It was a low-?stakes game, she was relieved to discover, and then that turned to worry they had lowered the ante in deference to her pay grade. But it was clear this was more about fun than money. Although winning still mattered, especially to the judge. Seeing him out of his robe for the first time, the overhead light shining on his bald head, the manic obsession he brought to his play, Nikki couldn’t shake the comparison to another Simpson. She would have given up a whole pot just to hear the judge say “D’oh!”
After the deal of the third hand, the lights dipped out and came back up. “Here we go,” said Nikki. “Mayor said we’d have rolling brownouts.”
“How many days is it for this heat wave?” asked the filmmaker.
“This is day four,” said his wife. “I interviewed a meteorologist and he said it’s not a heat wave unless it’s three consecutive days above ninety degrees.”
A woman appeared in the kitchen and added, “And if the heat lasts more than four days, consult your doctor immediately.” The room burst into laughter, and the woman stepped from behind the counter, taking a deep, theatrical bow, complete with a graceful upward arm sweep. Rook had told her about his mother. Of course, she already knew who Margaret was. You don’t win Tony Awards and show up in the Style section and Vanity Fair party collages as often she did and go unnoticed. In her sixties now, Margaret had gone from the ingénue to the grand dame (although Rook once confided in Nikki that his spelling was grand d-?a-?m-?n). The lady exuded every bit of the joyful diva, from her opening line to the way she entered the great room to take Nikki’s hand and fuss about how very much she had heard about her from Jamie.
“And I’ve heard a lot about you,” Nikki replied.
“Believe it all, darling. And if it’s not true, when I get to hell, I’ll sort it out there.” Then she swept—no, there was no more accurate way to describe it—she swept back into the kitchen.
Rook smiled at Nikki. “As you can see, I believe in truth in advertising.”
“So I’m learning.” She heard ice plinking in a rocks glass and saw Margaret uncapping a bottle of Jameson. Yes, she thought, I’m learning a lot, Jameson Rook.
The news anchor appealed to Rook’s sense of civic responsibility and he killed his air-?conditioning. Nikki looked up from her cards, and her eyes followed his shorts and U-2 3D T-?shirt as he moved barefoot across the oriental rug to the far wall. He bent to open the sash windows that gave onto his penthouse view of Tribeca, and when Nikki’s eyes drifted off him, it was to the hulk of a distant building, RiverStarr on the Hudson, backlit by Jersey City. The structure was dark, except for the red aviation lamp atop an idle crane balanced above girders awaiting skin. They’d wait a long time.
Margaret took her son’s chair beside Nikki and said, “It is a very good view.” And as Rook bent to open the next window, the doyenne leaned in to whisper, “I’m his mother and even I think it’s a great view. But that’s just me taking credit.” And then, just to be clear: “Jamie got my ass. It got a marvelous review in Oh! Calcutta!”
Two hours later, after Rook, then the news anchor, and then her husband folded, Nikki won yet another hand against the judge. Simpson said he didn’t care, but judging from his expression, she was glad she got the court order out of him before the poker game. “Guess the cards aren’t falling my way tonight for some reason.” She really wanted him to just say “D’oh!”
“It isn’t the cards, Horace,” said Rook. “For once, somebody at this table can read your tells.” He got up and crossed to the counter to peel a tepid slice of Ray’s out of the box and fish another Fat Tire from the ice in the sink. “Now, to me, tonight, anyway, you’ve got a great poker face. I can’t see what’s going on behind the taciturn judicial mask. It could be woo-?hoo or yay-?boo. But this one here, she’s gotcha.” Rook took his seat again, and Nikki wondered if the whole pizza-?and-?beer run had been a ruse to move his chair closer to hers.