Blue Heaven (22 page)

"Oh, the
letter,
you mean? I know all about it. Those two friends of hers that are trying to reach the duchess-Vulpina and-"

"Winslow," said Claire,
"we're
the ones who sent the letter."

He gasped.

"But, that doesn't make sense! Why would
you
want the duchess to know about the trust fund."

"We'll explain, "said Claire.

"Can I take that Valium first?"

"Just bring the bottle out," said Gilbert.

He disappeared through an adjoining room and into a bathroom.

"Gawd! What a nervous queen!" said Gilbert.

"He has every reason to be," said Claire, intently perusing his bookshelf.

On leaving for the john, he'd left the door to some middle room ajar and peering into it now we saw a room very different from the subdued antique-filled chamber we were waiting in. It appeared to be some sort of laboratory. On second glance we saw that it was the apartment's kitchen, but the table and counters were laden with tubes,
beakers and strange little gadgets. There was even a cage with white rats.

Winslow emerged from the bathroom.

"Well, we're not a
bit
nosy, are we?"

"What is all this?" asked Claire.

"I'll be damned if I know. It's my
roommate's,
all right? He does medical research. Completely ruined my kitchen but I can't cook for shit anyway. So!" He smiled shakily. "Why are you nice young people trying to tell the duchess more than she has to know?"

We told him, Claire backing up the mob details with the same selection of books and articles she'd shown to us.

He didn't take it well. He fluttered and twitched. He also cowered, goggled, gasped and, at one point, simply sat in a chair and vibrated. It was like watching Marcel Marceau mime an entire day at Disney World.

"You had
no
idea the Mafia was involved in any of Moira's plans?"

"Are you
insane
!
I hadn't an inkling! She's told me nothing about this! Nothing! That despicable girl!"

"Then you see what trouble we could all be in?" I asked.

"What do you mean,
we?"
yelled Winslow. "I had nothing to do with it! How can I be held responsible when I didn't even know?*

"But you know
now,
Winslow, and we'll personally see to it you
are
held responsible if you don't help us put a stop to the whole thing."

"What do you mean, hold me responsible?"

"I mean," improvised Claire, "that we've left letters in the safekeeping of our lawyers, letters explaining Moira's role in all this- and yours. If anything happens to us those, letters will be mailed to Freddy the Pooch."

That was when he vibrated. We had resolved to be firm, even merciless, with him but I couldn't help feeling a pang of sympathy. Winslow is a large man in his late forties. He has a potbelly, a double chin and hair that is sadly, because improbably, blond and curly. And when the hair and the chins and the belly all begin shaking with cowardice it's not an edifying spectacle. I wondered what his "roommate" was researching and hoped for Winslow's sake that he was on the verge of a breakthrough in sedatives.

"These people must not be swindled!"

"Well, what am
I
supposed to do about it?"

"You have to call the duchess and tell her about the trust fund."

"That's
impossible!"
he shrieked.

"Please, try to calm down," I implored him. "We're on
your
side!"

"Sure you are!" he blubbered. "You burst into my house, scare
^;
me to death, then tell me I have to do what you say or I'll wind up as Alpo-and I'm s'posed to say, 'My, what nice
new friends
I've found!' "

Framed that way, of course, we seemed less than benevolent, but we did our best to persuade him that it was Moira who'd put us all in the positions we now occupied.

"We realize you'll catch hell from the duchess and the bank. But who would you rather deal with? Them or Freddy the Pooch?"

"I don't want to deal with anyone!"

And with that he burst into tears and rocked back and forth, keening like all the Trojan Women rolled into one.

"I better get him a glass of water," said Claire, and ran off to the bathroom. We did our best to calm him until she returned after a suspiciously lengthy interval.

"Please, Winslow," said Claire as he drained the glass, "whatever you do, don't call Moira. She is not to be trusted. She played you for a fool about the trust fund and she told you nothing about the risks of swindling Tony Cellini. She'd sell the lot of us out with no compunction if she thought it was the only way to save her own skin."

Winslow sat there almost motionless for the first time since our arrival.

"This is very upsetting."

"Yes, we know."

"I need time to think."

"Not too much," said Gilbert. "Tony's already spending it in gobs!"

"Well, I'm sorry, dear, but it's going to take me a few days to figure out how to approach all this. You can't dump a mess like this in my lap and expect me to sort through it all just overnight! And I have a very busy week at the bank. I'll call you Saturday."

"You won't call Moira?"

"I never want to speak to that miserable girl again! She's been stringing me along for months and I've been foolish enough to think she was sincere. It's the trusting people in this world who suffer the most!"

"You can trust
us,
Winnie," said Gilbert, rubbing his shoulders and speaking in a husky voice that percolated with false promises. "We're as scared as you are. We just want to get out of this in one piece."

We donned our coats and assured him that he could call Claire or me, though not God's Country, if he had any questions or suggestions.

As we strolled up West Eighty-first we agreed that it was in Wins-low's hands now. At least he seemed thoroughly disillusioned with Moira and terrified of the Cellinis.

"Gilbert," said Claire, "what's the duchess's first name? I may be dropping her a line soon."

"It's Gwendolyn. What are you up to?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"You took a long time getting him that water. Were you snooping?"

"Of course."

"See anything?"

"It's what I didn't see that interests me. I want a few days to check into some things and then I'll tell you. Okay?"

"No! Tell us now!" whined Gilbert.

"No. It's a dumb idea. Unless I'm right, then it's brilliant. But if I'm right, I want proof. I want to present it to you all neatly wrapped up and beautifully summarized like Hercule Poirot."

"Or Nero Wolfe."

"Watch it."

We were disgruntled that Claire had suddenly chosen to withhold her theories. It seemed to show a want of team spirit. But eager as we were to discover the nature of these theories it wasn't long before fast-breaking stories consigned them to the back page. Wednesday night Gilbert and I arrived at work to find that Jimmy Pastore had died that morning.

Jimmy Pastore was a "Cellini" since his mother is a sister of Tony's. He was the son of Charlie Pastore, who, at Maddie's Christmas party, cut in on me and horny little Leo, giving me the chance to scram. Jimmy was also the brother of dear chubby Steffie.

Jimmy's life, while fondly remembered by Steffie, is of little concern to us; it is only the manner of his death that touches obliquely on the fates of the Allies. Jimmy met his end in the bathtub when a thirteen-inch Sony he'd been watching plunged into the suds, resulting in

Jimmy's tragic, if hygienic, demise. The coroner's verdict was death by misadventure.

It didn't take long that night, though, for Gilbert and me to see that this verdict was not unconditionally accepted by Jimmy's numerous relations. Many family members dined at Paradise that night and they were more than bereaved; they were unsettled. Mistrustful. Cousins stared at cousins and whispered in little cabals; it reached the point where I was afraid to ask groups or pairs at the bar if they wanted another drink for the way they'd look up sharply from their whispers, wondering How Much I'd Heard.

Aggie wore black that night and, consigning Gilbert to assist me at the bar, hosted the evening, which became a sort of pre-wake. She spent most of the night in the small dining room in intimate confabs with various Cellinis, Fabrizios and Sartuccis.

At one point Chick Sartucci was at the bar with his son Ugo when Steffie and her husband walked in. They took one look at Chick and marched right out of the restaurant. Chick watched and then turned back to his beer saying, "They're fuckin' crazy!"

Late in the evening I pulled Christopher aside. The chilliness he'd displayed toward me in the wake of our little contretemps had subsided somewhat and I hoped he would not pass up a chance to prove himself in the know.

"Chris, what's going on here tonight?"

"Who wants to know?" he asked evenly.

I stiffened. The most casual inquiry had raised issues of allegiance and complicity. What
was
going on?

"Just me. I'm sorry, I was curious. This is usually a cheerful little place but tonight everyone's skulking around like ..."

"Like what?"

"Forget it!"

"Take my advice, Philip. Don't ask questions. The less you know about people's private feuds the better off you are."

"What people? What feuds?"

I attended the funeral at Aggie's suggestion. The whole Paradiso "family" was going and my absence might have reflected a callousness she was sure I did not feel. It was the second time I'd seen the clan en masse and the difference could not have been greater. At Maddie's the various branches had mingled freely and with great conviviality.

But now in grief they did not band together as might have been expected, but remained isolated in three contingents. Of all those present only Gilbert; Moira and Maddie seemed oblivious to this air of division. They wandered freely through all groups offering condolences and touching reflections on the evanescence of life. Gilbert was more or less dragged through his paces by Moira, who knew that a few poignant words in the ears of the widow and parents could substantially increase the value of the gift they would select a mere two months down the road.

When I returned home I checked my machine and found a terse message from Milt Miller informing me my services were no longer
required.

My feelings were mixed. On the one hand I hadn't relished juggling two jobs, but Jimmy's suspicious demise had strengthened my resolve to leave the restaurant as soon as Aggie was repaid. Now what would I fall back on? And why had he fired me anyway? I called him and
asked.

"I'm sorry, Philip, I just don't need the help," he said nervously. "But there's tons to do. You have a new book coming out and that always means
more
work for me! Why fire me now?"

He sighed with a mixture of discomfort and pique. "I had a little call from the police."

"The
police
!"

"Surprised, are we! How dare you expect me to give you an alibi for a night when you were nowhere near my place? Do you think I appreciate being dragged into a drug investigation? I have nothing more to say!"

"Wait! There's some mistake here, Milt. I don't even use drugs!"

"Balls! You're using them now! I can tell! Don't call me again!"

I was baffled but not for long. It was Gunther, no doubt, getting a bit of his own back. You damage my livelihood, I eradicate yours! As I sat there fuming, the phone rang again. It was Claire.

"Hello, sunshine! How goes it, my little co-conspirator?"

"I just lost my job with Milt Miller. Gunther apparently called and said I was prominent in narcotics circles."

"The fiend," she said lightly. "Buck up, darling, there'll be plenty of other jobs on the road to fame and fortune."

"
You
sound chipper."

"I am, Philip, I am! I've spent the last week dragging Moira up a steep hill to a lonely cross to which I will attach her as soon as I can find nails that are rusty enough."

"You're kidding!"

"I never kid, my pet. Trust me. If Moira tries to double-cross you now, she'd better grow gills and fast."

"What is it?"

"Patience, dear, I'm just putting the last few brushstrokes on my masterpiece. I'll give you the whole thing tomorrow."

"Claire, don't do this to me! I've seen enough movies to know that when someone says, 'I've exposed the villain but I can't tell you how till tomorrow,' that person will be found the next morning at the foot of a cliff in a mangled Buick!"

"Not this girl, dear."

She asked if tomorrow was a Freddy night for Moira. I said that yes, it was, and she said Gilbert and I could expect her at God's Country around eight.

"C'mon, Claire! At least give me a hint!"