Blue Heaven (33 page)

"You must forgive me that I do such an impulsive thing on your wedding day!" wheezed Freddy. "But when I see Moira in her gown and the beautiful bridesmaids and I hear the music like from heaven! I am carried away by so much beauty and love! My heart feels like it's gonna bust and I can wait no more! So, forgive an old man who has reason to be impatient!"

"Oh, don't
say
that Freddy, love," cooed the duchess, kissing his cheek. "You have years and years!"

"Gosh, Mummy! I don't know what to say!" said Moira, her index finger twitching as she counted the envelopes.

"Congrats," said Gilbert weakly.

"Look at you," said Maddie to the duchess. "I've never seen a woman so happy! You're eyes are buggin' out with joy!"

I desperately wanted to confer with the others in private, but this would not be possible for a while since they were all obliged to stand in the receiving line-in which line, Cellini tradition dictated, the best man did not participate. With the rest of the syndicate prisoners of politesse I could only wander alone through the crowd, keeping an eye peeled for Chick and Lunch who'd now be tossing a coin to see who got to apply the cattle prod. (Though as Freddy became more
familiar with certain flaws in his chosen bride, even these two would be forced to take a number and wait their turn.)

I saw Leo and was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt over how cavalierly we'd used him to get out of our predicament. I offered him my condolences, and he was grateful to receive them, which made me feel even worse. As we stood chatting, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I executed a standing high jump worthy of Olympic consideration. Turning, however, I saw that it was not a foe, but a friend. For the moment at least.

"How ya doin', how ya doin'!" said Charlie, looking more weasely than ever in an ill-fitting tuxedo. "Swell party, huh? Swell! And a beautyful ceremony! Didn't she look nice! How ya doin', Leo? Havin' a good time?"

Leo trickled off miserably and Charlie, beaming, informed me that we had done our jobs beautifully and that our interests would be looked after. This assurance, based as it was on the assumption that Freddy and his bride would find happiness, did little to raise my spirits.

I excused myself from Charlie and headed down the hall to hide in the bathroom till the others were freed from receiving duty and I could once more find safety in numbers. As I reached for the knob the door opened from the other side and I was face to face with Chick Sartucci.

"There
you are, Chick! I've been looking all over for you!"

"Well, ya found me," he growled and, grabbing my arm, jerked me into the bathroom, slamming the door behind us.

"You got a dictionary at home?"

"I believe so!"

"Good. When you get home tonight, look up
promise.
And when you're done with that, look up
dismember.
When you're done with that, just look up. Look up every chance you get. You still won't see it coming."

And, casually filching a guest soap, he left the room.

"Don't
worry!"
said Charlie when I voiced my concern. "He knows he hits you or Gilbert, I'll get back at him after I take over."

"Thank you, Charlie. I feel
so
much better."

I sought out Chick and begged for another chance to set things right. He informed me coldly that the only way to save ourselves
would be to see that the engagement was broken. Today. Before the end of the wedding.

"What if we can't persuade her today?"

"Then do it tomorrow. But, as of tomorrow mornin' - s'open season. Unnerstand?"

As that hellish day wore on I discovered there are few things more difficult to do than keep a good conspiracy cooking at a wedding. Everything works against you. The leading players are forced mercilessly through their paces, from the receiving line, to the traditional dances, to dinner, all throughout which lascivious aunts tap their water glasses to make the newlyweds smooch. Even when the poor slobs manage to evade the glare of communal scrutiny, their footsteps are dogged by drunken relations who've been waiting all day to express the novel view that the ceremony was lovely. With all these pernicious obstacles it was hours before we managed to drag our renegade duchess into the study for a crisis conference.

"What the fuck do you think you're
doing!"
said Moira.

"I'll thank you not to take that tone with me, even on your wedding day!"

"Winslow," I said, close to tears, "you
can't
promise to marry Freddy!"

"Why on earth not?"

"You're a man!"
hissed Gilbert.

"What a perfectly rude thing to say!"

"Look, Winnie," said Moira, nose to nose with him, "you're blasted up there now, but when you come down you're going to be in deep shit and so am I, so
knock it the fuck off!"

Winnie rose and glared at her.

"You're a horrible child! I've
always
thought so! I so much wish Claire were mine instead of you! There, I've said it and I'm glad! Don't think you're getting a penny when
I
die, you ungrateful beast! I'm not so old I can't have more children with Freddy! I'll have a nice baby girl and
you'll
be out in the cold. Just you wait!"

We regarded each other numbly. Claire said there was no point trying to reason with Winnie till he'd crashed, and the rest of us. nodded wearily.

Then he laughed lightly and said, "What are you all so worried
about? Is it those awful men who've been making threats?"

Gilbert glumly retorted that, yes, they entered into it.

"Well!" he said, "I'll fix
their
wagons!" And he swept out of the study, the rest of us stumbling frantically after him. He marched through the ballroom and out onto the lawn where Lunch, romantic that he was, stood watching the sunset.

"There you are," smiled Lunch, puffing at a cigar. "I was lookin' for you. I think it's time we had a little talk, Gwennie."

"Your Grace, to you!" said Winnie, pulling the cigar from Lunch's mouth and squashing it underfoot. "I can't abide smoke!"

"What the fuck are-"

"Nor can I abide foul language, so please refrain from using it in my presence. I understand from Moira that you object to my marriage to your uncle."

"She's damn right I object!"

"Well,
that,
my omnivorous friend, is
your
problem. By trying to make it ours you are committing a considerable blunder. You might have gotten away with such tomfoolery when Freddy was running this family alone but now that I am running it with him I assure you such high-handed behavior will not be tolerated!"

"So you're fuckin' in charge now, are ya!"

Winnie smartly slapped his face.

"I warned you about such language! Though I can see now that sterner warnings than that will be required to penetrate that lard-encased brain of yours. I think tonight I'll speak to Freddy regarding a little transfer for you. Bolivia, say. A year or two spent disciplining shiftless coca growers should give you sufficient time to reflect on the virtue of humility. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more pleasant matters to attend to. Oh, and by the way," he added as he turned to go, "I don't know if you're aware of it but your wife, Sammy, is sleeping with Serge. I can't say that I blame her. Good day, Mr. Fabrizio."

"There, see!" he burbled as we trailed him back to the house. "You just have to know how to talk to these people! Now where's that awful Mr. Sartucci!? Here, Chick! Here, Chick, Chick, Chick! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

What was there for our little band to do after that but decide to get as drunk as we could? We knew any efforts to rectify the situation could only make it worse, if that were still possible, and oblivion was the kindest fate we could hope for. The gifts were due to be opened soon and the four of us took our seats at the head table to watch the guests glide through the last few dances before the hollow ceremony would take place. We got a few bottles of champagne and sat down to some serious imbibing.

A slow waltz ended and a tarantella began. Tony and Maddie, who were seated next to us, rose to dance. We gazed down and saw the duchess and Freddy.

Freddy drunkenly caressed Mummy's thigh under the table. She pursed her lips and slapped his hand gingerly, a show of resistance so mild as to be an encouragement. He placed a hand to his chest in a "mea culpa" gesture, then grinned impishly and renewed the assault.

The duchess emitted a high, scandalized giggle and, egged on by her clear delight, Freddy extended his hand further under the table where it suddenly encountered the last thing he had expected it to. He pulled it away as if it had been bitten, and stared at the duchess, his eyes brimming with horror. She smiled dreamily in return, and pecked him on the tip of his nose.

Freddy made a gargling sound, clutched his chest, and fell forward onto the table, knocking a bucket of champagne to the floor. The duchess, alarmed, leaned over him, asking tearfully if he was all right. The dancers, hearing the commotion, looked to the head table and gasped in dismay.

"My God!" shrieked the duchess. "Is there a doctor in the house!"

Medicine was not, alas, the family specialty. Half a dozen people rushed the table, including Tony, Maddie, Aggie and Freddy's three would-be successors.

"Don Bombelli," beseeched Charlie, "we're sure you're gonna be all right, perfectly all right, top notch, but who would you like to look after things while you're recuperating? Or supposin' you don't ..."

"Who,
Freddy!" echoed Chick.

Freddy raised his head, his eyes full of pain and utter confusion as he wheezed his last words. "Is a man! ... Is a man, is . . ."

His head fell to the table, his eyes still full of rude surprise.

"The man is
who!"
pleaded Lunch.

But no word came from Freddy. They edged in closer, praying there was just enough life left in him to utter one single name and so resolve years of conflict. Every person in the ballroom stood poised and breathless.

Everyone, that is, except Gilbert, who was so relieved at the timeliness of Freddy's demise that he could not restrain the urge to celebrate.

On countless occasions since that day I've wondered how that tense situation might have resolved itself had Gilbert not chosen that moment to open a bottle of champagne. We'll never know, however, for he
did
open a bottle, and the pop of the cork pierced the hush of that room like a gunshot. Entirely too much like a gunshot, in fact, for some overimaginative soul at the back screamed in terror and another equally fanciful guest yelled "Duck!" And all the guests, shrieking as one, followed this alarmist's advice.

Within seconds Chick had whipped out his gun and was squinting about madly trying to locate the assassin.

"Wait, you idiot!" said Aggie, chortling drunkenly to Chick. "That wasn't a goddamn
shot!
That was just Gil-"

But she never finished that sentence. For, at that precise moment, a minion of Lunch's, at a middle table, peered up and couldn't help but note that Chick was the only one in the room brandishing a gun. He removed his own weapon, and Chick, seeing this, wheeled and took aim, though not quite quickly enough, for his alarmed prey fired first.

Chick, while not so hefty as Lunch, still presented a target no gunman, even one reeling from champagne and tarantellas, could fail to hit. The bullet found its mark, as did a second, and Chick fell. Chick's son Ugo saw this and, screaming like a samurai, rose and gunned down the assassin.

"Jesus fucking
Christ!"
said Aggie and scrambled under the tablecloth, coming out the other side just between Gilbert and Claire.

"God, honey!" she snapped. "You just
hadda
have champagne!"

From then on we witnessed little, crouched as we were in terror behind the head table, but the constant crackle of gunfire supplied all the
information we cared to have as to what was going on in the ballroom. Guns blazed and panic-stricken guests dove under tables or stampeded the exits. Screams of horror and the wails of the newly bereaved filled the room.

At one point I crawled over and peered around the end of the table, gaining a partial view of the tent beyond the French windows. The musicians, who'd been crouching behind the inadequate protection of music stands, had bolted the platform and were charging out through the open glass doors. A man running with a saxophone while gazing unwisely back over his shoulder collided with a support post and the entire canopy collapsed, turning the fleeing crowd into one immense, writhing, red-striped organism which spoke in dozens of voices, none of them calm.

Not that we were, of course. We crouched under the table, Claire, Gilbert, Winslow and I, all hugging each other and finding God. Moira was also crouching with us, or, more accurately, behind us. She said it was our duty to protect her since, with her gown, she made the best target.

"Kee-rist!" said Aggie, philosophically, guzzling champagne from the bottle. "Ain't life a hoot? For two years these murdering bozos have managed to keep a lid on things. Then some bitch and a pair of hungry faggots decide to fleece 'em for some wedding gifts, and it's World War Three!"