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.Last week I e-mailed him a list of Beach Road residents and asked if on a less-than-full flight he could put me beside one of them for the forty-minute, thirty-five-hundred-dollar trip.He called this afternoon and told me to be at the southern tip of the airport at 6:55 p.m.“And don’t come a minute earlier unless you want to blow your cover.” For the next ten minutes Roberto struggles in vain to capture and convey the miracle that is Roberto.There are the half-dozen homes, the Lamborghini and Maybach, the ceaseless stress of presiding over a “modest little empire,” and the desire, growing stronger by the day, to chuck it all for a “simpler, more real” life.It’s a well-oiled monologue, and when he’s done he smiles shyly as if relieved it’s finally over and says, “Your turn, Katie.What do you do?” “God, I dread that question.It’s so embarrassing.Try to enjoy my life, I guess.Try to help others enjoy it a little more too.I run a couple foundations-one helps inner-city kids land prep-school scholarships.The other involves a summer camp for the same kind of at-risk kids.” “A do-gooder.How impressive.” “At least by day.” “And when the sun goes down? By the way, I love what you’re wearing.” After getting Ed’s call, I had just enough time to race to the Bridgehampton mall and buy a black Lacoste shirt dress three sizes too small.“The usual vices, I’m afraid.Can’t they invent some new ones?” “Altruistic and naughty.You sound perfect.” “Speaking of perfection, you know where an overbred philanthropist can score some ecstasy?”Roberto purses his lips a second, and I think I’ve lost him.But, hey, he wants to be my friend, right?“I imagine from the same person who supplies anything you might need along those lines, the outlandishly expensive Loco.I’m surprised you aren’t a client already.From what I hear he has a tidy monopoly on the high-end drug trade and is quite committed to maintaining it.Thus the nickname.On the plus side, he is utterly discreet and reliable and has paid off the local constabulary so there’s no need to fret about it.” “Sounds like quite the impressive dude.You ever meet him?” “No, and I intend to keep it that way.But give me your number and I’ll have something for you next weekend.” Below us, the Long Island Expressway disappears into the Midtown Tunnel, and a second later all of Lower Manhattan springs up behind it.“Why don’t you give me yours?” I say.“I’ll call Saturday afternoon.” The width of Manhattan is traversed in a New York minute, and the helicopter drops onto a tiny strip of cement between the West Side Highway and the Hudson.“I look forward to it,” says Roberto, handing me his card.It says Roberto Nuñez-human being.Good God almighty.“In the meantime, is there any chance I can persuade you to join me for a martini? My butler makes a very good one,” he continues.“Not tonight.” “Don’t like martinis?” “I adore them.” “Then what?” “I’m a decadent do-gooder, Roberto, but I’m not easy.” He laughs.I’m such a funny girl-when I want to be.Beach RoadChapter 62Tom ABOUT THE SAME time that Kate catches her whirlybird to Manhattan, I squeeze into a tiny seat in a fourth-grade Amagansett homeroom smelling of chalk and sour milk.Like her, I have a role to play, and to be honest, I’m not sure it’s much of a stretch.As I take in the scene, more adults enter the classroom and wedge themselves into small chairs, and despite how rich most of them are, there’s none of the usual posturing.The leader closes the door and signals me, and I walk to the front of the room and clear my throat.“My name is John,” I say, “and I’m an alcoholic.” The crowd murmurs with self-recognition and support as I lay out a familiar story.“My father gave me my first glass of beer when I was eleven,” I say, which happens to be true.“The next night, I went out with my pals and got gloriously drunk.” Also true, but from here on, I’m winging it.“It felt so perfect I spent the next twenty years trying to re-create that feeling.Never happened, but as you know, it didn’t keep me from trying.” There are more murmurs and empathetic nods and maybe I actually belong here-I’m hardly a model of sobriety.But I try not to think about that and keep my performance marching along.“Six years ago, my wife walked out and I ended up in the hospital.That’s when I went to my first meeting, and thank God, I’ve been sober since.But lately my life and work have gotten much more stressful.” I assume some of the people in the room know me or the work I’m referring to, but Amagansett is a different world from Montauk, and I don’t recognize anyone personally.“In the last couple of weeks, I’ve felt myself inching closer to the precipice, so I came here tonight,” I say, which is also true in a way.“It’s hard for me to admit-but I need a little help.” When the meeting comes to a close, I have a set of new friends, and a handful of them linger in the parking lot.They don’t want to leave here and be alone just yet.So they lean on their Beamers and Benzes and trade war stories.And guys being guys, it gets competitive.When one describes being escorted by two cops from the delivery room the morning his son was born, another tops him-or bottoms him-by passing out at his old man’s funeral.I’m starting to feel kind of sane, actually.“What was your poison?” asks a gray-bearded Hollywood producer who owns one of the homes on Beach Road.He catches me off guard.“Specifically?” I ask, buying time as I frantically canvass my brain.“Yeah, specifically, ” he says, snorting, provoking a round of laughs.“White Russians,” I spit out.“I know it sounds funny, but it wasn’t.I’d go through two bottles of vodka a night.How about you?” “I was shooting three thousand dollars a week, and one of my problems was I could afford it.” “You cop from Loco?” I ask, and as soon as I do, I know I’ve crossed some kind of line.Suddenly the lot goes quiet, and the producer fixes me with a stare.Scrambling, I say, “I ask because that’s the crazy fuck I used to cop from.” “Oh, yeah?” says the producer, leaning toward me from the hood of his black Range Rover.“Then get your stories straight.You an alkie or a junkie?” “Junkie,” I say, looking down at the cement.“I don’t know you guys, so I made that shit up about the drinking.” “Come over here,” he says.If he looks at my arms for tracks, I’m busted, but I have no choice.I step closer to his car, and for what seems like a full minute, he stares into my eyes.Then he pushes off his car, grabs my shoulders, and digs his gray beard into my neck [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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