I'll Take Manhattan (18 page)

“How should a publisher dress?” Angelica asked, eating four fried eggs heavily basted with butter, directly out of the pan, the way she liked them best.

“Like an authority figure, a leader, someone who inspires the troops, someone with unquestionable, impeccable, irrefutable judgment.”

“So that lets you out.” Angelica sprinkled the eggs with a judiciously thick layer of Tabasco.

“Right. But they don’t know that, and if I dress in a dynamic way they’ll respond to the image, or so I’ve been led to believe. However, my wardrobe seems not to start till lunch, a competitively chic Le Cirque lunch, a Côte Basque lunch, not a serious, businesslike publisher’s morning. Then I have—too many clothes—for cocktails, dinners,
balls, yachts, chalets and beaches. Plus the boots and pants I travel in.”

“It sounds like some sort of character test. If you look in my closet you can tell me who I really am,” her daughter observed.

“I wish you weren’t so honest, Angelica. Couldn’t you be a little more tactful?”

“You brought it up. Anyway, what about that double-breasted black Saint Laurent pantsuit you bought last year and never wore because it looked so awful on you?”

“It hasn’t changed,” Maxi said glumly. “It made me look like a short, dumpy man in drag. You can’t tell that I have a waist and it eliminates my legs. I do, you have to admit, have the best legs in New York.”

“We all know that, Ma. In the Saint Laurent, with spike heels you’d look like a medium-sized man in drag. And the shoulders are really intimidating.”

“Maybe with a sensational blouse?” Maxi said, brightening.

“A severe blouse and a macho scarf flung carelessly over one shoulder. Viva Zapata.”

“I loathe that look, and the scarf always falls off.”

“You have no choice,” Angelica said broodingly. “Listen, Ma, have you ever been seriously in love?”

“I don’t answer questions like that this early in the morning.”

“If I ever met him, do you think Woody Allen would be too old for me?”

“Not really. But I don’t think he’d want to get involved.”

“Nobody does,” Angelica said sadly.

“It’s the malaise of the age. Whatever that means,” Maxi explained.

“Whatever,” Angelica agreed. She
almost
knew what it meant. “So you really are going to the office this morning? Awesome. Well, good luck, Maxi.”

“Thank you, darling. What are you doing today, shopping?”

“Yup, back to school. First I’ll check out Armani, Krizia, Rykiel, Versace, Kamali, and end up buying Guess?”

“I wish I were as tall as you,” sighed Maxi.

“I think you’re cute just the way you are. I like a medium-sized mother. It makes me feel grown up.”

“I didn’t know you didn’t,” Maxi grumbled.

The offices of
Trimming Trades Monthly
were still located on Forty-sixth Street between Sixth and Seventh avenues, where Zachary Amberville had rented space for his first office. When the magazine had been founded the building was slightly run-down but no more so than the rest of the neighborhood, and within walking distance of the trimming trade industry. Nothing had changed except that run-down had slid into disrepair. Maxi noticed nothing of this as she located the offices and announced herself to the receptionist.

“I’m Miss Amberville. Could you please tell the Editor-in-chief that I’m here?”

“Does he expect you?”

“Just tell him. Maxime Amberville.”

Seconds later Robert Frederick Fink arrived in the small reception area. He was round and rosy, some sturdy age between sixty-five and seventy, a natty dresser and absolutely delighted with her visit.

“Maxi!” he cried. “Give your Uncle Bob a kiss! I’ll bet you’ve never forgotten the time we won twelve thousand bucks on the Exacta? Come on into my office and tell me about yourself … it’s been years and years.”

“About twenty,” Maxi guessed, smothered by his embrace. She didn’t remember Uncle Bob, but she still remembered that race.

“Seems like yesterday. Watch that door, it doesn’t open very far.”

Maxi squeezed into the editor’s office and stopped abruptly. The medium-sized room held eight desks and on
top of each desk were towering stacks of paper of all kinds, arranged carefully so that the piles somehow held together with no possible means of support. There was just enough space between the high walls of paper to walk, in single file, to Bob Fink’s ninth desk on which the papers had only reached a height of some eight inches. He carefully eased her into the only visitor’s chair in the room and then edged himself around his desk and sat down comfortably.

“I don’t believe in filing cabinets, Maxi, never did. You put something in a file and you forget it’s there and you never see it again. Might just as well burn it. Ask me for a document, any document.”

“Huh?” Maxi clutched her serapelike plaid scarf around her with both hands and crossed her arms across her breasts. If she sneezed, she thought, it would take a week to dig her out.

“Ask me to find something for you … like a bill or a voucher or an expense account or anything at all.”

“A copy of
Buttons and Bows
from, let’s see, 1954.”

“Nah. Too easy.”

“A record of payment for … paper … from June of 1961.”

Bob Fink got up, surveyed his domain severely for two minutes, threaded his way to one of the desks and, with the utmost delicacy, extracted several papers out of one of the minarets. “Here you go. Just look at that! Paper was a hell of a lot cheaper in sixty-one.”

“Incredible,” Maxi said, beaming at him. “Do you suppose I could see an issue of
Buttons and Bows
, the last one?”

Bob Fink’s face fell. “It’s right here, but I’m not proud of it. Nothing’s been the same since ‘Blouson Noir’ was let loose.”

“Who?”

“John Fairchild. The French designers called him ‘Blouson Noir’ meaning a motorcycle gang hood in a black leather jacket … because he was so tough on them. But what he did for the circulation of
Women’s Wear
! A rocket, sweetheart. And when our advertisers saw that, naturally they decided to put all their ad money into
WWD
and if that weren’t bad enough, Fairchild publishes
Footwear
News
every week, which wiped up our buckle and strap advertisers. So between one thing and another … well, we have some subscriptions that still have a few years left to go, some small advertisers who get a kick out of seeing their photographs on the cover; but Maxi, let’s face it,
Buttons and Bows
is … well, to say it was in trouble would be very kind. If you’re in trouble you’re still alive,
Buttons and Bows
is in intensive care but the hospital just closed.”

“Could I see it anyway?” Maxi asked, not at all discouraged.

He gave her the thin magazine with a brave red cover. There was a photograph of John Robinson of the Robinson Braid Company on the cover and most of the text covered the career of Mr. Robinson. There were a few pages of news of the world of braid and trim and there was an article on the use of buttons on Adolfo suits, illustrated with a line drawing of a cuff with three buttons on it; and there were a few small ads. The two largest of these were from the Robinson Braid Company and the company that sold Adolfo his buttons.

“Uncle Bob, have you heard anything about the meeting yesterday?” Maxi asked, folding the copy of the pathetic scrap of a magazine in half and slipping it possessively into her handbag.

“A rumor, naturally. Well, maybe a dozen phone calls. All right, two dozen. I think it’s damn nice of you to come here yourself and tell me the news. Your dad, may he rest in peace, would have done the same thing. I knew it was bound to happen.”

“But it is
not
going to happen, Bob! I’ve been made the new publisher of
Buttons and Bows
and together we’re going to make this magazine into a winner again, the way my father would have done!” Maxi almost brought a ton of paper down on her head as she rose in excitement.

“If that’s the second prize, sweetheart, I wouldn’t like to win the contest. Sit down, for God’s sake!”

“I’m not kidding. I’m serious! Damn it, Bob, the sky’s the limit, we can do anything that Fairchild can do. We’ll turn this place upside down and inside out … not your office, of course, but …”

“Maxi,” Bob Fink interrupted gently, “the garment industry
doesn’t
need
more than one major publication and what they need is a newspaper, WWD, not a monthly. You aren’t planning to publish another daily, are you?”

“Well, no, actually not. But what about W? We could do something like
W
only better.”

“The trouble is that
W
uses stuff that’s already been photographed and written for
WWD
 … sometimes they run the copy a little longer and they use color, but it doesn’t cost them anything to lay their hands on it … money in the bank for Fairchild and only ten thousand subscribers. Most of
W
is ads, all those great big pretty pictures,” he sighed. “I must be getting old … I’m not ready for those gorgeous girls wearing boy’s underwear. Whatever happened to panties?”

Maxi squirmed in her Calvin Klein jockstrap. They’d added a new dimension to her sex life. Was she a pervert, did she only know perverts, or was Bob Fink old-fashioned?

“How can
W
only have ten thousand subscribers? Everybody I know reads it,” she protested.

“That’s the point … every issue is read by dozens of people and most of them have high incomes, which I guess explains the ads. Maxi, you can’t go into competition with Fairchild. They founded that company in 1881 and they’ve specialized in trade papers before your dad was born, almost before
my
dad was born. And why the hell would you want to? You’re an Amberville.”

“Bob, I hear what you’re saying but I’m convinced that I can turn
Buttons and Bows
around. With your help, of course.” How, she wondered, could she get rid of such a dear old man? If only he weren’t so pessimistic.

“My help? Maxi, I’ve been aching to retire for a long time. I just hung around here because I owed it to your dad’s memory, but fortunately I invested in real estate at the right time. Most of the ex-presidents of the United States have built their houses on land I sold them in Palm Springs. Only big piece out there that I wanted but I never could get hold of is Annenberg’s, golf course and all. Missed that one, but you can’t win ’em all.”

“Retire? You want to retire?”

“And move west. And watch my palms grow. Maybe learn to ride a horse.”

“But … all your desks?” Maxi gestured carefully.

“Burn them. It’ll cost a fortune to get the stuff out of here, but I’d definitely do that and burn it, if I were you.”

“What about the rest of the staff?” Maxi asked wildly. “All those people my father didn’t want to fire?”

“Let’s see … there’s Joe who thinks up the ideas and writes the articles, and Linda who buys all the artwork and does the layouts and handles production; and I’ve been my own ad manager. No circulation department, of course.
The
receptionist also handles the switchboard and the typing. I put Joe and Linda into real estate with me—and the receptionist could get a job anywhere. Very skillful young lady, hates it here. Have to overpay her to keep her.”

“Three people?
Only three
? How can that be possible?” Her head felt light but she must not faint.

“Well, there’s also a guy we hire from the building to empty the wastebaskets and dust off once in a while, there’s a Xerox place downstairs for anything we want copied and the printer sends someone around once in a while to sell us paper; but otherwise, let’s see, yup, three people. And we’re still losing money. Rent, salaries, supplies, they all cost money. Of course there’s lunch; everybody has to have lunch.”

“The company pays for lunch?” Maxi squeaked incredulously.

“Your dad started it, back in the good old days. He insisted. Of course Lindy’s was open then. Lunch hasn’t been the same since they closed.”

“When,” asked Maxi faintly, “were you thinking of leaving? I don’t want anyone to think I’m in a rush but …”

“Today’s what? Thursday. We could all be out by Friday. Hate to leave you with this mess though. I’ll arrange for the garbage guy to come and get it, don’t worry, and Hank, from the building, doesn’t mind working overtime so the place will be clean, more or less, by Monday, maybe Tuesday.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to stay?” Politeness was all she had left, Maxi thought.

“Sweetheart, I’m on that plane already. And listen, if you don’t mind an old admirer putting his two cents in, that outfit you’ve got on isn’t … maybe something more … ah
 … less
threatening? I’d be afraid to meet you in a dark alley, Maxi. Look, if you want, I’ll take you wholesale … Beene maybe, or Ralph Lauren. There’s nothing wrong with you that a change of image couldn’t fix.”

“You have the nerve to call that lump of mealy mush a Golden Delicious?” Toby roared. “Bite into it, you bastard, and tell me how many months ago it was picked and put in a cold room.” With one hand, he grabbed the wholesaler by the back of his shirt and with the other he presented him with the apple. “Go on, bite!”

“I was robbed, mister,” the man protested. “I just bought twenty cases from upstate and they swore they were picked this week, fresh off the trees.”

Toby let the man go in disgust. “Sure you did. Well, it serves me right for trying a new supplier. Don’t you realize I can tell everything about this fruit? All I had to do was touch its skin and I knew it was from last season, it doesn’t smell the way a fresh apple smells and if I made myself taste it I’d puke. Go try to sell it to D’Agostino.”

He turned away and spoke to Maxi. “Most of the guys here know me and they don’t try to pull that sort of stuff; I’ve never bought from him, thought I’d give him a try.”

“That’s the last time he tries to rob a blind man,” said Maxi. “At least one of us hasn’t been robbed this week.”

“Will you get your tail out from between your legs and stop complaining?” Tobias commanded, as he turned down the aisle of fruit wholesalers. As he always did in the dangerously cluttered Hunt’s Point Market, Toby used his laser cane. Its three beams of invisible infared light made a pin vibrate that contacted his index finger, telling him if there were objects straight ahead of him, above his head or drop-offs below his feet. He swung it easily, in an arc, using the cane skills he had developed years before. Systematically Toby started choosing samples of apples from various cases, feeling, smelling, turning them over expertly in his long fingers as if each one were being considered for a still life, yet working with an astonishing speed.