“I promise I won’t stay. I’ve just been rolling around what you told me and the letters. And what the books say and—couldn’t we please talk again?”
“No.”
I felt as if I’d been punched in the throat.
“What’re you doing?” She squinted at me. “Oh, don’t start with the waterworks.” She made claws of her hands and threatened her scalp with them. “It’s the past,” she said. “What do you wanna dredge all that up for? What does she say about you asking this stuff?”
I clutched at all my armful of papers and pictures. “She’s dead. She can’t help me.”
“I mean. Yeah.” She shook her head as if that might jar things back in place. “What did she say before? I don’t like talking about those times. I told you all there is.” She grabbed the arm of the lounger and pushed herself up.
“Your ankle’s better,” I said, noticing the cane was gone.
“It was just a little sprain. I don’t like canes.” She turned and went through the open glass door to the kitchen. I followed but stayed outside. Looking back, she rolled her eyes dramatically and waved me in. “You wanna drink or something?”
“Just water.”
“Water,” she repeated and took a bothered breath.
I sat at her table, put my things down. “I just want to understand what happened at the end. Why she decided to quit. She was dating Bobby Kennedy around the time he was killed, wasn’t she?”
“Yes,” she stated as if answering a phone survey. She held a tall glass under the spout of her water cooler.
“And she got involved romantically with Johnny Rosselli at the same time.”
She set the full glass on the counter beside her and gave another matter-of-fact affirmation.
“Did they know about each other?” She looked at me but didn’t respond. “Did Johnny know?”
“Yes.”
“Did Bobby know?”
Her jaw moseyed around like a field cow’s. “Eventually.”
“Was he angry?”
“Yes.”
“And Johnny’was angry.” She didn’t answer. “I wondered if—Did he try to get Bobby to help him with his trial?” She peered at me. “He was on trial for the Friars Club thing.” I looked at the glass of water but it seemed she’d decided not to give it to me. “They subpoenaed her to testify against him, right?”
She ruminated briefly. “Yes.”
“She must’ve been scared.” Her eyebrows moved slightly. “He was on trial in L.A. at the same time Bobby came here to campaign. She must’ve been in California too. It must’ve been messy and scary and, and fucked up.”
“Yes,” she said, her face registering a little something. “She was booked at the Grove.”
“Did Johnny ever try to get Bobby to call off the investigation? I mean, did he try to enlist Celia to get him to help?”
“They didn’t like each other,” she stated coolly.
“Were they pissed off at her?”
“Yes.” Her face was still and then, “He was a sonuvabitch at the end.”
“Bobby?”
“I’m taking you back to New York.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Johnny reaches for his slacks.
“I take it I’m not really booked at the Grove.” Still under the sheets, Celia props herself on one elbow.
He pulls on his shirt. “We’re taking the three o’clock flight. I’ll pick you up at one-thirty.”
“You’re escorting me back to New York? This is ridiculous.”
He stands to tuck his shirt. “I think so too. But that’s the way it goes.”
She falls back in the pillows. “Can we go across to the Derby for breakfast?”
He straightens his jacket, “I’ll see you at one-thirty,” and walks out the door.
She lies still a moment then grabs for the telephone. Annie picks up and says, “Finally! Didn’t you get my messages? I left two last night.”
“No. Furthermore I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your trap shut about my whereabouts. Why would you tell him I went to Oregon? I thought he was going to put my lights out.”
“Bobby? But you—”
“Johnny!”
“I didn’t.”
“Bullshit—who else knew but you? You told someone.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Bobby’s in town and Johnny’s about to run me out of L.A., for godsake.” Silence on Annie’s end. “I know I have to end it—I just want to see him once more.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t tell me don’t. If it weren’t for—”
“I don’t want to discuss this over the phone. I gotta go out of town. I’ll call you.” The line goes dead.
Celia slams the receiver down, climbs out of bed and throws some clothes on.
As she heads out the door, Agents Dodge and Richards walk toward her.
“Celia,” Richards says. “Just the girl we want to see.”
She hesitates then plows ahead. “Since when are we on a first-name basis?”
They follow, one on either side as she jams her thumb in the elevator call button. “Your first name is actually Audrey, isn’t it?” Dodge asks. “Must’ve been sad for you when they noosed up Teddy the Ghost and then next thing you know Micky D gets dredged from the bottom of the pond.”
“Like scum.” Richards nods sombrely.
The three of them step into the elevator. Celia hugs herself as they descend. “You have me confused with someone else.”
“I’m sure I’ve got this right. Just a second.” Dodge reaches inside his jacket with one hand and presses stop with the other. They lurch to a standstill.
She stares at the envelope held out to her, Call my lawyer echoing in her head. She snatches it from him and, slipping her fingers in, takes out a single photo: her skinny sixteen-year-old self in a cocktail uniform at The 92. Micky D’s birthday. Holding a cake, she stands over a table of the Boys and their girlfriends.
“They say he was a good dancer,” Richards sighs. “Light on his feet.”
“Kind of ironic that he died with cement shoes on,” Dodge adds. He hands her another envelope. Celia D’arelli is typed across the white. “Here’s my concern, Audrey.”
“I think she’d be more comfortable if we addressed her as Celia,” Richards suggests.
As she tears the flap, trembling takes over and both envelopes float to the floor.
“Oopsy daisy.” Richards bends and picks them up, tucks the first in her purse, opens the second before handing it back. “There, I got it started for you.”
She pulls out a page folded in thirds.
“It’s a subpoena,” Dodge explains. “Micky D and your boyfriend, Teddy, got a couple just like it. Micky was turning out to be one of the good guys, you see, he was on our side. But then he was on their side. You can’t play two sides. Someone always gets hurt.”
She throws the page on the floor. “Call my lawyer.”
Richards bends again. “You’ve been served. Once you’ve touched it …” Tucking the paper back into her hand, he sets the elevator into motion.
Dodge looks at her sympathetically. “You seem like a nice kid. I’m sure we can find a way out of this.”
Doors open, the men leave. Doors close. Alone, she swallows. The doors reopen and two women chatter in, followed by Rosselli. His eyebrows bounce playfully at the sight of her. “Caughtcha,” he says. “Come on back up, I want to talk to you about something.”
Taking her hand, he leads her back to the suite, lets them in. He watches her eyes on his key. “I got us a second one. We’re not going back to New York tonight …” She pushes past him, sits on the sofa and stuffs her hands under her legs.
“You’re still upset with me?” He sighs, standing in front of her. “Look, we’re going to do this thing and we’ll take you back to New York tomorrow.”
Finally she blurts, “Do you know who killed Micky D?”
“The guy in the lake? Of course not.” He stares. “How could yo
u ask such a thing?”
“Was he supposed to testify against someone?”
“I would have no idea about that. I didn’t know the man.”
“What about Teddy? Was he supposed to testify?”
“He’d just got out of prison.”
Tugging her hands out, she hands him the subpoena. “They said Teddy and Micky got ones just like it. And now they’re dead.”
“Horseshit. I’ve been called to testify. Am I in the lake?” He scans the page. “You’re a loyal girl. People know.” He folds it back up. “All the more reason …” He reaches inside his jacket. “Kennedy’s back for the convention tomorrow. I want you to give him this.”
She accepts yet another envelope. “What is it?”
“He’ll understand.”
“Should I tell him about that?” she eyes her subpoena.
“Yes.” He takes her hands and speaks softly. “Tomorrow is the last time you’re going to see him. If you care about him and me, you’ll do what I ask. And if he cares, he’ll take care of this business. We’ll go back to New York tomorrow night.” Standing, he tugs her up with him. “This is the hard part. After this, it’ll all be downhill.”
She frowns. All downhill. Coasting to a good thing or plunging to a bad?
He suggests they go over to the Brown Derby the way she wanted. As they come through the door of the restaurant, her ears fill with a hollow din as if she’s walking into a seashell. She takes in the diners’ faces all split wide, and it’s hard to tell at first if they’re laughing or screaming.
After lunch, he walks her back to the hotel. His gaze coasts over the lobby, the fountain in the middle, water falling in torrents as he holds her shoulders. “I gotta go.” His hands drop to her waist, travel firmly up her ribs, thumbs brushing her breasts.
She looks past him to the glass entrance, imagines herself on the top floor, galloping toward the windowpane, thrashing through in a tackle of shards and limbs, the screech soaring out of her mouth and ears and eyes and nostrils, howling to the pavement. And quiet.
Johnny kisses her mouth. “Be good. I’ll come by tonight.”
People stroll past the fountain, front desk to the bank to the café, the lounge. Floor numbers light over the elevators and she starts toward them, stops and goes to the front desk. “Do you have any messages for Celia Dare in 510?”
“Certainly, Miss Dare, I believe there are—oh, no. I’m mistaken. You must have picked them up already. You received yesterday’s and this morning’s?” She shakes her head. “Perhaps the other guest in your room …”
In her room, she dials home. No answer.
A knock at the door. She opens to a bellboy who hands her a chilled bottle of champagne, compliments of Mr. Rosselli. The moment the door closes, she pops the cork and pours a glass. Waiting for the foam to die, she slugs from the bottle and paces to the window, looks down on the gardens. She takes the bottle into the bathroom, runs a bath.
By five, the champagne is gone and the bath water refuses to warm up again. On the television: news coverage of Bobby’s exhaustion in San Diego. In the clip he suddenly stops speaking and sits down at the edge of the stage, his head in his hands. The cameras catch Ethel’s fright as he is led offstage. Celia’s throat constricts. Bobby comes back to finish, raises two fingers in a peace sign at the crowd.
She roots in her suitcase for pills. A thick tarry sleep is what she wants now, viscous black nothing. She calls room service and orders more champagne.
In the dark, Bobby plays and runs in the hotel hall, a football flying. Kids and dogs, barking, Ethel, Ethel, Ethel, her hairspray, and hair and hair and hair, and the kids playing with a baby monkey. The monkey has Ethel’s wig on its head. Ethel crawls in bed, taps her forehead to Celia’s. “You’re next, little girl,” she says. Pills rattle and Johnny himself wraps round her, stroking her temple. The weight of him, the slide of his tongue. Then barking. Bobby’s dog, Freckles, licking her hand and her knees, nosing up between her thighs. Stewart is over her, spreading her legs carefully like a surgeon would. He asks Dodge and Richards to hold her still as he prints A.u.d.r.e.y. up one leg and down the other.
When she wakes, her neck is sloppy and useless, head drooping side to side. She opens her pills again, swallows two more with a bit of flat champagne.
Sometime later, she feels the pitch of the room, the air dense against her. Opening her mouth, she tries to make a noise.
“It’s okay, I’m here. I’m here,” she hears.
She struggles to make words. His hand smoothes her skin and she feels him behind, above and below. “After tomorrow, everything will be fine.”
When she opens her eyes again, the drapes are open. Sitting up, she suddenly feels queasy and staggers to the washroom. She kneels at the toilet, dry-heaves. She puts her finger down her throat but her stomach is empty. Standing up finally, she splashes cool water on her face and then flips on the shower.
Room service delivers lunch. Sampling everything slowly, to keep her stomach steady, she picks up the envelope that Johnny left and wonders how she will face anyone today. How she will get on a plane? After a few bites her stomach settles enough to call the front desk and ask for Robert Kennedy’s room.
“All the way with RFK,” someone barks in her ear, chatter and cackles in the background.
“Hello,” she stammers. “Bob—is Bobby in?”
“Not for a couple hours. Wanna leave a message?”
She mines her brain. “Could you tell him Nancy West called. I’m in 510.”
“Here at the hotel? You’re right down the hall … I’ll tell him.” The line goes dead. Facing the wall, she imagines them on the other side, aides and campaign workers, busy busy busy. She guzzles coffee.
Later she stands in the mirror, wearing a summer dress, white with black polka dots. It buoys her a little, makes her feel like something fresh from the box. Her roots are beginning to show. She fusses at her makeup, wondering how good they are at passing on messages over there.
Then, a knock. She pushes at her hair a last time.
Door open, Bobby stands waiting, peach-pit lines of exhaustion around his eyes. A quick glance down the hall and he comes inside. “God, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says and grabs hold, kicking the door shut. They hold like that, breathing in one another a moment. His body is a mass of ticking nerves, a disembodied bug’s limb that continues to flinch.
“I saw you on TV, stopping to sit, and I …”
“You thought they poisoned me?” He steps back. “Just exhaustion.” He paces across the room and back. “I got cramps in my stomach and felt dizzy. I just had to sit a second before I fell. It’s been such a—Hey, we took South Dakota!”
“You did?” she beams. “Oh! I’m so proud of you.” She hugs him.
“Results just in.” He nods rapidly and dives his tongue into her mouth. “I’ve been wanting you so much. Look!” His hand jerks from her face, dips into his pocket and presents her with a palm-sized box from his pocket. She takes the lid off and, out of the tissue, lifts a red heart, inscribed with gold.
“So pretty.” Inlaid gold reads, My heart is wax moulded as she pleases, but enduring as marble to retain. B. She touches the lettering and her hand swallows the comfort of its weight. “I wish I could remember words like you, pull them from the air…”
“It’s from The Little Gypsy. Thought of it after I saw you in Oregon.” He pulls at her skirt. His hips push against hers in steady waves, his thighs insisting hers apart. “Oh god,” he says, “you’re shaking.”
Doom oozes through her chest again. She closes her eyes, imagines herself sinking through the bed, the floors, down and down through dirt and beetles and grubs.
Seconds later he gasps and slides down onto the floor, rests his head on her thigh. A quick stroke with his fingers and he tugs her dress back down. She opens her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I’ve got to get back to the suite.” He stands and retucks his shirt, draws up his zi
pper. “Polls are about to close and Ethel’s going to be here any minute.”
“You’re leaving?”
He pulls her up off the couch and squeezes her. “Peter’s having a victory party at the Factory tonight. Will you come?”
Clenching her teeth, she feels things fluttering out windows, disappearing with no explanation. “I have to go back to New York tonight.” No more, she thinks. I don’t want to do this. But it sticks in her throat. Seeing Johnny’s envelope on the coffee table, she says, “The FBI’s been questioning me.”
His head swings. “About me? Shit. Shit! That cocksucking fairy never quits.”
“About me. They’ve been asking about my friends and, ah, they’ve subpoenaed me … I just … I thought maybe you could help me.”
“Help?” He looks incredulous. “What are they questioning you about?”
She hands him the envelope.
Tearing it open, he paces as he reads. “What’s—” He stops, raises his head, a look of bewilderment turning to hatred. “You …” He shakes his head over the page and back at her. “You mercenary little bitch. Your friends think they can shake me down like this?”
“What? No, I didn’t—what does it say?”
“I should’ve known better … A stripper.” He slaps a nearby lamp off its table. “You’re nothing. Just another whore.” He starts for the door.
“Bobby, please. He just told me to give it to you.” She runs after him. “I would never—” She tries to get him to turn around.
“Don’t touch me!” Yanking his arm free, he catches her face and sends her sprawling.
“Bobby, no. No.”
He turns, takes a step and stops but he doesn’t turn around.
A wail pours out. “No,” she howls, on her hands and knees. He walks out the door.
Minutes later, a key is in the lock and Johnny stands over her. “That prick.” He kneels. “You see now?” He tilts her head back, examines her face. “I think he broke it … little puke.” He lifts her off the floor. Looking around, he reaches for the radio and flips it on, volume high. “Please Release Me” takes over the room. “Probably got you bugged,” he murmurs near her ear.
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