Michael Nava - Goldenboy

“Is the point privacy?”

“No,” Larry said. “The point is status.”

We came to a door. The red jacket opened it and stepped aside to let us pass. The room looked like the conference room of a particularly stodgy law firm; all dark paneling and copper fixtures, Winslow Homer paintings on the walls and even brass spittoons. There were a lot of people inside, including some of the cast members, milling around with the provisional air of people waiting for a party to begin.

“This is going to be business for me,” Larry said. “You mind being on your own?”

“No. I’m leaving in about an hour anyway.”

“Come and find me on your way out.”

I went over to one of two tables set with food. A dark-haired waiter asked me what I’d like. All that the various dishes had in common was that they were fashionable. There was sushi, crepes, antipasto, pasta salads, rolled sandwiches in pita bread, crudites, ham and smoked turkey, cheeses, and breads. I ate a bit of sushi. It wasn’t fresh.

Beside me a woman said, “Stick to the raw vegetables.”

I looked around. “Hello,” I said.

The woman who had spoken to me smiled. She had a round, pretty face. Her dark hair was streaked with two colors, burgundy and red. She was not, perhaps, as young as she looked. “You were in the play,” I said. “You played Edward’s wife.” “You came in with Larry Ross,” she replied, helping herself to a radish.

“You know him?”

“Only by reputation. He’s out of my league. Are you a lawyer, too?”

“Yes, but not that kind.”

“Expensive?” She bit into the radish with preternaturally white teeth.

“No, entertainment. I practice criminal defense.”

She drew in her cheeks a bit. “Who’s in trouble?”

“I’m not here on business,” I replied.

“Don’t be absurd. Everyone here’s on business. My name is Sarah.”

“Henry,” I replied. “You were very good as Anne.”

“I hope you’re a better lawyer than a critic,” she said, examining a piece of cauliflower. Suddenly there was applause around the door. The Zanes entered with Sandy Blenheim hard on their heels. As they swept past me, Irene Gentry and I caught each other’s eyes. She seemed to smile.

“The Macbeths,” Sarah said, dryly. She dropped the unfinished radish back on the tray and joined the Zanes’ entourage.

I turned my attention to Irene Gentry. In a black cocktail dress she moved across the room like an exclamation mark. Her long hair was swept over a bare shoulder. There were diamonds at her neck. Blenheim directed her and Tom Zane to a little group dominated by a white-haired man in a tweed jacket who was making a big show of lighting a meerschaum pipe. I moved closer to watch her. She laid a hand lightly on the man’s wrist as he spoke and his shoulders seemed to inflate. Her husband, meanwhile, had backed himself against the wall with a pretty girl. Blenheim watched them for a moment, then broke them up and brought Zane back into the group.

I was standing behind the man to whom Irene Gentry was speaking. She looked past his shoulder at me. Our eyes met and her face formed a question. A moment later she excused herself and came over.

“I know you, don’t I?” she asked in her famous voice.

“I wish I could say you did, Miss Gentry.”

“My friends call me Rennie.” She gazed at me intently and without embarrassment.

“Weren’t you the lawyer for Jim Pears?” she asked.

“Yes. Henry Rios. How did you know that?”

She smiled. “Sandy was very interested in buying the rights to the story as a property for Tom. Didn’t he approach you?”

“Yes,” I replied, “but he didn’t say who he was working for.”

“Tom’s his biggest client,” she said, absently.

“Well,” I replied, “I don’t know anything about acting but your husband seems a bit old to play Jim Pears.”

She seemed puzzled for a moment, then laughed. “I think the idea was for Tom to play you.”

“Me?”

“The boy’s lawyer,” she replied. “Of course, we didn’t know it was going to be you until we saw it on the news.” She glanced around the room. “It’s odd to find you here.”

I explained that I had come with Larry Ross.

“Oh, Larry,” she said. “He’s our-” She looked at me, as if for help. “Who was the Greek who carried the lamp looking for an honest man?”

“Diogenes,” I replied, guessing that she’d known that all along.

She said, “I’m not making fun of him, Henry. I admire him. More now than ever.”

I felt the heat rising to my face from my neck. “I don’t understand.”

She looked at me, tenderly. “Of course I know he’s ill,” she said. “We all know.” Her glance swept across the room.

“He doesn’t know that.”

She laid her hand across my wrist. “He won’t find out from me.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you enjoy the play?” she asked, dropping her hand, her voice light.

“Toward the end, especially.”

“Not because you thought it was ending, I hope.” She moved a bit closer. She smelled of roses.

“Your husband seemed to get his bearings in the second half.”

“Tom’s not a stage actor,” she replied. “But on the whole I don’t think he did too bad a job of it.”

“You would have been perfect to play Anne.”

Her smile was charming and wise. “Discretion is often the better part of marriage.”

Her skin glistened, faintly, as if moistened by dew. I felt an overwhelming desire to touch her. I took her hand. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” she replied, but then I suppose she was used to men wanting to touch her. “Tell me about Jim Pears. What will happen to him now?”

“The charges against him were dismissed,” I said. “He’ll never regain consciousness. Eventually, he’ll die.”

She studied me silently, then said, “You have the face of a man who feels too much.”

As there was nothing to say to this, I said nothing.

She tugged at my hand. “Come and meet Tom.”

Tom Zane stepped forward from the people he had been talking to and said to his wife, “You’re trying to make me jealous. “

This close, he looked to be in his mid-thirties. Small lines puckered the edges of his eyes and lips. His skin, still tanned, was faintly freckled. Clusters of broken veins had begun to surface around the edges of his nostrils, the sure sign of a drinker. He gave off the scent of an expensive cologne. His eyes were a deep, serene blue. Though he cast a blond’s golden glow it was diluted by his hard, false cheerfulness.

Irene said, “Tom, this is Henry Rios. Jim Pears’s lawyer.’’

Zane looked at me blankly for a moment, then said, “Oh, the gay kid. Sandy talked to you.”

“Briefly.”

Zane smiled. “You’re too good-looking to be a lawyer. You look more like a wetback gigolo.”

“I was at the play,” I said, ignoring the comment. “Your last scenes were very moving.”

“Or maybe a diplomat. Come on, Rennie,” he said, and took her from me.

“Join us, Henry,” she said, as her hand slipped from my fingers.

A circle of well-wishers formed around us and I stood at the edge of conversation as the Zanes received them. Irene — Rennie — handled them as skillfully as a politician and it appeared that she truly did not forget faces. Or names, or names of spouses, children, or dogs. She told funny stories on herself and listened to less funny stories which she made comic by her superbly timed reactions. Now and then, she’d lift her eyes and smile at me as if we shared a secret.

Tom Zane, on the other hand, seemed talented only at being admired. When he wasn’t being praised he looked off with a vague smile to the other side of the room. He drank three glasses of champagne and was about to take a fourth when Sandy Blenheim intercepted it. Tom surrendered the glass with a shrug. He nibbled at a plate of food that Blenheim brought him. He seemed both bored and bewildered. I excused myself to look for Larry.