Bruce Wagner - Memorial

She drowsily focused on another image byte — people in New York shouting, “Where’s my Xbox? They promised Xboxes but it’s a lie!”—before drifting off to sleep.

THEY were supposed to fly on to the small Swiss town of Rossinière, where Lew had been asked by the widow of the painter Balthus to see a dusktime outdoor puppet show, an invitation which, through the intervention of Louis Benech and Trinnie Trotter (who had codesigned the landscape for one of Samuel’s homes), took months to procure. Setsuko and her daughter, Harumi, lived in “The Grand Chalet,” a converted hotel-castle, supposedly the largest of its kind in Switzerland. But at the last minute, the widow became ill and regretfully informed she must bow out. An intermediary told Lew that Setsuko would still be delighted if he came, even if it meant they might not meet. Since Harumi was in Los Angeles, as much as he wanted to visit the legendary place, Lew decided it wouldn’t be right.

THEY gave it to Goldsworthy.”

“What do you mean?” said Joan.

“I just talked to Eugenie — at Guerdon. They’re flying Andy in from Scotland next week so he can do his walkabout.”

“Barbet, what are you saying? We already knew that. We knew Andy was going to do something.”

“And we were correct. But evidently, it’s a little more than ‘something.’ From what I’ve gathered.”

“Like what?”

“No details immediately forthcoming.”

“So it’s totally over?”

“Let’s say we’ve gone from dark horse to black hole horse.”

“It isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing, Joan.”

“Lew would have called me. He’s knows I’m going up there with that fucking maquette!”

“You still are. And here’s to you, Mrs Frei-berg, Jesus loves you more than you will know. Wo wo wo. Maybe he’s going to make you a different sort of proposal. A decent one. You’ve already won the mother of all commissions, right?”

“Oh bull shit. Anything on Rem?”

“Definitely out. Outré. Rien. Rien Koolhaas! At least we didn’t lose to Dutch Schultz. Pointy-head bitch motherfucker.”

“I cannot believe this.”

“Well, you’ll always have Paris.”

She was so angry at Lew and herself and the world that she felt on the verge of serenity.

“What about the maquette?”

“Being trucked to Mendocino and delivered in a crate as we speak. In situ. What a situ- ation. Honey, look: I’m drinking and cannot be disturbed. The guys’ll meet you at the property.”

“But why?”

“For the unveiling.”

“Does Lew know about this?”

“Of course he knows! I told Frieberg I wanted him to see the thing, in the chapel. In twilight time. Goin to the chapel and we’re … gonna get mar-ried —not! Maybe it’ll turn him around. Isn’t that brilliant?”

“You mean he wants us to go through the motions. Sadist.”

“Motions? Um, no, not us, that would be you, ma chérie. ‘Distant as the Milky Way’… no shit. Your fucking motions made us who we are today! Or who we aren’t. I meant fucking motions. But don’t worry, Mrs Robinson. Still plenty o’ mems in them thar hills.”

That was last night.

She’d been home for 2 days, and now it was noon. She turned her phone back on. She was hungover from the Ambien CR. The jet was leaving at 3. Her conversation with Barbet seemed like a bad dream. She didn’t know whether to give it credence; Lew could be playing mindgames. Who was this Eugenie at Guerdon anyway? Maybe Barbet had a mole. A moll. A Molly. A fuckmole. She felt strangely secure, or at least secure in her own insecurities. It was probably because of the baby. As fanatical as it seemed, Joan still wanted the Napa commission more than anything; maybe even more than the child itself.

She turned on the Impressa and listened to her voicemail while fishing soy milk from the fridge.

A blasé sobered-up message from Barbet wished her luck. He was going to his house in Rancho Mirage, shorthand for having made a new conquest. The Molly. He sounded depressed, and she knew what he was up to: fucking his way out of it, per usual. Call when you get to Mendocino so I can help coordinate. Completely unnecessary — she’d phone the art guys directly to make sure the model had arrived intact — but it was Barbet’s way of doing the team thing. The ARK thing.

Pradeep called from Delhi, saying what a wonderful time he had with her and how sorry he was they hadn’t hooked up before he left. Then came 2 rather tentative calls from her mom; she thought about waiting until she returned from up north but decided to check in.

“Mom? How you doing?”

“Joanie? Hello.”

“What’s wrong.” Silence. “Mom, are you all right?”

“Joanie — something happened.”

Her heart seized.

“What is it, Mother?”

“A man came to the house and said that I won a great deal of money.”

“Oh God.”

“Joan, please!”

“But when?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you — was he a scammer?”

“They think so. Yes. Please don’t be mad.”

“OK. OK. I won’t be mad. I’m not mad.”

Joan got the details, best as an agitated Marj could deliver, then made her read the phone numbers of Agent Marone and the bank officer so she could get in touch. She realized she’d been abrupt, and told her mother not to worry. She would ring back after making a few calls.

Shit.

There were 2 for Agent Marone, and she hoped her mom had gotten them right. She tried the 1st: voicemail. The 2nd was the antifraud division of the FBI. A woman asked if she wanted to be forwarded to his inbox but Joan declined, saying she’d already left a message on his cell. She thought twice and had them transfer, leaving word that she was Marjorie Herlihy’s daughter.

Then she called the woman at Wells Fargo.

“This is Cynthia Mulcahy.”

“Hi, Cynthia. It’s Joan Herlihy, Marjorie Herlihy’s daughter.”

“Hi, Joan,” said the woman, as if in condolence.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Have you spoken to Agent Marone?”

“I left a message on his voicemail.”

“You talked to your mom.”

“She wouldn’t tell me how much the guy stole.”

“About $550,000.”

“Oh my God!”

“I know,” she said, with a kind of warm yet steely sympathy. “A hundred thousand of that is insured by the FDIC. I’m not sure if your mother told you, but we got that back to her, and it’s resting in a special account. There’s no way that anyone — except Marjorie, of course — can get to it.”

“But how are you going to catch the guy? I mean, I’ve heard about this stuff and they never recover what’s…”

“That’s not entirely true, Joan. Agent Marone is very good at chasing money. I’ve worked with him before, and he’s got a great group of forensic accountants. And, as I said, the federally insured amount has already been credited to her account, which is unusual. Most of the time that process takes 90 days, but we have Ruddy to thank for that.”

“Ruddy?”

“Marone. That’s Agent Marone. Have you seen her yet?”

“No — I can’t. The timing is horrendous. I’m on my way out of town on what is probably the single most important business trip of my life. I’m not sure what to do.”

“I understand. If it’s any consolation, the banking industry is in the middle of a virtual pandemic in the area of geriatric fraud. And the people who took money from your mom are probably better at it than any group I’ve ever seen.”