The Bonfire Of The Vanities Part 52

When Fallow and Arthur Ruskin reached the restaurant, Fallow pushed the bra.s.s revolving door for the old man. Ruskin lowered his chin slightly, and then he lowered his eyes, and the most profoundly sincere smile spread over his face. For an instant Fallow marveled that this gruff barrel-chested seventy-one-year-old man could be so grateful for a gesture of such innocuous politeness. In the next instant he realized it had nothing to do with him and his courtesy at all. Ruskin was merely feeling the first ambrosial radiations of the greeting that awaited him beyond the threshold.

As soon as Ruskin entered the vestibule and the light of the restaurant's famous sculpture, The Silver Boar The Silver Boar, shone upon him, the fawning began in earnest. The maitre d', Raphael, fairly leaped from behind his desk and his daybook. Not one but two captains came forward. They beamed, they bowed, they filled the air with Monsieur Ruskins Monsieur Ruskins. The great financier lowered his chin still further, until it floated on a cushion of jowl, and he mumbled his replies, and his grin became broader and broader and, curiously, more and more diffident. It was the smile of a boy at his own birthday party, the lad who is both humbled and wondrously elated by the realization that he is in a room full of people who are happy, abnormally happy, one might say, to see him alive and in their presence.

To Fallow, Raphael and the two captains gave a few quick h.e.l.lo, sirs h.e.l.lo, sirs and returned to sprinkling Ruskin with the sweet nothings of their calling. Fallow noticed two odd characters in the vestibule, two men in their mid-thirties, wearing dark suits that seemed to be mere screens for bodies of pure prole brawn. One appeared to be American, the other Asian. The latter was so large and had such a huge head, with such wide flat menacing features, Fallow wondered if he was Samoan. Ruskin noticed him, too, and Raphael said, with a smug smile, "Secret service. and returned to sprinkling Ruskin with the sweet nothings of their calling. Fallow noticed two odd characters in the vestibule, two men in their mid-thirties, wearing dark suits that seemed to be mere screens for bodies of pure prole brawn. One appeared to be American, the other Asian. The latter was so large and had such a huge head, with such wide flat menacing features, Fallow wondered if he was Samoan. Ruskin noticed him, too, and Raphael said, with a smug smile, "Secret service. Two Two secret services, the American and the Indonesian. Madame Tacaya will be dining here this evening." After imparting this bit of news, he smiled again. secret services, the American and the Indonesian. Madame Tacaya will be dining here this evening." After imparting this bit of news, he smiled again.

Ruskin turned to Fallow and made a face, without smiling, perhaps fearing that he could not compete with the wife of the Indonesian dictator for the restaurant's attentions and homage. The big Asian eyed them both. Fallow noticed that he had a cord coming out of his ear.

Raphael smiled again at Ruskin and gestured toward the dining room, and a procession began, led by Raphael himself, followed by Ruskin and Fallow, with a captain and a waiter at the rear. They turned right at the spotlit form of The Silver Boar The Silver Boar and headed into the dining room. Ruskin had a grin on his mug. He loved this. Only the fact that he kept his eyes downcast prevented him from looking like a complete fool. and headed into the dining room. Ruskin had a grin on his mug. He loved this. Only the fact that he kept his eyes downcast prevented him from looking like a complete fool.

At night the dining room was well lit and seemed much more garish than at lunchtime. The dinner crowd seldom had the social cachet of the lunch crowd, but the place was packed nonetheless and was roaring with conversation. Fallow could see cl.u.s.ter after cl.u.s.ter of men with bald heads and women with pineapple-colored hair.

The procession stopped beside a round table that was far bigger than any other but was as yet unoccupied. A captain, two waiters, and two busboys were buzzing about, arranging stemware and silverware in front of every place. This was evidently Madame Tacaya's table. Immediately opposite it was a banquette under the front windows. Fallow and Ruskin were seated side by side on the banquette. They had a view of the entire front section, which was all that any true aspirant for the high ground of La Boue d'Argent required.

Ruskin said, "You wanna know why I like this restaurant?"

"Why?" asked Fallow.

"Because it's got the best food in New York and the best service." Ruskin turned and looked Fallow squarely in the face. Fallow could think of no adequate response to this revelation.

"Oh, people talk about this social stuff," said Ruskin, "and sure, a lot of well-known people come here. But why? Because it's got great food and great service." He shrugged. (No mystery to it.) Raphael reappeared and asked Ruskin if he cared for a drink.

"Oh, Christ," said Ruskin, smiling. "I'm not supposed to, but I feel like a drink. You got any Courvoisier V.S.O.P.?"

"Oh yes."

"Then gimme a sidecar with the V.S.O.P."

Fallow ordered a gla.s.s of white wine. Tonight he intended to remain sober. Presently, a waiter arrived with the gla.s.s of wine and Ruskin's sidecar. Ruskin lifted his gla.s.s.

"To Fortune," he said. "I'm glad my wife's not here."

"Why?" asked Fallow, all ears.

"I'm not supposed to drink, especially not a little bomb like this." He held the drink up to the light. "But tonight I feel like a drink. It was Willi Nordhoff who introduced me to sidecars. He used to order them all the time, over at the old King Cole Bar of the St. Regis. 'Zitecar,' he'd say. 'Mit Fay, Es, Oh, Pay,' he'd say. You ever run into Willi?"

"No, I don't think so," said Fallow.

"But you know who he is."

"Of course," said Fallow, who had never heard the name in his life.

"Jesus," said Ruskin. "I never thought I'd ever become such a great pal of a Kraut, but I love the guy."

This thought launched Ruskin on a long soliloquy about the many roads he had traveled in his career and about the many forks in those roads and how America was a wonderful country and who would have ever given a little Jew from Cleveland, Ohio, one chance in a thousand to get where he was today. He began to paint Fallow the view from the top of the mountain, ordering a second sidecar as he did. He painted with vigorous but vague strokes. Fallow was glad they were sitting side by side. It would be difficult for Ruskin to read the boredom on his face. Every now and then he ventured a question. He fished about for information as to where Maria Ruskin might stay when she visited Italy, such as at this moment, but Ruskin was vague about that, too. He was eager to return to the story of his life.

The first course arrived. Fallow had ordered a vegetable pate. The pate was a small pinkish semicircle with stalks of rhubarb arranged around it like rays. It was perched in the upper left-hand quadrant of a large plate. The plate seemed to be glazed with an odd Art Nouveau painting of a Spanish galleon on a reddish sea sailing toward the...sunset...but the setting sun was, in fact, the pate, with its rhubarb rays, and the Spanish ship was not done in glaze at all but in different colors of sauce. It was a painting in sauce. Ruskin's plate contained a bed of flat green noodles carefully intertwined to create a basket weave, superimposed upon which was a flock of b.u.t.terflies fashioned from pairs of mushroom slices, for the wings; pimientos, onion slices, shallots, and capers, for the bodies, eyes, and antennae. Ruskin took no note of the exotic collage before him. He had ordered a bottle of wine and was becoming increasingly expansive about the peaks and valleys of his career. Valleys, yes; oh, he had had to overcome many disappointments. The main thing was to be decisive. Decisive men made great decisions not because they were smarter than other people, necessarily, but because they made more more decisions, and by the law of averages some of them would be great. Did Fallow get it? Fallow nodded. Ruskin paused only to stare gloomily at the fuss Raphael and his boys were making over the big round table in front of them. decisions, and by the law of averages some of them would be great. Did Fallow get it? Fallow nodded. Ruskin paused only to stare gloomily at the fuss Raphael and his boys were making over the big round table in front of them. Madame Tacaya is coming Madame Tacaya is coming. Ruskin seemed to feel upstaged.

"They all want to come to New York," he said dismally, without mentioning whom he was talking about, although it was clear enough. "This city is what Paris used to be. No matter what they are in their own country, it starts eating at them, the idea that in New York people might not give a d.a.m.n who they are. You know what she is, don't you? She's an empress, and Tacaya's the emperor. He calls himself president, but they all do that. They all pay lip service to democracy. You ever notice that? If Genghis Khan was around today, he'd be President Genghis, or president-for-life, like Duvalier used to be. Oh, it's a great world. There's ten or twenty million poor devils flinching on their dirt floors every time the empress wiggles a finger, but she can't sleep nights thinking that the people at La Boue d'Argent in New York might not know who the h.e.l.l she is."

Madame Tacaya's secret-service man stuck his huge Asian head into the dining room and scanned the house. Ruskin gave him a baleful glance.

"But even in Paris," he said, "they didn't come all the way from the G.o.dd.a.m.ned South Pacific. You ever been to the Middle East?"

"Mmmm-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-no," said Fallow, who for half a second thought of faking it.

"You oughta go. You can't understand what's going on in the world unless you go to these places. Jidda, Kuwait, Dubai...You know what they wanna do there? They wanna build gla.s.s skysc.r.a.pers, to be like New York. The architects tell them they're crazy. A gla.s.s building in a climate like that, they'll have to run the air conditioning twenty-four hours a day. It'll cost a fortune. They just shrug. So what? They're sitting on top of all the fuel in the world."

Ruskin chuckled. "I'll tell you what I mean about making decisions. You remember the Energy Crisis, back in the early 1970s? That was what they called it, the Energy Crisis. That was the best thing that ever happened to me. All of a sudden everybody was talking about the Middle East and the Arabs. One night I was having dinner with Willi Nordhoff, and he gets on the subject of the Muslim religion, Islam, and how every Muslim wants to go to Mecca before he dies. 'Efry focking Muslim vants to go dere.' He always threw a lot of focking fockings in, because he thought that made him sound fluent in English. Well, as soon as he said that, a lightbulb went on over my head. Just like that. Now I was almost sixty years old, and I was absolutely broke. The stock market had gone to h.e.l.l about then, and that was all I had done for twenty years, buy and sell securities. I had an apartment on Park Avenue, a house on Eaton Square in London, and a farm in Amenia, New York, but I was broke, and I was desperate, and this lightbulb went on over my head.

"So I says to Willi, 'Willi,' I says, 'how many Muslims are there?' And he says, 'I dunt know. Dere's millions, tense of millions, hundruts of millions.' So I made my decision right then and there. 'I'm going in the air-charter business. Efry focking Arab who wants to go to Mecca, I'm gonna take him there.' So I sold the house in London and I sold the farm in Amenia, to raise some cash, and I leased my first airplanes, three worn-out Electras. All my G.o.dd.a.m.ned wife could think of-I'm talking about my former wife-was where were we gonna go in the summer, if we couldn't go to Amenia and we couldn't go to London. That was her entire comment on the whole G.o.dd.a.m.ned situation."

Ruskin swelled up to his story. He ordered some red wine, a heavy wine that started a delicious fire in Fallow's stomach. Fallow ordered a dish called veal Boogie Woogie, which turned out to be rectangles of veal, small squares of spiced red apples, and lines of pureed walnuts arranged to look like Piet Mondrian's painting Broadway Boogie Woogie Broadway Boogie Woogie. Ruskin ordered medallions de selle d'agneau Mikado medallions de selle d'agneau Mikado, which was perfectly pink ovals of leg of lamb with tiny leaves of spinach and sticks of braised celery arranged to resemble a j.a.panese fan. Ruskin managed to down two gla.s.ses of the fiery red wine with a rapidity that was startling, given the fact that he did not stop talking.

It seemed that Ruskin had taken many of the early flights to Mecca himself, posing as a crewman. Arab travel agents had roamed the remotest villages, inveigling the natives to squeeze the price of an airplane ticket out of their pitiful possessions in order to make the magical pilgrimage to Mecca that took a few hours rather than thirty or forty days. Many of them had never laid eyes on an airplane. They arrived at the airports with live lambs, sheep, goats, and chickens. No power on earth could make them part with their animals before boarding the aircraft. They realized the flights were short, but what were they supposed to do for food once they got to Mecca? So the livestock went right into the cabins with their owners, bleating, cackling, urinating, defecating at will. Sheets of plastic were put in the cabins, covering the seats and the floors. So man and beast traveled to Mecca shank to flank, flying nomads on a plastic desert. Some of the pa.s.sengers immediately set about arranging sticks and brush in the aisles to build fires to prepare dinner. One of the most urgent tasks of the crewmen was discouraging this practice.

"But what I wanna tell you about is the time we went off the runway at Mecca," said Ruskin. "It's nighttime and we come in for a landing, and the pilot lands long and the G.o.dd.a.m.ned ship goes off the runway and we hit the sand with a h.e.l.luva jolt and the right wing tip digs into the sand and the plane skids around practically 360 degrees before we come to a stop. Well, Jesus Christ, we figure there's gonna be wholesale panic with all these Arabs and the sheep and the goats and the chickens. We figure it's gonna be b.l.o.o.d.y murder. Instead, they're all talking in normal voices and staring out the window at the wing and the little fire that's started on the tip. Well, I mean, we're the ones who are panicked. Then they're getting up, taking their sweet time about it, and gathering up all their bags and sacks and animals and whatnot and just waiting for us to open the doors. They're so cool-and we're scared to death! Then it dawns on us. They think it's normal. Yeah! They think that's the way you stop an airplane! You stick a wing in the sand and spin around, and that brings the thing to a stop, and you get off! The thing is, they never rode in an airplane before, and so whadda they know from landing an airplane! They think it's normal! They think that's the way you do it!"

The thought threw Ruskin into a great phlegmy laugh, deep in his throat, and then the laugh turned into a coughing spasm, and his face became very red. He pushed himself back from the table with his hands until he seemed to be pressed back against the banquette, and he said, "Unnnh! Hmmmm! Hmmmmm, hmmmmm, hmmmm," as if he were reflecting in an amused way on the scene he had just described. His head fell forward, as if he were deep in thought about it all. Then his head fell sideways, and a snoring sound came from his mouth, and he leaned his shoulder against Fallow's. For an instant, Fallow thought the old man had fallen asleep. Fallow turned, in order to look into Ruskin's face, and when he did, Ruskin's body fell toward him. Startled, Fallow twisted about in his seat, and Ruskin's head ended up on his lap. The old man's face was no longer red. Now it was a ghastly gray. The mouth was slightly open. The breath was coming out in rapid little heaves. Without thinking, Fallow tried to sit him back up on the banquette. It was like trying to lift a sack of fertilizer. As he grappled and tugged, Fallow could see the two women and two men at the next table, along the banquette, staring with the contemptuous curiosity of people watching something distasteful. No one lifted a finger, of course. Fallow now had Ruskin propped up against the banquette and was looking around the room for help. Raphael, a waiter, two captains, and a busboy were fussing with the big round table that awaited Madame Tacaya and her party.

Fallow called out, "Excuse me!" n.o.body heard him. He was conscious of how silly it sounded, this British Excuse me Excuse me, when what he meant was Help! Help! So he said, "Waiter!" He said it as belligerently as he could. One of the captains by Madame Tacaya's table looked up and frowned, then walked over. So he said, "Waiter!" He said it as belligerently as he could. One of the captains by Madame Tacaya's table looked up and frowned, then walked over.

With one arm Fallow kept Ruskin upright. With the other hand he gestured toward his face. Ruskin's mouth was half open, and his eyes were half closed.

"Mr. Ruskin's suffered some sort of-I don't know what!" Fallow said to the captain.

The captain looked at Ruskin the way he might have looked at a pigeon that had unaccountably walked into the restaurant and taken the best seat in the house. He turned around and fetched Raphael, and Raphael peered at Ruskin.

"What happened?" he asked Fallow.

"He's suffered some sort of attack!" said Fallow. "Is there anyone here who's a doctor?"

Raphael scanned the room. But you could tell he wasn't looking for anyone in particular. He was trying to calculate what would happen if he tried to quiet the room and appeal for medical a.s.sistance. He looked at his watch and swore under his breath.

"For G.o.d's sake, get a doctor!" said Fallow. "Call the police!" He gestured with both his hands, and when he took the one hand off Ruskin, the old man pitched face forward into his plate, into the selle d'agneau Mikado selle d'agneau Mikado. The woman at the next table went, "Aaaaooooooh!" Almost a yelp it was, and she lifted her napkin to her face. The s.p.a.ce between the two tables was no more than six inches, and somehow Ruskin's arm had become wedged in.

Raphael barked at the captain and the two waiters at Madame Tacaya's table. The waiters began pulling the table away from the banquette. Ruskin's weight was on the table, however, and his body began to slide forward. Fallow grabbed him around the waist to try to keep him from hitting the floor. But Ruskin's ma.s.sive body was a dead weight. His face was slipping off the plate. Fallow couldn't hold him back. The old man slid off the table and took a header onto the carpet underneath. Now he was lying on the floor on his side, with his legs jackknifed. The waiters pulled the table out farther, until it blocked the aisle between the tables at the banquette and Madame Tacaya's table. Raphael was yelling to everybody at once. Fallow knew some French, but he couldn't make out a word Raphael was saying. Two waiters carrying trays full of food stood there looking down and then at Raphael. It was a traffic jam. Taking charge, Raphael squatted down and tried to pick Ruskin up by the shoulders. He couldn't budge him. Fallow stood up. Ruskin's body prevented him from getting out from behind the table. One look at Ruskin's face and it was obvious he was a goner. His face was an ashy gray, smeared with a French sauce and pieces of spinach and celery. The flesh around his nose and mouth was turning blue. His still-open eyes were like two pieces of milk gla.s.s. People were craning this way and that, but the joint was still roaring with conversation. Raphael kept looking toward the door.

"For G.o.d's sake," said Fallow, "call a doctor."

Raphael gave him a furious look and then a dismissing wave of the hand. Fallow was startled. Then he was angry. He didn't want to be stuck with this dying old man, either, but now he had been insulted by this arrogant little maitre d'. So now he was Ruskin's ally. He knelt down on the floor, straddling Ruskin's legs. He loosened Ruskin's necktie and tore open his shirt, popping off the top b.u.t.ton. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped the trousers and tried to pull Ruskin's shirt away from his body, but it was wrapped around it tightly, apparently from the way he had fallen.

"What's wrong with him? 'S'e choking? 'S'e choking? Lemme g'im the Heimlich maneuver!"

Fallow looked up. A big florid man, a great Percheron Yank, was standing over him. He was apparently another diner.

"I think he's had a heart attack," said Fallow.

" 'S'what it looks like when they're choking!" said the man. "Good G.o.d, g'im the Heimlich maneuver!"

Raphael had his hands up, trying to steer the man away. The man brushed him aside and knelt down beside Ruskin.

"The Heimlich maneuver, d.a.m.n it!" he said to Fallow. "Heimlich maneuver!" It sounded like a military command. He put his hands under Ruskin's arms and managed to lift him to a sitting position, whereupon he slipped his arms around Ruskin's chest, from behind. He squeezed Ruskin's body, then lost his balance, and both he and Ruskin keeled over onto the floor. It looked as if they were wrestling. Fallow was still on his knees. The Heimlich Maneuverer stood up, holding his nose, which was bleeding, and staggered away. His struggling had succeeded mainly in pulling Ruskin's shirt and undershirt loose from his body, so that now a large expanse of the old man's ponderous gut was exposed to the view of one and all.

Fallow started to stand up, when he felt a heavy pressure on his shoulder. It was the woman on the banquette trying to squeeze past. He looked up at her face. It was a picture of frozen panic. She was shoving Fallow as if she were trying to catch the last train out of Barcelona. She accidentally stepped on Ruskin's arm. She looked down. "Aaaaaaoooh!" Another yelp. She took two steps beyond. Then she looked up at the ceiling. She began turning slowly. There was a blur of action in front of Fallow's eyes. It was Raphael. He lunged toward Madame Tacaya's table, grabbed a chair, and slipped it under the woman at the precise moment she fainted and collapsed. All at once she was sitting down, comatose, with one arm hanging over the back of the chair.

Fallow stood up and stepped over Ruskin's body and stood between Ruskin and the table that awaited Madame Tacaya. Ruskin's body was stretched out across the aisle, like some enormous beached white whale. Raphael stood two feet away, talking to the Asian bodyguard with the cord in his ear. Both looked toward the door. Fallow could hear them saying Madame Tacaya Madame Tacaya Madame Tacaya Madame Tacaya Madame Tacaya Madame Tacaya.

The little b.a.s.t.a.r.d! "What are you going to do?" Fallow demanded.

"Monsieur," said Raphael angrily, "we have call the police. The ambulance will arrive. There is nothing more I can do. There is nothing more you you can do." can do."

He gestured to a waiter, who stepped over the body, carrying a huge tray, and began serving a table a few feet away. Fallow looked at the faces at the tables all around. They stared at the appalling spectacle, but they did nothing. A large old man was lying on the floor in very bad condition. Perhaps he was dying. Certainly any of them who managed to get a look at his face could tell that much. At first they had been curious. Is he going to die right in front of us? At first there had been the t.i.tillation of Someone Else's Disaster. But now the drama was dragging on too long. The conversational roar had died down. The old man looked repulsive, with his pants unzipped and his big gross bare belly bulging out. He had become a problem of protocol. If an old man was dying on the carpet a few feet from your table, what was the proper thing to do? Offer your services? But there was already a traffic jam there in the aisle between the rows of tables. Clear the area and give him air and come back later to complete the meal? But how would empty tables help the man? Stop eating until the drama had played itself out and the old man was out of sight? But the orders were in, and the food had begun to arrive, and there was no sign of any halt-and this meal was costing about $150 per person, once you added in the cost of the wine, and it was no mean trick getting a seat in a restaurant like this in the first place. Avert your eyes? Well, perhaps that was the only solution. So they averted their eyes and returned to their picturesque dishes...but there was something d.a.m.ned depressing about it all, because it was hard for your eyes not to wander every few seconds to see if, f'r Chrissake, they hadn't moved the stricken hulk. A man dying! O mortality! Probably a heart attack, too! That deep fear lodged in the bosom of practically every man in the room. The old arteries were clogging up micromillimeter by micromillimeter, day by day, month by month, from all the succulent meats and sauces and fluffy breads and wines and souffles and coffee...And was that the way it would look? Would you be lying on the floor in some public place with a blue circle around your mouth and cloudy eyes that were half open and a hundred percent dead? It was a d.a.m.ned unappetizing spectacle. It made you queasy. It prevented you from relishing these expensive morsels arranged in such pretty pictures on your plate. So curiosity had turned to discomfort, which now turned to resentment-an emotion that had been picked up by the restaurateurs and doubled and then doubled again.

Raphael put his hands on his hips and looked down at the old man with a frustration bordering on anger. Fallow had the impression that had Ruskin so much as fluttered an eyelid, the little maitre d' would have launched into a lecture laced with the bitter-cold courtesy in which the breed couched its insults. The roar was building up again. The diners finally were managing to forget the corpse. But not Raphael. Madame Tacaya was coming Madame Tacaya was coming. The waiters were now skipping over the corpse mindlessly, as if they did it every night, as if every night there were one corpse or another lying in that spot, until the rhythm of the leap was built into one's nervous system. But how could the Empress of Indonesia be ushered in over this hulk? Or even be seated in its presence? What was keeping the police?

Gruesome b.l.o.o.d.y childish Yanks, thought Fallow. Not one of them, other than the ridiculous Heimlich Maneuverer, had moved a muscle to help this poor old b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Finally, a policeman and two crewmen from an emergency squad arrived. The noise dipped once more as everyone inspected the crewmen, one of whom was black and the other Latin, and their equipment, which consisted of a folding stretcher and an oxygen tank. They put an oxygen mask over Ruskin's mouth. Fallow could tell from the way the crewmen were talking to each other that they were getting no response from Ruskin. They unfolded the stretcher and slipped it under Ruskin's body and strapped him on.

When they took the stretcher to the front door, a disturbing problem arose. There was no way they could get the stretcher through the revolving door. Now that the stretcher was no longer folded but was extended with a body on it, it was too long. They began trying to fold back one of the wings of the door, but no one seemed to know how to do it. Raphael kept saying, "Stand it up! Stand it up! Walk it through!" But apparently this was a grave breach of medical procedure, tilting the body vertically, in the case of a heart-attack victim, and the crewmen had their own necks to look after. So they all stood there in the vestibule, before the statue of The Silver Boar The Silver Boar, having a discussion.

Raphael began throwing his hands up in the air and stamping his feet. "Do you think I allow this this"-he gestured at Ruskin's body, paused, then gave up on supplying an appropriate noun-"to remain here in the restaurant, before tout le monde tout le monde? Please! See for yourself! This is the main entrance! This is a business! People are coming here! Madame Tacaya will be here at any moment!"

The policeman said, "Okay, take it easy. Is there any other way out?"

Much discussion. A waiter mentioned the ladies' room, which had a window onto the street. The policeman and Raphael went back into the dining room to check out that possibility. Soon they returned, and the policeman said, "Okay, I think we can make it." So now Raphael, his captain, the policeman, the stretcher-bearers, a waiter, Fallow, and the inert hulk of Arthur Ruskin reentered the dining room. They headed along the very same aisle, between the banquette tables and Madame Tacaya's table, where Ruskin had trod triumphantly barely an hour before. He was still the cynosure of the procession, although he was now laid out cold. The roar in the room dropped off sharply. The diners couldn't believe what they were seeing. Ruskin's stricken face and white gut were now being paraded by their very tables...the grim remains of the joys of the flesh. It was as if some plague, which they all thought had been eradicated at last, had sprung back up in their midst, more virulent than ever.

The procession entered a little door on the far side of the dining room. The door led into a small vestibule, off which were two more doors, to the men's room and the ladies' room. The ladies' room had a small lounge area, and in it was the window to the street. After a considerable struggle, a waiter and the policeman managed to open the window. Raphael produced a set of keys and unlocked the hinged bars that protected the window from the street. A cool sooty draft blew in. It was welcome. The pileup of human beings, the quick and the dead, had made the little room unbearable.

The policeman and one of the crewmen climbed through the window out onto the sidewalk. The other crewman and the waiter pa.s.sed one end of the stretcher, the end where Ruskin's face lay, growing grimmer and grayer by the minute, through the window to the two men outside. The last Fallow saw of the mortal remains of Arthur Ruskin, ferry captain to Mecca for the Arabs, were the soles of his bench-made English shoes disappearing through the window of the ladies' room of La Boue d'Argent.

In the next instant Raphael bolted past Fallow, out of the ladies' room and back into the dining room. Fallow followed. Halfway across the dining room, Fallow was intercepted by the captain who had been in charge of his table. He gave Fallow the sort of solemn smile you give someone in the hour of bereavement. "Monsieur," he said, still smiling in this sad but kindly way, and he gave Fallow a slip of paper. It looked like a bill.

"What's this?"

"L'addition, monsieur. The check."

"The check check?"

"Oui, naturellement. You ordered dinner, monsieur, and it was prepared and served. We are very sorry about your friend's misfortune..." Then he shrugged and tucked his chin down and pulled a face. (But it has nothing to do with us, and life goes on, and we must make a living all the same.) Fallow was shocked by the cra.s.sness of the demand. Far more shocking, however, was the thought of having to pay a check in a restaurant like this.

"If you're so b.l.o.o.d.y keen on l'addition l'addition," he said, "I expect you ought to talk it over with Mr. Ruskin." He brushed by the captain and headed for the door.

"No, you don't!" said the captain. It was no longer the oily voice of a restaurant captain. "Raphael!" he yelled, and then he said something in French. In the vestibule, Raphael wheeled about and confronted Fallow. He had a very stern look on his face.

"Just a moment, monsieur!"

Fallow was speechless. But at that moment Raphael turned back toward the door and broke into a professional smile. A big glum flat-faced Asian in a business suit came in through the revolving door, his eyes darting this way and that. Behind him appeared a small olive-skinned woman, about fifty, with dark red lips and a huge carapace of black hair and a long red silk mandarin-collared coat with a floor-length red silk gown beneath it. She wore enough jewelry to light up the night.

"Madame Tacaya!" said Raphael. He held up both hands, as if catching a bouquet.

The next day the front page of The City Light The City Light consisted mainly of four gigantic words, in the biggest type Fallow had ever seen on a newspaper: consisted mainly of four gigantic words, in the biggest type Fallow had ever seen on a newspaper: Death New York Style And above that, in smaller letters: society restaurant to tyc.o.o.n: "KINDLY FINISH DYING BEFORE MADAME TACAYA ARRIVES."

And at the bottom of the page: A A CITY LIGHT CITY LIGHT Exclusive by our man at the table: Peter Fallow Exclusive by our man at the table: Peter Fallow.

In addition to the main story, which recounted the evening in lavish detail, down to the waiters skipping busily over the body of Arthur Ruskin, there was a side story that attracted almost as much attention. The headline read: Dead Tyc.o.o.n's Secret: Kosher 747s To Mecca By noon the fury of the Muslim world was chattering in over the Reuters wire in the corner of the Mouse's office. The Mouse smiled and rubbed his hands. The interview with Ruskin had been his idea his idea.

He hummed to himself with a joy that all the money in the world couldn't have brought him: "Oh, I I am a member of the working press, am a member of the working press, I I am a member of the working press, am a member of the working press, I I am a member of the worrrrrrking press." am a member of the worrrrrrking press."

27. Hero of the Hive

The demonstrators vanished as rapidly as they had arrived. The death threats ceased. But for how long? But for how long? Sherman now had to balance the fear of death against the horror of going broke. He compromised. Two days after the demonstration he cut the number of bodyguards down to two, one for the apartment and one for his parents' house. Sherman now had to balance the fear of death against the horror of going broke. He compromised. Two days after the demonstration he cut the number of bodyguards down to two, one for the apartment and one for his parents' house.

Nevertheless-hemorrhaging money! Two bodyguards on duty around the clock, at twenty-five dollars per hour per man, a total of $1,200 a day-$438,000 per year Two bodyguards on duty around the clock, at twenty-five dollars per hour per man, a total of $1,200 a day-$438,000 per year-bleeding to death!

Two days after that, he got up the nerve to keep an engagement Judy had made almost a month before: dinner at the di Duccis'.

True to her word, Judy had been doing what she could to help him. Equally true to her word, this did not include being affectionate. She was like one asphalt contractor forced into an alliance with another by some sordid turn of fate...Better than nothing perhaps...It was in that spirit that the two of them planned their return to Society.

Their thinking (McCoy & McCoy a.s.sociates') was that the long story in the Daily News Daily News by Killian's man Flannagan offered a blameless explanation of the McCoy Case. Therefore, why should they hide? Shouldn't they go through the motions of a normal life, and the more publicly the better? by Killian's man Flannagan offered a blameless explanation of the McCoy Case. Therefore, why should they hide? Shouldn't they go through the motions of a normal life, and the more publicly the better?

But would le monde- le monde-and, more specifically, the very social di Duccis-see it that way? With the di Duccis they at least had a fighting chance. Silvio di Ducci, who had lived in New York since he was twenty-one, was the son of an Italian brake shoe manufacturer. His wife, Kate, had been born and reared in San Marino, California; he was her third wealthy husband. Judy was the decorator who had done done their apartment. She now took the precaution of ringing up and offering to back out of the dinner party. "Don't you dare!" said Kate di Ducci. "I'm counting on your coming!" This gave Judy a terrific lift. Sherman could read it in her face. It did nothing for him, however. His depression and skepticism were too profound for a polite boost from the likes of Kate di Ducci. All he could manage to say to Judy was, "We'll see, won't we." their apartment. She now took the precaution of ringing up and offering to back out of the dinner party. "Don't you dare!" said Kate di Ducci. "I'm counting on your coming!" This gave Judy a terrific lift. Sherman could read it in her face. It did nothing for him, however. His depression and skepticism were too profound for a polite boost from the likes of Kate di Ducci. All he could manage to say to Judy was, "We'll see, won't we."

The bodyguard at the apartment, Occhioni, drove the Mercury station wagon over to his parents' house, picked up Judy, returned to Park Avenue, and picked up Sherman. They headed for the di Duccis' on Fifth Avenue. Sherman pulled the revolver of his Resentment out of his waistband and braced for the worst. The di Duccis and the Bavardages ran with precisely the same crowd (the same vulgar non-Knickerbocker crowd). At the Bavardages' they had frozen him out even when his respectability was intact. With their combination of rudeness, crudeness, cleverness, and chic, what would they inflict upon him now? He told himself that he was long past caring whether they approved of him or not. His intention-their intention (McCoy & McCoy's)-was to show the world that, being without sin, they could proceed with their lives. His great fear was of the sort of outcome that would prove them wrong: namely, an ugly scene.

The di Duccis' entry gallery had none of the dazzle of the Bavardages'. Instead of Ronald Vine's clever combinations of materials, of silk and hemp and gilt wood and upholsterer's webbing, the di Duccis' betrayed Judy's weakness for the solemn and grand: marble, fluted pilasters, huge cla.s.sical cornices. Yet it was every bit as much from another century (the eighteenth), and it was filled with the same cl.u.s.ters of social X-rays, Lemon Tarts, and men with dark neckties; the same grins, the same laughter, the same 300-watt eyes, the same sublime burble and ecstatic rat-tat-tat-tat chatter. In short, the hive. The hive!-the hive!-the familiar buzz closed in about Sherman, but it no longer resonated in his bones. He listened to it, wondering if his tainted presence would stop the hive's very hum in mid-sentence, mid-grin, mid-guffaw.

An emaciated woman emerged from the cl.u.s.ters and came toward them, smiling...Emaciated but absolutely beautiful...He had never seen a more beautiful face...Her pale golden hair was swept back. She had a high forehead and a face as white and smooth as china, and yet with large, lively eyes and a mouth with a sensual-no, more than that-a provocative provocative smile. Very provocative! When she grasped his forearm, he felt a tingle in his loins. smile. Very provocative! When she grasped his forearm, he felt a tingle in his loins.

"Judy! Sherman!"

Judy embraced the woman. In all sincerity she said, "Oh, Kate, you're so kind. You're so wonderful." Kate di Ducci hooked her arm inside Sherman's and drew him toward her, so that the three of them formed a sandwich, Kate di Ducci between the two McCoys.

"You're more than kind," said Sherman. "You're brave." All at once he realized he was using the sort of intimate baritone he used when he wanted to get the old game going.

"Don't be silly!" said Kate di Ducci. "If you hadn't come, both of you, I'd have been very, very cross! Come over here, I want you to meet some people."

Sherman noticed with trepidation that she was leading them toward a conversational bouquet dominated by the tall patrician figure of Nunnally Voyd, the novelist who had been at the Bavardages'. An X-ray and two men with navy suits, white shirts, and navy ties were beaming great social grins at the great author. Kate di Ducci made the introductions, then led Judy out of the entry gallery, into the grand salon.