Maurice Fleischmann looked at Norman blankly. Then he looked around among his fellow squirming maggots to figure out what had made Norman eruptttock hock hock like that. He couldn’t. He was nonplussed. But Magdalena now understood. Norman cackled when he felt insecure, especially in the presence of people who made him feel defensive or inferior—Fleischmann, for one. It was a way of taking over from them in conversation. Anybody, even a real swell like Fleischmann, had to have a heart of stone not to manufacture a smile and a few chuckles and play along with a bighearted guy who’s being swept away, convulsed, paralyzed by laughter over… God knows what. Why even bother with Fleischmann’s conversation—when he already controlled Fleischmann’s poor porn-mad mind? Why?—it all dawned on Magdalena. It was very important to Norman to keep his boat at a place like the Fisher Island Marina—but he didn’t own any property there. Maurice Fleischmann made it happen. Or Norman’s presence amidst the most important VIPs of all the VIPs of Miami Basel, the richest of the rich, the likeliest of the likely big spenders, the deepest of the plungers—all of them slithering over and underneath one another to get first crack at the wonders of ninety thousand square feet of art for sale. What was Norman doing here? Maurice Fleischmann made it happen.
Some sort of dustup at the very head of the line… the big ox yakking away, angrily, by the looks of him… a stack of tires—of fat—forming on the back of his neck every time his chin bobs up. ::::::Look at what he’s wearing!… an ordinary white T-shirt, the kind that’s meant to be underwear. Just look at him!… it’s stretched over his swollen belly… making him look like one of those big plastic gym balls… it’s hanging outside his jeans, a really gross pair of Big Boy BodiBilt jeans.::::::
Magdalena tapped Norman on the arm. “Norman—”
“Yeah, that’s him,” said Norman. “But wait a minute… This guy is too muuuuchHahhhHAHAHock hock hock!”
By the time he got to his cackle, Magdalena couldn’t help but notice, he was no longer aiming his little performance in her direction, but Fleischmann’s.
“A second ago the guy was trying to crash the line four or five places from the front… and nowwwahHHHHock hock hock he is the front!”…
Fleischmann looks put out. He doesn’t even feign a smile over Norman’s cackle. He’s worried. He sidles over and takes a look.
“Hey, A.A.,” says Fleischmann, “come over here. Isn’t that Flebetnikov?”
“Oh, yes,” she says, “the very one.” Fleischmann leaned close to A.A. and lowered his voice: “That bloated bastard. He knows I’m interested in the Doggses—and look at him. He’s literally shoved people aside with his big sumo gut, and now he’s right up against the door.”
A.A. lowered her voice: “And therefore he’s going after the Doggses himself? Don’t you think—”
“He’s got billions of dollars, and he’s a Putin thug, and ��Therefore, I’m gonna grab anything you want, just to show you you don’t have a chance against me.’ ”
“Who is he?” said Norman.
Fleischmann clearly resented Norman’s interrupting a confidential conversation. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Russian oligarchs.” Then he turned back to A.A. and was saying, “Now, the only thing—”
It was the “perhaps” that got Norman. Was Fleischmann by any chance adopting the patient peevish tone one uses with dimwits? Norman wasn’t going to put up with that for a moment.
“Heard of them?” he said. “Try heard from them ahaaahhhHAHAHAHock hock hock! Three different psychiatrists have brought me in as consultant with these characters. Have I heard of themmmeeaaahHAAAHock hock hock!”
Magdalena knew that was a lie.
“Well, I seriously doubt you ever consulted for one that obnoxious,” Fleischmann said curtly, probably wondering how he had lost control of the conversation.
Without another word, Fleischmann walked away from Norman, over to a wall of the entryway, and took a cell phone out of an inside pocket of his jacket. He looked back to make sure that nobody could overhear him. He spoke to somebody for four or five minutes. When he returned to the group, he was in a better mood.
“Who’d you call, Maurice?” said Magdalena.
Fleischmann gave her a coy boy’s flirtatious smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know!”
At that moment the entire mob of maggots grew quiet. From out of nowhere a woman had appeared on the other side of the glass wall, a blond, bony, gristly americana trying to look young in a pair of Art World Black stovepipe pants and an Art World Black T-shirt with a