CHAPTER 1 of my novel in process: THE NICKEL 5
The Nickel 5 © by Ian-André le Mont (Novel in Process) Looking Back Chapter 1 It’s half past five in the evening. A dry martini stares back at me. I had emptied all my pockets with whatever change and crumpled dollar bills I could find. This cheap gin was all I could afford for the moment, my credit cards had all expired and I had no easy way of accessing my money. I was still Payson Carnegie Beekman but that meant little now. We had finally come into the 21st century during my absence. It was odd thinking it was really 2004. Everything seemed somehow mysterious to me. I wasn’t here for 9/11. So much has changed. Being away for fourteen years has a way of mixing with your head. Years before I would have made snide remarks if I overheard someone actually order the same god-awful gin I was washing down now. When it had come to gin, I was an indisputable snob. “How could anyone really drink such fowl tasting rot?” I once had vamped. “Payson you’re such a pompous ass,” Charles Hogg had sprung back. “Well you’re such a cheapskate Charlie.” “I’d expect that sort of pissy stance from you,” without missing a beat, I had added. The irony was he had pots of money wrapped up in real estate, but had the reputation of being the cheapest son of a bitch – notorious for leaving embarrassing tips at dinner, which the rest of us had to make up. I had unequivocally drunk Tanqueray without exception. Those had been frozen memories of highflying days, nothing but the best, the trendiest and the most select was good enough for me. Mason had seemed weary behind the bar, his hands now shaky but still agile. Christ he must be in his mid-seventies by now I had realized, fondly gazing at him. “Payson you’ve decided to grace us with your presence tonight?” he had metered out with a slight English accent. He new my circumstances but was trying to make light of it. “First time in 14 years.” “I’m glad to see your old puss still here,” I had said teasing him. “It would take more than an earthquake to get my arthritic bones out of this old joint.” “God it seems only like yesterday that you were in your usual corner chair,” he had said, probably trying to cheer me up. “Yeah but not drinking this bootlegged crap,” I had exaggerated with a conceited flamboyance. “Don’t worry yourself any, Tanqueray it shall be with three olives.” Tears had fogged up my eyes as I smiled back at Mason. Slurping down this smooth martini, the effects of the alcohol had made me feel inflated. I couldn’t dislodge from my head the notion how years of who I used to be, had simply been blown out of me. How effortlessly life had a way of slipping away from us. I had hauled my repulsively hung over self here seeking answers I knew couldn’t be answered, having binged most of the afternoon on cheap pints of whisky. Trying to massage my aching head had offered little relief. In an effort to divert the piercing pain, I’d reminisced about my odd fascination of admiring the elegant shape of the fluted martini glass. Tonight it had been no different as I marveled at how my martini glass seemed pristinely graceful, especially here on the highly polished mahogany bar, having suffered a few nicks and gouges over the years. Suddenly I had realized my cigarette needed tapping. The ashes had spread out almost two inches. I flicked them into what had been an old Beefeater ashtray, assuming most of the logo was worn off by years of washing. Mason had once again replenished my martini. After a few enormous sips, its invigorating effects had tenuously cleared my head. Things had started to make more sense, and now I was horrified at the sight of my shabby attire. My dingy, wrinkled Italian suit had hung off me like clothes the homeless trashcan pickers wore. The pungent smell of the alcohol had agitated my nostrils triggering fits of coughing and shrill sneezing. I had wiped my nose with a cocktail napkin; taking a huge swig until the glass was nearly empty, with three speared olives cramped in the bottom soaking up the juniper berry essence of the gin. I had fished out the olives eating all three at once. We martini drinkers had considered this the crescendo; much like the worm in the Tequila bottle. I had nodded in Mason’s direction. We didn’t have to speak a word. He had returned in short order placing a cocktail napkin in front of me emblazed with the Nickel 5 shield, effortlessly placing my martini down without spilling a drop. I had knocked it back. Its warmth had passed quickly through my veins, rousing my incapacitated brain. “Mason dear fellow you had better take it easy,” he had admonished me. “You’re not used to belting them down like you had.” “Let me get you a large glass of iced water for you, drink a few of these between martinis pal.” This had been my first time back since 1989 but nothing ever changed here. It had the same ambiance as I had left it. My long absence had dispossessed me what I had always considered my bar, my haunt. The Nickel 5 had been a romantic part of my past. I had always intentional occupied the end bar chair, my favorite spot as I could make indiscrete glances at those who came in. It had given me the vantage point like a voyeur to pore over all the patrons ensconced around odd wooden tables. This had been my sporting amusement. I hadn’t stayed glued in my corner seat, as I greatly enjoyed the revelry mixing with this wide assortment of influential oddities roaming about. I had felt white washed needing to leave for the lue to pee, and perhaps a much-desired vomit. After a few flushes of the toilet, my stomach had stabilized. Washing my knurly hands, which had become accustomed to a weekly manicure, soured me. As I dried them, I had caught my reflection in the lavatory mirror of a man I barely recognized. My hair had now grayed and was thinning. A face turned gaunt, which had aged from the unforgiving conditions of the passing years. I had been reduced to a state of emotional emptiness, splintered beyond recognition. My soiled suit had hung ridiculously on me, having lost its crisp pleats. The bare thin $100 dollar hand tailored white shirt I had worn highly starched looked absurdly oversized on me. Besides some unwelcome crumples in my silk tie, it still had a stunning attraction. What had intrigued me the most were my English dress shoes, which amazingly still held a shine after all this time. This was all I had to wear. The only clothing I owned until I could gather my belonging. It had been the last suit I had worn at the Nickel 5 before the calculated events played themselves out. Returning to my chair noticeable buzzed, my dear chap Mason had already poured me another chilled glass of water. Feeling a little I had used to be, I now had the courage to make a meticulous inventory around the old joint. I had seen that Stephen Rebowski was making his way in my direction. I wonder what he wants I thought to myself as my palms grew cold and clammy. Rebowski had been a senior assistant DA when I had left. “Is that you Beekman?” he had asked knowing damn well it was. “Hey Joe,” I had cautiously responded, still wary of my peers’ intentions after all these years. “Haven’t seen you in what…years? “Fourteen to be exact,” I had boldly reminded him. “Yes, yes, that’s right, you got caught up in a bit of bad luck,” he had answered knowing what had happened. “So your amongst the living again I take it?” said had sarcastically not missing how horrid my appearance was out of place here. “I suppose I am.” “Can I buy you a drink…what was it, or yes, you’re a manhattan man? I had still remembered. “Payson what a nice gesture but I was just on my way home.” “Too bad, perhaps another time then?” “Perhaps,” he had said with insincerity. Chief Counsel for Mobil’s import division,” he had said with a natural air of self-importance, having climbed his way out of the hole in the district attorney’s office. “That’s quite a jump, good for you,” I had derisively said reminding him of his modest roots. Joe’s appearance had decidedly taken a turn for style. As an assistant DA he had been a rather shabby dresser, something of a joke around the courthouse. Now I had noticed a major transformation, an expensive suit, pocket square, striking shirt and power tie, even cuff links, and highly polished elegant dress shoes, not the black Florsheim wing tips he was famous for buying at thrift shops. Somethings in life have never changed, like the old adage, you can dress them up, but you can’t change who they are. “Well Payson I must be off,” he had quickly answered intentionally avoiding any reference to his significant rise in the corporate world. “Good to see you Joe, and congratulations to you and Louise,” I had offered. “Uah, Louise and I divorced over ten years ago.” “I see, sorry old chap.” “Well I must really be off,” he had said with hurried exhaustion. “Don’t want to keep a business man – work is work after all” “Night then,” he had answered though sounding more like a question for permission. “Hurry along, don’t want to keep the new wife waiting.” “Actually she’s only my girlfriend.” “I see, well perhaps you’ll be fortunate enough to tie things up?” I had asking enjoying seeing him squirm. “Yah, maybe, not a bad idea.” “Well you must be getting along, I’d hate to make the sweet girl angry with you.” “She’s used to my coming in at all hours,” he had said, taking my bait. “Good for her.” “You’re luck she’s so understanding.” “I am.” “She’s such a good sport.” “Well with so such much new responsibilities, being late comes with the turf,” I had added, stringing him along to my narcissistic amusement. “Isn’t that so true.” “My gibber is only going to make you later.” “You had better hurry along, I don’t want to be the blame,” I had still enjoying my making him fidget. “No, no, it’s certainly not your fault,” he had said in defense. “I’m delighted to hear that,” I had said hardly able to hold back my brimming distractions. “Well out with you.” “Hurry home to your sweetheart,” I had insisted. “I guess it’s that time,” he had said limply. “So long again Joe,” I said adding one last punch. “Until next time.” “Oh I hope so,” I said, hardly believing he had fallen again for my evident game. “Yes, good night,” he had said, turning quickly for the door directly. What an ass, he always was, I had thought to my self. I couldn’t figure out what mobile had found so enticing about him. Joe had only been a barely confident with the DA’s office. Made me think for some reason of an admonition that had stuck in my head years ago from Sunday school, “Oh how the mighty will fall.” A bit of irony in that, I had mused, considering my own fall reminded me of the lad Icarus who flew fly too close to the sun melting his waxed wings, plunging him into the Aegean Sea. Achievements in life are so temporal, uncertain as the blowing wind, I had ponderously considered. Nickel 5 still had its natural laissez-faire charm down under street level, dark and mysterious. I had taken all my clients here. Had been the only place I celebrated my cleverness at winning acquittals, consoled my crushing defeats and secretly cheated on my wife. It had been routine to have private ex parte jousting with judges, even those presiding over a current trial. The place had been the arena where plea bargains were won or lost with opposing assistant district attorneys, after which we’d hammer down a drink together to the victor. This inner sanctum had a carefully staged air about it: full of laughter, quantities of swilling drinks, plumes of smoke and cigar scent. It had the same qualities of the tundra, a watering hole crammed with jungle animals; here it was politicians, state Supreme Court, Applet and Appeals judges as well as the vin ordinaire of judges and magistrates, along with an assortment of actors, dandies, assistant DAs and countless lawyers, investment bankers, venture capitalists all from the best New York firms. Banquet seating had run around the sides of the bar made snug with imported wood paneling, monkish tables full of carved inscriptions like the tables “down at Mory’s” scattered among leather club chairs. This had been my world – a mesmerizing escape from stone cold realism. Returning back to my appointed corner thrown, I had been obviously pleased with my victorious sparring with Rebowski. Mason had just smirked at me having heard the entire conversation. “I see you haven’t lost your zest for repartee?” he had spoken without containing his delight. “Well Mason, you know what the saying is, “I you fall off the house, get right back on,” I had robustly uttered. “I’ll be okay; I just need time to get my head straight.” “You were always masterful at the game. “I’m glad prison didn’t dull your wit.” That had been the first time I had heard the word prison used since being released. It had a powerful affect on me. It was decided unpleasant, made be feel less of a person, had stripped me of my dignity. I wondered how Martha Steward had felt her first moments of losing her freedoms, subject to a strip search in which your buttocks are spread apart to see if any contraband had been hidden their – if I had been start I would have swallowed a whole bags full of Valium before I turned myself in. Still the stigma of being a felony gloomily determined who I was going to be forever. In all my years defending potential felons, I’d never considered how they might have felt had I lost the case. I guess a lot like me now. I had been fine with defending them, but had the liberty of feeling above them, self-righteous somehow, as I would return to my privileged life unstained. Now I sit at the Nickel 5 feeling like the girl in Hawthorn’s Scarlet Letter, with a larger letter emblazed on my chest. “Mason I need another,” I had almost shouted, an unacceptable custom at the Nickel 5. “Something the matter? Mason had inquired, as he had always been insightful. “Hell yes, a lot,” I had let out with a pounding frustration. “You’ll be alright my son, believe me.” “Thanks Mason,” you have never been at a loss of word, cracking an impish smile. Mason didn’t call every patron by their first names, only the few who had been regulars and not all pumped up with their self importance. The irony of this had been that those actually with the most influence always were called by their first names. Not a single State Supreme Court judge, City Mayor, U.S. Senator or the majority of the major Fortune 500 companies insisted on such formality. I had been told by a close friend that Donald Trump during his unprecedented super star rise was particular about being call Mr. Trump, but as his empire was on the verge of collapse, had a change of heart. I had been a decidedly respected and successful defense attorney, senior partner with a vastly esteemed firm. It seemed so many memories ago when I had sat in my costumed-decorated corner office. I had been handsome then, broad shouldered, muscular, topped with sandy blond hair, which others said gave me a boyishly appeal. I had never been fond of that accolade. We had a house and property in New Canaan, Connecticut, which was only a short commute for me on the “New Haven” line into the city. I had said we, as I married fresh out of Harvard Law School to the requisite Vassar girl, Ensley Bonet Wentworth, of the Wentworth Shipping conglomerate. We had become flawlessly ensconced in a hugely oversized Edwardian-styled house Ensley’s father insisted upon buying for us as a wedding present, despite my arduous objections. That had never been how I planned things to be. I had been a product of that kind of culture, which I had desperately desired to escape from its gruesome clutch on my life. However, I had little influence; such domestic matters seemed to rest in the all-powerful grips of my unwavering wife and her self-appointed scheming mother Abigail. “Ensley really I don’t see any need for this gigantic house,” I had tried to protest in vain. “Of course, it was a gracious wedding gift from Charles, but do we need so much space?” I had to tread carefully here, as ii had been her father who made this gesture. “Don’t be so silly darling; just wait till you see what we have in mind,” she had said with such fervor. “She and I spent all last week with decorators in the City making all sorts of arrangements – mum insists on paying for it all.” “Is this really all that necessary?” “The house seems perfectly homely already to me, lying of course.” I had said, which I knew was not particularly compelling. “You’ll be surprised how English cozy the designers want to make our home.” “So sweetie be careful not to trip over all the contraptions set up for the next three or four months, don’t want you going and hurting yourself,” she had informed me as if I were a child. “I’ll be sure to proceed with the utmost caution,” I had uttered with a touch of sarcasm. “Mums will be here to insure everything goes smoothly.” “Isn’t that just so sweet of her dear,” she had said radiantly. “Are you sure your mother is really up to such a considerable undertaking darling?” I had impishly asked. Sitting in an old tattered leather chair, I had been scolding myself for being so wimp about all these determined decisions about my house too. Why had been acting so indifferently to this outrageous project concerned me. Had this been a sign of how things were to be? “She’s as strong as a strapping stallion Payse.” This had become her pet name for me, pronounces, Paysé. “Well don’t blame me if this undertaking begins to fall apart, I’ve said my peace.” “I still don’t see why we can’t just leave things the way they are, at least for now,” I had offered, still holding out a plum. “Oh, you, what do you know about decorating, silly boy?” “We’ve got the whole project under control darling.” “Mum has every detail arranged: an architect and project manager to handle the new construction, trimming, detailing and painting.” “Maxwell our new interior designer, the sweetheart, has all the furniture, antiques, paintings, oriental carpets and all the simply amazing fabrics needed for drapes and furniture coverings worked out – he’s just so talented,” she had carried on. “What in hell are you doing?” “They don’t put this much effort in the White House for a new administration.” “I suppose you are also picking out a new pattern of china as well?” I had said smugly. It seemed to me as if too much oxygen had gone to Ensley’s head the way she kept rattling on. “Payse that’s no way to speak to me, after all I’m doing this for us.” “I’m sorry darling, you’re right, but it just seems this whole thing is getting out of control.” “A little appreciate would be encouraging, if that’s not too much to ask?” She said with that annoying lockjaw way of speaking. “Do you and Abigail have any other surprises I should be prepared for?” “Why can’t you call her mom Payse?” “Mum doesn’t understand you coldness.” “Christ Ensley you know I’m uncomfortable with it, perhaps in time.” “Can’t you make her understand?” “Well perhaps you should be the one to do that; after all it’s your issue, not mine,” she had snapped. “Ensley, really, that’s unfair.” “I don’t want to fight, not now; it’s already hectic enough around here.” “Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry.” “You’re right.” “I think I’m over tired and nervous about it all.” “I’ve never done anything like this and I don’t want to disappoint you,” she had said, tears beginning to flow. “Now, now sweetie, enough of all this for now,” I had said trying to soften the conversation. The timing could not have been worse as Abigail walked into the room with such a sense of self-importance. “Something wrong my dear?” she had immediately asked, without missing anything. “No mother.” “I’m just exhausted, that’s all.” “Have you told Payson about all our wonderful plans?” She had been quick to add. I started to get an eerie feeling Ensley hadn’t had time to tell me everything. What would be the next bombshell? “Payson what do think about all the superb interior design plans?” “Well, a bit ambitious, but whatever Ensley wants is alright with me,” I had cleverly put it before I got the notorious wrath of her mother. “Aren’t you overwhelmed with the landscaping we have planned? Se had queried looking straight into my eyes. “Oh mother, I hadn’t had time to tell him,” she had said with a bit of hesitancy. “Well no better time then the present, as I always say.” “Mother why don’t you, ple…se?” Ensley had asked in a childish sort of way. “Well, fine.” “Payson we were absolutely fortunate to retain Emil Frochetti to be our very own landscape designer.” “He’s in such demand; you know he studied under the renowned Charles Olmstead, America’s foremost landscape designer.” He was the designer of Central Park,” She had said with such obvious pride. “That’s most intriguing Abigail.” “It will look nice to have some more flowers and hedges around the house,” I had blindly said. “Oh no son, Frochetti is going to create an old fashion grand English garden with flocks of flowers, massive rows of hedges and wide assortment of trees, a carriage house, fountains, gates, and brick walkways and so many other marvelous creations for.” I had remained quite for some time, which was now making everyone feel uncomfortable. I had been at a loss. Without any warning, I had been promoted to Lord of the Manor. I had wanted to scream that this was fuckin’ folly, but knew that would cause a huge quarrel. “You two ladies are certainly ambitious,” I had quipped. “Oh Payse, I’m doing this for us and…well…you know…our chil…dren some day,” she had softly said, restraining her new set of welled up eyes. “And sweetie, Maxwell is making plans for the architect to design a music room with a fire place for your prize grand Steinway, so you’ll have your own special place – and a gentlemen’s den with a library and a study.” “No one to bother you, your own private retreat away from the main part of the house.” “Isn’t that so exciting honey?” she had said with such passion to please. “It sounds…” “It was all mums idea Payse, she really cares so much for you,” she had over spoken me with a flurry. “Ensley, if this Maxwell fellow and your architect’s designs make you and Abigail happy, then I’ll be just as happy dear,” I had said, taking a rather large quaff of some single molt scotch I ad been drinking. “You’ll see darling, it will be the perfect home for all of us,” she had said with even more emphasis on us. _________________________________________ Together we had somehow managed to raise five beautiful children in that special house; our oldest was Ian, 10, followed by Ethan, 8, Ashley 5, Ryan 4 and finally our 2-year-old baby Brittany, along with a frisky Springer Spaniel called Macbeth and a loveable tan Labrador Retriever Ryan insisted be named Rufus. I mean I had loved my wife and adored each of my children. Yet I still had never felt that it was my special home with staff lurking about, gardeners in and out, pool cleaners popping up at all hours, not to mention the stable of horses, stalls and jumps set up in part of our 65 acres of fields, thatches, marshes and creeks. I had hid out in my secluded part of house, which the children knew was off limits unless I called for them. Why had Ensley insisted on employing a horse trainer, stable hands and others doing god knows what baffled me? Nevertheless, this had remained her domain, except for my music room, which surprisingly did provide a sanctuary – thanks to her dandy Maxwell after all – for my glossy black Steinway, which I had played in the evenings returning from New York. With a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and a sterling silver Cartier cigarette case filled with my favorite Dunhill’s settled on the piano, I had routinely engaged myself singing the songbooks of such American legends as George Gershwin, Cole Porter and Jerome Kern, with nostalgic verve late into the morning. This practice had a way of shutting out the rest of the world. I had never needed more than four or five hours a night of sleep. Yet the never-ending cocktail parties had continued with the most boring placid crowds appalled me, and what resembled revolving dinner parties with the same teetered half-wits were imperiously asinine. If we had invited the Litchfield’s to dinner then they were obligated to invite us to one of their pretentious three course dinners, and then we had a further obligation to extend another invitation to them for a supposedly enchanting dinner party and so on and so on ad nauseum. Made me think we had become as ridiculous as the English television comedy on Public Broadcasting, Keeping up Appearances, in which the fluttery, overbearing Mrs. Bucket (pronounced only by her as Bouquet) was always on the lookout to impress personages of assumed importance with an invitation to one of her “candle light suppers.” I had craved for some relaxed simplicity, nothing extravagant. Ensley would never have accepted such rude behavior of me. I had only to guess that with both Ensley and I coming from means, this sort of pretense was our predictable societal duty, least we forever lose the sacred WASP dignified quality of living that I mistakenly assumed die out with the end of World War II.
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