The Board Game

September 8, 2001

GORHAM GLANCED AT his watch just as the telephone rang. It was time to go. If he and Maggie had privately quarreled the night before, no one seeing them now would have guessed it.

The boys were all excited: Gorham, Jr., Richard, and Gorham, Jr.’s, best friend Lee. Gorham was looking forward to it, too. They were going to a Yankee game, for God’s sake.

“It’s John Vorpal,” said Maggie. Why the hell did Vorpal have to bother him now?

“Tell him I have to go to the game,” said Gorham.

“Honey, he says he has to talk to you.”

“He’s coming to dinner this evening, damn it.”

“He says it’s private. Board business.” Maggie gave him the phone.

Gorham muttered a curse. The truth was he didn’t really like John Vorpal; however, they both served on the co-op board, so he had to make efforts to get along. But since Vorpal became chairman of the board, he and Jim Bandersnatch were doing a bunch of things that Gorham didn’t approve of.

“John, I can’t talk now.”

“We need to discuss 7B. They want an answer. Are you around on Sunday?”

“No, I have to be up in Westchester.”

“That’s too bad, Gorham.”

“After dinner tonight?”

Maggie gave him a dirty look. But what could he do? At least this might keep it brief.

“After dinner then.” Vorpal wasn’t pleased either.

But if John Vorpal insisted on having a private talk about 7B, which was already on the schedule for the meeting next Wednesday, well, to hell with him. He could stay after dinner.

There was only one problem. If John Vorpal was going to say what Gorham thought he was going to say, then he, Gorham Vandyck Master, was going to have a very serious disagreement with him. It could be a blazing row. And one really didn’t want to have a blazing row with the chairman of the board of a Park Avenue building.

The game was due to start a little after 1 p.m. They really needed to get going.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re taking the subway.”

“We are?” his son said, in astonishment.

Didn’t anyone in this family use public transport? When the nanny took young Gorham, Jr., or his siblings to any of their appointments, she took a taxi. When Bella ran errands for Maggie, she probably took a taxi too. At least, he thought, it cost less than having your own car and driver, which several of the people in the building did.

The Masters kept just two cars. The Mercedes sedan in the garage round the corner, and a nice blue SUV for Maggie, which lived in the garage of the country house.

“Getting in and out of Yankee Stadium can be a hassle,” he said firmly. “The subway will be quicker.”

As they rode in the subway, Gorham looked at the three boys with affection.

Gorham Vandyck Master, Jr., a thirteen-year-old, fair-haired son of privilege; Richard, eleven years old, a thinner, wirier version of his brother; and young Gorham’s best friend, Lee.

Gorham could never figure out Lee’s Chinese name exactly, but it didn’t matter, because everyone called him Lee. He had met Lee’s parents one time when they had come to collect him from the apartment. They lived up in Harlem, hardly spoke a word of English; the father was a plumber or something. But their son was a genius.

It always seemed to Gorham Master that Lee was totally round. His friendly face, under a mop of black hair, was round. His body wasn’t fat, just round. His temper was so easy that Master reckoned his psyche must somehow be round, so that everything bounced off it. Lee took the subway from Harlem each morning and, Master was convinced, just turned himself into a ball and rolled along the sidewalk from the station to the school.

But Lee wrote the best essays in his grade. He’d surely finish up at Harvard or Yale or some Ivy League place. And what did he want to be? Once, when they were all sitting in the kitchen, the boy had confessed that he’d like to be a senator. He also wanted to be a big collector of Chinese art. “And you know what,” Master had told his son afterward, “he’ll probably make it.” And the thought filled Master with pride for his country and his city.

And how did this kid come to be at his son’s fancy private school? With a scholarship, of course. Maybe twenty percent of the kids there were on scholarships.

If there was one thing New York private schools were good at, it was raising money. He’d no sooner paid the hefty tuition fees for Gorham, Jr.’s, first trimester in kindergarten when the parents’ committee had hit him for a donation as well. They didn’t waste any time. And before they even graduated, the kids in twelfth grade organized themselves to start donating as alumni. Just to get everybody into the habit. And the scale of giving was astounding. The parents’ committees raised several million in donations every year; the accounts were so impressive they were scary.

But if the system was scary, it meant that those scholarship kids from poor homes got the best education available in America, and the rich parents were happy to pay for them. That was the American way. Of course, it didn’t do any harm to the school’s academic results, either.

Gorham, Jr., had plenty of friends, but Lee was the closest to him. Both kids were nice, both ambitious, both striving for excellence. He was proud of the friend his son had chosen.

They got to the game with time to spare.

Yankee Stadium, the Bronx. The House that Ruth Built, scene of Babe Ruth’s greatest triumphs. The huge stadium was packed, the crowd expectant. The Yankees, the biggest sports franchise in America, were going for their fourth consecutive World Series in a row. That would also be a fifth in six years.

He had great seats—field level, on the third-base side. The boys were thrilled. And today, the Yankees were playing the Red Sox.

The Boston Red Sox. The ancient rivalry, so full of passion—and heartbreak, if you were a Red Sox fan.

At 1:15 the game began. And for the next three and a quarter hours, Gorham Vandyck Master enjoyed one of the happiest afternoons of his life. The game was wonderful. The crowd roared. He said to hell with dinner and his cholesterol, and ate three hot dogs. The boys assuredly ate more, but he didn’t count.

What a game! The Yankees made seven runs in the sixth inning, and Tino Martinez hit two home runs, to defeat the Red Sox 9 to 2.

“Well, boys,” he said, “that was a game to remember for the rest of our lives.”

When they got back to the apartment, they found a scene of activity. The caterers had already arrived.

“You boys,” said Maggie firmly, “get cleaned up and out of the way.” And it was clear to Gorham that this referred to him as well.

Lee was sleeping over, because he and Gorham, Jr., were going to Greg Cohen’s bar mitzvah. This would be the bar mitzvah year, and it was normal for the Jewish boys and girls having a bar or bat mitzvah to invite most of their class. Sometimes one went to the religious service as well, especially if it was a close friend, but Gorham, Jr., usually just went to the party later. And that was what the two boys were doing that evening.

Gorham went straight to the master bedroom, showered and changed into a suit for dinner. He was going to take the boys to the bar mitzvah, spend a few minutes there to say congratulations to the Cohens, and get back to the apartment before the guests arrived. It was a little tight, but he reckoned he could do it.

By 6:15, he was ready, and Maggie came into the bedroom to get ready herself. But he still had one important duty to perform before taking the boys. He went into the kitchen.

“Hi, Katie.” He smiled with pleasure, and went to give the caterer a kiss.

Katie Keller Katerers. She’d asked them what they thought of the name when she started up two years ago. He and Maggie had both told her to go with it.

Gorham hadn’t really known the Kellers until after his father’s death. Charlie had still had the Theodore Keller photograph collection and, following his instructions, Gorham had gone to see the family to find out what they’d like him to do with it. It hadn’t taken long for them to agree to find a dealer, who had quietly promoted and sold the collection down the years. He and the Kellers split the modest proceeds. They’d kept in touch, so Gorham had actually known Katie Keller her entire life, and he was delighted to do what he could to help someone whose family had such a long connection to his.

Katie was twenty-five now, though with her blonde hair tightly pulled back, and wearing her chef’s outfit, he reckoned she looked more like eighteen, and adorable. It went without saying that whenever they needed catering, he and Maggie called upon her services.

Not that they entertained a lot. The occasional party. Once in a while, a sit-down dinner. Bella’s cooking was fine, but not up to a formal dinner party, and they hadn’t anyone to serve really, so like most people they knew, they used caterers for these occasions.

They’d be ten at dinner tonight, and Katie would produce a four-course meal. She had one full-time employee, Kent, supplemented by two young actors to serve and wash up afterward. Including his own wine, Gorham reckoned the entire evening would cost a little over a thousand dollars, which was less than you’d have to pay for ten people in a fancy restaurant.

But first he must deal with the wine.

Gorham didn’t have a large wine cellar, but he knew quite a bit, and was proud of his modest collection. The storage cages down in the building’s basement were about ninety-five degrees, so he kept his wine up at the country house, and for an occasion like this, he’d collect what he wanted from there and bring it down to the apartment, where he had a temperature-controlled unit. After the menu had been chosen last week, he’d selected some bottles of a French Chablis, an excellent Californian Pinot Noir he could trust, and a wonderful dessert wine, made in small quantities by a winery he’d discovered that was owned by a rich dentist in San Francisco.

He had some nice decanters that had come originally from the old family house in Gramercy Park and he liked to use them. But one had to be careful with Pinot Noir and not decant it too early. Kent had a considerable knowledge of wines himself, so the two of them had an enjoyable five minutes discussing the wines and agreeing on the arrangements for serving them.

Then he turned to have a few words with Katie.

On the outside, especially when she was working, Katie seemed such a serious little person, everything neatly in place, her face scrubbed. She was as perfect as a Meissen doll. Yet underneath was a bright girl with a wicked sense of humor. He talked to her while she was unwrapping the hors d’oeuvres. She gave him a smile.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“You’re in my way.”

“Sorry.” He moved to one side. “How’s Rick?” The boyfriend. The fiancé, now—they were getting married next year.

“He’s fine. We’ve found a house.”

“Where?”

“New Jersey.”

“That’s great.”

“It is. If we can find the money.”

“Think you can?”

“Probably. If my business goes well. And if…”

“What?”

“You get out of my way.”

He laughed. “I’m off,” he said. Young Rick, in his opinion, was a lucky man.

As he wanted to look in himself, he took a taxi with the boys to the party, rather than waste time parking the car. The party was in a big Midtown hotel, so it only took a few minutes to get there. A sign in the lobby directed them to a large elevator down a passage, and moments later they were emerging on an upper floor and entering the wonderful world of Greg Cohen’s bar mitzvah party.

Mrs. Cohen had clearly decided she wanted this to be a very special occasion. She had chosen a theme, and even hired a designer who, by the look of things, had brought in an army of decorators, flower arrangers and scenery-makers. And so it was, this evening, that this vast Midtown hotel ballroom had been transformed, as though by magic, into a tropical island. Along the right-hand wall was a sandy beach, fringed with seagrass and even, here and there, a palm tree. On the left side was the dance floor, complete with DJ and professional dancers. There were fairground booths of every kind, offering prizes that you could take away too, in addition to the bag of party favors you’d get at the end. Still more impressive, the whole of the back of the room was filled with a reconstruction of a roller coaster. And in the center of everything, in pride of place and serving now, was a hot-dog stand.

“Wow,” said the boys.

The girls in their Betsey Johnson dresses were already gathering in a big group. Gorham, Jr., Richard and Lee went to join the boys’ group. It was funny how, in seventh and eighth grades, these modern kids still segregated themselves into single-sex groups at parties. One of the jobs of the professional dancers was to try to get them to dance together. By eleventh and twelfth grade that would have changed. Big time. When it came to his daughter, he wasn’t sure he wanted to think about that. But for now, the girls just danced with each other, pretty much.

What had it cost? Gorham wondered. At least a quarter-million dollars. He’d been to parties that cost more. Over the top, in his opinion. Nothing like the old guard, that was for sure.

Or was it? As he gazed at the splendid scene, it suddenly struck Gorham that he was completely wrong. When the grand old New York plutocrats of the gilded age gave their magnificent parties, like the fellow who had about twenty gentlemen all dine on horseback, were they actually doing anything different? He knew a little history. What about the great parties of Edwardian England, or Versailles, or Elizabethan England, or medieval France, or the Roman Empire? They were all recorded in paintings and in literature. The identical story. Conspicuous consumption and display.

It had always been that way in New York, right back to the days when his ancestors had come here. The people who ran the city, whether they bribed an English governor or raised all the money for good causes, were always the rich. Astors, Vanderbilts, whoever, they all had their turn. He knew a fellow who’d started life driving a truck, and who lived in a thirty-thousand-square-foot mansion in Alpine, New Jersey, now. Gave great parties, too …

As for people like his own family, he thought, you know what they say: old money, no money. Old money was genteel and had nice manners, and he liked those things. It was fine to talk the talk; but at the end of the day, if you couldn’t walk the walk, what were you? A little pretentious, perhaps, if the truth were told.

He caught sight of another parent, Mrs. Blum. Her daughter was at the party and she had promised Maggie that she’d give the boys a ride home with her. He went over, thanked her, and confirmed the ride.

That just left the Cohens. He saw them standing near the entrance. David Cohen, the father, was a nice guy. He liked to go deep-sea fishing in Florida.

“Congratulations. A terrific party.”

“It was all Cindy’s doing,” said David with a smile, indicating his wife.

“You did an amazing job,” Gorham said to Cindy.

“I had a great designer,” said Cindy.

A gray-haired couple were standing beside them.

“Gorham, do you know my parents, Michael and Sarah?”

Gorham shook hands. David’s mother seemed to be studying him.

“I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

“Gorham Master.”

“Sarah Adler Cohen.”

A signal. She was telling him she had a professional name. He thought quickly. She saved him.

“I have the Sarah Adler Art Gallery. And would you be the son of Charlie Master, who had the Keller photography collection?”

“Yes, I am.”

And then he remembered, with a feeling of sinking horror. This was the lady he was supposed to deliver the Motherwell to. The drawing that still graced the living room in the apartment. Was she expecting it? Did she know that his father had told him to go and see her? A terrible feeling of guilt overcame him.

But the old lady was chatting to him quite happily. What was she saying?

“Well, when I was young, before I had my own place, your father came to the gallery where I worked and arranged a show of Theodore Keller’s work there. And I was put in charge of it. The first show I ever did. So I got to meet your father. I was very sorry to hear he died.”

“I never knew that. I’m so delighted to meet you,” he stammered. She must be in her seventies, he supposed. She had a nice face, intelligent. She glanced at her husband and son, but they had been distracted by other guests.

“You like this party?” she asked.

“Of course. Don’t you?”

She shrugged. “Too much conspicuous consumption for my taste.” She looked at him thoughtfully, rather in the way, he supposed, that she might look at a painting she was appraising. “You should come by the gallery some time,” she said. “I’m there most afternoons. Monday the gallery’s closed, but I work there alone all day. Monday is a good day to call on me.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a card. She glanced at her husband, but he was talking to someone else. “Actually,” she said to Gorham quietly, “I have something of your father’s I want to give you. Would you call me on Monday?”

“I’ll do that,” he promised, then saw the time. “I’m really sorry, I have to go—we have a dinner party.”

“In that case, you’re probably late already.” Sarah Adler smiled. “Go. Go.” But just before he turned, she added: “Promise to call me, Monday.”

She was right. He was late. He got an exasperated look from Maggie on his return. But fortunately only one of the couples had arrived, and these two were his favorites, Herbert and Mary Humblay. Herbert was a retired clergyman, and they lived in a nice old co-op on Sutton Place. The Humblays were good people to have at a dinner party. Their circle of friends in the city was huge, they had wide interests, and if there were any latent tensions between the dinner guests, their kindly presence seemed miraculously to defuse them.

So when he arrived, the Humblays were just asking to see Emma to say hello, and Mary Humblay was saying, “Now I hope you haven’t made her get all dressed up just because we’re here, because that would be a shame,” and Herbert was remarking that it was as much as anyone could do to get their own granddaughter to clean up even to go to church. And Gorham felt himself relax, and was glad that it was the Humblays and not the Vorpals who’d arrived first, to set the tone of the evening.

Anyway, Emma came in with her friend Jane, who was there for a sleepover, and they were wearing similar dresses in pink and blue and looking very sweet. They brought the puppy with them.

Until a year ago the co-op had been a “no pets” building. Gorham couldn’t remember why, but it had always been that way. Then Mrs. Vorpal had wanted to have a dog, so Vorpal had persuaded the board to change the rules.

The two girls had just started to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Humblay when the Vorpals arrived. Kent let them in and smoothly took their drink orders before ushering them into the living room. Mrs. Vorpal wanted a vodka martini; Vorpal took Scotch on the rocks.

“Well, good evening, Emma,” said Vorpal, who pretended he liked children.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Vorpal,” said Emma.

Gorham introduced the Vorpals to the Humblays.

“We were just looking at this fine puppy,” said Herbert.

The puppy, it had to be said, was cute. A tiny, fluffy white ball, peeping out with large eyes from beside Emma’s cheek.

“You should thank Mr. Vorpal,” said Maggie. “It’s because of him that you’re allowed to have a puppy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vorpal,” said Emma.

Vorpal’s sword-like face broke into a smile. “It was my pleasure. I just think it’s nice for the children in the building to be able to have a pet.”

“That’s so nice,” said Mary Humblay.

“Have to agree with you there,” said Herbert.

“Okay, girls,” said Maggie, “you can go if you want. But mind the noise, please.”

The waiters brought the canapés round. The next guests, the O’Sullivans, arrived. He was a partner at a big law firm, quiet, judicious, but always good company; his wife Maeve was a slim, strikingly elegant Irishwoman who ran her own small brokerage house. Lastly came Liz Rabinovich and her boyfriend Juan. Liz was a speechwriter. She’d worked for some big-name politicians, though she had mostly corporate clients at present. But you never knew with Liz—she was something of a free spirit. As for Juan, he was a bit of a mystery man. Liz said he was Cuban. He’d once told Gorham that his mother’s family was Venezuelan, but that their money was in Switzerland. Juan lived with Liz when he was in New York, but Liz said he had a spectacular apartment in Paris. Gorham didn’t trust Juan. “Liz only likes men she doesn’t trust,” Maggie told him.

The dinner went well. Liz, who always had plenty of Washington gossip, had been seated next to O’Sullivan. O’Sullivan was discreet, but well informed, and he seemed to be enjoying Liz’s company. Vorpal wanted to discover Juan’s business, and Gorham enjoyed watching him get more and more frustrated. At one point, when they were discussing real estate, old Herbert Humblay explained to them how the ancient endowments of Trinity worked. Not only had the Trinity vestry been able, down the centuries, to found one church after another out of its huge rents, but to help the work of other churches all over the world. The value of its real estate holdings in the Financial District was absolutely huge. As Vorpal listened intently to what Humblay was saying, and calculating the numbers, he began to look at the clergyman with a new respect.

And then, of course, there was Maggie. Gorham gazed down the table toward her. His wife was looking stunning tonight—her red hair had been beautifully cut that afternoon, and she’d had a manicure as well. As she smiled down the table at him, only the faintest glint in her eye gave a hint of the quarrel they’d had last night.

It was his fault, he supposed. Perhaps if he’d shared more information with her, the conversation might have been different. But then again, it might not.

He’d never told her he’d gone to see the headhunter at the start of the year. Maybe because he felt that it was an admission that he wasn’t reconciled to his life, even an admission of failure. Also, no doubt, because he was pretty sure she’d have told him to stick with the bank where he was and leave the headhunter alone. If he heard of any job he seriously wanted to consider, that would be the time to talk to Maggie about it.

Whatever the reason, Maggie had known nothing. She also did not know, therefore, that for nearly eight months, the headhunter had failed to come up with a single opportunity.

He knew the guy was good at what he did, when he called him from time to time, just to check in, he was always told the same thing.

“You have to be patient, Gorham. We’re not talking about some middle-management position here. We are looking for a really significant opportunity, a top position, and a good fit. These things only come along once in a while.”

Intellectually, Gorham understood. But he could not escape the feeling that nothing was happening, that nobody wanted him. He felt worse than ever. And his fraying temper had shown in countless small ways, mostly in a general moroseness, and occasional flashes of irritation with Maggie or the children.

So when, on Friday night, she had quietly sat him down and made her suggestion, it had come at the wrong time, and produced an unfortunate result.

“Honey,” she’d said, “I really feel you’re unhappy. And maybe it’s your marriage, but I think it’s your job.”

“Everything’s fine,” he’d snapped.

“No it isn’t, Gorham. Don’t say that. You’re not in good shape.”

“Thank you so much.”

“I just want to help, honey.”

“In what way?”

“I just don’t think you like what you do any more.”

“And?”

“With what you’ve already saved, your stock and all that, plus what I make now, we really don’t have to worry. You could quit if you want to and do something you really liked. You’re a wonderful husband and a great father. We could have a perfect family life if you were just doing something that made you happy.”

“You’re telling me to retire?”

“No, I’m just saying why not do something you enjoy? The money isn’t a problem.”

So that was it. She didn’t even need his income any more. He’d watched Maggie with admiration as she organized her career, the household, the kids’ play dates, everything. Now it seemed she was planning to organize him as well. The final indignity. First he’d failed. Now he was going to be neutered.

“Go to hell,” he’d said.

“That’s not a fair response.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting. You run your life, I’ll run mine.”

“We share our lives, Gorham.”

“Some things we share, some things we don’t. Get used to it.”

They hadn’t spoken any more that night.

In Gorham’s experience, at any dinner party, there was usually one thing somebody said that stuck in your mind afterward. This evening, it was Maeve O’Sullivan who provided it.

Gorham admired Maeve. By day she managed money, and did it brilliantly, but she didn’t find it satisfied her intellect. She spoke four languages. She played the piano seriously well. And she read books. Lots of them.

They were discussing the long hours the young kids worked in the Financial District.

“You know,” Maeve said, “I was reading Virginia Woolf the other day, and she remarked that at one period of her life, she was able to get so much done because she had three uninterrupted hours to work in every day. And I thought, what on earth is she talking about? Only three hours a day? And then I looked around the office at all the people working their fourteen-hour days, and I thought, how many of you actually spend three hours in real, creative, intellectual activity in a day? And I reckoned, probably not one.” She smiled. “And there’s Virginia Woolf achieving more than they ever will in their lives, on three hours a day. It makes you think. They might do better if they worked less.”

“Mind you, she killed herself,” said John Vorpal, and everybody laughed.

But Maeve was right, all the same. It was something to think about.

The evening ended pleasantly, and one could tell the guests had enjoyed themselves. As he said good-bye to the last of them and went back into the living room to face John Vorpal, Gorham felt almost friendly toward him. There was just Vorpal—his wife had gone back to their apartment.

“Okay, Gorham,” Vorpal said, pulling out the papers, “7B.”

Gorham was sorry that the people in 7B were leaving, but a big job opportunity was taking them to California, so 7B was on the market. A good offer had been made. They wanted to take it. But of course, the prospective purchasers had to go before the board. Or to be precise, a committee of the board. This was the first time an apartment had been sold since Vorpal became chairman. The committee was due to meet, and then interview the applicants, that coming Wednesday. So if Vorpal wanted to talk to him now, that could only mean one thing. Trouble.

Maggie came into the room.

“May I join you?”

Gorham frowned. It was he who was on the board, not her. This was an unwarranted interference. But Vorpal looked up, and smiled.

“I wish you would.” Vorpal liked Maggie. He supposed that, as a partner in Branch & Cabell, she’d agree with him, whereas he considered Gorham to be a little unreliable. He passed her a copy of the application. “I think we may have a problem with this. Jim Bandersnatch thinks so too.”

“Dr. Caruso?” said Maggie.

“I think I’d better tell you that we know this man,” said Gorham. “He delivered all three of our children. We like him.”

Vorpal’s face fell.

“Not,” said Maggie quietly, “that Gorham would let that influence him in considering Dr. Caruso’s suitability for this building.”

Gorham stared at her. This was a deliberate undermining of his position. He kept his temper, however. He must remain calm.

“So what’s the problem?” he asked.

“He lives on West End Avenue,” said Vorpal.

“He has for years. Lots of good people live on West End.”

“I’d have preferred Central Park West.”

“There are some quite exclusive buildings on West End, you know.”

“His isn’t one of them,” said Vorpal drily.

“His references look all right. Here’s one from a trustee of Mount Sinai—those are very important people. This guy Anderson’s a big hitter.”

“Yes. As a professional reference, excellent. But as a social reference, not so good.”

“Why?”

“Anderson lives in a town house. And Caruso’s other social reference comes from out of town.” Vorpal shook his head. “What we like to see is a reference from someone who lives in, and is preferably on the board of, a very good building. A building like ours. Someone who has the same fit.”

“I see.”

“I’m looking for clubs, Gorham, for people with a significant social presence in the city, for big charitable donations. And I don’t see them—I don’t see them at all. I don’t even see a country club. This application lacks …” he searched for a word, “substance.”

“I could write him a reference,” said Gorham wickedly.

Vorpal’s face suggested that, in his private estimation, that might not have been enough. But his answer was more clever.

“I find it significant that he didn’t ask you, or one of his many patients like you, to do so.”

“Anything else?” asked Master.

“There is the question of money.”

“Okay.”

“We have always been an all-cash building, of course.”

Many buildings allowed you to have a mortgage for half the price of your apartment. That wasn’t a bad idea. Financial stability was good. Lesser buildings might allow sixty or even seventy percent mortgages. By the time you got to ninety percent debt, you were really trash. But the top buildings, the ruthless enclaves, didn’t allow any debt at all. If you needed to borrow money to buy your apartment, then you didn’t belong. Go and take out a mortgage on your country house if that was the kind of thing you liked to do.

“There seems to be no problem with cash. The Carusos have plenty—I happen to know that his wife inherited money some years ago. Actually, their financial disclosures look pretty good.”

As well as the usual bank references and tax returns, the co-op demanded more than usually detailed statements of assets. Prospective buyers couldn’t fake them out. All the good co-op boards left applicants exposed when it came to their personal finances, but Vorpal and Bandersnatch wanted them totally naked.

“Hmm. Pretty good, but maybe not good enough. As you know, Gorham, the building has always looked for a comfortable margin here. On the basic level, we want to be quite sure there won’t be any difficulty with the monthly maintenance, which for Caruso’s apartment runs six thousand a month now, or with any assessments the board may need to impose. But we like evidence of solidness. We have for a long time now required that people can prove assets of maybe two or three times the value of the apartment they’re buying.”

“I’ve always thought that a little harsh.”

“Well, I think, and Jim thinks, that in the current climate we can do a little better.”

“Better?”

“What we’re really looking for here is five times assets.”

“You want Caruso to have twenty-five million dollars?”

“I think we can get that.”

“Hell, John, I don’t have twenty-five million dollars.”

“Your family’s been here seventy years. We like that.”

“But you want the new people to have that kind of money?”

“Those are the kind of people we want.”

“Do you have twenty-five million dollars, John?”

Maggie gave him a warning look. This question was a bad idea. But Gorham wasn’t going to back down.

“John, do you know what Groucho Marx said about clubs? ‘I don’t want to belong to a club that takes people like me.’ Are you sure we’re not straying into Groucho Marx territory here?”

“Other buildings are the same, Gorham. You’re out of date. There’s at least one building on this avenue that insists on ten times assets.”

“You mean, you’d need fifty million dollars before they let you in?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. You should know that, Gorham.”

Gorham said nothing. Actually, he did have some idea how things were going, though in fact he’d heard a story the other day of a grand building where things had gone the other way. Some twenty-five-year-old whiz kid from Wall Street had applied to a building and stated his newly earned assets. The chairman of the board was so furious that the kid was already so much richer than he was, that he turned him down. When asked why, he answered: “We’re looking for old money here.”

But he didn’t remind Vorpal of that story.

“I hear what you say, John, and I’ll think hard about it.”

“I hope you will.” Vorpal turned to Maggie. “Thank you for a lovely meal.” And he was gone.

“I want Caruso in this building,” Gorham said to Maggie.

Her face was a mask. “I’m not sure it can be done.”

“Aside from Vorpal and Bandersnatch, there are two more members of the committee. I’ll get to them.”

“So will he.”

“Thank you,” he said drily, “for your support.” And he turned away from her without another word.

Early the next morning, he went up to the house in North Salem. The fencing needed fixing, to keep out the deer. He didn’t return until evening.