Bruce Wagner - Memorial

“ ‘Reasonable’? That’s a funny word.”

“All right, Joan: does that sound fair.”

Pause.

“I’m glad you’ve given this some thought, Lew.” She wanted to steady her nerves by sounding neutral before she pounced. “Do you want to know what I think sounds ‘fair’? Do you really want to know? I mean, are you interested.”

“Yes. I really am.” Short pause. Breathing. “I’m all ears.”

“If we’re going to have this conversation, let’s have it. I mean, for real. It’s 2006. Do you know what $5,000,000 is? I’ll tell you what it was a few years ago. The judgment against a British tabloid for leaking Catherine Zeta-Jones’s wedding photos.”

“That was 2,000,000. And it was overturned.”

“$5,000,000 is what certain friends of yours spend on bar mitzvahs. $5,000,000 is a bone you throw your alma mater.”

“I didn’t do college, hon. Remember? I’m a dropout.”

“OK, your brother’s alma mater. $5,000,000 is the call you get from your curator because she’s got a deal on a French commode. $5,000,000 isn’t even enough for the fund you draw on to pay off the chef who slices a tendon while cooking for you and Al Gore, or Billy Joel, or Tiger Woods, or Grand Duke Henri, or whomever. Lew, I’m a big girl. I’m gonna go away and I mean it. I want to go away. I don’t have any fatal attractions — I just have natal attractions.”

He laughed again. All good.

The warmth returned to their negotiations.

“I finally figured out who you remind me of.” Short pause. “Maureen Dowd.”

“I’m already out of your hair, right? I mean, what could possibly have been easier? You’ve got $11,000,000,000, or whatever it is you have, which will probably triple by the time our daughter reaches voting age.”

“It’s a girl?”

“I don’t know. I have a feeling.”

“Have you thought of a name?”

“Guerdon.”

“Ha! I guess that’s better than ‘LLC.’ So: how much, Joanie. What are we talking?”

“20. Isn’t that what Barkin got? Sans enfant.”

Long pause, then:

“That was a marriage, Joan. Long-term.”

Long pause, then:

“I don’t know what she got.”

Long pause, then:

“Done. Sold. Signed, sealed, undelivered.”

She began to shake.

“I don’t want to sound cold, but if you don’t carry to term—”

“Don’t even go there.”

“They’ll call— I’ll call — when everything’s ready to go. With the doctor, then the agreement.” (She could tell that his pulse had remained steady throughout; that was the thing about him that turned her on.) “Did Barbet tell you I want to keep the model?”

“I told him. You told me.”

“He wants a hundred-and-50,000 for it. Can you believe the gall? That’s a dealbreaker, Joan.”

“I’ll take care of it.” That’s it, then. That was the caveat. Home free. “What are you going to do with it? You’re not seriously going to put it in the Gluckman gallery?”

“I don’t know yet. The Lost Coast. I love that title.”

“It’s only a model, Lew. It’s inchoate.”

“I like looking at it. It reminds me of you.”

THE men carried her upstairs on a gurney. Big Gulp was happy to be home; the cousins followed like an entourage. Thank God for those girls.

He put roses by the bed along with a dozen DVDs. A man from the computer store fixed her laptop so Ghulpa could use the Internet without a wire. When Ray surprised her with that, she said, “Oh Gawd!” and got happy as hell. She was even nice to the Friar, who, thankfully, was on best behavior. The old man hadn’t the energy to take him for walks, relying on the Center instead. Still, Cesar was right — exercise was doing the trick. The little fellow was a champ, and acting the total gentleman. His animal sense probably picked up that BG was carrying.

A gaggle of Artesians prepared food in the kitchen while Ray showed off a copy of the settlement papers. She smiled broadly, resting a swollen hand on her gut. He reiterated that it came to half a million, free and clear. She asked When? and he answered, Any day now. Ghulpa rubbed her stomach like one of those sleepy, big-bellied buddhas — it was about the best homecoming she could have had. She kissed the old man on the mouth to show her pleasure (at being home again too), nothing fancy, but a cousin who came into the room with soup sniggered and quickly disappeared.

HE got his suit out of mothballs and slapped on the Old Spice. Big Gulp looked him over from the Sealy and bobbled her head, clucking and smiling. He said never mind about me, just make sure you stay put. He admonished a pair of cousins to make sure she did.

The plan was for Staniel to pick him up but at the last minute the detective phoned with an emergency. If it was all right, he’d meet Ray at the Dining Car. Might be a tad late.

Now the old man thought he’d be late, which, as host, would be in poor form. Not that it was anyone’s fault. He was too nervous to drive and wound up hailing a cab. He’d been to the bank and drawn out 15 C-notes — he knew the steakhouse wasn’t cheap (part of the reason why Ray chose the detectives’ atmospheric haunt) and his credit cards were maxed. These boys meant a lot to him. He wanted to do it up right and show them a good time; he’d even extended the invite to wives and girlfriends. Not all of the cops who broke down the door were available, and knowing Ray’s fondness for Cold Case Files, Detective Lake had petitioned a few “closers.” Staniel said he would probably recognize some faces from the TV show.

As it happened, he got there 1st. He told the maître d’ he was “with Detective Staniel Lake” and felt a surge of pride on being escorted to a large table in the back room — just like he was LAPD. Slowly, the younger officers began to arrive, and introductions were made. They were a handsome, bashful bunch with big gold rings and a lot of hair. (All wore suits; Ray was glad to be “in uniform” himself.) The seasoned investigators came in a 2nd wave, paunchy and ruddy and not afraid to show their wild side. A few rounds of drinks were consumed before Staniel finally made an entrance, all apologies. That’s when things really started loosening up.

Ray didn’t remember any of the men, even though some said they were present on the night of “the mishap” on Mercantile Road. True to Staniel’s word, there was a fellow from the cold case squad, and a detective from the West Side who Lake went to the Academy with.

No one brought a date — it was stag. They toasted the old man’s pending fatherhood (instead of congratulating him on the settlement, which might have been awkward) and pretty much treated him like one of their own. The officers never condescended or made him feel small; they seemed genuinely moved when he raised a glass to them and choked up. There was a nice mix, a good cross-section — a motorcycle cop, 3 of the SWAT guys who broke down the door (one said he was sorry about putting the cuffs on too tight, which triggered a whole, off-color discussion about hookers and handcuffs. Ray could see why they didn’t bring any lady friends along), the cold case chap, and a detective or 2, one of whom was retired. They were raunchy and “regular,” and didn’t censor themselves. They talked about the Aryan Brotherhood, “hot prowls,” baby-rapers, panty sniffers, and necrophiliacs — nothing was off-limits. Some of it Ray didn’t even catch. He swore to himself he’d never repeat any details to Big Gulp.