Blue Heaven (13 page)

I was perfectly aware that on this of all nights, such behavior was not advisable. The sane thing would have been to keep a low profile, doing all I could to ensure that, come tomorrow, none of these dangerous people would even recall having met me. But no, I had to
entertain
them. They may all have been vicious thugs who sold heroin in schoolyards and murdered innocents just for practice but I wanted them to like me.

"Gilbert!" we heard and turned.

"Agnes darling!"

"I
hate
to be called Agnes!"

"I know!"

"Brat! Give me a kiss!"

She was a very put-together woman, the sort you first guess to be around forty then later decide is fifty and diligent. She was a far cry from the other women of her generation present at the party. She was svelte though not cadaverous, used makeup to flattering effect and wore a mauve silk dress which, while fetching, didn't challenge you to guess what it cost.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?"

"This is my old buddy Philip and his fiancee, Claire. This is my cousin Agnes-"

"Aggie!"

"-Fabrizio. Have you ever eaten at Paradiso on East Fifty-second?"

"No."

"Shame on you!"

"She owns it. She's Lunch's sister."

"Oh, dear. Then you've met Lunch, have you?"

"Yes. He was charming," said Claire, without a trace of sarcasm.

"Was
he?" asked Aggie, glancing over to where Lunch had parked himself to devour a fresh plate of lasagna. "He always runs when he sees me because I'm always after him to lose some of that weight. Don't you think he should?"

"Yes," I concurred, "if he could just lay off those between-meal meals ..."

"Exactly! I think he should try one of those appetite suppressants."

"Aggie, dear," I said, "the government of Poland couldn't suppress that appetite."

Aggie beamed and said I was wicked.

"He certainly is," agreed Claire. "Has Lunch always had this weight problem?"

"Ever since high school."

"Yes," I said, "his yearbook picture was an aerial photo."

Aggie let out a sharp staccato "Hah!" that sounded less like mirth than karate. "Gilbert, who
is
this boy? He's a scream!"

"Oh, Philip and I go way back. He's a writer."

"A writer? How marvelous! Are you famous?"

"Not quite," I blushed.

"He has a small following," said Gilbert.

"They meet once a year in a Volkswagen."

"Hah!"

"He's really very talented. He's just not known yet."

"That's a shame. What does an unknown writer make?"

"Excuses."

"Hah!"

Aggie's distinctly audible laugh had caught the attention of half the room. A couple drifted over to us now and were introduced as Ugo and Betty Sartucci, Chick's son and daughter-in-law.

"What's so funny, Aggie?"

"Gilbert's friend, Philip um ... ?"

"Cavanaugh."

"Cavanaugh. He's terribly clever."

"Oh, are you the one that made that great crack about Lunch playing Santa Claus?"

"What, what?" asked Aggie, eagerly.

Ugo chortled and repeated the mot. Then he added: "You better watch out for Lunch. He heard someone telling it and he's a little steamed!"

"That's okay," said Gilbert, "his wife's a little fried!"

"Darling," said Claire, desperately trying to extricate us from our new admirers, "could you get me another glass of champagne?"

"Of course, dear. Too much blood in your alcohol system, is there?"

Claire smiled and dragged me away but it was too late. The fan club followed us to the bar and Gilbert and I kept cutting our capers
while knocking back double scotches to further demolish our inhibitions.

A certain portion of my shtick derived from gleeful exaggeration of the hardships endured by the struggling artist.

"Thank you!" I said, accepting a crabmeat puff from a passing Nazi. "I really need this. My last square meal was a saltine."

Before long our little audience had doubled in size. Then, after casually letting it slip that Claire and I were the authors of several comic ditties, I allowed Aggie to drag us to the piano. The bench was at the time occupied by Sister Deena Sartucci, a round little nun who was, from the sound of things, either playing brilliantly with mittens on or ineptly without them. Aggie sweetly informed her that she need no longer shoulder the burden of entertaining all by herself. I conferred briefly with Claire and took care to choose only three or four of our very best. The response was more than gratifying. Even Claire, who'd nearly fled at the thought of playing, couldn't help but be warmed by the waves of laughter and applause and soon we were both, along with Gilbert who knew the words, rollicking through our boogie woogie salute to the
New York Post:

"Tot Is Crushed Under Daddy's Wheels!

"Three Dismembered As Nut Goes Wild!"

Jury Reels

As Mom Reveals:

"Voices Told Me To Eat My Child!"

In the
Post

The
Post!

The
New York Post!

Sex and death with your morning toast!

That one left them all so eager for more that nothing could induce me to continue. The egomaniacal beast within knew that my victory was complete and that by continuing I could only dim its luster. I begged off politely but firmly and sauntered away to the ballroom where the dancing was just getting underway. Claire soon appeared at my side.

"You really are a jackass!" she whispered through a tense smile.

"Give me a break, okay?"

"Why? I drag you aside to inform you that we're in a room full of
racketeers and hit men. So, of course, you immediately go out of your way to make sure that each and every one of them knows who you are, excuse me, who
we
are. I don't understand you sometimes, I really don't!"

"I'm sorry. I was nervous and when I get nervous-"

I followed her gaze and saw Moira and Gilbert approaching.

"You two were wonderful! How sweet of you to entertain when you're not even getting paid. Everybody's talking about you."

"How nice," said Claire.

"But dear, what's all this about your being engaged! It's a joke, right?"

There was a slight edge to her voice. I could see she suspected, correctly, that our sudden spurious romance was in some way related to her own, which would mean Claire knew. And Moira wouldn't like that one bit. But Claire covered beautifully.

"Oh, Moira," she said, suddenly just a bit drunk, "I don't know what came over me! When Chick asked if we were tying the knot I was suddenly just full of the devil! I had to see the look on Philip's face if I said yes! And now I'm embarrassed to say I was fibbing 'cause they might think I was making fun of them. Because I
wasn't
really, I was just--"

"-Full of the devil . . . and champagne, too, I think!" said Moira with a gay little laugh. She'd bought it.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. I'd better call it quits after this one!"

"Nonsense! Have fun! That's what we're here for!"

Maddie entered the ballroom and swept over to our corner, atwitter with excitement.

"Good news, kids! Freddy's up!"

She ushered us back into the living room and there, sitting on a sofa by the tree, was the archfiend, Freddy Bombelli. Aggie sat next to him on one side and on the other sat Chick Sartucci.

Directly behind Chick a well-dressed goon stood casting a suspicious eye on Freddy's loved ones. He had a low square build topped by short dark curly hair and a face only Darwin could love. Maddie later told me he was Serge, Freddy's "nurse." The title was not wholly facetious for he did, in fact, have charge of the old man's complex schedule of pills and was, in addition, prepared to swiftly diagnose
any unforeseen impediment to Freddy's health and respond immediately with massive doses of lead therapy.

As for Freddy, my initial impression was not one of age but of diseased youth. Sitting there, his feet not quite touching the floor, he didn't look like an old man as much as one of those children stricken by that horrid disease which causes them to age prematurely and die of senescence at nine.

"Freddy, hon, look who's here!" cried Maddie.

Freddy the Pooch looked up and his face blossomed at the sight of his favorite wench. "
Cara
! You came!"

"Of course I came! Didn't I say I would!"

"But you young people. So many parties. You forget."

His voice only added to this macabre illusion of an ancient child. It was wheezy but at the same time cheerful and loud, an exuberant death rattle.

"Freddy, you remember my Gilbert."

"Of course. Steffie's wedding. So nice to see you again."

"Nice to see you, Uncle Freddy! You look great!"

"I take care of myself. Lotta naps."

"And
this,"
said Aggie, smiling significantly, "is his very talented young friend, Phil Cavanaugh. Oh, and that's his fiancee, Clara.'"

"Yes, Aggie," he said, "I won't forget. Hello, young man, a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, the pleasure's all mine! I've heard so much about you . . . from Moira! She told me how much she enjoys her job."

"Did she? That's nice. I'm afraid sometimes she'll get bored, maybe want to quit."

"Quit! Oh, you silly, you! All I worry about is that you'll find someone better and give the job to her."

"Is no one better! This girl," he said, turning to Charlie Pastore, "Moira, she's engaged to Maddie's son Gilbert, I hired her to read to me. My eyes, you see, the doctor said no more reading. And I love my books, you know. All my life, every night after dinner I take a good book and read it. What am I supposed to do now, watch TV?"

"What's wrong with TV?" asked Maddie.

"You like it, you keep it, dear. Pfff! Every channel, nothing but police and car chases. I had enough of that when I was young."

Everyone laughed at this, and no one louder than Moira.

"Oh, Freddy!" she trilled, scandalized.

Claire and I stared at Moira then at each other. The same bloody thought had erupted in both our minds:

She knows! She
knows
they're all Mafia and Freddy is Freddy the Pooch and they deal drugs and bribe senators and kill people and she doesn't care!
She wants to swindle them anyway!

"Oh, Freddy!" she sang, "did you see? I'm wearing your Christmas gift. It is just
so
cheerful! Isn't it cheerful, Gilley?"

"Very!" said Gilbert, casting a nervous glance to his left. He was looking at a petulant traybearer from Master Race Caterers whose eyes, in turn, were fixed implacably on Gilbert. The anger that glinted in them was unmistakably that of a man who had been Done Wrong.

"Say! I haven't shown you two the house yet, have I, Philip?"

"Oh, let me!" said Maddie.

"That's okay, Mom. I can do it. See you in a bit, Freddy!"

He dragged us off through the arch into the foyer.

"Close one?"

"Oh, you don't
know,
honey, you just don't know!"

He took a cigarette from his jacket, lit it with a trembling hand, inhaled deeply, and moaned: "I
knew
I should have given that asshole his stereo back."

"Did you two notice what I noticed?" asked Claire.

"You mean Moira busting a gut over Freddy's joke?"

"Yes! I didn't like the sound of that. It almost seemed as if she knows all about them."

"Of course she
knows!"
hissed Gilbert. "You can tell the bitch has studied the family tree right down to its roots! Grandchildren, birthdays, blood types! She knows it all-you think she missed the fact they're all vicious criminals?"

Claire stuttered incredulously. "But I-I don't understand. If it's- I mean-if she
knows
what they are how can she still be planning to swindle them?"

"Because she's fucking psychotic, that's why! And besides, like you said, anything goes wrong, who's Freddy-poo going to believe? Her or me?"

"Oh, good Lord, it's worse than I thought!"

"Ain't it always!"

"Shhhhhhh!"

I glanced behind me and saw Tony Cellini approaching.

"Tony!" said Gilbert, heterosexually.

"Gilbert!"

Tony Cellini was, uniquely among his generation of the family, a handsome man. He had a trim build, topped by a lean face with a strong aquiline nose and a square jutting chin, the whole of it glowing with an off-season tan. His hair was thinning on top but this was flattering too, providing the viewer as it did with another inch or two of gleaming bronze. His teeth were perfect and he flashed them readily in a smile that, even in the throes of panic, I found thoroughly disarming. This first sight of him was disorienting since Gilbert's imitations of him had suggested a man far more coarse, bald no doubt, overweight almost certainly, and given to blowing his nose on tablecloths. It occurred to me only later that Gilbert had unconsciously devised this alternate version of Tony to avoid facing the distressing fact that his mother had married a man he'd sleep with in a minute.

"Gilbert, you never told me you were a singer."

"You never asked! Have you met my friends?"

"No, but I've had the pleasure of watching them perform."

He shook our hands, warmly complimenting our songs, adding that we were the talk of the party. "It's Philip, right? And Clara?"

"Claire."

"I'm sorry. Claire. I think you'll both go very far."

We may have to, I thought.

"I'm Tony. Maddie's husband-and this one's stepfather."

"Nice to meet you, Tony," said Claire. "Wonderful party!"

"You can thank yourselves for that. If you hadn't taken over the music when you did we'd have had Sister Deena for another hour! And best of all, she's too embarrassed to go back now that everyone's heard what real playing sounds like."

"Oh, dear, I didn't mean to-"

"Don't apologize! No one can
stand
her piano playing. But how do you tell a nun she stinks on ice?"

I noticed that Tall, Blond and Vindictive was once again passing the salmon in dangerous proximity. Gilbert noticed too and, making his apologies, scampered off to the john.

Tony asked us about our work together and hopes for the future. I sensed he was leading up to something, and he was.

"Say," he said, snapping his fingers in an unconvincing show of spontaneity, "there's someone I know here who'd love to meet you."

He led us back through the living room and into a large paneled dining room, the table of which groaned under a buffet of Lucullan proportions. Off in one corner a soulful stripling stared down at a plate of scampi on his lap. He wore a rather wistful look as if all the shrimp had been personal friends. His hair was brown and wavy, and if the length of his nose prevented him from being really handsome he still had a sweet off-centered quality that was pleasant to look at.

"Always daydreaming!" said Tony, gazing fondly at him.

We approached his corner and he looked up like a startled fawn. Introductions were made. He was Leo Cellini, Tony's godson and nephew by his late brother, Carlo. Leo was seventeen, a senior in high school, an honor student and just crazy about musicals, especially the works of Stephen Sondheim.

Now, as a recent Gallup poll has shown, there are perhaps as many as ten seventeen-year-old honor students who are crazy about Stephen Sondheim and heterosexual as well, but nothing in Leo's bearing led me to suspect that he was among them. There was nothing so overt as to be noticeable to the average straight adult. But he had a tendency to run his words together when excited, and a way of always italicizing the modifier
so
which left no doubt in my mind that a thorough search of his room would turn up copies of
Christopher and His Kind, Mandate.
magazine and the works of Gordon Merrick.

"Leo writes music, too," offered Tony. "Wonderful stuff."

"Do you really?" asked Claire.

"Well, uh, kind of," said Leo, torn, it seemed, between a desire to race to the piano and an equally strong impulse to crawl under a rock and die.

"I mean it's not nearly as
accomplished
as yours."

"Good," smiled Claire. "I don't think I'd like you much if it were."

Tony laughed at this and Leo also let go a nervous nasal burst which, I supposed, was also a laugh.

"Right. If I were good as you that'd be pretty obnoxious!"

"You betcha."

"I thought your songs were
so
good. I mean, the lyrics were
so
funny!"

"Why, thank you, Leo."

"I mean, I could see where you stole some of the ideas from but it didn't matter because the jokes were all new ones."

"The soul of tact," said Tony.

"No," cried Leo, anguished, "you know what I mean! Did I say something wrong?"

"Not at all. You were just being observant," I said, then turning to Claire, added, in a mock sotto voce, "Who
is
this brat?"

"Don't you hate him?"

"Who does he think he is?"

"Exactly."

"Of all the miserable little adolescent know-it-alls!"

Leo was hiccupping with mirth, delightedly aware that we would never have insulted him if we didn't actually like him.

Just then Sister Deena Sartucci descended and began genuflecting at the shrine of Claire's talent.

"I'm afraid you made my own paltry efforts seem quite pathetic!"

"Oh, no! You play very well!"

"Nice of you to say so, I'm sure, but I know you must have noticed how very many
mistakes
I make."

"Not so many at all."

"Sweet of you to spare an old woman's feelings, dear, but ..."

She continued in this vein for long minutes, and when she finally asked Claire if she'd come to the piano and give her some pointers, that was, if Claire didn't feel she was too inept and arthritic and old to entertain the smallest hope of ever improving even the tiniest little bit, poor Claire had no choice but to leap at the chance to prove her mistaken. Tony joined them, leaving Leo and I to discuss "our mutual interests."