Inherit the Mob (17 page)

“Get outa here,” said Pietro. “Pa wouldn’t do that. We’re his blood.”

“That’s what you think,” said Mario. “You see Sesti the other night? Sittin’ next to the old man, acting like he owned the place. Fuckin’ Sesti—”

“I saw him, so what?” asked Pietro. “Sesti’s the consigliere, he’s supposed to be there.”

“He ain’t supposed to sit up at the head of the table, asking all the questions. And how about the old man showing respect for that Jewboy. We’re the sons, not them. You see how the old man got rid of us after? I’m tellin’ ya, we’re gettin’ cut out.”

“Nah, Pa knew I had a date. That’s why he let us go early,” said Pietro, looking at his watch.

“Hey, dumbo, wake up. You think the old man gives a fuck about your dates?”

Pietro shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t but I do. And I got one in an hour, a real piece of ass. You ought to get a little more, Mario, you’d be less nervous.”

“Are you with me on this here or not?” demanded Mario impatiently. “You gonna let that fuck Sesti steal our birthright?”

“Come on, Mario. Pa’s gonna do the right thing, you know that. He goes, you take over. Don’t get your balls in an uproar.”

“I ought to wack that fuckin’ Sesti out,” Mario muttered.

“Yeah, right,” laughed Pietro. “Wack out the old man’s consigliere. Why doncha burn down his house while you’re at it? Listen, Mario, do me a favor, you decide to take out Sesti, lemme know so I can arrange to be out of town, huh?”

“Pietro, you ever think about what it’s going to be like when the old man croaks? You wanna stay in the business or what?”

“What.”

“Whaddya mean, what?”

“I mean what. You said, do you wanna stay in the business or what, and I said what. Meaning I don’t wanna stay in the business. It’s yours, Mario. I got better things to do with my life.”

“What makes you so fuckin’ superior?” Mario demanded, grinding a thick finger into his ear.

“Nobody’s saying I’m superior. I’ve just got different values from you, ya know?”

“Yeah? Different values? Like what kind of values?” Mario asked, wiping the earwax on the leg of his trousers.

“Travel,” said Pietro. “I like to see new places, learn new things. And girls.” Mario waited, but Pietro had finished.

“That’s it?” he exploded. “That’s your values? Vacations and pussy?”

“Sure, what’s wrong with it?” asked Pietro. “You got something better to offer?”

“I ought to wack you out along with Sesti and that fuckin’ Gordon,” said Mario. He wasn’t mad, though; he liked his little brother, and he would have smiled at him if he knew how. Especially now that he was sure that the little dumbfuck wasn’t going to be a problem.

Jupiter arrived at Gordon’s place just as the sun was going down. She found him on his small terrace with a gin and tonic and a biography of Trotsky spread on the wrought-iron coffee table. The book had been sent to him by its author, a reporter he had worked with and liked in several foreign postings. Normally he would have offered to review it, but right now he could barely get past the first page.

Jupiter’s eyes fell on the book. “Trotsky, eh?” she said. “Interesting choice of reading matter for you these days.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Jewish intellectual in over his head with a thug he thought he could manipulate. Have you got to the part yet where Stalin had him stabbed to death?”

“Jeez, you’re a pain in the ass when you’re showing off,” Gordon said fondly. It constantly amazed him that Jupiter knew or cared anything about the world of international politics. In his experience, most women were basically uninterested in issues that didn’t affect them directly. Those who did care usually struck him as shrill. It was, he knew, a sexist attitude.

As usual, Jupiter read his thoughts. “If Flanagan said that, would you think he was showing off?” she asked.

“No,” Gordon admitted. “But John is a hack; not a beautiful actress.”

“That’s what you think,” said Jupiter with a crooked smile. “Your pal Flanagan is the best actor I know.”

“John’s all right,” said Gordon defensively. He hated it when his friends criticized each other, especially Jupiter and Flanagan.

“Well, I didn’t come by to talk about John. I came to talk about the other night.” Suddenly she looked abashed and vulnerable, like a little girl. Gordon wanted to hug her, but by this time he knew better. Affection frightened Jupiter. Most women wanted to know they were loved, but she was terrified by that kind of responsibility. After each of their few previous sexual encounters she had disappeared, often for a month or more. The thing, he knew, was to keep it light.

“The other night?” he asked. “Let’s see, what was the other night …”

“Gordon, the other night was a mistake.”

“Shit, I knew it,” said Gordon. “OK, that’s the last time we go to Barney’s. Those bastards always overcook the burgers.”

“Come on, Will,” she said softly. It was a nickname she used when she was being intimate, and the sound of it in her throaty voice thrilled him. “Let’s not fool around. All the booze and the talk about money and gangsters, and you looked so damn serious and cute, it just put me in the mood.”

“Which you’re out of now?” asked Gordon, not wanting to hear the answer.

She looked at him steadily. “Will, you’re torturing both of us. You know what I am, what I can and can’t be. Leave it alone, and let’s be friends. Isn’t that enough?”

Suddenly Gordon was furious. “No, it’s not enough, goddamn it. Don’t insult my intelligence. I don’t want to be friends, and I don’t think that you do, either. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here right now, after all these years. You always leave, Jupiter, but you always come back, too.”

“Gordon, I don’t find you attractive,” she said in a cold, cruel voice. This was part of the routine; when she was cornered, Jupiter lashed out without even thinking about the consequences. “You have a potbelly and a hairy body and you stink of cigarettes and whiskey. You’re condescending and insensitive. It was a mistake to come here tonight, and I’m leaving—”

Suddenly, without warning, Gordon unzipped his pants. “What do you want me to do, cut it off?” he demanded. “OK, get a knife from the kitchen, let’s cut it off. I’ll go to Puerto Rico and get a disbarred surgeon to put in a poo-poo. I’ll go on the Scarsdale Diet and start smoking Virginia Slims. Come on, Jupiter, get the knife.…”

She started to laugh, a low, melodious sound, and the lines around her eyes crinkled. Gordon breathed a sigh of relief. It would be all right this time.

He fixed her a drink and they sat together on the balcony, watching the lights come on. “Listen, Jupiter, I want to make you a serious proposition,” Gordon said. “Are you in a good enough mood for a proposition?”

“Will, please, please don’t start—”

“I told Spadafore yes,” he said. “I’m going to do it.”

“How about the paper?” asked Jupiter.

“I asked them for a two-year leave of absence to write a book. I’ll get a gig at Brookings, just for a cover story. Hell, maybe I’ll even write a book if I get the time. But the thing is, I’m going for it.”

“I hope the other night didn’t have anything to do with your decision,” she said. “I don’t want to sound egotistical, but if you’re doing this because of me, don’t. I mean it, Will.”

“Everybody talks to me like a teenager these days,” he said. “My old man, Spadafore, Flanagan, even you. Whatever happened to William Gordon, two-time Pulitzer winner? Hey, I’m doing this because of me, for my own reasons. But one of those reasons happens to be you.”

“Happens to be me,” she repeated in a flat voice.

“Happens to be you, yeah,” he said. “Listen, the other night when you said that half a billion dollars changes everything, you may have thought you were kidding, but we both know that that much money does change things. At least it can. Will you admit that much?”

“I won’t admit anything until I know exactly where you’re going with this,” she said.

“OK, I want you to marry me,” Gordon said, raising a hand to keep her from arguing. “Just wait, let me finish. I want you to marry me, not right this minute, but within a year, providing this thing is working the way it’s supposed to. If it does, I’ll be so rich that we
can have anything we want, including each other, on our own terms. Your terms.”

“Are you trying to buy me?” Jupiter asked mildly.

“No, I’m trying to buy a certain kind of life,” said Gordon. “A brownstone here in town, a place in London, a house in the islands, a private plane, a yacht and enough money to make things perfect. You could work when you wanted on what you wanted, without having to think about the financial side. You could travel anywhere, anytime. When you wanted to be alone, you could be alone, and when you wanted to be with me, OK, then we’d be together. That’s what I want the money to buy, a life together.”

“What’s the point, Will?” she asked. “I mean, aside from buying a bunch of houses and planes. What would it change?”

“We’d be married,” said Gordon. “We’d live in the same world. No matter where you were or what you were doing, I’d be your husband, we’d be connected. And we’d have children.” This was a powerful inducement, Gordon knew; Jupiter wanted very much to be a mother. “As many children as you want. Plus, we could have a hell of a wedding—”

“You paint an idyllic picture, you silver-tongued devil,” Jupiter laughed. She leaned over and ruffled Gordon’s thinning hair. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes and trust me. I know more about you than any other person in the world. You think your problem is that you like women, but that’s not it. The real problem is that you’re afraid to make a commitment to anything or anybody. I know that sounds like bullshit, but that’s what all the therapy comes down to, isn’t it? This is a way for you to make a commitment and still be free, have a family and go on being on your own. If I can accept that, why can’t you?”

“I’m not going to turn you down, Will,” she said softly. “But I’m not going to say yes, either, at least not now. I want to think about it. You said it’s a few months down the road, give me some time, OK?”

“OK, if you promise to say yes.”

“No, I promise to think. But I love you very much right now.” She leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips.

“God, I love you, too,” breathed Gordon, as much to himself as
to her. He rose and gently lifted her to her feet. They stood in each other’s arms, and Gordon felt tears of joy just behind his eyes.

“Let’s go in the other room,” he said, stroking her cheek. Suddenly he felt her grow rigid. She pulled back, and he could see clouds of panic in her eyes.

“Not tonight,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a date, I can’t stay.” She stepped away from him, picked up her pocketbook and walked out without another word.

Gordon stood alone on the balcony feeling a sense of total detachment, like people who claim to have died and seen their own bodies on the operating table. He watched himself sit down, light a Winston, pick up the Trotsky book and calmly begin to read. That’s odd, he said to himself; I was expecting you to cry.

F
lanagan was not surprised when, three days after his meeting with Sesti, he got a call from the consigliere. Sesti gave no indication that he was in the least upset or angry about their last meeting; he merely said that he had considered Flanagan’s request, and had several suggestions as to how he could accommodate it.

“Thank you, Carlo,” Flanagan said with warm sincerity. “I really appreciate it.”

That was on a Monday. On Wednesday the two men met for lunch at the Harvard Club. Flanagan wore a dark suit and no hat. He refused a drink, and allowed Sesti to do the talking, listening with a cordial, almost deferential air as the consigliere offered various assurances, bank guarantees and even a five-million-dollar life insurance policy for Gordon and himself. Flanagan had no idea if these constituted adequate protection, and he didn’t care. He had wanted to make two points, and they were both made. By crawling back,
Sesti had admitted that he needed Gordon more than Gordon needed him. And he had forced the consigliere to deal with him as an equal.

“Carlo, I’m sorry I had to put you to this extra work, but I’m new at this. I’ll learn the ropes as I go along,” he said modestly.

“John, I probably would have done the same thing in your place,” said Sesti. “I respect a man who protects his client’s interests.”

They shook hands solemnly. “Carlo, now that we’ve ironed out the last details, Mr. Gordon would like to reciprocate your hospitality of the other night by inviting Mr. Spadafore, and you too, of course, to dinner,” said Flanagan. “He wondered if Saturday night would be convenient?”

Sesti frowned. “Mr. Spadafore rarely leaves Brooklyn,” he said. “Of course I very much appreciate the invitation, but I’m just not certain that—”

“Please, Carlo, it would mean a great deal to Mr. Gordon. He very much wants to have the opportunity to show his respect to Mr. Spadafore.”

“Well, I’ll do my best,” said the consigliere briskly. “I’ll let you know this afternoon, if I may.” Two hours later he called to say that Spadafore was honored by the invitation and would be delighted to accept. Dinner was set for seven-thirty.