Blue Heaven (9 page)

Nine

C
laire arrived not twenty minutes later and the moment her ample form sailed through the door I felt hope kicking in like warm scotch on a cold night. Claire's one of those brisk, nanny-like women who have a way of immediately taking charge of any situation involving wayward children or adults behaving like same.

She asked for a cup of tea ("Real tea, please, not herbal. I'm sick of drinking warm meadows") and sipped it thoughtfully as I gave her the facts. To her credit, she didn't once interrupt me with any of the withering comments that must have occurred to her. She waited until I was through, then, fixing me a look of concern, said:

"Philip, be honest with me-are you on drugs?"

"No! I couldn't afford to be. Why?"

"Because I can't think of any other way someone could lose as many brain cells as you seem to have misplaced. How in heaven's name did you let yourself be talked into this demented scheme?"

"Well, it wasn't that demented to start out with. Gilbert just wanted someone to confide in."

"And someone to lie through his teeth to everyone you both know."

"Well, yes, that too."

"Including
me.
Don't think I appreciate that. I
asked
you what he was up to, getting married, and you vowed on your mother's grave-"

"I'm sorry! What should I have done?"

"You could have confided. You know I wouldn't have given it away."

She was right about that. Claire is the only person I know who can be relied upon to keep her mouth shut when asked to. Holly Batterman just loathes her.

"I'm sorry. I promised Gilbert."

"Please do yourself a favor and don't make promises to Gilbert. They just get you in trouble."

"Look, I know you've never liked Gilbert-"

"That's not true. I've always enjoyed his company. He's funny and very charming when he wants to be. He's also a complete idiot. I've never met anyone so determined to have tons of money and willing to do anything for it except work. One asinine scheme after another! And I've even enjoyed those-but from a distance. Which is how you should enjoy them, too."

"Are you through scolding me?"

"No. I doubt I ever will be."

"So, what should I do about this wedding?"

"I have no idea."

"You don't?"

"How could I? It all depends on things you don't know yet. Mainly the Cellinis. Are they mafiosi or aren't they? If they are, you're going to pull out immediately. I'm not suggesting, I'm commanding. You'll pull right out and from there on avoid Gilbert like the plague, because if you don't
I'll
go straight to Gilbert's mother and tell her everything."

"You wouldn't!"

"You know very well I would. I won't let you get yourself killed over a few thousand dollars."

"But what if they're harmless?"

"If they're harmless I don't see where I come into it. I'll recommend you get out of it because it's dishonest and not likely to work, and you'll ignore me as usual and go ahead and do it. Right?"

I conceded the point.

"But you wouldn't blow the whistle?"

"No. I only butt in when there are lives at stake."

"You really think it won't work?"

"I'm not saying it couldn't, but honestly! All those lies! It would take a genius just to keep track of them never mind keeping everyone believing them all. And
Moira.
Do you really trust her even for a minute?"

"Well, gee," I said weakly, my head spinning from this onslaught of realism. "We
are
all in it together."

"Philip, you idiot, she's defrauding her own mother, her stepfather,
her trust officer, her in-laws and her best friends. You think she draws the line at cheating you?"

"She's not paying me. My part comes out of Gilbert's share.
He'd
never cheat me."

"Yes, but who's to say Moira isn't planning to cheat
him?
Please, dear, for my sake, walk away. Even if they're not all Mafia. There's a very small chance you'll make some easy money and a very large chance you'll be terribly embarrassed, if not actually sued. If not actually killed."

"Claire, instead of telling me how rotten my chances are why don't you help me improve them?"

She arched her back slightly and pursed her lips as though she'd just spotted roaches in her silverware drawer.

"You know better than to ask me to participate in some silly hoax!"

"But I want my computer!" I whined. "Think how much faster we'd get a show written if I had a word processor!"

"Or a shred of discipline."

She had me there, of course, but I did my best to look surprised and injured and after a moment she sighed heavily and bent just a hair.

"Philip, to be honest, there's a part of me that would like nothing more than to see you pull this off. You've gone to bat for Gilbert dozens of times and never gotten a thing for your trouble. It's high time you did."

"Then help me out! You don't have to do anything. Just consult. I'll Jell you what's going on and you tell me what we're doing wrong-"

"Now, just stop it-"

"Claire, who's really getting swindled? Maddie and Tony are rich as shit. And as far as the money Moira gets from the duchess, it's the same money she'll get when her mother kicks off anyway!"

"Philip! These are rationalizations!"

"And damn fine ones, too! C'mon, Claire, I'm just asking for your opinions. You're the sharpest person I know. You're so good at figuring people out-how they'll behave in a situation, what they're really thinking when they say one thing and mean another."

I knew if there was any hope of enlisting her this was the way to do it. Claire, though she denies it hotly, is extremely vain about her
intellect, as well she should be. She's the only person I've ever met who can solve those maddening London
Times
crossword puzzles. You know, the ones where the clue is "hat for a princess?" and the correct answer is "carburetor." She can't resist a challenge. If she could be induced to view the situation not as an ethical but as an intellectual problem, the Byzantine complexities of which could only be solved by her awesome perspicacity, I'd be in business.

"Please! You said it would take a genius to keep everything straight, and I hate to bother you but you're the only genius I know."

"Oh, stop it. You're just trying to flatter me into it."

"There, see? You're so insightful!"

"You don't let up, do you?"

"Claire, you know I'm going to go ahead with it anyway. How will you feel if Moira does what you said she might? Pulls a fast one and walks away with all the money-just because you weren't hovering on the sidelines looking out for our best interests."

"Our best interests?"

"Of course," I added, modifying my tactic, "there's no saying you'd be able to outfox Moira, even if you did try. She's pretty sharp."

"I will not be goaded."

"Well, she's already fooled you once. At Marlowe's party. Even after we all had that jolly hour at Vanessa's she still had you cooing with sympathy over her shattered engagement. Boy," I lied, "she sure crowed about that!"

"Did she?" asked Claire through narrowed eyes.

I said nothing, but smiled and gave her a "Hey, happens to the best of us" shrug of sympathy which would, I hoped, infuriate her completely.

"Good Lord, what a bitch!" said Claire, thrilling me to the core, for it's an epithet to which she rarely resorts. It meant war in the offing.

"Gilbert's an utter fool to get mixed up with her and so are you."

"I know. But we
are.
That's why we need you."

"Well, let's get some things straight. First, if there's even the faintest whiff of the Mafia in any of this you're resigning immediately."

"Absolutely."

"And I'm not going to tell you how to swindle these people. I'll just keep an eye on Moira to make sure she's not swindling you."

"Right. Now, how do we figure out if the Cellinis are nice Italian businessmen or vicious murdering thugs?"

Claire frowned. "It will take some discreet sniffing around, I guess.
Very
discreet sniffing. We can check newspaper files, too. I don't suppose there's a chance I could meet Maddie? She sounds sweet but quite the blabbermouth. Might give me a clue or two."

I replied that she could meet them all. She could be my date at Maddie's Christmas bash on the twelfth. She frowned and said she'd have to rearrange some things as she'd planned to be out of town until the fourteenth. Claire works for a rising new greeting card concern and must occasionally descend on card stores about the land and persuade them that Hallmark has gone the way of the dinosaur.

"I didn't know you were going away."

"It's one of the things I've been trying to tell you for the last three days. I'll be gone two weeks, the first in Chicago, the second in Boston. Do you think you can stay out of trouble that long?"

I replied, too grateful to feign indignation, that yes, I could manage.

I resolved to entangle myself no further in syndicate business till Claire had passed judgment on the Cellinis. The next day I phoned Gilbert and told him Milt Miller had saddled me with an enormous research project and that for the next few weeks I was going to be busy learning all about Venice in the era of Casanova, with particular emphasis on those problems which might be encountered by a chaste servant girl who, condemned for a crime she never committed, must pose as a gondolier. He balked at the time lost from my syndicate chores but was assuaged by my assurance that the money earned would allow me to be unusually generous with his Christmas present.

He invited me to spend Thanksgiving with him and Moira at Casa Cellini. I declined, deciding at that very moment to take my sister, Joyce, up on her standing, if somewhat obligatory, offer to dine in New Rochelle with her and my brother-in-law, Dwight. Dwight's a very successful corporate investment broker and the country's leading example of acquisitiveness gone mad. He writes Hammacher Schlem-mer off as a dependent.

Claire and I spent a pleasant and productive few days polishing up the outline for our new show, which concerned a Candide-like innocent's voyage through the world of network programming. Then
on Turkey Day morning she set off for Chicago, Gilbert and Moira set off for Old Westbury and I slouched toward New Rochelle. My day went as drearily as expected. Between having to enthuse over the new electric cat door and listening to Dwight's concerned queries as to when I was going to wise up and get out of what he insists on calling "the songwriting game," I found myself feeling little of the gratitude appropriate to the day. I consoled myself with the thought that, having done my family duty, I could now pass on Christmas (which would, if past years were any indication, be an advertisement for Marxism).

Gilbert called the next day bursting with news.

"I've called you fifty times! Where have you been!"

"At the library," I lied.

"Almost done with your research?"

"I've hardly started. What's up?"

"Plenty," he said and dished up these developments.

The Duchess Conspiracy had gotten off to a smooth start. Moira had spoken to Mum and told her what a darling Maddie was and how helpful she'd be with a myriad of nuptial details. The duchess had immediately fired off a letter warmly thanking the Cellinis for the generosity they were displaying by "shouldering burdens" with which she herself was unable to cope.

The letter had reached Maddie on Wednesday and she showed it to Gilbert and Moira on Thanksgiving. Moira, realizing that her mother's expressions of gratitude were conveniently ambiguous, lied that she'd already told Mummy of her confession of the family's poverty and Maddie's subsequent offer to finance the wedding. Poor Mum, she said, had been crushed with embarrassment, but this letter proved how nobly she'd swallowed her pride and agreed to accept their generosity. And on Thanksgiving, too!

Tony, however, was less sanguine about the duchess's poignant capitulation to the famed Cellini munificence. True, he waxed magnanimous, repeatedly asserting that he thought of Gilbert as his own son. But when Moira casually wondered how many revelers the Plaza could accommodate, Gilbert couldn't help but notice a pensive look come over him. It was, Gilbert said, the look of a man beginning to feel that where ballrooms are concerned, blood is thicker than water.

This suspicion was borne out the next day when Maddie called

Gilbert to announce that Tony had had a wonderful idea. Why not have the wedding at Casa Cellini? It was large enough to accommodate the number of guests (estimated at 250), had a "sweet little ballroom" and a spectacularly equipped kitchen. Wouldn't that be nicer? More homey?

Gilbert fervently agreed with this suggestion, knowing that it was, so far as Tony was concerned, not a suggestion at all but an unconditional demand. But upon hanging up he woke Moira and as he brewed the coffee she sat with her trusty calculator bitterly assessing the damage to the syndicate's income. After all, the duchess could hardly be presented with a bill for the use of a private home. Moira wondered if Mummy would even agree to accept this kindness (for the duchess remained, of course, unaware of her crushing penury) but finally decided that Casa Cellini was impressive enough. Besides which it was hardly in the duke's nature to pass up a chance to save so hefty a sum.