Winning is Everything (22 page)

47 

Dressed in his dark suit, a freshly laundered white button-down shirt, Gary’s borrowed Brooks Brothers tie, Ron bopped into the Barton & Broomstead offices looking like he could have owned the company.

“Will you tell Herb Nelson Ron Zinelli is here to see him?” Ron asked the receptionist on the twenty-ninth floor.

“Zinelli?” the receptionist asked, picking up a telephone.

“Right. One N, two L’s. Here for my ten-o’clock appointment!”

Herb Nelson seemed a perfectly charming fellow. “You sure got all dressed up, didn’t you?” he said as Ron walked into his office.

“Well …” said Ron. “A job interview …”

“Of course,” said Herb. “We’re somewhat more casual around here. Liz Bromley has said some awfully nice things about you.”

“Liz is a good friend,” said Ron, the soul of discretion.

“You know anything about the production department?” asked Herb.

“Uhm …” Ron searched for a better answer than “No” and came up with “Not as much as I’d like to learn.”

“Good,” said Herb. “Why don’t you and I take a walk? I’ll show you how we operate, then we can come back here and talk.”

“Sounds fine,” said Ron, following Herb out the door.

They walked around the three floors that comprised the production department of the agency and Ron spent the whole time wondering which of the offices, which of the secretaries, would become his.

Back in Herb’s office, Ron was offered the job of production assistant, starting at a hundred and seventy-five a week, and although Ron knew this was many hundreds below his worth, it at least represented a change from Arthur.

He accepted the job and was told to start first thing Monday morning.

As soon as Ron got home, a short six-minute walk, he placed a phone call to Liz to thank her for the introduction and share his good news.

“I’m sorry,” said Liz’s secretary. “Miss Bromley is in a meeting.”

“That’s okay,” said Ron. “Just tell her Ron Zinelli called.”

“Yes, Mr. Zinelli.”

“One N—”

“Two L’s,” said the secretary. “Yes, I remember.”

“Thank you. Oh, by the way …” Ron decided he may as well ask for it. “Could you give me Casey Kramer’s telephone number? I… seem to have misplaced it.”

Liz’s secretary fingered her way through her Rolodex, stopped near the end of the K’s, and gave Ron the information requested.

“Thank you,” said a smiling Ron as he hung up. He immediately picked up the receiver again and dialed Cassandra’s number.

“Miss Kramer’s apartment,” said a voice on the other end.

Holy shit, thought Ron. The girl’s not yet twenty-one and already has her own apartment, her own cleaning lady.

“Is Miss Kramer there?”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Tell her it’s Ron. Ron Zinelli.”

“One moment please,” said the voice on the other end. The phone was placed down with a clunk, and it was well over half a minute before the cleaning lady returned. “Miss Kramer says she doesn’t know any Zinelli.”

“Sure she does,” said Ron, persistent. “Tell her we met last night. At the concert. I was with Liz Bromley!”

The cleaning lady clunked the phone down again and Ron waited, counting message units, until the phone was again picked up.

“Hello?” said a pleasant voice on the other end, and Ron knew he’d at least made it to first base.

“Casey?” Ron asked.

“That’s right.”

“We met last night. I’m Ron Zinelli. I was with—”

“Liz Bromley. Of course. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” said Ron, looking for an opening.

“Good,” said Casey impatiently, wondering why he was calling.

Ron, too, was, by this time, wondering why he was calling. “I … It certainly was an exciting concert.”

“How can I help you?” asked Casey, deciding their chitchat had gone on long enough.

“Well, I’m not sure,” said Ron, watching his ship sink. “I … It was just nice to meet you and I guess that’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“Thank you,” said Casey, trying to remember which of the dozen people she’d met last night was on the phone.

“And I’d sure like to see you again,” Ron added.

“I’m sure we’ll be bumping into one another,” said Casey, noncommittal. “New York
is
one big La Ronde, is it not?”

“That’s what I always say,” said Ron, having no idea what she was talking about.

“Thank you for calling,” said Casey, ever polite.

“How ‘bout tea?” Ron asked.

“T who?” asked Casey.

“Tea for two,” said Ron.

“When?”

“Today. Four o’clock.”

“The Westbury or the Carlyle?”

“The Carlyle of course.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Strictly pleasure.”

“You work for a living?”

“I have to,” said Ron. “My string of polo ponies cost me a fortune.”

“Why should I meet you?” asked Casey.

“Because I’m a lot of fun,” said Ron.

“So is David Niven, Junior,” said a playful Casey.

“But I don’t have a mustache!” claimed Ron.

“Neither does he. And if you’re so much fun, how is it I can’t recall which of last night’s new faces was yours?”

“Listen. It’s not that much of your time, is it?” asked Ron. “Give me twenty-five minutes, okay? I promise you one pot of orange-pekoe tea, two lumps of sugar, all the petits fours you can cram into your mouth, and of course the natural devastation of my charm and wit.”

Casey was intrigued. Most men she met wouldn’t even think of calling her; too intimidated. “What do you do for a living?” she asked.

“I’m a future executive at Barton and Broomstead,” said Ron.

“One of those,” said Casey, with just the slightest trace of disdain.

“Everyone can’t be the president of General Motors,” said Ron.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I have to be at Cote Basque at one; then there’s a committee meeting uptown. I’ve got some shopping to do; I just don’t think there’ll be time …”

“Listen …” Ron would not back down. “Stop by at four if you can. What do you say? We won’t even make it definite. How’s that?”

“That sounds fine,” said Casey, trying to remember in her head just what this fellow looked like. He hadn’t been so talkative in the lobby of Philharmonic Hall, that was certain. “We’ll keep it open, flexible. I like that.”

“Okay, Casey,” said Ron. “Hotel Carlyle. Four o’clock. Tea for two…. No strings. And don’t worry if you can’t make it. I’ll just strangle myself with one of the tea bags.”

“This is a very strange call,” said Casey. “We hardly know each other. Why would you want to see me again?”

Ron could think of a million dollars’ worth of reasons. “Something clicked, at least for me,” he said. “I’ve got a great eye for things that click. Usually I know it before anyone else.”

“And you think, given the opportunity, they’ll click for me too?”

“I’m sure of it,” said the Prince with bold confidence.

“You’re sweet to call,” said Casey. “I gotta run.”

“Four o’clock. The Carlyle. Hope to see you.”

“I doubt it,” said Casey. “But we’ll see.”

Casey hung up the phone and hurried to dress for lunch. She had enjoyed the silly conversation with Sam or Rod or whoever that was, but she knew she had neither the time nor the inclination to meet with anyone she’d barely met and hardly recalled.

48 

“Hi, Gloria,” said Gary into the phone. “Nora in?”

“Nope,” said Nora’s secretary. “Didn’t come in today. She said if you called, to ask if you’d call her at home.”

“She’s not feeling well?” Gary asked.

“She didn’t say. How’d the physical go?”

“Peachy,” said Gary. “Thanks, Gloria. I’ll call her at home.”

Gary hung up the phone, looked through his address book for Nora’s home number, and dialed. “Nora … it’s Private Sergeant!”

“Don’t say that!” said Nora. “How are you?”

“Fine. I’ll tell when I see you. How come you’re home?”

“Not feeling well,” said Nora, sounding, indeed, under the weather. “What time can we meet?”

“Whenever you wish,” said Gary. “You gave me the whole day off, remember?”

“Fine. Come to my apartment for cocktails. Say five-thirty. We’ll have a few drinks, then go out to dinner. Boy, do I have to talk to you….”

“Anything wrong, Nora?” asked Gary. “You don’t sound yourself.”

“Right now, I’m probably anybody
but
myself,” answered Nora. “Five-thirty. You know the address?”

“Of course.”

“See you later, then. ‘Bye!”

Nora hung up the phone and Gary began concocting suitable lies to tell her as to why the United States Army had not wanted his ass.

Surrounded by little old ladies with blue hair and fox stoles, Ron sat on a fashionable divan toward the back of the lobby of the Hotel Carlyle.

He ordered a pot of tea with all the trimmings, then sat back and counted dowagers. By 4:35, depressed and disappointed, Ron was ready to leave. He signaled to the elderly waiter to bring his check. It arrived, and as he took a ten-dollar bill from his billfold, he looked up and saw Miss Cassandra herself coming into the hotel.

Ron stood up and waved her over.

“So this is who you are,” she said in greeting. “Now I think I remember …”

“Please …” Ron pointed to their tiny divan. “Won’t you have a seat?”

“I’m not too late, am I?” Casey asked innocently as she sat down.

Bitch, thought Ron, taking a seat next to her. “Certainly not.” He smiled. “I just got here myself.”

“Is that why the tea is cold and the pastries are gone?”

Ron forced a grin. “Why don’t I order us a fresh pot of tea? And I’ll get the pastry cart over here so you can do some damage to those beautiful thighs.”

“Sounds delightful,” said Casey.

“I’m so glad you decided to come after all,” said Ron.

“I was in the neighborhood anyway,” said Casey. “And I was curious to settle the mystery as to just who you were.”

“And now that you know, I suppose you’ll be running for your life.”

Casey laughed and Ron ordered some more tea from a passing waiter.

“Perhaps you’d like a cocktail?” asked Ron, eager to please.

“I don’t think so,” said Casey with a slight yawn. “I can wait awhile to start drinking. I’ve got a round of cocktail parties to get to later on.”

“Really?” said Ron, trying to sound unimpressed.

“Actually, I’m getting a little tired of it all,” said Casey. “Some nights I’d just rather not have to go through all the trouble of getting dressed and remembering all those names, all those faces. You know.”

“Not me,” said Ron in all honesty. “I’d probably come out of a coma to go to a good party.”

“You’ll get over that,” said Casey.

“Perhaps,” said Ron. “Still, I do adore New York. It intoxicates me.”

“Until you run out of things to do. I mean, shopping is
so
boring,” said Casey, leaning back on the couch. “You have to look through so much clutter before you come across something you only moderately like. And it’s bound to be too expensive for what you’re getting, anyway; and tell me, please, where do you find a seamstress these days who knows
anything
about hems?”

“Have you tried Woman’s Wear Daily?”

“Very funny,” said Casey, unamused. “Where
is
the tea?”

“They have to boil the water,” said Ron.

“You know Andy Warhol?”

“Not intimately,” said Ron.

“He told me you should not boil water for tea. He said it should heat just to the point of boiling, but not
actually
boiling. Did you know that?”

“Fascinating!” said Ron, pretending to fall asleep on Casey’s shoulder.

“Sit up!” Casey laughed, sliding his head off her shoulder.

The tea arrived and Casey was persuaded to accept a small napoleon from the pastry cart.

When she finished, she patted her upper lip with her napkin, looked at her watch, and said, “I’ve got to run.”

“Let’s date,” said Ron without hesitation.

“Date? You and me? Why?” asked Casey.

“Why not?” asked Ron.

“Well … for one thing, I have a boyfriend who lives with me.”

“Ben Wantrus,” said Ron. “And right now he’s in Hollywood editing a movie for TV.”

“My.” Casey raised an appreciative eyebrow. “I see we’ve been reading the papers.”

“Some,” Ron agreed.

“He has a terrible temper,” said Casey in a half-whisper.

“Good,” Ron whispered back. “Then we can be grateful he’s three thousand miles away. Will you go out with me?”

“What line of work did you say your father was in?”

“I didn’t,” said Ron. “He’s retired now. But he was in the cosmetics field.”

“Oh!” Casey perked up. “You mean he’s someone like Max Factor or Charles Revson?”

“No,” said Ron. “I mean he was a comb salesman for the Klean Komb Kompany, covering such exotic ports of call as Syracuse and Schenectady.”

“How fascinating,” said Casey.

“Truly,” Ron agreed sarcastically. “My folks live in Fort Lauderdale now. He watches soap operas and she watches the shoreline. When I was a little boy, my father used to take me down to the corner barber shop once a month, where he introduced me to all his friends as ‘the Prince.’”

“Brothers and sisters?” asked Casey.

“Two sisters,” said Ron. “Much older. I was an after-life baby; surprised the shit out of everyone when I showed up. My sisters babied me, spoiled me silly.”

“Does that mean you’re used to getting your own way?” asked Casey.

“That’s what it means!”

“Small world,” said Casey. “So am I.”

“Fine,” said Ron with bravado. “When shall we go out?”

“Where would we go?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Ron with a grin. “I’m just the junior exec on the way up. You’re the big shot whose name is never out of Suzy’s column. You tell us where we go!”

What was it about his assertiveness that made him so appealing? Casey wondered. Perhaps because he was so obviously a hustler. Perhaps because of the way he treated her. Not like a porcelain princess, but like a regular person. She liked that.

“How ‘bout the benefit preopening of Neil Simon’s new play? Tuesday night?”

“Sounds fine,” said Ron gratefully.

“Tickets are two hundred and fifty dollars each,” said Casey.

“Who’s paying?” asked Ron without the blink of an eye.

“Obviously I am, judging by the electric panic in your eyes.”

“That’s a relief,” said Ron. “I did mention I was just a
junior
executive, didn’t I?”

“More than once,” said Casey, standing up. “I’ve really got to be going now.”

Ron stood too, and in his desperation to speed things up, opted for his ace in the hole. “I want to fuck you.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Casey, looking him in the eye.

“From the first moment we met last night, I said to myself, ‘Now, there’s one good-looking woman you know must be hard to bed down. But, Christ, just that one look at her and you know it’s worth all the effort in the world.’”

Not knowing whether to be insulted or complimented, Casey half-smiled and said, “Let’s take it one step at a time, okay? I’ve been in therapy a long time, trying to cope with assertive men. We’ll start with Tuesday night.”

“It’ll be easy to recognize me,” said Ron. “I’ll be wearing the same suit I have on now.”

“Are you trying to impress me with your poverty?” asked Casey.

Ron winked at her. “You got it. I’ll call you.”

As she left the lobby, Ron sat back and congratulated himself. He knew nothing about the call Casey had made to Liz Bromley not an hour earlier.

Casey had been walking down Madison Avenue, on her way home, when she’d suddenly remembered Ron’s call that morning. Out of curiosity, she went over to a nearby pay phone and called Liz.

“Listen,” said Casey. “Tell you why I called. I just came from a meeting with the American Ballet Theatre. I promised them all kinds of commitments and was wondering if you’d help me out by getting Channel Five to buy a whole table’s worth of tickets for the gala opening of the spring season … it’s the fourth of May…”

“No problem,” said Liz. “They’re pretty good about those kinds of events. I’ll speak to my boss, get back to you.”

“Great. Thanks a million.”

“No problem,” said Liz.

“Oh …” added Casey casually. “That fellow you were with last night … what’s his name …?”

“Ron Zinelli,” said Liz.

“That’s right,” said Casey. “Looked so familiar,” she lied. “Had I met him before?”

“I don’t think so,” said Liz. “He’s kind of new to the Manhattan scene. An opportunist, but charming.”

“Oh,” said Casey. “Are you and he …?”

“Casey, please.” Liz pretended to blush.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” said Casey, suddenly even more interested.

“Oh, I’m kidding,” said Liz. “There’s nothing serious going on between us.”

“I see,” said Casey.

“But I must say, he’s really quite something.”

“Really?” asked Casey. “In what way?”

“Best sex I’ve had in years!” Liz replied in confidence.

“No!”

“Yes. Listen, Casey, I gotta run. Rehearsal.”

Two minutes later Casey had been on her way to the Carlyle.