Cease to Blush

by Billie Livingston

  After hanging up, she stretches and falls back on the bed, a sense of déjà vu hitting her, though the Sands is barely recognizable anymore with that monstrosity of a tower they’ve added.

  A knock comes. She lies still a moment, wondering if it could have been next door.

  Another knock. She tiptoes over. Smiling at herself, she drops down onto her heels—too much thinking about the Sands. Okie Joe. A shudder ripples through her.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello! I’m looking for … Celia?”

  She opens up. Staring a moment, she gasps and throws her arms around the tired-looking little man. “Teddy! Oh my god. Teddy.”

  Teddy the Ghost squeezes her back, his fingers tremulous. Taking hold of her arms, he sets her away from himself. “Lemme look. Madonn’! You got more beautiful! How’s that possible?”

  And you got old and shrunken, she thinks. So frail. “Well, get in here,” she says, her eyes tearing as she pulls him inside.

  “I think you musta grew while I was gone, honey. Like a skyscraper now!”

  She titters. Just as he joins the laughter, he covers his mouth.

  “What happened?” She touches the hand over his gapped smile.

  “Na, I don’t want you seein’ that. Just a couple teeth. I’m gettin’ ’em fixed soon. Haven’t had time to make myself pretty again.” Lips together, he smiles.

  “Sit down, I’ll fix you a drink.” She walks to the bar. “When did you get out?”

  “Few days ago.” Setting himself in an armchair, he looks around the suite. “Still a nice joint, this place … Sinatra had a maid here once, years ago, all upset on account of her husband needing an operation. She didn’t have no money. Frank got Skinny to see if she was on the level, then, bam! like that, he had Skinny make the arrangements. I’ll pick up the tab, he says to him, but don’t you crack to anyone it was me.”

  Celia puts a scotch on the rocks in his hand, sits down with a flute of champagne for herself. “He can be a good man, ol’ Frank.”

  “You gotta little water I could put in here? Can’t take it straight no more.”

  She jumps up, brings a pitcher back and pours.

  Teddy watches. “You come to be a real magnificent woman.”

  She reaches and squeezes his fingers.

  “I used to think about you all the time. One of the guys in the joint was a beatnik kinda fella you know, always playing that folksy shit on the transistor. This one song used to come on.” He croaks a bit of a tune and sings, “‘When a kiss from a prison cell is carried in the breeze. That’s when I wonder how sad a man can be. Oh, when will Celia come to me?’” Voice breaking, he pulls out a handkerchief.

  Her own throat tightens as he dabs.

  He coughs. “Ah, don’t mind me. Catchin’ cold.” He blows into the hanky.

  “I would’ve come, Teddy, but Johnny said—”

  “No, no, no.” Shaking his head, he shoves the rag back in his pocket, straightens his jacket, takes a drink. “You stayed in good touch with Rosselli, then.”

  She nods. “Haven’t heard from him lately. Surprised he knew where to find me—well, pff, he always knows where to find me.”

  “He was in the Sansum Clinic in Santa Barbara for a while there.”

  “Sick again? Why didn’t he call me? I remember he was in there a year or two ago for his chest.”

  “He’s a hypochondriac, that guy. I think he just wants a rest from this Friars Club thing. Poor bastard, if they nail him on somethin’ like this … be a shame, him gettin’ engaged and all.”

  Celia chokes on her champagne. “Engaged?”

  “You didn’t know? Sure. Nice girl too. Widow. But this thing with the Friars Club is a bum rap. Sonuvabitch though, those guys had themself a nice setup.” Teddy smiles into his hands as he imagines it. “Drilled holes in the ceiling so’s you could see down on the card games. The guy’d sit up there, keep the hustler wise with this little transmitter gizmo strapped to his chest. John knew the score I bet, but he don’t cheat. Not his style.”

  Celia forces a smile. “I’m sure.”

  Teddy studies her. “What that? You ain’t been makin’ it with Rosselli.”

  “Course not.” She lights a cigarette.

  “You smokin’ now?” Plucking it from her fingers he mashes it out in the ashtray, looks at her again, puts his head in his hands. “This isn’t what I wanted for you. Member I wanted you to go to stewardess school? You’da got yourself a good square husband and some kids by now. Stead, you’re runnin’ around the country shakin’ your can, spending time with … You should go home to your folks.”

  She picks up her cigarette case, tosses it back down. “Actually, I’ve been considering doing something else for a while. One of my friends has been campaigning for the next election.”

  “Campaigning? Buncha puppets.” He squints. “She’s not hangin’ around those Kennedy pricks, is she? Sons-a-bitches—the brother, he made his goddamn bed, that guy. We put millions into that sonuvabitch. You gonna fuck with people, they’re gonna—” He coughs and reaches into his jacket as the hacking takes him into a fit.

  She runs and pours him a glass of water. Regaining composure, he guzzles. A bit of red is on his handkerchief. “Is that blood? Jesus, Teddy.”

  “Ahh,” he waves it off, sets the glass down. “Chest cold. S’nothin’. Gets raw inside.”

  “Let me call—”

  “I don’t need nothin’. I’m fine. I’m headin’ for Vegas tomorrow, got a meet tonight … Listen, I don’t want you workin’ politics. Whatever you heard about this thing,” he looks around himself, “least these people, they got some respect and honour, take care of their own. Fuckin’ politicians: you buy and sell ’em and—” He starts to cough again.

  Celia refills his water. “You cuss like me when I came home from the carnival.” She forces a playful tone. Laughter twists through his hacking. “Let me call someone.”

  He cuts his hand across the air as he shakes his head, spittle flying.

  Skinny raps at her dressing-room door. “How’s our girl?”

  “Hey! How’s the house look?”

  He spreads his arms, “You gotta ask?” Sits down on the vanity. “So, the Ghost’s out of the bucket now, huh? Crazy old bastard.”

  She opens a lipstick.

  “Not making much sense anymore.” Skinny taps his temple. “I think those kennel rations they give him rotted a hole in the old marble bag.”

  She sets the lipstick down. “He was coughing a lot.”

  “Spoutin’ all kinds of crazy shit when I seen him.”

  Her arms feel funny, hairs bristling. “He seemed fine. Meetings with this one and that one, heading to Vegas tomorrow …”

  “Vegas.” Skinny breathes a long look at her, says nothing for a few seconds, watches her recheck her Wayne Newton mustache. “Well, kid, you knock ’em dead.”

  At the end of the night, she calls the hotel. “Teddy? It’s Celia. Meet me for a drink?”

  “I’m waitin’ for a guy to buzz me, sweetheart. Why don’t you come up.”

  “Oh, come on. When’s the last time you were in Atlantic City? He’ll call back.”

  Teddy won’t budge.

  When he opens the door, she puts a finger to her lips and nods down the hall.

  He follows her to the stairwell. “What’s doin’?”

  She glances at the walls, the ceiling. “Have you seen Skinny since you got to town?”

  “No, I’m gonna see him tomorrow before I leave.”

  “He said he saw you.”

  “He talked to me on the phone.”

  “He said he saw you. And now you’re going to Vegas … a lot of guys being arrested in Vegas with the skimming and all that.”

  Teddy looks taken aback. “Who told you that? Skimming.”

  “For godsake, Life magazine is running stories on it.”

  He wags his finger. “That shit’s blown way outta proportion. They don’t wanna pay Internal Revenue mon
ey they could be payin’ girls like you. If they didn’t skim—”

  “Fine. I don’t care. But why don’t you take a little vacation in Florida or something instead of running off back to work?”

  He pats her arms. “I don’t know the last time I had someone worryin’ over me. Not since my Angela, god rest her soul.”

  “Where are you supposed to be for your parole? Illinois?”

  “Ah!” he waved, “Slip ’em a few bucks, they don’t know nothin’. Gettin’ my parole moved to California anyway. For my health.”

  Back in New York, Annie trudges to the kitchen table with the Sunday Times. “Why did we start getting this goddamn thing. S’not like we read it.” She flips through the sections and pulls one. “Oh right, the funnies, I almost forgot.”

  The phone rings. Celia jumps for it, knocking the table and spilling Annie’s coffee.

  “Christ in a crapshoot! Expectin’ money?”

  Phone to her ear, Celia says, “Oh, Johnny. Hi. Have you heard anything from Teddy? I saw him in Atlantic City and he didn’t look so hot … why?” The receiver hits the floor as she yanks the paper out from under Annie’s arms. Ripping the front section open to page three, Celia reads the headline: “Ghost Found Dead in Beverly Hills … Recently paroled mafioso Teodoro (Teddy the Ghost) Gossitino was found dead in the Beverly Crest Hotel in Los Angeles, California. An apparent suicide, maids were shocked to discover Gossitino dangling by the neck at the end of a rope, which had been secured to a chandelier …”

  Annie picks the receiver off the floor. “Johnny? I don’t think she can talk right now. She’s pretty … uh, okay … he wants to talk to you.” Annie holds the receiver to her ear.

  “Celia,” Johnny says. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” she says dully.

  “He was a very depressed man and I guess it got the best of him.” Silence. “The funeral’s in Jersey but I don’t want you going. Teddy wouldn’t want it neither. Gonna be a lot of Feds there and you shouldn’t be mixed up with that. You listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “No funeral, okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. He loved you very much. And you know I love you.”

  She hangs up.

  Days later, while Annie’s down in Miami, Celia picks up the phone to an English accent.

  “S’at Celia? Hello, love, it’s Pete … Uh, Pete Lawford,” he clarifies.

  “Oh. Hi.”

  “You’ve heard the spectacular news about Bobby jumping in the race for the Democratic ticket?”

  “Sure.”

  “And Johnson’s dropped out as of last night!”

  “I heard.” She listens suspiciously. In her limited experience, Lawford’s accent becomes stronger when he wants something. He sounds straight out of a London travelogue now.

  “Crowds are going crazy for Bob,” he continues excitedly, “tearing at his shirt cuffs, at his buttons—you must’ve seen it on the telly. The reason I’m calling is because I’m in New York and I want to have a little impromptu party for him tonight. I hoped you might swing by. We’re trying to get all Bobby’s pals on board.”

  “Actually, I have been thinking about getting involved.”

  “Fabulous. Why don’t you come by about ten. It’ll be here at the Plaza.”

  Celia hangs up, her spirit nosing out of its dark hole.

  She knocks at the Plaza suite at twenty past. Inside, the Stones blare “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” Laughter and chit-chat. Nobody answers. She knocks again. Finally the door swings open and there stands Lawford, his grey hair cut shaggy and Beatlesesque, wearing a black turtleneck and Indian beads. A cigarette in one hand and a martini in the other, he opens his arms and slops gin down her back.

  The room is loaded with women in ass-length miniskirts, teased hair and white lipstick. A few men in dark suits mingle among them. “Where’s Bobby?”

  “Any minute. You look spectacular, baby. You really do.” His eyes loiter down the length of her. Taking her coat, he offers to fix her a drink.

  “Thanks.” She glances around, does a double take at one young woman she recalls from lounges in Miami. “That one,” Annie once pointed out, “rents herself out to stag parties as a door prize.” Another girl Celia recognizes as a pit girl from Vegas.

  “Drink up and be somebody, baby!” Lawford nudges Celia’s shoulder with a martini, splashing it over her arm this time. “Oh shit, sorry, hon, ‘lemme get you a napkin, lemme …’”

  She shakes the gin off. “I’ll just use your ladies’.”

  Closing the bathroom door she turns on the faucet and looks in the mirror. Suddenly agitated, she dries off and stalks back out to find Lawford.

  “Pete. Are you actually expecting Bobby tonight? Or have plans changed?”

  “Love, plans is plans. Of course he’s coming. Bobby’s my bro’.”

  Flint-eyed, she says, “I heard you weren’t a Kennedy anymore.”

  A hurt look sweeps his face and vanishes. “Not technically …” He pokes her shoulder. Then in a slurred whisper, “S’like the mob: once a Kennedy, always a Kennedy.”

  She rubs at the spot where he poked and notices a young girl on the sofa, her lime-green mini so mini, you could see she was neither a fan of lingerie or a natural redhead. “Any of these fellas part of Bobby’s campaign?” Celia asks. “I’d like to talk to someone about—”

  “I’m part of Bobby’s campaign. And you are contributing just by being here, baby. You are beautiful.”

  “I’d like to talk to someone about campaigning.”

  He takes her hand. “We thought tonight you could do your thing.” He shimmies in demonstration. “Do your little dance, put a little happy in Bobby’s pants. And in the meantime …” He ducks his martini under her hand, dunks her fingers and brings them toward his open mouth. She yanks back. “Ah come on, baby,” he giggles. “See that little lady over on the couch.” He points to the green miniskirt. “She’s dying to dance with you. Now, that’s a campaign contribution.”

  Celia stares.

  “Oh come on, what’s the big deal? You swing, I swing, we all swing for something …”

  “I should’ve known better. Where’s my coat?” She shoves past him. Lawford follows, commanding her to relax. Down the hall she finds a bedroom with a bed full of wraps and coats. Pulling hers from the heap, she turns as Lawford closes himself in with her.

  “Come on, take it easy. Why don’t you give Petey a private show?”

  “Petey can go bugger himself.”

  “Why don’t you like me, Celia. Celia Dare de Derrière?”

  “Because you’re the only thing between me and the door.” She steps toward him.

  He spreads his limbs wide. “You’ll have to get through meeee.”

  Trembling with adrenaline, she slams a fist into Lawford’s soft booze belly.

  He jerks forward and spits up on the carpet. “Fucking cunt.”

  She yanks the door open, shoots through the suite and out to the elevators. Thumbing the call button, she paces back and forth and clenches her hands, turns and throws her foot into the elevator door, which opens on impact.

  Three men stand facing Celia’s glare, Bobby in the middle. His lips part in surprise and they move on into the hall.

  “No need to rush, boys, there’s whores for everyone,” she says and shoves past.

  “I’ll catch up with you,” Kennedy tells his cohorts and ducks back between the doors.

  Thick quiet permeates as they move down the elevator shaft. “Were you just, ah, did my brother-in-law …” Bobby pauses for words. “I hate to ask what you had the misfortune of running into in that suite but I can assure you, I—”

  “Bullshit. Lawford used to pimp for your brother too.” She glares at the descending numbers. “I’m so stupid.” Doors open, she walks straight ahead toward the front entrance.

  “Please, Celia.” He catches up and takes her elbow. She snaps it back but stays.

 
Softly, Bobby says, “I have great respect for you, ah, I don’t know what my former brother-in-law said to you but I, ah, I had no idea he had even planned to invite you.”

  She allows him to steer her toward a quiet corner of the lobby.

  He sits beside her. “I’ve thought of you often, but out of respect, ah, for your wishes I haven’t tried to contact you. I would never do anything that might insult your integrity or …” She looks away. He rubs at his nose. “I did once confess to Pete that I had a terrible crush on you. Perhaps in his drug-addled mind that was code for something else.”

  Celia’s pulse has slowed to normal but her eyes continue to sweep the room.

  “Nothing would make me happier than to spend what’s left of the evening talking with you, but I, ah—please don’t misunderstand me—between the reporters and the Republicans … would you, ah, consent to joining me in my suite?”

  Sitting on Bobby’s sofa, she sighs. “I’m sorry I went at you like that. Just, the way Lawford was … and a friend died recently. I guess I’m still a little raw.”

  He hands her a drink then sits beside her. “Someone you were close to?”

  She nods. “Sort of a surrogate father when I first left home.” She takes a swallow from the drink. “He looked awful. Excuse me. I don’t mean to …”

  “You needn’t ever be embarrassed in front of me. I’m embarrassed that someone connected to me treated you poorly this evening.” She waves it off. “Well, it certainly wasn’t the circumstance in which I hoped we’d meet again. May I ask what was going on up there?”

  “Nothing in particular. A few men and a lot of girls. I had hoped I could help with your campaign, but Peter felt I could best do this with my clothes off.”

  The phone rings. “Hello … hi … uh-huh … Jesus … what’s he …? no. I think I’m going to call it a night … That’s fine.” He hangs up. “Apparently the party’s thick with marijuana smoke and Pete’s handing out, ah, LSD.” He looks into his lap. “I’m going to have to talk with him. His association can only hurt us. I’m actually trying to steer clear of celebrity endorsement.”