Roscoe (37 page)

Roscoe recognized fury in Marcus’s look, deceived by his client, a perjurer who didn’t even tell her lawyer the truth. Losing your touch, Marcus? Can’t tell the real ones from
the fakers anymore? Roscoe felt warm palpitations in his pericardium imagining Pamela baffled by Marcus’s attack on her. Rape? Elisha? What has rape got to do with anything? I never said
Elisha raped me. But Marcus can’t quite believe her. Even if there was no rape, there was action, and Gilby is over there to prove it. But Daddy Yusupov was no daddy, and that’s a fact.
He was just an ex-Georgian prince, professional Russian exile, who had three million once, so they said. Pamela tried to tap into what was left of it and, another fact, she failed. Fashionable in
black chalk-striped jacket and burgundy dress, her cubist bee-stung lips so out of fashion they are back, Pamela sat beside Marcus in stunned condition, hit by a brick she wouldn’t be
quieter, eyes glazing as she wonders how the world could have changed so suddenly. She was yesterday’s darling and the world was still possible, with money on the table. But this is today,
sweetheart.

Roscoe insisted that Gilby speak to his mother before they left the courtroom. He was wearing his blue suit and a new red-and-blue necktie Veronica had bought him for this event. The necktie
aged him five years, Roscoe decided.

“I don’t want to talk to her,” Gilby told Roscoe.

“Just say goodbye, that’s enough.”

“The judge said she could visit me.”

“She probably won’t.”

Gilby went across the courtroom to where Pamela was hiding under her picture hat. “I came to say goodbye,” he said to her.

“I’m so very sad to be losing you,” Pamela said.

“I’m not. Goodbye.”

Roscoe saw the sag of Pamela’s shoulders, her collapsed expression. She seemed to be shrinking as he watched. He stayed at a distance from her but walked to Marcus to offer a collegial
handshake.

“I’m glad we didn’t get into hand-to-hand combat,” Roscoe said.

“I underestimated you, Roscoe. You are utterly without scruples. I congratulate you.”

Roscoe spoke a few sentences of gratification to several news reporters in the hallway and then walked down the corridor with Veronica and Gilby on either side of him, the three arm in arm, so
cooing, so happy they couldn’t, didn’t have to, wouldn’t talk about this thing, it was such a fat, happy, obvious fact of life. They giggled as they waited for the elevator, and
when it came they all stepped on together, single file, arms still locked, and Roscoe said to the elevator man, “I greet you in a state of bliss, Webster.”

“Win one, did you, Mr. Conway?” Webster asked.

“I think I did.”

“You’re not sure?”

“I’m being modest.”

“He won,” said Veronica. “He
so
won. We all won.”

Webster closed the accordion gate of the elevator but saw another passenger coming and reopened it. Pamela. Roscoe saw Marcus walking alone in the opposite direction, toward the far stairway.
Pamela stepped toward the elevator, unaware of the enemy within. She stopped as Webster opened the accordion.

“Going down,” Webster said.

“You goddamn lying bastard,” Pamela said, seeing Roscoe.

Roscoe stepped off the elevator into her words, moved into her face to block her eye contact with Veronica or Gilby. “What was that, my dear? Were you speaking to me?” And without
turning he added, “Webster, take my friends down. I’ll only be a minute.” And Webster shut the elevator door.

“Rape?” Pamela said. “Rape?”

“Why not rape?” Roscoe said. “It’s as popular as blackmail.”

“Liar, liar, liar!” Pamela shrieked.

“Ah me, the perjurer offended by a falsehood,” Roscoe said.

There was no rape by Elisha. Roscoe invented that. But truth is in the details, even when you invent the details. It was sweet the way true and fraudulent facts wrapped themselves around each
other so sleekly. The next sentence is a lie. The preceding sentence is true. Which means the first sentence is a lie, and the second sentence is true, which means the first sentence is true and
the second is a lie, which means the first was a lie again, or does it? A pair of impregnable truths. True-and-false equality, we call that.

“It wasn’t rape,” said Roscoe, “and it wasn’t even Elisha, was it?”

“You think you’ve won,” Pamela said.

“Elisha won. He prepared us for you. Nobody will believe anything you say from now on, my dear.”

“There are many ways of letting the truth be known.”

“Yes, and if anything is said anywhere,
anywhere,
we will prosecute you, in this city Give scandal, you’ll get jail time, and that’s a guaranteed fact of your future.
Don’t bring your venal jealousy back to this town, Pamela. Leave the family alone.”

The elevator arrived and Webster opened the doors. Roscoe gestured to Pamela and they stepped into it.

“Do you have any money?” he asked.

“Millions,” she said.

He took a roll of cash from his pocket and peeled off two one-hundred-dollar bills. He offered them to her. She stared at them.

“Take a train somewhere. Shuffle off to Buffalo.”

“You’re a lousy bastard,” she said, taking the money.

“Thank you, Webster,” Roscoe said when they reached street level. He gestured to Pamela to step out first and held the street door for her. “What’s your phone number in
New York?” he asked her. “We should stay in touch.”

Pamela thought that was a riot.

Beau Geste
(2)

Veronica sat in the back of the car and told Gilby to sit in front as Roscoe drove from the courthouse back to Tivoli. She had not yet thanked Roscoe for the victory. Gilby had
thanked him with his facial expression of joy, but that had now turned quizzical as the mystery hit him.

“Why did we win?” Gilby asked.

“I convinced the judge your father made a life for you that was better than any other you could have,” Roscoe said.

“What about her? Will she try again?”

“No chance. She’s gone.”

“What about the Yusupov man?”

“He’s gone too.”

“Gone where?”

“Out of your life.”

“Yusupov isn’t my father?”

“Never was.”

“Why did they say my name was Yusupov?”

“She said it was. She was married to him.”

“Is my name still Yusupov?”

“Never was. Rivera is the name on your birth certificate, but that’s wrong too and we’ll change it.”

“Who’s Rivera? Was he my father?”

“A woman named Rivera was Pamela’s housekeeper in Puerto Rico when you were born.”

“She named me after a housekeeper? Why?”

“Same reason she threw hard-boiled eggs at her poodle.”

“What’s my real name?”

“Gilbert David Fitzgibbon, same as always.”

“Who’s my father?”

“Your father is still your father. Still the main man in this family.”

“Is Alex my cousin?”

“He’s your brother.”

“My father is his father?”

“That’s how it used to be, that’s how it should be, that’s how it will be.”

“My father wasn’t married to Pamela when I was born.”

“No, thank God.”

“That means I’m a bastard, doesn’t it?”

“Who said that?”

“People.”

“Your father would die if he heard you say that.”

“He already died.”

“Maybe, but don’t let him hear you say it again. Even if he’s up at Tristano he can hear that kind of stuff.”

“Are we going to Tristano?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“When?”

“Talk to your mother about it.”

“If we see my father up there we can ask him who my real father is.”

“I doubt he knows,” Roscoe said. “I doubt anybody knows.”

“People say I look like my father.”

“So does your bulldog.”

“I don’t have a bulldog.”

“No, but if you had one he’d look like your father. That’s how it goes.”

“How did my father die?”

“His heart left him. I think he gave it away.”

“To who?”

“To you.”

“I don’t understand, Roscoe.”

“That’s because you look like a bulldog.”

Beau Geste
(3)

At Tivoli, Roscoe called Alex and gave him the news. Alex said that was fantastic and asked Roscoe to come to City Hall to talk.

“Your mother is preparing lunch,” Roscoe said. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

Gilby went elsewhere, and Roscoe sat in his usual chair in the east parlor and watched two of Veronica’s servants, Joseph the butler and Jennifer, a kitchen maid, set trays of food on the
buffet in the dining room. Then Joseph came toward Roscoe with two glasses and a bottle of Mumms in a bucket of ice. Veronica came back with a box of Barracini chocolate creams, which she opened
and set in front of Roscoe.

“Shall I open the champagne, Mrs. Fitzgibbon?”

“Please do, Joseph.” And the butler popped the cork and poured for two. Veronica closed the sliding doors to the dining room and sat across from Roscoe on the sofa.

“I got these chocolates for you in New York last week,” she said, putting a cream in his mouth and kissing him as he began to chew. She picked up her champagne.

“To your genius,” she said.

“I had great incentive,” he said.

They clinked and drank. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under her, which put her knees on view like twin works of art. “Now tell me how you did it,” she said.

“I told them she was blackmailing you because Elisha raped her and fathered the boy, and that it was all true.”

“Roscoe, you didn’t say that. That’s horrible. You didn’t.”

“I did. I said he committed suicide to remove himself as the target of her blackmail, and that you understood why he did it.”

“God, Roscoe, what have you done? How could you say such awful things about us?”

“I also said it was all hypothetical and nobody would believe her rape story anyway, when and if her perjury and blackmail went public. I told Marcus we’d prosecute for blackmail if
she didn’t end the custody fight.”

“Everybody will believe the rape story. It’ll be all over town.”

“I’m sure Marcus realizes by now I invented it.”

“But how could you say such a thing about Elisha?”

“He asked me to.”

“How did he ask you?”

“Little by little he’s been revealing what he did to protect you and Gilby. All our lives I could read what he was and wasn’t saying. Now I keep discovering what he did and
didn’t do. Didn’t this story work? Isn’t she gone? Aren’t you and Gilby safe? And Alex?”

“I think we are. The family’s closer than ever. Alex is like a second father to Gilby since he came home from service. They go riding. He’s taking him to Army’s opening
football game at West Point.”

“There you are. Elisha knew what he was doing.”

“You knew what
you
were doing.
You’re
the one who made it work.”

“I only did what he told me to do.”

“But rape, Roscoe, why rape? It’s the last thing Elisha would ever do. She never said he raped her.”

“I know that. Did she even say they’d been lovers?”

“That was her blackmail.”

“Was it?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m not sure. I’m waiting for further word from Elisha.”

Beau Geste
(4)

In the Mayor’s corner office at City Hall, seated in his highbacked leather armchair at his hand-carved oak desk, framed by the American and Albany flags, with the
portrait of Pieter Schuyler, Albany’s first Mayor, looking down at him, Alex, in his tailor-made, pale-gray herringbone and repp tie, had become new, had traded his lowly infantryman’s
status for that of commander of the city. He was on the telephone as Roscoe sat down across from him. He winked at Roscoe as he talked, and when he hung up he leaned across the desk to shake
Roscoe’s hand.

“Congratulations, old fellow,” he said. “You did good.”

“I told you not to worry.”

“You certainly did. What was your argument?”

Art Foley, Alex’s secretary, came into the office with the afternoon mail and set it in front of the Mayor.

“This isn’t the place to talk,” Roscoe said when Foley went out.

“All right,” said Alex. “We’ll go for a walk. But I have news. The Supreme Court just ruled that state troopers can’t be present at the polling places. Too much
intimidation of the voters.”

“Another battle won,” said Roscoe. “What’s next in the campaign?”

“A radio speech tomorrow night,” said Alex, “right after Jay Farley. He’s harping on whores and immorality.”

“That’s last week’s news.”

“His new line is, let’s clean up the city for the returning soldier boys, give them a pure town to come home to.”

“It really is an excellent idea,” Roscoe said.

“What?”

“Cleaning up the town. Give the whores a vacation till after election, and padlock the whorehouses.”

“Didn’t the whorehouses close after the raid?”

“Does a whore ever really close her legs?”

“What about the Governor padlocking the Notchery? It looks like we’re taking dictation from him and Jay Farley.”

“Politically motivated is our line on the Notchery and on Farley’s view of it. We can’t let the Republicans take the moral high ground. We must protect our soldier boys and
young people against goatish lust and illicit smut. We raid the after-hours strip clubs, Mother’s, the Blue Jay Bar, we nail Broadway Books for pushing pornographers like Henry Miller,
Baudelaire, Rimbaud, and those dirty Cuban comic books, then we sweep the newsstands and confiscate every girlie magazine that shows more titty than is absolutely necessary in a virtuous
society.”

“That’s a freedom-of-speech issue. How do we get away with it?”

“We don’t indict anybody, and after the election things go back to normal. Meantime, it takes people’s minds off Jay Farley.”

“I saw Patsy this morning and he didn’t mention you had this in mind,” Alex said.

“He hasn’t heard it yet. I just invented the idea.”

“Well, then, fine, fine,” Alex said with a smile, “very fine. How will Bindy take it?”

“Bindy can’t object. He’s got a consorting charge hanging over him. We’ll organize it all with Burkey and Donnelly.” Melvin Burke had been named acting police chief
after O.B.’s death, and District Attorney Phil Donnelly would prosecute. “We’ll make the raids tomorrow afternoon, in time for you to talk about it on the radio.”