Read Online Under the Eye of God by Jerome Charyn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerome Charyn
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smile.
“Did you know that AR once bet half a mil on one toss of a coin? He had to line his pockets with thousand-dollar bills. And he was always broke. He had betting fever.
He’d watch a cockroach climb up a wall and have to bet on its progress. He’d bet on a ball game. . . . ”
“Isn’t he the man who fixed the World Series of 1919?”
“A fishwives’ tale,” David said. “Gamblers bribed ballplayers in Arnold’s name. He had nothing to do with the fix. I wanted to sue fucking F. Scott Fitzgerald while he was still alive. He defamed Arnold, turned him into Meyer Wolfshein, a greenhorn with a forest of hair in his nose. AR had the softest voice. He spoke like a duke. He was much more elegant than an Irish scribbler from St. Paul.”
Isaac adored The Great Gatsby and Fitzgerald’s portrait of Meyer Wolfsheim, who understood that the world couldn’t thrive without some business “gonnegtion.”
“David, what was your hundred-million-dollar bet about?”
The wizard began to purr. “What else? The presidential election of ’88.”
All of Isaac’s goodwill was gone. He wanted to rip off David’s scalp.
“You bet against the Democrats, didn’t you?”
“Kid, I’ve always been in your camp.”
Isaac cursed himself. He didn’t need Cassandra’s Wall to tell him what was going down. David had bet on him, and him alone, bet that Isaac would be the new president, not J. Michael Storm. All the rumblings in the press had started from the Ansonia’s seventeenth floor.
“You fucker,” Isaac said. “You’re betting that Michael will take a fall.”
“Like Humpty Dumpty,” David said. “But Calder won’t be there to pick up the pieces. You’ll inherit the White House from him.”
“And what if I don’t let it happen?”
“Ah,” David said. “Play Cassandra. Be my guest. I’ll double my bet.”
“I could run to Tim Seligman,” Isaac said.
“And have him sink his own Party? Not a chance. Tim will behave.”
“Then I’ll shove Teddy Neems into the top spot. I’ll give all the marbles to Calder’s own vice president.”
“Teddy’s my bagman. He’ll do whatever I say. . . . Isaac, you can run around like a renegade, shoot up half of Manhattan with your Glock, and you’ll still be Prez.”
“And my first act as president will be to fry your ass. . . . David, tell me, where does Trudy Winckleman live?”
Isaac was already defeated. It was Manhattan, where any hunter could become the hunted in a matter of minutes.
“Where else?” David said. “At the Ansonia. In Inez’s old apartment. It’s poetic justice. I put her where AR kept his own true love. Did you know that Inez died in my arms? I didn’t abandon her after Arnold was killed. She always went to bed with AR’s picture under her pillow. She could have gone back to dancing, joined some revue. I told her it wasn’t dignified. I paid her bills. We had tea every afternoon. . . . ”
Isaac grew delirious with David’s recollection of Inez. Most of his rancor was gone. He was in love with the first Inez and the second. David had kept Inez’s apartment intact, not as a museum, but as a devotional, with cherry wood dressers, an armoire, a mirror that had once belonged to Lillie Langtry . . .
Isaac’s head swam with all the details. David didn’t have to tell him where Trudy Winckleman’s apartment was. Like most gamblers, AR had suffered from triskaidekaphobia, a morbid fear of the number thirteen. But he’d tried to wean himself away from that fear, according to David. So he parked Inez on the thirteenth floor. She griped and griped, but Arnold wouldn’t relent. He had to place his own mistress and himself in jeopardy. It titillated him.
Isaac didn’t care. Triskaidekaphobia , he muttered to himself and ran out of David’s labyrinth.
9
T HE BIG GUY WASN’T BASHFUL. He knocked on Inez’s door. No one answered, and he wondered if she was still in the bowels of the Ansonia with her billionaires. And just
“Did you know that AR once bet half a mil on one toss of a coin? He had to line his pockets with thousand-dollar bills. And he was always broke. He had betting fever.
He’d watch a cockroach climb up a wall and have to bet on its progress. He’d bet on a ball game. . . . ”
“Isn’t he the man who fixed the World Series of 1919?”
“A fishwives’ tale,” David said. “Gamblers bribed ballplayers in Arnold’s name. He had nothing to do with the fix. I wanted to sue fucking F. Scott Fitzgerald while he was still alive. He defamed Arnold, turned him into Meyer Wolfshein, a greenhorn with a forest of hair in his nose. AR had the softest voice. He spoke like a duke. He was much more elegant than an Irish scribbler from St. Paul.”
Isaac adored The Great Gatsby and Fitzgerald’s portrait of Meyer Wolfsheim, who understood that the world couldn’t thrive without some business “gonnegtion.”
“David, what was your hundred-million-dollar bet about?”
The wizard began to purr. “What else? The presidential election of ’88.”
All of Isaac’s goodwill was gone. He wanted to rip off David’s scalp.
“You bet against the Democrats, didn’t you?”
“Kid, I’ve always been in your camp.”
Isaac cursed himself. He didn’t need Cassandra’s Wall to tell him what was going down. David had bet on him, and him alone, bet that Isaac would be the new president, not J. Michael Storm. All the rumblings in the press had started from the Ansonia’s seventeenth floor.
“You fucker,” Isaac said. “You’re betting that Michael will take a fall.”
“Like Humpty Dumpty,” David said. “But Calder won’t be there to pick up the pieces. You’ll inherit the White House from him.”
“And what if I don’t let it happen?”
“Ah,” David said. “Play Cassandra. Be my guest. I’ll double my bet.”
“I could run to Tim Seligman,” Isaac said.
“And have him sink his own Party? Not a chance. Tim will behave.”
“Then I’ll shove Teddy Neems into the top spot. I’ll give all the marbles to Calder’s own vice president.”
“Teddy’s my bagman. He’ll do whatever I say. . . . Isaac, you can run around like a renegade, shoot up half of Manhattan with your Glock, and you’ll still be Prez.”
“And my first act as president will be to fry your ass. . . . David, tell me, where does Trudy Winckleman live?”
Isaac was already defeated. It was Manhattan, where any hunter could become the hunted in a matter of minutes.
“Where else?” David said. “At the Ansonia. In Inez’s old apartment. It’s poetic justice. I put her where AR kept his own true love. Did you know that Inez died in my arms? I didn’t abandon her after Arnold was killed. She always went to bed with AR’s picture under her pillow. She could have gone back to dancing, joined some revue. I told her it wasn’t dignified. I paid her bills. We had tea every afternoon. . . . ”
Isaac grew delirious with David’s recollection of Inez. Most of his rancor was gone. He was in love with the first Inez and the second. David had kept Inez’s apartment intact, not as a museum, but as a devotional, with cherry wood dressers, an armoire, a mirror that had once belonged to Lillie Langtry . . .
Isaac’s head swam with all the details. David didn’t have to tell him where Trudy Winckleman’s apartment was. Like most gamblers, AR had suffered from triskaidekaphobia, a morbid fear of the number thirteen. But he’d tried to wean himself away from that fear, according to David. So he parked Inez on the thirteenth floor. She griped and griped, but Arnold wouldn’t relent. He had to place his own mistress and himself in jeopardy. It titillated him.
Isaac didn’t care. Triskaidekaphobia , he muttered to himself and ran out of David’s labyrinth.
9
T HE BIG GUY WASN’T BASHFUL. He knocked on Inez’s door. No one answered, and he wondered if she was still in the bowels of the Ansonia with her billionaires. And just
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