Jackie's Week (20 page)

"Let’s go home," she said. "I am still going
to hell. But first I’ve got to get ready for a party."

"Yes ma’am," the driver said.

"Heinz!" she yelled.

Heinz, sinless in his innocence, departed
dutifully his perfect world of animal joy, returning to the sorry
affairs of women and men and his place in the order of things.

Chapter 32

"Your dog eats a lot of meatballs," Ernesto
Catalano said. "You should follow his example."

"Everybody tells me I’m too thin," Jackie
said.

"Here," he said, extending the sliver of
garlic toast, "try this bruschetta."

Jackie and the elderly gentleman stood by the
chest-high southern wall on the building roof of the Commercial
Entertainment Bank of California building, using the top of the
wall as an impromptu table to hold their little plates piled high
with various hors d’oeuvres, alongside which rested their
drinks—his simple tumbler of red wine, and her double vodka
rocks.

The penthouse behind them pulsed with party
sounds, the laughter and conversational buzz supported by an
underlay of popular music pumped out by the inevitable tuxedo-clad
pianist on the obligatory baby grand with the single rose on one
side and a large snifter seeded with tips on the other. The late
summer dusk was slowly giving way to the pressures of the night,
leaving behind a spectacular view of the vast, jeweled carpet of
South Beverly Hills and beyond.

"Thank you for seeing me tonight," she
said.

"Marsha insisted," he said. He paused to clip
and light a long, thick cigar, which immediately enshrouded them in
a thick cloud of sweet, acrid smoke.

"You know it’s a federal offense to smoke
these in the United States," he said. "These are the green ones
that Kennedy favored."

"You must be very proud of your niece,"
Jackie said. "She’s such a beautiful young girl."

"She’s like a daughter to me," Catalano said.
"When my brother died, I took her in. She was only six years
old."

"Do you have other children?"

"No," he said simply.

"I bet you’re looking forward to her
children," Jackie said.

"Why do you think I’ve lived so long?" he
said. "It’s the final thing I want to see before I leave this
earth. We’re praying for her to find the right man. I’ve often
regretted having to raise her in this land of fruits and nuts. I
should have sent her to Sicily. Marsha would have five children by
now. But here in Los Angeles, the young people have all gone crazy.
They just have superficial relationships that go nowhere."

"I’ve never had carpaccio before," Jackie
said. "If you’d told me I’d be eating raw meat tonight I would have
laughed. From a viewpoint inspired by the global fear of salmonella
poisoning, I’m surprised to find it being served at a party on a
warm night."

For the occasion, she’d decided to keep it
simple, going with a dress borrowed from Donna, a short blue
stretch-velvet number covered in glitter, and a simple pair of red
leather thongs. A small red clutch helped tie the outfit together
and hide the tiny stainless-steel Charter Arms five-shot revolver
loaded with hollowpoint ammo.

"Anybody with sufficient garlic in their diet
is safe from any type of toxic poisoning," Catalano said. "And as
for the carpaccio, I can personally assure you, it’s perfectly safe
to eat. Even though the meat is served raw, it’s kept well chilled.
The sauce you are tasting is authentic. I always insist on it. I
won’t let them use that phony dressing like they use at Harry’s Bar
and Grill."

Catalano’s wardrobe choice was a melange of
white linen mixed with a dash of lightweight summer wool, the shirt
and slacks perfectly pressed and fitted, cleanly accessorized with
small but obviously expensive rings and bracelets, ending with the
infamous monogrammed bedroom slippers.

"It’s delicious," Jackie said. "Perhaps the
best meat I’ve ever tasted. Actually, I’m about to pop. I can’t
even count how many of those little stuffed mushroom caps I’ve
eaten."

"You like vodka?" he said.

"Very much," she said. "In fact, too much.
Which is why I’m going back to AA soon. And the truth is, I
wouldn’t even be here except for some pills my doctor gave me. What
are you drinking?"

"A little homemade red wine," Catalano said.
"I made it myself."

"That’s incredible," Jackie said. "You can do
that?"

"My father taught me," he said. "So I’d
always have a taste of Sicily. My wife and I ferment the juice in
my wine cellar in the basement of my home. We even have an old wine
press down there. When we were young, we used to press the grapes
with our feet, but we’ve gotten too old for that, so now we have
the young men do it."

"How long have you been married?" Jackie
asked.

"Thirty-nine blessed years," he said. "And as
I said, we were not blessed with a child, which is why we are
waiting on Marsha."

"I envy you," Jackie said. "I haven’t been so
fortunate. I’m seeing a man I don’t actually love. It may lead to
something, but right now I am not sure."

"Do you respect this man?" he said.

"Yes," Jackie said. "Very much so. His name
is Johnson. In many ways, he’s just like this bruschetta. He’s
crusty on the outside, and a little peppery, but tender on the
inside."

"It’s better if you don’t love him," Catalano
said. "Romantic love is the cause of most of the unhappiness in the
world today. It’s selfish, frivolous and unrealistic. In my day,
our marriages were arranged by our parents. When Sofia and I met,
we hardly knew each other. But we were taught first and foremost to
value commitment and responsibility. The love comes after
that."

"I’ve just about given up on finding true
love," Jackie said. "But I didn’t want to grow old alone. I think
he and I would make good companions." As she spoke the words, she
understood them for the smokescreen they were. She had an
attraction for Johnson that went far beyond mere friendship.
Blocked by her many fears, she hadn’t had the courage to admit it
to herself.

"Has there been any talk of marriage?"

"We talked to a priest about getting
married," she said. But it turns out my man is a recently divorced
Catholic who can’t remarry in the Church, and when I talked with
the priest today, I found out that apparently I am in a state of
mortal sin which can’t be easily erased."

"Nothing is impossible," he said. "There is
always a way."

The party people, an eclectic mix of movie
moguls and hangers-on, including long-haired men with careful
stubble, accompanied by slender, shrink-wrapped women, began to
spill out onto the rooftop garden to survey their newfound kingdom
over plates of finger food. She spied Bienenfeld in deep conference
across the roof with a relaxed looking man who indeed appeared to
be Charlie Sheen.

A separate contingent of old fat guys stood
around the outdoor piano bar, boosting mixed drinks into a rising
cloud of cigar smoke. These disparate flowers of the entertainment
field were attended by a small army of uniformed waitpersons
flitting about like bees. Curiously, no one among this freewheeling
group saw any reason to venture within thirty feet of where Jackie
and Catalano stood.

"My niece tells me you’ve been having a few
problems," Catalano said.

Jackie drew a deep breath. "There’s a man
trying to kill me," she said. "His name is Viktor Bout. The cops
grabbed him. He’s being held downtown somewhere, but they have to
release him soon because I am afraid to put the finger on him. I
got myself a gun but I’m afraid I won’t have the guts to kill him
myself when the time comes. He has his men searching for me, I
think. I have a cop watching my back, but that didn’t stop one of
them last night. He came right to my door even with the cop there."
Jackie omitted to mention Marsha's statement that Bienenfeld's
thugs captured the offending pursuer.

"I’m afraid I don’t understand," he said.
"All this talk of cops and criminals has me confused. When I spoke
to my niece, she mentioned something about you being out of work
and in need of employment."

"That’s what she told you?" Jackie said.

"When she told me," he said, "I was very
interested in meeting you, as I would be any friend of Marsha’s. I
am, of course, retired, but I still have a few contacts in the
movie business and certain banks who are always looking for the
right person. With you background in bank operations, I am certain
I could find you a suitable position."

"I’m sorry Mr. Catalano," she said. "I guess
there’s been a misunderstanding. I was hoping you could help me
with Viktor Bout."

"Please," he said. "I insist you call me
Uncle. You know, Jackie, I’m afraid that I’m often the target of
these kinds of misunderstandings. What with the foolishness of
Hollywood and all, I’m sometimes slandered by the media in this
regard."

"Again, I’m so sorry," Jackie said. "I feel
like an absolute fool. I shouldn’t insult you further, but I was
under the impression that you were, you know, the enforcer for the
mafia."

"Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh," Catalano laughed
softly, the sounds of his laughter licking the air with its rich
undertones, escaping from his throat pitted and rough, as though
his smoked-out vocal chords personally tortured each syllable
before its release into the ether. "That’s a common mistake people
make," he said, "probably because I waste too much of my hard
earned money on making movies for nincompoops, like the deal
they’re celebrating tonight. And after Francis made his movie with
Brando and Pacino, the whole world thinks there’s a godfather in
every city who has an enforcer who runs around and shoots
everybody. But I can tell you that as far as I know, there’s no
such thing as this. If there were, I’m sure that somewhere in my
travels, I would have met him. Besides, everybody knows that the
FBI got rid of all those hoodlums in New York and Kansas City. Heh,
heh, heh, heh, heh."

"Everybody believes there is a godfather,"
Jackie said. "This afternoon, I was sure of it."

"Let’s just suppose for a minute," he said,
"that there was a mafia in Los Angeles, and I was its enforcer. Out
of curiosity, what favor would you have asked me to grant?"

Caught in his gaze like a rabbit under the
shadow of a California condor, Jackie felt the old man’s rheumy
eyes bleeding through the cigar smoke into her soul. She had the
distinct feeling that in spite of the party going on around them,
that it was nothing more than a backdrop, that in reality, it was
just the two of them discussing a little evil over hors d’oeuvres
at the top of the world.

"Viktor Bout brutally beat me within an inch
of my life last New Year’s Eve," she said. "He thought I was dead,
and I was, but somehow they revived me. I have spent the last eight
months in hiding. In the past couple of days, his friends have
threatened me twice. If you were the enforcer, I would have begged
you to help me—by killing Viktor Bout and all his associates—before
one of them kills me."

"You must be very frightened," he said. "Is
that why you have the dog?"

"Yes," she said. "When I was first attacked,
Bout came out of nowhere and was on me before I could react. I
believe the dog can prevent that from happening again. No, I don’t
believe that. They will just shoot the dog, won’t they? I believe
I’m going to be killed, dog or not. Ernie, before I came to see you
tonight, I made a thorough confession with my priest. I didn’t want
to die in sin. Unfortunately, he refused me absolution."

"Absolution will come in time. You’re a very
wise young lady," he said. "I wonder if you’d be gracious enough to
hear some advice from an old and foolish man."

"Please," she said.

"I have learned," he said, "that even the
most serious problem will go away if you just relax with a little
homemade wine. My question to you is, would you like a sip of my
special batch of homemade wine to help your problem go away?"

Jackie wondered what he meant. He was quite
old. Perhaps a touch of dementia was filtering his conversation.
But she felt boxed in. She’d have to go his way on this. There was
no other way out except to go straight through the heart of this
old vulture.

"Yes," she said. "I would like share some
wine to help my problem go away."

He pulled her close and began to whisper in
her ear. His voice was harsh, and full of gravel, but it was no
longer the feeble voice of an old geezer—in fact, there was no
mistaking the chilling power behind it.

"I want you to sip my wine, Jackie," he
hissed. "Then I will make a special batch, just for you. I will
make it the old way, the Sicilian way. First, I will gather the
grapes into my wine cellar. Then I will have a few good Sicilian
boys pick and crush the grapes beneath their feet. As the grapes
are being crushed, the juice will begin to run like blood. Do you
understand?"

Jackie’s soul began to vibrate deep inside
like a dark, flowing river of energy. She stood on one side of the
river, staring at the smoky, glowing white figure of Catalano on
the other. She would have to enter the river and cross over. She
now understood what Father Larry meant. The wages of sin were
death. She was about to surrender herself to the power of the
occult.

"Do you understand?" He had shouted this
last, or so it had seemed, the sheer force of his decibels sending
shock waves through her.

She quickly looked around, but nobody seemed
to have noticed that the old man had screamed loud enough to be
heard all the way down on the street, 20 stories below. Meanwhile,
his voice had risen in pitch and intensity, a wavelength which
stunned her, leaving her dazed. She surrendered to his power and
opened herself to the flow of the river, plunging herself in and
beginning to swim. His ragged, raging voice was her only lifeline
to keep her from going under completely.