Winning is Everything (31 page)

65 

Ron was mad for the way his new Pierre Cardin blazer fit him. He looked into the mirror for the forty-ninth time and adjusted his blue-and-silver tie. His freshly shined Gucci shoes bore not a scuff mark. His white shirt was freshly laundered with so much starch Ron couldn’t turn his neck without developing a rash. His cufflinks were gold, a recent gift from Casey, commemorating the six-month anniversary of their being together.

And tonight was to be their first dinner party.

Helen Gurley Brown and her husband, the Twentieth Century-Fox executive David Brown; Oscar-winning screenwriters Harriet and Irving Ravetch were coming; along with Emilio Pucci, one of the Zeckendorfs, and Ron’s boss from the agency, Herb Nelson.

Ron was running around the apartment tying together last-minute details. “My God,” he exclaimed, running into Casey’s dressing room. “I just spoke to the cook. The goddamn
fish
hasn’t arrived yet!”

“It will,” Casey said calmly. She sat in a flowered bathrobe at an old-fashioned vanity table, her hair in curlers, carefully and deliberately filing freshly painted nails.

“But it’s seven o’clock!” ranted Ron. “The snapper is the first course. Takes over an hour to cook. What are we—?”

“Relax,” said Casey, blowing at a fingernail. “They wouldn’t dare mess up on a delivery to me. I owe the fish store too much money. Did you ask Priscilla to call the store?”

“Of course I did!” Ron raised his voice.

Casey looked up from her nails. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem, your Highness,” said Ron, “is that our guests are due to arrive in twenty-five minutes and the flowers still haven’t been cut and the fish hasn’t arrived and you’re sitting at your dressing table looking like you’re planning to have Sunday brunch in your bathrobe with your curlers on.”

“I think you’re a little wired about this dinner party, Ron.” Casey filed another nail. “That’s what I think.”

“Look, it’s important to me. My boss is coming for dinner. What if there’s no fish? What if Helen Gurley Brown is wearing the same dress as you? What if Emilio Pucci doesn’t show? What if David Brown and Harriet Ravetch hate each other?”

“What if you calm down?”

“Look! I expect you dressed in ten seconds flat. I am not about to let all these strange people into your home and entertain them with cartwheels while you take the entire cocktail hour to unglue your hair. I want to see you out there, all dressed, made-up, combed out, and stunning, in ten minutes
sur la dot
. Do I make myself clear?”

“Ron?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Go check the fish!”

The fish eventually arrived, the flowers finally got cut and placed in their Steuben vases, the hostess got combed out and dressed up, all in time before the arrival of the guests.

Ron mixed himself a martini and sat down to unwind as Casey walked into the living room to look at the recently placed flowers. “Mmmm, pretty,” she quietly decreed.

“The fish is here!” a relieved Ron toasted.

“Told you,” said Casey with a shrug of an elegant shoulder.

Why was she always so certain nothing could go wrong? Ron wondered. Had everything always come her way so easily she never expected it to be otherwise? Had she never known the meaning of the word “disappointment”? Had she always gotten whatever she wished?

Ron wondered.

Casey’s father, Edward Kramer, had been the only son of Polish immigrants. One of the things he promised himself as he climbed up from settlement poverty to enormous wealth (“From the roots to the fruits, the harvest is all mine” is how he put it) was that any child of his would never have to want for anything.

As such, baby Cassandra was exposed to the very best of nurses, the most prominent of physicians, the most expensive toys from F.A.O. Schwarz (“Pick a toy, darling,
any
toy!”), the most noted boarding schools, the most royally attended finishing schools, the best new nose plastic surgery could mold, and all the clothes, vacations, and jewels she could ever think she might enjoy. Even, Ron realized, any man (“Pick a man, darling,
any
man! … You want him? … He’s yours!”).

Ron watched, as the guests arrived, how they reacted to Casey as they entered her beautifully appointed apartment. They were the ones who greeted her and not the other way around. Ron noticed that as drinks and hors d’oeuvres were passed around, Casey could move an arm downward and a glass of wine would miraculously appear. She’d lower her hand in a particular fashion and a stuffed shrimp on a silver platter would show up on command.

Anytime she had something to say, all other tongues would stop wagging, and she was immediately granted the floor. Ron knew the guests weren’t paying her respect simply because she was the hostess. No. She was special, and she knew it and her servants knew it and her guests knew it, and all of them treated her like the princess she was.

Throughout the long and excellent dinner, Ron regarded her with a new awareness.

The last of the guests left the apartment after 12:30, and Ron flung off his shoes, loosened his tie, and flopped onto the couch.

“Well, sweets?” Casey came over, kissing him on the lips. “How’d we do?”

“All the trouble we went to …” said Ron, taking Casey’s hand. “All the planning and inviting and shopping and anxiety, and everyone acted like it was some food we ordered up from the Stage deli.”

“I think everyone had a good time,” said Casey, sitting next to him.

“Even my boss?” asked Ron. “Herb hardly said a word.”

“I think he felt a little out of his element,” said Casey.

“You mean a member of the B team suddenly playing with the A’s?”

“Something like that.”

Ron sat up straight, stretched his arms high into the air, and yawned.

“Tired?” asked Casey.

“Pooped!”

“Want to get into bed?”

“Yeah,” said Ron. “I’m really bushed. Got a big meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Really bushed?” echoed Casey. “You’ve been saying that for the past ten days!”

“That long?” asked Ron, trying to remember when, in fact, they had last made love.

“You’ve been too tired from this party, or too excited about that dinner engagement, or you’ve had too much to drink, or—”

“All right, all right!” Ron interrupted. “Let’s go burn the sheets.”

“Hey, don’t do me any favors!” Casey raised her voice and stood up.

“I didn’t mean …”

But it was too late. Her feathers ruffled, Casey bolted from the room. She’d been doing that a lot lately. Ron assumed it was a phase. He never for a moment considered the possibility that the problem might at least in part be his.

It had been so slow a transition, he could hardly see the difference. Whereas, in the beginning of their relationship, Ron had devoted himself to winning Casey, he now considered her affection a given. He now realized this may have been a dangerous mistake. Ron got off the couch, telling himself this situation looked like a job for the Prince.

Yes, he told himself, it was up to him to whip the girl into a frenzy of sexual delirium. It would take a couple of hours and he would be exhausted in the morning. Still, he figured he owed it to her. After all, wasn’t he planning, should she play her cards right, to make Casey Kramer the future Mrs. Zinelli?

The following morning, Ron was late for his meeting and Herb was furious because the clients were livid. The people from Bristol-Myers had arrived at half-past ten, expecting a presentation, and all they got was coffee, doughnuts, and forty minutes of business conversation until Ron finally showed up.

“Sorry I’m late …” said Ron, out of breath. But the clients were no longer in any mood to be shown how their new toothpaste might be marketed all across America and paid little attention to Ron’s half-baked presentation.

Once the executives left, Herb took Ron aside and told him the patience of everyone in the office was wearing thin. The executives at Barton & Broomstead didn’t care with whom he was living or what kind of after-work life-style he chose to lead. But at B&B, he had to stop arriving late, had to start working harder, had to take his place on the team or ship out.

Ron did everything but drop to his knees to beg forgiveness. He claimed his tardiness could not have been avoided, and at the same time told himself that Herb would never again be invited to a rare-lamb dinner at his house, that B-list nobody!

“Anything else?” Ron asked as he turned to leave.

“Yes,” said Herb, forcing a smile. “Thank you for that lovely dinner party last night….”

66 

“Guess who’s paying for dinner tonight?” Nora Greene asked Gary as they were seated at their table at the Palm restaurant.

“Me, of course,” said Gary.

“Guess again!” said Nora.

“Please … I thought we’d been through all this,” said Gary. “We agreed I’d pay for our dinners until you got off the unemployment line.”

“Precisely why I chose this particular expensive spot his evening,” said Nora.

“You mean you got a job?”

“I mean tonight we’re having lobster and the tab is being picked up by Olympus Pictures.”

“Hot dog!” exclaimed Gary.

“No, darling. Lobster!”

“When did you find out?”

“Yesterday.” Nora smiled. “Ron Evanston himself was in New York and called to tell me I’ll be taking over the East Coast story department!”

Gary leaned over and kissed Nora’s cheek. “Congratulations. That’s great!”

“I’m all excited about it myself. It’s been a long few months. First Sam running off with that teeny-bopper; then C.A. closing us out without so much as a going-away party. For a time things were getting so desperate, I thought about going to work for one of the networks.”

“Perish the thought!” said Gary.

“There’s more,” said Nora. “Guess who also has a job? You!”

“I know,” said Gary. “I’ve been at the fair for five months.”

“Will you stop being so thick? I mean you’ve got a job working with me, soon as the World’s Fair ends, in two weeks. It was one of the points I worked out in my contract.”

“You mean it?” Gary’s eyes lit up.

“’Course I mean it!” Nora smiled. “Told Evanston flat out: I can’t be expected to run a full story department without my secretary, Gloria, and my trusty assistant, Gary Sergeant.”

“And what’d he say?”

“He said he hoped you were worth the salary.”

“And you said?”

“And I said if he was paying you a thousand dollars a week—which, believe me, he’s not—he’d be getting a bargain.”

“And he said?”

“He said he hoped you were conscientious.”

“And you said?”

“And I said, ‘Conscientious? The fellow’s so disciplined he keeps a daily journal of his observations of the World’s Fair!’”

“And he said?”

“And he said, Take him out for a lobster dinner and offer him the job.’”

“And you said?”

“And I say …
Let’s eat!”

Ron searched through his row of ties, unable to decide which would go best with his gray suit.

“What’s your father’s favorite color?” he called to Casey in the bathroom.

“Green!” Casey answered back. “Same color as money!”

“Of course!” Ron snapped his fingers and reached for a green-and-tan dazzler. “I’m a little nervous, if you want to know the truth. How do I know your father won’t serve me as stuffing for the mincemeat pie?”

“Relax,” said Casey, sitting at her vanity table. “He’ll adore you. I doubt he’s ever met a genuine gigolo before.”

Ron popped his face into Casey’s dressing area. “Very funny. You like this tie?”

“Mad for it,” said Casey without looking.

“Will your father like it?”

“How should I know?” asked Casey. “I’m his daughter. Not his tailor. Relax, darling. These are my parents. Not Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip. Which of these earrings do you like?”

“Pumpkin-face!” Ron said with affection. “It’s Thanksgiving dinner. Not the opening of the opera. Put on the pearls and shove the diamonds back into the safe. Sometimes you’re so nouvelle I could shit!”

“Fine,” said Casey, applying rouge to her cheeks. “And now, if you’ll get out of here, I can finish dressing.”

“Of course, darling,” said Ron as he left. “Oh, one other thing …”

“What’s that?” Casey asked.

“Bring some money for the taxi!”

As Ron and Casey walked into the Kramers’ living room thirty minutes later, Ron said, “Had I known the chandeliers were going to be so well shined, I’d have worn my sunglasses!”

“Behave!” said Casey under her breath as she called out, “Uncle Harry!”

Casey introduced Ron to her Uncle Harry and then the rest of the family. Uncle Sam and Aunt Alma, Aunt Mary and Uncle Rick, cousin Janie and her husband, Jimmy, cousin So-and-so and his wife, and so on until Ron forgot the names as quickly as they were announced.

That is, until Ron and Casey approached the end of the makeshift receiving line and Casey said, “And this is Mommy, and this is Daddy!”

“How do you do, Mrs. Kramer,” Ron said, and then moved on to greet the tycoon, Daddy Warbucks himself.

“Hello,” said the head of the grocery empire in a deep, gruff voice. He even took the trouble to remove a fat cigar from his mouth. “Casey said she’d be coming to dinner with a fella …”

“That’s me!” Ron beamed.

“You get somethin’ to drink yet?” asked Edward.

“No,” said Ron. “We just walked in.”

“You like Taittinger?” asked Kramer.

“Sure,” said Ron with a shrug.

“We got a case of Taittinger. And a case of Crystal. But we’re saving the Crystal till dessert. Nothin’s too good for my family.”

It sure seemed that way. The living room of the Park Avenue duplex was enormous, book-lined, thickly carpeted, with a roaring fire blazing in a cavernous fireplace. The furniture was carefully picked, each item an antique of considerable value, and Edward Kramer, at the drop of an inquiry, could tell you the current market value of each individual piece.

Thanksgiving dinner was served in the dining room off the living room. There were twenty-two people seated around the longest table Ron had ever seen. He figured they probably used it for a bowling lane when they weren’t entertaining.

The first course was an oyster stew and Ron was sure it was going to get cold because as soon as the white wine was poured along with it, each male member of the family took it upon himself to toast their host, the provider of all this glorious bounty, their rich American relative, Edward Kramer.

Christ, Ron realized,
all
the men work for Edward Kramer! He’s provided for the entire family. Even Aunt Alma, he soon learned, worked as a bookkeeper in their main office in Queens.

After dinner Edward Kramer announced that coffee and liqueurs would be served in the den for those who wanted to watch the football games, and in the living room for those who did not.

“What’ll you have?” asked Casey, who wasn’t interested in football.

“I think I’ll stick with champagne,” said Ron, motioning to the Kramer butler.

Ron and Casey sat on a dark blue couch, surrounded by aunts, until Ron felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to find Edward Kramer standing behind him.

Edward chomped down on a cigar and said, “Hey, Ronald. Let’s you and me go have a talk, wadda ya say?”

“Sure, fine, Mr. Kramer.” Ron bent down and gave Casey a quick kiss. “What do you suppose?”

“Who knows?” said Casey. “Probably wants a definition of your intentions.”

“Can I let him know right off the bat I’ll settle for nothing less than all the supermarkets east of Flushing?”

“Just relax and be yourself. Daddy’s practically harmless. He only devours people in the food business.”

Ron let out an audible “Gulp!” and followed Edward Kramer down a hall and up the stairs to his at-home office.

“Sit!” barked Kramer, pointing to a suede chair next to a desk.

Ron sat.

“Want a drink?”

“I—“

“Sure you do!” Casey’s father poured out some special reserve cognac. “You and my little girl have been seeing quite a lot of each other, that right?”

“That’s right!” said Ron, up front and direct.

“And you’ve been spending a lot of time in her apartment, that right, too?”

“That’s right,” answered Ron. “We, uh … have a real good time together. It’s a wonderful apartment.”

“’Course it’s a wonderful apartment. I own the whole damn building, don’t 1?” Kramer lifted his snifter into the air. “Cheers!”

“Cheers.” Ron returned the toast with a smile.

“Casey says you work for the Barton and Broomstead agency.”

“Casey’s right!”

“What exactly do you do there?”

“Oh, this and that.” Ron waved a lazy hand in the air. “I’m an executive in training, you might say.”

“That your chosen field, then … advertising?”

“No, sir. I mean, I don’t think so. I think I’d like to get into show business!”

“Show business?”
Kramer said with disdain, like Ron had said his goal in life was to sleep in pig shit. “Whatever for?”

“I think there’s a lot of money to be made in the entertainment field,” Ron stated, hoping he’d hit upon an aspect with which Casey’s father could identify.

“And the supermarket business?”

“What about it?” Ron asked.

“No interest?”

“Sure, I have an interest. It’s a fascinating field.”

“No, I mean as a career,” said Edward. “Have you ever thought what it might be like to work for a supermarket chain?”

“You mean like for you?” asked Ron straight out.

“Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean. Casey ever tell you about her brother?”

“Just that he died before she was born.”

“Yeah,” said Kramer. “Spinal meningitis. Damn tragedy almost did Mrs. Kramer in. Almost did me in too, come to think of it. Imagine … you have a son. He’s your whole life, your best reason for living, and one day you come home and learn the kid took sick at school. Sick? For Christ’s sake, poor child had a fever of a hundred and five and didn’t last the week. My son! Can you imagine?”

“It’s a terrible tragedy,” Ron agreed.

“That’s when I put all my energy into my work. That’s when I began to design plans for the first Kramer Village in Queens.
Work
became my salvation.

“Then, by the time Casey was born, it was too late for me to stop. I was driven. I had grocery stores and fruit markets and supermarkets and Kramer Villages planned in three boroughs. I couldn’t just stop, now, could I?”

“Guess not …” Ron said quietly.

“And Casey has been a gem to me. A jewel. I wouldn’t want to see her hurt for anything!”

“Neither would I!” Ron was fast to agree.

“I’m sixty-three years old, Ronald. You think that’s pretty old, don’t you?”

“That depends,” Ron said honestly.

“Let me tell you, son. It’s old enough. And I wanna have another chance at raising a little boy. I want to be able to give to Casey’s kid all the things little Alan never lived to see. I’ve got the money now … I’ve got the influence …” Kramer moved a step closer to Ron, looked him square in the eye, and slowly said, “
I
…
can … buy … happiness!”