The Bonfire Of The Vanities Part 1

The Bonfire of the Vanities.

by Tom Wolfe.

Prologue: Mutt on Fire

"And then say what? say, 'forget you're hungry, forget you got shot inna back by some racist cop-Chuck was here? Chuck come up to Harlem-' "

"No, I'll tell tell you what-" you what-"

" 'Chuck come up to Harlem and-' "

"I'll tell tell you what-" you what-"

"Say, 'Chuck come up to Harlem and gonna take care a business for the black community'?"

That does it.

Heh-heggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

It's one of those unG.o.dly contralto cackles somewhere out there in the audience. It's a sound from down so deep, from under so many lavish layers, he knows exactly what she must look like. Two hundred pounds, if she's an ounce! Built like an oil burner! The cackle sets off the men. They erupt with those belly sounds he hates so much.

They go, "Hehhehheh...unnnnhhhh-hunhhh...That's right...Tell 'em, bro...Yo..."

Chuck! The insolent-he's right there, right there in the front-he just called him a Charlie! Chuck is short for Charlie, and Charlie is the old code name for a down-home white bigot. The insolence of it! The impudence! The heat and glare are terrific. It makes the Mayor squint. It's the TV lights. He's inside a blinding haze. He can barely make out the heckler's face. He sees a tall silhouette and the fantastic bony angles the man's elbows make when he throws his hands up in the air. And an earring. The man has a big gold earring in one ear. The insolent-he's right there, right there in the front-he just called him a Charlie! Chuck is short for Charlie, and Charlie is the old code name for a down-home white bigot. The insolence of it! The impudence! The heat and glare are terrific. It makes the Mayor squint. It's the TV lights. He's inside a blinding haze. He can barely make out the heckler's face. He sees a tall silhouette and the fantastic bony angles the man's elbows make when he throws his hands up in the air. And an earring. The man has a big gold earring in one ear.

The Mayor leans into the microphone and says, "No, I'll tell tell you what. Okay? I'll give you the actual figures. Okay?" you what. Okay? I'll give you the actual figures. Okay?"

"We don't want your figures, man!"

Man, he says! The insolence! "You brought it up, my friend. So you're gonna get the actual figures. Okay Okay?"

"Don't you s.h.i.+ne us up with no more your figures!"

Another eruption in the crowd, louder this time: "Unnnnh-unnnnh-unnnh...Tell 'im, bro...Y' on the case...Yo, Gober!"

"In this administration-and it's a matter of public record-the percentage of the total annual budget for New York City-"

"Aw, maaaan," yells the heckler, "don't you stand there and s.h.i.+ne us up with no more your figures and your bureaucratic rhetoric!"

They love it. The insolence! The insolence sets off another eruption. He peers through the scalding glare of the television lights. He keeps squinting. He's aware of a great ma.s.s of silhouettes out in front of him. The crowd swells up. The ceiling presses down. It's covered in beige tiles. The tiles have curly incisions all over them. They're crumbling around the edges. Asbestos! He knows it when he sees it! The faces-they're waiting for the beano, for the rock fight. b.l.o.o.d.y noses!-that's the idea. The next instant means everything. He can handle it! He can handle hecklers! Only five-seven, but he's even better at it than Koch used to be! He's the mayor of the greatest city on earth-New York! Him!

"All right! You've had your fun, and now you're gonna You've had your fun, and now you're gonna shut up shut up for a minute!" for a minute!"

That startles the heckler. He freezes. That's all the Mayor needs. He knows how to do it.

"Youuuu asked asked meeeee meeeee a question, didn't you, and you got a a question, didn't you, and you got a bigggg bigggg laugh from your claque. And so now laugh from your claque. And so now youuuuu're youuuuu're gonna keep gonna keep quiiiiet quiiiiet and and lissssten lissssten to the answer. to the answer. Okay Okay?"

"Say, claque?" The man has had his wind knocked out, but he's still standing up.

"Okay? Now here are the statistics for yourrr yourrr community, right here, Harlem." community, right here, Harlem."

"Say, claque?" The b.a.s.t.a.r.d has hold of this word claque claque like a bone. "Ain' n.o.body can eat statistics, man!" like a bone. "Ain' n.o.body can eat statistics, man!"

"Tell 'im, bro...Yo...Yo, Gober!"

"Let me finish. Do youuuuu youuuuu think-" think-"

"Don't percentage no annual budget with us, man! We want jobs jobs!"

The crowd erupts again. It's worse than before. Much of it he can't make out-interjections from deep in the bread basket. But there's this Yo Yo business. There's some loudmouth way in back with a voice that cuts through everything. business. There's some loudmouth way in back with a voice that cuts through everything.

"Yo, Gober! Yo, Gober! Yo, Gober!"

But he isn't saying Gober Gober. He's saying Goldberg Goldberg.

"Yo, Goldberg! Yo, Goldberg! Yo, Goldberg!"

It stuns him. In this place, in Harlem! Goldberg is the Harlem cognomen for Jew. It's insolent-outrageous!-that anyone throws this vileness in the face of the Mayor of New York City!

Boos, hisses, grunts, belly laughs, shouts. They want to see some loose teeth. It's out of control.

"Do you-"

It's no use. He can't make himself heard even with the microphone. The hate in their faces! Pure poison! It's mesmerizing.

"Yo, Goldberg! Yo, Goldberg! Yo, Hymie!"

Hymie! That business! There's one of them yelling Goldberg and another one yelling Hymie. Then it dawns on him. Reverend Bacon! They're Bacon's people. He's sure of it. The civic-minded people who come to public meetings in Harlem-the people Sheldon was supposed to make sure filled up this hall-they wouldn't be out there yelling these outrageous things. Bacon did this! Sheldon f.u.c.ked up! Bacon got his people in here! That business! There's one of them yelling Goldberg and another one yelling Hymie. Then it dawns on him. Reverend Bacon! They're Bacon's people. He's sure of it. The civic-minded people who come to public meetings in Harlem-the people Sheldon was supposed to make sure filled up this hall-they wouldn't be out there yelling these outrageous things. Bacon did this! Sheldon f.u.c.ked up! Bacon got his people in here!

A wave of the purest self-pity rolls over the Mayor. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the television crews squirming around in the haze of light. Their cameras are coming out of their heads like horns. They're swiveling around this way and that. They're eating it up! They're here for the brawl! They wouldn't lift a finger. They're cowards! Parasites! The lice of public life!

In the next moment he has a terrible realization: "It's over. I can't believe it. I've lost."

"No more your...Outta here...Boooo...Don' wanna...Yo, Goldberg!"

Guliaggi, the head of the Mayor's plainclothes security detail, is coming toward him from the side of the stage. The Mayor motions him back with a low flap of his hand, without looking at him directly. What could he do, anyway? He brought only four officers with him. He didn't want to come up here with an army. The whole point was to show that he could go to Harlem and hold a town-hall meeting, just the way he could in Riverdale or Park Slope.

In the front row, through the haze, he catches the eye of Mrs. Langhorn, the woman with the s.h.i.+ngle hairdo, the head of the community board, the woman who introduced him just-what?-minutes ago. She purses her lips and c.o.c.ks her head and starts shaking it. This look is supposed to say, "I wish I could help you, but what can I do? Behold the wrath of the people!" Oh, she's afraid like all the rest! She knows she should stand up against this element! They'll go after black people like her next! They'll be happy to do it! She knows that. But the good people are intimidated! They don't dare do a thing! Back to blood! Them and us!

"Go on home!...Booooo...Yagggghhh...Yo!"

He tries the microphone again. "Is this what-is this what-"

Hopeless. Like yelling at the surf. He wants to spit in their eyes. He wants to tell them he's not afraid. You're not making me me look bad! You're letting a handful of hustlers in this hall make all of Harlem look bad! You let a couple of loudmouths call me Goldberg and Hymie, and you don't shout look bad! You're letting a handful of hustlers in this hall make all of Harlem look bad! You let a couple of loudmouths call me Goldberg and Hymie, and you don't shout them them down-you shout down-you shout me me down! It's unbelievable! Do you-you hardworking, respectable, G.o.d-fearing people of Harlem, you Mrs. Langhorns, you civic-minded people-do you really think they're your down! It's unbelievable! Do you-you hardworking, respectable, G.o.d-fearing people of Harlem, you Mrs. Langhorns, you civic-minded people-do you really think they're your brothers brothers! Who have your friends been all these years? The Jews! And you let these hustlers call me a Charlie Charlie! They call me these things, and you say nothing nothing?

The whole hall appears to be jumping up and down. They're waving their fists. Their mouths are open. They're screaming. If they jump any higher, they'll bounce off the ceiling.

It'll be on TV. The whole city will see it. They'll love it. Harlem rises up! What a show! Not the hustlers and the operators and the players rise up-but Harlem Harlem rises up! All of black New York rises up! He's only mayor for rises up! All of black New York rises up! He's only mayor for some some of the people! He's the mayor of White New York! Set fire to the mutt! The Italians will watch this on TV, and they'll love it. And the Irish. Even the Wasps. They won't know what they're looking at. They'll sit in their co-ops on Park and Fifth and East Seventy-second Street and Sutton Place, and they'll s.h.i.+ver with the violence of it and enjoy the show. Cattle! Birdbrains! Rosebuds! of the people! He's the mayor of White New York! Set fire to the mutt! The Italians will watch this on TV, and they'll love it. And the Irish. Even the Wasps. They won't know what they're looking at. They'll sit in their co-ops on Park and Fifth and East Seventy-second Street and Sutton Place, and they'll s.h.i.+ver with the violence of it and enjoy the show. Cattle! Birdbrains! Rosebuds! Goyim! Goyim! You don't even know, do you? Do you really think this is You don't even know, do you? Do you really think this is your your city any longer? Open your eyes! The greatest city of the twentieth century! Do you think city any longer? Open your eyes! The greatest city of the twentieth century! Do you think money money will keep it yours? will keep it yours?

Come down from your swell co-ops, you general partners and merger lawyers! It's the Third World down there! Puerto Ricans, West Indians, Haitians, Dominicans, Cubans, Colombians, Hondurans, Koreans, Chinese, Thais, Vietnamese, Ecuadorians, Panamanians, Filipinos, Albanians, Senegalese, and Afro-Americans! Go visit the frontiers, you gutless wonders! Morningside Heights, St. Nicholas Park, Was.h.i.+ngton Heights, Fort Tryon-por que pagar mas! The Bronx-the Bronx is finished for you! Riverdale is just a little freeport up there! Pelham Parkway-keep the corridor open to Westchester! Brooklyn The Bronx-the Bronx is finished for you! Riverdale is just a little freeport up there! Pelham Parkway-keep the corridor open to Westchester! Brooklyn-your Brooklyn is no more! Brooklyn Heights, Park Slope-little Hong Kongs, that's all! And Queens! Jackson Heights, Elmhurst, Hollis, Jamaica, Ozone Park-whose is it? Do you know? And where does that leave Ridgewood, Bayside, and Forest Hills? Have you ever thought about that! And Staten Island! Do you Sat.u.r.day do-it-yourselfers really think you're snug in your little rug? You don't think the future knows how to cross a Brooklyn is no more! Brooklyn Heights, Park Slope-little Hong Kongs, that's all! And Queens! Jackson Heights, Elmhurst, Hollis, Jamaica, Ozone Park-whose is it? Do you know? And where does that leave Ridgewood, Bayside, and Forest Hills? Have you ever thought about that! And Staten Island! Do you Sat.u.r.day do-it-yourselfers really think you're snug in your little rug? You don't think the future knows how to cross a bridge bridge? And you, you Wasp charity-ballers sitting on your mounds of inherited money up in your co-ops with the twelve-foot ceilings and the two wings, one for you and one for the help, do you really think you're impregnable? And you German-Jewish financiers who have finally made it into the same buildings, the better to insulate yourselves from the shtetl shtetl hordes, do you really think you're insulated from the hordes, do you really think you're insulated from the Third World Third World?

You poor fatties! You marshmallows! Hens! Cows! You wait'll you have a Reverend Bacon for a mayor, and a City Council and a Board of Estimate with a bunch of Reverend Bacons from one end of the chamber to the other! You'll get to know them then, all right! They'll come see you! They'll come see you at 60 Wall and Number One Chase Manhattan Plaza! They'll sit on your desks and drum their fingers! They'll dust out your safe-deposit boxes for you, free of charge- Completely crazy, these things roaring through his head! Absolutely paranoid! n.o.body's going to elect Bacon to anything. n.o.body's going to march downtown. He knows that. But he feels so alone! Abandoned! Misunderstood! Me! Me! You wait'll you don't have You wait'll you don't have me me any longer! See how you like it then! And you let me stand here alone at this lectern with a G.o.dd.a.m.ned asbestos ceiling coming down on my head- any longer! See how you like it then! And you let me stand here alone at this lectern with a G.o.dd.a.m.ned asbestos ceiling coming down on my head- "Boooo!...Yegggghhh!...Yaaaggghhh!...Yo!...Goldberg!"

There's a terrific commotion on one side of the stage. The TV lights are right in his face. A whole lot of pus.h.i.+ng and shoving-he sees a cameraman go down. Some of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are heading for the stairs to the stage, and the television crews are in the way. So they're going over them. Shoving-shoving somebody back down the stairs-his men, the plainclothes detail, the big one, Norrejo-Norrejo's shoving somebody back down the stairs. Something hits the Mayor on the shoulder. It hurts like h.e.l.l! There on the floor-a jar of mayonnaise, an eight-ounce jar of h.e.l.lmann's mayonnaise. Half full! Half consumed! Somebody has thrown a half-eaten jar of h.e.l.lmann's mayonnaise at him! In that instant the most insignificant thing takes over his mind. Who in the name of G.o.d would bring a half-eaten eight-ounce jar of h.e.l.lmann's mayonnaise to a public meeting?

The G.o.dd.a.m.ned lights! People are up on the stage...a lot of thras.h.i.+ng about...a regular melee...Norrejo grabs some big devil around the waist and sticks his leg behind him and throws him to the floor. The other two detectives, Holt and Danforth, have their backs to the Mayor. They're crouched like blocking backs protecting a pa.s.ser. Guliaggi is right beside him.

"Get behind me," says Guliaggi. "We're going through that door."

Is he smiling? Guliaggi seems to have this little smile on his face. He motions his head toward a door at the rear of the stage. He's short, he has a small head, a low forehead, small narrow eyes, a flat nose, a wide mean mouth with a narrow mustache. The Mayor keeps staring at his mouth. Is that a smile? It can't be, but maybe it is. This strange mean twist to his lips seems to be saying: "It's been your show up to now, but now it's mine."

Somehow the smile decides the issue. The Mayor gives up his Custer's command post at the lectern. He gives himself over to this little rock. Now the others are closed in around him, too, Norrejo, Holt, Danforth. They're around him like the four corners of a pen. People are all over the stage. Guliaggi and Norrejo are muscling their way through the mob. The Mayor is right on their heels. Snarling faces are all around him. There's some character barely two feet from him who keeps jumping up and yelling, "You little white-haired p.u.s.s.y!" He keeps saying it. "You little white-haired p.u.s.s.y!"

Right in front of him-the big heckler himself! The one with the elbows and the gold earring! Guliaggi is between the Mayor and the heckler, but the heckler towers over Guliaggi. He must be six five. He screams at the Mayor, right in his face: "Go on back-oof!"

All at once the big son of a b.i.t.c.h is sinking, with his mouth open and his eyes bugged out. Guliaggi has driven his elbow and forearm into the man's solar plexus.

Guliaggi reaches the door and opens it. The Mayor follows. He feels the other detectives pus.h.i.+ng him through from behind. He sprawls against Guliaggi's back. The guy's a piece of stone!

They're going down a stairway. They're clattering on some metal strips. He's in one piece. The mob isn't even on his heels. He's safe-his heart sinks. They're not even trying to follow him. They never really tried to touch him. And in that moment...he knows knows. He knows even before his mind can put it all together.

"I did the wrong thing. I gave in to that little smile. I panicked. I've lost it all."

1. The Master of the Universe

At that very moment, in the very sort of Park Avenue co-op apartment that so obsessed the Mayor...twelve-foot ceilings...two wings, one for the white Anglo-Saxon Protestants who own the place and one for the help...Sherman McCoy was kneeling in his front hall trying to put a leash on a dachshund. The floor was a deep green marble, and it went on and on. It led to a five-foot-wide walnut staircase that swept up in a sumptuous curve to the floor above. It was the sort of apartment the mere thought of which ignites flames of greed and covetousness under people all over New York and, for that matter, all over the world. But Sherman burned only with the urge to get out of this fabulous spread of his for thirty minutes.

So here he was, down on both knees, struggling with a dog. The dachshund, he figured, was his exit visa.

Looking at Sherman McCoy, hunched over like that and dressed the way he was, in his checked s.h.i.+rt, khaki pants, and leather boating moccasins, you would have never guessed what an imposing figure he usually cut. Still young...thirty-eight years old...tall...almost six-one...terrific posture...terrific to the point of imperious...as imperious as his daddy, the Lion of Dunning Sponget...a full head of sandy-brown hair...a long nose...a prominent chin...He was proud of his chin. The McCoy chin; the Lion had it, too. It was a manly chin, a big round chin such as Yale men used to have in those drawings by Gibson and Leyendecker, an aristocratic chin, if you want to know what Sherman thought. He was a Yale man himself.

But at this moment his entire appearance was supposed to say: "I'm only going out to walk the dog."

The dachshund seemed to know what was ahead. He kept ducking away from the leash. The beast's stunted legs were deceiving. If you tried to lay hands on him, he turned into a two-foot tube packed with muscle. In grappling with him, Sherman had to lunge. And when he lunged, his kneecap hit the marble floor, and the pain made him angry.

"C'mon, Marshall," he kept muttering. "Hold still, d.a.m.n it."

The beast ducked again, and he hurt his knee again, and now he resented not only the beast but his wife, too. It was his wife's delusions of a career as an interior decorator that had led to this ostentatious spread of marble in the first place. The tiny black grosgrain cap on the toe of a woman's shoe- -she was standing there.

"You're having a time, Sherman. What on earth are you doing?"

Without looking up: "I'm taking Marshall for a wa-a-a-a-a-alk."

Walk came out as a groan, because the dachshund attempted a fishtail maneuver and Sherman had to wrap his arm around the dog's midsection. came out as a groan, because the dachshund attempted a fishtail maneuver and Sherman had to wrap his arm around the dog's midsection.

"Did you know it was raining?"

Still not looking up: "Yes, I know." Finally he managed to snap the leash on the animal's collar.

"You're certainly being nice to Marshall all of a sudden."

Wait a minute. Was this irony? Did she suspect something? He looked up.

But the smile on her face was obviously genuine, altogether pleasant...a lovely smile, in fact...Still a very good-looking woman, my wife...with her fine thin features, her big clear blue eyes, her rich brown hair...But she's forty years old!...No getting around it...Today good-looking... good-looking...Tomorrow they'll be talking about what a handsome handsome woman she is...Not her fault woman she is...Not her fault...But not mine, either!

"I have an idea," she said. "Why don't you let me me walk Marshall? Or I'll get Eddie to do it. You go upstairs and read Campbell a story before she goes to sleep. She'd love it. You're not home this early very often. Why don't you do that?" walk Marshall? Or I'll get Eddie to do it. You go upstairs and read Campbell a story before she goes to sleep. She'd love it. You're not home this early very often. Why don't you do that?"

He stared at her. It wasn't a trick! She was sincere! And yet zip zip zip zip zip zip zip zip zip zip zip zip zip zip with a few swift strokes, a few little sentences, she had with a few swift strokes, a few little sentences, she had...tied him in knots!-thongs of guilt and logic! Without even trying! Without even trying!

The fact that Campbell might be lying in her little bed-my only child!-the utter innocence of a six-year-old!-wis.h.i.+ng that he would read her a bedtime story...while he was...doing whatever it was he was now doing...Guilt!...The fact that he usually got home too late to see her at all...Guilt on top of guilt!...He doted on Campbell!-loved her more than anything in the world!...To make matters worse-the logic of it! The sweet wifely face he was now staring at had just made a considerate and thoughtful suggestion, a logical suggestion...so logical he was speechless! There weren't enough white lies in the world to get around such logic! And she was only trying to be nice! The sweet wifely face he was now staring at had just made a considerate and thoughtful suggestion, a logical suggestion...so logical he was speechless! There weren't enough white lies in the world to get around such logic! And she was only trying to be nice!

"Go ahead," she said. "Campbell will be so pleased. I'll tend to Marshall."

The world was upside down. What was he, a Master of the Universe, doing down here on the floor, reduced to ransacking his brain for white lies to circ.u.mvent the sweet logic of his wife? The Masters of the Universe were a set of lurid, rapacious plastic dolls that his otherwise perfect daughter liked to play with. They looked like Norse G.o.ds who lifted weights, and they had names such as Dracon, Ahor, Mangelred, and Blutong. They were unusually vulgar, even for plastic toys. Yet one fine day, in a fit of euphoria, after he had picked up the telephone and taken an order for zero-coupon bonds that had brought him a $50,000 commission, just like that just like that, this very phrase had bubbled up into his brain. On Wall Street he and a few others-how many?-three hundred, four hundred, five hundred?-had become precisely that...Masters of the Universe. There was...no limit whatsoever! Naturally he had never so much as whispered this phrase to a living soul. He was no fool. Yet he couldn't get it out of his head. And here was the Master of the Universe, on the floor with a dog, hog-tied by sweetness, guilt, and logic...Why couldn't he (being a Master of the Universe) simply explain explain it to her? Look, Judy, I still love you and I love our daughter and I love our home and I love our life, and I don't want to change any of it-it's just that I, a Master of the Universe, a young man still in the season of the rising sap, deserve it to her? Look, Judy, I still love you and I love our daughter and I love our home and I love our life, and I don't want to change any of it-it's just that I, a Master of the Universe, a young man still in the season of the rising sap, deserve more more from time to time, when the spirit moves me- from time to time, when the spirit moves me- -but he knew he could never put any such thought into words. So resentment began to bubble up into his brain...In a way she brought it on herself, didn't she...Those women whose company she now seems to prize...those...those...The phrase pops into his head at that very instant: social X-rays... social X-rays...They keep themselves so thin, they look like X-ray pictures...You can see lamplight through their bones...while they're chattering about interiors interiors and and landscape gardening... landscape gardening...and encasing their scrawny shanks in metallic Lycra tubular tights for their Sports Training cla.s.ses...And it hasn't helped any, has it!...See how drawn her face and neck look...He concentrated on her face and neck...drawn...No doubt about it...Sports Training...turning into one of them- one of them- He managed to manufacture just enough resentment to ignite the famous McCoy temper.

He could feel his face grow hot. He put his head down and said, "Juuuuuudy..." It was a shout stifled by teeth. He pressed the thumb and the first two fingers of his left hand together and held them in front of his clamped jaws and blazing eyes, and he said: "Look...I'm all-set-to-walk-the-dog...So I'm-going-out-to-walk-the-dog...Okay?"

Halfway through it, he knew it was totally out of proportion to...to...but he couldn't hold back. That, after all, was the secret of the McCoy temper...on Wall Street...wherever...the imperious excess.

Judy's lips tightened. She shook her head.

"Please do what you want," she said tonelessly. Then she turned away and walked across the marble hall and ascended the sumptuous stairs.

Still on his knees, he looked at her, but she didn't look back. Please do what you want Please do what you want. He had run right over her. Nothing to it. But it was a hollow victory.

Another spasm of guilt- The Master of the Universe stood up and managed to hold on to the leash and struggle into his raincoat. It was a worn but formidable rubberized British riding mac, full of flaps, straps, and buckles. He had bought it at Knoud on Madison Avenue. Once, he had considered its aged look as just the thing, after the fas.h.i.+on of the Boston Cracked Shoe look. Now he wondered. He yanked the dachshund along on the leash and went from the entry gallery out into the elevator vestibule and pushed the b.u.t.ton.

Rather than continue to pay around-the-clock s.h.i.+fts of Irishmen from Queens and Puerto Ricans from the Bronx $200,000 a year to run the elevators, the apartment owners had decided two years ago to convert the elevators to automatic. Tonight that suited Sherman fine. In this outfit, with this squirming dog in tow, he didn't feel like standing in an elevator with an elevator man dressed up like an 1870 Austrian army colonel. The elevator descended-and came to a stop two floors below. Browning Browning. The door opened, and the smooth-jowled bulk of Pollard Browning stepped on. Browning looked Sherman and his country outfit and the dog up and down and said, without a trace of a smile, "h.e.l.lo, Sherman."

"h.e.l.lo, Sherman" was on the end of a ten-foot pole and in a mere four syllables conveyed the message: "You and your clothes and your animal are letting down our new mahogany-paneled elevator."

Sherman was furious but nevertheless found himself leaning over and picking the dog up off the floor. Browning was the president of the building's co-op board. He was a New York boy who had emerged from his mother's loins as a fifty-year-old partner in Davis Polk and president of the Downtown a.s.sociation. He was only forty but had looked fifty for the past twenty years. His hair was combed back smoothly over his round skull. He wore an immaculate navy suit, a white s.h.i.+rt, a shepherd's check necktie, and no raincoat. He faced the elevator door, then turned his head, took another look at Sherman, said nothing, and turned back.

Sherman had known him ever since they were boys at the Buckley School. Browning had been a fat, hearty, overbearing junior sn.o.b who at the age of nine knew how to get across the astonis.h.i.+ng news that McCoy was a hick name (and a hick family), as in Hatfields and McCoys, whereas he, Browning, was a true Knickerbocker. He used to call Sherman "Sherman McCoy the Mountain Boy."