William Kennedy - Roscoe

“You’re a lousy bastard,” she said, taking the money.

“Thank you, Webster,” Roscoe said when they reached street level. He gestured to Pamela to step out first and held the street door for her. “What’s your phone number in New York?” he asked her. “We should stay in touch.”

Pamela thought that was a riot.

Beau Geste (2)

Veronica sat in the back of the car and told Gilby to sit in front as Roscoe drove from the courthouse back to Tivoli. She had not yet thanked Roscoe for the victory. Gilby had thanked him with his facial expression of joy, but that had now turned quizzical as the mystery hit him.

“Why did we win?” Gilby asked.

“I convinced the judge your father made a life for you that was better than any other you could have,” Roscoe said.

“What about her? Will she try again?”

“No chance. She’s gone.”

“What about the Yusupov man?”

“He’s gone too.”

“Gone where?”

“Out of your life.”

“Yusupov isn’t my father?”

“Never was.”

“Why did they say my name was Yusupov?”

“She said it was. She was married to him.”

“Is my name still Yusupov?”

“Never was. Rivera is the name on your birth certificate, but that’s wrong too and we’ll change it.”

“Who’s Rivera? Was he my father?”

“A woman named Rivera was Pamela’s housekeeper in Puerto Rico when you were born.”

“She named me after a housekeeper? Why?”

“Same reason she threw hard-boiled eggs at her poodle.”

“What’s my real name?”

“Gilbert David Fitzgibbon, same as always.”

“Who’s my father?”

“Your father is still your father. Still the main man in this family.”

“Is Alex my cousin?”

“He’s your brother.”

“My father is his father?”

“That’s how it used to be, that’s how it should be, that’s how it will be.”

“My father wasn’t married to Pamela when I was born.”

“No, thank God.”

“That means I’m a bastard, doesn’t it?”

“Who said that?”

“People.”

“Your father would die if he heard you say that.”

“He already died.”

“Maybe, but don’t let him hear you say it again. Even if he’s up at Tristano he can hear that kind of stuff.”

“Are we going to Tristano?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“When?”

“Talk to your mother about it.”

“If we see my father up there we can ask him who my real father is.”

“I doubt he knows,” Roscoe said. “I doubt anybody knows.”

“People say I look like my father.”

“So does your bulldog.”

“I don’t have a bulldog.”

“No, but if you had one he’d look like your father. That’s how it goes.”

“How did my father die?”

“His heart left him. I think he gave it away.”

“To who?”

“To you.”

“I don’t understand, Roscoe.”

“That’s because you look like a bulldog.”

Beau Geste (3)

At Tivoli, Roscoe called Alex and gave him the news. Alex said that was fantastic and asked Roscoe to come to City Hall to talk.

“Your mother is preparing lunch,” Roscoe said. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

Gilby went elsewhere, and Roscoe sat in his usual chair in the east parlor and watched two of Veronica’s servants, Joseph the butler and Jennifer, a kitchen maid, set trays of food on the buffet in the dining room. Then Joseph came toward Roscoe with two glasses and a bottle of Mumms in a bucket of ice. Veronica came back with a box of Barracini chocolate creams, which she opened and set in front of Roscoe.

“Shall I open the champagne, Mrs. Fitzgibbon?”

“Please do, Joseph.” And the butler popped the cork and poured for two. Veronica closed the sliding doors to the dining room and sat across from Roscoe on the sofa.

“I got these chocolates for you in New York last week,” she said, putting a cream in his mouth and kissing him as he began to chew. She picked up her champagne.

“To your genius,” she said.

“I had great incentive,” he said.

They clinked and drank. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under her, which put her knees on view like twin works of art. “Now tell me how you did it,” she said.

“I told them she was blackmailing you because Elisha raped her and fathered the boy, and that it was all true.”

“Roscoe, you didn’t say that. That’s horrible. You didn’t.”

“I did. I said he committed suicide to remove himself as the target of her blackmail, and that you understood why he did it.”

“God, Roscoe, what have you done? How could you say such awful things about us?”

“I also said it was all hypothetical and nobody would believe her rape story anyway, when and if her perjury and blackmail went public. I told Marcus we’d prosecute for blackmail if she didn’t end the custody fight.”

“Everybody will believe the rape story. It’ll be all over town.”

“I’m sure Marcus realizes by now I invented it.”

“But how could you say such a thing about Elisha?”

“He asked me to.”

“How did he ask you?”

“Little by little he’s been revealing what he did to protect you and Gilby. All our lives I could read what he was and wasn’t saying. Now I keep discovering what he did and didn’t do. Didn’t this story work? Isn’t she gone? Aren’t you and Gilby safe? And Alex?”

“I think we are. The family’s closer than ever. Alex is like a second father to Gilby since he came home from service. They go riding. He’s taking him to Army’s opening football game at West Point.”

“There you are. Elisha knew what he was doing.”

“You knew what you were doing. You’re the one who made it work.”

“I only did what he told me to do.”

“But rape, Roscoe, why rape? It’s the last thing Elisha would ever do. She never said he raped her.”

“I know that. Did she even say they’d been lovers?”

“That was her blackmail.”

“Was it?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m not sure. I’m waiting for further word from Elisha.”

Beau Geste (4)

In the Mayor’s corner office at City Hall, seated in his highbacked leather armchair at his hand-carved oak desk, framed by the American and Albany flags, with the portrait of Pieter Schuyler, Albany’s first Mayor, looking down at him, Alex, in his tailor-made, pale-gray herringbone and repp tie, had become new, had traded his lowly infantryman’s status for that of commander of the city. He was on the telephone as Roscoe sat down across from him. He winked at Roscoe as he talked, and when he hung up he leaned across the desk to shake Roscoe’s hand.

“Congratulations, old fellow,” he said. “You did good.”

“I told you not to worry.”

“You certainly did. What was your argument?”

Art Foley, Alex’s secretary, came into the office with the afternoon mail and set it in front of the Mayor.

“This isn’t the place to talk,” Roscoe said when Foley went out.

“All right,” said Alex. “We’ll go for a walk. But I have news. The Supreme Court just ruled that state troopers can’t be present at the polling places. Too much intimidation of the voters.”

“Another battle won,” said Roscoe. “What’s next in the campaign?”

“A radio speech tomorrow night,” said Alex, “right after Jay Farley. He’s harping on whores and immorality.”

“That’s last week’s news.”

“His new line is, let’s clean up the city for the returning soldier boys, give them a pure town to come home to.”

“It really is an excellent idea,” Roscoe said.