“No you’re not. You’re American royalty.” He tousled her hair.

“No I’m not. Adrienne Rodman is American royalty now.”

“She’s a whore.”

“I have an idea.” Samantha perked up.

“We’re not having this goddamn party on Adrienne Strong-Rodman’s yacht. It’ll cost me two million dollars and they’ll reenact Birth of a Nation.”

“No, I’d never do that.” She kissed him. “What about someplace unexpected. Someplace that celebrates New York.”

“The top of the Empire State Building?” Barry answered.

“I’m serious. Don’t all these young artists and filmmakers live in Brooklyn now? We could have it in Williamsburg in an old school or factory.”

“Sure. Or we could all go to Harlem.”

Samantha lit a cigarette. This was getting interesting. “No, Harlem’s already been done. Grey Navez had her daughter’s sweet sixteen at Sylvia’s Restaurant of Harlem. Columbia kids live in Harlem. It’s the next Park Slope. What are the movies about?”

“You’ve lost me.”

“The winners. What are their movies about?”

“I don’t know. Coming out of the closet in Minsk, a serial killer in Houston, growing up in Bedford-Stuyvesant.”

“That’s it! That’s where we’re having it.”

“We might as well have it at my father’s old shoe repair shop in South Philly. It’s safer.”

“Barry, not only are we having it there, but we’re raising additional money for other young filmmakers in the neighborhood.” Samantha was getting excited.

“But who the hell is going to go there?”

“Trust me, Barry.” She kissed him again. “Albert and Judy Tremont will go and they won’t be walking.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

·CHAPTER SEVENTEEN·

Frankie

“Pippa, I wanted to talk to you about Alex.” Frankie leaned forward in her chair.

“He’s doing much better at school.” Pippa evoked her peace-treaty composure. “I think the Ritalin that Dr. Berkowitz prescribed has really calmed him down.”

Frankie took a short breath. “I got the results back from the MRIs that we took last week and I’ve sent them to a number of experts. I’m afraid Alex has a tumor growing on the right side of his brain. We can’t tell right now if it’s malignant or benign, but I want you to go see Dr. Haim at Mount Sinai. He’s one of the best pediatric brain surgeons in the world.”

“You’re making this up.” Pippa’s eyes penetrated Frankie’s.

“I have sent the scans to two of the best radiologists I know, and they’ve come back with the same conclusion. If you like, I could show it to you.”

Pippa’s voice went soft. “I’m sorry, I’m just not taking this in.”

Irina, the nurse, pushed open the door. “Dr. Weissman, I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a problem in the waiting room.”