“So did you see it?”
“See what?”
“The sapphire.”
“Oh, the sapphire! Yes, I saw it. It was an unbelievable experience, the way the light breaks into six points across the oblate, azure surface. I got goose bumps. I was shaking so much I could barely hold the glass cutter steady.”
“A glass cutter,” said Rebecca, laughing. “What a riot!”
“Yeah, it was pretty funny. The guards had never heard that alarm before, and they didn’t know what to do. Two ran head-on into each other. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t finish getting through the glass. It’s a lot thicker than you’d expect.”
Maria tapped her watch. “Eleven o’clock.”
“Right,” said Serge. “We better get moving.”
The chauffeur parked as close as he could to the blocked-off streets, and they all began walking west on Forty-sixth, working their way through the packed crowd to Times Square. They reached the corner of Seventh Avenue and looked up. In one direction, a twenty-foot cup of steaming ramen noodles. In the other, the lighted New Year’s Eve ball.
“I’m hungry,” said Maria.
“Me, too,” said Rebecca. They went in a Sbarro’s for pizza by the slice.
Except Sam. She withdrew. She stood outside the restaurant watching a sidewalk portrait artist with no customers working on a charcoal of Tina Turner.
Serge left the restaurant and stepped up beside her. She knew he would.
“You don’t like me, do you?” he said.
Sam turned and looked him strong in the eyes. “I want you to leave my friends alone. I want you to start walking right now and keep going.”
“What?”
“I know what you are. You’ve got a record somewhere, and if you stay I’ll find it and turn you in. So get going!”
“That settles it,” said Serge. “I’m in love with you.”
“What?”
“I know what you are, too,” said Serge. “Intelligence and confidence are always sexy in a woman.”
Sam grabbed the back of his head and kissed him hard, then stepped back. “I have no idea why I just did that.”
The other women came out of the restaurant with slices of pepperoni on paper plates, cheese stringing to their mouths.
“Where’d those two go?” asked Paige.
“Maybe we should go look for them,” said Rebecca.
Teresa shook her head. “We’ll lose our spot. We don’t want to miss the ball drop.”
Dick Clark was on TV, counting down.
Men’s and women’s clothes trailed across the carpet of the posh, dark room.
Serge was staying on the fifty-first floor of the Millennium Hotel. He was in bed, on top of Sam. Sam usually preferred the top, but Serge had flipped her with an illegal wrestling move. He reached beside the bed and yanked a cord, opening the curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows. The night air was white with light, thousands of tiny people jamming Times Square far below.
Sam was a loud one.
“Oh yes! Oh no! Oh yes! Oh no!…”
“I like you, too,” said Serge.
Sam reached up and grabbed him by the hair on the back of his head. “Oh my God! What are you thinking about? Tell me now!”
“The blooming of the tulips on Park Avenue, those little lamps in the New York Public Library, the lighting of the tree at Rockefeller Center, the playful audacity of the Guggenheim, the Babe, the Mic, Earl ‘the Pearl,’ Yoko, Prometheus…”
“Faster! Faster!”
Serge talked faster: “…The new Times Square, the Stork Club, the old Times Square, the Sunday Times, Black Tuesday, Blue Man Group, the ‘21’ Club, the ’69 Mets, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, corned beef on rye, My Dinner with André, Restaurant Row, King Kong, Queen Latifah, Jack Lemmon, the Statue of Liberty, Son of Sam, the Sharks and the Jets, the Flatiron, ‘Ford to City,’ Do the Right Thing, ‘Don’t block the box’…”
“Oh my God!…”
“Here it comes,” Dick Clark said on TV.
The ball began dropping outside, just over Serge’s bouncing derrière, the mob down on the street counting down. “…Ten, nine, eight…” Teresa leaned over to Paige as they watched the ball from the street. “Those two sure are going to be disappointed they missed this.”
“…Three, two, one…!”
“I’m there!” screamed Sam, back arched and quivering.
Serge raised up and exploded: “I did it my way!”
“Happy New Year!” said Dick Clark.
33
The first day of the new year in Manhattan.
Everyone hungover.
New York slowed to a crawl. The steam trays of oriental food in the corner convenience stores went untouched. Nothing selling except aspirin and stomach remedies. Others swore by ginseng. They sat on benches, trying to conserve movement, walking only when they had to, shuffling slowly through Times Square with the street sweepers.
Serge and Sam stepped over two people on the sidewalk in front of McHale’s Café and continued up Forty-sixth to the Edison Hotel. They walked into the 1930s lobby, deco murals wrapping around the tops of the walls, Rockettes, Twentieth Century Limited, Bronx Bombers, Cotton Club.
“They said they’d meet us in the restaurant after they checked out of their rooms,” said Sam. “Café Edison.”
“I know the place well,” said Serge. “Affectionately nicknamed the Polish Tearoom, a simple yet culturally rich coffee shop for Broadway people in the know. Neil Simon’s setting a play…Hey, there they are.”
Four women waved from a table up front. Serge and Sam walked over. A waiter arrived with pancakes and eggs.
“Where did you two disappear to last night?” Teresa asked with a grin. They were all grinning.
“Knock it off,” said Sam.
“We were beginning to worry you might not make it back in time for the train.”
“Never a problem,” said Serge. “I was keeping track of time.”
“I thought you didn’t want him along,” said Paige.
“Yeah,” added Rebecca. “We really don’t know anything about him.”
“Don’t think I won’t hit you,” said Sam.
They poured syrup and sipped tomato juice.
“I’m impressed,” said Serge. “You picked The Table.”
“What table?” asked Teresa.
Serge looked around the group. “You don’t know?”
They shook their heads.
“This is the table where Al Pacino shot those two guys in The Godfather. Remember when they taped the gun behind the toilet tank?”
“No way!” said Maria.
“Way!” said Serge. “Ask anyone.” He waved at the waiter. “Didn’t Pacino shoot those guys right here?” The waiter nodded.