Blue Heaven (20 page)

Eighteen

O
ver the next weeks, in those moments when I wasn't busy quivering in terror, I couldn't help but be ruefully amused that the affair Gilbert and I shared in our twenty-sixth year was in so many respects indistinguishable from the one we'd shared at sixteen; it was less a sequel than a revival.

There we were again lying to friends about our whereabouts, making discreet phone calls to confirm the schedules of those in a position to burst in on us, gesturing rudely at each other the moment people's backs were turned, and living in perpetual dread of discovery. Of course, the price of discovery now could be death, as opposed to counseling.

It was foolish, yes. What can I say? I knew that it was, as the song says, the wrong time, the wrong place and, given Gilbert's promise to Freddy, the wrong sex as well. I won't defend myself by saying it was Love compelling me to risk Death, because it wasn't. It was Death compelling me to risk Sex. How often my thoughts went back to that awful moment in Tony Cellini's study when I heard the thunder of Serge's gun. With death looming as a certainty had I regretted the good deeds undone, the places unseen or the plays unwritten? No. I thought mainly of Leo, the rosebud I didn't gather while I might have. Not the noblest of sentiments, I admit, but one I was determined not to experience again.

Also in common with that long ago fling was our insistence on pretending we were in love, that the seeds of passion long buried below the surface of friendship had blossomed into the Real Thing. True, we'd admitted that first night that basic lust and the fear of losing our last opportunities to get laid were the only forces driving
us. But as the affair dragged on and the joint agreement that "this one'll be the last time, really" ceased to be made, Gilbert's natural tendency to romanticize came to the fore and I succumbed to it rather than face the tawdry fact that I was not stealing afternoons of sweet oneness with my soul mate, but merely grabbing another nooner on my way to the cemetery.

Our secrecy about the affair extended even to Claire. The tongue lashing she'd given me when I told her I'd spent Aggie's retainer had been memorable, but nothing compared to the one I'd get if she learned Gilbert and I were emulating that "dishonorable gayboy" who'd broken Freddy's niece's heart and, in consequence, ended life as a human firework. I did, however, update her on the Gunther situation.

"What a twisted mind she has, Philip! It worries me more every day!"

But what could be done to set things right? We could hardly just send him a new little mannequin with the wound healed, the face cleared up, and a note attached reading "Disregard previous doll."

On the plus side there seemed little reason for Gunther to suspect we were behind it. Why would Gilbert or Moira accuse him of blackmail? It didn't begin to make sense from his standpoint, so our policy was to wait and keep our fingers crossed.

On January 4, the duchess celebrated her sixtieth birthday. Gilbert reluctantly shelled out the funds to pay a photographer for a sensitive study of Moira and him. Moira supplied a lovely silver frame (though she was unable to satisfactorily explain why Bloomingdale's had been unable to provide a gift box or, for that matter, a sales slip). Tony and Maddie sent a pair of bed trays to enliven her recuperation, and Freddy, surprisingly, sent best wishes and a stunning emerald brooch, offering still more proof of the extent to which Moira had infiltrated his affections. Moira crowed that Mummy had called Freddy to thank him and Freddy had been "simply dazzled" by the duchess's charm. They'd spoken at length and she had invited him to visit if he ever found himself in Little Chipperton.

It was at this time that Gilbert and I began our jobs at Paradiso.

How best to describe that bistro so highly touted in the Mafia Michelin? The first word that leaps to mind is dark. You enter through
a small dark vestibule, pass through a long dark bar and then, if you haven't stumbled and broken your neck, you enter a square dark dining room that seats about fifty. Beyond this there's a private room that seats twelve. The floors are black marble and the walls are lacquered black panels separated by red stripes. The tablecloths are the same deep bloody color as the stripes. The lighting is a masterpiece of high-tech senselessness, dramatic little pinspots throwing circles of light onto the strangest places, the side of a table or the floor, anywhere except where someone might actually put a plate of food.

The lunchtime clientele, which I seldom saw, consists primarily of executives having Power Lunches. The evening crowd is more relaxed, a mixture of Bombellis, tourists, and moneyed sorts who think nothing of paying twenty-two dollars for pasta and considerably more for anything that used to be alive.

That first night Aggie greeted us effusively and introduced us to the "family," a very mixed bag, all of whom had been working there at least five years. There were two waiters, Mike and Christopher, and they could hardly have been more dissimilar.

Mike was a short, plump, middle-aged man of limited mental resources but infinite good cheer. It was impossible not to like him because he liked you, whoever you were, immediately and without reservation. His standard comment on everyone was, "He's all right."

Christopher, by contrast, was fortyish, thin, fastidious and reptilian. He was, I swiftly perceived, homosexual and no credit to the fraternity. You got the impression that when he was at a formative age something terrible had been done to him, leaving him with a jaundiced view of humanity and a tendency to talk like George Sanders. If Mike's invariable comment on his fellow man was "He's all right," Christopher's was "He doesn't fool
me."

Rounding out our little community were the kitchen folk, Lou, Marcello and Mario. Lou, our chef, and Marcello, our prep chef, were friendly enough, but given to undue generosity with the details of their sex lives. Mario was our monosyllabic dishwasher. I heard rumors his reticence was due to his having refused the state's hospitality some ten years sooner than the state had been inclined to withdraw it. Since I worked behind the bar I saw little of this trio and that was fine by me.

I was grateful to have chosen the job of bartender as it seemed
fraught with fewer perils than Gilbert's position as host. It was up to him to take reservations and choose where to seat people, often a matter of great delicacy since many "priority regulars," as Aggie called them, had the unnerving habit of walking in unexpectedly and demanding the table of their choice. On nights when the reservation book was full and the PRs descended fast and thick the atmosphere produced was a diplomatist's nightmare.

"Don't worry, boys!" said Aggie. "All it takes is a little charm, and you've certainly got that. You just smooth the feathers, Gilbert, and send 'em over to the bar for free drinks and Philip you keep the zingers coming."

"No problem!"

"Piece of cake!"

Nothing like a nice low-pressure job!

The first night was mercifully slow, giving us a chance to get accustomed to our roles. Unfortunately the slowness of the evening gave Christopher plenty ,of time to ooze around to the bar and get acquainted.

"Welcome aboard."

"Thanks, Chris. Or do you prefer Christopher?"

"Christopher. You're an old friend of Agnes's?"

"Not an old friend. We met last month. She's Gilbert's cousin, sort of."

"
I see. Gilbert
knows Agnes."

"Right."

"And you know Gilbert?" he asked with flawlessly calibrated insinuation.

"Yes." I refused to hear the implied question. A straight boy wouldn't.

"How sweet. Agnes tells me you write songs?"

"Yes."

"Words and music?"

"Just words. I have a terrific composer named Claire Simmons. In fact, we're engaged."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Just like Comden and Green."

"No," I said, falling right into it, "Comden and Green write book
and lyrics together. Neither one composes. And they're not married. Betty Comden used to be married to Steven Kyle. Adolph Green is married to Phyllis Newman."

"My," he cooed, "what a firm command you have of theater trivia."

He glided off. I could see this charmer had it in for me but I didn't know why until Mike innocently drew me a picture.

"You're gonna like it here. It's a great place to work. Great people. Just takes time to get to know 'em. Chris, he can be a little cold at first but after a while he warms up just like anyone. In fact, last guy who worked the bar, Sylvester, swell guy, he and Chris got on like gangbusters. He was only here three months but they got to be real pals always going out after work. They even went away for Christmas. To Florida. Whuzza place? Key West."

Wonderful! I thought. It's not bad enough I'm pretending to be straight while working in a Mafia restaurant, the owner of which thinks I'm hot for her. I also have to contend with an evil queen to whom I'm the second Mrs. deWinter.

Still, if that first night had its unforeseen perils, there were unforeseen benefits as well. I soon learned that though mafiosi are heinous sorts with no respect for law or the sanctity of human life, they do, as a class, tip well. While most patrons bypassed the bar for their waiting tables, those that paused for a quick one were so generous I could count on making at least a hundred a night over and above my fifty-dollar shift pay. At that rate I'd be able to repay Aggie's retainer and scram in no time.

Or so I thought until the end of the night when Aggie asked me to bring her a spritzer in her office.

"Darling, forgive me for being direct but are those the
best
clothes you've got?"

" 'Fraid so," I blushed.

"Oh, dear. Now I've embarrassed you. Tell you what, hon-you go to Paul Stuart first thing tomorrow. Pick out a couple of suits, three pairs of slacks, some nice silk ties, say a dozen shirts. And shoes, of course, and belts and whatever else you'll need. I'll phone ahead and have them put it on my account."

"Aggie," I cried, alarmed. If her retainer had come with strings attached, this offer seemed fully equipped with leather straps and a branding iron. "I can't let you buy me all those clothes!"

She protested that it was merely a necessary business investment
but I held firm and she relented, telling me I could pay her back whatever I could afford each week till the debt was settled.

The next day, my list in hand, I trudged into Paul Stuart. Aggie must have described me well because as soon as I entered a coiffed young smoothie hastened to my side, asked my name and said that Ms. Fabrizio had requested he "look after" me. Fixing me with that tiny smile salesclerks reserve for the Kept, he shepherded me through my selections, offering many tasteful suggestions and subverting all efforts at economy. I emerged two hours later some twenty-five hundred dollars poorer. Even were I to repay Aggie at the rate of several hundred a week, I would be trapped at Paradiso at least through the wedding.

After our second, more hectic night at Paradiso, Gilbert and I returned to God's Country a bit after midnight. Moira was on the phone. She hushed us, then flicked on the speaker. We heard the line ring as Moira smiled with evil glee.

"Hello?" said a frightened voice. It was Vulpina.

Moira moaned gently, pitifully.

"Who
is
this?" asked Pina with an urgency which made me certain this wasn't the first such call she'd received.

Moira spoke in the hoarse elongated drawl preferred by nine out of ten psychopaths.

"It won't hurrrrt ... I promisssse."

"Who are you?"

"It will be verrrry quick . . .."

''Who are you!
Why do you want to hurt me?"

"You knoooooow!"

"I don't!"

"Yes, you doooo! But it will be quick!"

"What have I
done
!
"

"It won't burnt! And then you'll be miiiiine! Foreverrrrr!"

This cheerful little earful delivered, she hung up and smiled broadly.

"God, she's a sissy! How was work?"

"Swell, honey!"

"Was that the first call you made?"

"No. I called twice in the middle of last night. Once I was quiet, the second time I breathed a little, and then I called her about an hour ago and breathed again. But wait! The really good one's coming!"

She reached down beside her chair and picked up a little tape recorder I hadn't noticed there. It was connected by a cord to the phone.

"This won't take long," said Moira and left the room. In about five minutes she returned holding a ghetto blaster.

"Watch this!"

She dialed Vulpina a few times but the line was busy. Then she called again. Pina answered and in a pathetic little voice said, "Hello?"

Moira smiled saucily but said nothing.

"Stop this! You hear me! I've phoned the police and they are going to tap my phone and find you and-"

Vulpina was interrupted by the hysterical sound of her
own
voice booming from the ghetto blaster.

"Who are you!! Why do you want to hurt me? What have I done? What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?"