TEN BARE FEMALE asses rose in harmony to greet the camera's blinking eye. Despite the picture still being in limbo, Dita Tommey was auditioning actresses on the Messalina soundstage for an ass to double for Athena Aquitane's.
Athena had refused to do nudes, that is, she would not show full tits and ass, an astonishing modesty in a star but not a fatal one. Dita would simply substitute tits and ass from some of the different actresses she was now auditioning.
Of course she had given the actresses full scenes with dialogue, she wouldn't demean them by posing them as if they were pornography. But the determining factor would be in the culminating sex scene, when rolling around in bed they would thrust their bare buttocks up to the camera eye. Her sex-scene choreographer was sketching out the rolls and twists with the male actor, Steve Stallings.
Watching the tests with Dita Tommey were Bobby Bantz and Skippy Deere. The only other people on the set were the necessary crew members. Tommey didn't mind Deere watching, but what the hell was Bobby Bantz doing here. She had considered briefly barring him from the set, but if Messalina was abandoned she would be in a very weak power position. She could use his goodwill.
Bantz asked fretfully, «What exactly are we looking for here?»
The sex-scene choreographer, a young man named Willis, who was also the head of the Los Angeles Ballet Company, said cheerfully, «The most beautiful ass in the world. But also with great muscles. We don't want sleaze, we don't want the crack open.»
«Right,» Bantz said, «Nothing sleazy.»
«How about the tits?» Deere asked.
«They cannot be allowed to bounce,» the choreographer said.
«We audition tits tomorrow,» Tommey said. «No woman has perfect tits and a perfect ass, except maybe Athena, and she won't show them.»
Bantz said slyly, «You should know, Dita.»
Tommey forgot her weak power position. «Bobby, you're the perfect asshole, if that's what we're looking for. She won't fuck you so you assume she's a dyke.»
«OK, OK,» Bantz said. «I've got a hundred phone calls I have to return.»
«Me too,» Deere said.
«I don't believe you guys,» Tommey said.
Deere said, «Dit, have a little sympathy. Bobby and I, what recreation do we get? We're too busy to play golf. Watching movies is work. We don't have the time to go to the theater or opera. We can squeeze maybe an hour a day for fun after we spend time with our families. What can you do with just one hour a day? Screw. It's the least labor-intensive recreation.»
«Wow, Skippy, look at that,» Bantz said. «That's the most beautiful ass I have ever seen.»
Deere shook his head in wonder. «Bobby's right. Dita, that's the one. Sign her up.»
Tommey shook her head in disbelief. «Jesus, you guys are morons,» she said. «That's a black ass.»
«Sign her up anyway,» Deere said with exuberant joy.
«Yeah,» Bantz said. «An Ethiopian slave girl for Messalina. But why the hell is she auditioning?»
Dita Tommey observed both men with curiosity. Here were two of the toughest men in the movie business, with over a hundred phone calls to return, and they were like two teenagers looking for their first orgasm. She said patiently, «When we send out casting calls we're not allowed to say we just want white asses.»
Bantz said, «I want to meet that girl.»
«Me too,» Deere said.
But all this was interrupted by Melo Stuart coming on the set. He was smiling triumphantly. «We can all go back to work,» he said. «Athena is going back on the picture. Her husband, Boz Skannet, hung himself. Boz Skannet, off the picture.» As he said this he clapped his hands as the crew always clapped when an actor finished work on a movie, his part finished. Skippy and Bobby clapped with him. Dita Tommey stared at the three of them with disgust.
«Eli wants the two of you right away,» Melo said. «Not you, Dita,» he smiled apologetically. «This will just be a business discussion, no creative decisions.» The men left the soundstage.
When they were gone, Dita Tommey summoned the girl with the beautiful ass to her trailer. She was very pretty, truly black rather than tan, and she had an impudent vivacity that Dita identified as natural and not an actor's put-on.
«I'm giving you the part of an Ethiopian slave girl to the Empress Messalina,» Dita said. «You'll have one line of dialogue but mainly we'll be showing your ass. Unfortunately we need a white ass to double for Miss Aquitane and yours is too black, otherwise you might steal the picture.» She gave the girl a friendly smile. «Falene Fant, that's a movie name.»
«Whatever,» the girl said. «Thank you. For both the compliments and the job.»
«One more thing,» Dita said. «Our producer, Skippy Deere, thinks you have the most beautiful ass in the world. So does Mr. Bantz, the president and head of production for the Studio. You'll be hearing from them.»
Falene Fant gave her a wicked grin. «And what do you think?» she said.
Dita Tommey shrugged. «I'm not into asses as much as men are. But I think you're charming and a very good actress. Good enough so that I think you can carry more than one line in this picture. And if you come to my house tonight, we can talk about your career. I'll give you dinner.»
That night, after Dita Tommey and Falene Fant spent two hours in bed, Dita cooked dinner and they discussed Falene's career.
«It was fun,» Dita said, «but I think from now on we should just be friends and keep this night a secret.»
«Sure,» Falene said. «But everyone knows you're dykey. Is it my black ass?» She was grinning.
Dita ignored the word dykey. That was a deliberate impudence to pay back for the seeming rejection. «It's a great ass, black, white, green, or yellow,» Dita said. «But you have real talent. If I keep casting you in my pictures, you won't get credit for your talent. And I only make a picture every two years. You have to work more than that. Most directors are male and when they cast somebody like you they're always hoping for a little screw. If they think you're dykey, they may pass.»
«Who needs directors if I have a producer and the head of a studio,» Falene said cheerfully.
«You do,» Dita said. «The other guys can get you a foot in the door, but the director can leave you on the cutting-room floor. Or he can shoot you so that you look and sound like shit.»
Falene shook her head woefully. «I have to fuck Bobby Bantz, Skippy Deere, and I've already fucked you. Is this absolutely necessary?» She opened her eyes wide, innocently.
Dita really felt fond of her at the moment. Here was a girl who didn't try to be indignant. «I had a very good time tonight,» she said. «You hit exactly the right note.»
«Well, I never understood the fuss people make about sex,» Falene said. «It's no hardship for me. I don't do drugs, I don't drink a lot. I have to have a little fun.»
«Fine,» Dita said. «Now, about Deere and Bantz. Deere is the better bet and I'll tell you why. Deere is in love with himself and he loves women. He will really do something for you. He'll find you a good part, he's smart enough to see your talent. Now Bantz doesn't like anybody except Eli Marrion. Also he has no taste, no eye for talent. Bantz will sign you to a studio contract and then let you rot. He does that with his wife to keep her quiet. She gets a lot of work for top dollar but never a decent part. Skippy Deere, if he likes you, will do something for your career.»
«This sounds a little cold-blooded,» Falene said.
Dita tapped her on the arm. «Don't bullshit me. I'm a dyke but I'm a woman too. And I know actors. They will do anything, male or female, to go up the ladder. We all play for big stakes. Do you want to go to a nine-to-five job in Oklahoma or do you want to become a movie star and live in Malibu? I see by your sheet that you're twenty-three years old. How many have you fucked already?»
«Counting you?» Falene said. «Maybe fifty. But all for fun,» she said in mock apology.
«So a few more won't traumatize you,» Dita said. «And who knows, it may be fun again.»
«You know,» Falene said, «I wouldn't do it if I wasn't so sure I'd be a star.»
«Of course,» Dita said. «None of us would.»
Falene laughed. «What about you?» she asked.
«I didn't have the option,» Dita said. «I made it on sheer overwhelming talent.»
«Poor you,» Falene said.
At LoddStone Studios, Bobby Bantz, Skippy Deere, and Melo Stuart were meeting with Eli Marrion in his office. Bantz was enraged. «That silly prick, he scares everybody to death and then commits suicide.»
Marrion said to Stuart, «Melo, your client is coming back to work I assume.»
«Of course,» Melo said.
«She has no further requests, she doesn't need any extra inducements?» Marrion asked in a quiet, deadly voice. For the first time, Melo Stuart became aware that Marrion was in a rage.
«No,» Melo said. «She can start work tomorrow.»
«Great,» Deere said. «We may still come in under budget.»
«I want you all to shut up and listen to me,» Marrion said. And this rudeness, so unprecedented in him, made them silent.
Marrion spoke in his usual low, pleasant voice, but there was now no mistaking his anger.
«Skippy, what do we give a fuck if the picture comes in on budget? We don't own the picture anymore. We panicked, we made a stupid mistake. All of us are at fault. We do not own this film, an outsider does.»
Skippy Deere tried to interrupt him. «LoddStone will make a fortune on distribution. And you get a percentage on profits. It's still a very good deal.»
«But De Lena makes more money than we do,» Bantz said. «That's not right.»
«The point is that De Lena did nothing to solve the problem,» Marrion said. «Surely our studio has some sort of legal basis to regain the picture.»
«That's right,» Bantz said. «Fuck him. Let's go to court.»
Marrion said, «We threaten him with court and then we cut a deal. We give him his money back and ten percent of the adjusted gross.»
Deere laughed. «Eli, Molly Flanders won't let him take your deal.»
«We'll negotiate directly with De Lena,» Marrion said. «I think I can persuade him.» He paused for a moment. «I called him as soon as I got the news. He will be joining us very shortly. And you know he has a certain background, this suicide is too fortunate for him, I don't think he will care for the publicity of a court case.»
Cross De Lena, in his penthouse suite at the Xanadu Hotel, read the newspaper reports of Skannet's death. Everything had gone perfectly. It was a clear case of suicide, the two farewell notes on the body clinched it. There was no possibility the handwriting experts could detect the forgery, Boz Skannet had not left any great body of correspondence and Leonard Sossa was too good. The shackles on Skannet's legs and arms had been purposely loose and had left no marks. Lia Vazzi was an expert.
The first call Cross received was expected. Giorgio Clericuzio summoning him to the Family mansion in Quogue. Cross had never deceived himself that the Clericuzio would not find out what he was doing.
The second call Cross received was from Eli Marrion asking him to come to Los Angeles and without his lawyer. Cross said he would. But before he left Las Vegas he called Molly Flanders and told her about the phone call from Marrion. She was enraged. «Those slimy bastards,» she said. «I'll pick you up at the airport and we'll go in together. Never even say good morning to a studio head unless you've got a lawyer with you.»
When the two of them walked into LoddStone Studios and Marrion's office they knew there was trouble. The four men waiting there had the seriously truculent look of men about to commit strong-arm.
«I decided to bring my lawyer,» Cross said to Marrion. «I hope you don't mind.»
«As you wish,» Marrion said. «I merely wanted to save you a possible embarrassment.»
Molly Flanders, stern-faced and angry, said, «This is going to be really good. You want the picture back but our contract is iron.»
«You're correct,» Marrion said. «But we are going to appeal to Cross's sense of fair play. He did nothing to solve the problem, whereas LoddStone Studios has invested considerable time and money and creative talent without which this movie would not have been possible. Cross will get his money back. He gets ten percent of the adjusted gross and we will be generous in determining the adjustments. He will not be at risk.»
«He has already survived the risk,» Molly said. «Your offer is insulting.»
«Then we will have to go to court,» Marrion said. «Cross, I'm sure you will find that as distasteful as I do.» He smiled at Cross. It was a kindly smile that made his gorilla-like face angelic.
Molly was furious. «Eli, you go to court twenty times a year and give depositions because you're always pulling crap like this.» She turned to Cross and said, «We're leaving.»
But Cross knew that a long court case was something he could not afford. His buying the film followed by Skannet's opportune death would be held up to scrutiny. They would dig up everything about his background, they would paint him in such a way that he would become too much of a public figure, and that was something the old Don had never tolerated. There was no mistaking that Marrion knew all this.
«Let's stick around,» Cross said to Molly. Then he turned to Marrion, Bantz, Skippy Deere, and Melo Stuart. «If a gambler comes into my hotel and plays a long shot and wins, I pay him the full odds. I don't say I'll pay him even money. That's what you gentlemen are doing here. So why don't you reconsider this?»
Bantz said with contempt, «This is business not gambling.»
Melo Stuart said soothingly to Cross, «You will make conservatively ten million dollars on your investment. Surely that's fair.»
«And you didn't even do anything,» Bantz said.
Only Skippy Deere seemed to be on his side. «Cross, you deserve more. But what they offer is better than a court fight, the risk of losing. Let this one go and you and I will do business again without the Studio. And I promise you'll get a fair shake.»
Cross knew it was important to seem non-threatening. He smiled in resignation. «Maybe you're all right,» he said. «I want to stay in the movie business on good terms with everybody and ten million profit is not a bad start. Molly, take care of the papers. Now I have to catch a plane so please excuse me.» He left the room and Molly followed him.
«We can win in court,» Molly told him.
«I don't want to go to court,» Cross said. «Make the deal.»
Molly studied him carefully, then she said, «OK, but I'll get more than ten percent.»
When Cross arrived at the mansion in Quogue the next day, Don Domenico Clericuzio, his sons Giorgio, Vincent, and Petie, and the grandson, Dante, were waiting for him. They had lunch in the garden, a lunch of cold Italian hams and cheeses and an enormous wooden bowl of salad, long loaves of crispy Italian bread. There was the bowl of grated cheese for the Don's spoon. As they ate, the Don said conversationally, «Croccifixio, we hear you have become involved in the moving picture business.» He paused to sip his red wine. He then took a spoonful of the grated Italian Parmesan cheese.
«Yes,» Cross answered.
Giorgio said, «Is it true that you pledged some of your shares in the Xanadu to finance a movie?»
«That is within my right,» Cross said. «I am, after all, your Bruglione in the West.» He laughed.
«'Bruglione' is right,» Dante said.
The Don shot a disapproving look at his grandson. He said to Cross, «You got involved in a very serious affair without Family consultation. You did not seek our wisdom. Most important of all, you carried out a violent action that might have severe official repercussions. On that, custom is clear, you must have our consent or go your own way and suffer consequences.»
«And you used resources of the Family,» Giorgio said harshly. «The Hunting Lodge in the Sierra. You used Lia Vazzi, Leonard Sossa, and Pollard with his Security Agency. Of course, they are your people in the West but they are also Family resources. Luckily everything went perfectly but what if it had not? We would all have been at risk.»
Don Clericuzio said impatiently, «He knows all that. The question is why. Nephew, years ago you asked not to take part in that necessary work some men must do. I granted your request despite the fact that you were so valuable. Now you do it for your own profit. That is not like the beloved nephew I have always known.»
Cross knew then that the Don was sympathetic to him. He knew he could not tell the truth, that he had been seduced by Athena's beauty; that would not be a reasonable explanation, indeed it would be insulting. And possibly fatal. What could be more inexcusable than that the attraction to a strange woman outweighed his loyalty to the Clericuzio Family. He spoke carefully. «I saw an opportunity to make a great deal of money,» he said. «I saw a chance to get a foothold in a new business. For me and the Family. A business to be used to turn black money white. But I had to move quickly. Certainly I did not wish to keep it a secret and the proof is that I used Family resources which you must come to know. I wanted to come to you with the deed done.»
The Don was smiling at him when he asked gently, «And is the deed done?»
Cross immediately sensed that the Don knew everything. «There is another problem,» Cross said, and explained the new deal he had made with Marrion. He was surprised when the Don laughed aloud.
«You did exactly right,» the Don said. «A court case might be a disaster. Let them have their victory. But what rascals they are. It's a good thing we always stayed out of that business.» He paused for a moment. «At least you've made your ten million. That's a tidy sum.»
«No,» Cross said. «Five for me and five for the Family, that is understood. I don't think we should be discouraged so easily. I have some plans but I must have Family help.»
«Then we must discuss better shares,» Giorgio said. He was like Bantz, Cross thought, always pressing for more.
The Don interrupted impatiently. «First catch the rabbit then we will share it. You have the Family blessing. But one thing. Full discussion on everything drastic that is done. You understand me, nephew?»
«Yes,» Cross said.
He left Quogue with a feeling of relief. The Don had shown his affection.
Don Domenico Clericuzio, in his eighties, still commanded his Empire. A world he had created with great endeavor and at great cost and so therefore felt he had earned.
At a venerable age, when most men are obsessed with sins inevitably committed, the regrets of lost dreams, and even doubts of their own righteousness, the Don was still as unshakable in his virtue as when he was fourteen.
Don Clericuzio was strict in his beliefs and strict in his judgments. God had created a perilous world, and mankind had made it even more dangerous. God's world was a prison in which man had to earn his daily bread, and his fellow man was a fellow beast, carnivorous and without mercy. Don Clericuzio was proud that he had guarded his loved ones safely in their journey through life.
He was content that, at his advanced age, he had the will to pass the sentence of death on his enemies. Certainly he forgave them, was he not a Christian who maintained a holy chapel in his own home? But he forgave his enemies as God forgives all men while condemning them to inevitable extinction.
In the world Don Clericuzio had created, he was revered. His family, the thousands who lived in the Bronx Enclave, the Brugliones who ruled territories and entrusted their money to him and came for his intercession when they got into trouble with the formal society. They knew that the Don was just. That in time of need, sickness, or any trouble, they could go to him and he would address their misfortunes. And so they loved him.
The Don knew that love is not a reliable emotion no matter how deep. Love does not ensure gratitude, does not ensure obedience, does not provide harmony in so difficult a world. No one understood this better than Don Clericuzio. To inspire true love, one also had to be feared. Love alone was contemptible, it was nothing if it did not also include trust and obedience. What good was love to him if it did not acknowledge his rule?
For he was responsible for their lives, he was the root of their good fortune, and so he could not falter in his duty. He must be strict in his judgment. If a man betrayed him, if a man damaged the integrity of his world, that man must be punished and restrained even if it meant a sentence of death. There could be no excuse, no mitigating circumstance, no appeal to pity. What must be done must be done. His son Giorgio had once called him archaic. He accepted that this could not be otherwise.
Now he had many things to ponder. He had planned well over the last twenty-five years since the Santadio war. He had been farsighted, cunning, brutal when necessary, and merciful when it was safe to be so. And now the Clericuzio Family was at the height of its power, seemingly safe from any attack. Soon it would disappear into the legal fabric of society and become invulnerable.
But Don Domenico had not survived so long by being optimistically shortsighted. He could spot a malignant weed before it popped its head above the ground. The great danger now was internal, the rise of Dante, his growing into manhood in a manner not entirely satisfactory to the Don.
Then there was Cross, enriched by the Gronevelt legacy, actually making a major move without Family supervision. The young man had started so brilliantly, nearly becoming a Qualified Man, like his father, Pippi. Then the Virginio Ballazzo job had turned him finicky. And after being excused from operational duties by the Family because of his tender heart, he had gone back into the field for his own personal gain and executed that man Skannet. Without the permission of the Don himself. But Don Clericuzio excused himself for condoning these actions, for his rare sentimentalities. Cross was trying to escape his world and enter another. Though these actions were or could be the seeds of treason, Don Clericuzio understood. Still, Pippi and Cross combined would be a threat to the Family. Also, the Don was not unaware of Dante's hatred for the De Lenas. Pippi was too clever not to know this also, and Pippi was a dangerous man. An eye must be kept on him despite his proven loyalty.
The Don's forbearance sprang from a fondness for Cross and a love for Pippi, his old and faithful soldier, his sister's son. After all, they had Clericuzio blood. He was truly more worried about the danger to the Family presented by Dante.
Don Clericuzio had always been a fond and loving grand-father to Dante. The two had been very close until the boy was about ten years old and a certain disenchantment had settled in. The Don detected traits in the boy's character that troubled him.
Dante at the age of ten was an exuberant, slyly humorous child. He was a good athlete with great physical coordination. He loved to talk, especially with his grandfather, and he had long secret conversations with his mother, Rose Marie. But then, after the age of ten, he became malicious and crude. He fought with boys his own age with inappropriate intensity. He teased girls mercilessly and with an innocent lewdness that was shocking though funny. He tortured small animals — not necessarily significant with small boys, as the Don knew — but he tried once to drown a smaller boy in the school swimming pool.
Not that the Don was particularly judgmental of these things. After all, children were animals, civilization had to be drummed into their brains and backsides. There had been children like Dante who had grown up to be saints. What disturbed the Don was his loquacity, his long conversations with his mother, and most of all, his small disobediences to the Don himself.
Perhaps what disturbed the Don as well, who was in awe of the vagaries of nature, was that at the age of fifteen, Dante stopped growing. He remained at the height of five feet three inches. Doctors were consulted and agreed that at the most he would grow three more inches, and not to the usual Clericuzio family height of six feet. The Don considered Dante's short stature to be a danger signal, as he also considered twins. He claimed that while birth was a blessed miracle, twins were going too far. There had been a soldier in the Bronx Enclave who had fathered triplets, and the Don, horrified, bought them a grocery store in Portland, Oregon, a good living but a lonely one. The Don also had superstitions about left-handed people, and those who stuttered. Whatever anyone said, these could not be good signs. Dante was naturally left-handed.
But even all this would not have been enough to make the Don wary of his grandchild or lessen his affection; anyone of his blood was naturally exempt. But as Dante grew older he grew more contrary to the Don's dreams of his future.
Dante quit school in his sixteenth year and immediately pushed his nose into Family affairs. He worked for Vincent in his restaurant. He was a popular waiter and earned huge tips because of his quickness and his wit. Tiring of that, he worked for two months in Giorgio's Wall Street office but hated it and showed no aptitude, despite Giorgio's earnest attempts to teach him the intricacies of paper wealth. Finally he settled in with Petie's construction company and loved working with the Enclave soldiers. He was proud of his body, which grew more and more muscular. But in all this he acquired to some degree certain characteristics of his three uncles, which the Don noted with pride. He had Vincent's directness, Giorgio's coolness, and Petie's ferocity. Somewhere along the way, he established his own personality, what he truly was: sly, cunning, devious, but with a sense of fun that could be charming. And it was then he began wearing his Renaissance hats.
The hats — nobody knew where he got them — were made of colorful iridescent thread; some were round, some were rectangular, and they rode on his head as if they were on water. They seemed to make him taller, handsomer, and more likable. Partly because they were clown like and disarming, partly because they balanced his two profiles. The hats suited him. They disguised his hair, jet black and ropey as with all the Clericuzio.
One day in the den, where Silvio's photo still occupied the place of honor, Dante asked his grandfather, «How did he die?»
The Don said shortly, «An accident.»
«He was your favorite son, right?» Dante asked.
The Don was startled by all this. Dante was still only fifteen. «Why would this be true?» the Don asked.
«Because he's dead,» Dante said with a sly grin, and it took the Don a few moments to realize that this raw youth had dared to make such a joke.
The Don also knew that Dante roamed and searched his office suite in the house when the Don was down at dinner. This did not disturb him, children were always curious about the old and the Don never had anything on paper that would divulge information of any kind. Don Clericuzio had a huge blackboard in a corner of his brain that was chalked with all necessary information, including the totals of all the sins and virtues of those dearest to him.
But as Don Clericuzio became more wary of Dante, he showed him even more affection, assuring the boy he was to be one of the heirs to his Family Empire. And rebukes and admonitions were given the boy by his uncles, primarily Giorgio.
Finally, the Don despaired of Dante joining the retreat into a legal society and gave his permission for Dante to train to be a Hammer.
The Don heard his daughter, Rose Marie, calling him to dinner in the kitchen where they ate when it was just the two of them. He went in, sat in the chair in front of the large, colorful bowl of angel hair pasta covered with tomatoes and fresh basil from his garden. She put the silver bowl of grated cheese before him, the cheese was very yellow, which proved its nutty sweetness. Rose Marie came to sit opposite him. She was gay and cheerful, and he was delighted by her good humor. Tonight there would be none of her terrible fits. She was as she had been before the Santadio War.
What a tragedy that had been, one of the few mistakes he had made, one that proved a victory was not always a victory. But who would have thought that Rose Marie would remain forever a widow? Lovers always loved again, he'd always believed that. At that moment the Don felt an overpowering affection for his daughter. She would excuse Dante's small sins. Rose Marie leaned over and gave the Don's grizzled head an affectionate caress.
He took a huge spoonful of the grated cheese and felt its nutty heat against his gums. He sipped his wine and watched Rose Marie carve the leg of lamb. She served him three crusty brown potatoes, glossy with fat. His troubled mind cleared. Who was better than him?
He was in such a good mood that he let Rose Marie persuade him to watch television with her in the sitting room for the second time that week.
After watching four hours filled with horror, he said to Rose Marie, «Is it possible to live in such a world where everyone does what he pleases? No one is punished by God or man and no one has to earn a living? Are there such women who follow every whim? Men such foolish weaklings, who succumb to every little desire, every little dream of happiness? Where are the honest husbands who work to earn their bread, who think of the best ways to protect their children from fate and the cruel world? Where are the people who understand a piece of cheese, a glass of wine, a warm house at the end of the day is reward enough? Who are these people who yearn for some mysterious happiness? What an uproar they make of life, what tragedies they brew up out of nothing.» The Don patted his daughter on the head and waved at the television screen with a dismissive hand. He said, «Let them all swim at the bottom of the ocean.» Then he gave her a final piece of wisdom. «Everyone is responsible for everything he does.»
That night, alone in his bedroom, the Don stepped out on his balcony. The houses in the compound were all brightly illuminated; he could hear the thwack of tennis balls on the tennis court and see the players underneath its bank of lights. There were no children playing outdoors so late. He could see the guards on the gate and around the house.
He pondered what steps he could take to prevent future tragedy. His love for his daughter and grandson washed over him, that was what made old age worthwhile. He would simply have to protect them as best he could. Then he was angry with himself. Why was he always foreseeing tragedy? He had solved all the problems in his life and he would solve this one.
Still, his mind whirled with plans. He thought of Senator Wavven. For years he had given the man millions of dollars to get legislation passed to ensure legalized gambling. But the senator was slippery. It was too bad that Gronevelt was not still alive; Cross and Giorgio did not have the necessary skill to prod him. Perhaps the gambling empire would never come to pass.
Then he thought of his old friend David Redfellow, now living so comfortably in Rome. Perhaps it was time to bring him back into the Family. It was all very well for Cross to be so forgiving of his Hollywood partners. After all, he was young. He could not know that one sign of weakness might be fatal. The Don decided he would summon David Redfellow from Rome to do something about the movie business.
A WEEK AFTER the death of Boz Skannet, Cross received, through Claudia, a dinner invitation to Athena Aquitane's house in Malibu.
Cross flew from Vegas to L.A., rented a car, and arrived at the Malibu Colony guarded gatehouse as the sun began to fall into the ocean. There was no longer any special security, though there was still the secretary in the guest house who checked and buzzed him in. He walked through the longitudinal garden to the house on the beach. There was still the little South American maid, who led him to the sea-green living room that seemed just out of reach of the Pacific Ocean waves.
Athena was waiting for him, and she was even more beautiful than he remembered. She was dressed in a green blouse and slacks, and she seemed to melt and become part of the mist over the ocean behind her. He could not take his eyes off her. She shook his hand in greeting, not the usual Hollywood kiss on both cheeks. She had drinks ready and she handed him one. It was Evian water with lime. They sat in the large, mint green upholstered chairs that faced the ocean. The descending sun scattered gold coins of light in the room.
Cross was so aware of her beauty that he had to bow his head to avoid looking at her. The golden helmet of hair, the creamy skin, the way her long body sprawled in her chair. Some of the gold coins fell into her green eyes, fleeting shadows. He felt an urgent desire to touch her, to be closer to her, to own her.
Athena seemed unaware of the emotions she was causing. She sipped her drink and said quietly, «I wanted to thank you for keeping me in the movie business.»
The sound of her voice further entranced Cross. It was not sultry or inviting. But it had such a velvet tone, it had such regal confidence and yet was so warm, that he just wanted her to keep talking. Jesus Christ, he thought, what the hell is this? He was ashamed of her power over him. His head still down, he murmured, «I thought I could get you back to work by appealing to your greed.»
«That is not one of my many weaknesses,» Athena said. Now she turned her head from the ocean so that she could look directly into his eyes. «Claudia told me the Studio reneged on their deal once my husband killed himself. You had to give them back the picture and take a percentage.»
Cross kept his face impassive. He hoped to banish everything he was feeling about her. «I guess I'm not a very good businessman,» he said. He wanted to give her the impression that he was ineffective.
«Molly Flanders wrote your contract,» Athena said. «She's the best. You could have held on.»
Cross shrugged. «A matter of politics. I want to get into the movie business permanently and didn't want enemies as powerful as LoddStone Studios.»
«I could help you,» Athena said. «I could refuse to return to the picture.»
Cross felt a thrill that she would do that for him. He considered the offer. The Studio might still take him to court. Also, he could not bear to make Athena put him in her debt. And then it occurred to him that though Athena was beautiful that didn't mean she was not clever.
«Why would you do that?» he asked.
Athena got up from her chair and moved to stand close to the picture window. The beaches were gray shadows, the sun had disappeared, and the ocean seemed to reflect the mountain ranges behind her house and the Pacific Coast Highway. She gazed out toward the now blue-black water, the small waves rippling in slyly. She did not turn her head to him when she said, «Why would I do that? Simply because I knew Boz Skannet better than anybody. And I don't care if he left a hundred suicide notes, he would never kill himself.»
Cross shrugged. «Dead is dead,» he said.
«That's true,» Athena said. She turned to face him, looked directly at him. «You buy the picture and suddenly Boz conveniently commits suicide. You're my candidate as the killer.» Even stern, her face was so beautiful to Cross that his voice was not as steady as he would have wished.
«How about the Studio?» Cross said. «Marrion is one of the most powerful men in the country. What about Bantz and Skippy Deere?»
Athena shook her head. «They understood what I was asking them. Just as you did. They didn't do it, they sold the picture to you. They didn't care if I was killed after the picture was finished, but you did. And I knew you would help me even when you said you couldn't. When I heard about you buying the picture, I knew exactly what you would do, but I must say I didn't think you could be so clever.»
Suddenly she came toward him and he rose from his chair. She took his hands in hers. He could smell her body, her breath.
Athena said, «That was the only evil thing I have ever done in my life. Making somebody commit murder. It was terrible. I would have been a much better person if I had done it myself. But I couldn't.»
Cross said, «Why were you so sure I would do something?»
Athena said, «Claudia told me so much about you. I understood who you were but she's so naive, she still hasn't caught on. She thinks you're just a tough guy with a lot of clout.»
Cross became very alert. She was trying to get him to admit his guilt. Something he would never do even to a priest, not even to God himself.
Athena said, «And the way you looked at me. A lot of men have looked at me that way. I'm not being immodest, I know I'm beautiful, people have been telling me that since I was a child. I always knew I had power, but I could never really understand that power. I'm not really happy with it but I use it. What they call “love”. »
Cross let go of her hands. «Why were you so afraid of your husband? Because he could ruin your career?»
For one moment there was a flash of anger in her eyes. «It wasn't my career,» she said, «and it wasn't out of fear, though I knew he would kill me. I had a better reason.» She paused, then said, «I can make them give you the picture back. I can refuse to keep working.»
«No,» Cross said.
Athena smiled and said with a brilliant, gay cheerfulness, «Then we can just go to bed together. I find you very attractive and I'm sure we'll have a good time.»
His first reaction was one of anger, that she could think she could just buy him off. That she was acting a part, using her skill as a woman the same way a man would use physical force. But what really bothered him was that he could hear a faint bit of mockery in her voice. Mockery of his gallantry, and turning his true love into a simple screw. As if she was telling him that his love for her was as fake as her love for him.
He said to her coolly, «I had a long talk with Boz, trying to make a deal. He said he used to fuck you five times a day when you were married.»
He was pleased that she seemed startled. She said, «I wasn't counting, but it was a lot. I was eighteen and I really loved him. Isn't it funny that now I wanted him dead?» She frowned a moment and said, casually, «What else did you talk about?»
Cross looked at her grimly. «Boz told me the terrible secret you had between you. He claims you confessed that when you ran away, you buried your baby in the desert.»
Athena's face became a mask, her green eyes went dull. For the first time that night, Cross felt she could not possibly be acting. Her face had a pallor no actress could achieve. She whispered to him, «Do you really believe I murdered my baby?»
«Boz said that's what you told him,» Cross said.
«I did tell him that,» Athena said. «Now, I'm asking you again. Do you believe I murdered my baby?»
There is nothing so terrible as to condemn a beautiful woman. Cross knew that if he answered truthfully, he would lose her forever. Suddenly he put his arms around her very gently. «You're too beautiful. Nobody as beautiful as you could do that.» The eternal worship of men for beauty against all evidence. «No,» he said. «I don't believe you did.»
She stepped away from him. «Even though I'm responsible for Boz?»
«You're not responsible,» Cross said. «He killed himself.»
Athena was gazing at him intently. He took her hands. «Do you believe I killed Boz?» he asked.
And then Athena smiled, an actress who finally realized how to play a scene. «No more than you believe I killed my baby.»
They smiled, they had declared each other innocent. She took his hand and said, «Now, I'm cooking dinner for you and then we're going to bed.» She led him into the kitchen.
How many times had she played this scene, Cross thought jealously. The beautiful Queen performing housewifely duties like an ordinary woman. He watched her cook. She wore no protective clothing and she was extraordinarily professional. She spoke to him as she chopped vegetables, prepared a skillet, and set the table. She gave him a bottle of wine to open, holding his hand and brushing against his body. She saw him looking with admiration when the table was laden after just a half hour.
She said, «I played a woman chef in one of my first roles, so I went to school to get everything right. And one critic wrote, “When Athena Aquitane acts as well as she cooks, she will be a star.” »
They ate in the alcove of the kitchen so they could look at the rolling ocean. The food was delicious, little squares of beef covered with vegetables and then a salad of bitter greens. There was a platter of cheeses and warm short loaves of bread, plump as pigeons. Then there was espresso with a small, light lemon tart.
«You should have been a cook,» Cross said, «My cousin Vincent would hire you for his restaurants any day.»
«Oh, I could have been anything,» Athena said with mock boastfulness.
All through dinner she had touched him casually in a way that was sexual, as if she were searching for some spirit in his flesh. Cross with every touch yearned to feel her body on his. By the end of the meal, he no longer could taste what he was eating. Finally they were done and Athena took him by the hand and led him out of the kitchen and up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom. She did it gracefully, almost shyly, almost blushing, as if she were an eager virginal bride. Cross marveled at her acting ability.
The large bedroom was at the very top of the house and had a small balcony that looked out over the ocean. The walls were covered with a weird, garish painting that seemed to light up the room.
They stood on the balcony and watched the room illuminate the beach sand with a spooky yellow glow, the other Malibu houses squatted along the water showing little boxes of light. Tiny birds, as if playing a game, ran in and out of the incoming waves to escape getting wet.
Athena put her hand on Cross's shoulder, around his body, the other hand reaching out to pull his mouth down to hers. They kissed for a long time as the warm ocean air washed over them. Then Athena led him inside the bedroom.
She undressed quickly, slipping out of her green blouse and slacks. Her white body flashed in the moon-ridden darkness. She was as beautiful as he had imagined. The rising breasts with their raspberry nipples seemed spun of sugar. Her long legs, the curve of her hips, the blond hair at her crotch, her absolute stillness, limned by misty ocean air.
Cross reached out for her body and her flesh was velvet, her lips filled with the scent of flowers. The sheer joy of touching her was so sweet he could not do anything else. Athena began to undress him. She did so gently, running her hands over his body as he had over hers. Then, kissing him, she gently pulled him onto the bed.
Cross made love with a passion he had never known or even dreamed existed. He was so urgent that Athena had to stroke his face to gentle him. He could not let loose of her body, even after they climaxed. They lay intertwined until they began again. She was even more ardent than before, as if it was some sort of contest, some sort of avowal. Finally they both drifted off into slumber.
Cross awoke just as the sun showed above the horizon. For the first time in his life, he had a headache. Naked, he moved onto the balcony and sat on one of the straw chairs. He watched the sun shine over the ocean.
She was a dangerous woman. The murderer of her own child, whose bones were now filled with desert sand. And she was too skillful in bed. She could be the end of him. At that moment he decided he would never see her again.
Then he felt her arms around his neck and his face twisted around to kiss her. She was in a white fluffy bathrobe, and her hair was held in place by pins that glittered like jewels in a crown. «Take a shower and I'll make you breakfast before you go,» she said.
She led him into the double bathroom, two sinks, two marble counters, two bathtubs, and two showers. It was stocked with men's toilet articles, razors, shaving cream, skin toners, brushes, and combs.
When he had finished and was out on the balcony again, Athena brought a tray with croissants, coffee, and orange juice to the table. «I can make you bacon and eggs,» she said.
«This is fine,» Cross said.
«When will I see you again?» Athena asked.
«I have lots of things to do in Las Vegas,» Cross said. «I'll call you next week.»
Athena gave him an appraising look. «That means good-bye, doesn't it?» she asked. «And I really enjoyed last night.»
Cross shrugged. «You paid off your obligation,» he said.
She gave him a good-humored grin and said, «And with amazing goodwill, don't you think? It wasn't begrudging.»
Cross laughed. «No,» he said.
She seemed to read his mind. Last night they had lied to each other, this morning the lies had no power. She seemed to know that her beauty was too much for him to trust. That he felt in danger with her, and with her confessed sins. She seemed deep in thought and ate silently. Then she said to him, «I know you're busy but I have something to show you. Can you spare this morning and catch an afternoon plane? It's important. I want to take you someplace.»
Cross could not resist spending one last time with her and so he said yes.
Athena drove them in her car, a Mercedes SL 300, and took the highway south to San Diego. But just before they reached the city, she turned off into a thin road that led inland through the mountains.
In fifteen minutes they came to a compound enclosed by barbed wire. Inside the compound were six redbrick buildings separated by green lawns and connected by sky blue painted walkways. In one of the green squares, a group of about twenty children were playing with a soccer ball. On another green about ten children were flying kites. There was a group of three or four adults standing around watching them, but something seemed odd about the scene. When the soccer ball flew through the air, it seemed most of the children ran away from it, while on the other square the kites flew up, up, into the sky and never returned.
«What is this place?» Cross asked.
Athena looked pleadingly at him. «Just come with me please for now. Later, you can ask your questions.»
Athena drove to the entry gate and showed a gold ID badge to the security guard. Passing through, she drove to the largest building and parked.
Once inside at the reception desk, Athena asked the attendant something in a low voice. Cross stood back, but still he heard the answer. «She was in a mood so we gave her a hug in her room.»
«What the hell was that?» Cross asked.
But Athena didn't answer. She took his hand and led him through a long, shiny tile hallway to an adjoining building and into some sort of dormitory.
A nurse sitting at the entrance asked their names. When she nodded, Athena led Cross down another long hallway of doors. Finally, she opened one.
They were standing in a pretty bedroom, large and full of light. There were the same strange, dark paintings as on the wall in Athena's house, but here they were strewn on the floor. On the wall a small shelf held a row of pretty dolls dressed in starched Amish costumes. Also on the floor were several other scraps of drawings and paintings.
There was a small bed covered with a pink fuzzy blanket, the pillows white with red roses stitched all over them. But there was no child in the bed.
Athena walked toward a large box that was open at the top, its walls and base covered with a thick, soft pad colored light blue, and when Cross looked inside he saw the child lying there. She didn't notice them. She was fiddling with a knob at the head of the box, and Cross watched as she forced the pads together, almost crushing herself.
She was a small girl of ten, a tiny copy of Athena, but without emotion, devoid of all expression, and her green eyes were as unseeing as those of a porcelain doll. Yet each time she turned the controls to make the panels squeeze her tight, her face shone with complete serenity. She did not acknowledge them in any way.
Athena moved to the top of the wooden box. She switched the controls so that she could lift the child out of the box. The child seemed to weigh almost nothing.
Athena held her like an infant and bent her head to kiss the child's cheek, but the child flinched and pulled away.
«It's your mommy,» Athena said. «Won't you give me a kiss?»
The tone of her voice broke Cross's heart. It was an abject pleading, but now the child was churning wildly within her arms. Finally Athena gently put her down on the floor. The child scrambled to her knees and immediately picked up a box of paints and a huge cardboard sheet. Completely absorbed, she began to paint.
Cross stood back and watched as Athena tried all her acting skill to establish a rapport with the child. First she kneeled down next to the little girl and was the loving playmate helping her daughter paint, but the child took no notice.
Athena then sat up, tried to be a confiding parent telling the child what was happening in the world. Then Athena became a fawning adult praising the child's paintings. To all this the child merely kept moving away. Athena picked up one of the brushes and tried to help, but when the child did see, she grabbed the brush away. She never said a word.
Finally Athena gave up.
«I'll come back tomorrow, darling,» she said. «I'll take you for a ride and I'll bring a new paint box. See,» she said, tears welling in her eyes, «you're running out of reds.» She tried to give the child a farewell kiss but was held away by two small, beautiful hands.
Finally Athena rose and led Cross out of the room.
Athena gave him the keys to the car so he could drive back to Malibu, and during the ride, she held her head in her hands and wept. Cross was so stunned he could not say a word.
When they got out of the car, Athena seemed to have control of herself. She pulled Cross into the house and then turned and faced him. «That was the baby I told Boz I buried in the desert. Now do you believe me?» And for the first time Cross really believed she might love him.
Athena led him into the kitchen and made coffee. They sat in the alcove to watch the ocean. As they drank their coffee, Athena started speaking. She talked casually, no emotion in her voice or on her face.
«When I ran away from Boz, I left my baby with some distant cousins, a married couple in San Diego. She seemed a normal baby. I didn't know she was autistic then, maybe she wasn't. I left her there because I was determined to be a successful actress. I had to make money for both of us. I was sure I was talented and God knows everybody told me how beautiful I was. I always thought that when I was successful, I could take my baby back.»
«So I worked in Los Angeles and visited her in San Diego whenever I could. Then I began to break through and I didn't see her that often, maybe once a month. Finally when I was ready to bring her home I went to her third birthday party with all kinds of presents, but Bethany seemed to have slipped into another world. She was a blank. I couldn't reach her at all. I was frantic. I thought maybe she had a brain tumor, I remembered when Boz had let her fall on the floor, that maybe her brain had been injured and it was now beginning to show. For months after that I brought her to doctors, she underwent a battery of tests of all kinds, I took her to specialists and they checked everything. Then someone, and I don't remember whether it was the doctor in Boston or the psychiatrist in Texas Children's Hospital, told me she was autistic. I didn't even know what that meant except that I thought it was some kind of retardation. “No,” the doctor said. It meant she lived in her own world, was unaware of other people's existence, had no interest in them, could feel nothing for anything or anyone. It was when I brought her to the clinic here to be close to me that we found she could respond to that hugging machine you saw. That seemed to help, so I had to leave her there.»
Cross sat without a word, while Athena continued. «Being autistic meant she could never love me. But the doctors told me some autistic people are talented, even genius-like. And I think Bethany is a genius. Not only with her painting. Something else. The doctors tell me that after many years of hard training some autistic people can be taught to care for some things, then some people. A few can even live a near-to-normal life. Right now, Bethany can't stand listening to music or any noise. But at first she couldn't bear to have me touch her, and now she's learned to tolerate me, so she's better than she used to be.
«She still rejects me but not as violently. We've made some progress. I used to think it was punishment for my neglect of her because I wanted to be a success. But the specialists say that sometimes though it seems hereditary, it can be acquired, but they don't know what really makes it happen. The doctors told me it had nothing to do with Boz dropping her on her head or me deserting her, but I don't know if I believe that. They kept trying to reassure me that we were not responsible, that it was one of the mysteries of life, maybe it was preordained. They insisted nothing could have prevented it from happening and nothing can ever change it. But again something inside me refuses to believe any of that.
«Even when I first found out, I thought about it constantly. I had to make some hard decisions. I knew I would be helpless to rescue her until I made a lot of money. So I put her in the clinic and visited her at least one weekend a month and some weekdays. Finally, I got rich, I was famous and nothing that mattered before mattered any longer. All I wanted was to be with Bethany. Even if this hadn't happened, I was going to quit after Messalina anyway.»
«Why?» Cross asked. «What were you going to do?»
«There's a special clinic in France with this great doctor,» Athena explained. «And I was going to go there after the picture. Then Boz showed up and I knew he would kill me and Bethany would be all alone. That's why I sort of put a contract out on him. She has nobody but me. And well, I'll bear that sin.» Athena paused now and smiled at Cross. «It's worse than the soaps, isn't it?» she said with a small smile.
Cross looked out over the ocean. It was a very bright oily blue in the sunlight. He remembered the little girl and her blank, mask-like face that would never open up to this world.
«What was that box she was lying in?» he asked.
Athena laughed. «That's what gives me hope,» she said. «Sad, isn't it? It's a hug box. A lot of autistic children use it when they get depressed. It's just like a hug from a person but they don't have to connect or relate to another human being.» Athena took a deep breath and said, «Cross, someday I'm going to take the place of that box. That's the whole purpose of my life now. My life has no meaning except for that. Isn't that funny? The Studio tells me that I get thousands of letters from people who love me. In public people want to touch me. Men keep telling me they love me. Everybody but Bethany, and she's the only one I want.»
Cross said, «I'll help you in any way I can.»
«Then call me next week,» Athena said. «Let's be together as much as we can until Messalina is finished.»
«I'll call,» Cross said. «I can't prove my innocence, but I love you more than anything in my life.»
«And are you truly innocent?» Athena asked.
«Yes,» Cross said. Now that she had been proven innocent, he could not bear for her to know.
Cross thought about Bethany, her blank face so artistically beautiful with its sharp planes, its mirror eyes; the rare human being totally free of sin.
As for Athena, she had been judging Cross. Of all the people she knew, he was the only one who had ever seen her daughter since the child had been diagnosed as autistic. It had been a test.
One of the greatest shocks of her life came when she found out that though she was so beautiful, though she was so talented (and, she thought with self-mockery, so kind, so gentle, so generous), her closest friends, men who loved her, relatives who adored her, sometimes seemed to relish her misfortunes.
It was when Boz had given her a black eye, and though everyone called Boz a «no-good bastard,» she caught in all of them a fleeting look of satisfaction. At first she thought she had imagined it, was too sensitive. But when Boz had given her the second black eye, she caught those looks again. And she had been terribly hurt. For this time she had understood completely.
Of course they all loved her, she did not doubt that. But it seemed no one could resist a little touch of malice. Greatness in any form arouses envy.
One of the reasons she loved Claudia was because Claudia had never betrayed her with that look.
It was why she kept Bethany so secret from her day-to-day life. She hated the idea that people she loved would have that fleeting look of satisfaction, that she had been punished for her own beauty.
So though she knew the power of her beauty and used that power, she despised it. She longed for the day when lines would cut deep into her perfect face, each showing a path she had taken, a journey survived, when her body would fill out, soften and enlarge her to provide comfort for those she'd hold and care for, and her eyes would grow more liquid with mercy from all the suffering she'd witnessed and all the tears she'd never shed. She'd grow smile lines around her mouth from laughing at herself, and at life itself. How free she would be when she no longer feared the consequences of her physical beauty and instead delighted in its loss as it was replaced by a more enduring serenity.
And so she had kept careful watch on Cross De Lena when he met Bethany, saw his slight recoil at first but then afterward nothing. She knew he was helplessly in love with her and she saw he did not have that certain look of satisfaction when he knew of her misfortune with Bethany.
CLAUDIA WAS DETERMINED to cash in on her sexual marker with Eli Marrion; she would shame him into giving Ernest Vail the points he wanted on his novel. It was a long shot, but she was willing to compromise her principles. Bobby Bantz was implacable on gross points, but Eli Marrion was unpredictable and had a soft spot for her. Besides, it was an honorable custom in the movie business that sexual congress, no matter how brief, demanded a certain material courtesy.
Vail's threat of suicide had been the trigger for this meeting. If carried out, the rights to his novel would revert to his former wife and her children, and Molly Flanders would drive a hard bargain. Nobody believed in the threat, not even Claudia, but Bobby Bantz and Eli Marrion, operating from their knowledge of what they would do for money, always had to worry.
When Claudia, Ernest, and Molly arrived at LoddStone, they found only Bobby Bantz in the executive suite. He looked uncomfortable, though he tried to disguise it with effusive greetings, especially to Vail. «Our National Treasure,» he said and hugged Ernest with respectful affection.
Molly was immediately alert, wary. «Where's Eli?» she said. «He's the only one who can make the final decision on this.»
Bantz's voice was reassuring. «Eli's in the hospital, Cedar Sinai, nothing serious, just a checkup. That's confidential. The LoddStone stock goes up and down on his health.»
Claudia said dryly, «He's over eighty, everything is serious.»
«No, no,» Bantz said. «We do business every day in the hospital. He's even sharper. So present your case to me and I'll tell him your story when I visit.»
«No,» Molly said curtly.
But Ernest Vail said, «Let's talk to Bobby.»
They presented their case. Bantz was amused but did not laugh outright. He said, «I've heard everything in this town but this is a beauty. I ran it by my lawyers and they say that Vail's demise does not affect our rights. It's a complicated legal point.»
«Run it by your PR people,» Claudia said. «If Ernest does it and the whole story comes out LoddStone will look like shit. Eli won't like that. He has more moral sense.»
«Than me?» Bobby Bantz said politely. But he was furious. Why didn't people understand that Marrion approved everything he did. He turned to Ernest and said, «How would you knock yourself off? Gun, knife, out the window?»
Vail grinned at him. «Hara-kiri on your desk, Bobby.» They all laughed.
«We're getting nowhere,» Molly said. «Why can't we all go to the hospital and see Eli?»
Vail said, «I'm not going to a sick man's hospital bed and argue about money.»
They all looked at him sympathetically. Of course in conventional terms it seemed insensitive. But men in sickbeds planned murders, revolution, frauds, studio betrayals. A hospital bed was not a true sanctuary. And they knew that Vail's protest was basically a romantic convention.
Molly said coldly, «Keep your mouth shut, Ernest, if you want to remain my client. Eli has screwed a hundred people from his hospital bed. Bobby, let's make a sensible deal. LoddStone has a gold mine in the sequels. You can afford to give Ernest a couple of gross points, for insurance.»
Bantz was horrified, a hot stab went through his bowels. «Gross points?» he shouted incredulously. «Never.»
«OK,» Molly said. «How about a structured five percent of the net? No advertising charges, no interest deductions or gross points to the stars.»
Bantz said contemptuously, «That's almost gross. And we all know that Ernest won't kill himself. That's too stupid and he is too intelligent.» What he really wanted to say was that the guy didn't have the balls.
«Why gamble?» Molly said. «I've gone over the figures. You plan at least three sequels. That's at least a half billion in rentals including foreign but not the videos and TV. And God knows how much money you fucking thieves make in video. So why not give Ernest points, a measly twenty million. You would give that to any half-assed star.»
Bantz thought it over. Then he turned on the charm. «Ernest,» he said, «as a novelist you are a National Treasure. No one respects you more than me. And Eli has read every one of your books. He absolutely adores you. So we want to come to an accommodation.»
Claudia was embarrassed at how Ernest obviously swallowed this bullshit, though to his credit, he shuddered a bit at the «National Treasure.»
«Be specific,» he said. Now Claudia was proud of him.
Bantz spoke to Molly. «How about a five-year contract at ten grand a week to write original scripts and do some rewrites and of course on the originals we only get first look. And for every rewrite he gets an additional fifty grand a week. In five years he could make as much as ten million.»
«Double the money,» Molly said. «Then we can talk.»
At this point Vail seemed to lose his almost angelic patience. «None of you are taking me seriously,» he said. «I can do simple arithmetic. Bobby, your deal is only worth two and a half. You'll never buy an original script from me and I'll never do one. You'll never give me rewrites. And what if you make six sequels? Then you make a billion.» Vail began to laugh with genuine enjoyment. «Two and a half million dollars doesn't help me.»
«What the fuck are you laughing about?» Bobby said.
Vail was almost hysterical. «I never dreamed in my life of even one million and now it doesn't help me.»
Claudia knew Vail's sense of humor. She said, «Why doesn't it help you?»
«Because I'll still be alive,» Vail said. «My family needs the points. They trusted me and I betrayed them.»
They would have been touched, even Bantz, except that Vail sounded so false, so self-satisfied.
Molly Flanders said, «Let's go talk to Eli.»
Vail lost his temper completely and stormed out of the door shouting, «I can't deal with you people. I won't beg a man on a hospital bed.»
When he was gone, Bobby Bantz said, «And you two want to stick up for that guy?»
«Why not?» Molly said. «I represented a guy who stabbed his mother and his own three kids. Ernest is no worse than him.»
«And what's your excuse?» Bantz asked Claudia.
«We writers have to stick together,» she said wryly. They all laughed.
«I guess that's about it,» Bobby said. «I did the best I could, right?»
Claudia said, «Bobby, why can't you give him a point or two, it's only fair.»
«Because over the years he's screwed a thousand writers and stars and directors. It's a matter of principle,» Molly said.
«That's right,» Bantz said. «And when they have the muscle they screw us. That's business.»
Molly said to Bantz with fake concern, «Eli is okay? Nothing serious?»
«He's fine,» Bantz said. «Don't sell your stock.»
Molly pounced. «Then he can see us.»
Claudia said, «I want to see him anyway. I really care about Eli. He gave me my first break.»
Bantz shrugged them off. Molly said, «You will really kick yourself if Ernest knocks himself off. Those sequels are worth more than I said. I softened him up for you.»
Bantz said scornfully, «That schmuck won't kill himself. He doesn't have the balls.»
«From “National Treasure” to “schmuck,” « Claudia said musingly.
Molly said, «The guy is definitely a little crazy. He'll croak out of sheer carelessness.»
«Does he do drugs?» Bantz asked, a little worried.
«No,» Claudia said, «but Ernest is full of surprises. He's a true eccentric who doesn't even know he's eccentric.»
Bantz pondered this for a moment. There was some merit in their argument. And besides he never believed in making unnecessary enemies. He didn't want Molly Flanders to carry a grudge against him. The woman was a terror.
«Let me call Eli,» he said. «If he gives the okay, I'll take you to the hospital.» He was sure that Marrion would refuse.
But to his surprise, Marrion said, «By all means, they can all come to see me.»
They drove to the hospital in Bantz's limo, which was a big stretch job but by no means luxurious. It was fitted with a fax, a computer, and a cellular phone. A bodyguard supplied by Pacific Ocean Security sat next to the driver. Another security car with two men followed behind.
The brown-tinted windows of the limo presented the city in the beige monochrome of old-time cowboy movies. As they progressed inward, the buildings became taller, as if they were penetrating a deep stone forest. Claudia was always amazed how in the short space of ten minutes she could go from a mildly bucolic small-town green to a metropolis of concrete and glass.
In Cedars Sinai, the hospital corridors seemed as vast as the halls of an airport, but the ceiling compressed like a bizarre camera shot in a German impressionist movie. They were met by a hospital coordinator, a handsome woman dressed in a severe but high-couture suit who reminded Claudia of the «Hosts» in Vegas hotels.
She led them to a special elevator that took them nonstop to the top penthouse suites.
These suites had huge carved black oak doors that reached from floor to ceiling, with shiny brass knobs. The doors opened like gates, to a suite of a hospital bedroom, a larger, open-walled room with dining table and chairs, a sofa and lounge chairs, and a secretarial niche that held a computer and fax. There was also a small kitchen space and guest bathroom in addition to the bathroom for the patient. The ceiling was very high and the absence of walls between the kitchen niche, the living room area, and the business nook gave the whole room the look of a movie set.
Lying on a crisp, white hospital bed, propped up by huge pillows, was Eli Marrion. He was reading an orange-covered script. On the table beside him were business folders with budgets of movies in production. A pretty young secretary seated on the other side of the bed was taking notes. Marrion always liked pretty women around him.
Bobby Bantz kissed Marrion on the cheek and said, «Eli, you look great, just great.» Molly and Claudia also kissed him on the cheek. Claudia had insisted on bringing flowers, and put them on the bed. Such familiarities were excused because the great Eli Marrion was ill.
Claudia was noting all the details as if researching a script. Medical dramas were almost financially foolproof.
In fact, Eli Marrion was not looking «great just great.» His lips were ridged with blue lines that seemed drawn with ink, he gasped for air when he spoke. Two green prongs grew from his nostrils, the prongs attached to a thin plastic tube that ran to a bubbling bottle of water that was plugged into the wall, all connected to some oxygen tank hidden there.
Marrion noted her gaze. «Oxygen,» he said.
«Only temporary,» Bobby Bantz said hurriedly. «Makes it easier for him to breathe.»
Molly Flanders ignored them. «Eli,» she said, «I've explained the situation to Bobby and he needs your OK.»
Marrion seemed to be in good humor. «Molly,» he said, «you were always the toughest lawyer in this town. Are you going to harass me on my deathbed?»
Claudia was distressed. «Eli, Bobby told us you were okay. And we really wanted to see you.» She was so obviously ashamed that Marrion raised his hand with acceptance and benediction.
«I understand all the arguments,» Marrion said. He made a motion of dismissal to the secretary and she left the room. The private duty nurse, a handsome, tough-looking woman, was reading a book at the dining room table. Marrion gestured to her to leave. She looked at him and shook her head. She resumed reading.
Marrion laughed, a low wheezing laugh. He said to the others, «That is Priscilla, the best nurse in California. She's an intensive care nurse, that's why she's so tough. My doctor recruited her especially for this case. She's the boss.»
Priscilla acknowledged them with a nod of her head and resumed reading.
Molly said, «I'll be willing to limit his points to a maximum of twenty million. It will be insurance. Why take the risk? And why be so unfair?»
Bantz said angrily, «It's not unfair. He signed a contract.»
«Fuck you, Bobby,» Molly said.
Marrion ignored them. «Claudia, what do you think?»
Claudia was thinking many things. Obviously Marrion was sicker than anyone was admitting. And it was terribly cruel to put pressure on this old man who had to make such an effort to even speak. She was tempted to say that she was leaving, then she remembered that Eli would never have let them come except for some purpose of his own.
«Ernest is a man who does surprising things,» Claudia said. «He is determined to provide for his family. But Eli, he's a writer and you always loved writers. Think of it as a contribution to art. Hell, you gave twenty million to the Metropolitan Museum. Why not do it for Ernest?»
«And have all the agents on our ass?» Bantz said.
Eli Marrion took a deep breath, the green prongs seemed to go deeper into his face. «Molly, Claudia, we will have to keep this our little secret. I'll give Vail two gross points to a max of twenty million. I'll give him a million up front. Will that satisfy you?»
Molly thought it over. Two gross points on all the pictures should yield a minimum of fifteen million but maybe more. It was the best she could do, and she was surprised that Marrion had gone so far. If she haggled he was quite capable of withdrawing the offer.
«That's wonderful, Eli, thank you.» She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. «I'll send your office a memo tomorrow. And Eli, I do hope you get well soon.»
Claudia could not restrain her emotion. She clasped Eli's hand in hers. She noticed the brown specks that mottled the skin, the hand chilly with approaching death. «You saved Ernest's life.»
At that moment Eli Marrion's daughter came into the room with her two small children. The nurse, Priscilla, rose from her chair like a cat scenting mice and moved toward the children, interposing herself between them and the bed. The daughter had been twice divorced and did not get on with her father, but she had a production company on the LoddStone lot because Eli was so fond of his grandchildren.
Claudia and Molly took their leave. They drove to Molly's office and called Ernest to tell him the good news. He insisted on taking them out to dinner to celebrate.
Marrion's daughter and two grandchildren stayed only a short time. But long enough for the daughter to get her father to promise to buy her a very expensive novel for her next movie.
Bobby Bantz and Eli Marrion were alone. «You're a soft touch today,» Bantz said.
Marrion felt the weariness in his body, the air being sucked into it. He could relax with Bobby, he never had to act with him. They had been through so much together, used power together, won wars, traveled and schemed through the wide world. They could read each other's minds.
«That novel I'm buying for my daughter, will it make a movie?» Marrion asked.
«Low-budget,» Bantz said. «Your daughter makes quote-unquote “serious” movies.»
Marrion made a weary gesture. «Why do we always have to pay for other people's good intentions? Give her a decent writer but no stars. She'll be happy and we won't lose too much money.»
«Are you really going to give Vail gross?» Bantz asked. «Our lawyer says we can win in court if he dies.»
Marrion said smilingly, «If I get well. If not, it will be up to you. You'll be running the show.»
Bantz was astonished at this sentimentality. «Eli, you'll get well, of course you will.» And he was absolutely sincere. He had no desire to succeed Eli Marrion, indeed he dreaded the day that inevitably had to come. He could do anything as long as Marrion approved it.
«It's going to be up to you, Bobby,» Marrion said. «The truth is that I'm not going to make it. The doctors tell me I need a heart transplant and I've decided not to get one. I can live maybe six months, maybe a year, maybe much less with this lousy heart I have. And besides, I'm too old to qualify for a transplant.»
Bantz was stunned. «They can't do a bypass?» he asked. When Marrion shook his head, Bantz went on. «Don't be ridiculous, of course you'll get a transplant. You built half the hospital, they have to give you a heart. You have another good ten years.» He paused for a moment. «You're tired, Eli, we'll talk about this tomorrow.» But Marrion had dozed off. Bantz left to check with the doctors and then to tell them to start all procedures to harvest a new heart for Eli Marrion.
Ernest Vail, Molly Flanders, and Claudia De Lena celebrated by having dinner at La Dolce Vita on Santa Monica. It was Claudia's favorite restaurant. She had memories of herself as a little girl being brought there by her father and being treated like royalty. She had memories of the bottles of red and white wine being stacked in all the window alcoves, on the back rails of banquettes, and in every vacant space. The customers could reach out and pluck a bottle as if they were grapes.
Ernest Vail was in good spirits, and Claudia wondered again how anybody could believe he would commit suicide. He was bubbling over with glee that his threat had worked. And the very good red wine put them all into a merry mood that was slightly boastful. They were very pleased with themselves. The food itself, robustly Italian, fueled their energy.
«Now what we have to think about,» Vail said, «is two points good enough or should we push for three?»
«Don't get greedy,» Molly said. «The deal is made.»
Vail kissed her hand movie-star style and said, «Molly you're a genius. A ruthless genius, true. How could you two browbeat a guy sick on his hospital bed?»
Molly dipped bread into tomato sauce. «Ernest,» she said, «you will never understand this town. There is no mercy. Not when you're drunk, or on coke, or in love, or broke. Why make an exception for sick?»
Claudia said, «Skippy Deere once told me that when you're buying, take people to a Chinese restaurant, but when you're selling, take them to an Italian restaurant. Does that make any sense?»
«He's a producer,» Molly said. «He read it someplace. It doesn't mean anything without a context.»
Vail was eating with the gusto of a reprieved criminal. He had ordered three different kinds of pasta just for himself but gave small portions to Claudia and Molly and demanded their opinions. «The best Italian food in the world outside Rome,» he said. «About Skippy, it makes a certain kind of movie sense. Chinese food is cheap, it brings the price down. Italian food can put you to sleep and make you less sharp. I like both. Isn't it nice to know that Skippy is always scheming?»
Vail always ordered three desserts. Not that he ate all of them, but he wanted to taste many different things at one dinner. In him it did not seem eccentric. Not even the way he dressed, as if clothes were to shield skin from wind or sun, or the way he carelessly shaved, one sideburn cut lower than the other. Not even his threat to kill himself seemed illogical or strange. Nor his complete and childish frankness, which often hurt people's feelings. Claudia was not unused to eccentricity. Hollywood abounded with eccentrics.
«You know, Ernest, you belong to Hollywood. You're eccentric enough,» she said.
«I am not an eccentric,» Vail said. «I'm not that sophisticated.»
«You don't call wanting to kill yourself over a dispute about money eccentric?» Claudia said.
«That was an extremely cool-headed response to our culture,» Vail said. «I was tired of being a nobody.»
Claudia said impatiently, «How can you think that? You've written ten books, you've won the Pulitzer. You're internationally famous.»
Vail had polished off his three pastas and was looking at his entrée, three pearly slices of veal covered with lemon. He picked up a fork and knife. «All that means shit,» he said. «I have no money. It took me fifty-five years to learn that if you have no money, you're shit.»
Molly said, «You're not eccentric, you're crazy. And stop whining because you're not rich. You're not poor either. Or we wouldn't be here. You're not suffering too much for your art.»
Vail put down his knife and fork. He patted Molly's arm. «You're right,» he said. «Everything you say is true. I enjoy life from moment to moment. It's the arc of life that gets me down.» He drank his glass of wine and then went on matter-of-factly. «I'm never going to write again,» he said. «Writing novels is a dead end, like being a blacksmith. It's all movies and TV now.»
«That's nonsense,» Claudia said. «People will always read.»
«You're just lazy,» Molly said. «Any excuse not to write. That's the real reason why you wanted to kill yourself.» They all laughed. Ernest helped them to the veal on his dish and then to the extra desserts. The only time he was courtly was over dinner, he seemed to take pleasure in feeding people.
«That's all true,» he said. «But a novelist can't make a good living unless he writes simple novels. And even that is a dead end. A novel can never be as simple as a movie.»
Claudia said angrily, «Why do you put movies down? I've seen you cry at good movies. And they are art.»
Vail was enjoying himself. After all, he had won his fight against the Studio, he had his points. «Claudia, I really agree,» he said. «Movies are art. I complain out of envy. Movies are making novels irrelevant. What's the point of writing a lyrical passage about nature, painting the world in red heat, a beautiful sunset, a mountain range coated with snow, the awe-inspiring waves of great oceans.» He was declaiming, waving his arms. «What can you write about passion and the beauty of women? What's the use of all that when you can see it on the movie screen in Technicolor? Oh, those mysterious women with full red lips, their magical eyes, when you can see them bare-assed, tits as delicious-looking as beef Wellington. All much better than real life even, never mind prose. And how can we write about the amazing deeds of heroes who slay their enemies by the hundred, who conquer great odds and great temptation, when you can get it all in gouts of blood before your eyes, tortured, agonized faces on the screen. Actors and cameras doing all the work without processing through the brain. Sly Stallone as Achilles in the Iliad. Now the one thing the screen can't do is get into the minds of their characters, it cannot duplicate the thinking process, the complexity of life.» He paused for a moment, then said wistfully, «But you know what's worst of all? I'm an elitist. I wanted to be an artist to be something special. So what I hate is that movies are such a democratic art. Anybody can make a movie. You're right, Claudia, I've seen movies that moved me to tears and I know for a fact that the people who made them are moronic, insensitive, uneducated, and with not an iota of morality. The screenwriter is illiterate, the director an egomaniac, the producer a butcher of morality and the actors smash their fists into the wall or a mirror to show the audience they are upset. But then the movie works. How can that be? Because a movie uses sculpture, painting, music, human bodies, and technology to form itself, while a novelist only has a string of words, black print on white paper. And to tell the truth that's not so terrible. That's progress. And the new great art. A democratic art. And art without suffering. Just buy the right camera and meet with your friends.»
Vail beamed at the two women. «Isn't it wonderful, an art that requires no real talent? What democracy, what therapy, to make your own movie. It will replace sex. I go to see your movie and you come to see mine. It's an art that will transform the world and for the better. Claudia, be happy that you are in an art form that is the future.»
«You are a condescending prick,» Molly said. «Claudia fought for you, defended you. And I've been more patient with you than any murderer I've defended. And you buy us dinner to insult us.»
Vail seemed genuinely astonished. «I'm not insulting, I'm just defining. I am grateful and I love you both.» He paused for a moment and then said humbly, «I'm not saying I'm better than you.»
Claudia burst out laughing. «Ernest, you're so full of shit,» she said.
«Just in real life,» Vail said amiably. «Can we talk business a little bit? Molly, if I were dead and my family regained all the rights, would LoddStone pay five points?»
«At least five,» Molly said. «Now you're going to kill yourself over extra points? You lose me entirely.»
Claudia was looking at him, troubled. She distrusted his high spirits. «Ernest, are you still unhappy? We got you a wonderful deal. I was so thrilled.»
Vail said fondly, «Claudia, you have no idea what the real world is all about. Which makes you perfect to do screenplays. What the hell difference does it make if I'm happy? The happiest man who ever lived is going to have terrible times in his life. Terrible tragedies. Look at me now. I've just won a great victory, I don't have to kill myself. I'm enjoying this meal, I'm enjoying the company of you two beautiful, intelligent, compassionate women. And I love it that my wife and children will have economic security.»
«Then why the fuck are you whining?» Molly asked him. «Why are you spoiling a good time?»
«Because I can't write,» Vail said. «Which is no great tragedy. It's not really important anymore but it's the only thing I know how to do.» As he was saying this, he was finishing the three desserts with such evident enjoyment that the two women burst out laughing. Vail grinned back at them. «We sure bluffed out old Eli,» he said.
«You take writer's block too seriously,» Claudia said. «Just take some speed.»
«Screenwriters don't have writer's block because they don't write,» Vail said. «I cannot write because I have nothing to say. Now let's talk about something more interesting. Molly, I've never understood how I can have ten percent of the profit of a picture that grosses one hundred million dollars and costs only fifteen million to make, and then never see a penny. That's one mystery I'd like to solve before I die.»
This put Molly in good spirits again; she loved to teach the law. She took a notebook out of her purse and scribbled down some figures.
«It's absolutely legal,» she said. «They are abiding by the contract, one you should not have signed in the first place. Look, take the one-hundred-million gross. The theaters, the exhibitors, take half, so now the studio only gets fifty million, which is called rentals.
«OK. The studio takes out the fifteen million dollars the picture costs. Now there's thirty-five million left. But by the terms of your contract and most studio contracts, the studio takes thirty percent of the rentals for distribution costs on the film. That's another fifteen mil in their pockets. So you're down to twenty mil. Then they deduct the cost of making prints, the cost for advertising the picture, which could easily be another five. You're down to fifteen. Now here's the beauty. By contract, the studio gets twenty-five percent of the budget for studio overhead, telephone bills, electricity, use of soundstages etc. Now you're down to eleven. Good, you say. You'll take your piece of eleven million. But the Bankable Star gets at least five percent of the rentals, the director and producer another five percent. So that comes to another five million. You're down to six million. At last you'll get something. But not so fast. They then charge you all the costs of distribution, they charge fifty grand for delivering the prints to the English market, another fifty to France or Germany. And then finally they charge the interest on the fifteen million they borrowed to make the picture. And there they lose me. But that last six million disappears. That's what happens when you don't have me for a lawyer. I write a contract that really gets you a piece of the gold mine. Not gross for a writer but a very good definition of net. Do you understand it now?»
Vail was laughing. «Not really,» he said. «How about TV and video money?»
«TV you'll see a little,» Molly said. «Nobody knows how much money they make in video.»
«And my deal with Marrion now is straight gross?» Vail asked. «They can't screw me again?»
«Not the way I'll write the contract,» Molly said. «It will be straight gross all the way.»
Vail said mournfully, «Then I won't have a grievance anymore. I won't have an excuse for not writing.»
«You really are so eccentric,» Claudia said.
«No, no,» Vail said. «I'm just a fuckup. Eccentrics do odd things to distract people from what they do or are. They are ashamed. That's why movie people are so eccentric.»
Who would have dreamed that dying could be so pleasant, that you could be so at peace, that you could be so without fear? That best of all you had solved the one great common myth?
Eli Marrion, in the long hours of the sick at night, sucked oxygen from the tube in the wall and reflected on his life. His private duty nurse, Priscilla, working a double shift, was reading a book by the dim lamp on the other side of the room. He could see her eyes dart quickly up and then down, as if checking him after every line she read.
Marrion thought how different this scene was from how it would be in a movie. In a movie there would be a great deal of tension because he was hovering between life and death. The nurse would be crouched over his bed, doctors would be coming in and out. There should sure as hell be a lot of noise, a lot of tension. And here he was in a room absolutely quiet, the nurse reading, Marrion easily breathing through his plastic tube.
He knew this penthouse floor held only these huge suites for very important people. Powerful politicians, real estate billionaires, stars who were the fading myths of the entertainment world. All kings in their own right and now, here in the night in this hospital, vassals to death. They lay helpless and alone, comforted by mercenaries, their power scattered. Tubes in bodies, prongs in nostrils, waiting for surgeon's knives to scour the debris from their failing hearts or, like himself, for a completely edited heart to be inserted. He wondered if they were as resigned as he.
And why that resignation? Why had he told the doctors he would not have a transplant, that he preferred to live only the short time his failing heart would give him. He thought that, thank God, he could still make intelligent decisions devoid of sentiment.
Everything was clear to him, like making a deal on a film: figuring the cost, the percentage of return, the value of subsidiary rights, the possible traps with stars, directors, and cost overages.
Number one: He was eighty years old and not a robust eighty. A heart transplant would disable him for a year, at the very best. Certainly he would never run LoddStone Studies again. Certainly most of his power over his world would vanish.
Number two: Life without power was intolerable. After all, what could an old man like himself do even with a fresh new heart? He could not play sports, run after women, take pleasure from food or drink. No, power was an old man's only pleasure, and why was that so bad? Power could be used for the good. Had he not granted mercy to Ernest Vail, against all prudent principles, against all his lifelong prejudices? Had he not told his doctors that he did not want to deprive a child or some young man the chance to have a new life by taking a heart? Was that not a use of power for the higher good?
But he had had a long life of dealing with hypocrisy and recognized it now in himself. He had declined a new heart because it was not a good deal; a bottom-line decision. He had granted Ernest Vail his points because he desired the affection of Claudia and the respect of Molly Flanders, a sentimentality. Was it so terrible that he wanted to leave an image of goodness?
He was satisfied in the life he had lived. He had fought his way from poverty to riches, he had conquered his fellow man. He had enjoyed all the pleasure of human life, loved beautiful women, lived in luxurious homes, worn the finest silks. And he had helped in the creation of art. He had earned enormous power and a great fortune. And he had tried to do good for his fellow man. He had contributed tens of millions to this very hospital. But most of all he had enjoyed struggling against his fellow man. And what was so terrible about that? How else could you acquire the power to do good? Even now he regretted the last act of mercy to Ernest Vail. You could not simply give the spoils of your struggle to your fellow man, especially under threat. But Bobby would take care of that. Bobby would take care of everything.
Bobby would plant the necessary publicity stories featuring his refusal of a heart transplant so that someone younger could have it. Bobby would recover all the gross points that existed. Bobby would get rid of his daughter's production company, which was a losing proposition for LoddStone. Bobby would take the rap.
Far off he could hear a tiny bell, then the snakelike rattling of the fax machine transmitting the box office receipts compiled in New York. The stuttering making a refrain for his failing heart.
The truth now. He had enough of life at its best. It was not his body that had ultimately betrayed him but his mind.
The truth now. He was disappointed in human beings. He had seen too many betrayals, too many pitiful weaknesses, too much greed for money and fame. The falseness between lovers, husbands, and wives, fathers, sons, mothers, daughters. Thank God for the films he had made that gave people hope and thank God for his grandchildren and thank God he would not see them grow up into the human condition.
The fax machine stilled its stutter, and Marrion could feel the fluttering of his failing heart. Early morning light filled his room. He saw the nurse flick off her lamp and close her book. It was so lonely to die with only this stranger in this room when he was loved by so many powerful people. Then the nurse was prying open his eyelids, putting her stethoscope to his chest. The huge doors to his hospital suite opened like the great door of some ancient temple and he could hear the rattling of dishes on the breakfast trays… .
Then the room filled with bright lights. He could feel fists thumping his chest and wondered why they were doing this to him. A cloud was forming in his brain, filling it with mist. Through that mist voices were screaming. A line from a movie penetrated his oxygen-starved brain. «Is this how the Gods die?»
He felt the electric shocks, the pummeling, the incision made to massage his heart with bare hands.
All of Hollywood would mourn but none more than the night duty nurse, Priscilla. She had done a double shift because she supported two small children, and it displeased her that Marrion had died on her shift. She prided herself on her reputation as one of the finest nurses in California. She hated death. But the book she had been reading had excited her and she had been planning how to talk with Marrion about making it into a movie. She would not be a nurse forever, she was a screenwriter on the side. Now she did not give up hope. This top floor of the hospital with its huge suites received the greatest men of Hollywood and she would stand guard for them against death forever.
But all this had happened in Marrion's mind before he died, a mind saturated with thousands of movies he had watched.
In reality, the nurse had gone to his bed some fifteen minutes after he was dead, so quietly had he died. She debated for maybe thirty seconds about calling an alert to try to bring him back to life. She was an old hand with death and more merciful. Why try to revive him to all the torture of reclaiming life? She went to the window and watched the sun rise and the pigeons strutting lustfully on the stone ledges. Priscilla was the final power deciding Marrion's fate … and his most merciful judge.
SENATOR WAVVEN HAD great news, and it would cost the Clericuzio five million dollars. So said Giorgio's courier. That demanded a mountain of paperwork. Cross would have to extract five million from the casino cage and leave a long record to account for its disappearance.
Cross also had a message from Claudia and Vail. They were in the Hotel occupying the same suite. They wanted to see him as soon as possible. It was urgent.
There was also a call from Lia Vazzi in the Hunting Lodge. He requested to see Cross personally as soon as possible. He did not have to say it was urgent, any request from him had to be urgent or he would not call, and he was already on his way.
Cross started on the paperwork for the transfer of the five million dollars to Senator Wavven. The cash itself would have too much bulk for a suitcase or large overnight bag. He called the Hotel gift shop; he remembered an antique Chinese trunk for sale that was big enough to hold the money. It was dark green decorated with red dragons and superimposed false green gems, and it had a strong locking mechanism.
Gronevelt had taught him how to make the paper trail that legitimized money skimmed from the Hotel casino. It was long and laborious work that involved transfers of money to different accounts, the payment of different suppliers for liquor and food, special training projects and publicity stunts, and a roster of players who did not exist as debtors to the cage.
Cross worked an hour on this. Senator Wavven was not due in until the next day, a Saturday, and the five million had to be put in his hands before he left early Monday morning. Finally his concentration began to wander and he had to take a break.
He called down to Claudia and Vail's suite. Claudia picked up the phone. She said, «I'm having a terrible time with Ernest. We have to talk to you.»
«OK,» Cross said. «Why don't the two of you go down and gamble and I'll pick you up in the dice pit an hour from now.» He paused. «Then we can go for dinner and you can tell me your troubles.»
«We can't gamble,» Claudia said. «Ernest went over his credit limit and you won't give me credit anymore except for a lousy ten grand.»
Cross sighed. That meant Ernest Vail owed the casino a hundred grand that was just so much toilet paper. «Give me an hour and then come up to my suite. We'll have dinner here.»
Cross had to make another phone call, to Giorgio to confirm the payment to the senator, not that the courier was suspect but it was one of the built-in routines. This they did with verbal code already established. The name was in arbitrary prearranged numbers, the money designated in arbitrary prearranged alphabetical letters.
Cross tried to continue his paperwork. But again his mind wandered. For five million, Senator Wavven was going to have something important to say. For Lia to make the long drive to Vegas, he had to have serious trouble.
There was a ring at the door, Security had brought Claudia and Ernest to the penthouse. Cross gave Claudia an extra warm hug because he didn't want her to think he was mad at her for losing in the casino.
In the living room of his suite, he handed them the room service menu and then ordered for them. Claudia sat stiffly on the sofa, Vail slouched back disinterestedly.
Claudia said, «Cross, Vail is in terrible shape. We have to do something for him.»
Vail didn't look so bad to Cross. He seemed truly relaxed, his eyes half closed, a pleased smile on his lips. This irritated Cross.
«Sure, first thing I'll do is cut off all his credit in this town. That will save money, he's the most incompetent gambler I've ever seen.»
«It's not about gambling,» Claudia said. And she told him the whole story about Marrion promising to give Vail gross on all the sequels to his book, and then dying.
«So?» Cross asked.
«Now Bobby Bantz won't honor that promise,» Claudia said. «Since Bobby became head of LoddStone Studios, he's gone crazy with power. He's trying his best to be like Marrion but he just hasn't got the intelligence or the charisma. So Ernest is out in the cold again.»
«Just what the hell do you think I can do?» Cross asked.
«You're partners with LoddStone in Messalina, « Claudia said. «You must have some clout with them. I want you to ask Bobby Bantz to keep Marrion's promise.»
It was at times like this that Cross despaired of Claudia. Bantz would never give way, that was part of his job and his character.
«No,» Cross said. «I've explained to you before. I can't take a position unless I know the answer will be yes. And here there's no chance.»
Claudia frowned. «I never understood that,» she said. She paused for a moment. «Ernest is serious, he will kill himself so that his family can get back the rights.»
At this, Vail took an interest. He said, «Claudia, you dumbbell, don't you understand about your brother? If he asks somebody for something and they say no, then he has to kill them.» He gave Cross a big grin.
Cross was enraged that Vail would dare to speak that way in front of Claudia. Luckily, at that moment room service arrived with their rolling tables and set dinner up in the living room. Cross controlled himself as they sat down to eat, but he couldn't help saying, with a cold smile, «Ernest, you can solve everything if you knock yourself off, as I understand it. Maybe I can help. I'll move your suite up to the tenth floor and you can just step out the window.»
Now Claudia was angry. «This is not a joke,» she said. «Ernest is one of my best friends. And you're my brother who always claims to love me and will do anything for me.» She was in tears.
Cross got up and went over to hug her. «Claudia, there's nothing I can do. I'm not a magician.»
Ernest Vail was enjoying his dinner. No man looked less likely to kill himself. «You're too modest, Cross,» he said. «Look, I haven't got the nerve to jump out of a window. I have too much imagination, I'd die a thousand deaths on the way down thinking how I would look splattered all over the place. And I might even land on some innocent person. I'm too chicken to cut my wrists, I can't stand the sight of blood and I'm scared to death of guns and knives and traffic. I don't want to end up a vegetable with nothing accomplished. I don't want that fuckin' Bantz and Deere laughing at me and keeping all my money. There is one thing you can do: Hire somebody to kill me. Don't tell me when. Just get it done.»
Cross began laughing. He gave Claudia a reassuring pat on the head and went back to his chair. «Do you think this is a fuckin' movie?» he said to Ernest. «You think killing somebody is sort of a joke?»
Cross left the table and went to his office desk. He unlocked the drawer and took out a purse of black chips. He threw the purse at Ernest and said, «Here's ten grand. Take your last shot at the tables, maybe you'll get lucky. Just stop insulting me in front of my sister.»
Vail was cheerful now. «Come on Claudia,» he said. «Your brother is not going to help.» He put the purse of black chips into his pocket. He seemed anxious to get started gambling.
Claudia seemed abstracted. She was adding up everything in her head but refused to come to a sum total. She looked at the serene handsome face of her brother. He could not be what Vail was saying he was. She kissed Cross on the cheek, and said, «I'm sorry, but I'm worried about Ernest.»
«He'll be all right,» Cross said. «He likes to gamble too much to die. And he is a genius, isn't he?»
Claudia laughed. «So he always says, and I agree,» she said. «And he's such a terrible coward.» But she reached out to touch Vail affectionately.
«Why the hell do you stick with him?» Cross said. «Why are you sharing a suite with him?»
«Because I'm his best and last friend,» Claudia said angrily. «And I love his books.»
After the two left, Cross spent the rest of the night completing the plan to transfer the five million to Senator Wavven. When he finished, he called the casino manager, a high-ranking member of the Clericuzio Family, and told him to bring the money to his penthouse suite.
The money was brought up in two huge sacks by the manager and two security guards who were also of the Clericuzio. They helped Cross stack the money into the Chinese trunk. The casino manager gave Cross a little grin and said, «Nice trunk.»
After the men left, Cross took the huge quilt from his bed and wrapped it around the trunk. Then he ordered room service to bring two breakfasts. Within a few minutes, Security called to tell him Lia Vazzi was waiting to see him. He gave the OK to bring him up.
Cross embraced Lia. He was always delighted to see him.
«Good news or bad news?» Cross asked him after room service delivered breakfast.
«Bad,» Lia said. «That detective who stopped me in the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel when I was with Skannet. Jim Losey. He showed up at the Hunting Lodge and asked me questions about my relationship with Skannet. I brushed him off. The bad part is how he knew who I was and where I was. I'm not in any police file, I've never been in trouble. So that means there's an informer.»
That startled Cross. A turncoat was rare in the Clericuzio Family and was always mercilessly rooted out.
«I'll report it to the Don himself,» Cross said. «How about you? Do you want to take a vacation down in Brazil until we find out what it's all about?»
Lia had eaten very little. He helped himself to the brandy and Havana cigars Cross put out.
«I'm not nervous, not yet,» Lia said. «I'd just like your permission to protect myself against this man.»
Cross was alarmed. «Lia, you can't do that,» he said. «It's very dangerous to kill a police officer in this country. This is not Sicily. So I have to tell you something you shouldn't know. Jim Losey is on the Clericuzio pad. Big money. I think he's just nosing around to claim a bonus for laying off you.»
«Good,» Vazzi said. «But it remains a fact. There must be an informer.»
«I'll take care of it,» Cross said. «Don't worry about Losey.»
Lia puffed on his cigar. «He's a dangerous man. Be careful.»
«I will,» Cross said. «But no preemptive strikes on your part, OK?»
«Of course,» Lia said. He seemed to relax. Then he said casually, «What's under that quilt?»
«A little gift to a very important man,» Cross said. «Do you want to spend the night in the Hotel?»
«No,» Lia said. «I'll go back to the Lodge and you can tell me what you learn at your leisure. But my advice would be to get rid of Losey right now.»
«I'll talk to the Don,» Cross said.
Senator Warren Wavven and his entourage of three male aides were checked into their Xanadu Villa at three in the afternoon. As usual, he had traveled in an unmarked limo and without any sort of escort. At five, he summoned Cross to his Villa.
Cross had two of the security guards put the quilt-wrapped trunk in the back of a motorized golf cart. One of the guards drove and Cross sat in the passenger seat keeping an eye on the trunk, which rested in the cargo space that usually held golf clubs and ice water. It was only a five-minute run through the grounds of the Xanadu to the separately secured compound that held the seven Villas.
Cross always loved the sight of them, the sense of power. Small palaces of Versailles, each with a diamond-shaped emerald swimming pool, and in the center a square holding the pearl-shaped private casino for the Villa occupants.
Cross carried the trunk into the Villa himself. One of the senator's aides led him into the dining room where the senator was enjoying a sumptuous array of cold food and iced jugs of lemonade. He no longer drank alcohol.
Senator Wavven was as handsome and affable as ever. He had risen high in the political councils of the nation, was the head of several important committees, and was a dark horse in the next presidential race. He sprang up to greet Cross.
Cross whipped the quilt off the trunk and put it on the floor.
«A little gift from the Hotel, Senator,» he said. «Have a pleasant stay.»
The senator clasped Cross's hand with both of his. His hands were smooth. «What a delightful present,» he said. «Thank you, Cross. Now, could I have a few confidential words with you?»
«Of course,» Cross said and gave him the key to the trunk. Wavven slipped it into his trouser pocket. Then he turned to his aides and said, «Please put the trunk in my bedroom and one of you stay with it. Now, let me have a few moments alone with my friend Cross.»
They left and the senator began to pace the room. He frowned, «I have good news naturally, but I also have bad news.»
Cross nodded and said amiably, «That's usually the case.» He thought that for the five mil the good news had to be a hell of a lot better than the bad.
Wavven chuckled. «Isn't that the truth? The good news first. And very good news it is. I've devoted my attention in the last few years to passing legislation that would make gambling legal all over the United States. Even the provision to make sports gambling legal. I think I finally have the votes in the Senate and the House. The money in the trunk will swing some key votes. It is five, isn't it?»
«It's five,» Cross said. «And money well spent. Now, what's the bad news?»
The senator shook his head sadly. «Your friends won't like this,» he said. «Especially Giorgio, who is so impatient. But he's a fabulous fellow, truly fabulous.»
«My favorite cousin,» Cross said dryly. Of all the Clericuzio he liked Giorgio least, and it was obvious the senator felt the same way.
Then Wavven delivered the bombshell. «The president has told me he will veto the bill.»
Cross had been feeling jubilant over the final success of Don Clericuzio's master plan. To build a legitimate empire based on legal gambling. Now, he was confused. What the hell was Wavven babbling about?
«And we don't have enough votes to overcome a veto,» Wavven said.
Just to give himself time to recover his composure, Cross said, «So the five mil is for the president?»
The senator was horrified. «Oh, no, no,» he said. «We're not even in the same party. And besides, the president will be a very rich man when he retires into private life. Every board of directors of every big company will want him. He has no need for petty cash.» Wavven gave Cross a satisfied smile. «Things work differently when you are the president of the United States.»
«So we're nowhere unless the president drops dead,» Cross said.
«Exactly,» Wavven said. «He is a very popular president, I must say, though we are in opposing parties. He will surely be reelected. We must be patient.»
«So we have to wait five years and then hope to get a president who won't veto?»
«That's not exactly true,» the senator said, and here he faltered a bit. «I must be honest with you. In five years the composition of the Congress may change, I may not have the votes I have now.» He paused again. «There are many factors.»
Cross was completely bewildered now. What the hell was Wavven really saying? Then the senator tipped his hand. «Of course if something happens to the president, the vice president will sign the bill. So, as malicious as it sounds, you have to hope that the president has a heart attack or his plane crashes, or he has an incapacitating stroke. It could happen. All of us are mortal.» The senator was beaming at him and then suddenly it all became clear to Cross.
He felt a flash of anger. This bastard was giving him a message for the Clericuzio: The senator had done his part, now they had to kill the president of the United States to get the bill passed. And he was so slick and so sly, he had not implicated himself in any concrete way. Cross was sure the Don would not go for it, and if he did, Cross would refuse to be part of the Family ever after.
Wavven was going on with an affable smile. «It looks pretty hopeless but you never know. Fate may take a hand and the vice president is a very close friend of mine, even though we're from different parties. I know for a fact, he will approve my bill. We just have to wait and see.»
Cross could scarcely believe what the senator was saying. Senator Wavven was the personification of the virtuous All-American politician, though admittedly with a weakness for women and innocent golf. His face was honorably handsome and his voice patrician. He presented himself as one of the most likable men on earth. Yet he was implying that the Clericuzio Family assassinate his own president. This is a piece of work, Cross thought.
The senator was now picking at the food on the table. «I'm only staying for one night,» he said. «I hope you have some girls in your show who would like to have dinner with an old geezer like me.»
Back in his penthouse suite Cross called Giorgio and told him he would be in Quogue the next day. Giorgio told him the Family driver would pick him up at the airport. He didn't ask any questions. The Clericuzio never talked business on the phone.
When Cross arrived at the Quogue mansion, he was surprised to find a full attendance. Assembled in the windowless den were not only the Don, but also Pippi, and the Don's three sons, Giorgio, Vincent, and Petie, and even Dante, wearing a sky-blue Renaissance hat.
There was no food in the den, dinner was to come later. As usual the Don made everyone look at the photos of Silvio and the christening of Cross and Dante on the mantelpiece. «What a happy day,» the Don always said. They all settled in on chairs and sofas, Giorgio handed out drinks, and the Don lit up his twisted black Italian cheroot.
Cross gave a detailed report: how he had delivered the five million to Senator Wavven and then, word for word, his conversation with him.
There was a long silence. None of them needed Cross's interpretation. Vincent and Petie looked the most concerned. Now that Vincent had his chain of restaurants, he was less inclined to take risks. Petie, though he was head of the soldiers in the Bronx Enclave, had his enormous construction business as his primary concern. They did not relish such a terrible mission at this stage of their lives.
«That fucking senator is crazy,» Vincent said.
The Don said to Cross, «Are you sure that was the message the senator was sending us? That we should actually assassinate the leader of our country, one of his colleagues in government?»
Giorgio said dryly, «They're not in the same political party, the senator says.»
Cross answered the Don. «The senator would never incriminate himself. He just presented the facts. I think he assumes we will act on it.»
Dante spoke up. He was excited by the idea, by the glory, by the profit. «We can get the whole gambling business, legal. That would be worth it. That's the biggest prize.»
The Don turned to Pippi. «And what do you think, Martello of mine?» he asked affectionately.
Pippi was obviously angry. «It can't be done and it shouldn't be done.»
Dante said in a taunting voice, «Cousin Pippi, if you can't do it, I can.»
Pippi looked at him contemptuously. «You're a butcher, not a planner. You couldn't plan something like this in a million years. This is too big a risk. This is too much heat. And the execution is too difficult. You cannot get away free.»
Dante said arrogantly, «Grandfather, give me the job. I'll get it done.»
The Don was respectful to his grandson. «I'm sure you could,» he said. «And the rewards would be very great. But Pippi is right. The aftermath would be too risky for our Family. One can always make mistakes, but never make a fatal mistake. Even if we were successful and achieved our aim, the deed would hang over us forever. It is too great a crime. Also, this is not a situation that endangers our existence, it is simply one that achieves a purpose. A purpose that can be achieved with patience. Meanwhile, we sit in a pretty position. Giorgio, you have your seat on Wall Street, Vincent, you have your restaurants, Petie, you have your construction business. Cross, you have your hotel and Pippi, you can retire and spend your last years in peace. And Dante, my grandson, you must have patience, some day you will have your gambling empire, that shall be your legacy. And when you do, it will be without the shadow of a terrible deed hanging over your head. So — let the senator swim to the bottom of the ocean.»
Everyone in the room relaxed, the tension broken; except for Dante, all were happy with the decision. And all agreed with the Don's curse that the senator should drown. That he had dared to put them in this dangerous dilemma.
Only Dante seemed to disagree. He said to Pippi, «You've got a lot of balls, calling me a butcher. What are you, a fucking Florence Nightingale?»
Vincent and Petie laughed. The Don shook his head disapprovingly. «Another thing,» Don Clericuzio said. «I think we for now should continue all our ties with the senator. I don't begrudge him the extra five million, but I take it as an insult that he thinks we would kill the president of our country to further a business venture. Also, what other fish does he have to fry? How does this act benefit him? He seeks to manipulate us. Cross, when he comes to your hotel, build up his markers. Make sure he has a good time. He is too dangerous a man to have as an enemy.»
Everything was settled. Cross was hesitant about bringing up another sensitive problem. But he told the story of Lia Vazzi and Jim Losey. «There could be an informer inside the Family,» Cross said.
Dante said coolly, «That was your operation, that's your problem.»
The Don shook his head decisively. «An informer cannot be,» he said. «The detective found something by accident and he wants a bonus to stop. Giorgio, take care of it.»
Giorgio said sourly, «Another fifty grand. Cross, that's your deal. You'll have to pay it out of your hotel.»
The Don relit his cigar. «Now that we are all here together, are there any other problems? Vincent, how is your restaurant business?»
Vincent's granite features softened. «I'm opening three more,» he said. «One in Philly, one in Denver, and another in New York City. High class. Pop, would you believe I charge sixteen dollars for a plate of spaghetti? When I make it at home, I figure out the cost is half a buck a plate. No matter how hard I try, I can't make it more than that. I even put in the cost of the garlic. And meatballs, I'm the only high-class Italian restaurant that serves meatballs, I don't know why, but I get eight dollars for them. And not big ones. They cost me twenty cents.»
He would have gone on but the Don cut him off. He turned to Giorgio and said, «Giorgio, how goes your Wall Street?»
Giorgio said cautiously, «It goes up and down. But the commissions we get for trading are as good as the shylocks get on the streets if we churn it enough. And with no risk of deadbeats or jail. We should forget about all our other business, except maybe gambling.»
The Don was enjoying these recitals, success in the legitimate world was dear to him. He said, «And Petie, your construction business? I hear you had a little trouble the other day …»
Petie shrugged. «I got more business than I can handle. Everybody's building something and we have a lock on the highway contracts. All my soldiers are on the payroll and make a good living. But a week ago, this eggplant shows up on my biggest construction job. He's got a hundred black guys behind him with all kinds of civil rights banners. So I take him into my office and all of a sudden he's charming. I just have to put ten percent blacks on the job and pay him twenty grand under the table.»
That tickled Dante. «We're getting strong-armed?» he said with a giggle. «The Clericuzio?»
Petie said, «I tried to think like Pop. Why shouldn't they make a living? So I gave the eggplant his twenty grand and told him I'd put five percent on the job.»
«You did well,» the Don told Petie. «You kept a small problem from becoming a big problem. And who are the Clericuzio not to pay their share in the advancement of the other people and civilization itself?»
«I would have killed the black son of a bitch,» Dante said. «Now, he'll come back for more.»
«And we will give him more,» the Don said. «Just so long as they are reasonable.» He turned to Pippi and said, «And what troubles do you have?»
«None,» Pippi said. «Except that now the Family is nearly nonoperational and I'm out of a job.»
«That is your good fortune,» the Don said. «You've worked hard enough. You've escaped many perils, so now enjoy the flower of your manhood.»
Dante didn't wait to be questioned. «I'm in the same boat,» he said to the Don. «And I'm too young to retire.»
«Play golf like the Brugliones, « Don Clericuzio said dryly. «And don't worry, life always provides work and problems. Meanwhile, be patient. I fear your time will come. And mine.»
ON THE MORNING of Eli Marrion's funeral, Bobby Bantz was screaming at Skippy Deere.
«This is fucking crazy, this is what's wrong with the movie business. How the fuck can you allow this to happen?» He was waving a stapled bundle of pages in Deere's face.
Deere looked at it. It was the transportation schedule for a picture shooting in Rome. «Yeah, so what?» Deere said.
Bantz was in rage. «Everyone in the picture is booked first class on the flight to Rome … the crew, the bit players, the fucking cameo roles, the gofers, the interns. There is only one exception. You know who that is? The LoddStone accounting officer we sent there to control the spending. He flew economy.»
«Yeah, again, so what?» Deere said.
Bantz became deliberate in his anger. «And the picture has on budget a school to be set up for the children of everybody on the picture. The budget has the renting of a yacht for two weeks. I just read the script carefully. There are twelve actors and actresses who have maybe two, three minutes in the film. The yacht is listed for just two days' shooting. Now explain to me how you allowed this.»
Skippy Deere was grinning at him. «Sure,» he said. «Our director is Lorenzo Tallufo. He insists his people travel first class. The bit players and cameo roles were written into the script because they were screwing the vehicle stars. The yacht is booked for two weeks because Lorenzo wants to visit the Cannes Film Festival.»
«You're the producer, talk to Lorenzo,» Bantz said.
«Not me, « Deere told him. «Lorenzo has four one-hundred-million-dollar-grossing pictures, he has two Academy Awards. I'll kiss his ass when I help him onto the yacht. You talk to him.»
There was no answer to this. Technically, in the hierarchy of the industry, the head of the Studio outranked everybody. The producer was the person who got all the elements together and oversaw the budget and script development. But the reality was that once the picture started shooting, the director was the supreme power. Especially if he had a record of successful movies.
Bantz shook his head. «I can't talk to Lorenzo, not when I don't have Eli to back me up. Lorenzo would tell me to go fuck myself and we'd lose the picture.»
«And he'd be right,» Deere said. «What the hell, Lorenzo always steals five million off a picture. They all do it. Now calm down so we can show ourselves at the funeral.»
But Bantz was now looking at another cost sheet. «On your picture,» he said to Deere, «there's a charge of five hundred thousand dollars for Chinese take-out food. Nobody, nobody, not even my wife can spend a half million dollars on Chinese food. French food maybe. But Chinese? Chinese take-out?»
Skippy Deere had to think fast, Bobby had him there. «It's a Japanese restaurant, the food is sushi. That's the most expensive food in the world.»
Bantz was suddenly calm. People were always complaining about sushi. The head of a rival studio had told him about taking a Japanese investor to dinner at a restaurant that specialized in sushi. «A thousand bucks for two people for twenty fucking fish heads,» he had said. Bantz was impressed.
«OK,» Bantz said to Skippy Deere, «but you have to cut down. Try to get more college interns on your next picture.» Interns worked for free.
The Hollywood funeral of Eli Marrion was more newsworthy than even that of a Bankable Star. He had been revered by studio heads, producers, and agents, he had even been respected and sometimes loved by Bankable Stars, directors, and even screenplay writers. What had inspired this was his civility and an overpowering intelligence that had solved many problems in the movie business. He also had had the reputation of being fair, within reason.
In his later years, he was an ascetic, did not wallow in power, did not command sexual favors from starlets. Also, LoddStone had made more great movies than any other studio, and there was nothing more precious to people who actually made movies.
The president of the United States sent his chief of staff to give a brief eulogy. France sent its minister of culture, though he was an enemy of Hollywood movies. The Vatican sent a papal envoy, a young cardinal, handsome enough to receive offers for cameo roles. A Japanese group of business executives magically appeared. The highest executives of movie corporations from the Netherlands, Germany, Italy, and Sweden did Eli Marrion honor.
The eulogies began. First a male Bankable Star, then a female Bankable Star, then an A director; even a writer, Benny Sly, gave Marrion tribute. Then the president's chief of staff. Then, just so the show would not be judged pretentious, two of the movie's greatest comics made jokes about Eli Marrion's power and business acumen. Finally, Eli's son, Kevin, and his daughter, Dora, and Bobby Bantz.
Kevin Marrion extolled Eli Marrion as a caring father, not only to his own children, but to everyone who worked at LoddStone. He was a man who carried the torch of Art on a film. A torch, Kevin assured the mourners, that he would pick up.
Eli Marrion's daughter, Dora, gave the most poetic speech, written by Benny Sly. It was eloquent, spiritual, and addressed Eli Marrion's virtues and accomplishments with a humorous respect. «I loved my father more than any man I have ever known,» she said, «but I'm glad I never had to negotiate with him. I only had to deal with Bobby Bantz and I could outsmart him.»
She got her laugh and it was Bobby Bantz's turn. Secretly he resented Dora's joke. «I spent thirty years building LoddStone Studios with Eli Marrion,» he said. «He was the most intelligent, the kindest man I have ever known. Under him, my service of thirty years has been the happiest time of my life. And I will continue to serve his dream. He showed his faith in me by leaving me in control of the Studio for the next five years and I will not fail him. I cannot hope to equal Eli's achievements. He gave dreams to billions of people all over the world. He shared his wealth and love with his family and all the people of America. He was indeed a lodestone.»
The assembled mourners knew that Bobby Bantz had written the speech himself, because he had given an important message to the whole movie industry. That he was to rule LoddStone Studios for the next five years and that he expected everyone to give him the same respect they had given Eli Marrion. Bobby Bantz was no longer a Number Two man, he was a Number One.
Two days after the funeral, Bantz summoned Skippy Deere to the studio and offered him the job of head of production of LoddStone, the job he had held himself. Now he was moving up to Marrion's job as chairman. The rewards he offered Deere were irresistible. Deere would get a share of profits of every movie made by the Studio. He would be able to green-light any picture budgeted for less than thirty million dollars. He would be able to fold his own production company into LoddStone as an independent, and name the head of that company.
Skippy Deere was astounded by the richness of the offer. He analyzed this as a mark of insecurity on Bantz's part. Bantz knew he was weak on the creative side and counted on Deere to cover him.
Deere accepted the offer and appointed Claudia De Lena to head his production company. Not only because she was creative, not only because she really knew movie making, but because he knew she was too honest to undercut him. With her, he would not have to watch his back. In addition, and this was no small thing in making movies, he always enjoyed her company, her good humor. And their sex thing had been gotten out of the way a long time ago.
It gave Skippy Deere a glow to think of how rich they would all become. For Deere had been around long enough to know that even Bankable Stars sometimes came to old age in semipoverty. Deere was already very wealthy, but he thought that there were ten levels of being rich and he was only on the first level. Certainly he could live in luxury the rest of his life, but he could not have his own private jet, he could not have five homes and keep them up. He could not keep a harem. He could not afford to be a degenerate gambler. He could not afford another five divorces. He could not afford to keep a hundred servants. He could not even afford to finance his own pictures over any period of time. And he couldn't afford an expensive collection of art, a major Monet or Picasso, as Eli had done. But now someday he would move up from the first level to perhaps as high as the fifth level. He would have to work very hard and be very cunning, and most important, study Bantz very carefully.
Bantz outlined his plans, and Deere was surprised at how daring they were. Obviously Bantz was determined to take his place in the world of power.
For starters, he was going to make a deal with Melo Stuart so that Melo would give LoddStone preferential access to all the Talent in his agency.
«I can handle that,» Deere said. «I'll make it clear to him that I'll give him the green light on his favorite projects.»
«I'm particularly interested that we have Athena Aquitane do our next picture,» Bobby Bantz said.
Aha, Deere thought. Now that Bantz controlled LoddStone, he hoped to get Athena into bed. Deere thought that as head of production he had a shot, too.
«I'll tell Claudia to work on a project for her right away,» Deere said.
«Great,» Bantz said. «Now remember I always knew what Eli really wanted to do but couldn't because he was too soft. We are going to get rid of Dora and Kevin's production companies. They always lose money and besides I don't want them on the lot.»
«You have to be careful on that one,» Deere said. «They own a lot of stock in the company.»
Bantz grinned. «Yeah, but Eli left me in control for five years. So you're going to be the fall guy. You will refuse to green-light their projects. I figure that after a year or two, they'll leave in disgust and blame you. That was Eli's technique. I always took the rap for him.»
«I think you'll have a hard time moving them off the lot,» Deere said. «It's their second home, they grew up on it.»
«I'll try,» Bantz said. «Another thing. The night before he died, Eli agreed to give Ernest Vail gross with some money up front on all the pictures we made from his shitty novel. Eli made that promise because Molly Flanders and Claudia nagged him on his deathbed, which was really a lousy thing to do. I've notified Molly in writing that I'm not bound legally or morally to keep that promise.»
Deere pondered the problem. «He'll never kill himself but he could die a natural death in the next five years. We should ensure ourselves against that.»
«No,» Bantz said. «Eli and I consulted our lawyers and they say Molly's argument would lose in the courts. I'll negotiate some money but not gross. That's sucking our blood.»
«So, has Molly answered?» Deere asked.
«Yeah, the usual bullshit lawyer letter,» Bantz said. «I told her to go fuck herself.»
Bantz picked up the phone and called his psychoanalyst. His wife had insisted for years that he go into therapy to become more likable.
Bantz said into the phone, «I just wanted to confirm our appointment for four P.M. Yes, we'll talk about your script next week.» He hung up the phone and gave Deere a sly smile.
Deere knew that Bantz had a rendezvous with Falene Fant at the Studio's Beverly Hotel Bungalow. So Bobby's therapist served as his beard because the Studio had taken an option on the therapist's original screenplay about a serial murder psychiatrist. The joke was that Deere had read the script and thought it would make a nice low-budget movie, although Bantz thought it was shit. Deere would make the movie and Bantz would believe Deere was just doing him a favor.
Then Bantz and Deere chatted about why spending time with Falene made them so happy. They both agreed that it was childish for important men like themselves. They also agreed that sex with Falene was so pleasurable because she was so much fun, and because she made no claims on them. Of course there were implied claims, but she was talented and when the right time came she would be given her chance.
Bantz said, «The thing that worries me is that if she becomes some sort of half-assed star our fun may be over.»
«Yeah,» Deere said. «That's the way Talent reacts. But what the hell, then she'll make us a lot of money.»
The two of them went over the production and release schedules. Messalina would be finished in two months and would be the Locomotive for the Christmas season. A Vail sequel was in the can and would be released in the next two weeks. These two LoddStone pictures combined might gross a billion dollars worldwide, including video. Bantz would see a twenty-million-dollar bonus, Deere probably five million. Bobby would be hailed as a genius in his first year as successor to Marrion. He would be acknowledged as a true Number One exec.
Deere said thoughtfully, «It's a shame we have to pay Cross fifteen percent of the adjusted gross on Messalina. Why don't we just pay him back his money with interest and if he doesn't like it, he can sue. Obviously, he's leery about going to court.»
«Isn't he supposed to be Mafia?» Bantz asked. And Deere thought, This guy is really chicken shit.
«I know Cross,» Deere said. «He's not a tough guy. His sister Claudia would have told me if he was truly dangerous. The one I worry about is Molly Flanders. We're screwing two of her clients at the same time.»
«OK,» Bobby said. «Christ, we really did a good day's work. We save twenty mil on Vail and maybe ten on De Lena. That will pay our bonuses. We'll be heroes.»
«Yeah,» Deere said. He looked at his watch. «It's getting close to four o'clock. Shouldn't you be on your way to Falene?»
At that moment the door to Bobby Bantz's office burst open and there stood Molly Flanders. She was in fighting garb, trousers, jacket, and white silk blouse. And in flat heels. Her beautiful complexion was a blushing red with rage. There were tears in her eyes and yet she had never looked more beautiful. Her voice was filled with gleeful malice.
«OK, you two cocksuckers,» she said. «Ernest Vail is dead. I've got an injunction pending to prevent you from releasing your new sequel to his book. Now are you two fuckheads ready to sit down and make a deal?»
Ernest Vail knew his greatest problem in committing suicide was how to avoid violence. He was far too cowardly to use the most popular methods. Guns frightened him, knives and poisons were too direct and not foolproof. Head in a gas oven, death in his car by carbon monoxide, again left too much uncertainty. Slitting his wrists involved blood. No, he wanted to die a pleasurable death, quick, certain, leaving his body intact and dignified.
Ernest prided himself that his was a rational decision that would benefit everyone except LoddStone Studios. It was purely a matter of personal financial gain and the restoration of his ego. He would be regaining control of his life; that made him laugh. Another proof of sanity: He still had his sense of humor.
Swimming out into the ocean was too «movies,» throwing himself in front of a bus was also too painful and somehow demeaning, as if he were some homeless bum. One notion appealed to him for a moment. There was a sleeping pill, no longer popular, a suppository, which you just slipped into your rectum. But again, it was too undignified and was not completely certain.
Ernest rejected all these methods and searched for something that would give him a happy certain death. This process cheered him up so much that he almost abandoned the whole idea. So did writing rough drafts of suicide notes. He wanted to use all his art not to sound self-pitying, accusatory. Most of all he wanted his suicide to be accepted as a completely rational act and not one of cowardice.
He started with the note to his first wife, whom he thought of as his only true love. The first sentence he tried to make objective and practical.
«Get in touch with Molly Flanders, my lawyer, as soon as you get this note. She will have important news for you. I thank you and the children for the many happy years you've given me. I do not want you to think that what I've done is a reproach to you in any way. We were sick of each other before we parted. Please do not think my action is because of a diseased mind, or any unhappiness. It is completely rational, as my lawyer will explain. Tell my children that I love them.»
Ernest pushed the note aside. It would need a lot of rewrite. He wrote notes to his second and third wives, which sounded cold even to him, informing them that they were being left small portions of his estate and thanking them for the happiness they had given him and reassuring them they also were in no way responsible for his action. It seemed he was not really in a loving mood. So he wrote a short note to Bobby Bantz, a simple «Fuck you.»
Then he wrote a note to Molly Flanders that read, «Go get the bastards.» This put him in a better mood.
To Cross De Lena, he wrote, «I finally did the right thing.» He had sensed De Lena's contempt for his waffling.
Finally his heart opened up when he wrote to Claudia. «You gave me the happiest times of my life and we weren't even in love. How do you figure that? And how come everything you did in life was right and everything I did was wrong? Until now. Please disregard everything I've said about your writing, how I demeaned your work, that's just the envy of an old novelist as out of date as a blacksmith. And thank you for fighting for my percentage even though finally you failed. I love you for trying.»
He stacked up the notes, which he had written on yellow second sheets. They were terrible but he would rewrite them, and rewriting was always the key.
But composing the notes had stirred his subconscious. Finally he thought of the perfect way to kill himself.
Kenneth Kaldone was the greatest dentist in Hollywood, as famous as any Bankable Star within that small milieu. He was extremely skillful in his profession, he was colorful and daring in his private life. He detested the portrayal in literature and movies of dentists as extremely bourgeois and did everything to disprove it.
He was charming in dress and manner, his dental office was luxurious and had a rack of a hundred of the best magazines published in America and England. There was another, smaller rack for magazines in foreign languages, German, Italian, French, and even Russian.
First-rate modern art hung on the walls of the waiting room, and when you went into the labyrinth of treatment rooms, the corridors were decorated with autographed pictures of some of the greatest names in Hollywood. His patients.
He was always bubbly with cheerful good humor and vaguely effeminate in a way that was strangely misleading. He loved women but did not understand in any way a commitment to women. He regarded sex as no more important than a good dinner, a fine wine, wonderful music.
The only thing Kenneth believed in was the art of dentistry. There, he was an artist, he kept up with all technical and cosmetic developments. He refused to make removable bridges for his clients, he insisted on steel implants to which an artificial series of teeth could be attached permanently. He lectured at the dental conventions, he was such an authority that he had once been summoned to treat the teeth of one of the royal bloods of Monaco.
No patient of Kenneth Kaldone's would be forced to put his teeth in a water glass at night. No patient would ever feel pain in his elaborately outfitted dental chair. He was generous in his use of drugs and especially in the use of «sweet air,» the combination of nitrous oxide and oxygen inhaled by patients though a rubber mask, which remarkably killed any pain to the nerves and transported his patient into a semiconsciousness as nearly pleasurable as opium.
Ernest and Kenneth had become friends on Ernest's first visit to Hollywood almost twenty years before. Ernest had suffered an excruciating toothache at the dinner of a producer who was courting him for the rights to one of his books. The producer had called Kenneth at midnight, and Kenneth had rushed to the party to drive Ernest to his office to treat the infected tooth. Then he had driven Ernest to his hotel, instructing him to come back to the office the next day.
Ernest later commented to the producer that he must have a lot of clout for a dentist to make a house call at midnight. The producer said no, Kenneth Kaldone was just that kind of a guy. A man with a toothache was to him like a man drowning, he had to be rescued. But also Kaldone had read all of Ernest's books and loved his work.
The next day when Ernest visited Kenneth in his office, he was effusively grateful. Kenneth stopped him with an upraised hand and said, «I'm still in your debt for the pleasure your books have given me. Now let me tell you about steel implants.» He gave a long lecture that argued it was never too early to take care of your mouth. That Ernest would soon lose some other teeth, and steel implants would save him from putting his teeth in a water glass at night.
Ernest said, «I'll think about it.»
«No,» Kenneth said, «I can't treat a patient who disagrees with me about my work.»
Ernest laughed. «It's a good thing you're not a novelist,» he said. «But OK.»
They became friends. Vail would call him for dinner whenever he came to Hollywood and sometimes he made a special trip to L.A. just to be treated with sweet air. Kenneth spoke intelligently about Ernest's books, he knew literature almost as well as he knew dentistry.
Ernest loved sweet air. He never felt pain and he had some of his best ideas while he was in the semiconscious state it induced. In the next few years he and Kenneth built a friendship so strong it resulted in Ernest having a new set of teeth with roots of steel, which would accompany him to the grave.
But Ernest's main interest in Kenneth was as a character for a novel. Ernest had always believed that in every human being there was one startling perversity. Kenneth had revealed his, and it was sexual but not in the usual pornographic style.
They always chatted a bit before a treatment, before Ernest was given sweet air. Kenneth mentioned that his primary girlfriend, his «significant other,» was also having sex with her dog, a huge German shepherd.
Ernest, just beginning to succumb to the sweet air, took the rubber mask off his face and said without thinking, «You're screwing a woman who screws her dog? Don't you worry about that?» He meant the medical and psychological complications.
Kenneth did not grasp what was implied. «Why should I worry?» he said. «A dog is no competition.»
At first Ernest thought he was joking. Then he realized Kenneth was serious. Ernest put his mask back on and submerged himself in the dreaminess of the nitrous oxide and oxygen, and his mind, stimulated as usual, made a complete analysis of his dentist.
Kenneth was a man who had no conception of love as a spiritual exercise. Pleasure was paramount, similar to his skills in killing pain. Flesh was to be controlled while indulged.
They had dinner together that night, and Kenneth more or less confirmed Ernest's analysis. «Sex is better than nitrous,» Kenneth said. «But like nitrous, you must have at least thirty percent oxygen mixed in.» He gave Ernest a sly look. «Ernest, you really like sweet air, I can tell. I give you the maximum — seventy percent — and you tolerate it well.»
Ernest asked, «Is it dangerous?»
«Not really,» Kenneth said. «Unless you keep the mask on for a couple of days and maybe not even then. Of course, pure nitrous oxide will kill you in fifteen to thirty minutes. In fact about once a month I have a little midnight party in my office, carefully selected “beautiful people.” All my patients, so I have their blood work. All healthy. The nitrous turns them on. Haven't you felt sexual under the gas?»
Ernest laughed. «When one of your technicians goes by I want to grab her ass.»
Kenneth said with wry humor, «I'm sure she'd forgive you. Why don't you come by the office tomorrow at midnight? It's really a lot of fun.» He saw Ernest looking scandalized and said, «Nitrous is not cocaine. Cocaine makes women sort of helpless. Nitrous just loosens them up. Just come as you would go to a cocktail party. You're not committed to any action.»
Ernest thought maliciously, Are dogs allowed? Then he said he would drop in. He excused himself by thinking it would only be research for a novel.
He did not have any fun at the party and did not really participate. The truth was, the nitrous oxide made him feel more spiritual than sexy, as if it were some sacred drug only to be used to worship a merciful God. The copulation of the guests was so animal-like that for the first time he understood Kenneth's casualness about his significant other and the German shepherd. It was so devoid of human content that it was boring. Kenneth himself did not participate, he was too busy operating the controls on the nitrous.
But now, years later, Ernest knew he had a way of killing himself. It would be like painless dentistry. He would not suffer, he would not be disfigured, he would not be afraid. He would float from this world to the other in a cloud of benign reflections. As the saying goes, he would die happy.
The problem now was how to get into Kenneth's office at night and how to figure out how the controls operated… .
He made an appointment with Kenneth for a checkup. While Kenneth was studying his X rays, Ernest told him that he was using a dentist as a character in his new novel and asked to be shown how the controls for the sweet air worked.
Kenneth was a natural-born pedagogue and showed him how to work the controls on the tanks of nitrous oxide and oxygen, stressing the safe ratios, lecturing all the while.
«But couldn't it be dangerous?» Ernest asked. «What if you got drunk and screwed up? You could kill me.»
«No, it's automatically regulated so that you always get at least thirty percent oxygen,» Kenneth explained.
Ernest hesitated a moment, trying to look embarrassed. «You know I enjoyed that party years ago. Now I have a beautiful girlfriend who is acting a little coy. I need some help. Could you let me have the key to your office so I could bring her here some night? The nitrous would just tip the balance.»
Kenneth studied the X rays carefully. «Your mouth is in terrific shape,» he said. «I'm really a great dentist.»
«The key?» Ernest said.
«A really beautiful girl?» Kenneth asked. «Tell me which night and I'll come and work the controls.»
«No, no,» Ernest said. «This is a really straight girl. She wouldn't do even the nitrous if you were around.» He paused for a moment. «She really is old-fashioned.»
«No shit,» Kenneth said and looked directly into Ernest's eyes. Then he said, «I'll just be a minute,» and he left the treatment room.
When he returned, he had a key in his hand. «Take this to a hardware store and get it duplicated,» Kenneth said. «Make sure you let them know who you are. Then come back and give me my key.»
Ernest was surprised. «I don't mean right now.»
Kenneth packed away the X rays and turned to Ernest. For one of the few times since Ernest had known him, the cheerfulness in his face was gone.
«When the cops find you,» Kenneth said, «dead in my chair, I don't want to be implicated in any way. I don't want my professional status jeopardized, or my patients deserting me. The cops will find the duplicate and track it down to the store. They will assume trickery on your part. I assume you're leaving a note?»
Ernest was stunned and then ashamed. He had not thought of harming Kenneth. Kenneth was looking at him with a reproachful smile tinged with sadness. Ernest took the key from Kenneth, then in a rare show of emotion, he gave Kenneth a tentative hug. «So you understand,» he said. «I'm being completely rational.»
«Sure I do,» Kenneth said. «I've often thought about it for myself in my old age or if things go bad.» He smiled cheerfully and said, «Death is no competition.» They both laughed.
«You really know why?» Ernest asked.
«Everybody in Hollywood knows,» Kenneth said. «Skippy Deere was at a party and someone asked if he was really going to do the picture. He said, “I will try until Hell freezes over or Ernest Vail commits suicide.” »
«And you don't think I'm crazy?» Ernest said. «Doing it for money I can't spend …»
«Why not?» Kenneth said. «It's smarter than killing yourself for love. But the mechanics are not that simple. You have to disconnect this hose in the wall that supplies the oxygen, that disables the regulator and you can make the mixture more than seventy percent. Do it on Friday night after the cleaning people leave so you won't be discovered until Monday. There's always a chance you can be revived. Of course if you use pure nitrous oxide you'll be gone in thirty minutes.» Again he smiled a little sadly. «All my work on your teeth wasted. What a shame.»
Two days later, on a Saturday morning, Ernest woke very early in his Beverly Hills Hotel room. The sun was just coming up. He showered and shaved and dressed in a T-shirt and comfortable jeans. Over them he wore a tan linen jacket. His room was strewn with clothes and newspapers, but it would be pointless to tidy up.
Kenneth's office was a half-hour walk from the hotel, and Ernest stepped out feeling a sense of freedom. Nobody walked in L.A. He was hungry but was afraid to eat anything because it might make him throw up when he was under the nitrous.
The office was on the fifteenth floor of a sixteen-story building. There was only a single civilian guard in the lobby and no one in the elevator. Ernest turned the key in the door of the dental suite and entered. He locked the door behind him and put the key in his jacket pocket. The suite of rooms was ghostly still, the receptionist's window glinted in the early morning sun and her computer was ominously dark and silent.
Ernest opened the door that led to the work area. As he walked down the corridor, he was greeted by the photos of Bankable Stars. There were six treatment rooms, three on each side of the corridor. At the end was Kenneth's office and conference room where they had chatted many times. Kenneth's own treatment room was attached, with his special hydraulic dental chair, where he cared for his high-ranking patients.
That chair was extra luxurious, the padding thicker and the leather softer. On the mobile table beside the chair was the sweet air mask. The console, with its hose linked to the hidden nitrous oxide and oxygen tanks, had its two control knobs turned to zero.
Ernest adjusted the dials so that he would get half nitrous oxide and half oxygen. Then he sat in the chair and put the mask over his face. He relaxed. After all, Kenneth would not be sticking knives into his gums now. All the aches and pains left his body, his brain roamed over the entire world. He felt wonderful, it was ridiculous to think of death.
Ideas for future novels floated through his head, insights into many people he knew, none of them malicious, which was what he loved about nitrous. Shit, he had forgotten to rewrite the suicide notes, and he realized how, despite his good intentions and language, they were in essence insulting.
Ernest was now in a huge, sailing colored balloon. He floated over the world he had known. He thought about Eli Marrion, who had followed his destiny, achieved great power, was regarded with awe for his ruthless intelligence in using that power. And yet, when Ernest's best book came out and was bought for the movies, the one that earned him the Pulitzer, Eli had come to the cocktail party his publishers gave him.
Eli had put out his hand and said, «You are a very fine writer.» His coming to the party was sensational Hollywood gossip. And the great Eli Marrion had shown him the final and absolute mark of respect, he had given him gross. No matter that Bantz had taken it away after Marrion died.
And Bantz was not a villain. His relentless pursuit of profit was a result of his experience in a special world. If truth be told, Skippy Deere was worse, because Deere, with his intelligence, his charm and his elemental energy, and his instinctive moves to betrayal in a personal sense, was more lethal.
Another insight came to Ernest. Why was he always knocking Hollywood and films, sneering at them? It was jealousy. Film was now the most revered art form, and he himself loved movies, good ones anyway. But he envied more the relationships in making a movie. The cast, the crew, the director, the Bankable Stars and even the «Suits,» those crass execs, seemed to come together in a close if not ever-loving family, at least until the picture was finished. They gave each other presents then and kissed and hugged and swore eternal devotion. What a wonderful feeling that must be to have. He remembered when he wrote his first script with Claudia, he thought he might be admitted to this family.
But how could that be with his personality, his malicious wit, his constant sneering? But under the sweet nitrous oxide, he could not even judge himself harshly. He had a right, he had written great books (Ernest was an oddity among novelists because he really loved his books), and he had deserved to be treated with more respect.
Benignly saturated with forgiving nitrous, Ernest decided he really didn't want to die. Money was not that important, Bantz would relent or Claudia and Molly would find a way out.
Then he remembered all his humiliation. None of his wives had ever truly loved him. He had always been the mendicant, never enjoyed requited love. His books had been respected but never aroused the adoration that made a writer rich. Some critics had reviled him and he had pretended to take it in good sport. After all, it was wrong to get angry with critics, they were only doing their job. But their remarks hurt. And all his male friends, though they sometimes enjoyed his company, his wit and honesty, never became close, not even Kenneth. While Claudia was truly fond of him, he knew Molly Flanders and Kenneth felt pity for him.
Ernest reached over and turned off the sweet air. It took just a few minutes for his head to clear and then he went to sit in Kenneth's office.
His depression came back. He tilted back in Kenneth's lounge chair and watched the sun rise over Beverly Hills. He was so angry at the studio screwing him out of his money that he couldn't enjoy anything. He hated the dawning of a new day; at night he took sleeping pills early and tried to sleep as long as he could… . That he could be humiliated by such people, people he held in contempt. And now he could no longer even read, a pleasure that had never before betrayed him. And of course, he could no longer write. That elegant prose, so often praised, was now false, inflated, pretentious. He no longer enjoyed writing it.
For a long time now, he had awakened every morning dreading the coming day, too tired to even shave and shower. And he was broke. He had earned millions and had pissed it away on gambling, women, and booze. Or given it away. Money had never been important until now.
The last two months he had not been able to send his kids their support payments or his wives their alimony. Unlike most men, sending those checks made Ernest happy. He had not published a book for five years, and his personality had become less pleasant even to himself. He was always whining about his fate. He was like a sore tooth in the face of society. And this image itself depressed him. What kind of soapy metaphor was this for a writer of his talent? A wave of melancholy swept over him; he was completely powerless.
He sprang up and walked into the treatment room. Kenneth had told him what he must do. He pulled out the cable that held the two plugs, one for oxygen and one for the nitrous oxide. Then he plugged back only one. Nitrous. He sat in the dental chair, reached over and turned the dial. At that moment he thought that there must be some way to get at least a ten percent oxygen flow so that death would not be so certain. He picked up the mask and put it over his face.
The pure nitrous hit his body and he experienced a moment of ecstasy, a washing away of all pain and a dreamy content. The nitrous hit and scrubbed out the brain in his skull. There was one last moment of pure pleasure before he ceased to exist, and in that moment, he believed there was a God and a Heaven.
Molly Flanders savaged Bobby Bantz and Skippy Deere; she would have been more careful if Eli Marrion was still alive.
«You have a new sequel to Ernest's book coming out. My injunction will stop that. The property now belongs to Ernest's heirs. Sure, maybe you can override the injunction and release the picture but then I sue. If I win, Ernest's estate will own that picture and most of what it earns. And for a certainty we can prevent you from making other sequels based on the characters in his books. Now, we can save all that and years of trouble in court. You pay five million up front and ten percent of the gross of each picture. And I want a true and certified account of the money on home video.»
Deere was horrified and Bantz enraged. Ernest Vail, a writer, would have a greater percentage of the profit on the pictures than anyone except a Bankable Star ever got, and that was a fucking outrage.
Bantz immediately called Melo Stuart and the chief counsel for LoddStone Pictures. They were in the meeting room within a half hour. Melo was necessary to the meeting because he was the packager of the sequels and earned a commission on the Bankable Star, the director, and the rewriter, Benny Sly. This was a situation that could require him to give up some points.
The chief counsel said, «We studied the situation when Mr. Vail made his first threat against the Studio.»
Molly Flanders broke in angrily. «You call killing himself a threat to the Studio?»
«And blackmail,» the chief counsel said smoothly. «Now we've completely researched the law in this situation, which is very tricky, but even then I advised the Studio we could fight your claim in court and win. In this particular case, the rights to the property do not revert back to the heirs.»
«What can you guarantee?» Molly asked the counsel. «To a ninety-five percent certainty?»
«No,» the counsel said. «Nothing is that certain in the law.»
Molly was delighted. She would retire with the fee she earned when she won this case. She got up to go and said, «Fuck you all, I'll see you in court.»
Bantz and Deere were so terrified they could not speak. Bantz wished with all his heart that Eli Marrion were still alive.
It was Melo Stuart who rose and restrained Molly with an affectionate and imploring hug. «Hey,» he said, «we're just negotiating. Be civilized.»
He led Molly back to her chair, noticing there were tears in her eyes. «We can make a deal, I'll give up some points in the package.»
Molly said quietly to Bantz, «Do you want to risk losing everything? Can your counsel guarantee that you will win? Of course he can't. Are you a fucking businessman or some degenerate gambler? To save a fucking lousy twenty to forty mil, you want to risk losing a billion?»
They cut the deal. Ernest's estate got four million up front and 8 percent of the gross on the picture about to be released. He would get two million and 10 percent of adjusted gross on any other sequels. Ernest's three ex-wives and his children would be rich.
Molly's parting shot was, «If you think I was tough, wait until Cross De Lena hears how you screwed him.»
Molly savored her victory. She remembered how one night she had taken Ernest home from a party. She was pretty drunk and extremely lonely and Ernest was witty and intelligent and she thought it might be fun to spend a night with him. Then when they arrived at her home, sobered up by the drive, and she took him to her bedroom, she had looked around despairingly. Ernest was such a shrimp and so obviously sexually shy and he was really a homely man. At that point he was tongue-tied.
But Molly was too fair a person to dismiss him at such a critical time. So she got drunk again and they went to bed. And really, in the dark, it hadn't been too bad. Ernest enjoyed it so much that she was flattered and brought him breakfast in bed.
He gave her a sly grin. «Thank you,» he said. «And thank you again.» And she perceived that he understood everything she had felt the previous night and was thanking her not only for bringing him breakfast but also as his sexual benefactress. She had always been regretful that she had not been a better actress, but what the hell, she was a lawyer. And now she had performed for Ernest Vail an act of requited love.
Dottore David Redfellow received Don Clericuzio's summons while attending an important meeting in Rome. He was advising the prime minister of Italy on a new banking regulation that would impose severe penal sentences on corrupt bank officials, and naturally he was advising against it. He immediately wound up his arguments and flew to America.
In the twenty-five years of his exile in Italy, David Redfellow had prospered and changed beyond his wildest dreams. At the beginning, Don Clericuzio helped him buy a small bank in Rome. With the fortune he had made in the drug trade and deposited in Swiss banks, he bought more banks and television stations. But it was Don Clericuzio's friends in Italy who helped guide him and build his empire, helped him to acquire the magazines, the newspapers, the TV stations, in addition to his string of banks.
But David Redfellow was pleased also by what he had done on his own. A complete transformation of character. He acquired Italian citizenship, an Italian wife, Italian children, and the standard Italian mistress as well as an honorary doctorate (cost, two million) from an Italian university. He wore Armani suits, spent an hour every week at his barber, acquired a circle of all-male cronies at his coffee bar (which he bought), and entered politics as advisor to the cabinet and the prime minister. Still, once a year he made his pilgrimage to Quogue to fulfill any wishes of his mentor, Don Clericuzio. So this special summons filled him with alarm.
Dinner was waiting for him at the Quogue mansion when he arrived, and Rose Marie had outdone herself because Redfellow was always rapturous about the restaurants of Rome. Assembled to honor him was the entire Clericuzio clan: the Don himself; his sons, Giorgio, Petie, and Vincent; his grandson, Dante; and Pippi and Cross De Lena.
It was a hero's welcome. David Redfellow, the college-dropout drug king, the louche dresser with an earring in his ear, the hyena riding the kills of sex, had transformed himself into a pillar of society. They were proud of him. Even more, Don Clericuzio felt he was in Redfellow's debt. For it was Redfellow who had taught him a great lesson in morality.
In his early days Don Clericuzio had suffered a strange sentimentality. He had believed that the forces of law could not be generally corrupted in the matter of drugs.
David Redfellow was a twenty-year-old college student in 1960 when he first started dealing drugs, not for profit but simply so he and his friends could have a steady cheap supply. An amateur endeavor, just cocaine and marijuana. In a year it had grown so big he and his classmate partners owned a small plane that brought goods over the Mexican and South American borders. Quite naturally they soon ran afoul of the law, and that was where David first showed his genius. The six-man partnership was earning vast amounts of money, and David Redfellow laid on such massive bribes that he soon had on his payroll a roster of sheriffs, district attorneys, judges, and hundreds of police along the Eastern seaboard.
He always claimed it was quite simple. You learned the official's yearly salary and offered him five times that amount.
But then the cartel of Colombians appeared on the scene, wilder than the wildest of the Old West movie Indians, not just taking scalps but whole heads. Four of Redfellow's partners were killed, and Redfellow made contact with the Clericuzio Family and asked for protection, offering 50 percent of his profits.
Petie Clericuzio and a crew of soldiers from the Bronx Enclave became his bodyguards, and this arrangement lasted until the Don exiled Redfellow to Italy in 1965. The drug business had become too dangerous.
Now, gathered together over dinner, they congratulated the Don on the wisdom of his decision many years before. Dante and Cross heard the story of Redfellow for the first time. Redfellow was a good storyteller and he praised Petie to the skies. «What a fighter,» he said. «If it wasn't for him I would never have lived to go to Sicily.» He turned to Dante and Cross and said to them, «It was the day you both were christened. I remember you both never flinched when they almost drowned you in Holy Water. I never dreamed that someday we would be doing business together, as grown men.»
Don Clericuzio said drily, «You will not be doing business with them, you will do business only with me and Giorgio. If you need help you can call on Pippi De Lena. I have decided to go on with the business I spoke to you about. Giorgio will tell you why.»
Giorgio told David the latest developments, that Eli Marrion was dead and Bobby Bantz had taken over the Studio, that he had taken away all the points Cross owned in Messalina, and returned his money with interest.
Redfellow enjoyed that story. «He is a very clever man. He knows you will not go to court so he takes away your money. That's good business.»
Dante was drinking a cup of coffee, and he eyed Redfellow with distaste. Rose Marie, who was sitting beside him, put her hand on his arm.
«You think that's funny?» Dante said to Redfellow.
Redfellow studied Dante for a moment. He made his face very serious. «Only because I know that in this instance it is a mistake to be so clever.»
The Don observed this exchange and it seemed to amuse him. In any case he was frivolous, a rare occurrence, which his sons always recognized and enjoyed.
«So Grandson,» he said to Dante, «how would you solve this problem?»
«Send him swimming to the bottom of the ocean,» Dante said, and the Don smiled at him.
«And you, Croccifixio? How would you solve this situation?» the Don asked.
«I'd just accept it,» Cross said. «I'd learn from it. I just got outfoxed because I didn't believe they'd have the balls.»
«Petie and Vincent?» the Don asked.
But they refused to answer. They knew the game he was playing.
«You can't just ignore it,» the Don said to Cross. «You will be known for a fool and men all over the world will refuse you any respect.»
Cross was taking the Don seriously. «Eli Marrion's house still holds his paintings and they're worth about twenty or thirty million. We could hijack them and hold them for ransom.»
«No,» the Don said. «That would expose you, reveal your power, and no matter how delicately handled, could lead to danger. It is too complicated. David, what would you do?»
David puffed on his cigar, thoughtfully. He said, «Buy the Studio. Do a civilized businesslike thing. With our banks and communications companies, buy LoddStone.»
Cross was incredulous. «LoddStone is the oldest and richest film studio in the world. Even if you could put up the ten billion, they wouldn't sell it to you. That's simply not possible.»
Petie said in his joker's voice, «David my old buddy, you can get your mitts on ten billion? The man whose life I saved? The man who said he could never repay me?»
Redfellow waved him away. «You don't understand how big money works. It's like whipped cream, you get a small amount and whip it up into a big froth with bonds, loans, stock shares. Money is not the problem.»
Cross said, «The problem is how to get Bantz out of the way. He controls the Studio and whatever his faults, he is loyal to Marrion's wishes. He would never agree to selling the Studio.»
«I'll go out there and give him a kiss,» Petie said.
Now the Don made his decision. He said to Redfellow, «Carry out your plan. Get it done. But with all caution. Pippi and Croccifixio will be at your command.»
«One more thing,» Giorgio said to Redfellow. «Bobby Bantz, by the terms of Eli Marrion's will, has total command over the Studio for the next five years. But Marrion's son and daughter have more stock in the company than Bantz. Bantz can't get fired but if the Studio is sold, the new owners will have to pay him off. So that's the problem you have to solve.»
David Redfellow smiled and puffed on his cigar. «Just like the old days. Don Clericuzio, the only help I need is yours. Some of those banks in Italy may be reluctant to gamble on such a venture. Remember, we will have to pay a big premium over the actual worth of the Studio.»
«Don't worry,» the Don said. «I have a lot of money in those banks.»
Pippi De Lena had watched all this with a wary eye. What disturbed him was the openness of this meeting. By procedure only the Don, Giorgio, and David Redfellow should have been present. Pippi and Cross could have been given orders separately to help Redfellow. Why had they been let in on these secrets? Even more important, why were Dante, Petie, and Vincent brought into the circle? All this was not like the Don Clericuzio he knew, who always kept his plans as secret as possible.
Vincent and Rose Marie were helping the Don up the stairs to go to bed. He had stubbornly refused to have a lift chair installed on the railings.
As soon as they were out of sight, Dante turned to Giorgio and said furiously, «And who gets the Studio when we own it? Cross?»
David Redfellow interrupted coolly. «I will own the Studio. I will run it. Your grandfather will have a financial interest. This will be documented.»
Giorgio agreed.
Cross said laughing, «Dante, neither one of us can run a movie studio. We're not ruthless enough.»
Pippi studied all of them. He was good at scenting danger. That's why he had lived so long. But this he couldn't figure out. Maybe the Don was just getting old.
Petie drove Redfellow back to Kennedy Airport where his private jet waited. Cross and Pippi had used a chartered jet from Vegas. Don Clericuzio absolutely forbade the owning of a jet by the Xanadu or any of his enterprises.
Cross drove their rented car to the airport. During the drive, Pippi said to Cross, «I'm going to spend some time in New York City. I'll just keep the car when we get to the airport.»
Cross saw that his father was worried. «I didn't do well in there,» he said.
«You were OK,» Pippi said. «But the Don was right. You can't let anybody screw you twice.»
When they arrived at Kennedy, Cross got out and Pippi slid across the seat to get behind the wheel. Through the open window, they shook hands. In that moment Pippi looked up at his son's handsome face and felt an enormous wave of affection. He tried to smile as he slapped Cross gently on the cheek and said, «Be careful.»
«Of what?» Cross asked, his dark eyes searching his father's.
«Everything,» Pippi said. Then, startling Cross, he said, «Maybe I should have let you go with your mother but I was selfish. I needed you around.»
Cross watched his father drive away and for the first time he realized how much his father worried about him, how much his father loved him.
MUCH TO HIS own dismay, Pippi De Lena decided to get married, not for love but for companionship. True, he had Cross, he had the cronies at the Xanadu Hotel, he had the Clericuzio Family and a vast network of relatives. True, he had three mistresses and he ate with good and sincere appetite; he enjoyed his golf and was down to a ten handicap, and he still loved to dance. But as the Don would say, he could go dancing to his coffin.
So in his late fifties, robust in health, sanguine in temperament, rich, semiretired, he longed for a settled home life and perhaps a new batch of kids. Why not? The idea appealed to him more and more. Surprisingly, he yearned to be a father again. It would be fun to raise a daughter, he had loved Claudia as a child, though they no longer spoke. She had been so cunning and so forthright at the same time, and she had made her way in the world as a successful screenplay writer. And who knows, maybe someday they would make up. In some ways she was as stubborn as he was, so he under-stood her and he admired the way she stood up for what she believed in.
Cross had lost the gamble he had taken in the movie business, but one way or another his future was assured. He still had the Xanadu and the Don would help him recover from the risk he had taken with his new venture. He was a good kid, but he was young and the young must take risks. That's what life was all about.
After dropping off Cross at the airport, Pippi drove to New York City to spend a few days with his East Coast mistress. She was a good-looking brunette, a legal secretary with a sharp New York wit, and a great dancer. True, she had a tongue that lashed out, she loved to spend money, she would be an expensive wife. But she was too old, over forty-five. And she was too independent, a great quality for a mistress but not for the kind of marriage that Pippi would demand.
It was a pleasurable weekend with her, though she spent half the Sunday reading the Times. They ate in the finest restaurants, went dancing in the nightclubs, and had great sex in her apartment. But Pippi needed something more placid.
Pippi flew to Chicago. His mistress there was the sexual equivalent of that brawling city. She drank a little too much, she partied too exuberantly, she was happy-go-lucky and a lot of fun. But she was a little lazy, a little too messy, Pippi liked a clean home. Again, she was too old to start a family, at least forty, she said. But what the hell. Was he up to running around with a really young broad? After two days in Chicago, Pippi crossed her off the list.
With both, he would have a problem settling them in Vegas. They were big-city women, and Vegas, Pippi knew in his heart, was really a hick cow town where casinos took the place of cattle. And there was no way that Pippi would live in any place but Vegas, for in Vegas nighttime did not exist. Electric neon banished all ghosts, the city shone like a rosy diamond in the desert at night, and after dawn the hot sun burned away all the wraiths that had escaped the neon.
His best shot was his mistress in Los Angeles, and Pippi was pleased that he had geographically positioned them so neatly. There could be no accidental confrontations, no mental struggles in choosing between them. They served a certain purpose and they could not interfere with any temporary love affairs. Indeed, looking back, he was pleased at how he had conducted his life. Daring but prudent, brave but not foolhardy, loyal to the Family and rewarded by them. His only mistake had been in marrying a woman like Nalene, and even there, what woman could have given him more happiness for eleven years. And what man could boast of having made only one mistake in his lifetime? What was it the Don always said, It was OK to make mistakes in life as long as it was not a fatal mistake.
He decided to go directly to L.A. and not stop in Vegas. He called to notify Michelle that he was on his way and refused her offer to pick him up at the airport. «Just be ready for me when I get there,» he told her. «I've been missing you. And I've got something important to tell you.»
Michelle was young enough, thirty-two, and she was more tender, more giving, more easy on the nerves, maybe because she had been born and raised in California. She was also good in bed, not that the others were not, for this was a primary qualification for Pippi. But she had no sharp edges, she wouldn't be trouble. She was a little kooky, she believed in New Age crap called channeling and being able to talk to spirits, and talked about all the past lives she had lived, but she could also be fun. Like many California beauties, she had dreamed of being an actress, but that had been knocked out of her head. She was completely wrapped up in yoga and channeling now, in physical health, running and going to the gym. And besides, she always complimented Pippi on his karma. For of course none of these women knew his true vocation. He was simply an administrative officer of the hotel association in Vegas.
Yes, with Michelle, he could stay in Vegas, they could keep an apartment in L.A. and when they got bored they could make the forty-minute flight to L.A. for a couple of weeks. And maybe to keep her busy, he would buy her a gift shop in the Hotel Xanadu. It could really work out. But what if she said no?
Something struck his memory: Nalene reading Goldilocks and the Three Bears when the children were small. He was just like Goldilocks. The New York woman was too hard, the Chicago woman was too soft, and the L.A. woman was just right. The thought gave him pleasure. Of course, in real life nothing was «just right.»
When he deplaned in L.A., he breathed in the balmy air of California, not even noticing the smog. He rented a car and drove first to Rodeo Drive, he loved to bring his women little gifts as a surprise and enjoyed walking down the street of fancy shops that held the luxuries of the world. He bought a gaudy wristwatch in the Gucci store; a purse in Fendi's, though he thought it ugly; a Hermès scarf; and some perfume in a bottle that looked like an expensive sculpture. When he bought a box of expensive lingerie, he was in such good spirits that he kidded the saleswoman, a young blonde, that it was for himself. The girl gave him one look and said, «Right …»
Back in the car, three thousand dollars poorer, he headed for Santa Monica, the goodies in the passenger seat, gifts crammed into a gaily colored Gucci shopping bag. In Brentwood, he stopped in the Brentwood Mart, a favorite place. He loved the food stores that boxed an open square studded with picnic tables where you could have a cold drink and eat. The food on the plane had been terrible, and he was hungry. Michelle never kept food in the refrigerator because she was always dieting.
In one store he bought two roast chickens, a dozen barbecued spareribs, and four hot dogs with all the trimmings. In another shop, he bought fresh baked white and rye bread. At an open stand he bought a huge glass of Coke and sat down at one of the picnic tables for a final moment of solitude. He ate two of the hot dogs, half of one of the roast chickens, and some French fries. He had never tasted anything so good. He sat in the golden light of the late afternoon sun in California, the sweet balmy air washed his face clean. He hated to leave but Michelle was waiting. She would be bathed and scented and a little tipsy and she would take him to bed immediately before he could even brush his teeth. He would propose to her before they started.
The shopping bag holding the food was decorated with type telling some fable about food, an intellectual shopping bag as befitted the intellectual clientele of the Mart. When he put it into the car, he read only the beginning line, «Fruit is the oldest product of human consumption. In the Garden of Eden …» Jesus, Pippi thought.
He drove to Santa Monica and stopped in front of Michelle's condo, which was in a two-story-high series of Spanish-looking bungalows. When he got out of the car he carried the two bags automatically in his left hand, leaving his right hand free. Out of habit, he surveyed the street up and down. It was lovely, no cars parked, the Spanish styles provided commodious driveways and a mildly religious benignity. The runners along the curbs were hidden by flowers and grass, the heavy-branched trees made a canopy against the descending sun.
Pippi now had to walk down a long alleyway whose wooden, green-painted fences were draped with roses. Michelle's apartment was in the back, a relic of the old Santa Monica, which was still bucolic. The buildings themselves were of seemingly old wood, and each separated swimming pool was adorned by white benches.
Outside the alleyway, far down the other end, Pippi heard the growling motor of a stationary vehicle. It alerted him, he was always alert. At the same moment he caught sight of a man rising from one of the benches. He was so surprised that he said, «What the fuck are you doing here?»
The man's hand did not come out to greet him and in that instant everything was clear to Pippi. He knew what was going to happen. His brain processed so much information that he could not react. He saw the gun appear, so small and inoffensive, saw the tension on the killer's face. Understood for the first time the look on the faces of men he had put to death, their supreme astonishment that life was at an end. And he understood that finally he would have to pay the price for living his life. He even thought briefly that the killer had planned badly, that this was not how he would have done it.
He tried his best, knowing there was no mercy. He dropped the shopping bags and lunged forward, at the same time reaching for his gun. The man came forward to meet him, and Pippi in exultation reached for him. Six bullets carried his body into the air and flung it into a pillow of flowers at the foot of the green fence. He smelled their fragrance. He looked up at the man standing over him and said, «You fucking Santadio.» Then the final bullet crashed into his skull. Pippi De Lena was no more.
EARLY ON THE day Pippi De Lena was to die, Cross picked up Athena at her Malibu home and they drove to San Diego to visit Athena's daughter, Bethany.
Bethany had been prepared by the nurses, she was dressed to go out. Cross could see she was a blurry reflection of her mother, and tall for her age. There was still the blankness in her face and eyes, and her body was too slack. Her features did not seem to have real definition, as if partially dissolved, like a bar of used soap. She still wore the red plastic apron that she used to protect her clothes when she was painting. She had been painting on the wall since early that morning. She didn't acknowledge seeing them, and she received her mother's hug and kisses with a shrinking away of her body and face.
Athena disregarded this and hugged her even harder.
The day was to be a picnic at a wooded lake nearby. Athena had packed a lunch basket.
On the short drive, Bethany sat between them, with Athena driving. Athena frequently brushed back Bethany's hair and caressed her cheek while Bethany stared straight ahead.
Cross thought of how when the day was done he and Athena would be back in Malibu making love. He was imagining her naked body on the bed and him standing over her.
Suddenly Bethany spoke, and it was to him. She had never acknowledged him before. She stared at him with her flat green eyes and said, «Who are you?»
Athena answered, and her voice was perfect, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for Bethany to ask. She said, «His name is Cross and he's my very best friend.» Bethany seemed not to hear and retired into her world again.
Athena parked the car a few yards from a dazzling lake nestled in the forest, a tiny blue gem in a vast cloth of green. Cross took the basket of food, and Athena unpacked it onto a red cloth she spread over the grass. She also put out crisp green napkins and forks and spoons. The cloth was embroidered with musical instruments that caught Bethany's attention. Then Athena spread out a pile of different sandwiches, glass bowls of potato salad, and sliced fruits. Then a plate of sweet cakes oozing cream. And a platter of fried chicken. She had prepared everything with the care of a catering professional because Bethany loved food.
Cross went back to the car and took a case of soda from the trunk. There were glasses in the basket and he poured soda for them. Athena offered her glass to Bethany, but Bethany struck her hand aside. She was watching Cross.
Cross stared into her eyes. Her face was so rigid it could have been a mask instead of flesh, but her eyes were now alert. It was as if she was trapped in some secret cave, that she was being smothered but could not call for help, that her flesh was blistered and she could not bear to be touched.
They ate, and Athena took on the role of the insensitive chatterbox, trying to make Bethany laugh. Cross marveled at how skillful she was, affectedly irritating and boring, as if the autistic behavior of her child was perfectly natural, treating Bethany as a fellow gossip though the girl never answered. It was an inspired monologue she created to ease her own pain.
Finally it was time for dessert. Athena unwrapped one of the creamy cakes and offered it to Bethany, who refused it. She offered one to Cross and he shook his head. He was getting very nervous because, though Bethany had consumed an enormous amount of food, it was obvious she was very angry with her mother. He knew that Athena sensed it, too.
Athena ate the pastry and exclaimed enthusiastically about how delicious it was. She unwrapped another two and set them before Bethany. The girl usually loved sweets. Bethany took them off the tablecloth and put them on the grass. In a few minutes they were covered with insects. Then Bethany picked up the two cakes and shoved one into her mouth. She handed the other to Cross. Without a moment's hesitation, Cross put the pastry into his mouth. There was a tickling sensation all across his palate and on the sides of his gums. He quickly gulped some soda to wash it down. Bethany looked at Athena.
Athena had the studied frown of an actress planning to do a difficult scene. Then she laughed, a wonderfully infectious laugh, and clapped her hands. «I told you it was delicious,» she said. She unwrapped another pastry, but Bethany refused and so did Cross. Athena threw the pastry onto the grass and then took her napkin and wiped Bethany's mouth and then did the same to Cross. She was enjoying herself, it seemed.
On the drive back to the hospital, she spoke to Cross with some of the same inflections she used with Bethany. As if he, too, were autistic. Bethany watched her carefully and then turned to stare at Cross.
When they dropped the child off at the hospital, Bethany took Cross by the hand for a moment. «You're beautiful,» she said, but when Cross tried to kiss her good-bye, she turned her head away. Then she ran.
Driving back to Malibu, Athena said excitedly, «She responded to you, that's a very good sign.»
«Because I'm beautiful,» Cross said dryly.
«No,» Athena said, «because you can eat bugs. I'm at least as beautiful as you are and she hates me …» She was smiling joyfully, and as always her beauty made Cross dizzy and alarmed him.
«She thinks you're like her,» Athena said. «She thinks you're autistic.»
Cross laughed, he enjoyed the idea. «She may be right,» he said. «Maybe you should put me in the hospital with her.»
«No,» Athena said, smiling. «Then I couldn't have your body whenever I wanted it. Besides, I'm going to take her out after I finish Messalina. »
When they arrived at her Malibu house, Cross went in with her. They had planned for him to spend the night. By this time he had learned to read Athena: The more vivacious she acted, the more disturbed she was.
«If you're upset, I can go back to Vegas,» he said.
Now she looked sad. Cross wondered how he loved her most, when she was naturally exuberant, when she was stern and serious, or when she was melancholy. Her face changed so magically in its beauty that he always found his feelings matching hers.
She said to him fondly, «You've had a terrible day and you shall have your reward.» There was a mocking tone to her voice, but he understood it was a mockery of her own beauty, she knew her magic was false.
«I didn't have a terrible day,» Cross said. And it was true. The joy he felt that day, with the three of them alone by the lake in the vast forest, reminded him of his childhood.
«You love ants on your pastry …» Athena said sadly.
«They weren't bad,» Cross said. «Can Bethany get better?»
«I don't know but I'll keep searching until I find out,» Athena said. «I have a long weekend coming up when they won't need to shoot Messalina. I'm going to fly to France with Bethany. There's a great doctor in Paris and I'm going to take her for another evaluation.»
«What if he says there's no hope?» Cross said.
«Maybe I won't believe him. It doesn't matter,» Athena said. «I love her. I'll take care of her.»
«Forever and ever?» Cross asked.
«Yes,» Athena said. Then she clapped her hands together, her green eyes shining. «Meanwhile, let's have some fun. Let's take care of ourselves. We'll go upstairs and shower and jump into bed. We'll make mad passionate love for hours. Then I'll cook us a midnight supper.»
For Cross, he was a child again waking up with a day of pleasure before him, the breakfast his mother prepared, the playing of games with his friends, the hunting trips with his father, then supper with his family, Claudia, Nalene, and Pippi. The card games afterward. It was that innocent a feeling. Before him was making love to Athena in the twilight, watching the sun disappear over the Pacific from the balcony, the sky painted with marvelous reds and pinks, the touch of her warm flesh and silky skin. Her beautiful face and lips to kiss. He smiled and led her up the stairs.
The phone in the bedroom rang, and Athena ran up ahead of Cross to answer it. She covered the mouthpiece and in a startled voice said, «It's for you. A man named Giorgio.» He had never received a phone call at her house before.
This could only be trouble, Cross thought, and so he did something he never thought he was capable of doing. He shook his head.
Athena said into the phone, «He's not here… . Yes, I'll tell him to call you when he comes.» She hung up the phone and asked, «Who's Giorgio?»
«Just a relative,» Cross said. He was stunned by what he had done, and why: because he could not give up a night with Athena. That was a grievous crime. And then he wondered how Giorgio knew he would be here and what Giorgio wanted. It must be something important, he thought, but still it could wait until morning. More than anything else he was desperate for the hours of making love to Athena.
It was the moment they'd been waiting for all day, all week; they were stripping off their clothes before showering together but he couldn't resist embracing her, their bodies still sweaty from the picnic. Then she took his hand and led him under the spraying water.
They dried each other with the large orange towels and, wrapped in them, stood on the balcony to watch the sun slide gradually behind the horizon. Then they went inside to lay on the bed.
When Cross made love to her, it seemed that all the cells of his brain and body flew out and he was left in some feverish dream; he was a ghost whose wisps were filled with ecstasy, a ghost who entered her flesh. He lost all his caution, all his reason, he didn't even study her face to see if she was acting, if she truly loved him. It seemed to go on forever, until they fell asleep in each other's arms. When they woke they were still entwined, lit by a moon whose light seemed brighter than the sun's. Athena kissed him and said, «Did you really like Bethany?»
«Yes,» Cross said. «She's part of you.»
«Do you think she can get better?» Athena asked. «Do you think I can help her get better?»
At that moment Cross felt as though he would give up his life to make the girl well. He felt the urge to sacrifice for the woman he loved, which many men feel but which until that time had been completely alien to him.
«We can both try to help,» Cross said.
«No,» Athena said, «I have to do it by myself.»
They fell asleep again, and when the phone rang the air was misty with the newly born dawn. Athena picked up the phone, listened, and then said to Cross, «It's the guard at the gate. He says four men in a car want to come and see you.»
Cross felt a shock of fear. He took the phone and said to the guard, «Put one of them on the phone.»
The voice he heard was Vincent's. «Cross, Petie is with me. We got some really bad news.»
«OK, put the guard on,» Cross said, and then, to the guard, «They can come in.»
He had completely forgotten about Giorgio's call. That's what love does, he thought contemptuously. I won't live a year if I keep this up.
He slipped on his clothes quickly and ran downstairs. The car was just pulling up to the front of the house, the sun, still half hidden, threw its light from over the horizon.
Vincent and Petie were getting out of the back of a long limousine. Cross could see the driver and another man in front. Petie and Vincent walked the long garden path to the door and Cross opened it for them.
Suddenly Athena was standing beside him, clad in slacks and a pullover, nothing beneath. Petie and Vincent were staring at her. She had never looked more beautiful.
Athena led them all into the kitchen and started making coffee, and Cross introduced them as his cousins.
«How did you guys get here?» Cross asked. «Last night you were in New York.»
«Giorgio chartered us a plane,» Petie said.
Athena was studying them as she made the coffee. Neither of them showed any emotion. They looked like brothers, both were big men, but Vincent was pale as granite, while Petie's leaner face was tanned red with weather or drink.
«So what's the bad news?» Cross said. He expected to hear that the Don had died, that Rose Marie had really gone crazy, or that Dante had done something so terrible that the Family was in crisis.
Vincent said with his usual curtness, «We have to talk to you alone.»
Athena poured them coffee. «I tell you all my bad news,» she said to Cross. «I should hear yours.»
«I'll just leave with them,» Cross said.
«Don't you be so fucking condescending,» Athena said. «Don't you dare leave.»
At this Vincent and Petie reacted. Vincent's granite face flushed with embarrassment, Petie gave Athena a speculative grin, as if she was someone to be watched. Cross, seeing this, laughed and said, «OK, let's hear it.»
Petie tried to soften the blow. «Something happened to your father,» he said.
Vincent broke in savagely, «Pippi got shot by some punk eggplant mugger. He's dead. So is the mugger, a cop named Losey shot him as he was running away. They need you in L.A. to identify the body and do the paperwork. The old man wants him buried in Quogue.»
Cross lost his breath. He wavered for a moment, trembling in some dark wind, then he felt Athena holding his arm with both her hands.
«When?» Cross asked.
«About eight last night,» Petie said. «Giorgio called for you.»
Cross thought, While I was making love, my father was lying in the morgue. He felt an extraordinary contempt for his moment of weakness, an overwhelming shame. «I have to go,» he said to Athena.
She looked at his stricken face. She had never seen him so.
«I'm sorry,» she said. «Call me.»
In the backseat of the limousine, Cross heard the other two men offering condolences. He recognized them as soldiers from the Bronx Enclave. As they moved through the Malibu Colony gate and then onto the Pacific Coast Highway, Cross detected a sluggishness of movement. The car they were riding in was armored.
Five days later the funeral of Pippi De Lena was held in Quogue. The Don's estate held its own private cemetery as the mansion held its own private chapel, and Pippi was buried in the grave next to Silvio, to show the Don's respect.
Only the Clericuzio clan and the most valued soldiers of the Bronx Enclave attended. Lia Vazzi came from the Hunting Lodge in the Sierras at the request of Cross. Rose Marie was not present. On hearing of Pippi's death, she had one of her fits and was taken to the psychiatric clinic.
But Claudia De Lena was there. She flew in to comfort Cross and to say good-bye to her father. What she had not been able to do when Pippi was alive, she felt she must do after his death. She wanted to claim a part of him for herself, to show the Clericuzio that he was as much her father as he was part of their Family.
The lawn in front of the Clericuzio mansion was decorated with a huge floral wreath the size of a billboard, and there were buffet tables and waiters and a bartender at a makeshift table to serve the guests. It was strictly a day of mourning, and no Family business was discussed.
Claudia cried bitter tears for all the years she'd been forced to live without her father, but Cross received condolences with a quiet dignity and showed no signs of grief.
The next night he was on the balcony of his suite in the Xanadu Hotel watching the riot of colors on the neoned Strip. Even this far up he could hear the sounds of music, the buzz of gamblers crowding the Strip looking for a lucky casino. But it was quiet enough for him to analyze what had happened in the last month. And to reflect on the death of his father.
Cross did not believe for a moment that Pippi De Lena had been shot down by a punk mugger. It was impossible for a Qualified Man to meet such a fate.
He reviewed all the facts he had been told. His father had been shot by a black mugger named Hugh Marlowe. The mugger was twenty-three years old, with a record as a drug dealer. Marlowe had been killed while fleeing the scene by Detective Jim Losey, who had been trailing Marlowe in a drug case. Marlowe had a gun in his hand and pointed it at Losey who had therefore shot him down, a clean shot through the bridge of his nose. When Losey investigated, he discovered Pippi De Lena, and immediately called Dante Clericuzio. Before he notified even the police. Why would he do so even if he was on the Family payroll? A great irony — Pippi De Lena, the ultimate Qualified Man, the Clericuzio Number One Hammer for over thirty years, murdered by a raggedy drug-dealing mugger.
But then why had the Don sent Vincent and Petie to transport him with an armored car and guarded him until the funeral? Why had the Don taken such elaborate precautions? During the funeral he had asked the Don. But the Don said only that it was wise to be prepared until all the facts were known. That he had made a full investigation and it seemed all the facts were true. A petty thief had made a mistake and a foolish tragedy had ensued, but then, the Don said, most tragedies were foolish.
There was no doubting the Don's grief. He had always treated Pippi as one of his sons, had indeed given him some preference, and had said to Cross, «You shall have your father's place in the Family.»
But now Cross on his balcony overlooking Vegas pondered the central issue. The Don never believed in coincidence and yet here was a case bursting with coincidence. Detective Jim Losey was on the Family payroll and out of the thousands of detectives and policemen in Los Angeles, it was he who stumbled on the killing. What were the odds on that? But put that aside. Even more important, Don Domenico Clericuzio well knew it was impossible for a street mugger to get that close to Pippi De Lena. And what mugger fired six shots before fleeing? Never would the Don believe such a case.
So the question came. Had the Clericuzio decided that their greatest soldier was a danger to them? For what reason? Could they disregard his loyalty and devotion as well as their own affection for him? No, they were innocent. And the strongest evidence in their favor was that Cross himself was still alive. The Don would never allow that if they had killed Pippi. But Cross knew that he himself must be in danger.
Cross thought about his father. He had truly loved him, and Pippi was hurt that Claudia had refused to speak to him while he was alive. Yet she went to the funeral. Why? Could it be that she had finally remembered how good he was to both of them before their family fell apart?
He thought of that terrible day when he had chosen to go with his father because he realized what his father really was, knew that he could really kill Nalene if she took both children. But he had stepped up and taken his father's hand, not because of love but because of the fear in Claudia's eyes.
Cross had always thought his father was protection against the world they lived in, always thought his father invulnerable. A giver of death, not a receiver. Now he himself would have to guard against his enemies, even perhaps the Clericuzio. After all, he was rich, he owned half a billion worth of the Xanadu, his life was now worth taking.
And that made him think of the life he was now leading. To what purpose? To grow old like his father, taking all risks and then still to be killed? True, Pippi had enjoyed his life, the power, the money, but now to Cross it seemed to have been an empty life. His father had never known the happiness of loving a woman like Athena.
He was only twenty-six years old; he could make a new life. He thought of Athena and that he would see her tomorrow working for the first time, observe her make-believe life and see all the masks she could wear. How Pippi would have loved her, he loved all beautiful women. But then he thought of the wife of Virginio Ballazzo. Pippi had been fond of her, eaten at her table, hugged her, danced with her, played boccie with her husband, then planned the killing of them both.
He sighed and rose to go back into his suite. Dawn was breaking, and its light misted the neon that hung like a great theater curtain over the Strip. He could look down and see the flags of all the great casino hotels, the Sands, Caesars, the Flamingo, the Desert Inn, and the shooting volcano of the Mirage. The Xanadu was greater than them all. He watched the flags flying over the Xanadu Villas. What a dream he had lived in, and now it was dissolving, Gronevelt dead and his father murdered.
Back in his room he picked up the phone and called Lia Vazzi to come up and have breakfast with him. They had traveled from the funeral in Quogue to Vegas together. Then he called for breakfast for both of them. He remembered that Lia was fond of pancakes, an exotic dish to him still after all his years in America. The security guard arrived with Vazzi the same time as breakfast did. They ate in the kitchen of the suite.
«So what do you think?» Cross asked Lia.
«I think we should kill this detective Losey,» Lia said. «I told you that a long time ago.»
«So you don't believe his story?» Cross asked.
Lia was cutting his pancakes into strips. «It's a disgrace, that story,» he said. «There is no way a Qualified Man like your father would let a rascal get that close to him.»
«The Don thinks it's true,» Cross said. «He investigated.»
Lia reached for one of the Havana cigars and the glass of brandy Cross had set out for him. «I would never contradict Don Clericuzio,» he said. «But let me kill Losey just to make sure.»
«And what if the Clericuzio were behind him?» Cross asked.
«The Don is a man of honor,» Lia said. «From the old days. If he killed Pippi, he would have killed you. He knows you. He understands you will avenge your father and he is a prudent man.»
«But still,» Cross said, «who would you choose to fight for? Me or the Clericuzio?»
«I don't have a choice,» Lia said. «I was too close to your father and I'm too close to you. They won't let me live if you go down.»
Cross for the first time had brandy with Lia for breakfast. «Maybe it's just one of those foolish things,» he said.
«No,» Lia said. «It's Losey.»
«But he has no reason,» Cross said. «Still, we'll have to find out. Now I want you to form a crew of six men, those most loyal to you, none from the Bronx Enclave. Have them ready and wait for my orders.»
Lia was unusually sober. «Forgive me,» he said. «I have never questioned your orders. But on this I beg you to consult with me on the overall plan.»
«Good,» Cross said. «Next weekend I plan to fly to France for two days. Meanwhile find out all you can about Losey.»
Lia smiled at Cross. «You're going with your fiancée?»
Cross was amused by his politeness. «Yes, and with her daughter.»
«The one with the quarter of her brain missing?» Lia asked. He did not mean to be offensive. It was an idiom in Italian that also included brilliant people who were forgetful.
«Yes,» Cross said. «There is a doctor there who may help her.»
«Bravo,» Lia said. «I wish you all the best. This woman, does she know about Family matters?»
«God forbid,» Cross said, and they both laughed. And Cross was wondering how Lia knew so much about his private life.
FOR THE FIRST time Cross was going to watch Athena work on a movie set, to see her act out false emotions, to be someone other than herself.
He met Claudia in her office at the LoddStone lot, they would watch Athena together. There were two other women in the office, and Claudia introduced them. «This is my brother Cross and this is the director, Dita Tommey. And Falene Fant, who is working today in the picture.»
Tommey gave him a searching look, thinking he was handsome enough to be in the business except that he showed no fire, no passion, he would be stone cold dead on the screen. She lost interest. «I'm just leaving,» she said as she shook his hand. «I'm very sorry about your father. By the way, you're welcome on my set, Claudia and Athena vouch for you even though you're one of the producers.»
Cross became aware of the other woman. She was sort of dark chocolate with an outrageously insolent face and a terrific body, which her clothes flaunted. Falene was far less formal than Tommey.
«I didn't know Claudia had such a handsome brother — and rich, too, from what I hear. If you ever need somebody to keep you company at dinner, give me a call,» Falene said.
«I will,» Cross said. He was not surprised by the invitation. Plenty of the showgirls and dancers at the Xanadu had been just as direct. This was a girl who was naturally flirtatious, aware of her beauty, and not about to let a man she liked the looks of escape because of social rules.
Claudia said, «We were just giving Falene a little more to do in the film. Dita thinks she's talented and so do I.»
Falene gave Cross a big grin. «Yeah, now I shake my ass ten times instead of six. And I get to say to Messalina, “All the women of Rome love you and hope for your victory.” « She paused for a minute and said, «I hear you're one of the producers. Maybe you can get them to let me shake my ass twenty times.»
Cross sensed something in her, something she was trying to hide, despite her vivaciousness.
«I'm just one of the money men,» Cross said. «Everybody has to shake their ass at some time or another.» He smiled and said with charming simplicity, «Anyway, I wish you luck.»
Falene leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He could smell her perfume, which was heavy and erotic, and then he felt the grateful hug for his goodwill. Then she leaned back. «I have to tell you and Claudia something but in secret. I don't want to get into trouble, especially now.»
Claudia, sitting at her computer, frowned and did not answer. Cross took a step away from Falene. He did not like surprises.
Falene noticed these responses. Her voice faltered a little. «I'm sorry about your father,» she said. «But there's something you should hear about. Marlowe, the guy who supposedly mugged him, was a kid I grew up with and I knew him really well. Supposedly that detective Jim Losey shot Marlowe who supposedly shot your father. But I know Marlowe never had a gun. He was scared shitless of guns. Marlowe did small-time drugs and played the clarinet. And he was such a sweet coward. Jim Losey and his partner, Phil Sharkey, used to pick him up sometimes and ride him around so that he could spot dealers for them. Marlowe was so scared of jail, he was a police informant. All of a sudden he's a mugger and a murderer. I know Marlowe, he wouldn't harm a soul.»
Claudia was silent. Falene waved to her and went out the door, then came back. «Remember,» she said, «it's a secret between us.»
«It's all gone and forgotten,» Cross said with his most re-assuring smile. «And your story won't change anything.»
«I just had to get it off my chest,» Falene said. «Marlowe was such a good kid.» She left.
«What do you think?» Claudia said to Cross. «What the hell could that be about?»
Cross shrugged. «Druggies are always full of surprises. He needed dope money and he does a stickup and he gets unlucky.»
«I guess,» Claudia said. «And Falene is so good-hearted she'll believe anything. But it is an irony, our father dying like that.»
Cross looked at her stone-faced. «Everybody gets unlucky once.»
He spent the rest of the afternoon watching scenes being shot. One scene showed the hero, unarmed, defeating three armed men. This offended him, it was ridiculous. A hero should never be put in such a hopeless position. All it proved was that he was too dumb to be a hero. Then he watched Athena do a love scene and a quarrel scene. He was a little disappointed, she seemed to do little acting, the other actors seemed to outshine her. Cross was too inexperienced to know that what Athena was doing would register much more forcefully on film, that the camera would work its magic for her.
And he did not discover the real Athena. The acting she did was only for a few short snippets of time, and then there were long intervals in between. You could not see any of the electricity that would flash across the screen. Athena even seemed less beautiful when she was acting before the camera.
He said nothing of this when he spent the night with her that night in Malibu. After they had made love and she was cooking their midnight supper, she said, «I wasn't very good today, was I?» She gave him her catlike grin, which always sent a shock of pleasure through him. «I didn't want to show you my best moves,» she said. «I knew you'd be standing there trying to figure me out.»
He laughed. Always he was delighted by her perception of his character. «No, you weren't much,» he said. «Would you like me to fly with you to Paris Friday?»
Athena was surprised. He knew she was surprised by her eyes. Her face never changed, she was in control. She thought it over. «That could be a big help,» she said. «And we could see Paris together.»
«And we'll be back Monday?» Cross asked.
«Yes,» Athena said. «I have to shoot Tuesday morning. We have only a few weeks to go on the picture.»
«And then?» Cross asked.
«Then I'll retire and take care of my daughter,» Athena said. «Besides, I don't want to keep her a secret much longer.»
«The doctor in Paris is the final word?» Cross asked.
«Nobody's the final word,» Athena said. «Not on this stuff. But he's close.»
On Friday evening they flew to Paris on a specially chartered plane. Athena was disguised in a wig, and her makeup veiled her beauty in such a way as to make her even look homely. She wore loosely fitting clothing that hid her figure entirely and in some ways made her look matronly. Cross was amazed. She even walked differently.
On the plane Bethany was fascinated to find herself looking down on the earth. She roamed the plane looking out all the different windows. She seemed a little startled, her usually blank expression became almost normal.
They went from the plane to a small hotel off Georges-Mandel Avenue. They had a suite with two separate bedrooms, one for Cross and one for Athena and Bethany, the sitting room between them. It was ten in the morning; Athena removed her wig and makeup and changed her clothes. She could not bear to be homely in Paris.
At noon the three of them were in the doctor's office, a small chateau set on its own grounds and enclosed by an iron fence. There was a guard at the gate, and after checking their names he let them in.
They were met at the door by a maid who led them into a huge sitting room, which was densely furnished. There the doctor awaited them.
Dr. Ocell Gerard was a huge, heavy man, carefully dressed in a beautifully cut suit of brown pin stripes, a white shirt, and a dark brown silk tie to match. He had a round face, which should have had a beard to hide his heavy jowls. His thick lips were a dusky red. He introduced himself to Athena and Cross but ignored the child. Both Athena and Cross felt an immediate aversion to the man. He did not look like a doctor suitable to the sensitive profession he practiced.
There was a table set for tea and pastries. A maid attended to them. They were joined by two nurses, young women clad in strict professional attire, white caps and ivory-colored blouses and skirts. The two nurses watched Bethany intensely all during the meal.
Dr. Gerard addressed Athena. «Madame, I would like to thank you for your very generous contribution to our Medical Institute for Autistic Children. I have observed your request for complete confidentiality, which is why I'm conducting this examination here in my own private center. Now tell me exactly what you expect of me.» His voice was a mellow bass, it was magnetic. It attracted Bethany's attention, and she stared at him, but he ignored her.
Athena was nervous, she really didn't like the man. «I want you to evaluate. I want her to have some sort of normal life if possible and I will give up everything to achieve that. I want you to accept her into your Institute, I am willing to live in France and help in her schooling.»
She said this with enchanting sadness and hope, with such an air of self-abnegation, that the two nurses gazed at her almost adoringly. Cross was aware she was using all her acting skills to convince the doctor to take Bethany into the Institute. He saw her reach her arm out to clasp Bethany's hand with a caressing gesture.
Only Dr. Gerard seemed unimpressed. He did not look at Bethany. He addressed himself directly to Athena. «Do not deceive yourself,» he said. «All your love will not help this child. I have examined her records and there is no doubt she is genuinely autistic. She cannot return your love. She does not live in our world. She does not even live in the world of animals. She lives on a different star, absolutely alone.»
He continued, «You are not at fault. Nor, I believe, is the father. This is one of those mysterious complexities of the human condition. Here is what I can do. I will examine and test her more thoroughly. Then I will tell you what we at the Institute can and cannot do. If I cannot help, you must take her home. If we can, you will leave her with me in France for five years.»
He spoke to one of the nurses in French, and the woman left and returned with a huge book containing photographs of famous paintings. She gave the book to Bethany, but it was too big to fit on her lap. For the first time Dr. Gerard spoke to her. He spoke to her in French. She immediately put the textbook on the table and began to turn the pages. Soon she was lost in studying the pictures.
The doctor seemed ill at ease. «I don't mean to be offensive,» he said. «But this is in the best interest of your child. I know Mr. De Lena is not your husband, but is it possible he is the father of your child? If so, I would want to test him.»
Athena said, «I did not know him when my daughter was born.»
«Bon,»the doctor said. He shrugged. «Such things are always possible.»
Cross laughed. «Maybe the doctor sees some symptoms in me.»
The doctor's thick red lips pursed as he nodded and smiled amiably. «You do have certain symptoms. So do we all. Who knows? A centimeter either way, all of us could be autistic. Now I must make a thorough examination of the child and run some tests. It will take at the very least four hours. Why don't the two of you take a stroll through our lovely Paris. Mr. De Lena, your first time?»
«Yes,» Cross said.
Athena said, «I want to remain with my daughter.»
«As you wish, madame,» he said and then spoke to Cross. «Enjoy your stroll. I detest Paris myself. If a city could be autistic, it would be Paris.»
A taxi was called, and Cross went back to the hotel room. He had no desire to see Paris without Athena and he needed rest. Besides, he had come to Paris to clear his head, to think things out.
He pondered what Falene had told him. He remembered that Losey had come to Malibu alone, detectives usually worked in pairs. Before leaving Paris he had asked Vazzi to look into it.
At four, Cross was back in the doctor's sitting room. They were waiting for him. Bethany was poring over the book of painting, Athena was pale, the only physical sign that Cross knew could not be acting. Bethany was also gobbling a plate of pastries, and the doctor took it away from her, saying something in French. Bethany did not protest. A nurse came then to take her to the playroom.
«Forgive me,» the doctor said to Cross. «But I must ask you some questions.»
«Whatever you like,» Cross said.
The doctor rose from his chair and strode about the room. «I will tell you what I have told madame,» the doctor said. «There are no miracles in these cases, absolutely none. With long training there could be enormous improvement, in some cases, not many. And with Mademoiselle, there are certain limits. She must stay in my institution in Nice for five years at least. We have teachers there who can explore every possibility. In that time we will know whether it is possible for her to live a nearly normal life. Or whether she must be institutionalized forever.»
Here Athena began to weep. She held a small blue silk handkerchief to her eyes and Cross could smell its perfume.
The doctor looked at her impassively. «Madame has agreed. She will join the Institute as a teacher… . So.»
He sat directly across from Cross. «There are some very good signs. She has genuine talent as a painter. Certain senses alert, not withdrawn. She was interested when I spoke French, a language she cannot understand but intuits. That is a very good sign. Another good sign: The child showed some signs of missing you this afternoon, she has some feeling for another human being and that may be extended. It is highly unusual, but can be explained in not so mysterious a way. When I explored this with her she said you were beautiful. Now, you must not be offended, Mr. De Lena. I ask this question only for medical reasons to help the child, not accuse you. Have you sexually stimulated the girl in any way, perhaps unintentionally?»
Cross was so startled he burst out laughing. «I didn't know she responded to me. And I never gave her anything to respond to.»
Athena's cheeks were red with anger. «This is ridiculous,» she said. «He was never alone with her.»
The doctor persisted. «Have you at any time given her physical caresses? I don't mean clasping her hand, patting her hair, or even kissing her cheek. The girl is nubile, she would respond simply out of physicality. You would not be the first man tempted by such innocence.»
«Maybe she knows about my relationship with her mother,» Cross said.
«She doesn't care about her mother,» the doctor said. «Forgive me, madame, that is one of the things you must accept — nor her mother's beauty or her fame. They literally do not exist for her. It is you who she extends herself to. Think. Perhaps an innocent tenderness, something inadvertent.»
Cross looked at him coolly. «If I did it I would tell you. If that would help her.»
«Do you feel tenderness for this girl?» the doctor asked.
Cross considered for a moment. «Yes,» he said.
Dr. Gerard leaned back and clasped his hands. «I believe you,» he said. «And that gives me great hope. If she can respond to you, she may be helped to respond to others. She may tolerate her mother someday and that will be enough for you, am I right, madame?»
«Oh, Cross,» Athena said. «I hope you're not angry.»
«It's OK, really,» Cross said.
Dr. Gerard looked at him carefully. «You are not offended?» he said. «Most men would be extremely upset. One patient's father actually struck me. But you are not angry. Tell me why.»
He could not explain to this man, or even to Athena, how the sight of Bethany in her hugging machine affected him. How it reminded him of Tiffany and all the showgirls he had made love to who had left him feeling empty. How his relationships with all the Clericuzio and even with his father left him with feelings of isolation and despair. And finally how all the victims he had left behind seemed the victims of some ghostly world that became real only in his dreams.
Cross looked the doctor directly in the eye. «Maybe because I'm autistic too,» he said. «Or maybe because I have worse crimes to hide.»
The doctor leaned back and said in a satisfied voice, «Ah.» He paused and smiled for the first time. «Would you like to come in for some tests?» They both laughed.
«Now, madame,» Dr. Gerard said. «I understand you catch a plane back to America tomorrow morning. Why not leave your daughter with me now. My nurses are very good, and I can assure you the girl will not miss you.»
«But I'll miss her,» Athena said. «Could I keep her tonight and bring her back tomorrow morning? We have a chartered plane so I can leave when I like.»
«Certainly,» the doctor said. «Bring her here in the morning. I will have my nurses escort her down to Nice. You have the phone number of the Institute and you can call me as often as you like.»
They got up to go. Athena impetuously kissed the doctor on the cheek. The doctor flushed, he was not insensible to her beauty and fame, despite his ogreish appearance.
Athena, Bethany, and Cross spent the rest of the day strolling the streets of Paris. Athena bought new clothes for Bethany, a full wardrobe. She bought painting supplies and a huge suitcase to hold all the new things. They sent everything to the hotel.
They had dinner in a restaurant on the Champs Elysées. Bethany ate greedily, especially the pastries. She had not spoken a word all day or responded to any of Athena's gestures of affection.
Cross had never seen such a show of love as that Athena showed Bethany. Except when as a child he saw his own mother, Nalene, brushing Claudia's hair.
During dinner Athena held Bethany's hand, brushed the crumbs off her face, and explained that she would return to France in a month to stay with her at the school for the next five years.
Bethany paid no attention.
Athena was enthusiastic when she told Bethany how they could learn French together, go to museums together and see all the great paintings, and how Bethany could spend as much time as she wanted on her own paintings. She described how they would travel all over Europe, to Spain, to Italy, to Germany.
Then Bethany spoke the first words of the day. «I want my machine.»
As always Cross was stricken by a sense of holiness. The beautiful girl was like a copy of a great portrait painting but without the soul of the artist, as if her body had been left empty for God.
It was after dark when they walked back to their hotel. Bethany was between them, and they swung her hands so that she lifted up in the air, and for once she allowed it, in fact seemed to delight in it so much that they continued past the hotel.
It was at this moment that Cross had the precise feeling of happiness he had had at the picnic. And it consisted of nothing more than the three of them linked together, holding hands. He was filled with wonder and horror at his sentimentality.
Finally they returned to the hotel. After Athena had helped Bethany to bed, she came into the sitting room of the suite, where Cross was waiting for her. They sat side by side on the lavender sofa holding hands.
«Lovers in Paris,» Athena said, smiling at him. «And we never got to sleep together in a French bed.»
«Are you worried about leaving Bethany here?» Cross asked.
«No,» Athena said. «She won't miss us.»
«Five years,» Cross said, «is a long time. And you're willing to give up five years and your profession?»
Athena got up from the sofa and walked up and down the room. She spoke passionately. «I glory in being able to do without acting. When I was a kid I dreamed of being a great heroine, Marie Antoinette going to the guillotine, Joan of Arc burning at the stake, Marie Curie saving mankind from some great disease. And of course, also giving up everything for the love of a great man, most ridiculous of all. I dreamed of living a heroic life and knew I'd surely go to Heaven. That I would be pure in mind and body. I detested the idea of doing anything that would compromise me, especially for money. I was determined that under no circumstance would I ever harm another human being. Everyone would love me, including myself. I knew I was smart, everyone told me I was beautiful, and I proved to be not only competent but talented.
«So what did I do? I fell in love with Boz Skannet. I slept with men not out of desire but to further my career. I gave life to a human being who may never love me or anyone. Then I very cleverly maneuver or request the murder of my husband. Not so subtly I ask, Who will murder this husband of mine who is such a threat to me now.» She pressed his hand. «And for this I thank you.»
Cross said to reassure her, «You didn't do any of those things. It was just your destiny, as we say in my family. As for Skannet, he was a stone in your shoe, another family saying, so why shouldn't you get rid of him?»
Athena kissed him briefly on the lips. «Now I have,» she said. «My knight errant. The only trouble is you don't stop at killing dragons.»
«After five years, if the doctor says she can't improve, then what?» Cross asked.
«I don't care what anyone says,» Athena said. «There's always hope. I'll be with her the rest of my life.»
«And you won't miss your work?» he asked.
«Of course I'll miss it, and I'll miss you,» Athena said. «But finally I'll do what I believe is right, not just be a heroine in a movie.» Her voice was amused. Then she said with a flat tone, «I want her to love me, that's all I want.»
They kissed each other good night and went into their separate bedrooms.
The next morning they took Bethany to the doctor's office. Athena had a difficult time saying good-bye to her daughter. She hugged the girl and wept, but Bethany would have none of it. She pushed her mother away and got ready to repulse Cross, but he did not move to embrace her.
Cross was momentarily angry with Athena for being so helpless with her daughter. The doctor, observing this, said to Athena, «When you return, you will need a great deal of training to cope with this child.»
«I'll be back as quickly as I can,» Athena said.
«You needn't hurry,» the doctor said. «She lives in a world where time does not exist.»
On the plane back to L.A., Cross and Athena agreed that he would go on to Vegas and not accompany Athena to Malibu. There had only been one terrible moment on the whole trip. For a full half hour Athena had doubled over in her grief, wordlessly crying. Then she became calm.
When they parted Athena said to Cross, «I'm sorry we never got to make love in Paris.» But he understood she was being kind. That at this particular time, she was repulsed by the thought of them making love. That like her daughter, she was now separated from the world.
Cross was met at the airport by a big limo driven by a soldier from the Hunting Lodge. Lia Vazzi was in the back. Lia closed the glass partition so that the driver couldn't hear their conversation.
«Detective Losey was up to see me again,» he said. «The next time he comes will be his last.»
«Be patient,» Cross said.
«I know the signs, trust me on this,» Lia said. «Something else. A crew from the Bronx Enclave has moved into place in Los Angeles, I don't know by whose orders. I would say you need bodyguards.»
«Not yet,» Cross said. «You have your six-man crew together?»
«Yes,» Lia said. «But they are men who will not act directly against the Clericuzio.»
When they got to the Xanadu, Cross found a memo from Andrew Pollard, a complete file on Jim Losey, that made for interesting reading. And a piece of information that could be acted on immediately.
Cross drew a hundred grand from the casino cage, all in C notes. He told Lia they were going to L.A. Lia would be his driver and he wanted no one else with them. He showed him Pollard's memo. They flew to L.A. the next day and rented a car to drive to Santa Monica.
Phil Sharkey was mowing the lawn in front of his house. Cross got out of the car with Lia and identified himself as a friend of Pollard's who was in need of information. Lia carefully studied Sharkey's face. Then he went back to the car.
Phil Sharkey was not as impressive-looking as Jim Losey, but he looked tough enough. He also looked as if his years of police work had burned out his confidence in his fellow human beings. He had that alert suspiciousness, that seriousness of manner, that the best cops have. But he was obviously not a happy man.
Sharkey ushered Cross into his house, which was really a bungalow, the insides dreary and worn; it had the forlorn look of a womanless and childless dwelling. The first thing Sharkey did was call Pollard and confirm the identity of his visitor. Then without offering any courtesy, a seat, or a drink, he said to Cross, «Go ahead, ask.»
Cross opened his briefcase and took out a packet of hundreds. «There's ten grand,» he said. «That's just for letting me talk. But it will take a little time. How about a beer and a place to sit?»
Sharkey's face broke into a grin. It was curiously affable, the good cop in the partnership, Cross thought.
Sharkey shoved the money casually into his trouser pocket. «I like you,» Sharkey said. «You're smart. You know it's money that talks, not bullshit.»
They sat at a little round table on the back porch of the bungalow, which overlooked Ocean Avenue to the sandy beach and water beyond, as they drank their beers out of the bottle. Sharkey patted his pocket to make sure the money was still there.
Cross said, «If I hear the right answers, there's another twenty grand for you right after. Then, if you keep your mouth shut about me being here, I'll come around to see you in two months with another fifty grand.»
Sharkey gave his grin, but now there was a hint of mischief in it. «In two months you won't care who I tell, is that it?»
«Yes,» Cross said.
Sharkey was serious now. «I'm not telling you anything that gets anybody indicted.»
«Hey, then you don't know who I really am,» Cross said. «Maybe you better call Pollard again.»
Sharkey said curtly, «I know who you are. Jim Losey told me I should always treat you right. All the way.» And then he put on his sympathetic listening style that was part of his profession.
Cross said, «You and Jim Losey were partners for the last ten years and you were both making good money on the side. And then you retired. I'd like to know why.»
«So, it's Jim you're after,» Sharkey said. «That's very dangerous. He was the bravest and the smartest cop I ever knew.»
«How about honest?» Cross asked.
«We were cops, and in Los Angeles,» Sharkey said. «Do you know what the fuck that means? If we do our real job and kick the shit out of the spics and blacks, we could get indicted and lose our jobs. The only ones we could arrest without getting into trouble were the white schmucks who had money. Look, I got no prejudice, but why should I throw white guys in jail when I can't throw the other kind in jail? That's not right.»
«But I understand Jim got a chest full of medals,» Cross said. «You got some too.»
Sharkey gave him a dismissive shrug. «You can't help being a hero cop in this town if you have just a little bit of balls. A lot of those guys didn't know they could do business if they talked nice. And some of them were out-and-out killers. So we had to defend ourselves and we got some medals. Believe me, we never looked for a fight.»
Cross was doubting everything Sharkey was saying. Jim Losey was a natural-born strong-arm guy despite his fancy clothes.
«Were you two partners in everything?» Cross asked. «Did you know everything that was going on?»
Sharkey laughed. «Jim Losey? He was the boss always. Sometimes I didn't even know exactly what we were doing. I didn't even know how much we were getting paid. Jim handled all that and he gave me what he said was my fair share.» He paused a moment. «He had his own rules.»
«So how did you make money?» Cross asked.
«We were on the pad for some of the big gambling syndicates,» Sharkey said. «Sometimes a payoff for the drug guys. There was a time when Jim Losey wouldn't take drug money but then every cop in the world started taking it, so we did.»
«Did you and Losey ever use a black kid named Marlowe to finger big shot drug dealers?» Cross asked.
«Sure,» Sharkey said. «Marlowe. A nice kid scared of his own shadow. We used him all the time.»
Cross said, «So when you heard Losey shot him running away from a mug-murder, you were surprised?» Cross asked.
«Hell, no,» Sharkey said. «Druggies graduate. But they are so fucked up, they always botch it. And Jim, in that situation, never gives the warning we're taught to give. He just shoots.»
«But wasn't it a strange coincidence,» Cross said, «their paths crossing like that?»
For the first time Sharkey's face seemed to lose its toughness, grow sad. «It's fishy,» he said. «The whole thing is fishy. But now I guess I have to give you something. Jim Losey was brave, women loved him and men held him in high regard. I was his partner and I felt the same way. But the truth is he was always a fishy guy.»
«So it could have been some sort of setup,» Cross said.
«No, no,» Sharkey said. «You have to understand. The job makes you take graft. But it doesn't make you a hit man. Jim Losey would never do that. I'll never believe that.»
«So why did you take your retirement after that?» Cross asked.
«It was just that Jim was getting me nervous,» Sharkey said.
«I met Losey out at Malibu not long ago,» Cross said. «He was alone. Does he often operate without you?»
Now Sharkey gave his grin again. «Sometimes,» he said. «That particular time he went to take a shot at the actress. You'd be surprised how often he made a score with big stars in that business. Sometimes he had lunches with people and he didn't want me around.»
«One other thing,» Cross said. «Was Jim Losey a racist? Did he hate blacks?»
Sharkey gave him a look of amused astonishment. «Of course he did. You're one of those bullshit liberals, right? You think that's terrible? Just go out and put a year in on the job. You'll vote to put them all in the zoo.»
«I have another question,» Cross said. «You ever see him with a short guy wearing a funny hat?»
«An Italian guy,» Sharkey said. «We had lunch and then Jim told me to get lost. Spooky guy.»
Cross reached into his briefcase and took out another two packets of money. «Here's twenty grand,» he said. «And remember, you keep your mouth shut and you get another fifty grand. OK?»
«I know who you are,» Sharkey said.
«Sure you do,» Cross said. «I instructed Pollard to tell you who I am.»
«I know who you really are,» Sharkey said with his infectious grin. «That's why I don't take your whole briefcase right now. And why I'll keep quiet for two months. Between you and Losey, I don't know who'll kill me faster.»
Cross De Lena realized he had enormous problems. He knew Jim Losey was on the Clericuzio Family «pad.» That he received fifty thousand a year as a salary, and bonuses for special jobs, but none of these had included murder. It was enough for Cross to make a final judgment. Dante and Losey had killed his father. It was an easy judgment for him to make, he was not bound by the legal laws of evidence. And his whole training with the Clericuzio helped him make the verdict of guilty. He knew his father's competence and character. No mugger could get close to him. He also knew Dante's character and competence and Dante's dislike for his father.
The big question was this: Had Dante acted on his own or had the Don commanded the killing? But the Clericuzio had no reason; his father had been loyal for over forty years and an important factor in the Family ascension. He had been the great general in the war against the Santadio. And Cross wondered, not for the first time, why no one had ever told him the details of that war, not his father, not Gronevelt, not Giorgio or Petie or Vincent.
The more he thought about it, the more Cross was sure of one thing: The Don had no hand in the killing of his father. Don Domenico was a very conservative man of business. He rewarded loyal service, he did not punish it. He was extremely fair-minded, to the point of cruelty. But the clinching argument was this: He would never have let Cross live if he had killed Pippi. That was the proof of the Don's innocence.
Don Domenico believed in God, he sometimes believed in Fate, but he did not believe in coincidence. The coincidence of Jim Losey being the cop who shot the mugger who shot Pippi would be absolutely rejected by the Don. He had surely made his own investigation and discovered Dante's connection with Losey. And he would not only know Dante's guilt but his motive.
And what about Rose Marie, Dante's mother? What did she know? When she had heard of Pippi's death, she had had her most serious fit, screaming unintelligibly, weeping incessantly, so that the Don had sent her to the East Hampton psychiatric clinic he had funded many years ago. She would be there for at least a month.
Visitors to Rose Marie in the clinic had always been forbidden by the Don, except for Dante, Giorgio, Vincent, and Petie. But Cross often sent flowers and baskets of fruit. So what the hell was Rose Marie so upset about? Did she know about Dante's guilt, understand his motive? At that moment Cross thought about the Don saying that Dante would be his heir. That was ominous. Cross decided he would visit Rose Marie at the clinic, despite the Don's interdiction. He would go with flowers, and fruit, and chocolates and cheeses, with true affection, but with the purpose of tricking her into betraying her son.
Two days later, Cross entered the lobby of the psychiatric clinic in East Hampton. There were two guards at the door, and one escorted him to the reception desk.
The woman at the reception desk was middle-aged and well dressed. When he stated his business, she gave him a charming smile and said he would have to wait a half hour because Rose Marie was undergoing a minor medical procedure. She would notify him when it was done.
Cross sat down in the waiting room of the reception area, just off the lobby, where there were tables and soft armchairs. He picked up a copy of a Hollywood magazine. Reading it, he came across an article on Jim Losey, the detective hero of Los Angeles. The article detailed his heroic achievements, capped by his killing the mugger-murderer Marlowe. Cross was amused by two things. That his father was referred to as the owner of a financial service agency and a typical helpless victim of a brutal criminal. And by the tag line of the article, which asserted that if there were more cops like Jim Losey, street crime would be under control.
A nurse tapped him on the shoulder. She was an impressively strong-looking woman, but she said with a pleasant smile, «I'll bring you up.»
Cross picked up the box of chocolates and the flowers he had brought and followed her up a short flight of stairs and then down a long corridor spaced by doors. At the last door the nurse used a master key and opened it. She motioned Cross inside and closed the door after him.
Rose Marie, clad in a gray robe, her hair neatly braided, was watching a small TV. When she saw Cross she jumped up from the couch and flew into his arms. She was weeping. Cross kissed her cheek and gave her the chocolates and flowers.
«Oh, you came to see me,» she said. «I thought you hated me for what I did to your father.»
«You didn't do anything to my father,» Cross said, and led her back to the couch. Then he turned off the TV. He kneeled beside the couch. «I was worried about you.»
She reached out and stroked his hair. «You were always so beautiful,» she said. «I hated that you were your father's son. I was glad to see him dead. But I always knew terrible things would happen. I filled the air and the earth with poison for him. Now you think my father will let this pass?»
«The Don is a just man,» Cross said. «He will never blame you.»
«He has fooled you as he has tricked everyone else,» Rose Marie said. «Never trust him. He betrayed his own daughter, he betrayed his grandson and he betrayed his nephew Pippi… . And now he will betray you.»
Her voice had risen to a loud pitch and Cross was afraid she would go into one of her fits.
«Quiet down, Aunt Roe,» Cross said. «Just tell me what upset you so that you had to come back here.» He stared into her eyes and thought how pretty she must have been as a young girl, the innocence still in her eyes.
Rose Marie whispered, «Make them tell you about the Santadio War, then you will understand everything.» She looked past Cross and then covered her head with her hands. Cross turned. The door opened. Vincent and Petie were standing there silently. Rose Marie jumped off the couch and ran into the bedroom and slammed the door shut.
Vincent's granite face showed pity and despair. «Jesus Christ,» he said. He went to the bedroom door and knocked, then said through it, «Roe, open the door. We're your brothers. We won't hurt you …»
Cross said, «What a coincidence to meet you here. I was visiting Rose Marie too.»
Vincent never had any time for bullshit. «We're not here to visit. The Don wants to see you in Quogue.»
Cross appraised the situation. Obviously the receptionist had called somebody in Quogue. Obviously, it was a planned procedure. And just as obviously, the Don did not want him talking to Rose Marie. That Petie and Vincent had been sent meant that it was not a hit, they would not be so carelessly exposed.
This was confirmed when Vincent said, «Cross, I'll go with you in your car. Petie can go in his.» A hit in the Clericuzio Family would never be one on one.
Cross said, «We can't leave Rose Marie like this.»
«Sure we can,» Petie said. «The nurse will just shoot her up.»
Cross tried to make conversation while he drove. «Vincent, you guys sure got here fast.»
«Petie drove,» Vincent said. «He's a fucking maniac.» He paused for a moment and then said in a worried voice, «Cross, you know the rules, how come you visit Rose Marie?»
«Hey,» Cross said, «Rose Marie was one of my favorite aunts while I was growing up.»
«The Don doesn't like it,» Vincent said. «He's very pissed off. He says it's not like Cross. He knows.»
«I'll straighten it out,» Cross said. «But I was really worried about your sister. How's she doing?»
Vincent sighed. «This time it may be for keeps. You know she was sweet on your old man when she was a kid. Who could figure Pippi being killed would throw her so much?»
Cross caught the false note in Vincent's voice. He knew something. But Cross only said, «My father was always fond of Rose Marie.»
«In the past years she wasn't so fond of him,» Vincent said. «Especially when she got into one of her fits. You should hear the things she said about him then.»
Cross said casually, «You were in the Santadio War. How come you guys never talk about it to me?»
«Because we never talk about operations,» Vincent said. «My father taught us it served no purpose. You just go on. There's plenty of trouble in the present to worry about.»
«My father was a big hero though, right?» Cross said.
Vincent smiled for just a moment, his stone face almost softened. «Your father was a genius,» Vincent said. «He could plan an operation like Napoleon. Nothing ever went wrong when he planned it. Maybe once or twice because of bad luck.»
«So he planned the war against the Santadio,» Cross said.
«Ask the Don these questions,» Vincent said. «Now talk about something else.»
«OK,» Cross said. «Am I going to be knocked off like my father?»
The usually cold and stone-faced Vincent reacted violently. He grabbed the steering wheel and forced Cross to park on the side of the highway. His voice choked with emotion when he said, «Are you crazy? Do you think the Clericuzio Family would do such a thing? Your father had Clericuzio blood. He was our best soldier, he saved us. The Don loved him as much as any of his sons. Jesus Christ, why do you ask something like that?»
Cross said meekly, «I just got scared, you guys popping up.»
«Get back on the road,» Vincent said disgustedly. «Your father and me and Giorgio and Petie fought together during really rough times. There is no way we could go against each other. Pippi just got unlucky, a crazy jigaboo mugger.»
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
At the mansion in Quogue, there were the usual two guards at the gate and one man sitting on the porch. There did not seem to be any unusual activity.
Don Clericuzio, Giorgio, and Petie were awaiting them in the den of the mansion. On the bar was a box of Havana cigars and a mug filled with twisted black Italian cheroots.
Don Clericuzio sat in one of the huge brown leather armchairs. Cross went to greet him and was surprised when the Don pushed himself up to stand, with an agility that belied his age, and embraced him. After which he motioned Cross to the huge coffee table on which various dishes of cheeses and dried meats were spread.
Cross sensed that the Don was not yet ready to speak. He made himself a sandwich of mozzarella cheese and prosciutto. The prosciutto was thin slabs of dark red meat fringed with very tender white fat. The mozzarella was a white ball so fresh it was still sweating milk. It was tied off on top with a thick salty knob like the knot in a rope. The closest that the Don had ever come to boasting was that he never ate a mozzarella that was more than thirty minutes old.
Vincent and Petie were also helping themselves to food, while Giorgio served as bartender, bringing wine to the Don and soft drinks to the others. The Don only ate the dripping mozzarella, letting it melt inside his mouth. Petie gave him one of the twisted cheroots and lit it for him. What a wonderful stomach the old man had, thought Cross.
Don Clericuzio said abruptly, «Croccifixio, whatever you seek now from Rose Marie, I will tell you. And you suspect something amiss about your father's death. You are wrong. I have had inquiries made, the story is true as it stands. Pippi was unlucky. He was the most prudent of men in his profession but such ludicrous accidents happen. Let me set your mind at rest. Your father was my nephew and a Clericuzio, and one of my dearest friends.»
«Tell me about the war with the Santadio,» Cross said.