Blue Heaven (29 page)

YOU
ConVey
much
MR. C
ava
NAUgh
AND
learN LiTtLe! I. wILL NoT bE EnTraPpEd. MY
PRICE
has JusT. R.I.seN $500 and
will
Rise anNOtheR $5oo
ever
Y
TIME
you attEmPT to DEceiVE Me. JUstiCe WiLL BE
DONE!

I brought it to God's Country that night when we all met for what was becoming a daily event, the Six-0'Clock Bad News.

"What does he mean, 'You convey much and learn little'?" asked Moira.

"Well," sighed Claire, "he apparently knows something after speaking to Philip he didn't know before. Philip, what exactly was said?"

I did my best to reconstruct the conversation but couldn't do better than a rough paraphrase which differed in no substantial way from the one I'd already given. She just sighed and said that I had to be as guarded as possible next time I spoke to him, which we didn't imagine would be soon since five hundred dollars was fairly pricy for what was, after all, a local call.

I gazed around the room, noting the fabulous arrangement of out-of-season flowers on the sideboard.

"Freddy?"

"Who else?" said Moira jealously. "You should see the earrings!"

We discussed payment of Gunther's demands. Moira was furious at the idea of contributing anything but we managed to shame her into putting in two hundred dollars, leaving Gilbert and me to pay nine hundred each. This was Monday, February 2; the money was due on the ninth, so we sent it out the next day. I had a mere $950 in the bank, so my share just about cleaned me out. It also eliminated any chance of my repaying Aggie in the near future.

The topic of discussion as we three blackmailees trudged back from the mailbox was how long could this situation be allowed to continue? What if he demanded more? Moira, to our alarm, stated quite forcefully that were he to make a second demand she would do things
her
way. No amount of arguing from us would dissuade her from calling in the troops.

As Gilbert and I lay in bed that night, sipping the cocoa Moira had thoughtfully brought us, we tried to plan our future. After the wedding I would go away and wait for Freddy to die. How long could it take? A few years at the most. I'd get a lot of writing done. Then, the threat removed, he would divorce Moira, descend on my hideout, and sweep me away to France or Wales or some quaint midwestern town, and there we'd grow old together, tapping away on twin word processors, composing the great plays and novels we were born to write.

All we had to do was get through the next seven weeks.

Freddy's courtship of the duchess soon ripened into a shameless assault on that winsome noblewoman's weakness for the grand romantic gesture. Flowers arrived daily, as well as boxes containing recently published works of the ripped bodice school. Once a hansom, pulled by white horses, met her in front of the building to take her to Paradise.

The sheer relentlessness of his campaign forced Gilbert, Moira and me to decide that Winslow
had
to lay off the controlled substances. So far, at least, Freddy had been a perfect gentleman. But what was to say that on some future date, after a surfeit of wine, he might not pounce and find his passion reciprocated by a Winslow too blissed out to deal with the situation sanely? Freddy would come up for air
to find his dentures clutching a suddenly disembodied breast, or something far worse. Somehow, Mummy would have to learn to swank without Ecstasy.

It was, of course, Claire who provided the solution to this apparently insurmountable problem. (She remained ignorant of Winslow's continued reliance on drugs but not, of course, of his continued, indeed worsening, panic between appearances.) Claire recommended this: if it was Winslow who was frightened and the duchess who was not, then
get rid of Winslow.

Once proposed, the sound reasoning behind the approach became clear to all, even Winnie. His nerves, once he was in full drag, were never half as bad as when he was in his own dowdy slacks and cardigans. Then he would stare into the mirror at his small frightened mouth and frail mop of blond curls, and he'd wail in horror at the apparent impossibility of persuading anyone he was a glamorous and confident woman of the world. So, from now till the wedding we would not let him become that frightened man again. He would move out of his apartment, into God's Country, and live every moment as the duchess.

The results of this strategy were immediate and dramatic. Within days the panic attacks had lessened so much that Gilbert and Moira induced him to venture out, completely drug-free, for a shopping trip with Maddie to buy gifts for the bridesmaids and ushers. He passed the test magnificently, denigrating "shoddy goods" and bullying salesgirls with a grandiloquence that matched his most inspired drug-induced flights.

This policy of perpetual impersonation was not without its drawbacks. We had to spend scarce funds for more clothes and nightgowns, but the worst of it was Winslow. He became more insufferable daily. Since all private moments with us were "rehearsals" for the public appearances, he conducted himself at these times with the same imperial hauteur he employed in public encounters with the merchant class. Any exhortations from us to knock it off were met with sulks and comments on how impossible this would be if we were forever forcing him "out of character." So we were left with no choice but to grit our teeth and endure Mummy's running commentary on our numberless shortcomings.

And so February passed. Gilbert, Moira and their parents arranged
the final details of the wedding and reception. Caterers were hired, as well as musicians, florists, photographers and a contractor to build a temporary extension onto the Cellinis' sweet little ballroom.

Gilbert and I continued our affair, regularly searching the bedroom for concealed microphones and crouching photographers.

Gilbert selected Holly, Ugo Sartucci and Mike from the restaurant to be the ushers, surely as unlikely a trio as had ever fulfilled this office.

News of the duchess's divorce spread quickly through the famed family grapevine and many called to offer nosy questions in the guise of sympathy. The duchess always said sadly and beautifully that, yes, it was a shame, and, more sadly still, she'd just heard from Lord and Lady Greenfield, who couldn't come to the wedding, poor Maude having fallen in the bath and broken her hip.

We waited for further demands from Gunther and prayed they would never come.

And Freddy continued his gentlemanly and futile courtship of the fair Gwendolyn.

Little did we know that we were not the only ones in whom this romance had stirred profound anxieties. In fact, our tremors of fear every time they dined together were nothing compared to the seismic shocks these rendezvous sent coursing through the very foundation of organized crime's wealthiest and most internecine clan.

Little did we realize that for years the House of Bombelli had seethed with deeply rooted rivalries. The hope of a peaceful resolution and the need to present a unified front to rival families had combined to ensure that these long-standing conflicts remained carefully submerged beneath the placid day-to-day routine of drug smuggling and contract murders.

But now a fictitious duchess batted her eyelashes, sighed "
L'amour, I'amour!"
and sent the whole bloody mess bubbling to the surface.

Twenty-six

"E
venin', boys. You mind steppin' inta the car? I wanna have a little chat with ya."

These bone-chilling words were uttered just outside Paradiso at one a.m. on the first Tuesday of March. A cold rain was falling and Chick Sartucci was leaning out the rear window of his dark Lincoln Continental. A poker-faced, square-built driver held an umbrella over the door so Chick's cigar wouldn't be extinguished by the rain.

Nooooo! Not now! Not tonight! Save me, God! I'll do anything you ask! I'll become a priest and work with the poor in war-torn countries! Just don't let me die!

"Gosh, Chick, it's such a cold wet night. Why don't you come in and have a brandy?"

"Good idea!" said Gilbert, whose prayers were on similar lines and involved reading to the blind.

"Hey! Calm down, guys!" chortled Chick. "I'm not gonna hurtcha! I just wanna chat. I like the car better. S'more private."

"Happy to oblige!"

"How's Ugo?" asked Gilbert, pushing me in ahead of him.

"Great. Just great. He's real fonda you guys."

"Well, we're nuts about him!"

The car cruised slowly toward the park.

"Firs' thing I wanna say is how much I like you two guys. Right from the firs' time I metcha at Maddie's Christmas party, I thought, these are bright kids. Lotta class, lotta talent. What I mean is, you guys and your fiancee an' Moira, too-you're good people.
However
..."

He paused unendurably and smoked as the car cruised into the darkness of Central Park.

"... I can't say the same 'bout that mother-in-law, you're gettin', Gil. Mind ya, no reflection on Moira. She's the best. But her mom ..." He shook his head sadly. "I don't think she's a nice woman."

"Well, neither do we!" said Gilbert.

"Hell, no! So
pretentious!"

"We can't
stand
her!"

"I mean," said Chick, scowling righteously, "what can you say 'bout a dame runs off an' marries a duke just to get herself a fancy title, then comes back to the States for her daughter's weddin', meets a sweet rich old guy wit' one foot in the grave and right away drops her husband!"

"Deplorable!"

"Let's call a spade a spade, boys. 'The duchess is nothin' but a fuckin' golddiggin' old tramp!"

"Gosh, Chick!" I said, realizing that if we kept concurring with everything he said we might soon have Winslow's blood on our hands. "I can certainly see where you'd get that impression, but I don't think the duchess is necessarily after Freddy's money."

"Ya don't, do ya?" he said, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"Not
necessarily.
I just mean I think her marriage was on the rocks before she met Freddy. She was going to divorce the duke anyway."

"Yeah? Well, ain't it funny how she didn't come out an' say so till she went to Freddy's house an' got a good look at them marble floors an' the gold spigots in the bathroom? . . . Look, I don't wanna give you boys no grief. You got nothin' to do with it. I just want you to give Her Highness a little message. You tell her she ain't gonna get away with it. It took Freddy seventy years to pile up that dough and he had a lotta help from his family doin' it. She thinks she's gonna swoop down on his det'bed and scoop the whole pot, she's fuckin' crazy! She marries him, she's
dead!
She runs boo-hooin' to Freddy 'bout threats, she's
still
dead. He ain't gonna live forever, though he seems to think so, an' after he's gone they'll be plenty of us an' just one of her. She marries, she's dead. She complains, she's dead. You tell her who said so,
you're
dead. Do we have an understanding?"

"You bet!"

"Absolutely."

"And I want to assure you right now, Chick, that there's no way
the duchess is
ever
going to marry Freddy Bombelli. You have my word on that!" said Gilbert.

"I'm glad to hear that, Gil. And I'm sure you won't go troublin' Moira with this. She's a sweet innocent kid and there's no sense worryin' her with stuff she couldn't possibly understand."

Chick dropped Gilbert off at GC and me at my apartment since at that point we were afraid to give even the mildest of indications that our friendship was more than platonic. As soon as Chick sped away I got a cab and went to God's Country.

"Thank God you're alive!" cried Gilbert, embracing me.

"Well he wasn't about to kill me, honey!"

He said he'd already gone to wake Mummy and Moira but they weren't home. They rolled in fifteen minutes later fresh from a night on the town with the lovesick don. We filled them in on the new threat, deciding to honor Chick's request to omit mention of who had made it. Moira demanded to know but we stuck to our guns.

"Look, Your Grace," I said to Winslow, "you understand you can never accept Freddy's proposal?"

"Of course I do, you impertinent pup!"

"Then, please, for your sake and ours, stop seeing so much of him! Say you're busy with the wedding or need your rest. Anything. Just
avoid
him!"

"Love, love!" sighed Winslow, gazing at his new Cartier wristwatch. "It never quite works out, does it?"

We told Claire about the threats the next day. She was horrified but agreed there was no cause for real concern since Chick's fears could never come to pass.

Over the next week, Freddy called daily to arrange dates, but Mummy always had a conflict, though she was willing to chat.

He often asked when she planned to file for divorce. Had she made her intentions plain to Nigel? Did he respect them or was he trying to coerce her into staying with him against her wishes? She always replied that she'd told Nigel and he'd promised not to fight, but they both preferred to wait till after the wedding. And, oh, bad news! Poor Lady Fish would not be able to attend, arthritis having left her all but calcified.

But despite Mummy's efforts to cool the romance, Freddy did not
relent. The flowers came so thick and fast that visitors to God's Country would look around quizzically, as if wondering where the coffin was.

With the wedding now a mere three weeks off I was increasingly plagued by calls from various Cellinis asking about the bachelor party which it was my duty, as best man, to organize. This tradition was apparently as sacred to the male side of the family as the public opening of gifts was to its brides. Their admonitions to get the show on the road, coupled with their generally salacious tone, made me realize, to my vast discomfort, that I was expected to host nothing less than a major Saturnalia.

Gay men usually have a fair grasp of the mechanics of heterosexual male traditions. Even if we have never ourselves hunted, attended a prize fight or argued in favor of the death penalty for umpires, these activities are so often depicted in films that we know, more or less, what's what. As for me though, never having seen a popular movie about such an event, the bachelor party remained an arcane and mysterious rite. I sensed there was more to a full-scale job than a mere surplus of liquor, but sensed, as well, that my image of chorines emerging from cakes was somewhat passe.

Mike at the restaurant asked my plans in earshot of Aggie, who kindly butted in to say that Paradiso was not booked for anything the Sunday before the wedding and we were welcome to use it free of charge, so long as we agreed to clean up after ourselves and pay for broken fixtures. I gratefully accepted, but, this detail solved, all other mysteries remained.

Finally, I called Ugo and confessed that I'd never attended a bachelor party and would appreciate any pointers on how to make it a memorable one. He was flattered to think his reputation as a party animal had led me to defer to his judgment, and promised he would get right on to it. I had only to supply the guest list and pay the bill. He would take care of the rest.

One night, the third week of March, as Gilbert and I were leaving Paradiso, we found ourselves face-to-fender with yet another indisputably criminal car, this one a huge maroon Caddy. We were about to turn on our heels and reenter the restaurant, when the weasely figure of Charlie Pastore jumped out of the back seat.

"Hi, boys! I hoped I'd catch you two before you left. How you doin'?"

"Great, Charlie! How are you?"

"Glad to hear it! You look swell, just swell. Handsome! Boy, what I wouldn't give to be your ages again!"

He was a short man with darting eyes and a smile that seemed permanently fixed. He spoke rapidly, racing to the end of one sentence and on to the next, which gave him the maddening habit of asking questions then going on before you could reply.

"Well, I see by your faces, boys, that you're wondering why I'm waiting for you here. Am I right? So, you don't mind I'd like to take you to a little flat of mine round the corner from here. Privacy, y'understand."

Ten minutes later we were sitting in his tiny "P. A. da Tear." His driver, Piltdown Man, served drinks.

"Bet you're all excited about the wedding? Huh? You getting a little nervous? I know I was, but hey, don't be, you're getting a fantastic girl! And the mother! Whoa! Now, that's a Lady with a capital L! Don't make 'em like that anymore. Zamatterafac, that's what I want to talk to you about. Freddy, Freddy Bombelli, is ... well, I don't have to tell
you,
right! You know more than I do, right? He's just crazy about her and who can blame him? Best thing coulda happened to him, little ray of sunshine in his declining years. Say, she could do a lot worse herself! Freddy's a wealthy man! He'll treat her right, too, not like that rotten duke of hers!

"Now, I'm not going to beat around the bush here. I know what's in the wind. There are certain people don't want to see Freddy happy. They been talking to you, right? They told you to give the duchess a message and you did, and that's why she's been giving poor Freddy the cold shoulder. Now, I ask you, is that
fair
? Two people trying to find happiness and a couple of greedy so-and-sos want to ruin it for 'em! S'enough to break your heart, am I right? So listen-
don't be intimidated!
You're Cellini people and the Cellinis look after their own. We'll protect you. Understand? But if we're gonna give you our protection I think we've got a right to expect something in return. A little loyalty. Is that wrong?"

It took a moment for us to see that he actually meant us to answer for a change.

"Oh, no! Not wrong at all!"

"Fair's fair!"

"Zactly!
Zactly!
So, listen up, boys . . . He's gonna ask her to marry him. I know this, 'cause he told me himself. And when he asks her, see, she's going to say yes. Because there ain't no doubt she
was planning
to say yes, before certain parties started trying to change her mind. Don't take no Ph.D. to see that! Why else would she have suddenly decided to divorce old dukey? Huh? It was a bad thing you boys did, goin' and makin' her back off, leavin' a sweet old man to die alone with no wife to hold his hand. But, hell-I ain't blamin' you. This party leaned on you, right? Got nasty? So we ain't going to get mad at you for making a mistake when there's still plenty of time to correct it."

"But Charlie," I said, "what if the duchess doesn't
want
to marry Freddy?"

"Hey, boys! Don't
insult
me. She was chasin' him like a fuckin' bloodhound up until you told her otherwise! Don't
insult
me, boys, it hurts my
feelings!
And when my feelings get hurt-I don't know what I'm doin'! She wants him! And he wants her!"

"And he's going to
get
her!" said Gilbert, heartily.

"Hey, that's more like it!"

"Those two beautiful old people are going to find the happiness they deserve!" said Gilbert.

"Eventually!"

"They're gonna
tie
that knot!"

"In the due course of time!"

"Who are we to stand in the way of love!"

"Zactly!"

We staggered back to God's Country in silence, operating under the ageless superstition that nothing is true till you say it aloud. We got there at two a.m. to find Claire, Moira and Mummy all awake and flapping about in great agitation. The evening's drama was far from finished.

"Where have you
been!"
cried Moira. "I called the restaurant and they said you left nearly an hour ago!"

"We were detained," I said flatly.

"Oh, Gilbert!" she said, throwing her arms around him and bursting
into sobs. "You have no idea what I've been through!" She paused dramatically and said: "I was
leaned
on!"

"You, too?" asked Gilbert.

"You,
too?"
asked the duchess, twitchy but still in character.

"Yes!"

"Again?"
said Claire.

We nodded.

"By the same person?"

"No. A new one."

"Oh, dear! What happened?"

"I believe I'd already begun, Claire," said Moira petulantly, then seated herself on a pouf and breathlessly imparted her tale.

Mummy had decided to spend a quiet night in, and Moira had gone down to SoHo to meet Vulpina and attend the opening, at Concepteria, of Aldo Cupper's "Bags #4." After the opening Moira walked Pina home and was trying to hail a cab when a dark Cadillac pulled up in front of her. The rear window rolled down automatically and Lunch Fabrizio leaned out and asked her if she would kindly step in for a chat.