“Guy doesn’t like me to drink so much at home, but I’m not home now, am I?”
No, she wasn’t. Home for the Anzalones was Coney Island in Brooklyn. The nice part, she’d said, although I’d hardly know which area that was. I was born in Brooklyn, so I’d been to Coney Island. It was more than a Brooklyn landmark. It was a state of mind. When I was a kid I remembered a long stretch of beach from the aquarium to a dive arcade called Eddie’s Fascination that had that seedy beach languor I’d since seen in resort towns from Bar Harbor to Miami and farther south in the Caribbean. The same sarongs, beach towels, and sunglass holders covered with flowers or imprinted with the town’s name and all made in China. On every corner there were Italian restaurants, where old men sat outside on folding chairs doing who knew what. Twenty years later, it probably still looked the same.
Connie’s husband, the Tumbled Stone King, made his fortune in landscaping, though he’d branched out into demolition and construction. She said it in a way that didn’t lend itself to further elaboration and suggested the rumor about his involvement in illegal activities might be true. We returned to the safer subject of the flower show.
Her face lost all of its hardness and she lit up when she talked about gardening.
“It was the only work Guy would let me do—and even then he sent some men to help me plant things or move materials.”
On my second drink and feeling comfortable, I pointed to her nails. “Gardening can’t be easy with those.”
“It’s not! But Guy likes them, and he’s, you know, king of the castle. I’m constantly taking them off and putting them on.” That couldn’t be healthy for the nail bed, but perhaps it was good for the marriage bed—and given the choice, most people would choose the latter.
“I think I’m helping the nail salon owner bring over her entire village. There used to be a real diamond on this one.” She showed me the perfectly sculpted, shell-colored nail on her left ring finger, inches from a rock as big as a muscari bulb. “Then I lost it in the garden. I accidentally buried it when I was planting a row of allium last fall. When the shoots come up, I’ll see if there’s a bare spot and poke around. Maybe if I fertilize it’ll grow into a tennis bracelet.”
Connie had read an article about the Big Apple Flower Show and asked Guy if it would be all right if she tried to exhibit. She’d been fantasizing about the black-tie gala reception ever since she’d sent in the application and the way she talked about it, it may have been the only reason she wanted to participate.
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when Guy said yes. I did trick him, though. I kept talking about redecorating the master bathroom, so he figured it was cheaper to let me do this. Wasn’t that clever? Now I’m finally here.”
Wherever here was. She was Cinderella at last invited to the ball. I wasn’t likely to make the society pages either, but I’d gone to black-tie galas—museum openings and screenings when I worked in television—and they were generally no big deal.
“You know, those parties are more boring than they look. And it’s not that hard to get invited. All you have to do is send a check to the organizations running them.”
“I didn’t realize.” She poured another drink with such a practiced hand, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d stood up and done a bunny dip.
“I’m usually good at making friends,” she said, “but people have been so cold. First that man yesterday. Of course I didn’t tell Guy about that. He’d have hit the ceiling, then hit the man. Then I overheard this nasty old broad—the one who smells like an ashtray but looks like she’s giving makeovers at Saks—talking behind my back. I know my entry isn’t the most sophisticated, but there must have been some reason the horticultural society accepted my application.”
I wondered silently if her husband or his company had anything to do with it.
“Every garden doesn’t have to look like Dr. Jekyll’s, does it?”
My Robert Louis Stevenson was rusty but I was fairly sure neither of his most famous creations, the good Doctor Jekyll nor his evil alter ego, had had gardens.
“The English lady,” Connie said.
The girl had done her homework, even if she did mangle the name. Should I correct her or let it go? Always a toss-up. “I think it’s pronounced Gee-kill, Gertrude Jekyll,” I said, gently, “just in case it comes up in conversation.”
“See, you know so much. You’re just the type of person I hoped I’d meet here.”
Her eyes got watery, but instead of letting the tears spill over, she threw her head back and drained her glass. I was dazzled by her speedy recovery—and her apparently wooden leg.
I repeated what I’d heard—that there had been other mishaps at the show. She perked up and even laughed about a quartet of plaster gnomes that had given up their lives. We decided their ashes should be spread at the Taj Mahal or Eiffel Tower, where they’d had their pictures taken.
A commotion in the lobby caught our attention as a burly guy brushed aside the doorman, spun through the revolving door into the bar, and headed our way. Something told me she had called the Tumbled Stone King about today’s mishap.
“Oh.” With one finger she slid the champagne bottle a tiny bit closer to me, to suggest it was all mine.
“Did I not tell you? What did I tell you?” he said. Connie shrank a bit as the man lumbered toward us. Towering over our booth, his hands on his bulky hips, he took a deep breath, then let it out in a blast of air that carried traces of Scotch and cigar smoke. He made a smoothing motion with his thick paws. “I don’t mean to yell at you.” He wiped his forehead with the heels of both hands. Then he motioned Connie out of the booth. “C’mon. We’re going home.”
She licked her lips, producing a pout I imagined she used whenever she wanted something. I felt like I should be taking notes.
“I just don’t want you to get your feelings hurt, baby.”
“For goodness sakes, Guy, all my things are upstairs. I overreacted. It was just a prank. Paula says there’ve been other incidents. It wasn’t just me. They’re calling it the Javits Curse. It has nothing to do with you.”
I felt uncomfortable and got up to leave.
“Sit.” He pointed, as if I were a dog he was training. I sat. What was next, rolling over?
“Look, I’m sorry. Please, don’t go. I’m Connie’s husband.”
As if I couldn’t tell.
Guy Anzalone motioned for the waiter, ordered a Famous Grouse, and squeezed into the booth. I was sandwiched in between a woman dressed like Ariel and a Damon Runyon character from Guys and Dolls. I polished off my drink, and Connie quickly topped me off. I was going to need a lot more nuts.
Twenty
It was simple. Anything that made Connie unhappy made Guy unhappy. Unhappiness was not a condition he handled well. All this was made clear over more drinks and a feisty exchange that was both comical and a little unsettling. Unlike Nikki, I didn’t think Anzalone was a criminal just because he was rough around the edges, but there was something in his manner that screamed short fuse. And in Connie’s, too.