Think Twice

Myron slipped out of bed at five a.m.

He often lived out of the main guest bedroom in Win’s apartment, the one that overlooked Central Park near 72nd Street. There was an eight-foot-tall Chagall — yes, a real one — on the wall between two windows that faced the park. From the George III — era antique four-poster bed of Jamaican mahogany, Myron’s view (from left to right or right to left) was window overlooking Central Park, gorgeous Chagall, window overlooking Central Park.

There were worse places to stay.

Win was already awake, fully dressed, and reading a newspaper — a real-life actual newspaper made from paper — in the parlor. He drank his Earl Grey from a fine bone china teacup with the family crest on it. Myron took the burgundy leather chair next to him.

“How was your night?” Win asked.

“Pretty awesome. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Probably because your night was — how did you so skillfully describe it? — ‘pretty awesome.’”

Win was a night owl. He took walks in the wee hours. He drank a bit too much and womanized, if that was still the term people used, to all hours, but somehow, he always woke up early looking fresh and ready. Or he used to. Not that it would be noticeable to anyone else, but Myron could feel the years starting to surface just a bit on his old friend. The eyes were slightly more lidded. The hand lifting that cup of tea wasn’t quite as steady. Maybe that was Myron’s imagination. Or maybe Myron was projecting — he wasn’t getting younger either — but he didn’t think so.

“Did you, uh, use your app last night?” Myron asked.

“I did,” Win said.

Win had a super-rich, super-exclusive, super-anonymous, super-luxurious sexual hookup app — Tinder for the uber-wealthy kinda thing. Myron didn’t know all the details — didn’t want to know all the details — but in sum, two mega-rich people match, meet in a clandestine gorgeous penthouse somewhere in midtown, and, well, do the sheet mambos.

“Don’t ask for details,” Win said.

“I won’t.”

“Everyone on the app is sworn to secrecy.”

“Terrific.”

“I mean, I could tell you about it without giving names. Make it a hypothetical.”

“Hard pass.”

“Why did you ask in the first place?”

“I was just wondering that myself.”

Win smiled, turned the page of the newspaper, and refolded it. He did this with great precision, like a mathematician working geometric shapes or Myron’s aunt Selma dividing a lunch check.

“Esperanza needs to see you this morning,” Win said. “Her office. They’re waiting for you now.”

Myron glanced at the fancy Louis the Something clock on the marble fireplace mantel. “Kinda early.”

“Yes.”

“You said they’re waiting,” Myron said.

“So observant.”

“They. As in plural.”

“Not in today’s world.”

“Fair enough, except I know Esperanza’s pronouns are she/her. Ergo she’s not the ‘they’ to which you refer.”

Win smiled, nodded approvingly. “The ‘they,’ my clever boy, refers to both Esperanza and Sadie Fisher.”

Sadie Fisher was the founding partner of the FFD law firm — the first F, as it were, where Esperanza was the D.

“So Sadie wants to talk to me,” Myron said.

Win didn’t reply.

“Why didn’t Esperanza just text me?”

“Because she didn’t want to interrupt you and Terese in flagrante delicto.”

Myron shook his head. “How old are you?”

“She preferred that I give you the message in person.”

“Any idea what’s up?”

“Some,” Win said. “But it would only be conjecture.”

An hour later, Win’s limo pulled into the special entrance below the Lock-Horne Building. They entered the private elevator. Myron got out alone on his old floor. Back in the days when MB Reps ruled this land, this foyer had been painted in the we-are-serious-professionals neutrals of gray and beige. When Fisher, Friedman and Diaz moved in, they painted the walls a harsh rouge seemingly inspired by the lipstick color Esperanza and Sadie both now sported.

The law firm’s receptionist was a young man named Taft Buckington III, who looked exactly like his name. Taft’s father, Taft Buckington II — and this won’t shock anyone, what with a name like that — was a member of Win’s ultra-exclusive golf club on the Main Line known as Merion. The FFD law firm was all-female. When Win, an investor in said law firm, suggested that Sadie hire a token male attorney, her response had been blunt: “Shit, no.” Instead, she hired young Taft to be both a receptionist and paralegal. It seemed to be working.

“Hey, Taft,” Myron said.

“Good morning, Mr. Bolitar. I’ll let Sadie and Esperanza know you’ve arrived.”

“No need.”

It was Sadie speaking. She and Esperanza strutted toward Myron side by side, heads high, shoulders back, as though on a runway, Myron thought, which was undoubtedly sexist thinking, but there you go.