Now her tantrums fell on him. He adored every moment.
“Davey,” she’d coo, “didn’t Arnold’s little man promise to take me to France?”
“Inez, if I left town for five minutes, I’d be dead.”
“You never even go to Lindy’s anymore. You sit in this damn tomb.”
“But I’m alive as long as I sit.”
Both of them couldn’t stop mourning AR. And he wouldn’t allow her to change one picture in her apartment. They were accomplices when they made love, in spite of their passion. He was devoted to her. When she grew ill, he took care of Inez, sat with her, read to her from one of the books he loved. He’d always been a reader. That was his one diversion, his one device, other than gambling. He’d gamble his shirt away and get it back, while he read to her about a woman named Emma Bovary who was devoured by the silliness of her own desire. . . .
They saw themselves in Emma, who might have survived had she ever had her own AR. And even with all his wiles, and his kisses, he couldn’t console Inez. She grew weaker and weaker. He offered to take her to France, wearing his velvet slippers, since he never wore shoes anymore. But it was too late. Inez seemed ravaged with remorse. She slipped away, died in her sleep.
None of his associates could bring this prince of the Ansonia out of his melancholy. He sat in his lair, buying up more and more of Manhattan. No one knew how rich he was, not even David. He had his own private bank; he was its first and last customer and client. He prospered through recessions, through bull and bear markets. He missed Inez, wouldn’t rent out her apartment on the thirteenth floor. Wandering through that apartment in his slippers was David’s only solace.
The years passed. He never invited call girls up to his lair. He wasn’t looking for some replica of Inez. There was no such girl. His teeth began to crumble. David didn’t care. And then his manager told him about a bimbo who couldn’t pay her rent. Trudy Winckleman, lately of New Orleans. She had no claims on the apartment. Some “gentleman” had paid for her upkeep. But there were complications. The bimbo had two kids—and the city didn’t like throwing single mothers out onto the street, not while the Big Guy was mayor.
David had her brought up to his labyrinth without her two brats. He meant to give her a check, sign her right out of the building, so that she would no longer be a nuisance.
And then he saw the bimbo with her silver hair. She didn’t grovel; she didn’t beg. His hand shivered as he scratched out the sums and figures on the check. He couldn’t believe it. The bimbo had Inez’s own insolence, the same pinched smile that could eat your heart out. She was no replica, no rehearsed reincarnation. She was just another Inez, even if her legs weren’t so long and she wasn’t blessed with Inez’s blondness. He didn’t stall. He made her a proposition.
She smiled. “And I suppose I’ll have to warm up your old bones. King David and his Abishag.”
“Girlie,” he said like a gunsel, “I could have you killed. . . . You’d never leave this floor. They’d stuff you right into the attic.”
“Good,” she said. “Then I wouldn’t have to leave the Ansonia.”
She’d dismantled whatever power he had over her. He had to beg her to stay, but he still was stubborn: she’d have to live in Inez’s apartment and promise not to change a stick of furniture.
“That’s marvelous,” she said. “A bordello at the Ansonia. How many of your business partners will I have to sleep with?”
“David Pearl isn’t a pimp,” he said. “But you can’t live there with your kids. They might jump around and ruin all the relics.”
Now he used all his sway. He had her brats installed at the best private school in Connecticut. She could visit them as often as she liked, but they couldn’t come to the Ansonia. And she was the one who began calling herself Inez.
“King David, I’m living in a
“Davey,” she’d coo, “didn’t Arnold’s little man promise to take me to France?”
“Inez, if I left town for five minutes, I’d be dead.”
“You never even go to Lindy’s anymore. You sit in this damn tomb.”
“But I’m alive as long as I sit.”
Both of them couldn’t stop mourning AR. And he wouldn’t allow her to change one picture in her apartment. They were accomplices when they made love, in spite of their passion. He was devoted to her. When she grew ill, he took care of Inez, sat with her, read to her from one of the books he loved. He’d always been a reader. That was his one diversion, his one device, other than gambling. He’d gamble his shirt away and get it back, while he read to her about a woman named Emma Bovary who was devoured by the silliness of her own desire. . . .
They saw themselves in Emma, who might have survived had she ever had her own AR. And even with all his wiles, and his kisses, he couldn’t console Inez. She grew weaker and weaker. He offered to take her to France, wearing his velvet slippers, since he never wore shoes anymore. But it was too late. Inez seemed ravaged with remorse. She slipped away, died in her sleep.
None of his associates could bring this prince of the Ansonia out of his melancholy. He sat in his lair, buying up more and more of Manhattan. No one knew how rich he was, not even David. He had his own private bank; he was its first and last customer and client. He prospered through recessions, through bull and bear markets. He missed Inez, wouldn’t rent out her apartment on the thirteenth floor. Wandering through that apartment in his slippers was David’s only solace.
The years passed. He never invited call girls up to his lair. He wasn’t looking for some replica of Inez. There was no such girl. His teeth began to crumble. David didn’t care. And then his manager told him about a bimbo who couldn’t pay her rent. Trudy Winckleman, lately of New Orleans. She had no claims on the apartment. Some “gentleman” had paid for her upkeep. But there were complications. The bimbo had two kids—and the city didn’t like throwing single mothers out onto the street, not while the Big Guy was mayor.
David had her brought up to his labyrinth without her two brats. He meant to give her a check, sign her right out of the building, so that she would no longer be a nuisance.
And then he saw the bimbo with her silver hair. She didn’t grovel; she didn’t beg. His hand shivered as he scratched out the sums and figures on the check. He couldn’t believe it. The bimbo had Inez’s own insolence, the same pinched smile that could eat your heart out. She was no replica, no rehearsed reincarnation. She was just another Inez, even if her legs weren’t so long and she wasn’t blessed with Inez’s blondness. He didn’t stall. He made her a proposition.
She smiled. “And I suppose I’ll have to warm up your old bones. King David and his Abishag.”
“Girlie,” he said like a gunsel, “I could have you killed. . . . You’d never leave this floor. They’d stuff you right into the attic.”
“Good,” she said. “Then I wouldn’t have to leave the Ansonia.”
She’d dismantled whatever power he had over her. He had to beg her to stay, but he still was stubborn: she’d have to live in Inez’s apartment and promise not to change a stick of furniture.
“That’s marvelous,” she said. “A bordello at the Ansonia. How many of your business partners will I have to sleep with?”
“David Pearl isn’t a pimp,” he said. “But you can’t live there with your kids. They might jump around and ruin all the relics.”
Now he used all his sway. He had her brats installed at the best private school in Connecticut. She could visit them as often as she liked, but they couldn’t come to the Ansonia. And she was the one who began calling herself Inez.
“King David, I’m living in a
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