Chapter 31

Several miles away, a train pulled out of the New Rochelle station and made its way toward Manhattan.  This was the routine Edward had grown accustomed to.  His power in broadcasting gave him the license to live anyway he chose, and he had tried the limo life some years earlier but playing winning Bridge had paid for his college and the game on the 7:20 every morning was about the only reminder left in his life that winning could be difficult.  Winning in the Broadcast game was easy compared to Bridge, especially when playing against Tony the Deli owner; and Gloria the queen of Sutton Place’s hair quaffing business.  Not even the viper like focus of his playing partner, Alonzo -- a frail but no-nonsense battler of odds like no one Edward had ever had as a partner -- could make the daily game any easier to win.  The combination of Tony and Gloria was a partnership made in heaven, he thought many times.  But, it was just that, the insurmountable odds (they had even been New York 2016 Team Champions) that made the forty-five-minute ride to Manhattan sometimes the best part of the day. 

“Two clubs,” whispered Gloria across the small table.  Alonzo looked up from his cards and grinned.  “Oh, come on Alonzo,” smirked Tony, “You starting this beautiful Tuesday morning with a bat of those fake eyes again?”

Distraction not being a part of Alonzo’s world, he said without missing a beat, “They’re not fake.  Two hearts.

“Yeah, and Pastrami comes from chickens,” said Alonzo, “Three hearts.”

Edward did his usual favorite start strategy and rearranged his hand, took another moment to study, then, “While you two do your usual, Tony, I’ll just make a small comment… three clubs.”

Gloria crossed her legs and gave everyone a careful look and with a sardonic squeaky sucking of her teeth – a trademark that Tony had, after several years of commuting, grown to ignore – “I’ve got some knitting to do, Alonzo.  Three hearts.”

And so it went that Tuesday morning.  Edward found himself dummy for three somewhat quick hands and as the train pulled into Grand Central, paid out his share of the losses with a quick peel of four five-dollar bills.  “Keep the change, Alonzo.  You’ll need it tomorrow.”

“Now, Mr. Kronsky, you know I’m on a roll this week.”

Tony, recounting what was left of his rubber-banded roll, looked up as the train came to a halt, “The only roll you’re gonna have the rest of this week is maybe in bed, Alonzo.”

Alonzo affectionately patted Tony on the knee, “Oh, Tony, you say such sweet things sometimes.”

Edward rose, “Well, see you tomorrow gang,” and proceeded to exit the train.

“Anon,” quipped Gloria.

Edward had had a pleasant commute, was without regrets on the losses, having collected fifty six dollars the week.  He wasn’t, however, prepared for his first disturbance of the day; a front cover of EXXIT, the secondary rag publication of Harrison and Hurito’s magazine world, carrying an unflattering picture of Senator Thorne caught in the act of playfully lifting his “Batman” mask at a Halloween party two weeks earlier.  The picture, along with its caption, “Will the real Senator Thorne ever step forward?” was the kind of unwanted publicity that, especially coming a week prior to an election, could only mean there would be a phone call from the Senator waiting for him in his office.

***

The telephone rang on Ari’s desk.  He finished pouring water into his coffee maker and answered, “Yes.”

The voice of Michael the doorman announced over his speaker box, “You’ve got a visitor, Sir, a Mr. Quinlan.”

Ari’s eyes froze on the floor beneath him. 

“Sir?  Should I bring him up?”

Ari switched ears and with hesitation said, “He’s come a long distance... please.”

As Max climbed aboard the freight elevator with Michael, he realized his hand was asleep with his Carpal Syndrome problem.  All from gripping the suitcase so hard.

Ari unbolted the heavy door to his loft and was greeted with the ice-cold eyes of the man he had made into a raging hormonal anomaly in less than twenty-four hours. “Long distance, indeed,” came Max’s monotone greeting.

Max.  Yes… so, come in.”

Both men realized this kind of moment would be awkward if it ever occurred, but both now realizing it had, neither was really prepared past a soap-opera-look-a-like-imitation for the deafening silence they experienced as the door shut behind them.   They each stood motionless for a moment.  “Well,” said Ari breaking the silence.  “Coffee?  I just made it.”

“Scotch,” came Max’s curt reply.

As Ari crossed to his liquor cabinet, he smiled to himself.  “This really isn’t a scotch moment, Max.  You may think certain things, but…”

“And what might I be thinking, Ari?”

Ari reached up and took down a bottle of Johnny Walker Black.  “Well, my guess is you think there’s something going on between your wife and me.”

“Easy guess.”

“Of course.” Ari handed Max the glass.  “But not true.”  Ari motioned for Max to sit down on the large moss green leather couch that dominated the center of the spacious open area.  Situated before Max was an elaborate antique door converted into a coffee table, the weathered panels holding miniature bonsai trees surrounded by polished black pebbles.  Max glanced about him noting the miscellaneous tables with stacks of digital pictures scattered in between computers, scanners, printers and magazines.  The three walls of two-story windows filtered the early sunrise casting a surreal color across the cavernous room.  As Ari poured himself some coffee, Max asked, “What am I supposed to think you did for four weeks?”

Ari walked up and straddled the matching chair.  “That’s a hard one to answer because when we parted we were asking the same question.”

Ari’s words seemed to suspend themselves.  There was a sudden reprise of images from the plane flight that Max was not ready for.  It was as if a moment of reality, a moment of clarity had presented itself and Max was unprepared.  Time stopped for that experience.  Max the doctor, Max the director, Max the protector was expected to be beyond such mortal doubt, but doubt it was.  For the first time; again all happening in that split second of unknown light, Max, the professional, who his closest friends had euphemistically labeled “The Man For All Seasons,” was suddenly a man without confidence; a young man with adolescent fluids rushing through his body at Mach speed; a boy who had just suspected a schoolmate was lying to him; a child named Max that felt suddenly out of control. 

Max lunged, throwing his drink in Ari’s face and shouting “You  Bastard!”  Ari fell backwards with Max grappling like a school boy about his neck, trying to hold his head down on the floor with a hammer lock. 

“Jesus,” gasped Ari.  “You’re choking me!”

“No, I’m killing you, you son of a bitch!  You have any idea of what you’ve done?  Any idea?’

Ari slipped out for a moment only to be overcome once again by Max’s blow to his face, “Even a clue how long it took to get her to this stage?” Ari grabbed for a light stand and slammed Max in his rib section sending him down.  Max knelt momentarily with his head hanging limp to his chest.  The tears could no longer be withheld and as he purged the pain of emotion, the pain of ribs that felt severely bruised, and the agony of his deepest fear, “You have no rights!” 

“Neither do you!” Ari blurted out.  Suddenly Ari’s legs were pulled out from under him by the vice like grip Max placed on his ankle.  The two men acting like school boys continued to exchange blows until both bloodied and exhausted collapsed onto the couch, staring down at the bonsai trees. 

“Feel better?” asked Ari.  Max out of breath and still heaving said, “Haven’t been in a fight for 30 years.”

“This macho shit is over rated,” quipped Ari, wiping his nose with his shirtsleeve.  “But, now it is indeed a scotch moment.”  He rose and staggered to the liquor cabinet, grabbed the Johnny Walker with his left hand, a bottle of Belvedere with his right, and stumbled back to the couch.  Opening both bottles, Ari handed the scotch to Max to pour his own and lifted his vodka bottle to his lips, toasting,  “To the compelling lady named Samantha.” 

Max took a long drink and then looked across at Ari.  “To the other Samantha I better tell you about.”

Max fixed his eyes through the window at the tree outside.  The city he had remembered was coming back.  Leaves began to float away from branches and a trickle of moisture moved its way from eyelid to cheek.

***

“And what is that supposed to mean?  I leave my career behind for a few weeks, and you…” Another phone rang.  Samantha stepped over the mess of strewn clothes from her closet and cradling the white phone, searched for the cordless whose incessant ringing was stretching her already thin patience.  ‘And you can tell him another thing for me,” she continued.  “Samantha Turner is the best thing that could happen to that hacked up script.  Without me, his two years and six writers have nothing because after the first draft the God Damn thing sucked and it still sucks… Why?  Why would anyone want to do the part?  Fucking Mother Teresa is one of the only feminine icons the world has anymore, that’s why… He says I’m what?  You tell him I don’t give a flying you-know-what for his research on ‘aging actors’ and that ‘Hollywood is changing’ crap.  Jesus, he wants me to believe that the saint can be played by that twenty-two-year-old.  Lennie, not even television would try that    You also tell him I’m not budging from that price because I’m worth every penny of it.”  Samantha finally found the cordless and yelled into the mouthpiece, “Yes?  Well, it’s about time.  It takes two hours for word of my call to find you on that lot.  Get a new telephone system.”

“I’m in editing and…”

“Shut up Jerry.  I’m not finished!  What the hell was that message supposed to mean, ‘…he’s got some unfinished business in New York and will get here as soon as possible?’”

“Just that, Samantha,” Jerry whispered back into the mouthpiece, “but there’s nothing more to add and I’m in the middle of an edit that has the studio biting their nails down to the quick.  I’m sure he’ll be there soon.” 

Samantha leaned back into the other phone, “Don’t you tell me you’ve got to go.  We’re not finished yet.”

“Samantha,” Jerry exclaimed in hushed tone, “…you’re being…”

“Oh, Christ, not you, idiot,” came Samantha’s exasperated reply back to Jerry, as she threw the cordless across the room and concentrated on the other call.  “You’re my agent for six years and…” Suddenly the sound of the hung-up line hit her.   She slammed the phone back into its cradle.  “You can be replaced too, you spineless creep!” and fell back on the bed.  The ceiling of her bedroom had been painted like a 16^th century artist’s impression of servants and royal visitors bowing to the draped body of a woman and her child.  Tears welled up In Samantha’s eyes.  As she closed them, her child voice betrayed the Samantha of a minute earlier.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it.  What’s happening?  What’s happening?”