Read Online Agnes Among the Gargoyles by Patrick Flynn - Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Flynn
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Rotunda. It had a marquee and looked no bigger than a neighborhood movie house. Agnes was amazed how large it was on the inside.
   Agnes's father, Johnny Travertine, was a union official: secretary-treasurer for Local 177, Special Officers & Guards, which provided security for Madison Square Garden, the ballparks, the Eastern Parkway Arena and Lexington Hall. Lexington Hall had the trade shows: the shoe show, the restaurant show, the boat show. Agnes loved nothing more than going to Lexington Hall with her father. She loved the way her voice echoed in the dreary backstage tunnels. There was in illicit quality to life in Lexington Hall, something of the carnival or the road show. Everybody seemed to want to see her father, to ask him for a favor, and they pressed dollar bills into Agnes's hand, as though she could exert some influence over him.
   Across the street from Lexington Hall was a row of frayed old storesâ luncheonette, Salvation Army mission, second-hand bookstore, like that. The stores are gone, naturally, replaced by a concrete plaza built by Ronald Wegeman. It has flowerbeds and a waterfall and a gazebo where they sell ice cream. This is where the workers from the nearby office towers eat their lunches. When it was dedicated, Wegeman was asked why he was squandering such a prime piece of real estate on a project that would generate no revenue.
   "Three reasons," he said. "Number one: the workers deserve a place of peace, or at least as much peace as we can give them. Number two: we need a little empty space to keep this city livable. And number three: I'm building fifty stories of luxury condominiums across the street, and this is the best way I know of to preserve the view."
   Tollivetti, smirking, asked him, "Would you mind telling us which is the main reason?"
   Wegeman rocked back on his heels then swooped down on the microphone. "The beauty of capitalism is that it doesn't matter to the man eating lunch, you ignorant fucking pinhead."
   Agnes enters the Wegeman Tower atrium. Her heels click on the pink marble floor. Fountains whoosh and gush as a pianist plays Gershwin. Agnes passes the shops: Harris and Forrester, La Dacquoise, Marjorie Jermain, Juan Gris, Carter Stockton Ltd. The shops are lavishly appointed and conspicuously empty. but then again all they need to sell is one kayak or one box of pastry to make their rent for the month.
   Reluctantly, Agnes presents herself at the front desk. She is escorted to Mr. Wegeman's elevator by four men dressed in military regalia of green polyester. They all wear pith helmets except the one in the tall white shako.
   The Great Man's Palace Guard.
* * *
No one has ever had a nicer sickroom than Ronald Wegeman. It is an enormous sun-drenched expanse, all soft blues and cool greens. It overlooks the swimming pool.
   The Great Man lies propped up on a canopy bed. Madelaine is at his side. He is attended by two starched, crisp, immaculate West Indian nurses.
   "You shouldn't have done it," says Wegeman. "You should have minded your own fucking business. You should have let them finish me off."
   His face is unshaven and drawn. His hair is not in its famous pompadour. It hangs down limply from a crooked center part, giving him the look of a demented preacher. A single hair peeps out of one nostril, curling up and around like a treble clef.
   "I keep reading how fucking lucky I was," he snarls. "Lucky my big fat pimply ass."
   "Ron...." says Madelaine.
   "Most people go through a whole lifetime without getting shot, and I'm supposed to be lucky."
   Madelaine clears her throat. Her smile is Arctic. "Ron, Agnes didn't come here to listen to a lot of silly whining, did she?
   "Whining! Is that what I'm doing?"
   "You might as least say thank you."
   "Thank you, Agnes, for
   Agnes's father, Johnny Travertine, was a union official: secretary-treasurer for Local 177, Special Officers & Guards, which provided security for Madison Square Garden, the ballparks, the Eastern Parkway Arena and Lexington Hall. Lexington Hall had the trade shows: the shoe show, the restaurant show, the boat show. Agnes loved nothing more than going to Lexington Hall with her father. She loved the way her voice echoed in the dreary backstage tunnels. There was in illicit quality to life in Lexington Hall, something of the carnival or the road show. Everybody seemed to want to see her father, to ask him for a favor, and they pressed dollar bills into Agnes's hand, as though she could exert some influence over him.
   Across the street from Lexington Hall was a row of frayed old storesâ luncheonette, Salvation Army mission, second-hand bookstore, like that. The stores are gone, naturally, replaced by a concrete plaza built by Ronald Wegeman. It has flowerbeds and a waterfall and a gazebo where they sell ice cream. This is where the workers from the nearby office towers eat their lunches. When it was dedicated, Wegeman was asked why he was squandering such a prime piece of real estate on a project that would generate no revenue.
   "Three reasons," he said. "Number one: the workers deserve a place of peace, or at least as much peace as we can give them. Number two: we need a little empty space to keep this city livable. And number three: I'm building fifty stories of luxury condominiums across the street, and this is the best way I know of to preserve the view."
   Tollivetti, smirking, asked him, "Would you mind telling us which is the main reason?"
   Wegeman rocked back on his heels then swooped down on the microphone. "The beauty of capitalism is that it doesn't matter to the man eating lunch, you ignorant fucking pinhead."
   Agnes enters the Wegeman Tower atrium. Her heels click on the pink marble floor. Fountains whoosh and gush as a pianist plays Gershwin. Agnes passes the shops: Harris and Forrester, La Dacquoise, Marjorie Jermain, Juan Gris, Carter Stockton Ltd. The shops are lavishly appointed and conspicuously empty. but then again all they need to sell is one kayak or one box of pastry to make their rent for the month.
   Reluctantly, Agnes presents herself at the front desk. She is escorted to Mr. Wegeman's elevator by four men dressed in military regalia of green polyester. They all wear pith helmets except the one in the tall white shako.
   The Great Man's Palace Guard.
* * *
No one has ever had a nicer sickroom than Ronald Wegeman. It is an enormous sun-drenched expanse, all soft blues and cool greens. It overlooks the swimming pool.
   The Great Man lies propped up on a canopy bed. Madelaine is at his side. He is attended by two starched, crisp, immaculate West Indian nurses.
   "You shouldn't have done it," says Wegeman. "You should have minded your own fucking business. You should have let them finish me off."
   His face is unshaven and drawn. His hair is not in its famous pompadour. It hangs down limply from a crooked center part, giving him the look of a demented preacher. A single hair peeps out of one nostril, curling up and around like a treble clef.
   "I keep reading how fucking lucky I was," he snarls. "Lucky my big fat pimply ass."
   "Ron...." says Madelaine.
   "Most people go through a whole lifetime without getting shot, and I'm supposed to be lucky."
   Madelaine clears her throat. Her smile is Arctic. "Ron, Agnes didn't come here to listen to a lot of silly whining, did she?
   "Whining! Is that what I'm doing?"
   "You might as least say thank you."
   "Thank you, Agnes, for
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