William Kennedy - Roscoe

“Why?”

“Dilute the opposition. The usual reason.”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Who needs a third party anymore?”

“You’ve been away, boy. The Governor’s attacks on us got a lot of ink in the papers.”

“Turn me loose, I’ll get a lot of ink.”

“You will, but this is Patsy’s plan. He wants to humiliate the Governor with numbers. Troopers will be at every polling place, looking for violations. We’ve filed suit to stop them on grounds of voter intimidation, but if we don’t prevail they’ll cut into our control of the vote.”

“But Cutie LaRue — he’s a bad joke.”

“Yes. Patsy’s bad joke.” Roscoe’s voice stiffened. “Don’t you laugh at Patsy’s jokes anymore?”

“Since you put it that way.”

“That’s still the way it’s put in this town, Alex. Don’t stay away so long next time.”

Alex looked at his shoes and did not speak.

“Tell me about my father,” he said. “Joey only said it was sudden.”

“That’s the truth. He was more ill than anyone knew. His heart was twice its normal size. He told me he was retiring, but I couldn’t imagine it was for health reasons. He looked fine. He was in other trouble, but didn’t explain.”

“What trouble?”

Roscoe shut his eyes and rubbed both eyelids with thumb and forefinger, hiding. No way out of saying what has to be said. Say it, Roscoe.

“Listen, Alex. You have to know. Your father ended his own life. He took a huge dose of chloral hydrate.”

These facts did not register on Alex’s face. Behind a grim stare he seemed to be trying to process their logic.

“Why did he do it?” Roscoe said. “That’s the obvious question you’re asking. It seems like an act without purpose, but that wasn’t your father’s style. If there’s a key to this, we’ll find it. Your own loss, your mother’s loss, it’s very great. And I can’t remember when I’ve known such diminishment.”

“Was he depressed?”

“Not to the naked eye. We celebrated V-J night together and he was fine. We had a little car accident and he got a bump on his head, not serious.”

“You must have a theory.”

“He burned some papers but we don’t know why. It could be linked to the Governor’s investigation of the organization. Also, your Aunt Pamela is in the mix. She’s suing your mother for custody of Gilby. She went public for the first time that she’s his mother, and we’re already in court. Your father talked with her weeks ago about it. He saw it as a money scheme, but I don’t know how this affected his behavior.”

“Why in the hell is Pamela doing this?” Alex asked, his lips tight and white. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I’ll take a week off sometime and explain it to you.”

“But Gilby was adopted.”

“Yes, and from her, anonymously. I drew up the agreement, which wasn’t quite an adoption. Your mother and I went to San Juan to pick up Gilby and bring him home.”

“Such villainy. Goddamn her.”

“We can hope for that too,” Roscoe said. “You should talk to Gilby about the lawsuit. He told me you weren’t his brother anymore. It was a bad moment, but I think he’s over it.”

“What do you mean about Pamela looking for money?”

“She may really be blackmailing the family,” Roscoe said. “I don’t like to bring this up, but she may threaten to say that Elisha was Gilby’s father. Did that ever occur to you?”

Alex threw back his head and wheezed, “Jesus, what next?”

“Did it?”

“Never.”

“It occurred to your mother, and me. But I don’t believe it.”

“Good. Neither do I.”

“That won’t stop Pamela from threatening to go public with it.”

“The bitch. The lousy bitch.” The look of white fury was on him. Roscoe could not remember ever seeing it in his face before. A nurse came into the room to take Roscoe’s vital signs and Alex stood up. He untucked his overseas cap from under his belt and put it on.

“Welcome home, soldier,” Roscoe said.

“I may stay in the army,” Alex said.

After Alex a parade of visitors came to Roscoe’s room. Hattie brought him half a dozen sugar buns, buttered. Trish came and showed him her new brassiere, and offered to move into his hotel suite to take care of him. Roscoe said, Thank you, Trishie, that’s very sweet, but I’d rather be cared for by wolves. Joey Manucci came back after taking Alex home and brought Roscoe the New York tabloids, four Hershey bars, and the news that Bart was keeping Patsy current on the action at headquarters and would stop by later.

Roscoe also received a telegram from his maiden sister, Cress, who still lived alone in the Conway family brownstone on Ten Broeck Street. “Dear Roscoe,” she wrote, “I hear you are ill with chicken pox. Does your doctor know you had that in childhood? You can’t get it twice. You probably have something else. Do not let those doctors fool you.”

And then, at last, Veronica came, in a pink summer frock, pink shoes, pink necklace, matching bracelet, and bearing a vase full of partly pink orchids from the Tivoli hothouse. She kissed Roscoe on the cheek, raising his blood pressure, then sat in a chair facing him and crossed her beautiful legs.

“What did they do to you?” she asked him. “Nobody can get it straight.”

“They put a needle into the sac around my heart to draw out blood, and they may do it again. If that doesn’t work they’ll cut open my thorax and sew up the wound in my heart. If that doesn’t work I told them to cut my throat. I’m out of pain and, seeing you, I’m brimming with pleasure. But just trying to sit up in bed is like running two miles.”

“When will they let you leave?”

“When I feel better.”

“Who’ll take care of you? Who’ll feed you?”

“I’ll hire a nurse. And use room service.”

“That won’t do. You’ll come to Tivoli. The servants and I will take care of you until you’re well.”

“Tivoli,” Roscoe said.

“Don’t argue with me,” Veronica said.

“Who’s arguing?” said Roscoe.

When Roscoe’s pain was all but gone, and the catheter removed, the doctor said he could go home, but in a wheelchair, for he would be slow to regain his strength. Bart Merrigan drove him to the Ten Eyck to help him pack for his stay at Tivoli.

“How do you feel today?” Bart asked him.

“Better.”

“Is your heart all right now?”

“Fantastic. What’s your point?”

“Nobody wants to upset you, Roscoe, especially me.”

“You’re upsetting me with questions. What the hell is on your mind?”

“Patsy’s in a black mood. Bindy’s handler switched birds in that final match. Bindy had two Swigglers, marked like twins, both the same weight, so this had been planned for a while. One twin fought only once, but the other had been in five fights, and he’s the one did in Patsy’s chicken. Ruby was overmatched. Tommy Fogarty thought something was wrong during the fight, but he didn’t figure it out till after he’d paid Bindy Patsy’s forty grand. He and Jack Gray searched Emil’s truck and found the twin chicken in a sack. He also checked out Emil in New Orleans. He’d pulled the switch down there two or three times before they ran him out of town.”

“What’s Bindy say about this?”

“Nobody’s seen him. O.B. says he’s hiding.”

“The man is nuts. You do a thing like that, you can’t hide from Patsy. Forty grand plus all those side bets. Christ. Now we’ve got a goddamn blood feud to deal with.”

Veronica ordered Roscoe’s lunch from Keeler’s and had it delivered to Tivoli in a taxi: strawberries in cantaloupe, a dozen oysters on ice, lobster salad, petits pois, glazed carrots, potatoes au gratin, and the choice of blueberry pie or Keeler’s famous ladyfingers. She had the servants open a bottle of Sauternes for the oysters and Pouilly-Fuissé for the lobster, and had everything served in the former conservatory, with its hanging geraniums, Wandering Jews, potted banana trees, and electrified hurricane lamps.