by Zev Chafets
As usual, Jupiter read his thoughts. “If Flanagan said that, would you think he was showing off?” she asked.
“No,” Gordon admitted. “But John is a hack; not a beautiful actress.”
“That’s what you think,” said Jupiter with a crooked smile. “Your pal Flanagan is the best actor I know.”
“John’s all right,” said Gordon defensively. He hated it when his friends criticized each other, especially Jupiter and Flanagan.
“Well, I didn’t come by to talk about John. I came to talk about the other night.” Suddenly she looked abashed and vulnerable, like a little girl. Gordon wanted to hug her, but by this time he knew better. Affection frightened Jupiter. Most women wanted to know they were loved, but she was terrified by that kind of responsibility. After each of their few previous sexual encounters she had disappeared, often for a month or more. The thing, he knew, was to keep it light.
“The other night?” he asked. “Let’s see, what was the other night …”
“Gordon, the other night was a mistake.”
“Shit, I knew it,” said Gordon. “OK, that’s the last time we go to Barney’s. Those bastards always overcook the burgers.”
“Come on, Will,” she said softly. It was a nickname she used when she was being intimate, and the sound of it in her throaty voice thrilled him. “Let’s not fool around. All the booze and the talk about money and gangsters, and you looked so damn serious and cute, it just put me in the mood.”
“Which you’re out of now?” asked Gordon, not wanting to hear the answer.
She looked at him steadily. “Will, you’re torturing both of us. You know what I am, what I can and can’t be. Leave it alone, and let’s be friends. Isn’t that enough?”
Suddenly Gordon was furious. “No, it’s not enough, goddamn it. Don’t insult my intelligence. I don’t want to be friends, and I don’t think that you do, either. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here right now, after all these years. You always leave, Jupiter, but you always come back, too.”
“Gordon, I don’t find you attractive,” she said in a cold, cruel voice. This was part of the routine; when she was cornered, Jupiter lashed out without even thinking about the consequences. “You have a potbelly and a hairy body and you stink of cigarettes and whiskey. You’re condescending and insensitive. It was a mistake to come here tonight, and I’m leaving—”
Suddenly, without warning, Gordon unzipped his pants. “What do you want me to do, cut it off?” he demanded. “OK, get a knife from the kitchen, let’s cut it off. I’ll go to Puerto Rico and get a disbarred surgeon to put in a poo-poo. I’ll go on the Scarsdale Diet and start smoking Virginia Slims. Come on, Jupiter, get the knife.…”
She started to laugh, a low, melodious sound, and the lines around her eyes crinkled. Gordon breathed a sigh of relief. It would be all right this time.
He fixed her a drink and they sat together on the balcony, watching the lights come on. “Listen, Jupiter, I want to make you a serious proposition,” Gordon said. “Are you in a good enough mood for a proposition?”
“Will, please, please don’t start—”
“I told Spadafore yes,” he said. “I’m going to do it.”
“How about the paper?” asked Jupiter.
“I asked them for a two-year leave of absence to write a book. I’ll get a gig at Brookings, just for a cover story. Hell, maybe I’ll even write a book if I get the time. But the thing is, I’m going for it.”
“I hope the other night didn’t have anything to do with your decision,” she said. “I don’t want to sound egotistical, but if you’re doing this because of me, don’t. I mean it, Will.”
“Everybody talks to me like a teenager these days,” he said. “My old man, Spadafore, Flanagan, even you. Whatever happened to William Gordon, two-time Pulitzer winner? Hey, I’m doing this because of me, for my own reasons. But one of those reasons happens to be you.”
“Happens to be me,” she repeated in a flat voice.
“Happens to be you, yeah,” he said. “Listen, the other night when you said that half a billion dollars changes everything, you may have thought you were kidding, but we both know that that much money does change things. At least it can. Will you admit that much?”
“I won’t admit anything until I know exactly where you’re going with this,” she said.
“OK, I want you to marry me,” Gordon said, raising a hand to keep her from arguing. “Just wait, let me finish. I want you to marry me, not right this minute, but within a year, providing this thing is working the way it’s supposed to. If it does, I’ll be so rich that we can have anything we want, including each other, on our own terms. Your terms.”
“Are you trying to buy me?” Jupiter asked mildly.
“No, I’m trying to buy a certain kind of life,” said Gordon. “A brownstone here in town, a place in London, a house in the islands, a private plane, a yacht and enough money to make things perfect. You could work when you wanted on what you wanted, without having to think about the financial side. You could travel anywhere, anytime. When you wanted to be alone, you could be alone, and when you wanted to be with me, OK, then we’d be together. That’s what I want the money to buy, a life together.”
“What’s the point, Will?” she asked. “I mean, aside from buying a bunch of houses and planes. What would it change?”
“We’d be married,” said Gordon. “We’d live in the same world. No matter where you were or what you were doing, I’d be your husband, we’d be connected. And we’d have children.” This was a powerful inducement, Gordon knew; Jupiter wanted very much to be a mother. “As many children as you want. Plus, we could have a hell of a wedding—”
“You paint an idyllic picture, you silver-tongued devil,” Jupiter laughed. She leaned over and ruffled Gordon’s thinning hair. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes and trust me. I know more about you than any other person in the world. You think your problem is that you like women, but that’s not it. The real problem is that you’re afraid to make a commitment to anything or anybody. I know that sounds like bullshit, but that’s what all the therapy comes down to, isn’t it? This is a way for you to make a commitment and still be free, have a family and go on being on your own. If I can accept that, why can’t you?”
“I’m not going to turn you down, Will,” she said softly. “But I’m not going to say yes, either, at least not now. I want to think about it. You said it’s a few months down the road, give me some time, OK?”
“OK, if you promise to say yes.”
“No, I promise to think. But I love you very much right now.” She leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips.
“God, I love you, too,” breathed Gordon, as much to himself as to her. He rose and gently lifted her to her feet. They stood in each other’s arms, and Gordon felt tears of joy just behind his eyes.
“Let’s go in the other room,” he said, stroking her cheek. Suddenly he felt her grow rigid. She pulled back, and he could see clouds of panic in her eyes.
“Not tonight,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a date, I can’t stay.” She stepped away from him, picked up her pocketbook and walked out without another word.
Gordon stood alone on the balcony feeling a sense of total detachment, like people who claim to have died and seen their own bodies on the operating table. He watched himself sit down, light a Winston, pick up the Trotsky book and calmly begin to read. That’s odd, he said to himself; I was expecting you to cry.
CHAPTER 11
Flanagan was not surprised when, three days after his meeting with Sesti, he got a call from the consigliere. Sesti gave no indication that he was in the least upset or angry about their last meeting; he merely said that he had considered Flanagan’s request, and had several suggestions as to how he could accommodate it.
“Thank you, Carlo,” Flanagan said with warm sincerity. “I really appreciate it.”
That was on a Monday. On Wednesday the two men met for
lunch at the Harvard Club. Flanagan wore a dark suit and no hat. He refused a drink, and allowed Sesti to do the talking, listening with a cordial, almost deferential air as the consigliere offered various assurances, bank guarantees and even a five-million-dollar life insurance policy for Gordon and himself. Flanagan had no idea if these constituted adequate protection, and he didn’t care. He had wanted to make two points, and they were both made. By crawling back, Sesti had admitted that he needed Gordon more than Gordon needed him. And he had forced the consigliere to deal with him as an equal.
“Carlo, I’m sorry I had to put you to this extra work, but I’m new at this. I’ll learn the ropes as I go along,” he said modestly.
“John, I probably would have done the same thing in your place,” said Sesti. “I respect a man who protects his client’s interests.”
They shook hands solemnly. “Carlo, now that we’ve ironed out the last details, Mr. Gordon would like to reciprocate your hospitality of the other night by inviting Mr. Spadafore, and you too, of course, to dinner,” said Flanagan. “He wondered if Saturday night would be convenient?”
Sesti frowned. “Mr. Spadafore rarely leaves Brooklyn,” he said. “Of course I very much appreciate the invitation, but I’m just not certain that—”
“Please, Carlo, it would mean a great deal to Mr. Gordon. He very much wants to have the opportunity to show his respect to Mr. Spadafore.”
“Well, I’ll do my best,” said the consigliere briskly. “I’ll let you know this afternoon, if I may.” Two hours later he called to say that Spadafore was honored by the invitation and would be delighted to accept. Dinner was set for seven-thirty.
That night Flanagan dropped by Gordon’s. Gordon was aware that Flanagan had met Sesti at Umberto’s but knew nothing about the conversation itself, or today’s capitulation. No need, Flanagan reflected, to disturb the boss with details.
“We’re all set,” he said. “We can start at the beginning of the month. Carlo will deposit the money in any bank we say, and the organization pays all expenses. Now all you have to do is figure out which world leader you want to turn into Al Capone.” Flanagan snapped his fingers. “Speaking of which, you’ve got company for dinner on Saturday night.”
“Company? Like who?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but Luigi wants to break bread with you.”
Gordon stared at Flanagan. “Luigi? You mean Spadafore? Wants to have dinner here?”
“Sesti dropped the hint. It’s customary, especially after he had you to his place. Cement the deal, drink out of the same cup, all that sort of shit. I think you ought to serve Chinese. Those hors d’oeuvres that Ida had at the shivah were delish.”
“Goddamn it, Flanagan, are you out of your mind?” Gordon exploded. “I can’t have those guys over here. The FBI sticks to Spadafore like white on rice. I got a doorman who already thinks I’m connected and this’ll be all over the neighborhood. You gotta get me out of this—”
“Look, they’re your friends,” said Flanagan. “You’re the one who went there for dinner. I can’t help it if they’re big on protocol. Besides, it’s no big deal. We’ll get a caterer in, set the place up. The doorman? Fuck the doorman. As far as the feds are concerned, Luigi Spadafore was an old friend of your uncle’s and this is a condolence call. What’s to worry?”
Gordon looked dubious. Finally he uttered a resigned sigh. “OK, OK. I guess I don’t have any choice. What the hell do we serve them? I gotta get some wine, too, and liquor. Goddamn it all to hell, Flanagan, I ought to make you pay for this.”
“Relax, we’ll take it out of expenses. I’m serious about the Chinese, by the way. Make a nice change of pace for the old boy. I don’t imagine he gets much lo mein out in Gnocchi City.” Suddenly he clapped his hands together and laughed. “Hey, I got a great idea,” he said. Let’s load the fortune cookies, put in little messages like, ‘Carlo, you’re under arrest.’ ”
Gordon laughed in spite of himself. “Yeah, or ‘Luigi, you have just been poisoned. Signed: The boys.’ ”
“Or how about, ‘Mafia girls do it with Ricans.’ That ought to get ’em.” The two old friends giggled like a couple of schoolboys.
“ ‘Go on a diet, Luigi,’ ” said Gordon.
“ ‘You talk like a sissy, Carlo,’ ” laughed Flanagan. “Let’s do it, it’ll be great for a laugh.”
Suddenly Gordon was sober. “Forget it, chief. No loaded cookies. And no Chinese. Just get some caterer to bring in steaks and potatoes, regular old American food. A tossed salad. And something for dessert, maybe from that place on Mulberry, what’s-its-name. Have them serve the food and leave. And a few bottles of liquor—Wild Turkey, Jameson’s, Sesti probably drinks Chivas. And some wine. As long as they’re paying for it, I might as well stock up.”
“Your wish is my command,” said Flanagan, looking at his watch. “I got to go home for some z’s. I got a late meeting uptown.”
“What’s uptown?” asked Gordon. “You taking night classes at Columbia? Criminology 101, maybe?”
“Naw,” said Flanagan. “I’m going to see an old friend, guy I went to high school with. You don’t know him.”
“OK,” said Gordon. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. And I’m counting on you to handle dinner.”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” said Flanagan. “Just leave it all to your consigliere.”
At five minutes after two in the morning, feeling rested from a long nap, Flanagan climbed out of a cab on the corner of 125th Street and Amsterdam. The ride cost him twenty dollars.
“I ain’t got cancer,” the elderly driver had said when Flanagan climbed into the cab near his building on Twenty-third and asked for the Harlem address.
“Glad to hear it,” said Flanagan. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I figure, someday I find out I got cancer, I drive up to niggertown at two in the morning, get it over with all at once,” said the cabbie. “But this ain’t the night.”
“I’ll give you a twenty and you can turn off the meter,” Flanagan said. The driver had shrugged wordlessly and headed north. When they reached his destination, Flanagan was barely out of the backseat before the cabbie skidded into a U-turn and headed back downtown.
Flanagan walked along 125th going west. The block was deserted, but he could hear loud music from several of the apartments. He stopped in front of a darkened barbershop and rang the bell three times. A moment later, he heard the latch unfasten, and he walked in, past the chairs to a door on the side wall. He knocked and a buzzer went off.
Flanagan pushed the door open, and walked into a long, narrow windowless room full of smoke and music and the smell of barbecue. Several dozen middle-aged people sat at card tables playing tonk. A few couples danced between the tables to Gladys Knight and the Pips’ “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” Along the side wall, a knot of men shot craps. In the rear, a group was gathered around a small bar, drinking and eating ribs from plastic plates. There was not a single white face in the room.
Flanagan’s appearance, in a dark blue raincoat and the Borsalino, had a freeze-frame effect. The crapshooters held their dice, the dancers came to a stop, and the people at the bar suspended their drinks in midair. The only sounds were from the jukebox and from the large fan attached to the corrugated iron ceiling that whirled overhead.
“What’s the matter, you never seen a mulatto before?” demanded Flanagan in a loud voice. Nobody laughed.
“Man, what the hell you doin’ in here?” said one of the cardplayers. “You don’t belong here.” An angry murmur arose from the gamblers.
Suddenly there was noise at the end of the room, near the bar. Flanagan saw a medium-sized brown man in a white chef’s cap emerge from the kitchen. He squinted through the smoke in the direction of the door. “John Flanagan like to do the Dixie Do, yes he do!” he said with a grin, and waved.
Flanagan felt the tension drain from the room. He walked over to the chef and shook his hand. “Hi, Morgan,”
he said. “Looks like your white clientele has fallen off.”
“Long as it ain’t my dick, John Flanagan,” he said. “Good to see you, young man, where you been at?”
“Here and there,” said Flanagan. “Boatnay around?”
“Be here in a minute,” said the chef. He reached for a bottle of Jameson’s and poured four fingers without being asked. “How ’bout something to eat?”
“What’s on the menu tonight, Morgan?”
“Red beans and rice soufflé, ribs à la Morgan or the special-tay of the house, our famous assortment of pork delicacies,” he said grandly.
“Downtown they call those chitlins, I believe,” said Flanagan.
“Yaas, indeed,” said Morgan. “Well, up here we pride ourselves on speaking the King’s English.”
“Yeah, B.B. King,” said Flanagan. “I’ll have some ribs but go easy on the Tabasco. I’m feeling a little queasy.”
“Well, you lookin’ good, my man. Look like Don Juan, Ali Kahn and Ponce Daily-on.”
Flanagan was halfway through the ribs when the door opened and Boatnay Threkeld walked in. As always, Flanagan was struck by the remarkable resemblance between Boatnay and Sonny Liston. There was one difference, though. The ex-heavyweight champ was dead; Boatnay was indestructible.
He took his time walking over to the bar, stopping at the tables to say a word to the cardplayers, winking at the dancing ladies. Finally he slid his bulk gracefully onto the barstool next to Flanagan. “Hey, John, what’s happening?” he said in a soft voice.
“Hi, Boatnay. Your old man looks great,” Flanagan said, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. “How come colored people never get old?”
“Laughing at white folks keeps you young,” he said. “What brings you up to Harlem in the middle of the night?”
