“Who’s been to Maui?” she asked, her eyes on mine, and when I said a buddy of mine had
gone last year and come back certain that at twenty-six the two best weeks of his life were behind him, she moved aside so
I could get next to her at the bar. “Excuse me,” I said to Mimi, who tipped her wineglass to me. I caught the barest trace
of rose in Diane’s perfume as I slid next to her, counted six buttons on her cream blouse before it disappeared into her gray
skirt. “What did he like best?” she asked, and her brown eyes, soft as a teen queen’s, filled with life as I told her of the
warm ash she could wade in in the open mouths of the volcanoes and of the trained dolphins that would swim with the guests
in the hotel coves. Her crossed legs started to bob gently. A minute later I looked at my watch.
“That’s it for me,” I said.
“Already?”
“I’m meeting friends uptown.”
Her eyes stayed on mine, suggesting, as clearly as if she’d said it aloud, that the others would all have to leave soon and
that if I could wait them out, this night might not have to end in a bar.
“You’ll come by the firm when you get back?” I asked. Diane looked down, then back, the offer in her eyes dimming, then gone.
“With pictures,” she said, holding out her slim white hand. I shook it and then said my good-byes to the others. On my way
through the group I stopped at Mimi.
“Tomorrow night?” I said.
She nodded. “Eight o’clock in the conference room?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll bring the caffeine,” she said. “Have fun with your friends, Jake.”
“I will.”
I walked out into the street. Through the Twin Towers I could just see the red sun dipping into the water. The night, with
all its promise, would be here in minutes. I walked up the block to the black limo that waited at the corner, the familiar
star insignia of Orion Car Service on its side. Thanks to the long hours of tax season, I knew all ten of their drivers. At
the wheel tonight sat Rudy, his big arm on the open window, the
Post
spread out in his lap.
“Rudy.”
“Jake.”
“Diane Silio’s car?”
He nodded. I opened the door, climbed in, and sat back in the leather seat. Through the open partition I met Rudy’s eyes in
the rearview mirror.
“You dog,” he said.
“We’ll see.”
And here I am. Night is on us now, and the financial district is quiet. The skyscrapers have spit out the last of their money-men
and stand like sentries all down Wall Street. Through the floor of the limo I can feel the low rumble of the Broadway local.
It rolls off, its fading clatter giving way to silence and now to the magic click, click, click of Diane Silio’s heels. “Bye,”
she calls out behind her, and then the limo door opens and I see a gray skirt and, where it divides along its slit, a trim
stockinged thigh, then a flash of blouse, and suddenly Diane’s brown eyes, as shocked as a victim’s but recovering in the
same instant. She is half in the car, her wrist on the seat, her eyes on mine, on mine, on mine still.
She slides inside.
“Seven fifteen Clermont,” she says, looking straight ahead as she pulls the door closed. “At De Kalb.”
No man who makes do with a steady, or even pays for sex, will ever know the charge of this moment. The electricity. We pull
away from the curb, accelerating smoothly through a yellow light, then up the curving bridge ramp, then easing into the streaming
lights that flow together, away from the perfect skyline of Manhattan and toward the broken waterfront of Brooklyn. I lean
forward and slide the partition closed; we are alone, three feet of smooth black leather between us in the cool dark.
“I live upstairs from my parents,” she says. “It’s private.”
She looks out her window, at the dark, wide mouth of the bay and the emptiness beyond. Bridge light pours in, falling on her
pure, unguarded neck, on the white of her stockinged knees, which are
gone last year and come back certain that at twenty-six the two best weeks of his life were behind him, she moved aside so
I could get next to her at the bar. “Excuse me,” I said to Mimi, who tipped her wineglass to me. I caught the barest trace
of rose in Diane’s perfume as I slid next to her, counted six buttons on her cream blouse before it disappeared into her gray
skirt. “What did he like best?” she asked, and her brown eyes, soft as a teen queen’s, filled with life as I told her of the
warm ash she could wade in in the open mouths of the volcanoes and of the trained dolphins that would swim with the guests
in the hotel coves. Her crossed legs started to bob gently. A minute later I looked at my watch.
“That’s it for me,” I said.
“Already?”
“I’m meeting friends uptown.”
Her eyes stayed on mine, suggesting, as clearly as if she’d said it aloud, that the others would all have to leave soon and
that if I could wait them out, this night might not have to end in a bar.
“You’ll come by the firm when you get back?” I asked. Diane looked down, then back, the offer in her eyes dimming, then gone.
“With pictures,” she said, holding out her slim white hand. I shook it and then said my good-byes to the others. On my way
through the group I stopped at Mimi.
“Tomorrow night?” I said.
She nodded. “Eight o’clock in the conference room?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll bring the caffeine,” she said. “Have fun with your friends, Jake.”
“I will.”
I walked out into the street. Through the Twin Towers I could just see the red sun dipping into the water. The night, with
all its promise, would be here in minutes. I walked up the block to the black limo that waited at the corner, the familiar
star insignia of Orion Car Service on its side. Thanks to the long hours of tax season, I knew all ten of their drivers. At
the wheel tonight sat Rudy, his big arm on the open window, the
Post
spread out in his lap.
“Rudy.”
“Jake.”
“Diane Silio’s car?”
He nodded. I opened the door, climbed in, and sat back in the leather seat. Through the open partition I met Rudy’s eyes in
the rearview mirror.
“You dog,” he said.
“We’ll see.”
And here I am. Night is on us now, and the financial district is quiet. The skyscrapers have spit out the last of their money-men
and stand like sentries all down Wall Street. Through the floor of the limo I can feel the low rumble of the Broadway local.
It rolls off, its fading clatter giving way to silence and now to the magic click, click, click of Diane Silio’s heels. “Bye,”
she calls out behind her, and then the limo door opens and I see a gray skirt and, where it divides along its slit, a trim
stockinged thigh, then a flash of blouse, and suddenly Diane’s brown eyes, as shocked as a victim’s but recovering in the
same instant. She is half in the car, her wrist on the seat, her eyes on mine, on mine, on mine still.
She slides inside.
“Seven fifteen Clermont,” she says, looking straight ahead as she pulls the door closed. “At De Kalb.”
No man who makes do with a steady, or even pays for sex, will ever know the charge of this moment. The electricity. We pull
away from the curb, accelerating smoothly through a yellow light, then up the curving bridge ramp, then easing into the streaming
lights that flow together, away from the perfect skyline of Manhattan and toward the broken waterfront of Brooklyn. I lean
forward and slide the partition closed; we are alone, three feet of smooth black leather between us in the cool dark.
“I live upstairs from my parents,” she says. “It’s private.”
She looks out her window, at the dark, wide mouth of the bay and the emptiness beyond. Bridge light pours in, falling on her
pure, unguarded neck, on the white of her stockinged knees, which are
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