Pink marble on the ground. Pink sofas and chairs-all stuffed to the point of cotton explosion- in the lobby. Pink roses in towering vases placed in every corner. If I followed the receptionist home, I'm sure she'd have a little pink house.
As it was, she was young, beautiful, lithe and tanned to the point of crispness. I suspected that her name was probably Star, too, and that if I looked over her resume it would indicate a booming career updating her MySpace page and a degree in Face-book. Unlike the reservation clerks at the Oro, the receptionist here was actually allowed to sit behind a desk, albeit one made of pink marble, too. There were back issues of Palm Life fanned out around her, but I noticed she had an issue of US open on her lap. Didn't anyone read Soldier of Fortune anymore?
'Can I help you?' she asked. I noticed she had her fingernail pierced. Very classy.
'Yes,' I said. 'I'm Jay Gatz and this is Daisy Miller. We have an appointment with the photo editor concerning our upcoming charity event.'
The receptionist raised her ears and eyebrows up at the same time. I guess the look she was going for was surprise followed by deep thought. It was a neat trick. If only more cocker spaniels could do it, the world would be a different, more introspective place. 'Why do I know your names?' she said to me.
'He's exceptionally rich, darling,' Fiona said. 'He's in your magazine nearly every month. Maybe you don't recognize him without his oxygen tank.'
This seemed to satisfy the receptionist. She made a few clicks on the computer and then picked up her phone and called someone, presumably the photo editor. Before we'd left Fiona's, I'd checked the masthead and hadn't found a single person listed in that capacity. I figured, best-case scenario, we'd get an editorial assistant who'd just give me whatever I asked for. Worst-case scenario, Fiona would hold the entire place under siege, and I'd get whatever I asked for.
I was hoping for a little uncontested middle ground.
'Hi, James? I have Jay Gatz and'-the receptionist pulled the phone away from her mouth and whispered to Fiona-'I'm sorry. What was your name?'
'Daisy Miller,' Fiona said. It didn't matter. The receptionist was already back on the phone.
'Someone here to see you about their charity event.' The receptionist nodded, scribbled something down on a Post-it, made a he's so crazy face at Fiona, just two girlfriends sharing the moronic intricacies of the male sex with each other and then hung up. 'James says he doesn't have you down in his Crack-Berry, but since it's you, Mr. Gatz, he's happy to get you in.' She ripped off the Post-it and handed it to me. 'That's Mr. Dimon's office number. His name isn't on the door yet.'
'What happened to…?' I began.
'Gunther? Bailed to a younger-skewing magazine in Dallas. Said that was going to be the next hot place. Lots of clubs and stuff. Did you know that Lindsay Lohan bought a place out there? It's about to jump off.'
'Darling,' Fiona said, 'don't you own an oil field there?'
'Two,' I said.
'Oil is cool,' the receptionist said.
'Like black gold,' I said.
The receptionist got up and walked us over to a twelve-foot-tall smoked-glass door and flashed an ID card to unlock it, then held it open as we walked past. Used to be the only places with decent security actually had something to protect. What were they protecting here? The good life?
'I just love your nails,' Fiona said, tapping her finger on the ring dangling off the girl's right pinky. 'That style is ready to jump off.'
James Dimon's office was decorated in Bekins- boxes stacked up in every corner, a desk covered in packing popcorn-but the walls were covered in framed covers of Palm Life, some dating as far back as the eighties. The weird thing about the 1980s is that even though that's when I grew up, I don't actually remember everyone looking like they'd just been cut out of a Nagle painting. I also don't remember seeing so many people wearing shoulder pads. But there they were.
'You'll have to excuse the mess,' James said. He'd taken a seat behind his desk in a leather chair that looked brand-new after he cleared a spot for Fiona and me on an equally pristine-looking sofa, but kept getting up and moving around. Less nervous twitch, more Red Bull. 'I'm still unpacking. Crazy move. I'm going to get these photos down, too. We're really changing the whole image of the magazine. Embracing the now.' He wore tight, narrow- legged jeans that had a strategic tear along the left hip that revealed a splash of too-white skin. Of all the things not to be pink. He had on a black-and-silver pinstriped shirt that was unbuttoned one button too low and revealed a clammy-looking chest completely devoid of hair. His office smelled like an eighth-grade dance: too much cologne, nebulous sexuality.
'Where are you down from?' I asked. I wasn't trying to sound like Jay Gatz, but it was working for me, so I figured I'd ride it. Plus, I've always wanted to use down in that way, but always felt like it wouldn't come off unless I had a sweater tied over my shoulders or a sailor's cap on my head.
'Across, technically,' he said. 'I was working for a magazine in LA LA Land. Thought I'd give the Right Coast a try.' When he said Right Coast, he made an air-quote gesture with his fingers. 'I had an offer to roll in'-air quote-'the Hampty Hamps. Another shot in'-air quote-'Hot Lanta. Had another chance to go to'-air quote-'Vegas, baby'- here he laughed, because that's what guys like James Dimon do: They laugh when they say Vegas, baby — 'but in the end, it's all about South Beach. Being present in the moment.'
I expected that, at any moment, he'd refer to New York as the Apple, Paris as the City of Light and Beirut as the Paris of the Middle East, and that he'd use air quotes each time. I also expected that if we somehow got back to his job in Los Angeles, he'd drop City of Angels and Tinseltown in the mix, as if La La wasn't enough. If he managed to work his way to Reno being the Biggest Little City in the World, I was going to throw him off the building.
'Yeah,' I said. I had to gather myself a little. The air quotes had me dizzy. 'Listen. Daisy and I appreciate your time. Gunther was always so helpful, and we've had such a great relationship with the magazine over the years, and so I hope you can do me the smallest favor.'
'Mr. Gatz, I'm happy to do anything you need. It's just an honor to meet you. I'm a fan of all that you do,' he said. 'And even though we're changing the direction of the rag, we'll always have space for you and your-' James stopped midsentence, as if he wasn't quite sure where he was going in his conversation with me, which was possible, since he had already professed to being my fan. He looked at Fiona. He looked back at me. Had some cosmic convergence, continued on. 'And your'-air quote- 'lady'-air quote-'as long as I'm in charge of the art. Though, candidly, we're going to be moving more toward a photojournalism vibe… toward a feeling of…' He started searching for words again, but I was afraid he was only given to one cosmic convergence a day, my sense being that James Dimon only knew about a hundred, hundred and fifty independent words, and the rest were catchphrases.
'Being present in the moment?' Fiona suggested.
James Dimon snapped. As in, he actually started snapping. 'Yes! Yes! That certain pate de foie gras you just can't find in other magazines out here. Gritty. Real. That's where I'm headed with Palm.'
'Wonderful,' I said. And I meant it, so I put air quotes around it, let James know we were of the same mind- set.
'Stunning,' Fiona said.
Fiona turned and gave me a coy glance that, in the past, has meant that the fuse is lit and we have twenty seconds to get out of the building before it comes crashing down around us. I figured it was more of an interior fuse in this case, so I said, 'Wonderful,' again, because if James Dimon truly hated everything that had come before his arrival-and I suspected his stay would be short enough that he'd probably want to hold on to the boxes, lest he announce that anyone or anything else had a pate de fois gras-he probably would have no problem whatsoever letting me look through the photos of Cricket O'Connor tripping the light fantastic for literacy. In fact, I suspected that if I said tripping the light fantas tic, he'd start snapping again, which was something I wanted to avoid until I really needed it, as an idea was beginning to take shape in my mind about how I might use someone of James Dimon's particular… skill… down the line. If he wanted gritty, realistic, present in the moment shots of South Beach's glitterati, I thought there'd be some opportunities for us both to benefit. 'About that favor, sport,' I said.
'Anything, Mr. Gatz.'
