the key to swagger.

Tonight is in response to a trade we put through Chappy. The brokerage fee on the transaction is about six hundred thousand and Jack Wilson will spend a good piece of that tonight. At any rate, I’m in an elevator at the Soho Grand on the way to a suite Chappy has for the night. I used to crave this kind of night. Like rounding the bases after hitting a home run, I thought I would always have the energy for it. Now I have the premonition of a heroin addict who looks down at the needle in his arm with the vague recognition that this crap will kill me one day.

Jack knows enough not to put the room in his name anymore. He’ll have some broker on his desk do it and let him know the expense will be covered. I get off at the penthouse level and go to Chappy’s suite knowing exactly what I’ll find. The Soho Grand has two penthouse suites, one with a view north and one with a view south. We’re in the southern-facing one looking over Canal Street to the Statue of Liberty and Staten Island. I hope the northern one isn’t rented.

There’s a full bar set up but no bartender. Any other party would have bartenders and a few cute waitresses to pass hors d’oeuvres, but this party needs more discretion. I count five hookers in the room, each with a martini glass and a grip on the stem as though it were a ski pole. One bends down over the coffee table to rip a snort of cocaine. She straightens up like the yellow plastic bird in chemistry class that perpetually dips its beak in water, and her momentum pours her martini down her chest. A pimply kid who could pass for nineteen tries to drink it off her.

“Nick, good to see you. What’s going on? What can I get you?” Jack Wilson seems to appear in a flicker next to me.

“Gin and tonic. I see I’m not too early.” It’s only 9 p.m. I usually try to avoid work functions on Friday nights. Even though I can sleep off the hangover, I’m hoping to make an early night of it.

“We got a jump on things.” Woody comes through a bedroom door on the other side of the suite, arm in arm with two more very attractive hookers.

“Not bad.” Jack follows my gaze to Woody and his two friends.

“Two grand each. They just got here. There were two others here earlier that were totally unacceptable and I sent them back. I gave the agency an earful, so they sent along these two in mint condition. Obviously it didn’t take Woody long.”

A person eavesdropping might have the sense that we’re talking about pieces of fruit. Very expensive pieces of fruit. For a moment I imagine the cab ride home of the two hookers, scolded and rejected by a coked-up Jack Wilson. He passes my gin and tonic. My hand isn’t visibly shaking but I can feel it and I force myself not to slurp down the drink.

The suite is huge, especially by New York City standards. The main room is the size of a tennis court with various sofas and chairs organized to create different pods for conversation. The room is elegant and conservative, lots of dark woods, dark carpets, and mostly dark blues in the fabrics. It would take a guest twenty minutes to try out every available place to sit. The suite is not designed to provide for every possible need; rather it is designed to provide the sensation of having so much excess that the notion of having to meet a need vanishes.

The rooms have been renovated to have the feel of a modern club room with high-end entertainment systems. There are two bedrooms, a bathroom, a study, and a balcony connected to the main room. Everything looks to be in use.

“Hey, Nick!”

“How ya doing, Woody?” He’s still arm in arm with both hookers, who are surprisingly beautiful and no more than twenty years old. Poor things are probably fresh from some small town, just pretty enough to have a chance at a modeling contract with Ford or Wilhelmina, and like the rest of the new girls to the city, to pay the rent they end up waiting tables or promoting Bacardi rum in the bars. Or hooking.

“I’m excellent. Just survived a round with these two lovelies.”

“Mazel tov.” I’m looking down at my drink. The girls don’t seem to mind being talked about in the third person. They’re looking around but at nothing in particular.

“You should have seen the two that were here earlier. Jack traded up.” He smiles at Jack and gives the girls a squeeze around the shoulders.

“Nice.” I think I’m the only one feeling uncomfortable. “How’s the balcony?” I take a step out of the conversation toward the balcony doors.

“Nothing out there,” Woody calls after me. “It’s freezing outside.” I keep moving toward the balcony. “William and Ron are at Scores. They’ll be over later.” This is said as though it’s information I’ve been waiting for.

I step outside and the cold snaps me alert. The wind blows much harder at this height. The balcony is the size of a suburban living room. I walk past some metal furniture to the rail and can see the activity up and down Canal.