Free Agnes Among the Gargoyles by Patrick Flynn

sustain structural damage if you went into them dripping wet on a rainy day.
    Â Â Â "I want to live, and if that means being maybe a little nicer, maybe a little more responsive to public opinion, if it means walking around in a purple chicken suit, then I'm gonna fucking do it," he tells Agnes. "And I know that right this second you're thinking, 'That little weasel, why can't he stand up for himself and be a man?' With people like you, I can't win."
    Â Â Â As if by prearranged signal, several aides converge on the bed. They present Wegeman with newspapers and reports. He puts on his glasses, and opens the International Herald Tribune. "I'll be in touch, Travertine. And by the way, the mayor is thinking seriously of privatizing the subways. By the time this dark night of the soul is over I could own the City Hall station."
    Â Â Â Agnes stiffens at the thought.
    Â Â Â "I plan to turn it into a chichi cafe. You can have lunch with me there. We'll have fabulous linguine with truffles and eggplant bread and tiramisu. And when I own the subways, there's gonna be handicapped access like you wouldn't fucking believe.

    * * *
    Madelaine interrupts her lunch with Agnes to take a phone call from Betsy Steinfeld, the pharmaceuticals heiress, who has been in Europe. They try to make a lunch date, but neither has a free afternoon until after the house party that Alice Winters is giving Ron in Palm Beach.
    Â Â Â After she hangs up, Madelaine grows pensive. She says, "As you can see, Ron is very upset."
    Â Â Â "Taking a slug will do that," says Agnes.
    Â Â Â "Ron took it personally. As soon as he's feeling better I want to force him to get out and see people. In his current state of mind, I think he needs to see how much his friends love him. And they do love him. That's why we're going to Alice's. He'll kick and scream, of course, and be an absolute nightmare and try everyone's patience to the limit. But it'll be worth it."
    Â Â Â She tells Agnes and illustrative story. "The last time we were at Grotta del Cane, Sooks served a Mouton-Rothschild that was really undrinkable." Agnes's head spins a little, but Madelaine's assumption that she understands the set-up of the anecdote is correct. Is there anyone in New York who doesn't know that Susan "Sooks" Metalous, dog-fancier and fund-raising dynamo on behalf of the American Ballet Theater, lives for part of the year at Grotta del Cane, her villa on St. Leon, her private Caribbean retreat? Barbara Foucault probably knows how the retaining walls are holding up. Madelaine presses on: "Everyone expected Ron to do something—you know, to break the tension. I thought he'd spit it out, or pretend to shine his shoes with it for a laugh. But he just kept drinking it. Sooks opened bottle after bottle. It turned out he was pouring it into some potted trees next to the table. They were bonsai trees. He killed every last one of them, but then he's the last person I'd say has any affinity for things Eastern."
    Â Â Â Agnes and Madelaine dine on one of Wegeman Tower's scores of terraces. Lunch is grilled red snapper and raw vegetable salad and small, warm sourdough rolls the size of a half-dollar. A waiter stands by ready to pour the tea, and then Mrs. Blair Stanhope, Madelaine's special assistant, appears to meet Agnes and to check on the sourdough rolls, which are from a new starter just flown in.
    Â Â Â "She's a whirlwind," Madelaine confides to Agnes when Mrs. Stanhope steps inside to take a call. "I snatched her away from Christie's Geneva. She organized the whole place. Brought them into the twentieth century. She doesn't take any shit, if you know what I mean." Madelaine giggles, as though she has been very naughty.
    Â Â Â When Mrs. Blair Stanhope returns, Agnes looks at her carefully. She seems about twenty-two or twenty-three years old, tops. She exudes good breeding and athleticism. A short black sheath dress covers her