Page 102 of Swan Song

Reluctantly, Coco positions herself behind Leslee’s shoulder so she can see the screen. There’s an article in the New York Times with the headline “Indonesia to Ban Single-Use Plastics (But Is It Too Late?).”

Leslee shows Coco the photographs that accompany the article. In a simple wooden hut on stilts over murky green water, a brown child pokes his head out a glassless window. Below the house, in the water, is—Coco enlarges the image because she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing—trash. Plastic bottles, hundreds, thousands of them. Leslee scrolls through picture after picture: flotillas of plastic bottles on rivers, clogging up canals, washing up on beaches. One picture shows a mountain of plastic bottles against a backdrop of verdant rice paddies. In another, a majestic white long-legged bird—an egret or a heron—picks its way among bottles floating in the reeds.

“I’ve been with Bull on his trips overseas,” Leslee says. “It made me sick, seeing all the pollution. These new regulations are good for the Earth, but they’ll ruin us.”

“Ruin?” Coco says, thinking, What does that mean, exactly?

Leslee winds her hair around her forearm. “Bull’s doing battle with the IRS now. They claim he owes millions in back taxes, which he’s fighting since he makes most of his money overseas, but I think he hired a disreputable accountant, someone who tries to work the loopholes, which is fine until you get hanged.”

“What about the movies he invests in?” Coco asks. “Do they make you money?”

“Ha!” Leslee says. “They’ve all lost money. The production business is a sinkhole for cash.” She sniffs. “But Bull loves seeing his name in the credits. Whatever. We were still okay, since Bull’s bev company has always been gangbusters—Indonesia has a population of two hundred and seventy million, not to mention all the tourists—but now it won’t be legal for Bull to do business there. He’s talking about pivoting to aluminum or paper containers, but we own plastics factories, Coco. Bottling plants.”

This, Coco thinks, is what Bull meant by a sticky wicket.

“He has some real estate venture cooking that he claims will bring in some cash, but who knows how long that will take? Bull is a flagrant risk-taker, a shark jumper. And you know what? Every gambler loses at some point. I’ve only been with Bull when he’s winning. I don’t know what I’ll do if he loses everything.” She turns off her phone and the offensive images disappear. “Maybe I’ll kill him. Switch out a cyanide pill for his Viagra. He’s color-blind, you know”—Coco thinks of standing with Bull in the laundry room during the Pink and White Party: Would you please help me pick something out?—“so he’d never be able to tell.” Leslee holds Coco’s gaze for a second, then bursts out laughing. “I’m kidding!” She hugs Coco, then starts crying in her arms. Leslee’s words are muffled by Coco’s shoulder but she hears “So nice having another woman around” and “Didn’t want to belong to that la-di-da club anyway.”

When Leslee finally pulls away, Coco rips some paper towels off the roll so Leslee can mop her face.

“Thank you for listening,” Leslee says.

Coco nods. Leslee isn’t going to kill Bull. She’s just really sad. For perhaps the first time, Coco sees Leslee Richardson as a human being with a point of view. They’re having a moment, Coco thinks, and no one is more surprised than she is.

The new closeness with Leslee is thrilling and scary, like a toboggan ride down a steep hill. On Sunday, Leslee invites Coco to lunch at Cru and when Coco asks if she should wear her uniform, Leslee says, “Absolutely not. We’re going as friends.”

Friends? Coco thinks—and yet this is what it feels like once they’re seated at a table by one of the open windows that overlook the boat basin. They order a bottle of rosé, oysters, beautiful salads topped with pan-roasted halibut.

“So how did you and Bull meet?” Coco asks. “I don’t think I’ve heard the story.”

Leslee cocks her head. “Oh. Well… it was many moons ago. I was bartending at a place called the Peppermill in Vegas and Bull came in.”

“You were a bartender too?” Coco says. Lamont told her this, but she didn’t quite believe it or believe Leslee would ever admit to it.

“I was.”

Coco flashes back to her first day of work, sitting in the library with Leslee: You remind me of myself when I was your age.

“What made you notice him?” Coco asks.

“He sat down in front of me, middle of the day, the place was empty, and ordered all the appetizers.” Leslee sips her wine and smiles. “Hard to ignore a man like that.”

Their server comes by at the end of the meal with two coupe glasses of Pol Roger champagne. “Compliments of Shawn, the bartender.”

“Who?” Leslee says. They look over at the bar to see the guy Coco met the night she was out with Kacy. Coco feels herself flush. She forgot all about Shawn.

“Oh god.”

“Is he a love interest?” Leslee says. “I have to say, I’ve wondered about your romantic life. I thought maybe you and Kacy…”

“No,” Coco says. She is now definitely bright red. “I’m straight.”

“Well, Shawn certainly hopes so,” Leslee says, and she waggles her fingers in his direction. “He’s cute. I wonder if he’ll come join us.”

“He’s working,” Coco says. Although she’s on the verge of complete mortification, she’s relieved that Leslee has no idea about her and Lamont.

“I’m going over to say thank you,” Leslee says. She walks over and takes a seat at the bar, probably assuming Coco will follow, but Coco is doing no such thing.

All three restrooms are occupied, so Coco waits in the alcove. A woman with short dark hair and cute glasses pops out of one of the doors and gasps when she sees Coco. She comes over, takes Coco’s arm. Does Coco know this woman? Was she a guest at one of the parties? Coco isn’t sure.

---