Base Notes, page 9
Neither my upbringing nor my formal education had prepared me to choose between Chablis and Spätburgunder. Growing up, my family had drunk Boone’s Farm, and that only on special occasions. But Jonathan expected better, when I arrived with my brown-bagged bottles, and so I learned by trial and error to deliver.
Over and above the wine, Jonathan taught me to love Scotch whisky with an intensity that approached my excitement about perfumery, and through our discussion of the first subject, I grew to understand his approach to the second. Ounce for ounce, Scotch is generally a less expensive obsession than perfume—though the margin can shrink or reverse depending on your tastes—but Jonathan never worried about the cost of either. I only learned what a fortune had been sitting on his bar once he was dead and I wanted to continue my education in single malts. Because he had not cared about the money, he had not considered it an important aspect of my education.
I wondered what kind of liquor Beau and Jane kept stocked, and what Giovanni might bring with him. Despite Beau’s protestation, I looked up a liquor store after I got off the 4 at Utica and—with some misgivings—procured an overpriced bottle of mediocre prosecco. I just didn’t like to arrive empty handed.
Beau and Jane lived on the top floor of a brick row house; the bells weren’t marked and I hazarded the top one. A moment later, an elderly woman in a housecoat and satin cap emerged from the basement underneath the exterior stairs, glared at me, and slammed the door as she retreated.
I had better luck on the second try: the vacuum of a door opening above, inside, made the front door shake in its frame. Shortly after, footsteps. And then Beau in a floral apron, ushering me over the threshold. I could smell sautéed garlic, browning butter, sage. A slight accumulation of gas in the stairwell. Beau himself wore simple Bay Rum over a trace of coal-tar shampoo.
“Welcome!” he said, and went for a kiss on my cheek. I was ready this time, and matched him, before presenting the prosecco. He looked at it, raised an eyebrow, and looked back at me. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure out something to do with it. Ah!” He snapped his fingers. “We’ll put it in the zabaglione!”
The stairs creaked mightily as we went up, and the smells of cooking grew stronger. The front door had been left ajar in the wake of Beau’s descent. On the landing I heard Django Reinhardt and the chattering of a cocktail shaker.
“Shoes off,” said Beau. “Take your coat?” I surrendered it. “Go get lubed up. Jane’s making negroni sours.”
The apartment was a converted railroad, which surprised me at first: Beau and Jane seemed like the kind of couple who wouldn’t mind strangers walking through their bedroom. But instead it was tucked away behind a narrow hall, space sacrificed for privacy.
At the end of this hallway was the living room, looking out over the street. Here I found Jane mixing drinks. Bottles crowded the glass-topped table behind the sofa: Old Raj, Old Grand-Dad, Arette. Three elaborate vintage shakers gathered dust among the spirits.
Giovanni waved from the sofa, rosy drink in hand.
“Pink panty droppers,” he said, tipping the glass my way. “She’s using navy-strength gin.” I did not think I had imagined the note of warning in his voice.
Jane struck the intersection of her Boston shaker with professional accuracy and the cheater tin gave way. “What frat party did you ever go to that served amari?”
Flowing through two strainers, the drink came out pale pink at first, then gathered a thick white head of foam. Deftly, Jane rolled the peel of an orange between her fingers. The oils it expressed illuminated the air between us.
“Here,” she said, and handed me the drink. “There’s some chips and olives on the coffee table, just to take the edge off ’til the pasta’s done.”
I settled on the sofa opposite Giovanni and drew my feet up. The cocktail felt like custard between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, disguising the proof of the alcohol. The herbal bitterness made me lick my teeth.
Jane mixed two more sours and shouted for Beau as she poured. Her aggression had lost its air of defense and become playful. In fact, it reminded me a little of those elegant floggers on display in SoHo. Pretty and put together, apt to leave a bruise you would touch later with admiration. And she was smiling. It wasn’t a particularly sweet smile, but it seemed to have staying power.
Beau came out of the kitchen wiping his hands on his apron and took a glass from Jane. “Everything’s all grated. Just waiting for the water to boil. Thanks, babe.” He landed a kiss on the top of her head and collapsed between Giovanni and me. The sofa squealed alarmingly beneath his weight.
Jane smacked the back of his head and he relocated without fuss to a leather pouf in front of the nonfunctional fireplace. The hearth was stacked full of vintage Playboys, tits yellowing with age. Above him, a row of crumbling paperback porno books. A set of spurs hung from the decorative newel of the mantel.
Interesting that their bedroom was so private, when clearly someone didn’t care who looked.
I thought of the three vintage shakers, elegant but dusty with disuse. Of Jane’s expert blow to the base of her bartender’s tool. I thought of the difference between aesthetic and function. I thought of Giovanni saying, Half the work he’s putting in is for her. She’s shy. And this was true. But Jane had clearly picked someone who loved to do the work.
She sat in the seat that Beau had vacated. This put her knees very close to mine, but I did not move to give her space.
“Thanks for coming,” she said, not looking up. Her fingers barely, briefly, touched my thigh. “It’s been way too long since we had anybody over.”
Over her shoulder, Giovanni caught my gaze and raised his eyebrows. I did the same with my negroni sour, then tipped the last of it down my throat.
Once the water boiled the whole meal came together quickly—sweet squash and sage cooked in browned butter, ladled over trottole tricolore and heaps of finely grated parmesan. The cheese and fat melted together and coated everything in savory silk.
It was very good food, and better conversation. The wine too: a stony, herbal vermentino, redolent of green almonds and lemon zest. A gift from a friend, said Giovanni, a buyer at Astor perpetually buried under bottles bequeathed to him by hopeful sales reps. My prosecco felt even sillier now.
But as the afternoon wore on, Beau brought my contribution out of the refrigerator and expertly popped the cork. “The secret is,” he said, “you gotta twist the bottle.”
Donning the floral apron again, he covered the front of his salmon-pink Oxford. Egg yolks, left over from our cocktails, followed the prosecco out of the fridge. Discarded on the countertop nearby was a stack of nested, jagged eggshells. Beau picked one, rinsed it off, and examined its insides. Satisfied, he filled it with sparkling wine. This he poured into a Pyrex measuring cup, and then repeated the procedure three more times before setting it aside. Sugar was next: four eggshells’ worth, mixed with the yolks. This went into a makeshift double boiler of two stacked pots, and he began to whisk it vigorously.
“You’re such a show-off,” said Giovanni as a ribbon of egg yolk followed the whisk out of the pan.
“You couldn’t tell by the wardrobe?” Jane’s cheeks were pink, and the edges of her smile had grown soft. She might keep the bedroom door closed when company came by, but she clearly liked to watch him while he put on a show.
Outside, the day was waning into late afternoon, golden-hour light coming just a little earlier than it had last week. Jane tipped the last of the bottle of wine over my glass, then got up to flip the record in the living room. The whisk went on and on.
Then suddenly the idyll broke.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” said Beau. “The ice! Jane, the ice water!” Realizing she was out of the room, Beau looked at me with wide, appealing eyes.
“I’ve got it,” I said, and opened the freezer. A bag of frozen peas fell on my foot and split open, rolling across the floor like marbles. Giovanni swore and stood, as if he could retroactively avert disaster. Scattering peas, I grabbed the empty bowl that had held our pasta, dumped a tray of ice cubes into it, and filled it at the sink. Flecks of sage floated on the surface amidst beads of oil.
Triumphant, as if he were not squashing peas beneath his slippers, Beau set the top half of the double boiler in the ice. Still whisking, he poured prosecco steadily into the egg yolks. The heat of the custard lifted the sharp aroma of the wine into the air. The egg mixture thickened as it cooled and soon Beau was spooning it over small bowls of quartered figs. Jane came back as he was finishing, took one look at the peas, and burst into peals of helpless laughter.
There was grappa on the bar, and Beau poured generously. Giovanni took the bottle from him and read the label, then nodded with approval.
“This is good stuff,” he said.
“Cheap too,” said Jane. “Right? You wouldn’t think.” They clinked their glasses.
This time Giovanni took the leather pouf, and I let Beau and Jane think they had been subtle sliding onto the sofa with me. Why put in the work of a seduction when other people were so eager to seduce you?
It had worked on Jonathan too. People like to feel they have that kind of power over you. It makes them complacent and apt to indulge your whims. It makes them underestimate your power over them.
The sky outside was still light, and I wasn’t anything approaching hungry, but we were closer to the dinner hour now than lunch. I hardly remembered the time passing. Jane’s head rested heavily in one hand and she yawned wide, like a cat, tongue curling in a frame of sharp white teeth.
Despite the sunlight, something of a late-night mood settled as we sipped our grappa. Small talk had grown larger and more raucous as the wine flowed, then petered out through dessert, skirting more serious topics and lapsing into the occasional pensive silence. Brunch had drifted into evening time, stretching the last of the weekend like taffy until the concept of Monday morning and consequences felt unreal. We were like the last guests at a dinner party, deep in a night that felt like it would go on forever. One more drink, a little more cheese, a final heartfelt confession.
“Fuck,” said Beau, putting a hand over his stomach. “That was fun. Why don’t we do this more often?”
Jane stretched, letting her arms come down along the back of the couch: one behind me, one behind Beau. She didn’t touch my shoulder, quite, but the fact of her nearness tingled at the edge of my proprioception. “It’s a good excuse to clean the house.”
Not so shy on her own territory, it seemed. I leaned back the extra inch. Giovanni noticed, and said nothing.
“Too busy?” I asked.
Beau snorted and toed off his slippers. “How did you guess?”
“Extrapolation from my own circumstances.”
“Jesus,” he said, and swept a hand through his disordered storm of hair. Gray gleamed in the wake of his fingers. “I need a vacation.”
“You need a vacation?” Jane kicked his ankle. “What about me? What about Giovanni? If half his clients dropped dead tomorrow, I bet he’d still be on his feet from nine to seven.”
“Try nine to nine.”
“Hey,” she said, angling her glass in Giovanni’s direction. “You’re in charge of your own bookings. Nobody’s making you stay there past dinnertime.”
“Jim,” he said, and Jane made a disgusted sound.
“He’s this guy who lives in the building,” Giovanni explained. “He’s been coming since we opened. And he only ever wants a beard trim. I don’t do that shit anymore, not without a haircut too. It doesn’t pay the bills. But you know, loyal customer, and now he’s a pain in my ass. Always comes down at like, quarter after eight. I’m always there cleaning up, and if I forget to lock the door, this motherfucker’s coming in like we’re old pals. Even if I do lock the door, he knocks. But I don’t want to piss him off, you know? I’m not trying to get badmouthed. And he tips really well, sometimes. But if anybody on my list was about to drop dead . . . man, he’d be my top choice.”
We all stared at him for a long moment, until Jane started laughing again. I was beginning to grow fond of the sound. “Jesus, Giovanni. Should I be worried about this guy?”
“Nah. But you know. There’s always one. Or two. Or ten. Sometimes I wish I could just . . .” One of his hands came up, made a vaguely violent claw, then dropped heavily back into his lap. Shot down by futility, perhaps.
I held my tongue.
“You wanna talk about that kind of client,” said Beau, “I could give you a run for your money. People are so weird about their suits. Like, no you can’t have your money back because you don’t look like a supermodel. I said that print would look bad on the final product, and now here we are, and you’re pissed. I’m the goddamn professional. You hired me! I have come so close to strangling so many people.”
“At least no one’s grabbed your tits,” said Jane, too brightly. “It’s a miracle more bartenders don’t kill people. You could cover it up pretty handily too.” Her eyes widened in pantomime, voice rising several pitches and taking on a breathy, innocent tone. “I found him in the bathroom. He must have slipped and hit his head. We cut him off, but I guess not soon enough. I feel awful.”
“Wow,” said Beau. “Not like you’ve thought about that or anything.”
Jane shrugged, smiling: a taut and colorless vee.
“Reg?” I guessed, finally turning the conversation to my own ends.
“Among others.”
“It’s funny,” I said. “Speaking of people you wish would drop dead, I was doing a little digging on Eisner. You know, the man from the party the other night.”
Beau and Giovanni nodded.
“The blackmail guy,” said Jane. “I bullied Beau into gossiping.”
I could imagine that with ease. “It turns out his company owns the building Giovanni’s store is in.”
“Real estate,” said Giovanni, pulling a face into his drink. “Should’ve known.”
“Not quite,” I said. “Mixed asset management.”
“Who cares.” He finished his grappa and poured another glass. “Kill ’em all. Eat the rich.” Capping the bottle, he asked, “What’s the firm called?”
Now it was my turn to smile. “Eisner, Pearson”—and then, looking at Beau and Jane in turn—“Yates and Yates.”
How do you convince someone to commit murder?
There’s more than one way, I imagine. Maybe you have some ideas of your own. I can only tell you my tactic, which was to let them all convince themselves.
I thought it was a good one, then. Less chance of pointed fingers, exclamations of shock, phone calls to the police. It makes you a conspirator instead of a puppet master. Trusted, rather than feared. As for how well it worked . . . we’ll get to that, eventually.
“Those sons of bitches,” said Beau. “How wild is that? If their private fuckin’ plane crashed tomorrow, it’d solve us all a bunch of problems.”
“Not for me,” I said. “I need Eisner. Or, I need his money. Part of our . . . arrangement is that he’s offered to invest significant capital to help me increase distribution.”
“Surely you can get a loan,” said Giovanni.
I raised an eloquent eyebrow. “With what credit? I’ve been pouring borrowed money into this enterprise for years. No banker will touch me. Jonathan never worried about running in the red, but I suppose he didn’t have to.”
“Jonathan?” asked Jane.
“Jonathan Bright.” I should not have brought him up, but all this grousing about the bad habits of the rich had summoned him to the forefront of my mind. “He founded the company: Bright House. He didn’t mind paying through the nose to keep it running. It was his vanity project, and he could afford to be vain. I can’t.”
“You are, though,” said Beau. Then, smiling: “No offense. Takes one to know one.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“So you took the deal,” said Giovanni. He looked skeptical, a little annoyed. “I thought he had something on you.”
“My vanity is the smallest part of it. I also love my work, like you. And yes, I am afraid of him. I wish I weren’t. But he has money, and power, and I don’t.”
“Fuck that,” said Beau, quiet and bitter. “He’s a bully. I hate that shit.”
I inclined my empty glass toward him. “But bullies like Eisner pay. You know that. You sell to them.”
He shrank slightly, abashed, and I realized he still had on his floral apron. “I wish I didn’t have to.”
Giovanni sighed, staring at nothing. “Wishes, horses.”
“God,” said Jane. Her smile was gone. “Sometimes I really could kill them.”
I didn’t jump on it. I waited. Until the grief and silence and exhaustion reached that tipping point—you could only hold it in your heart and mind so long before you had to laugh, to keep from crying. To show you still had hustle. To show it didn’t get you down.
I didn’t let them get to laughter.
“Could you, though?” I asked. “Kill someone, for that. Or anything.”
“Sure,” said Jane, without thinking very long.
Beau snorted, but belatedly realized she was serious. “Really?”
She shrugged. “People kill each other all the time. I figure the line’s not hard to cross. We’re probably all this far away.” She held her fingers up, a sliver of light showing between them. Her cuticles were ragged.
“Yeah, but like, not about a shitty tip,” said Giovanni. He seemed unsure.
“Not only. But you know: it builds up. Like with Jim, the beard-trim guy. Who says one day you won’t just lose it? Rent keeps going up, you raise your prices, this asshole keeps coming around for his cheap trim, catches you one day when you’re tired, says just the wrong thing . . . I don’t know. Like I said. People kill each other all the time, for pretty stupid reasons. We’re probably not that different.”
“I don’t know.” Giovanni fiddled with his glass where it sat on the edge of the coffee table. The base of it made a sharp, solid sound against the wood, like a joint sliding back into its socket.
