Roscoe (18 page)

So Roscoe as a fraud was a great success. You certainly know how to rise in the world, Ros. A year later, he confessed everything to his father, and Felix was so proud of his boy that he bought
him a rifle.

This event would, of course, go into Roscoe’s Annals, which had one fiat: leave nothing out, including old Mr. Considine, the custodian at School Five, where Roscoe went before his father
put him in the Christian Brothers grammar school to teach him discipline. Mr. Considine tended the boiler, swept the halls, and opened the doors for the pupils at morning. His white mustache
looked like a paintbrush, and he wore a long coat and a hat that had been in style in Civil War days, a relic, as Mr. Considine was a relic, a man whose life depended on politics, and who, soon
after the Republicans took the city in 1899, was gone. Mr. C, we missed your kindly patience with unruly boys, missed your vast bundle of keys, your painful walk, your missing index finger, your
nose like an eagle’s beak. For Roscoe, Mr. C personified all men dependent on the prevailing political wind, and when the wind changed, here came idleness, and the shame of sitting on the
stoop, hoping for the dole. This vulnerability Roscoe etched into memory, a principle upon which he, Eli, and Patsy founded the Party. If you’re vulnerable to caprice, we can help you. But if
you’re not with us, you’re vulnerable to our caprice.

By late afternoon after his pericardiocentesis, with fifty milliliters of fluid withdrawn from the sac and an indwelling catheter in him for further drainage, Roscoe’s pain and general
malaise diminished dramatically, and he received his first visitor: Alex, in his army uniform, a thin private first class.

“Alex, my boy,” Roscoe said, “you’re back, but, God, you’re skinny.”

“I suppose I am, Roscoe, but the same can’t be said of yourself.”

“At it already. No respect for your elders.”

“Haven’t I come to see you? Before my wife and mother? I wanted to have a chat before you died of bloat.”

“Ah, you have a charitable heart.”

“Are you all right or not? As I get it, you were watching a chicken fight and fainted at the sight of blood.”

“A perfect analysis. Too much death in my life. Parallel mortality. So they stabbed me in the heart to ease my pain.” He raised his shirt to show Alex the catheter. “This tube
is in here so they can stab me again.”

“Have them put a faucet on it and drain the fat.”

“A compassionate suggestion.”

Alex was six four, usually the tallest man in the room, his hairline not what it was when he left. He had his father’s Roman nose and that loose way of moving his lanky body, plus that
widely known ladykiller smile that was all his own. He wore a row of military ribbons on his shirt: the Good Conduct Medal, marksmanship medals, European-theater ribbon with three battle stars,
presidential unit citation to his battalion for valor in the Battle of the Bulge, the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, and the Purple Heart.

“We never knew you were wounded,” Roscoe said.

“Very minor. They now give Purple Hearts for hangnails.”

“Tell me your war stories,” Roscoe said. “Cheer me up.”

“I did nothing. I went nowhere.”

“That’s why they gave you all those medals.”

“These aren’t medals, they’re souvenirs.”

“When were you wounded?”

“Late afternoon.”

“Where did they get you?”

“On a green hill partly covered with snow.”

“Did you get to keep the bullet?”

“I wasn’t shot. I was raked by the teeth of a flying dog.”

“Fascinating. When I get out of this bed we’ll have a party with Patsy and all your friends. Like the old days. People will want to hear your flying-dog story, and we’re long
overdue for an all-nighter.”

“No, no all-nighters.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve given up drink.”

“Not at all.”

“But you’ve given up questing in saloons for the Holy Ghost.”

“I believe so.”

“The army ruined you.”

“The real question is, what ruined
you,
my corpulent friend?”

“Ah, me. I wasn’t aware I was ruined yet. Getting there, of course.”

“You’ve arrived, old fellow. Here you are on your back, your system breaking down from wretched excess. You’re a capital ruin, Roscoe. We should register you as a historic
landmark, in need of shoring up.”

“Your tongue was viperized by the army. But I forgive your calumnies. All we want to do is re-elect you.”

“I’m for that. Let’s launch the campaign instead of a party. What are you cooking up for me?”

“You’ll have a press conference at City Hall in your uniform and praise everybody for how they carried on in your absence. You’ll tell them how we’re going to pave the
streets and improve the water supply. You’ll praise Karl’s job as acting mayor in handling our coal crisis. You’ll dedicate the Honor Roll in the Ninth Ward, in memory of all the
boys from the North End who served. Pop O’Rourke’s been after me for months to have you lay the wreath.”

“Pop is still alive?”

“He wouldn’t declare the Honor Roll finished until you came home.”

“What about my opposition, Jason Farley?”

“You don’t mention him. Let him get his own publicity. Now that we know you’ve been wounded we’ll drop a hint and let the press quiz you. You’ll be modest,
won’t talk about it.”

“It’s not worth talking about.”

“Fine. The mystery will intensify your myth.”

“Is that it?”

“No, there’s Cutie LaRue. Remember Cutie? He doesn’t know it yet, but we plan to run him against you on an independent line, maybe the Flatulence ticket. Patsy wants a third
candidate.”

“Why?”

“Dilute the opposition. The usual reason.”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Who needs a third party anymore?”

“You’ve been away, boy. The Governor’s attacks on us got a lot of ink in the papers.”

“Turn me loose, I’ll get a lot of ink.”

“You will, but this is Patsy’s plan. He wants to humiliate the Governor with numbers. Troopers will be at every polling place, looking for violations. We’ve filed suit to stop
them on grounds of voter intimidation, but if we don’t prevail they’ll cut into our control of the vote.”

“But Cutie LaRue—he’s a bad joke.”

“Yes. Patsy’s bad joke.” Roscoe’s voice stiffened. “Don’t you laugh at Patsy’s jokes anymore?”

“Since you put it that way.”

“That’s still the way it’s put in this town, Alex. Don’t stay away so long next time.”

Alex looked at his shoes and did not speak.

“Tell me about my father,” he said. “Joey only said it was sudden.”

“That’s the truth. He was more ill than anyone knew. His heart was twice its normal size. He told me he was retiring, but I couldn’t imagine it was for health reasons. He
looked fine. He was in other trouble, but didn’t explain.”

“What trouble?”

Roscoe shut his eyes and rubbed both eyelids with thumb and forefinger, hiding. No way out of saying what has to be said. Say it, Roscoe.

“Listen, Alex. You have to know. Your father ended his own life. He took a huge dose of chloral hydrate.”

These facts did not register on Alex’s face. Behind a grim stare he seemed to be trying to process their logic.

“Why did he do it?” Roscoe said. “That’s the obvious question you’re asking. It seems like an act without purpose, but that wasn’t your father’s style.
If there’s a key to this, we’ll find it. Your own loss, your mother’s loss, it’s very great. And I can’t remember when I’ve known such diminishment.”

“Was he depressed?”

“Not to the naked eye. We celebrated V-J night together and he was fine. We had a little car accident and he got a bump on his head, not serious.”

“You must have a theory.”

“He burned some papers but we don’t know why. It could be linked to the Governor’s investigation of the organization. Also, your Aunt Pamela is in the mix. She’s suing
your mother for custody of Gilby. She went public for the first time that she’s his mother, and we’re already in court. Your father talked with her weeks ago about it. He saw it as a
money scheme, but I don’t know how this affected his behavior.”

“Why in the hell is Pamela doing this?” Alex asked, his lips tight and white. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I’ll take a week off sometime and explain it to you.”

“But Gilby was adopted.”

“Yes, and from her, anonymously. I drew up the agreement, which wasn’t quite an adoption. Your mother and I went to San Juan to pick up Gilby and bring him home.”

“Such villainy. Goddamn her.”

“We can hope for that too,” Roscoe said. “You should talk to Gilby about the lawsuit. He told me you weren’t his brother anymore. It was a bad moment, but I think
he’s over it.”

“What do you mean about Pamela looking for money?”

“She may really be blackmailing the family,” Roscoe said. “I don’t like to bring this up, but she may threaten to say that Elisha was Gilby’s father. Did that ever
occur to you?”

Alex threw back his head and wheezed, “Jesus, what next?”

“Did it?”

“Never.”

“It occurred to your mother, and me. But I don’t believe it.”

“Good. Neither do I.”

“That won’t stop Pamela from threatening to go public with it.”

“The bitch. The lousy bitch.” The look of white fury was on him. Roscoe could not remember ever seeing it in his face before. A nurse came into the room to take Roscoe’s vital
signs and Alex stood up. He untucked his overseas cap from under his belt and put it on.

“Welcome home, soldier,” Roscoe said.

“I may stay in the army,” Alex said.

After Alex a parade of visitors came to Roscoe’s room. Hattie brought him half a dozen sugar buns, buttered. Trish came and showed him her new brassiere, and offered to
move into his hotel suite to take care of him. Roscoe said, Thank you, Trishie, that’s very sweet, but I’d rather be cared for by wolves. Joey Manucci came back after taking Alex home
and brought Roscoe the New York tabloids, four Hershey bars, and the news that Bart was keeping Patsy current on the action at headquarters and would stop by later.

Roscoe also received a telegram from his maiden sister, Cress, who still lived alone in the Conway family brownstone on Ten Broeck Street. “Dear Roscoe,” she wrote, “I hear you
are ill with chicken pox. Does your doctor know you had that in childhood? You can’t get it twice. You probably have something else. Do not let those doctors fool you.”

And then, at last, Veronica came, in a pink summer frock, pink shoes, pink necklace, matching bracelet, and bearing a vase full of partly pink orchids from the Tivoli hothouse. She kissed Roscoe
on the cheek, raising his blood pressure, then sat in a chair facing him and crossed her beautiful legs.

“What did they do to you?” she asked him. “Nobody can get it straight.”

“They put a needle into the sac around my heart to draw out blood, and they may do it again. If that doesn’t work they’ll cut open my thorax and sew up the wound in my heart.
If that doesn’t work I told them to cut my throat. I’m out of pain and, seeing you, I’m brimming with pleasure. But just trying to sit up in bed is like running two
miles.”

“When will they let you leave?”

“When I feel better.”

“Who’ll take care of you? Who’ll feed you?”

“I’ll hire a nurse. And use room service.”

“That won’t do. You’ll come to Tivoli. The servants and I will take care of you until you’re well.”

“Tivoli,” Roscoe said.

“Don’t argue with me,” Veronica said.

“Who’s arguing?” said Roscoe.

When Roscoe’s pain was all but gone, and the catheter removed, the doctor said he could go home, but in a wheelchair, for he would be slow to regain his strength. Bart
Merrigan drove him to the Ten Eyck to help him pack for his stay at Tivoli.

“How do you feel today?” Bart asked him.

“Better.”

“Is your heart all right now?”

“Fantastic. What’s your point?”

“Nobody wants to upset you, Roscoe, especially me.”

“You’re upsetting me with questions. What the hell is on your mind?”

“Patsy’s in a black mood. Bindy’s handler switched birds in that final match. Bindy had two Swigglers, marked like twins, both the same weight, so this had been planned for a
while. One twin fought only once, but the other had been in five fights, and he’s the one did in Patsy’s chicken. Ruby was overmatched. Tommy Fogarty thought something was wrong during
the fight, but he didn’t figure it out till after he’d paid Bindy Patsy’s forty grand. He and Jack Gray searched Emil’s truck and found the twin chicken in a sack. He also
checked out Emil in New Orleans. He’d pulled the switch down there two or three times before they ran him out of town.”

“What’s Bindy say about this?”

“Nobody’s seen him. O.B. says he’s hiding.”

“The man is nuts. You do a thing like that, you can’t hide from Patsy. Forty grand plus all those side bets. Christ. Now we’ve got a goddamn blood feud to deal with.”

Veronica ordered Roscoe’s lunch from Keeler’s and had it delivered to Tivoli in a taxi: strawberries in cantaloupe, a dozen oysters on ice, lobster salad,
petits
pois,
glazed carrots, potatoes
au gratin,
and the choice of blueberry pie or Keeler’s famous ladyfingers. She had the servants open a bottle of Sauternes for the oysters and
Pouilly-Fuissé for the lobster, and had everything served in the former conservatory, with its hanging geraniums, Wandering Jews, potted banana trees, and electrified hurricane lamps.

He had never sat here with her before, and it seemed calculated to create intimacy. She wore a golden chiffon scarf as a choker, and her hair was pulled back behind her ears. He fixated on her
beautiful left ear, which he wanted to nibble.

“Do you like your lunch?” she asked.

“This is a room of enchantment. I like much more than my lunch.”

“Don’t like too much more.”

“The more you like, the happier you are. Is it wrong to try to be happy?”

“Don’t try to be too happy,” she said.

“Elisha would want us to be happy. He knew how to be happy.”

“No, he didn’t. He killed himself.”