The Crasher

  Organized crime was behind the Long Island heist, Freddy explained. “The young elite of the underworld have discovered it’s a damn sight easier and more lucrative to rob an isolated mansion than to ambush a Brinks truck with armed guards, and police helicopters.”

  So where did he go from there? He was in the process of finding out, one step at a time.

  Lost in thought, Johnny was startled when someone touched his shoulder. He turned abruptly. “Are you ready with your cross-examination?” A young, very pretty blonde with an anxious-to-please expression was standing there. Now why couldn’t he have fallen in love with somebody who looked as pliant and pleasant as this young woman? Why was he always attracted by trouble and trauma?

  “Cross-examination? Okay, you said it. Let’s go.”

  He was thinking of writing about how exactly the huge amounts of money raised to fight AIDS were spent and whether anyone attending this kind of classy evening really gave a damn. The guests, as they were erroneously called, having coughed up a thousand dollars a ticket to get in the door, were dutifully wearing their little red ribbons, but how many of them had close ones suffering from the terrible disease and how often did they see them, help them, on a one-to-one basis?

  He’d already got some quotable answers. If he ran across the girl in the two-faced dress again, he’d ask her the questions, too; then he could use the two-faced dress line. He’d probably use it anyway, whether he saw her again or not.

  He followed the pretty blonde to the table where the main organizers of the DIFFA benefit were waiting for him. He’d get some facts and figures and then, he decided, he’d call it a night and give Dolores a surprise by getting home early.

  Flash, flash, flash. Everywhere Ginny went photographers flashed away, their lenses focused not only on her front view, but the back view, too.

  “This way, miss… look here… can we get that back view again…” With a dazzling smile she followed every command. Her dress was going to make it to the pages of WWD, she was sure of it… and Alex was there to see her triumph. What more could anyone ask for?

  As she dutifully posed, there was a shout, and in seconds all the photographers had rushed to the other side of the room.

  Why? Who was arriving?

  Ginny thought she was going to be sick. It was Poppy Gan, and there was no question that Poppy was a spectacular standout in a white satin Lana Turner number, which, Ginny noted sourly, accentuated everything, including the incredible boobs Poppy had just confessed in a People magazine profile had been “tailored” in Los Angeles by the world-famous cosmetic surgeon Steven Hoefflin.

  There wasn’t anything Poppy wanted to hide about the way she looked, however manufactured. The same article credited Stephen Knoll, New York’s leading hairdresser, as the one responsible for all the gold in her hair. Only her extraordinary brown-black slanted eyes were for real, Ginny had noted. They were courtesy of her Korean father.

  Couldn’t the paparazzi see the difference between class and brass? Tonight it couldn’t be clearer what was the crux of Poppy’s problem with fashion. Everything was out on display; whoever was making her clothes had left nothing to the imagination.

  Men obviously loved it. Even Alex, who she thought would have more taste, kept his eyes fixed on Poppy’s sultry glide through the room, followed by the inscrutable portly Buddha figure Ginny had seen at Mr. Chow’s, the mysterious Svank, still followed by his group of thugs.

  When the music began, Alex steered Ginny swiftly onto the floor. He was a great dancer, but he wasn’t dancing around the room, he was dancing across it, in a straight line, headed toward Poppy’s table.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see. I want little miss goldilocks with the varoom figure to see your dress. I happen to know she’s looking for a fashion makeover.”

  “I know. I know her,” Ginny said sulkily.

  Alex held her out at arm’s length. “You know Poppy Gan?”

  Ginny definitely didn’t like his incredulous tone. “Yes, of course I do. I was going to do some things for her, but I got … got sidetracked.”

  “Hmrph! You can say that again.”

  “I got sidetracked,” she repeated. It was a silly game they used to play, but Alex wasn’t in the mood for games.

  “Let’s go and say hello.”

  Ginny felt her color rising. She was furious. Surely her sophisticated cousin couldn’t be interested in anyone as obvious as Poppy?

  “Why, for goodness’ sake? You always say table-hopping is vulgar. I can’t believe you of all people would want to meet a bimbo like Poppy.”

  Alex laughed the laugh she’d forgotten how much she missed. He pulled her tighter to him. “It isn’t Ms. birdbrain I care about, honeychile. It’s you. The man she’s with—”

  “I know… I know…” Ginny snapped. “Mr. Skunk or Shrink is the most powerful industrialist et cetera, et cetera in the world. So what?”

  Alex jerked her arms crossly. “Svank is the name. I want to get to know him; I want him to take a look at you, at what you’re wearing. He could be your backer. I know him slightly. I want to know him better.”

  When the music stopped, Alex said, “All right, Ginny, it’s time you paid for your supper. Whether you like it or not, we’re going to pay a visit to your old friend.”

  She felt uneasy, barging in, pretending a relationship where none existed, but in Alex’s tight grip, she had no alternative. She was being a fraud, she told herself. She wanted Poppy to see her dress, too, didn’t she?

  “Hello, Poppy.” Shy, unsure. “I’d like you to meet my cousin, Alex Rossiter.”

  “Hi, there, Jenny! Howdy, Alex. Wow, Jenny, as usual you’re wearing some piece of dress and how about that necklace!” Poppy, as warm and welcoming as she’d been at Mr. Chow’s, rattled on; Alex, Ginny noticed, hardly looked at her. Instead he was paying a sickening, obsequious homage to Svank, as if the plump one was a deity or something. To make matters worse, Svank ignored them both, even when Poppy made vague introductions, getting her first name wrong, and not bothering to remember her last one.

  Either Alex didn’t know when he was being snubbed or, for some unfathomable reason, he didn’t care. When he moved closer to the great man and started chatting him up, as if Svank had wanted to meet him all his life, Ginny longed for a hole to open up and swallow them both.

  “I lost your number, Jenny. I really looove your clothes. Oh, boy, did you really make what you’re wearing tonight? You are soooo clever.” Poppy leaned seductively across the table, trying to evoke some response from Svank. “Pussy, isn’t that the most gorgeous dress you’ve ever seen…” To her alarm Ginny saw one of Poppy’s breasts pop out of her halter neck onto the table, then miraculously back in again as she straightened up. Svank’s sphinxlike expression didn’t change and he didn’t utter a word.

  Ginny tried to think of something to say. “Let’s have lunch, Poppy.”

  “Yes, let’s. D’you have a pen?”

  “I do.” Alex pushed pen and paper under Poppy’s nose.

  “Here’s my number, Jenny, but don’t call before noon,” Poppy implored. “Then let’s make a date.”

  Why on earth had she suggested to Alex they have a nightcap? Ginny was so tired, she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

  For the third time he said, “You won’t forget to call Poppy, will you?”

  It was one thing that he hadn’t stopped singing her praises; it was quite another he hadn’t stopped nagging her to get out of Gosman’s and put together a business plan, “so you can set up shop for yourself.”

  “Build your friendship with Poppy Gan,” Alex repeated one more time before he left. “I can introduce you to some entrepreneurs, but one word from Svank and all our—your—problems will be over forever.”

  Oh, yeah? Remembering Svank’s sharp, cold eyes, Ginny wasn’t so sure.

  It was only when she woke up the next morning that she realized the diamond necklace had gone home with Alex. So it
really had been on loan. For once Alex had been telling the truth.

  Poppy was twenty-two minutes late for lunch. A record, she confided, usually she was much later. Although Ginny had called and asked for the date, Poppy had considerately asked one of her two “assistants” to book the table at Le Cirque, where, she told Ginny over the phone, “you have to be known to get the right table.” Ginny sat slumped at it in her smoky-gray suede.

  Except at Thanksgiving and Christmas, she never drank at lunch. Today, it was a necessity. She ordered a kir and drank it down so fast it might have been colored water. She was in despair. Her whole life had just been turned upside down. It seemed impossible to believe, but Gosman was closing his business.

  She stared into space. The day had started so happily, a red-letter day when she was going to convince Poppy not only that she could turn her into a fashion plate, but also that as a designer with a future, she was someone Mr. Svank should back, in order to add more millions to his trillions.

  She’d left the loft in the morning, all prepared with a business plan. She had sketches to show Poppy of the kind of clothes she should wear to impress the judges of the Best Dressed list—if that’s what Svank still wanted for her. And she was wearing her own knockout suit, sure something momentous was going to happen.

  It had happened all right.

  At ten-thirty Gosman had come into her office and, flinging his arm around her shoulder, had walked her back over into his. When he shut the door, his face white and tired, Ginny’s stomach had turned over. He didn’t waste words. He was ill; he was tired; the business wasn’t doing well. Unlike her daydream he wasn’t leaving the business in her talented hands; he was closing it down. Finito.

  “How can a business where everything is continually on sale be anything other than sick? Now, I’m sick, too.”

  “But what about your accounts? Neiman Marcus, Del-Ann’s…” She’d reeled off a list of powerhouse U.S. stores, the sales they’d projected for the year (ten million dollars), the women who adored his clothes, but he just sat slumped, shaking his head.

  “Too late, too late, Ginny. I’ve filed for Chapter Seven. You’re supposed to know about finance. You know what that means.”

  Yes, she did. Bankruptcy protection from the hungry creditors who’d start pounding on the door as soon as the news got out.

  “I’ll try to get you another job. It won’t be easy, despite your talent. Retail sucks; too many manufacturers, too many clothes at too many different prices. Too much competition.” He’d put his head down on the desk and moaned. “I’m sorry, Ginny. I’ll give you six months’ severance pay, which is more than anyone else will get.”

  Now waiting for Poppy, as time ticked by, sitting at the right table at Le Cirque (in the corner, sharp right from the main entrance), Ginny wanted to put her head down on the right tablecloth and weep, but of course she didn’t.

  She hadn’t meant to tell Poppy.

  “The world doesn’t like losers; only winners.”

  “Smile and the world smiles with you; cry and you cry alone.”

  Where had those well-worn clichés of wisdom come from—Alex? Or her father? It didn’t matter. Poppy only had to ask her, “How are you, Jenny?” for the truth to come pouring out.

  “I’m afraid I’m in a state of shock. My boss—I work for Everard Gosman as his senior design assistant, he’s closing the business. I’ve only just heard. I was going to start my own business—in fact, I intended…”

  Was Poppy listening?

  It was hard to tell, as a succession of Italian waiters received from Poppy the sort of greeting Ginny reserved for long-lost friends.

  “Hel-lo, Benito! Kiss Kiss.”

  “Hel-lo, how are you, Mario? Long time, no…”

  “Paolo, ciao, ciao, bambino…”

  “Svank can help you,” Poppy volunteered as the waiters took an intermission. For the third time since her arrival she opened up a gold compact with her initials PG large and bold in emeralds and critically reviewed her Stephen Knoll curls.

  “He can?” Relief, as hot as the crunchy roll Ginny took from a busboy, rushed through her. “Really, you mean it?”

  “I mean it. You help me, I help you.”

  Poppy looked bored with the subject. She changed it abruptly. “Don’t you have anyone in your life? Love life, I mean? What about that cousin. You don’t really mean he’s your cousin, do you? Is that a blind or what? Are you and he—Sirio, how are you?” Poppy screamed in a tone a couple of notes higher and warmer than those awarded Benito, Mario and Paolo. “Sirio, you bad boy, where have you been? Meet my friend, Jenny…” Poppy smiled up into the eyes of the elegant Italian just arrived at their table. Ginny guessed he had to be the owner of the celebrated restaurant.

  He kissed her hand. Ricardo used to kiss her hand all the time. There was, she decided, very little difference in the kisses. How could she have been so dumb?

  “Ginny,” she said loudly, “Ginny Walker.”

  Jenny, Ginny, who cared? Nobody, but she had to get through to Poppy somehow, to pin her down as she pinned her up. She was lightheaded. Of course, she was. She’d been drinking in the middle of the day.

  “Truffles, we have delicious fresh truffles today… a little light fettuccine with truffles… a baby chicken perhaps, with a touch of madeira… portobello mushrooms grilled with just a trace of garlic…”

  “Oh, you terrible fellahs, trying to make me fat…”

  “No, no, no! No calories, I promise you, Miss Poppy.”

  Ginny fixed her well-rehearsed “happy-to-be-here” Sophie smile on her face as the game of ordering Poppy’s noncaloric feast of the Gods was discussed with winks and smiles and more hand kissing as soothing as the Sargasso Sea.

  “Lobster salad, please,” was her contribution; she wasn’t at all sure it got through, but her appetite was long gone anyway.

  Sirio had hardly turned away when Poppy said, “Can you get me on this fucking Best Dressed list or not?”

  Ginny gulped. Will the real Poppy Gan please stand up. She couldn’t believe Poppy’s language. Was that what happened after months, years of dealing with potentates like Svank?

  “I can try.” Ginny smiled wide, showing all her fascinating Elite-style crooked teeth. “Don’t see why not.”

  “That’s not good enough, Jenny. Oh, sorry—Ginny. Okay, okay, I’ve got it now. Ginny, Ginny, Ginny.” Poppy paused as if waiting for approval. “When Svank says he wants something, he’d better get it or else. D’you follow me?” She laughed nervously. “He’s used to getting what he wants, one, two, three.”

  Like somebody else I know, thought Ginny.

  For the first time since her arrival Poppy looked at her directly. “Why aren’t you a big success on your own, Ginny? Why d’you need to work for anyone? Your clothes are adorable.”

  The sweet innocent thing. This was the opening she’d been waiting for. Ginny plunged in with the story of her life, only slightly embroidered and not embroidered at all when it came to the urgent necessity of being seen out and about at all the places she read Poppy regularly attended.

  “We can soon fix that,” Poppy said, with another click of the compact. “The social whirl!” She sniffed. “That’s no big deal.” Her words came through clenched teeth as if she really meant it. “Svank likes parading me around like some kind of clotheshorse, but then it’s nothing but ‘Why didn’t you do that?’ ‘Why didn’t you wear that?’ Believe me, I’d sooner be down in the Village hanging out… the social whirl, believe me, Jen—Ginny, it can be one big bore.” As if to convince her, Poppy yawned, showing straight, perfectly white teeth. “No big deal,” she repeated.

  “Maybe not for you, but it’s one route to Women’s Wear Daily for me, for my clothes to be noticed, to be talked about, to get the backers I need to start up—”

  “I told you, no problem, you can come along with me, and Svank will help. But you’ve got to help me, too. Can you get me on that fucking list or not?”

&
nbsp; “Not just like that. Poppy, you’ve got to know threats from your Mr. Svank aren’t going to get you anywhere either. Why he wants you on the list beats me. I’m not sure that it matters much anymore, but that’s beside the point.” Ginny warmed up. “You’re gorgeous…” On hearing that, Poppy sat up tall and beamed as if she’d just become Miss America. ”… but your dress sense is lousy.” Poppy beamed on. Ginny swallowed hard. It had to come out. “You look too… too…”

  She didn’t have the heart to say it, but Poppy said it for her. “Flashy, loud. I know. Svank tells me so all the time, but that’s where you come in. Your clothes are sexy without being … oh, I don’t know.”

  By the time the fettuccine with truffles arrived, Ginny and Poppy had started on a bottle of white wine sent with Sirio’s compliments, “Made from grapes grown near my family home in Florence.”

  As the wine went down, Poppy grew softer, confiding, “Svank wants me in Vogue because—don’t tell anyone—he’s buying Bloomingdale’s or Bergdorf, I can’t remember which, but it’s one of those stores. I mean one of those stores belongs to the big, big group he’s buying. So he wants me in every fucking fashion book as a fashion leader. Sorry, Jen—Ginny—but he scares me sometimes. If you can help, you’ll never have to worry about a job again.”

  “Let’s start right now.”

  Poppy squealed with delight when Ginny showed her the tape measure in her purse. By the time they left Le Cirque, nearer to three than the two Ginny had intended to be back on Seventh Avenue, she had taken Poppy’s vital statistics in the ladies’ room and her despair had diminished considerably.

  She had a commission from Poppy to make her a dress—and not just any dress. It was for a very big night on her calendar, when Svank was to be honored at a dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria honoring leading citizens of New York.

  Poppy had rummaged through her purse, looking for her date book, but it wasn’t there. Instead, she found her checkbook and insisted on giving Ginny a check for five hundred dollars, “to get you started.”