by Mario Puzo
“I’ll give it a shot,” Losey said. “I’ll invite her in for a drink and if she comes, she’s asking for it.”
Dante was amused by Losey’s rationalization. “Everybody asks for it,” he said. “We ask for it.”
They went over the details, and then Dante went back to his apartment. He ran a bath; he wanted to use the expensive scents in the Villa. As he lay in the hot, perfumey water, his black, horselike Clericuzio hair soaped into a white, heavy topknot, he thought about what his fate would be. After he and Losey dumped the body of Cross into the desert, miles from Vegas, the toughest part of the operation would begin. He would have to convince his grandfather that he was innocent. If worse came to worst, he could confess to Pippi’s death also, and his grandfather would forgive him. The Don had always showed him a special love.
Also, now, Dante was the Family Hammer. He would apply for appointment as Bruglione of the West and the overlordship of the Xanadu Hotel. Giorgio would oppose him, but Vincent and Petie would be neutral. They were content to live on their legal enterprises. And the old man could not live forever, Giorgio was a white-collar guy. There would come a time when the warmaker would become the emperor. He would not retreat into society. He would lead the Family back to its glory. He would never give up the power over life and death.
Dante left the bath and showered to get all the soap out of his ropy hair. He anointed his body with the colognes from their fancy bottles, sculpted his hair from delicate tubes of aromatic gels, reading the directions carefully. Then he went to the suitcase that held his Renaissance hats and chose one encrusted with precious jewels that had the shape of a custard. Its threads were gold and purple. Lying there it looked ridiculous, but when he put it on his head, Dante was enchanted. It made him look like a prince. Especially the row of studded green gems sewed along the front. This was how Athena would see him tonight, or failing that, Tiffany. But the two could wait if necessary.
As he finished dressing, Dante thought of what his life would come to be. He would live in a Villa, as luxurious as any palace. He would have an inexhaustible supply of beautiful women, a self-supporting harem dancing and singing in the Xanadu Hotel showroom. He could eat in six different restaurants with six different national cuisines. He could order the death of an enemy, reward a friend. He would be as close to being a Roman emperor as modern times allowed. Only Cross stood in the way.
Jim Losey, finally alone in his apartment, was contemplating the course his life had taken. He had been, for the first half of his career, a great cop, a true knight defending his society. He’d had an intense hatred for all criminals, especially blacks. And then gradually he had changed. He resented the charges in the media that cops were brutal. The very society he was defending from scum was attacking him. His superiors, with their gold-braided uniforms, sided with the politicians who talked shit to the people. All that bullshit about how you couldn’t hate blacks. What was so bad about that? They committed most of the crimes. And wasn’t he a free American who could hate whoever he wanted to hate? They were the cockroaches who would eat away all civilization. They didn’t want to work, they didn’t want to study, burning the midnight oil was a joke to them unless it meant shooting basketball under the light of the moon. They mugged unarmed citizens, they turned their women into whores, and they had an intolerable disrespect for the law and its enforcers. It was his job to protect the rich from the malice of the poor. And his own desire was to become rich. He wanted the clothing, the cars, the food, the drink, and above all, the women the rich could afford. And surely that was American.
It had started with bribes to protect the gambling, then some frame-ups of drug dealers to make them pay protection. He had been proud of his “hero cop” status, the recognition he received for the courage he had shown, but there was no monetary reward. He was still buying cheap clothes, he still had to be very careful with his money to make his paycheck stretch out. And he, who guarded the rich against the poor, received no reward, indeed was one of the poor. But the final straw was that in public esteem he was lower than the criminal. Some of his friends, law enforcers, had been prosecuted and sent to jail for doing their duty. Or fired from their jobs. Rapists, burglars, lethal muggers, armed robbers in broad daylight, had more rights than cops.
Over the years, Losey sold himself his story in his head. The press and TV reviled law enforcers. The fucking Miranda rights, the fucking ACLU; let those fucking lawyers do patrol for six months, they’d grow a lynching tree.
After all, he used the tricks, the beatings, and the threats to get some scumbag to confess his crime and to put him away from society. But Losey could not sell himself completely, he was too good a cop. He could not sell himself on having become a murderer.
Forget all that; he would be rich. He would fling his badge and his bravery citations into the face of the government and the public. He would be security chief for the Xanadu Hotel at ten times the salary, and from this Paradise in the desert, he would watch with pleasure as Los Angeles crumbled under the assault of criminals he would no longer fight. Tonight he would see the movie Messalina and go to the wrap party. And maybe get a shot at Athena. Here his mind cringed, even as he felt his body ache with the thought of exercising such sexual power. At the party, he’d pitch a feature film to Skippy based on his career, the greatest hero cop in the LAPD. Dante had told him that Cross wanted to invest, which was really funny. Why kill off a guy who would invest in his movie? That was simple. Because he knew Dante would kill him if he backed out. And Losey, tough as he was, knew he could not kill Dante. He knew the Clericuzio too well.
For a flash he thought of Marlowe, a good nigger, really sweet, always so cheerful and cooperative. He had always liked Marlowe, and his murder was the one thing he felt sorry about.
Jim Losey still had hours to wait before the screening and the party. He could go gamble in the main casino, but gambling was a mug’s game. He decided against it. He had a big night ahead. First the movie and the party, then at three in the morning he would have to help Dante kill Cross De Lena and bury him in the desert.
Bobby Bantz invited the above-the-line principals of Messalina to his Villa for celebratory drinks at five that evening: Athena, Dita Tommey, Skippy Deere, and as a courtesy, Cross De Lena. Only Cross declined, claiming pressure of duties at the Hotel on this special night.
Bantz had brought his latest “conquest,” a seemingly fresh young girl named Johanna, discovered by a talent scout in a small town in Oregon. She was signed to a five-hundred-dollar-a-week contract for two years. Beautiful but completely untalented, she gave off such a virginal air that the innocence was a separate attraction. And yet with a shrewdness beyond her years, she had refused to sleep with Bobby Bantz until he promised to bring her to Vegas for the showing of Messalina.
Skippy Deere, with an adjoining apartment in Bantz’s Villa, chose to be a squatter in Bantz’s place, and so prevented Bantz from getting in a quick screw with Johanna, which made Bantz irritable. Skippy was pitching an idea for a feature film that he really was crazy about. Being crazy for a property was a legitimate part of a producer’s job.
Deere was telling Bantz about Jim Losey, the greatest hero cop in the LAPD, a big, handsome son of a bitch, who might even be able to play the title role himself, since it would be a story about his life. One of those great “true” life stories where you could invent anything bizarre.
Deere and Bantz both knew that Losey playing himself was a fantasy, invented to con Losey so that he would sell his story cheap, and also for public hype.
Skippy Deere outlined the story with great enthusiasm. Nobody could sell a nonexistent property better. In a moment of pure exhilaration, he picked up the phone and, before Bantz could protest, invited the detective to the five P.M. cocktail party. Losey asked if he could bring a friend, and Deere assured him he could, assuming it was a girlfriend. Skippy Deere, as a producer of films, liked to mix different worlds together. You never knew what miracle might emerge.
> Cross De Lena and Lia Vazzi were in the Xanadu penthouse suite reviewing the details of what they would do that night.
“I have all the men in place,” Lia said. “I control the Villa compound. None of them know what you and I will do, they will have no part in that. But I have word that Dante has a crew from the Enclave digging your grave in the desert. We have to be careful tonight.”
“After tonight is what I worry about,” Cross said. “Then we have Don Clericuzio to deal with. Do you think he’ll buy the story?”
“Not really,” Lia said. “But that is our only hope.”
Cross shrugged. “I have no choice. Dante killed my father and so now he has to kill me.” He paused for a moment and then said, “I hope the Don was not on his side from the beginning. Then we have no chance.”
Lia said cautiously, “We could abort everything and lay our troubles in front of the Don. Let him decide and act.”
“No,” Cross said. “He can’t decide against his grandson.”
“You’re right, of course,” Lia said. “But still, the Don has gone a little soft. He let those Hollywood people cheat you, and that in his youth he would never have allowed. Not the money, the disrespect.”
Cross poured more brandy into Lia’s glass and lit his cigar. He did not tell him about David Redfellow. “How do you like your room?” he said jokingly.
Lia puffed on his cigar. “What nonsense. So beautiful. To what purpose? Why does anyone have to live like that? It is too much. It takes away your strength. It arouses envy. It’s not clever to insult the poor like that. Why then would they not want to kill you? My father was a rich man in Sicily but never did he live in luxury.”
“You don’t understand America, Lia,” Cross said. “Every poor man who sees the inside of that Villa rejoices. Because he knows in his heart someday he will live in just such a place.”
At that moment the private phone in the penthouse rang. Cross picked it up. His heart gave a little jump. It was Athena.
“Can we meet before the movie shows?” she asked.
“Only if you come to my suite,” Cross said. “I really can’t leave here.”
“How gallant,” Athena said coolly. “Then we can meet after the wrap party, I’ll leave early and you can come to my Villa.”
“I really can’t,” Cross said.
“I’m leaving in the morning for L.A.,” Athena said. “Then the day after, I fly to France. We won’t meet in private until you come there . . . if you come.”
Cross looked at Lia, who shook his head and frowned. So Cross said to Athena, “Can you come to me here, now? Please?”
He waited for a long time before she said, “Yes, give me an hour.”
“I’ll send a car and security for you,” Cross said. “They’ll be waiting outside your Villa.” He hung up the phone and said to Lia, “We have to watch out for her. Dante is crazy enough to do anything.”
The cocktail party in Bantz’s Villa was graced by beauty.
Melo Stuart brought a young actress with a great stage reputation that he and Skippy Deere planned to cast as the female lead in the Jim Losey Story. She had a strong Egyptian beauty, bold features, an imperious manner. Bantz had his new find, Johanna, last name not decided, the innocent virgin. Athena, who had never looked so radiant, was surrounded by her friends: Claudia, Dita Tommey, and Molly Flanders. Athena was unusually quiet, but still Johanna and the stage actress, Liza Wrongate, looked at her almost in awe and envy. Both came to Athena, the Queen they hoped to replace.
Claudia asked Bobby Bantz, “Didn’t you invite my brother?”
“Sure,” Bantz said. “He was too busy.”
“Thanks for giving Ernest’s family his points,” Claudia said, grinning.
“Molly robbed me,” Bantz said. He had always liked Claudia, maybe because Marrion had liked her, so he didn’t mind her kidding. “She held a cannon to my head.”
“But you could have made it tough,” Claudia said. “Marrion would approve.”
Bantz stared at her blankly. He felt suddenly tearful. Never would he be the man Marrion had been. And he missed him.
Meanwhile Skippy Deere had cornered Johanna and was telling her about his new film, which had a great cameo of an innocent young girl grossly raped and killed by a drug dealer. “You look perfect for the part. You don’t have much experience but if I can get it past Bobby, you can come and test.” He paused for a moment and then said in a warm, confidential manner, “I think you should change your name. Johanna is too square for your career.” Implying the stardom that lay ahead.
He noted how her face flushed; really it was touching how young girls believed in their beauty, desired to be stars, as passionately as Renaissance girls wanted to be saints. When Ernest Vail’s cynical smile appeared before him, Deere thought: Laugh as much as you like, still it was a spiritual desire. In both instances it would lead more often to martyrdom than glory, but that was part of the deal.
Johanna went off predictably to talk to Bantz. Deere joined Melo Stuart and his new girlfriend, Liza. Though she was talented on stage, Skippy had doubts about her future on the movie screen. The camera was too cruel for her kind of beauty. And her intelligence would make her unfit for many roles. But Melo had insisted she be the female lead in the Losey picture, and there were times when Melo could not be denied. And the female lead was just a bullshit, carry-the-water-bag part.
Deere kissed Liza on both cheeks. “I saw you in New York,” he said. “Marvelous performance.” He paused for a moment and said, “I hope you’ll take the part in my new movie. Melo thinks it will be your breakthrough on film.”
Liza gave him a cold smile. “I have to see the script,” she said. Deere felt that flash of resentment he always felt. She was getting the break of her life and she wanted to see a fucking script. He could see Melo smiling with amusement.
“Of course,” Deere said. “But believe me I would not send you a script that was not worthy of your talent.”
Melo, never as ardent a lover as he was a businessman, said, “Liza, we can guarantee you the leading female role in an A feature. The script is not a sacred text as in the theater. It can be changed to please you.”
Liza gave him a slightly warmer smile. She said, “You believe that crap too? Stage plays are rewritten. What do you think we do when we try them out of town?”
Before they could answer, Jim Losey and Dante Clericuzio entered the apartment. Deere rushed over to greet them and introduce them to the others at the party.
Losey and Dante were an almost comical pair. Losey, tall, handsome, impeccably tailored—full shirt and tie, despite the intense July heat of Vegas. And Dante beside him, his hugely muscled body bulging out of a T-shirt, his brightly jeweled Renaissance cap crowning his black ropy hair, and so short. All the others in the room, experts in make-believe worlds, knew these two were not make-believe, despite their weirdness. Their faces were too blank and cold. That could not be duplicated with shadows.
Losey immediately addressed Athena and told her how he looked forward to seeing her in Messalina. He abandoned his intimidating style and was almost fawning. Women had always found him charming, could Athena be an exception?
Dante helped himself to a drink and sat on the sofa. No one came near him except Claudia. They had not seen each other more than three times over the years, all they had in common were childhood memories. Claudia kissed him on the cheek. When they were children he had tormented her, but she always remembered him with a certain fondness.
Dante reached up to give her a hug. “Cugina, you look beautiful. If you looked like that when we were kids I would never have beaten you up so much.”
Claudia plucked his Renaissance hat from his head. “Cross told me about your hats. They make you look cute.” She put the hat on her head. “Even the Pope doesn’t have a hat this cute.”
“And he has a lot of hats,” Dante said. “Now who would have thought you’d become such a big wheel in the movie business.”
&nbs
p; “What do you do these days?” Claudia asked.
“I run a meat company,” Dante said. “We supply the hotels.” He smiled, then asked, “Listen, could you introduce me to your beautiful star?”
Claudia brought him over to Athena, who was still cornered by Jim Losey putting on his charm. Athena smiled at Dante’s Renaissance hat. Dante made himself look disarmingly comical.
Losey continued on with his flattery. “I know your movie will be great,” he told her. “After the wrap party maybe you’ll let me be your bodyguard back to the Villa, then we can have a drink together.” He was playing the good cop role.
Athena was at her best refusing an advance. She smiled at him sweetly. “I’d love to,” she said. “But I’m only going to stay a half hour at the party and I wouldn’t want you to miss it. I have to catch an early plane tomorrow, then I fly to France. I simply have too many things to do.”
Dante was admiring her. He could see she loathed Losey and that she was afraid of him. But she had made Losey think he could somehow have a shot at her.
“I can fly with you to L.A.,” Losey said. “What time is your flight?”
“You are nice,” Athena said. “But it’s a small private charter and all the seats are full.”
When she was safely back in her Villa, she called Cross and told him that she was on her way over.
The first thing Athena was aware of was the security. There were guards on the elevator to the penthouse suite of the Xanadu Hotel. There was a special key to unlock the elevator. The elevator itself had security cameras in the ceiling, and its doors opened up into an anteroom that held five men. One was at the elevator door to greet her. Another man was at the lone desk that held a bank of TV screens, and there were two other men playing cards in the corner of the room. Another was seated at the sofa reading Sports Illustrated.
