How It Ended: New and Collected Stories - By Jay McInerney Page 0,143

As she was mixing the Negronis, she said, “Who's Karen's boyfriend anyway? I take it he's some big shot.”

“I don't think she has a boyfriend,” I said, somewhat alarmed.

“I can't understand how someone as pretty as Karen could let that fat man touch her.”

I felt relieved. “That wasn't Karen's boyfriend; it was her boss.”

Alexis snorted. “Call it what you want. I know all about girls and their bosses.”

“It's not like that with Karen.”

“Don't tell me what it's like,” she said. “I have to listen to them. And now I have to buy a new bed.”

“What're you talking about?”

She put a finger to her lips, walked over to open the stairway door and listened. Then she motioned for me to follow her down.

The canopy bed was wrecked. The box spring and mattress, which had previously floated a couple feet off the floor, were now earthbound, the bedposts and chintz draperies tangled and splayed.

“I've had bosses like that,” Alexis said. “But thank God I never had that one. The poor girl's risking her life every time she climbs into bed with that whale.”

Brode had flown back to the West Coast that morning, so I had a whole week to plot my strategy. I called a meeting as soon as he got back to town. The only time he could meet me was breakfast: the Regency, at seven-thirty.

When I arrived at eight, he was just finishing off a plate of ham and eggs. “I'm just leaving,” he said. “What's up?”

“I have another movie. You might like this one.”

“What's the pitch?” he said. “I've got exactly three minutes.”

“It's a mob story.”

“That turf's pretty well worked,” he said.

“You'll like this one,” I replied. “In my story, a young mobster's career takes off when he marries the don's daughter. But there's a catch: If he ever screws around, the don tells him, he'll be a piss-poor scuba diver, fifty feet under without oxygen. At first the son-in-law does very well. However, a young wise guy within the organization happens to live in the same building as this very attractive girl, and there's a farcical scene involving this broken bed. The broken bed leads to very dire consequences for some of the parties concerned.”

Brode's face turned dark red as he listened. At the end of the pitch he looked into my eyes to see if he might've misheard me. Then he said, “What do you want?”

“I want another movie with you. Okay, maybe not this one, but something else. And I want to coproduce.”

“I could have you …” He didn't finish.

And that's how I became a producer, on terms that were highly satisfactory from my point of view. I don't think Danny felt it was the best deal he'd ever made, and I knew I'd have to watch out for him. But the project I eventually developed made money for both of us, which made me feel a little safer when falling asleep at night.

A year after this breakfast, I flew back to New York for Alexis's funeral. One of ten mourners, I cried when they lowered her coffin into the ground out in the cemetery in Queens. The last time I remembered crying was on a day that should've been one of my happiest. I'd just gotten a call from an agent in Los Angeles who'd read my script and decided to represent me. I'd waited two hours for Lauren, my girlfriend, to come home from work. I'd bought flowers and Champagne and called everyone I knew. Finally, Lauren got home, and I almost knocked her over in my excitement. We'd talked about moving to California together if anything happened for me. I sprayed Champagne all over us and talked about our future in the promised land. “We can live near the beach,” I said, following her into the bathroom, where she rubbed a pink towel back and forth across her dark hair. “We'll drive up to Big Sur on weekends.” That was when she told me. One minute I've got Champagne streaming down my face, and tears the next. I thought about that as I listened to the words of the minister at the cemetery, and felt the wetness on my cheeks. I remembered that day years ago in a one-bedroom apartment on West 111th Street as being the last time I'd cried. Somehow, I don't think it will happen again.

1988

Penelope on the Pond

Sometimes it helps if I think about all the women in world history who've been in my position, of Anne Boleyn waiting