The intervention was staged a week after the barroom brawl. It took place in a private dining room at Wilson’s Chop House, a few blocks from Penn Station. In the days since the fight, both men had refused to return texts and calls from each other. And both had refused to speak with, or communicate with, Reuben Hartman. It was left it to their wives to try and salvage the Kildare Tavern.
Mills was the first to arrive at the restaurant. He and his wife, Cheryl, sat at a circular table in a small private room. He took another gulp of the vodka tonic he had ordered, catching his wife’s attention.
“You might want to slow down big guy,” Cheryl said. “You were never much of a hard liquor drinker.”
“Then tonight would be a perfect time to start, right?”
“Jerry, please…”
“What? I have no job, I’ve abandoned my career, and now the stupid business venture I foolishly thought might save us, has crashed and burned before it even started. On top of that, I just had my first physical altercation as an adult. It was with a man who for all of ten minutes was my business partner. And, wait, it gets better, this ex-business partner is expected to show up here any minute for a meeting my wife has forced me to attend. All in all, this seems like the perfect time to start drinking the hard stuff.”
Mills stared across the empty table at the dark, wood-paneled wall. The whole room was like that. A dark little square with a table in the middle and black-and-white pictures of old New York scattered across the walls. Mills reached around Cheryl’s shoulders and pulled her close, a feeling of discouragement bordering on depression settling over him.
“What the hell was I thinking?” he asked. “There was no way this was going to work. Maybe with a normal human being, but certainly not with a hothead like Mahoney. I don’t know why I agreed to even meet him tonight.”
“Because I asked you to,” Cheryl said.
Mills waved a hand and mumbled, “whatever.” He heard voices on the other side of the door and braced for the worst. “Wonderful, the circus is here.”
A second later the door opened and the maitre d’ stepped in. “The Mahoneys have arrived,” the man said.
Mills watched as Mahoney followed the guy in, slipped him a tip and patted him on the back like they were old chums. Mahoney’s wife followed her husband in. She was prettier than Mills expected, and he wondered what she was doing with a clown like Mahoney.
“Just hit the little buzzer on the table when you’re ready for drinks, or to order,” the maitre d’ said turning to leave.
The door closed and the four of them were alone. Mahoney looked at him and no one said anything. Then Mahoney’s wife took over.
“Well, since my husband seems to have lost his ability to interact socially with other adults, I’ll introduce myself,” she said. “I’m Jennifer Mahoney.”
“Let’s not get too chummy, or get our hopes up about this little meeting, okay?” Mahoney said.
“Nice greeting, Phil,” Mills said. “And yes, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
“I didn’t ask,” Mahoney said.
“Let’s get a few cocktails,” Mahoney’s wife said, stopping the spat and steering her husband to a chair. “That way we can get to know one another before you pick another fight, hubby.”
The waiter was summoned and drinks were ordered. Mahoney started yapping when the man left.
“I talked to Reuben,” Mahoney said. “He’s having his lawyers draw up a document voiding our agreement.”
“Good,” Mills said. “The sooner, the better.”
“And I talked to a buddy at the Daily News, I’m going in to talk to Sherman, the editor, next week,” Mahoney said.
“Good luck, hope it works out.”
“It will,” Mahoney said.
“I’ve got the top two headhunters in corporate communications looking for a director’s job for me,” Mills said, in an attempt to one-up him. “There’s a spot in LA I might be up for.”
“Great. Good luck with the traffic.”
“Yeah, well newspapers are dying,” Mills said.
“Jerry,” Cheryl said, smacking his arm.
“Oh, sorry,” Mills said, “newspapers are dead, is what I meant to say.”
The men glared at each other for a few moments of uncomfortable silence while the woman exchanged small talk. The waiter was back with the drinks and asked, “Are we ready to order?”
“We need a few more minutes,” Jen Mahoney said.
The waiter left and Mahoney’s wife grabbed two menus from the pile on the table. She tossed one across the table at Mills like she knew him. She jabbed the other at her husband.
“Look, you two,” she said. “Enough is enough. I’ve been here five minutes and I’m already out of patience with the two of you. Read these damn menus and select something, or Cheryl and I will pick for you. Maybe start with a salad, or something fried, we don’t really care. Just pick something, and fast.”
Jerry looked to Cheryl and she was just as hostile. “Do what Jen says, and keep your mouth closed until you’re ready to order.”
The Mahoney woman smacked her husband in the back of the head and said, “And you, king of the morons. You have thirty seconds to decide what you’re eating. Take a second longer and I’ll make the decision for you.” Then she turned to Cheryl and was suddenly a normal, pleasant person. “Boy, did you call this one right, Cheryl. They’re two stubborn mules.”
It dawned on Mills that they had been set up. This was no run of the mill meeting to try and mend fences, something else was going on.
“I told you they would just fight,” Cheryl said. “I never met your husband, but I know Jerry, and when he digs his heels in and refuses to work with someone, he’s impossible.”
“Same with Phil,” the Mahoney woman said. “He can be a real rock head.”
“I think they’ve had plenty of time to look at the menu,” Cheryl said.
Good Lord, Mills thought, where was this side of Cheryl coming from? He tried to focus on the menu knowing he had seconds to make a decision. Did he want or need an appetizer? Did he even have time to select one? The garden salad would do. It was healthy.
“Time’s up,” the Mahoney woman barked, getting up from the table and going to the door. “And the hell with the buzzer.”
He watched as she opened the door and yelled into the dining room. “Hey, we’re ready in here.”
She was as bad as her husband, maybe worse. No social graces at all. All rough edges and elbows.
“Ten seconds,” Cheryl said to Mills, forcing him to scan the entrees like he was speed-reading. The chicken looked good. What about the pork? Maybe he should have a steak, it was a steakhouse after all.
The menu was yanked from his hands by Cheryl and he felt naked. Mahoney was staring back at him from across the table. Funny, but the man didn’t seem so tough now. The waiter walked in and Jen Mahoney started talking before the guy pulled his little pad out.
“Cheryl, why don’t you start,” she said. Her voice dripped with sweetness again like nothing was going on. She had to have as many personalities as her husband, Mills thought. No wonder they were together.
Cheryl ordered the crab cakes appetizer, and a lobster dish while Mahoney’s wife went with a salad and a steak. Then the waiter’s eyes settled on him and he blurted out his order like he would be shot if he took too long. “Porterhouse. Rare. Baked potato. Small salad to start.”
“Same,” Mahoney said.
“Well, look at that,” Mahoney’s wife said, “they can agree on something.” She dismissed the waiter and Mills watched him go, his heart sinking as if a rescuer were passing by the island he was stranded on.
“Okay,” Jen said, “as far as Cheryl and I are concerned you two have lost the right to have any say in your careers from this point forward.”
“That’s right,” Cheryl said. “You’re too close to them.”
Mills snapped off a reply reflexively. “Well, they’re our careers, of course we’re close to them.”
Cheryl’s head spun to look at him. “Shut up,” she said.
He recoiled at the velocity of the response. Where the hell did that come from?
“We’re your new career counselors,” Mahoney’s wife said. “And this is your first session.”