by Mario Puzo
“Maybe she knows about my relationship with her mother,” Cross said.
“She doesn’t care about her mother,” the doctor said. “Forgive me, madame, that is one of the things you must accept—nor her mother’s beauty or her fame. They literally do not exist for her. It is you who she extends herself to. Think. Perhaps an innocent tenderness, something inadvertent.”
Cross looked at him coolly. “If I did it I would tell you. If that would help her.”
“Do you feel tenderness for this girl?” the doctor asked.
Cross considered for a moment. “Yes,” he said.
Dr. Gerard leaned back and clasped his hands. “I believe you,” he said. “And that gives me great hope. If she can respond to you, she may be helped to respond to others. She may tolerate her mother someday and that will be enough for you, am I right, madame?”
“Oh, Cross,” Athena said. “I hope you’re not angry.”
“It’s OK, really,” Cross said.
Dr. Gerard looked at him carefully. “You are not offended?” he said. “Most men would be extremely upset. One patient’s father actually struck me. But you are not angry. Tell me why.”
He could not explain to this man, or even to Athena, how the sight of Bethany in her hugging machine affected him. How it reminded him of Tiffany and all the showgirls he had made love to who had left him feeling empty. How his relationships with all the Clericuzio and even with his father left him with feelings of isolation and despair. And finally how all the victims he had left behind seemed the victims of some ghostly world that became real only in his dreams.
Cross looked the doctor directly in the eye. “Maybe because I’m autistic too,” he said. “Or maybe because I have worse crimes to hide.”
The doctor leaned back and said in a satisfied voice, “Ah.” He paused and smiled for the first time. “Would you like to come in for some tests?” They both laughed.
“Now, madame,” Dr. Gerard said. “I understand you catch a plane back to America tomorrow morning. Why not leave your daughter with me now. My nurses are very good, and I can assure you the girl will not miss you.”
“But I’ll miss her,” Athena said. “Could I keep her tonight and bring her back tomorrow morning? We have a chartered plane so I can leave when I like.”
“Certainly,” the doctor said. “Bring her here in the morning. I will have my nurses escort her down to Nice. You have the phone number of the Institute and you can call me as often as you like.”
They got up to go. Athena impetuously kissed the doctor on the cheek. The doctor flushed, he was not insensible to her beauty and fame, despite his ogreish appearance.
Athena, Bethany, and Cross spent the rest of the day strolling the streets of Paris. Athena bought new clothes for Bethany, a full wardrobe. She bought painting supplies and a huge suitcase to hold all the new things. They sent everything to the hotel.
They had dinner in a restaurant on the Champs Elysées. Bethany ate greedily, especially the pastries. She had not spoken a word all day or responded to any of Athena’s gestures of affection.
Cross had never seen such a show of love as that Athena showed Bethany. Except when as a child he saw his own mother, Nalene, brushing Claudia’s hair.
During dinner Athena held Bethany’s hand, brushed the crumbs off her face, and explained that she would return to France in a month to stay with her at the school for the next five years.
Bethany paid no attention.
Athena was enthusiastic when she told Bethany how they could learn French together, go to museums together and see all the great paintings, and how Bethany could spend as much time as she wanted on her own paintings. She described how they would travel all over Europe, to Spain, to Italy, to Germany.
Then Bethany spoke the first words of the day. “I want my machine.”
As always Cross was stricken by a sense of holiness. The beautiful girl was like a copy of a great portrait painting but without the soul of the artist, as if her body had been left empty for God.
It was after dark when they walked back to their hotel. Bethany was between them, and they swung her hands so that she lifted up in the air, and for once she allowed it, in fact seemed to delight in it so much that they continued past the hotel.
It was at this moment that Cross had the precise feeling of happiness he had had at the picnic. And it consisted of nothing more than the three of them linked together, holding hands. He was filled with wonder and horror at his sentimentality.
Finally they returned to the hotel. After Athena had helped Bethany to bed, she came into the sitting room of the suite, where Cross was waiting for her. They sat side by side on the lavender sofa holding hands.
“Lovers in Paris,” Athena said, smiling at him. “And we never got to sleep together in a French bed.”
“Are you worried about leaving Bethany here?” Cross asked.
“No,” Athena said. “She won’t miss us.”
“Five years,” Cross said, “is a long time. And you’re willing to give up five years and your profession?”
Athena got up from the sofa and walked up and down the room. She spoke passionately. “I glory in being able to do without acting. When I was a kid I dreamed of being a great heroine, Marie Antoinette going to the guillotine, Joan of Arc burning at the stake, Marie Curie saving mankind from some great disease. And of course, also giving up everything for the love of a great man, most ridiculous of all. I dreamed of living a heroic life and knew I’d surely go to Heaven. That I would be pure in mind and body. I detested the idea of doing anything that would compromise me, especially for money. I was determined that under no circumstance would I ever harm another human being. Everyone would love me, including myself. I knew I was smart, everyone told me I was beautiful, and I proved to be not only competent but talented.
“So what did I do? I fell in love with Boz Skannet. I slept with men not out of desire but to further my career. I gave life to a human being who may never love me or anyone. Then I very cleverly maneuver or request the murder of my husband. Not so subtly I ask, Who will murder this husband of mine who is such a threat to me now.” She pressed his hand. “And for this I thank you.”
Cross said to reassure her, “You didn’t do any of those things. It was just your destiny, as we say in my family. As for Skannet, he was a stone in your shoe, another family saying, so why shouldn’t you get rid of him?”
Athena kissed him briefly on the lips. “Now I have,” she said. “My knight errant. The only trouble is you don’t stop at killing dragons.”
“After five years, if the doctor says she can’t improve, then what?” Cross asked.
“I don’t care what anyone says,” Athena said. “There’s always hope. I’ll be with her the rest of my life.”
“And you won’t miss your work?” he asked.
“Of course I’ll miss it, and I’ll miss you,” Athena said. “But finally I’ll do what I believe is right, not just be a heroine in a movie.” Her voice was amused. Then she said with a flat tone, “I want her to love me, that’s all I want.”
They kissed each other good night and went into their separate bedrooms.
The next morning they took Bethany to the doctor’s office. Athena had a difficult time saying good-bye to her daughter. She hugged the girl and wept, but Bethany would have none of it. She pushed her mother away and got ready to repulse Cross, but he did not move to embrace her.
Cross was momentarily angry with Athena for being so helpless with her daughter. The doctor, observing this, said to Athena, “When you return, you will need a great deal of training to cope with this child.”
“I’ll be back as quickly as I can,” Athena said.
“You needn’t hurry,” the doctor said. “She lives in a world where time does not exist.”
On the plane back to L.A., Cross and Athena agreed that he would go on to Vegas and not accompany Athena to Malibu. There had only been one terrible moment on the whole trip. For a full half hour At
hena had doubled over in her grief, wordlessly crying. Then she became calm.
When they parted Athena said to Cross, “I’m sorry we never got to make love in Paris.” But he understood she was being kind. That at this particular time, she was repulsed by the thought of them making love. That like her daughter, she was now separated from the world.
Cross was met at the airport by a big limo driven by a soldier from the Hunting Lodge. Lia Vazzi was in the back. Lia closed the glass partition so that the driver couldn’t hear their conversation.
“Detective Losey was up to see me again,” he said. “The next time he comes will be his last.”
“Be patient,” Cross said.
“I know the signs, trust me on this,” Lia said. “Something else. A crew from the Bronx Enclave has moved into place in Los Angeles, I don’t know by whose orders. I would say you need bodyguards.”
“Not yet,” Cross said. “You have your six-man crew together?”
“Yes,” Lia said. “But they are men who will not act directly against the Clericuzio.”
When they got to the Xanadu, Cross found a memo from Andrew Pollard, a complete file on Jim Losey, that made for interesting reading. And a piece of information that could be acted on immediately.
Cross drew a hundred grand from the casino cage, all in C notes. He told Lia they were going to L.A. Lia would be his driver and he wanted no one else with them. He showed him Pollard’s memo. They flew to L.A. the next day and rented a car to drive to Santa Monica.
Phil Sharkey was mowing the lawn in front of his house. Cross got out of the car with Lia and identified himself as a friend of Pollard’s who was in need of information. Lia carefully studied Sharkey’s face. Then he went back to the car.
Phil Sharkey was not as impressive-looking as Jim Losey, but he looked tough enough. He also looked as if his years of police work had burned out his confidence in his fellow human beings. He had that alert suspiciousness, that seriousness of manner, that the best cops have. But he was obviously not a happy man.
Sharkey ushered Cross into his house, which was really a bungalow, the insides dreary and worn; it had the forlorn look of a womanless and childless dwelling. The first thing Sharkey did was call Pollard and confirm the identity of his visitor. Then without offering any courtesy, a seat, or a drink, he said to Cross, “Go ahead, ask.”
Cross opened his briefcase and took out a packet of hundreds. “There’s ten grand,” he said. “That’s just for letting me talk. But it will take a little time. How about a beer and a place to sit?”
Sharkey’s face broke into a grin. It was curiously affable, the good cop in the partnership, Cross thought.
Sharkey shoved the money casually into his trouser pocket. “I like you,” Sharkey said. “You’re smart. You know it’s money that talks, not bullshit.”
They sat at a little round table on the back porch of the bungalow, which overlooked Ocean Avenue to the sandy beach and water beyond, as they drank their beers out of the bottle. Sharkey patted his pocket to make sure the money was still there.
Cross said, “If I hear the right answers, there’s another twenty grand for you right after. Then, if you keep your mouth shut about me being here, I’ll come around to see you in two months with another fifty grand.”
Sharkey gave his grin, but now there was a hint of mischief in it. “In two months you won’t care who I tell, is that it?”
“Yes,” Cross said.
Sharkey was serious now. “I’m not telling you anything that gets anybody indicted.”
“Hey, then you don’t know who I really am,” Cross said. “Maybe you better call Pollard again.”
Sharkey said curtly, “I know who you are. Jim Losey told me I should always treat you right. All the way.” And then he put on his sympathetic listening style that was part of his profession.
Cross said, “You and Jim Losey were partners for the last ten years and you were both making good money on the side. And then you retired. I’d like to know why.”
“So, it’s Jim you’re after,” Sharkey said. “That’s very dangerous. He was the bravest and the smartest cop I ever knew.”
“How about honest?” Cross asked.
“We were cops, and in Los Angeles,” Sharkey said. “Do you know what the fuck that means? If we do our real job and kick the shit out of the spics and blacks, we could get indicted and lose our jobs. The only ones we could arrest without getting into trouble were the white schmucks who had money. Look, I got no prejudice, but why should I throw white guys in jail when I can’t throw the other kind in jail? That’s not right.”
“But I understand Jim got a chest full of medals,” Cross said. “You got some too.”
Sharkey gave him a dismissive shrug. “You can’t help being a hero cop in this town if you have just a little bit of balls. A lot of those guys didn’t know they could do business if they talked nice. And some of them were out-and-out killers. So we had to defend ourselves and we got some medals. Believe me, we never looked for a fight.”
Cross was doubting everything Sharkey was saying. Jim Losey was a natural-born strong-arm guy despite his fancy clothes.
“Were you two partners in everything?” Cross asked. “Did you know everything that was going on?”
Sharkey laughed. “Jim Losey? He was the boss always. Sometimes I didn’t even know exactly what we were doing. I didn’t even know how much we were getting paid. Jim handled all that and he gave me what he said was my fair share.” He paused a moment. “He had his own rules.”
“So how did you make money?” Cross asked.
“We were on the pad for some of the big gambling syndicates,” Sharkey said. “Sometimes a payoff for the drug guys. There was a time when Jim Losey wouldn’t take drug money but then every cop in the world started taking it, so we did.”
“Did you and Losey ever use a black kid named Marlowe to finger big shot drug dealers?” Cross asked.
“Sure,” Sharkey said. “Marlowe. A nice kid scared of his own shadow. We used him all the time.”
Cross said, “So when you heard Losey shot him running away from a mug-murder, you were surprised?” Cross asked.
“Hell, no,” Sharkey said. “Druggies graduate. But they are so fucked up, they always botch it. And Jim, in that situation, never gives the warning we’re taught to give. He just shoots.”
“But wasn’t it a strange coincidence,” Cross said, “their paths crossing like that?”
For the first time Sharkey’s face seemed to lose its toughness, grow sad. “It’s fishy,” he said. “The whole thing is fishy. But now I guess I have to give you something. Jim Losey was brave, women loved him and men held him in high regard. I was his partner and I felt the same way. But the truth is he was always a fishy guy.”
“So it could have been some sort of setup,” Cross said.
“No, no,” Sharkey said. “You have to understand. The job makes you take graft. But it doesn’t make you a hit man. Jim Losey would never do that. I’ll never believe that.”
“So why did you take your retirement after that?” Cross asked.
“It was just that Jim was getting me nervous,” Sharkey said.
“I met Losey out at Malibu not long ago,” Cross said. “He was alone. Does he often operate without you?”
Now Sharkey gave his grin again. “Sometimes,” he said. “That particular time he went to take a shot at the actress. You’d be surprised how often he made a score with big stars in that business. Sometimes he had lunches with people and he didn’t want me around.”
“One other thing,” Cross said. “Was Jim Losey a racist? Did he hate blacks?”
Sharkey gave him a look of amused astonishment. “Of course he did. You’re one of those bullshit liberals, right? You think that’s terrible? Just go out and put a year in on the job. You’ll vote to put them all in the zoo.”
“I have another question,” Cross said. “You ever see him with a short guy wearing a funny hat?”
“An
Italian guy,” Sharkey said. “We had lunch and then Jim told me to get lost. Spooky guy.”
Cross reached into his briefcase and took out another two packets of money. “Here’s twenty grand,” he said. “And remember, you keep your mouth shut and you get another fifty grand. OK?”
“I know who you are,” Sharkey said.
“Sure you do,” Cross said. “I instructed Pollard to tell you who I am.”
“I know who you really are,” Sharkey said with his infectious grin. “That’s why I don’t take your whole briefcase right now. And why I’ll keep quiet for two months. Between you and Losey, I don’t know who’ll kill me faster.”
Cross De Lena realized he had enormous problems. He knew Jim Losey was on the Clericuzio Family “pad.” That he received fifty thousand a year as a salary, and bonuses for special jobs, but none of these had included murder. It was enough for Cross to make a final judgment. Dante and Losey had killed his father. It was an easy judgment for him to make, he was not bound by the legal laws of evidence. And his whole training with the Clericuzio helped him make the verdict of guilty. He knew his father’s competence and character. No mugger could get close to him. He also knew Dante’s character and competence and Dante’s dislike for his father.
The big question was this: Had Dante acted on his own or had the Don commanded the killing? But the Clericuzio had no reason; his father had been loyal for over forty years and an important factor in the Family ascension. He had been the great general in the war against the Santadio. And Cross wondered, not for the first time, why no one had ever told him the details of that war, not his father, not Gronevelt, not Giorgio or Petie or Vincent.
The more he thought about it, the more Cross was sure of one thing: The Don had no hand in the killing of his father. Don Domenico was a very conservative man of business. He rewarded loyal service, he did not punish it. He was extremely fair-minded, to the point of cruelty. But the clinching argument was this: He would never have let Cross live if he had killed Pippi. That was the proof of the Don’s innocence.
