The Yoga Club Read online

  CJ weighed several options. “Hey, I’m from Greenwich, haven’t I seen you there?” Ugh, too cliché. “I’m gay, you’re gay.” Duh, too obvious. They were in a gay bathhouse, for crying out loud. Even the towel boys here were gay. He could start being loud and dramatic, but again, gay bathhouse. No shortage of drama queens, and who really wants to hook up with that? Maybe, he thought, he could just move closer to the men and try to get in on the conversation as naturally as possible, no differently than if he were sitting alongside them at a bar. That seemed the least aggressive option, and if one of the minions tried to pick him up, he could start right in with the drama queen stuff. He drew closer.

  The stocky gay man looked up. Again, he didn’t appear to recognize CJ per se, but he knew what a perfect body looked like and he couldn’t stop staring at it. In a bathhouse, if you stare just long enough at someone and they stare back at you just long enough, there’s a tacit understanding that you’re both up for some action. And though CJ’s Nelly had subdued his carnal urges, he didn’t want to violate bathhouse etiquette or be rude, so he knew he had to follow through with the ritual. His principal interest now was in getting information about the mayor and those damned envelopes. He was willing to sacrifice his body in order to find out what this compact, yummy, naked gay man knew about him. Coco and the others had better appreciate his efforts.

  Eight

  Rao’s and Rivals

  I just got this in France. It’s the best there is. Would you care for some?” the little man asked as he held up a bottle of absinthe, set out two reservoir glasses, and reached for a box of sugar cubes and a lighter.

  CJ could tell immediately that this Barney Rubble of a man was one of those characters who had to have “the best” of everything. He found it a bit tiresome, frankly. Didn’t anyone just want to fuck anymore? Just looking around the apartment, CJ knew that this guy worried about the impression he made on others. Otherwise, why on earth would he adorn his room with MacKenzie-Childs furniture, a style that was way beyond even the gay man’s aesthetic? It felt too fine and precious, more like dollhouse furniture. The whimsically painted cabinet next to the bed was giving him a headache.

  It was 4:00 A.M., and Barney was still drinking. Apparently, he wanted to seem nonchalant about the new workday quickly closing in upon them. The guy was partying as though he didn’t want the night to end, while CJ, who’d stopped drinking a few hours before and had even napped briefly, already felt a hangover coming on. So much about the little man seemed designed to create the impression that he was a certain person with a certain lifestyle, and not the boring political aide he was. Even the location of the apartment betrayed the man’s neediness. The Tudor City neighborhood was such a cliché, but why would he live in the city and commute to Greenwich? Maybe being gay was one of the few instances when having a Greenwich address wouldn’t be the best possible way to get you laid. Mr. Rubble was under the illusion that the Ralph Lauren silk drapes and the John Varvatos suits hanging outside the closet were the sorts of things that could turn on some wretched hick queen who knew nothing about real style or luxury. Though CJ might have laughed at the thought, there he was, naked in this stranger’s bed, bleary-eyed and freshly ravaged.

  “What’s your name, by the way?” CJ asked.

  “Malcolm,” the man answered. “So, do you want some absinthe?”

  “No, I’m fine,” CJ replied as he rolled over in Malcolm’s king-size Marge Carson Hampton bed, trying not to agitate his looming hangover. CJ watched Malcolm’s muscles contract as he poured himself a drink. He may have been short, but his shoulders rippled with every move he made. It was downright distracting, and CJ thought Malcolm’s sexiness might make him inherently annoying as well. Stretching his arms up and behind his head, CJ felt the excruciating leather upholstery of the headboard. Gross, he thought. He’d found a way to be alone with the guy but hadn’t managed to glean any helpful information.

  “I have a work event tonight and then dinner at Rao’s afterward. Why don’t you meet me there? Do you know where it is?” Malcolm said, not meaning to be condescending but kind of sounding that way.

  “Yes, I know where Rao’s is,” CJ said, a bit thrown off by the question since usually such circumstances were of the one-night variety. “Okay, what time?”

  “Eight thirty on the dot. You can’t be late,” said Malcolm seriously. CJ held back a gasp. This guy didn’t even know him, so why on earth would he have the audacity to assume that CJ would make him wait? It wasn’t an argument worth having—CJ was interested in information from this affected, pretentious elf, so he’d put up with what he had to.

  “I won’t be late, don’t worry about it,” CJ assured him.

  “Great,” Malcolm said as he and his annoying muscles got back into his pretentious bed with his pretentious glass of absinthe and its flaming sugar cube.

  Sobering up, CJ realized he was no longer interested in round two (okay, let’s be honest, round six), but the bed he lay in was just three blocks from work. Why go all the way home to Connecticut when he’d have to come back to Rachael Ray in just a few hours? He decided to tolerate Malcolm’s further ministrations only with the intent of getting his information at the dinner at Rao’s, and then never seeing this little man again.

  Coco rushed home from the airport as quickly as traffic would allow. She felt terribly guilty about having to leave Sam home alone once again with the dogs, especially the new puppy. Things had been so tense between them after he was pushed out of his business and then when his partners were indicted. He was clearly depressed. He spent his days padding around in SpongeBob pajama bottoms and an ugly orange T-shirt, never wanting to do anything. Coco was such a doer that living with someone despondent drove her more than a little nuts. Sam had been growing increasingly hard to be with, and consequently so was she. For a while they spoke little, each doing a sort of dance around the other, communicating through the dogs: “Look what the puppy did!” and “Farns-worth doesn’t seem very happy today. I think he needs some cheering up. Maybe we should get him a new toy.” Finally, just as Sam seemed to be letting go of his feelings about the business, and Coco’s company seemed to be taking off—pulling them both out of the tailspin—the goddamned envelope had shown up, sending Sam back into a state of confusion, sadness, and ultimately, stupor.

  On the flight home, Coco resolved to spend time working on their relationship and on making Sam feel happy and whole while getting the business of the envelope behind them. She would make him think it was all a big prank, whether it was or not. In a hurry to get started on a weekend of healing, she leaned forward from the backseat of the limo, like Katharine Hepburn in one of those old TCM movies. “Step on it,” she barked. The driver looked in the rearview mirror, eyebrows imperceptibly arched. “Yes, ma’am. Right away,” he said and continued driving at the exact same speed as the forty vehicles crawling along in front of him.

  Almost at her exit on the Merritt Parkway, her cell phone rang. It was Rory.

  “Hey, kid, how was your flight?”

  “Fine, smooth. What’s up?” Coco knew Rory didn’t care about air travel experiences; he was obviously calling for a reason, and she didn’t care much for small talk anyway.

  “Walmart called. You’re in!” Rory was downright ebullient.

  “But I just got off the plane! They made the decision that fast?” Coco asked.

  “Oh, they knew the minute you left the room. You’re one of the best pitchmen in the business, and this product is right up their alley. Not to mention the low marketing and delivery costs now that we’re producing domestically.”

  “Wow, this is huge. Butt-B-Gone will be in Walmart? I can’t get my head around that,” Coco said and then thought for a second. “How many stores?” she asked cautiously. Surely they were only going to try her product out in a dozen or so stores to see how it went.

  “Well, that’s the even better part. Twenty-five hundred,” he said.

  “Oh, my lord,” Coco re
plied, almost under her breath.

  “Okay, kiddo, good news for us then. Go home and we’ll hash out contracts tomorrow. Hi to Sam,” Rory said and hung up.

  Coco sat in the back of the car, incredulous. The little product she’d worked so hard to invent and promote was now a grown-up on its way to Harvard. She couldn’t wait to rub it in Billy Blanks’s face at the trade show next week. Blanks was her arch frenemy. They were certainly cordial on a casual level, but those who were on the inside knew of the intense mutual hatred.

  Coco called Sam from the car to tell him the good news but also to get the pups ready for her arrival. The older Spinone was mildly amused and contented when she came home. But little Farnsworth went berserk when she came back from anywhere and peed with excitement—“glee pee,” they called it—so they tried to arrange reunions outside the house.

  As the car pulled into the semicircular stone drive, there stood Sam with Farnsworth tugging at his lead, stubby tail and hindquarters wagging wildly, and Milo, the elder, standing just apart, sans leash, with a look on his face that seemed to indicate he was embarrassed to be seen with the other two but happy to be outside.

  Coco was also familiar with the look on Sam’s face and knew that she had her work cut out for her trying to avoid a fight.

  “Say hello to the newest member of the Walmart family!” she said, kissing Sam on what turned out to be the side of his face. Farnsworth had better aim, delivering a big, wet kiss, complete with sloppy beard, right to her lips and on up into her left nostril. “Oh, for god’s sake, Farnsworth! Breed standard! Spinoni don’t kiss. How many times do I have to tell you? Blech!” Farnsworth wagged happily anyway and placed his forepaws on her upper thighs. “Okay, cute bunny pose. Good boy.”

  “Good job, hon,” said Sam, pulling the dog back. “So proud of you.” She’d never have known it by the tone of his voice.

  “Okay, what is it?” Coco wasn’t going to let this simmer.

  “Kornacki says I’m fucked if those documents get out. He doesn’t know where they’re from, and says it’s obvious to him they’re forged, but there’s no way he can prove it. Someone could just as easily say our original, legitimate documents are the fakes.” Sam appeared ready to cry. He was, no doubt, imagining years in federal lockup, fighting over extra pudding cups with Bernie Madoff.

  Coco sighed and realized she was going to have to take charge, as usual. “Look, honey, it’s going to be all right. You let me handle this, okay? I’ll get to the bottom of it. Trust me.”

  Sam looked at her quizzically, unconvinced but grateful. He handed her Farnsworth’s leash and took her bags inside.

  At 8:29 P.M. CJ stood outside Rao’s checking his watch. He had been there since 8:00 so as not to upset his envoy, yet the snotty little imp hadn’t shown up. CJ didn’t mind waiting in plain sight on a Monday night at the legendary eatery, since he knew that nobody who mattered would see him there. Rao’s is a hundred-year-old Italian restaurant on 114th Street in Manhattan with ten tables, one seating, and the greatest eggplant parmigiana you’ve ever tasted. The catch, though, is that no one can eat there. That is to say, it’s invitation only. No ordinary schmo gets a table at Rao’s. There’s no phone number, they don’t take reservations, and you can’t walk in off the street and expect to get a seat. It is simply the most exclusive restaurant in New York, possibly in the whole country. Even so, Monday night is for amateurs. The real power brokers eat there on Wednesdays and Thursdays, the nights CJ ordinarily went. After all, his father was a well-known politician and major power broker, so CJ could get a table whenever he liked. Monday nights were for people like a mayor’s aide or lower castes from all walks of life.

  Finally, at 8:45, the mayor’s car showed up, and out hopped little Malcolm with an entourage of pretty young men who were treating him like he was a Kennedy—or, in this case, Jackie O.

  “There you are. C’mon, let’s get in there, we’re late,” Malcolm said to CJ as if it were his fault. He was so convincing CJ actually thought: Was I supposed to meet him somewhere else first?

  They were rushed to their table, whereupon, in an effort to speed things along, as he often did, the maître d’ squatted down next to Malcolm, who gave him the entire order for the table rather than wait for the infamous Frankie No to take his drink order. Malcolm chose what they would be drinking, ordered appetizers for the table, and decided what they all would be having for dinner. CJ was there on a fact-finding mission and had deliberately eaten a late lunch, so he wasn’t feeling choosy about his meal; not being hungry also kept him from being as put off by this alpha behavior as he should have been. But, as a potential dating partner, Malcolm wasn’t doing a thing to impress him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Marconi,” the waiter said when Malcolm palmed him some cash.

  “My pleasure,” Malcolm replied and then turned his attention to CJ. Leaning in and placing his hand on the upper portion of CJ’s thigh, he said discreetly, “I would introduce you to everyone at the table, but they’re not important to me tonight. My only interest is you. I don’t know a thing about you. Except how fucking great you look naked.”

  “Well, I guess we didn’t do much talking last night.” CJ smiled.

  “No, I guess we didn’t,” Malcolm said as he rubbed CJ’s leg under the table, which gave CJ chills, though he still wasn’t enjoying Malcolm’s aggressive behavior. Was this guy a ’roid head? That would explain all those ripply muscles.

  Then, before Malcolm could ask again, CJ interrupted. He realized that he couldn’t let the man learn too much about him if he wanted to get any information out of him. “So, Mr. Politician, tell me all about working for the big man. You must know some really juicy dish!”

  Tell a man who thinks he’s important that you think so too, and you can get him to talk for hours.

  The others at the table were busy gabbing away, presuming Malcolm and CJ were discussing important business matters.

  “Well, I do, but of course I can’t divulge. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” Malcolm winked. “I know everything but say nothing. It’s what makes me so valuable.”

  Damn. Not what CJ was hoping to hear. He tried again.

  “Well, you can’t know everything. Wouldn’t that be too risky? I mean, you’re just an aide after all. What if you had a falling-out—he’d have to bump you off,” CJ teased.

  Malcolm’s face turned beet red, and not from the Chianti. He moved closer and squeezed CJ’s thigh tightly, stared fiercely in his eyes, and spoke in a low, thin-lipped voice that somehow reminded CJ of Giuliani. “Just an aide? Listen, you whore, I run that guy’s life. I know everything. Everything! From the way he takes his coffee to his sexual proclivities. He trusts me with all of it!” CJ watched as a vein in Malcolm’s forehead protruded.

  Checkmate, CJ thought. He had the man where he wanted him. He gave Malcolm a sly smile and a look that said he’d had no idea how powerful he was, and excuse him for the lack of respect. “Oooooh, what’s he into?” CJ asked.

  “I can’t say, but trust me, I know some wild stuff!” Malcolm assured him, his manhood satisfied as he relaxed back in his chair. He was a hot-tempered one.

  “C’mon, what could he be into? Keeping his black socks on while he does it? Whores? Men? Jeez, come back to me when you have a story,” CJ said. He scanned the room as if bored, checking out which other nobodies were there that night.

  “Oh, you’d be shocked!” Malcolm said, leaning in a little desperately.

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure I would,” CJ said sarcastically and even feigned a yawn. He was back in control and knew this was the way to get this pretentious little goat’s goat.

  “Oh, he’s gotten himself into a lot of jams. I’m getting him out of his biggest one right now, and it’s a doozy. I’m not even sure he’s going to make it out this time. I live a very exciting life; you have no idea.”

  “You know what? Bullshit. You pretend to know everything, but you and your overdone Ralph Lauren apartment, it’s all bul
lshit,” CJ growled.

  “Oh, it’s bullshit, is it? Well, I think the mayor killed someone!” Malcolm hissed. They were practically having a lovers’ quarrel.

  CJ just stared at him and let those words hang there for a second while Malcolm stared at the floor, praying that no one else had heard him. CJ’s Nelly was back. He had been hoping against all hope that the police chief was right and what they saw had been a Halloween prank, but deep down he’d known different. His Nelly had told him so, and now here was proof.

  CJ collected himself. “Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry,” he said sincerely. He could see the panic in Malcolm’s eyes and gazed at him, attempting to soothe. “Can I help?” CJ said, even though he knew he couldn’t. He did mean it, though.

  “No, no. There’s nothing you can do, of course. Oh, god, I shouldn’t have told you, but I’ve been holding this in. It’s eating me up. That’s why I couldn’t stop drinking last night. There’s something familiar and comforting about you, though, you know? I feel connected to you.” Malcolm seemed relieved as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

  “Yes, we do have a connection,” CJ half lied.

  “I’m freaking out, but I think I handled it. I just wasn’t prepared for this. Can we talk about it later? I don’t want anyone to hear,” Malcolm whispered.

  “Yes, of course,” CJ said, almost feeling sympathetic, though he was still more concerned about his own predicament. How he kept from vomiting he didn’t know. He reached under the table and pinched his own thigh hard in order to retain his focus. Tears started to form in his eyes, and he turned to look at Malcolm, who appeared to take the moistness as sympathy.

  “Come over afterward, will you?” Malcolm was almost begging.