Annie introduces herself, and catching Capote’s eye, slips past to greet him.
Standing in the foyer, Celia lets Bobby take her coat and the graze of his fingers on her arm reminds her that this is a bad idea. “I can’t wait to meet Ethel.” She’s officially a phony now.
“Ethel and the kids are at Hickory Hill for the weekend,” he tells her. “Uh … did you receive the flowers, by the way?”
“Flowers? … With the Coleridge quote? Those were from you?”
“I didn’t sign my name?” he laughs and the air feels clunky and nervous.
Her chest starts to thump. Great, this is all she needs. A few moments of silence and then he says, “Well, why don’t you come on in and I’ll fix you a cocktail.” He steers her toward the front room where other guests are sitting around talking and drinking. Benny Goodman plays on the hi-fi now, Peggy Lee doing the vocals on “Where or When.”
Bobby pours her a martini.
“Thanks. You must’ve been a little boy when this song came out.”
“My mother used to dance to it in the kitchen with me.”
Celia’s four-year-old self watches her father waltz with the neighbour.
“Dance with me,” he says.
“No one else is dancing.”
“Maybe we’ll instigate a house hop.”
They both look around the room. Maybe dancing isn’t the best idea. She looks for Annie but she’s busy with Capote, and Jackie Kennedy has joined them. Celia’s eyes stick on Jackie’s long cool-looking limbs, everything precise and in just the right place. Annie looks slack and fleshy by comparison.
“Do you mind if we have a seat?” Celia asks. “Maybe I’ll feel more like dancing after I finish my drink.”
“Sure. Of course. Let me introduce you to my sister-in-law. Have you met Jackie?”
“Sort of.”
As they move toward them, Jackie appears to be exchanging more words with Capote than Annie. We’re just a couple of strippers to her, Celia thinks. Why are we here?
Next afternoon, Celia sits over lunch with Johnny. “When did you start running around town with a punk like that,” he rants.
“I shouldn’t tell you anything. I’m not sleeping with him, for godsake.” She’s starting to wonder if part of her enjoys pissing him off. “Truman Capote was there. So was Allen Ginsberg. Both faggots, as you would say—you think he’s sleeping with them too?”
“Kennedys’ll fuck anything with a pulse.”
“You make me feel so special.”
He drums his fingers. “He’s got a lot of enemies. Don’t get caught in the crossfire.” He glances past her shoulder and stares with disgust. “Christ, that piece of shit’s in here.”
She sighs. “Which particular piece of shit is it now?”
He nods behind her at a man seated in the corner. “One of Hoover’s. And I think it’s you he’s tailing. He was lurking around at the Copa the night you closed. See what happens when you spend time with a prick like Kennedy!”
She rolls her eyes. “First its Hoover then it’s Kennedy. Maybe you’re just paranoid, Don Giovanni.”
“Christ, I hate it when you call me that.”
She holds his glance.
“I’m retired,” he snaps.
Celia stretches her neck with nonchalance. “So, where’s your gal Judy these days?”
He leans back. “Hell if I know. I don’t want to talk about Judy. I don’t want to fight with you. We haven’t seen much of each other lately. Let’s be nice.”
She flicks one nail against another. “It pisses me off when you say all a guy wants is to get into my pants. Like there’s nothing remotely interesting about me.”
“I think you’re very interesting.” He touches her fingertips. “Given a chance, most men would want to swallow you whole.”
“Nice recovery,” she says, rolling her eyes, and excuses herself to the bathroom.
The man behind her rises and follows. In the hall, he catches hold of her.
She turns. Looks at him. “Stewart.” She jerks her arm away. “For godsake, I—What are you doing here? I told you, I—”
“Please, Audrey, just give me two minutes.”
“Don’t call me Audrey,” she snaps. “Does my mother know you’re here?”
“She’s gone.”
Celia stares.
“She died. Almost two months ago. I’m sorry I didn’t get word to you,” he says, “but after the last time we spoke I didn’t think you’d want to be there.” His hand goes out to her again.
“Don’t. Don’t touch me and, don’t—look, if you’d been man enough to stand up to her in the first place, maybe things would’ve been different.”
“I understand you’re angry. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think of how things could have been. It breaks my heart to see you live this sort of lifestyle and to know I’m partly to blame.”
“How dare you. I am a singer. People respect me. Know whose place I was at the other night? Senator Robert Kennedy’s. He sent me flowers. We were invited by Truman Capote. Don’t you ever take credit for who I am or what I’ve accomplished.”
“Excuse me, the lady’s not interested in your company.”
Stewart turns. Eyeing Rosselli up and down, he looks to Celia. “But you’re interested in his? Just because he’s wearing a silk suit doesn’t mean he’s not a sow’s ear.”
Johnny grins. “Honey, you go ahead.”
“No. You—” she points to Stewart “—go home. Please, just go back to Scarsdale.”
He looks from Johnny to Celia. “Don’t turn your back on family. You lost your mother this way, don’t lose me. We’re family. We need one another.”
Her pulse jumps in her neck. “No. We don’t. I needed you once and where were you? Just stay out of my life.”
Nobody speaks. Finally Johnny puts one foot forward and Stewart sticks a hand out. “I can take care of myself, buddy.”
A mild shrug from Johnny, and Stewart says, “I shouldn’t take credit? Dance lessons, voice lessons … you’d be nowhere if it weren’t for me. Fine. Forget it, Audrey.” He strides through the dining room and shoves his way out the door.
Celia stares straight ahead. Johnny reaches, as though he’s about to pick up a broken bird.
“Please. If you touch me now, you’ll have to scrape me off the floor. My mother’s dead.”
“Oh god. I’m so sorry, honey.”
“Yeah,” she says softly.
“I guess you’re not going home for the funeral.”
“It was two months ago.”
He sighs. “I’m sorry. Maybe you should come back with me to L.A.”
“I have to go to Palm Springs,” she tells the floor, her voice flat and distant. “Then I’m booked at the Sands.”
“I’ll fix that. People will understand.”
“I’m just going to keep moving. I have to go to the ladies’ now.”
One bright L.A. morning in May, Celia walks into Harry Drucker’s in Beverly Hills where Johnny’s getting a haircut. She winks to the barber. Johnny’s eyes are closed. The barber stands back as she sneaks up behind, covers Johnny’s eyes and drawls, “Reach for the stars, daddy.”
A smile creeps across his face. She giggles. He pulls her round and onto his lap.
“Very nice,” she commends Harry as she pats Johnny’s hair.
“Did I tell you I was going for a haircut last night?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Such a good little spy.” Swatting her butt, he sets her back on her feet. “Stand there so I can look at you. How long you in town?” Harry steps in to take a last few snips.
“Week. Marty got me a Starring-For-Three-Nights-Only at the Grove … You don’t seem very surprised.”
He winks and tugs the sleeve of her suit jacket. “I’m glad you’re here.”
They’ve talked on the phone most nights since Stewart’s reappearance. She could hardly stand a day without his voice. Without, it felt as if sh
e might spurt away like a shot balloon. She takes his arm as they come out of the shop. “You look good,” he says.
“I am good. I’m gooder here with you,” she flirts and, then, embarrassed, changes the subject as they stroll up toward Rodeo Drive. “Why did you move to California?”
“These damn Rosselli lungs—they started finding signs of tuberculosis in me, so when I had a chance to go into business with some fellas out here—”
A guy in a suit heads straight for them. As Johnny moves to step around him, the guy says, “Filippo Sacco.”
Johnny shoots the man a glance and moves past.
“What’d he say?”
Rosselli doesn’t answer. A few steps farther, a man with a crewcut heads toward them, arms open. “This has nothing to do with you personally, John,” he says and offers Rosselli a plain manila envelope. “We got nothing against you.”
“Go see my attorney,” Johnny snaps without breaking stride. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The two men bracket Rosselli and Celia now, keeping pace.
“You want your girlfriend to take a walk while we chat?” the bracket on Johnny’s side offers. “Cuz right now, we’re the only ones who know about this.”
“We want to talk to you personally,” Celia’s bracket explains. “We can meet up in Ventura. Nobody will know.” He drops his voice. “It’s a matter of national security.”
“Go see my attorney,” Johnny repeats, keeping a firm hold on Celia, eyes straight ahead.
The men fall behind. Celia looks over her shoulder as the men smirk to one another. Johnny jerks her close. “Keep walking.”
“What the hell was that?”
“Nothing.”
Back at his apartment, the manila envelope is now waiting on the doorstep. Johnny steps over it and the moment they’re inside, calls his lawyer. He paces the apartment, won’t speak until a knock comes at the door.
Holding the envelope addressed to Filippo Sacco, the lawyer sits down and opens it in front of them. Inside are two yellowed photographs, one of a young woman and the second of a boy about four years old. “That’s my mother,” Johnny says. “And that’s me.”
Celia’s guts twist. She keeps quiet.
“Anything I got a record for in Boston, I don’t think they’d bother. They could go after me as an illegal alien, but why? And why’s he saying, It’s a matter of national security?”
The lawyer slides the pictures back in. “What are you thinking?”
“Cuba. And if that’s the case, I wanna let someone inside know. If this thing gets out—it’s not getting out through me.”
“We should take a trip to Washington,” the lawyer says. “Don’t use the phone.” He looks around the room. “Tomorrow morning. First thing.”
Rosselli nods. Celia’s never seen him nervous before.
An hour later she and Johnny sit on a log at the beach and bite into a couple of deli sandwiches.
“Filippo,” she says.
“Audrey,” he answers.
“Does hearing your old name give you the creeps too?”
“Goddamn shock to the system.”
“How do you think they know?”
He shrugs. “There’s a guy I have bring money to my family in Boston. I got a record there, so I can’t go back. Maybe this guy cracked.”
“You weren’t born in Chicago.”
He shakes his head.
“Must’ve been something pretty bad they wanted you for in Boston.”
“I was a kid.” He squints at the sand. “I’m too old for this shit.”
“So this is about you and Sam and the CIA?”
“See why I hate those fucking Kennedys? Here I am helping the country fight communists and that little shit is breaking my balls.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know.”
“People I work with don’t do that sort of thing. You play straight, make money, everybody’s happy. These pricks—nobody knows which end is up. Now I gotta make sure they know I’m not going to sell anyone out.”
“Who? The government?”
“Everybody.” He sighs. “I was six years old when I came here from Italy. I came out of the dirt and here I’m wearing silk and diamonds. This is a great country. I’d do anything for this country.”
She digs her bare toes into the sand.
“I just want to play golf.”
“You should take off your shoes.”
Sun on his face, he looks craggy and tired. She leans over and tugs at his laces. He makes no move, so she gets off the log, kneels in front of him and pulls off his shoes, rolls off his socks. Staring at the water, he doesn’t seem to notice. Celia grabs him by the ankles and yanks his feet to and fro over the grains. Giving her a half-hearted smile, he says, “If there ever comes a time you can’t find me, check the airport. That’s what they do when they get rid of a guy. Leave his car at the airport like he left town.”
Her head jerks up. “Who does? That’s not funny. Don’t say that again.”
She plants herself back on the log, rummages in her purse, takes out nothing and closes it. “I haven’t seen Bobby Kennedy in months.”
They have dinner at La Dolce Vita that night. Rosselli points out the Friars Club in the windowless mustard-yellow building across the road. He likes to go there for a sauna now and then. Maybe play a game of cards with Milton Berle. Or George Burns. Frank or Dean when they’re in town. It’s relaxing. A men’s den.
“Maybe you’d like to go there after dinner?” she suggests over veal scaloppini.
He shakes his head. “I just want to go home and get to bed early.”
He looks so old. “Why don’t you come home with me,” she pleads, gripping his hand as if he might evaporate.
Taking him into her bed that night, she clings and inhales his breath, giving him hers as if it might buoy him, save him from being sucked into the blackness. “I love you,” she tells him. “Don’t disappear.” He buries his face in her neck, says nothing. He leaves at daybreak.
Three days later, her last morning in town, she wakes to the phone and Johnny’s “Hi, sweetheart.”
Gravel is still in her voice. “Why didn’t you call me? Where were you?”
“New York. Everything’s fine. False alarm.”
“New York?”
“Had a meet with a guy. It’s fine. No national security.”
She looks at the clock. “Why are there FBI agents following you around then?”
“Ah, casinos.”
“Taxes?”
“Everything’s fine.”
Rolling onto her side, she flicks at the pillowcase. “I have a flight back to New York today.”
“I guess we’ll just miss each other. I’m on a flight out this afternoon.”
“Maybe I could postpone my trip.”
“No, I’m in and out. Stopping in L.A. then I’ve got some other business. Listen, can you do me a favour? There’s a package there I want brought back to New York tonight. Can I send a guy round?”
“I guess. Is it big?”
“Na. Just a little gift box. It’s a shirt for a friend. The guy’ll tell you where to drop it.”
She sighs. “Okay. Is … Are we …”
“What’s wrong?”
“We just—we were together the other night. And it doesn’t seem like you even—”
“Aw, honey. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. But you’ve got to get back to work and I have to do the same.”
She kicks off the blankets and stares at the ceiling.
“You still there?”
“I should let you go. I’m sure you’re busy.” She hangs up then dials.
“Hello, my lovely,” Annie breathes in her vixen voice. “How’s tricks in the land of Hot and Vacuous?—Hey, I saw Johnny out last night.”
“Where? I just got off the phone with him.”
“Elmo’s. He was out with Betsy Duncan.”
“Who’s Betsy Duncan?”
“Nightclub singer
. You know her.”
“I thought they weren’t seeing each other anymore.”
“You know John, always got something on his arm. Since when do you care?”
“I don’t care. It’s just weird is all. He went out there because of his legal shit, and next thing you know he’s picking up tail and club hopping?”
“Don’t tell me you jumped on that old dog.”
Celia fiddles with the phone cord.
“The Silver Fox fucks again.” There is a click in Annie’s ear.
By the time Celia’s in New York, Johnny’s back in L.A. She calls him to say she dropped off his package. He says he’ll be heading to Mexico that evening. Giancana just got out of Cook County and is about to exile himself.
“I’ve never been to Mexico …”
“You should go sometime. You’d like it.” Silence. Then a sigh. “What now?”
“How could you be with me like that and then just …”
“You know how my life is. I’ve got business.”
“Annie needs the phone, I gotta go. Have a ball.” She hangs up.
“Was that Capote?” Annie takes the lighter from Celia and fires one up for herself. “You didn’t just say no to a party, did you? I liked the one we went to.”
“Fine.” She pushes the phone across the kitchen table. “You go then.”
“Fine. I will.”
“He told me about Bobby’s affair with Candace Bergen. It was in all the Paris papers,” she mimics.
Annie flicks her ash into the tray. “What’re you so hacked about?”
“Everything.”
“Long as it’s not the goddamn war. Ran into Betsy Duncan yesterday and she said Johnny was raging on about how we’re trying to fight communism and these asshole protesters have nothing better to do but—blablabla.”
Celia chomps the inside of her cheeks. “Well, tough. Because Vietnam is what’s hacking me the most.”
Annie studies her a moment, a half smile on her lips. “You knew what he was like.”
“Who? Bugger him. I disapprove of this war. That’s how I feel.”
“Awful passionate all of a sudden.”
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