I walked over to the liquor table, to a young barman in a braided jacket.
"Scotch rocks," I said.
It was not my drink, but then again, this was not my world.
"Okay?" said the barman, pointed to a handle of inexpensive blended whisky beside the silver ice bucket.
"No," I said. "It's not okay."
Always it had been okay, but not tonight. Something had changed. I had demands. Certain people might have called it personal growth. These were the scumbags the new me would learn to admire.
The barman shrugged, squatted, came up with a bottle by the same distiller. The label was another color. This was the good stuff. The better stuff. The kid poured me an important man's pour.
"Thanks," I said.
"You're welcome, sir."
"Do you do this full-time?"
"I'm still a student."
"What do you study?"
"Bartending."
"Oh."
"Mr. Stuart always hires student bartenders."
"What a saint."
"I guess it's a lot cheaper, yeah," said the barman. "But it gives us a chance to practice in an LLS."
"A what?"
"A live liquor situation."
"Right."
"Milo!" called a voice. "Over here!"
Here it was, here they were, for to see them stand together, even as they beckoned, made it clear for all time how much I was not of them. There was Purdy, tall, becalmed, nothing like the fiendish candy-store man or the late-night dialer I'd come to know, his taut arm slung over the shoulder of an even taller fellow, bald, with fringes of curly hair: Billy Raskov. Billy looked better bald. Others I did not recognize stood with them, Purdy still the nucleus, the germ seed, the one who could somehow corral us all into a mood of sweet boisterousness, private pangs be damned.
"Milo!"
Another man joined Purdy's group just as I did. We shook hands, but somebody nearby squealed and I caught only the end of Purdy's introduction.
"… farb."
"Farb?" I said.
"Goldfarb."
"Of course," I said.
He'd been a messy gangle back on Staley Street. Now he was lean, handsome, with the mien of a racing animal.
"Goldfarb," said the man.
"I know," I said. "Charles Goldfarb."
"That's right, Milo. I'm surprised. I figured if you ever saw me again you'd want to deck me."
"What are you talking about?"
"You don't know?"
"No," I said.
"Come on, Charlie," said Purdy. "Stop teasing. Charlie, Milo, this is Lisa and Ginny. They're friends from the building."
We did our dips, our pivots, our mock-bashful waves. Purdy raised his glass.
"I'm glad we're all here. Dinner is going to be great."
"It better be," said Lisa. "That man in your kitchen is a dick."
"Nice to see you, Milo," said Billy Raskov. His trademark slur was gone. It made me wonder if it ever existed. Maybe I'd imagined it all these years. Maybe that's why I'd always gotten odd looks whenever I brought up his feigned Parkinson's.
"You too, Billy," I said, glanced back at Goldfarb. "I'm sorry, I guess I'm confused."
"Don't worry about it," said Goldfarb.
"Okay, I'll try not to. So, Charles, I think I saw somewhere you wrote a book?"
"Thanks, I appreciate the kind words."
"What kind words?"
"Sorry," said Goldfarb. "Embarrassing reflex."
"Poor Chuck," said Purdy. "He suffers from Post-Praise Stress Disorder. It's left him a wreck. I saw your thing in the paper last Sunday, by the way. Fantastic. Blistering. And thoughtful. Speaking of blisters, did you guys notice what's hanging over the fireplace?"
"Come on, Purd," said Billy.
"Check it out," said Purdy, pointed across the room to a large canvas, a luminous twilit landscape. "The latest Raskov."
A river coursed through a verdant gorge. The sky bled rich reds and blues. In the mossy foreground, a nude woman tongued the anus of an elk. Nearby, a figure in a shepherd's tunic lay disemboweled. A fawn fed on his viscera.
"It's called Renewable, Sustainable," said Purdy. "Can't take my eyes off it. Billy's gallerist killed me, but I had to have it."
"I'm impressed," I said. "I didn't know you could paint like that."
"Thanks, buddy. I'll admit I still can't touch your technique, at least as I remember it, but I've been getting better."
"Billy's having another big show next month," said Purdy.
"That's great," I said.
"You should come to the opening."
"I'd like that."
"I was thinking," said Billy. "Are you in contact with Lena? I haven't talked to her in a long time, I'd really like to-"
"Yeah, I really haven't been in contact."
"Not since it was full contact, right, bro?"
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Just joking."
"I think it's hot," said Purdy. "Milo, could I have a word with you?"
"Sure."
"Over here."
Purdy led me away from the group. We passed the barman, who nodded. Maybe this private audience with Purdy confirmed my top-shelf status.
Purdy wheeled near the corner of the room, clasped my shoulders.
"Well?"
"A pavilion," I said.
"Not bad, huh?"
"I can't thank you enough," I said. "Really. It's so amazing. I'm still processing it."
"What's the matter with you?"
"What do you mean?"
"It doesn't seem like a very happy process, judging by your face."
"I am happy. I really am. I'm just spent. You know I collapsed? I collapsed from happiness. I had to be hospitalized."
"No shit."
"So…"
"Don't tell me," said Purdy.
"Don't tell you what?"
"You're pissed."
"What are you talking about?"
"You're pissed I went over your head."
"No, I'm really not."
"It had to be that way. For your benefit. Shit, in a way this whole thing has become about you. I care about you. Don't you get that?"
"I do."
"You've got to stop resenting me. It's foolish."
"I know. And really, thank you."
"You're welcome, asshole."
"I deserve that," I said.
Purdy took a breath, gazed past my shoulder.
"Lee Moss died yesterday."
"Oh, man. I'm sorry. I just saw him."
"I know. He took a bad turn that evening."
"I'm really sorry, Purdy."
"He was an old man with cancer."
"I know he was close to you. Like family."
"Let's not get too sentimental. He helped my father defraud the government. Because of that my father had more money to leave to me, the boy he liked to beat senseless. Moss was the old breed. Took care of business. Ethics were for the Sabbath. Just a hardworking shark, a true Jew lawyer. No offense."
A tall woman in white walked up, tilted her Bellini in greeting.
"Oh, hi, Jane."
"Hello, Purdy."
"Jane, you remember Milo Burke."
The gray eyes of the governor's daughter seemed to sparkle as they surveyed the damage.
"Yes, of course, how are you?"
"Great," I said.
"Wonderful. What have you been doing with yourself?"
"Working."
"Very nice," she said.
"Be right back," said Purdy, pecked Jane's cheek.
"How about you?" I said.
"I've been working, too. On a few projects."
This woman's power had always resided in her courage. She'd defied her father, defied him still. She made her films to destroy his beliefs. Whether he also helped fund them was not the point. She'd been given an out at birth, a frictionless existence, refused it. I did admire her for this. But she'd taken my knife. Worse, she probably had no recollection of this fact.
"What kind of projects?" I said.
"I just finished a film about a family in a refugee camp in Chad. And I'm doing something about health care, the uninsured."