mausoleum. I might as well be one of its members.”
She’d solved the riddle of his loneliness. He’d come downstairs in the middle of the night, lie down next to her, and she’d hold him in her arms, as if he were made of glass—Inez’s little glass man. He’d moan softly as she rubbed his forehead. He dozed for five minutes; David lived without sleep. And then he’d return to his lair.
She began doing favors for him, was soon his “social secretary.” She entertained the rare visitors that David had, sat with them, served wine. But no one dared touch Inez. And then he started to panic. The Big Guy was too embroiled in the Bronx. And David maneuvered to kick him upstairs, to have him sink into the darkness of a vice president’s domain. But Sidel was a stubborn son of a bitch. David had to find a secret weapon. His little protégé had been enthralled with tales of Rothstein and Inez. So David lured him into the Ansonia, let him feast upon his social secretary.
And now he had to undo all of Isaac’s damage. He had to take drastic measures—leave his lair at the Ansonia for a whole afternoon and meet with the Texas barons, nabobs and military men who couldn’t be seen at the Ansonia and were his secret partners in Sidereal. The barons had arrived from Houston, Dallas, and San Antone and descended upon a motel in New Jersey, with all their bodyguards from some remote enclave within military intelligence. They were all in mufti, even the generals, and had blocked off an entire wing of the motel, which looked out upon a modern-day castle where medieval jousts were held.
The generals had sent their own driver in a sleek sedan. David still wore his slippers and the same corroded sweater with patches on the sleeves, while Inez was dressed to kill. She stepped into the sedan in a skin-tight sheath and silver sandals. David groaned while they sat under the blinking lights of the Lincoln Tunnel. Inez had to hold his hand once they crossed the Jersey flatlands. The stench was unbearable to David, who was giddy by the time they got to the motel.
The bodyguards were in awe of him and had been told not to stare at his slippers. But they couldn’t keep their eyes off Inez. “The maestro has landed,” they whispered into their button mikes. They had to frisk Inez. They used one of their battery-charged machines, and the perfume from her armpits made them delirious. She could have shot out their eyes.
“I’m hungry,” David muttered. The motel was attached to a delicatessen, and that’s where David met the barons. But it wasn’t Lindy’s, even though this dump advertised itself as a “Lindy’s-style delicatessen.” It irked David. Lindy’s meant nothing without AR. It had become one more logo, one more brand name with mediocre pastrami.
They had a corner table, far from this delicatessen’s usual traffic. The bodyguards had scanned the area for hidden microphones. They weren’t worried about the Secret Service or Bull Latham’s Bureau. They had to be careful of their own competitors, industrial spies from Houston.
They didn’t introduce themselves. They had code names: Mr. Dallas, Mr. Houston, Mr. Abilene. . . . David was Mr. Manhattan, and Inez, whom they had never met, was Mrs. Cassandra. They had a complete dossier on her, but they didn’t trust their own files. She could have been a plant from some super-secret agency. But none of them had realized how beautiful she was. Among themselves, they called her the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.
David wouldn’t touch the pastrami. He had a side order of half-sour pickles. He demanded a glass of milk and a chocolate chip cookie. That was Rothstein’s favorite snack. Milk and cookies.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “You have your warriors, I have mine. I don’t want Sidel touched.”
“Mr. Manhattan, he’s hampering us. He won’t go away. And we’re betting that the president-elect will crash. Isaac is the real contender.”
“Contend, contend,” David
She’d solved the riddle of his loneliness. He’d come downstairs in the middle of the night, lie down next to her, and she’d hold him in her arms, as if he were made of glass—Inez’s little glass man. He’d moan softly as she rubbed his forehead. He dozed for five minutes; David lived without sleep. And then he’d return to his lair.
She began doing favors for him, was soon his “social secretary.” She entertained the rare visitors that David had, sat with them, served wine. But no one dared touch Inez. And then he started to panic. The Big Guy was too embroiled in the Bronx. And David maneuvered to kick him upstairs, to have him sink into the darkness of a vice president’s domain. But Sidel was a stubborn son of a bitch. David had to find a secret weapon. His little protégé had been enthralled with tales of Rothstein and Inez. So David lured him into the Ansonia, let him feast upon his social secretary.
And now he had to undo all of Isaac’s damage. He had to take drastic measures—leave his lair at the Ansonia for a whole afternoon and meet with the Texas barons, nabobs and military men who couldn’t be seen at the Ansonia and were his secret partners in Sidereal. The barons had arrived from Houston, Dallas, and San Antone and descended upon a motel in New Jersey, with all their bodyguards from some remote enclave within military intelligence. They were all in mufti, even the generals, and had blocked off an entire wing of the motel, which looked out upon a modern-day castle where medieval jousts were held.
The generals had sent their own driver in a sleek sedan. David still wore his slippers and the same corroded sweater with patches on the sleeves, while Inez was dressed to kill. She stepped into the sedan in a skin-tight sheath and silver sandals. David groaned while they sat under the blinking lights of the Lincoln Tunnel. Inez had to hold his hand once they crossed the Jersey flatlands. The stench was unbearable to David, who was giddy by the time they got to the motel.
The bodyguards were in awe of him and had been told not to stare at his slippers. But they couldn’t keep their eyes off Inez. “The maestro has landed,” they whispered into their button mikes. They had to frisk Inez. They used one of their battery-charged machines, and the perfume from her armpits made them delirious. She could have shot out their eyes.
“I’m hungry,” David muttered. The motel was attached to a delicatessen, and that’s where David met the barons. But it wasn’t Lindy’s, even though this dump advertised itself as a “Lindy’s-style delicatessen.” It irked David. Lindy’s meant nothing without AR. It had become one more logo, one more brand name with mediocre pastrami.
They had a corner table, far from this delicatessen’s usual traffic. The bodyguards had scanned the area for hidden microphones. They weren’t worried about the Secret Service or Bull Latham’s Bureau. They had to be careful of their own competitors, industrial spies from Houston.
They didn’t introduce themselves. They had code names: Mr. Dallas, Mr. Houston, Mr. Abilene. . . . David was Mr. Manhattan, and Inez, whom they had never met, was Mrs. Cassandra. They had a complete dossier on her, but they didn’t trust their own files. She could have been a plant from some super-secret agency. But none of them had realized how beautiful she was. Among themselves, they called her the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.
David wouldn’t touch the pastrami. He had a side order of half-sour pickles. He demanded a glass of milk and a chocolate chip cookie. That was Rothstein’s favorite snack. Milk and cookies.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “You have your warriors, I have mine. I don’t want Sidel touched.”
“Mr. Manhattan, he’s hampering us. He won’t go away. And we’re betting that the president-elect will crash. Isaac is the real contender.”
“Contend, contend,” David
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