just geographic but demographic. Every twenty-something in the country now talks like a Valley Girl. The human impulse to distinguish ourselves by place of origin is irresistible. Explains all these new reference groups. Identify with the tribe. How long you live in Connecticut?”
“Twenty years, give or take.”
“I figured. Not that Fairfield County is exactly Connecticut. More an appendage of Manhattan. New England doesn’t start till north of New Haven. North of Fairfield County you’d think you’re in Chicago, which makes no freaking sense at all. Pronounce car like care.”
“On Oak Point we avoid the word altogether. Ride bikes.”
He pulled back at that with a theatrical expression of astonishment. He pointed at me, then back at Amanda.
“Hey I just got it. You’re in Amanda’s new principality. Sucking up to the princess, eh?”
“Butch, honestly,” said Amanda.
“Nothing wrong with monarchical hierarchies, darling,” he said, patting her cheek. “We’re programmed for them, too. Christ, there’s almost nothing we do that isn’t totally programmed into our fucking DNA. If it wasn’t for random mutations occurring at the quantum level, there wouldn’t be any variation in behavior at all. We’d be like an ant colony. Who have queens, by the way, not sure about princesses. And generals and soldiers, and farmers, and naturally slaves. No artists, though, that’s a cinch. Cause too much social agitation. Can’t afford the hoi polloi witnessing perfect beauty and existential truth. First rule of mass control—kill the creators.”
“But not the engineers,” I said. “Somebody’s got to build the little tunnels.”
“Sam’s an engineer,” said Amanda, finally finding a spot to jump in.
“Quite a singer.”
“My favorite. Next to Caruso. And did I mention Albert Einstein?”
“Didn’t know he could sing.”
“No, but he was a great thinker.”
“Though a lousy dresser.”
“Einstein, Caruso, Picasso, Stravinsky and Joyce. They invented the twentieth century. Along with Conan Doyle.”
“Mysterious choice.”
“Read every story. Studied them. Highly underrated.”
I volunteered to go get the next round of drinks, hoping to rest up for the next round of shagging conversational grounders. A good choice, since it turned out to be another hour before the fundraisers finally judged the donors oiled up enough to start the extraction process. After listening to the announcement over the PA, I used what energy I had left to ease up to a new topic.
“By the way, Butch,” I said. “I’m sorry about what happened to Jonathan. Must have been hard.”
The mention of his brother had a certain cooling effect on the repartee. Both Butch and Dione continued smiling, but for the first time seemed a little stuck for words.
“Whoa,” said Dione, “bummer alert.”
“Sorry,” I said again. “Probably a painful subject.”
Butch shook his disheveled head of curly hair.
“Not at all, man,” he said. “It’s totally cool. Thanks for the thought. Whole thing sucks big time. You knew him?”
“No, but I’ve met Appolonia since. I was there when it happened. Only surviving witness. Me and my friend Jackie Swaitkowski.”
“His lawyer,” said Amanda.
Butch’s prevailing look of curious anticipation, sustained throughout the conversation, was now shaded with something more complicated. I felt a little bad for him.
“Look, I really am sorry,” I said. “I just thought since I had this connection with Jonathan it was unfair not to bring it up.”
“I said it’s cool. Really, it’s cool. I’ve been working it out. Jonathan and I weren’t, like, best buds, but that was more my fault. Typical dickhead little brother. Always had to bust his balls. She’s a creepy chick, though. Appolonia. Could never deal with that.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said Amanda, looking at Dione. “I would have said something before, but this is all news to me.” The pitch of her delivery was a little brighter than the subject seemed to call for. It must have carried a sub rosa communication to the other woman.
“Without mystery, there’d be no revelation,” said Dione, returning the serve.
I didn’t exactly know where that exchange was heading, but I felt the need for a quick diversion.
“You ever talk to any of Jonathan’s other clients? Joyce Whithers for example?” I asked Butch, looking at Dione to pull her attention back on me.
“Not unless you consider getting pissed on at the Silver Spoon for daring to wear blue jeans,” said Butch with an edge I hadn’t heard before.
Dione took his arm.
“Forbearance, lover.”
Butch smiled at her.
“When I was a kid I had a dog that loved everything and everybody on earth. People, squirrels, field mice, cats, other dogs, he just loved the crap out of everybody. Except for this one schnauzer. The little kind. Lived down the street. All my dog had to do was see this thing and he’d bust on over there and try to tear its heart out. And the feelings were entirely mutual. I don’t know what these dogs ever did to piss each other off so much, but it was a hatred as unalloyed as anything I’ve ever seen. It taught me that our eternal universe is held in balance by these random binary units of perfectly harmonized hate. Balanced in turn by equally rare and capricious dualities of pure love. I feel blessed beyond words to have met my divine attraction in Dione.”
She hugged him and beamed. He kissed her cheek.
“And doubly so for having sold Joyce Whithers a painting of this plucky little schnauzer sitting at a dinner table with a napkin tied around his neck, eagerly awaiting a bowl of soup with a great big silver spoon clutched in his cute little paw,” said Dione.
“She couldn’t believe the price,” said Butch. “Bragged that she stole it. Venality is so predictable.”
“How are you with Dobermans?” I asked him.
“Schnauzers, Dobermans, all Nazi dogs to me.”
“This one’s Latino. Ivor Fleming’s.”
I thought I’d finally done the impossible. Butch just stood there and stared at me, as if noticing for the first time there was an actual human being attached to the vodka and baby blue T-shirt.
“A client? Of Jonathan?” he asked me.
“Not real happily, given the results.”
Butch shook his head.
“Jonathan worked for Ivor Fleming, and screwed it up?”
“According to Ivor.”
Butch’s frown deepened.
“These both friends of yours?” he asked.
I could feel Amanda stiffen. I took the cue.
“Farthest thing. Don’t know em, don’t want to. All I know is they’re the only two people who didn’t love your brother’s advice.”
“You know a lot,” he said, his face softening again and the brilliant intensity of his eyes re-igniting.
“Not really. Just can’t help being a little interested. Having been there and all.”
“Survivor’s guilt,” said Dione, half as a question.
“I don’t know about that stuff. Too deep for me.”
We talked some more, and Butch’s mood managed to swing all the way back by the time we heard the fundraiser people take over the PA system from the jazz band and announce the start of the auction. Though the opportunity to abandon the conversation was probably welcomed. He groped Amanda some more by way of
