Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney Read Free Book Online Page A

can shake a stick at if you tell the girls that your wife died. It’s the sympathy vote. More effective than saying she fit you with horns and kited off to Paris. Avoid the awful taint of rejection.”
    Tad’s first reaction, when you told him about Amanda’s departure, contained a grain of genuine sympathy and regret. His second reaction was to tell you that you could make a fine erotic career for yourself by repeating the story just as you had told it to him, adding touches of pathos and cruel irony. Finally, he advised you to say that Amanda had died in a plane crash on her way home from Paris on the day of your first anniversary.
    “You’re sure there aren’t any drugs around here?”
    “Some Robitussin in the bathroom.”
    “I’m disappointed in you, Coach. I’ve always thought of you as the kind of guy who saves something for a rainy day. The temperate sort.”
    “I’ve fallen in with bad companions.”
    “Let’s get on the phone,” Tad says. “We must locate party fuel. Cherchez les grammes. ”
    All the people who might have drugs aren’t home. The people who are home don’t have drugs. There is a pattern here. “Damn Warner,” Tad says. “He never answers his phone. I just know he’s sitting there in his loft on top of a pile of toot, ignoring the phone.” Tad hangs up and checks his watch, which tells him the time in selected major cities of the world, including New York and Dubai, Persian Gulf, Oman. “Eleven-forty. A little too early for Odeon, but once we’re downtown, it’s happy hunting ground for sneeze and squeeze. Ready?”
    “Have you ever experienced this nearly overwhelming urge for a quiet night at home?”
    Tad reflects for a moment. “No.”
    The glittering, curvilinear surfaces inside Odeon are reassuring. The place makes you feel reasonable at any hour, often against bad odds, with its good light and clean luncheonette-via-Cartier deco decor. Along the bar are faces familiar under artificial light, belonging to people whose daytime existence is only a tag—designer, writer, artist. A model from Amanda’s agency is sitting at the bar. You do not want to see her. Tad cruises right over and kisses her. At the other end of the bar you order a vodka. You finish it and order a second before Tad beckons. The model is with another woman. Tad introduces them as Elaine and Theresa. Elaine, the model, has a punk high-fashion look: short, razor-cut dark hair, high cheekbones, eyebrows plucked straight. Metallic and masculine are the adjectives that come to mind. Both M words. Theresa is blond, too short and busty to model. Elaine looks you over as if you were an impulse purchase that she might return to the department store.
    “Aren’t you Amanda White’s boyfriend?”
    “Husband. I mean, I was.”
    “She was in Paris showing the fall collections,” Tad says, “and she got caught in a crossfire between Palestinian terrorists and the French police. Totally fluke thing. Innocent bystander. Senseless death. He doesn’t like to talk about it.” Tad’s delivery is entirely convincing. You almost believe him yourself. His air of being privy to dark secrets and inside stories gives credence to outrageous statements.
    “That’s terrible,” Theresa says.
    “Tragic is what it is,” Tad says. “Excuse me, but I’ve got to do some business. Back in a minute.” He bows and then heads out the door.
    “Is that true?”
    “Not really.”
    “What is Amanda doing these days,” Elaine asks.
    “I don’t know. I think she’s in Paris.”
    “Wait a minute,” Theresa says. “Is she alive?”
    “We just sort of split up.”
    “Too bad for you,” Elaine says. “She was yummy.” She turns to Theresa. “Sort of this slinky girl-next-door look. Farm fresh. Very ingenuous.”
    “I don’t understand this,” Theresa says.
    “Me neither,” you say. You’d just as soon change the subject. You don’t like this role of bird with broken wing, especially since that’s exactly