Blue Heaven (19 page)

Seventeen

T
he worst of it, of course, was that it left us powerless to try to reach the duchess again. Any attempt would be blocked by Murche-son and communicated to Moira who would then turn up the heat on Gunther and Vulpina. And, with the temperature already just shy of combustion, this was not to be desired. Only by abandoning all efforts at contact could we convince Moira that her anonymous warnings had served, their purpose and could be abandoned without loss of face.

As for the nature of these warnings, this had yet to be decided. Moira said only that they should be as grisly as possible but it was, after all, still the holiday season. January would be soon enough to get down to work.

Claire was furious. The thought that Moira could, without even realizing it, foil two consecutive plans and force her to be a silent but consenting party to a terror campaign against two relatively innocent people was more than Claire's pride could bear. Her determination to stop the Moira machine grew daily but she didn't have the first idea how to do it.

Another dreadful side effect of Murcheson's interception of the letter was that the copy we'd kept to prove we'd tried to stop the swindle was now worthless. How could we prove the original had even been sent? Moira and Murcheson would deny having seen it and it would once again be our word against hers. And what chance did the truth stand against Moira?

To further brighten the picture, the Aggie dilemma, which I'd resolved not even to think about till January, reared its head three days early. Any doubt as to whether her retainer came with strings attached was removed when she called to invite Claire and me to "a
little New Year's Eve orgy." Her silkily commanding tone reminded me of Catherine de' Medici inviting a favorite jester to some court shindig. She casually mentioned having an "adorable baby grand" if we "felt like singing" in much the same way Kate might have said, "Oh, and Foole, dear, you
must
bring that pig's bladder you're always doing such amusing things with."

Claire wasn't thrilled.

"What right have you got to go accepting invitations on my behalf?"

"We're engaged, remember? Besides, you've got to be there to protect me. 1 think she wants my body."

"Keep it up and so will half a dozen organ banks."

The night of the thirty-first I donned my threadbare best and like a good little Mafia lapdog squired my date to Park Avenue and Seventieth. The crowd was a mix of Bombelli clan members and other moneyed Manhattanites-ad men, brokers, a hefty gaggle of lawyers and, for seasoning, two artists, a short-story writer and that most ethereal of beings, the avant-garde choreographer. We didn't see Aggie upon arrival but she soon smelled us out and swooped down for welcoming kisses.

"Thank God a few
amusing
people are here! Philip, what a stuffy crew I've managed to assemble! All very successful and sweet. But so dreary!"

"Yes," I said, gazing around. "They look like Friends of Thirteen."

"Exactly! But what can I do? They're too damn rich to snub!"

A waiter approached with a platter of upscale munchies.

"Goodness," said Claire, "what's all this?"

"Sauteed baby eggplants with an apricot glaze, and baby zucchini stuffed with young lamb."

"Who's catering? Gerber?"

"Hah!
Oh! Gotta run! Fifty million just walked in with a new wife."

She assured us we would not be
too
bored if we confined our conversation to the short-story writer and Demo Glish, the choreographer.

To this last fellow I took an immediate dislike. He was standing languorously in the center of Aggie's white and gray penthouse wearing a ponytail and electric blue pajamas, and feeling miffed at how many of those present failed to recognize him from the cover of last July's
DahceMagazine.

"Exotic creature!" said Claire.

"And
very
big this year. He choreographed that antinudeur ballet at BAM, the one where no one moved."

"Oh, dear! If I'd been there I'd have moved soon enough."

"I was, and couldn't. My date refused to budge for fear of being thought 'unreceptive.' "

We watched Moira approach this lethargic genius and declare herself a big fan. Moira's such a celebrity worshipper that if Richard Speck had been in the room she'd have walked right up and said, "I'm sorry, you don't know me but I
loved
your killing spree. And all nurses! How
did
you think of it?"

She caught our eye and waved us over. We steeled ourselves and joined them.

"Philip and Claire! I want you to meet Demo Glish. He choreographed
Shards
at BAM!"

"Yes, I saw it."

"Really?" said Demo, brightening. "Opinions?"

"I'm sorry, but I didn't much enjoy it."

Demo's lips puckered with amusement.

"I should hope not. I never set out to make global suicide 'enjoyable.' "

"Well
said!" gushed Moira. I wanted to strangle them both.

But with rage came inspiration. If Aggie was some great admirer of this twit, mightn't I nimbly disingratiate myself from her by raking him over the coals? With any luck she might fire me before I began work!

"Ah. You set out to be '
un
enjoyable'? How nice to have such realistic ambitions."

Aggie, who'd been standing a yard away, joined us. Here was my chance.

"I think," purred Demo, "that your problem is preconditioned expectations. You expected something safe and accessible and I gave you a disturbing glimpse of what our world will be after the apocalypse."

"If that's truly the case, Dummo, I suggest you tour Russia with it. If you can really convince the Soviets that a postnuclear future will consist exclusively of bad dance at inflated prices the arms race will end overnight."

I turned and strode briskly away. Reaching the bar I ordered a
double Chivas, feeling immensely pleased with myself for having gotten my best shot in while she was there to hear it. Surely so blatant a display of tactlessness would give her second thoughts about my suitability for the job. She would seek me out later and inform me in frosty tones that- -

"You
darling
man!"

"Oh, Aggie! Listen, I'm sorry about-"

"Please! I've been dying to hear someone put that twit in his place all year! He used to be fun but he's gotten so
full
of himself! That crack about the Russians! Priceless! I'm going to tell
ev
erybody!"

At one a.m. Aggie got around to asking Claire and me to perform. I was so exhausted from trying to live up to the waggish reputation Aggie had bestowed on me that I leapt at the chance to abandon spontaneity in favor of more rehearsed jests. Gilbert joined us on a few numbers as did Moira who, entirely to our surprise, had memorized all our songs. Claire, at my instigation, finished up with a little something from our show in progress. The song, "Cold Comfort," was the lament of a powerful woman who can pay for whatever she desires. And usually has to.

I've sable-filled closets, all larger than Saks,

In mansions much grander

Than Vanderbilt's shacks
-

Cold comfort!

When all that I want is love!

I've chauffeurs and butlers, all handsome and tall.

I've lackeys and henchmen

And Frenchmen on call
-

Cold comfort!

I'd gladly trade them all

For someone who's gentle

And isn't a rental.

The response from the besotted revelers was highly gratifying and sped right to my head like the better sort of drug. All the problems facing me suddenly seemed as minimal as Mr. Glish's choreography. Moira, Aggie, the Mob, the duchess and all the perils they represented were mere trivial inconveniences a man of my intellect and boundless charm could set right in a minute. If it had ever seemed otherwise it was because I had given in to my only flaw, which was my tendency to underestimate myself. I smiled over at Moira who was accepting the congratulations of our adoring fans. She pointed at me, saying, "But
he's
the one who deserves the credit!"

Indeed I was! Who did she think she was? A clever little minx, to be sure, but a match for Cavanaugh? Never

And there was Demo, the poor wretch, slouching in a
corner, coughing up little clots of envy. I'd shown that posseur what it meant to satisfy an audience! He'd seen what happens to those who cross swords with Philip Francis Cavanaugh, just as Moira would see! Just as Gunther would! Just as the Mafia would, were they so foolish as to take me on!

I snatched a glass of champagne from a passing traybearer who smiled and said, "Funny stuff!"

"Thanks!" I replied, flashing a smile intended to excite his hopes, for he was a fetching sort if you like wavy, chestnut hair and museurn-quality cheekbones. Perhaps if I felt magnanimous I'd catch him in some private nook and offer him a night with next year's Tony winner. I downed the champagne and picked up another from a blond mid-western type, givng this boy a similar grin, for it paid to keep one's options open. I bathed in drunken compliments from my fans, taking care to ask their names and occupations, for one's public does so appreciate these little shows of interest if they're persuasively feigned.

Soon I had to relieve myself. Leaving the bathroom I walked smack into Aggie who was even drunker than me. She thanked me for my performance, saying it had simply made the parly. Then she threw her arms about me and kissed me on the lips.

Poor lovesick old darling! I thought to myself. How she pines for what she can never have! A brief kiss is all she can hope for! Hut, I thought, shouldn't I at least make it one she would remember? A kiss she would treasure through her declining years, think of on her deathbed and, so doing, die with a smile on her lips? I clasped her in my arms, lost my balance and fell forward, smashing her head against the opposite wall. I apologized drunkenly and she replied drunkenly that she'd enjoyed it. We kissed again briefly and, smiling wickedly at each other, rejoined the party.

I basked more in the attention of my public, particularly a charming redheaded waiter whose name now eludes me. It was this last encounter that led Claire to grab me by the elbow and inform me, in her most headmistressy voice, that it was time to go. We gathered up Gilbert and Moira and shared a cab to the West Side. I got off at God's Country telling Claire that I wanted a little nightcap with my two best friends.

We collapsed on the sofa, lit cigarettes, and uncorked champagne. Even Moira was slurring words, something I'd never heard her do. We toasted ourselves for having stolen the party and agreed it had been a phenomenally successful evening.

"And the bess part," said Moira, "is while we were havin' the time a our lies at Aggie's, rotten little Gunser was getting a beeeeg nasty shock!"

"Oh?" I asked, suddenly soberer.

"Wudjado?" inquired Gilbert.

"Well!" she giggled. "Firs' I bought a doll, a man doll, 'bout this big," she said, indicating something a foot high, "then I took a fork 'n' poked holes inna face so it looked jus' like Gunny-bunny. Then I stuck a beeeg knife inna chest 'n' smeared it with ketchup! Then I wrapped it all up inna Natsy flag and pinned a note on it said, 'Ya loss
that
war, Hideous, 'n' yer not gunna win
this
one, you blackmailing Shithead'-signed 'a
Wellwisher
!' Then s'afternoon 'bout five I wrapped it in pretty paper 'n' I took it to his place 'n' I jimmied the front door open 'n' left it right ou'side his door! S'top floor walk-up so nobody will see it but him! Wuzzen I good?"

We agreed through thin smiles that, yes, it would show
him.
But, mightn't it also prompt him to go to the police?

''Let 'im!" hooted Moira. "Wudda the pleece gunna say?
They're
gunna say, 'Okay, we'll fine the culpriss! Jus' tell us who yer
black-mailinl
Wuzzy gunna say t'
that?
Huh?"

We agreed this was an interesting point.

"An' nex week, Vulpenis!" she crowed, giggling at her pun. "Night-night, sweetums."

She kissed Gilbert on the forehead and zigzagged off to bed.

Amazingly, my brain was still functional enough to realize there was a chance Gunther hadn't yet seen the doll. He might be out of town or at a late party. We called him, holding the receiver between our ears. It rang eight times and, just as it seemed there was reason to hope, he answered.

"Hello?"

We said nothing.

"Hello? Who is this? . . .
Who is this!
Vy are you plaguing me? Vat blackmail? I'm going to the police, you hear me!"

We hung up.

"Oh boy," said Gilbert, and I nodded.

For a while we just sat not saying a word. I could feel my earlier happiness and confidence draining away like water from a tub. I thought back to my performance at Aggie's. What an egomaniacal ass I'd been! And necking with Aggie! What had possessed me?

I gazed at Gilbert. I'd never seen him looking more lost and pathetic.

"How could this all have happened?" he said. "It was such a
good
idea!"

"It was never a good idea."

"It
was.
So easy! All I had to do was pretend to love Moira and be nice to everyone and in a few months we'd get lots of neat presents. And now we're threatening people and they're calling the police, and the Mafia's going to find out and we're going to be killed! Oh, God!" he whimpered, his head sinking onto my chest. "Are you as scared as I am?"

"Yes."

"Are you as horny?"

"Gilbert!"

"Philip-it's been so long for me! It's been a long time for you, too. I know it has! Don't we care for each other? Haven't we always? And what could be worse than getting killed when we haven't gotten any for six months? I mean, picture it! Think how we'd feel standing there in some garage, blindfolded, thinking about the last precious taste of love that could have been ours if only we'd taken it! How would you feel, Philly? Wouldn't you feel just
awful?"

I conceded the point.