The Mont Blanc taps on the blotter.
At first in a rapid staccato, then slows to a more mundane tap of someone who’s bored. The more minute details of the latest plan being finalized in a brilliant mind. Renior to Romare hang on the walls. Queen Anne furniture, East Indian carpets, Tiffany lamps, Lenox crystal, all the proper status symbols abound. The Mont Blanc tapper looks around the opulent living room, picking up the telephone.
“Yes, this is Langston, Mr. Cedric Warren’s Executive Assistant . . . Yes, he wishes to order one ticket to the Eastshore Charity Auction . . . That’s correct, just one ticket for will call. You have his account number on file, correct? . . .Yes, that is the account. Draw the funds from that account and fax a receipt to the home fax for his records…Yes, he somewhat old-fashioned that way. I will hold for the confirmation fax.”
An expansive view of the city’s skyline is seen through the floor to ceiling picture window. Monied means lives here. A errant strand swaying in the air-conditioned current is pushed back in place as the time is checked on the Breguet until the fax arrives.
“Yes, the conformation is transmitting through now . . . Everything appears to be in order, thank you . . .You have a good day, also, thank you.” A small smile plays upon the assistant’s lips as the fax is read and then put through a shredder. A photographic memory does have its uses.
The plan is starting to get underway.
It is one of those low ninety-something degree NYC days that feels more like a low one hundred and something degree day with the humidity. As usual there is a line on the TKTS booth. The clerk in the ticket booth stares incredulously at the customer before him.
“You want to pay cash? You do realize that the tickets are fifteen hundred dollars – each?”
“I’m aware of what it cost.” The customer responds testily, “But thank you for putting my business all out in the street, yo.”
“Yes, of course, excuse me. One ticket to Eastshore Charity Auction. That will be $1500, plus the processing fee please.” The clerk is taken aback, returning to the transaction. His eyes admiring the way the t-shirt clung to her body in the heat; the woman before him barely looked as if she owned one hundred dollars, let alone fifteen hundred. She was a looker though. Hell, as long as the ticket is paid for, he couldn’t care less.
“Thanks you.” She pushes an errant strand of hair back into place as she carefully puts the ticket in her purse and checks the time on the Breguet. The same small smile plays upon the lips as she walks away.
The plan was definitely underway.