Class Act

14

Mickey O’Brien called a company he used to work for, driving limos part-time, back when he was a patrolman. They had a division called Chauffeurs Unlimited, who furnished drivers for your own car. He arranged to meet one at his house, then got into the rear seat of his new Mercedes. “Ralph Lauren, Madison and Seventy-Second,” he said to the driver

“Yes, sir, Mr. O’Brien.”

In due course they pulled up to the old Rhinelander Mansion, which now housed the home store of Mr. Lauren. Mickey went upstairs to men’s suits and picked out a half dozen and a tuxedo. He had always been a perfect size 40 regular, so only the trouser lengths had to be fixed. He picked out another half dozen tweed jackets and a blue blazer, as many odd trousers, then he went downstairs to look at shoes while they did the trouser cuffs. He picked out a half dozen pairs of shoes, two of them very expensive alligator, then he bought some socks and sweaters.

When everything was ready he directed them to be put into the trunk of the Mercedes, then headed down to East Fifty-Seventh Street to Turnbull & Asser, where he ordered two dozen shirts to be made, plus a selection of neckties and some ready-made things, since the custom shirts took a couple of months.

Back in the car, he made a reservation for two at Daniel, then headed downtown and called Marge, who was working on his new house. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Are you at the house?”

“I am, and working like a beaver.”

“I’ve got a trunkful of clothes I’d like to drop off. Can you put them in my closet for me?”

“Dressing room,” she said. “You don’t have a closet, you have a dressing room. I guess you missed that on the tour.”

“All the better.”

“I don’t want you in the house yet, though.”

“I’ll send the driver up with the things, then I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty. Where will you be?”

“Here. I brought a change of clothes to save time, and I’ll use your shower.”

“Do I have towels, yet?”

“You do. You have just about everything. I’m just arranging with a couple of guys to move things.”

“Okay, see you at seven-thirty.”

“Where are we dining?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Whatever you say.

He was driven downtown. Then, while the driver carried everything into the house, he sat in the front seat and played with the electronics, setting up his satellite radio and selecting stations.

Stone, Charley Fox, and Mike Freeman rose to greet Jack and Hillary Coulter. Stone was struck by the difference in Jack’s face. His nose was just as long, but narrower, lending refinement to his face. His previous schnoz had suffered from his prison experience. There was still a little redness, but not enough to matter. His graying hair had grown and was handsomely barbered. Stone introduced everybody, and they all sat down and chatted while they looked at menus and ordered.

“Is the figure you mentioned to Stone still correct?” Charley asked, to get the ball rolling.

“Yes,” Jack replied.

“I suggest you put three hundred into a money market fund, then we invest the remainder.”

“All right,” Jack said, and Hillary nodded.

“With the rest I want to put you into one startup and another outfit that will go public this year, then we’ll start hunting for new buys. We’ll do so in such a way that we’ll be investing alongside you. I wouldn’t put you into anything we didn’t think enough of to invest in it ourselves.”

Charley talked for a half hour uninterrupted, then lunch arrived and they resumed chatting.

“We’d like debit cards to use against the money market fund,” Jack said.

“Of course. May I ask, what are you doing with your other assets?”

“We’ll leave them where they are for a while, I think. At some time in the future, we may want to move them to the new account.”

“That’s fine,” Charley said. After lunch, everybody went home feeling satisfied with how it had gone.

Mickey and Marge sat in the center of the floor at Daniel, and dined grandly.

“I’ve never been here,” Marge said, “living in Brooklyn. I like it.”

“We’ll come here often then.”

“I should tell you that I’m divorced,” she said.

“Who isn’t?”

“Just once, though.”

“Twice for me. It wasn’t their fault. Living with a cop isn’t easy.”

“Kids?”

“Nope. You?”

“No. I’m thirty-six,” she said.

“I’m fifty. That’s how old you have to be to retire on a full pension from the NYPD.”

“Anything else you want to know?” she asked.

“You mean, like, your bra size?”

She laughed. “You can figure that out for yourself.”

“I’ll look forward to that.”

They finished their dinner and were on dessert.

“Why don’t we have a cognac at your place?” Marge asked.

“I’m not due to move in until tomorrow.”

“I have a surprise for you. It’s ready now, everything in its place.”

“In that case,” Mickey said, waving for a check, “let’s have a cognac at my place.”

“Love to.”

Mickey woke early, as he usually did. Marge was sprawled beside him, her blond hair splayed over her pillow. He eased his way out of bed and into the silk robe she had bought for him, then he stood and looked around the room. It was perfect. He loved the dressing room with his new suits and jackets hanging there. He would give his old stuff to Goodwill.

He walked around the apartment and looked at what he had first seen the night before, but with an owner’s eyes. It was remarkable how everything suited him. It was as if he’d done his own shopping, but with better taste.

He figured out how to use the coffee maker, made them some, and took it upstairs.

She was sitting up in bed, the covers only up to her waist. He set her coffee on the bedside table, shucked off his robe, and climbed in beside her. They clinked coffee cups.

“It’s absolutely perfect,” he said. “I feel lucky to live here.”

“That’s how I wanted you to feel,” she said.

The phone at his bedside buzzed.

“That’s the front door,” she said. “Just pick it up and talk.”

He did so. “Hello?”

“Hey, pal, it’s Tiny. How you doin’?”

“I’m not here,” Mickey replied. “Try to remember that.”

“But I got a horse for you.”

“Eat it yourself,” Mickey said, then hung up.

Marge laughed. “I won’t ask who that was.”

“A guy I’d like to forget is alive,” Mickey said.

Tiny squeezed his bulk back into his car. “Can you believe that guy?” He asked nobody in particular.

“Who?”

“Mickey O’Brien. I carried him for years, and now that he’s flush he don’t want to bet with me no more.”

“You made a lot of money on Mick, Tiny,” the man reminded him.

“All the reason to make a lot more,” Tiny reasoned. “And I intend to.”

“If he won’t bet, how you going to do that?” the driver asked.

“I’ll figure it out,” Tiny replied. “He’s always been mine, and he’s going to keep being mine.”