Chapter 23 - Where the Truth Lies

IT GOT WORSE, of course. I found myself in the highly uncoveted center seat of three, between a keypunch operator named Rory who wore a necklace of hand-carved African fertility symbols (although he himself was Caucasian), whose various symbolisms he felt compelled to explain to me in detail, and a heavyset fellow who never introduced himself because he was busy snoring.

I determined that there had to be something good or useful I could harvest out of this astoundingly pointless trip other than seeing Beejay, who at two A.M. was not going to be that thrilled about seeing me.

I knew I had already played around far too much with both of these boys. Some aphorism my mother had imparted to me about mud and lying with pigs came vaguely to mind, although only Lanny could sustain the analogy. Vince had been far from hoggish and nothing but a gentleman. I, on the other hand, had been every bit the unsavory sow. Once, after a particularly unpleasant sexual encounter when I was nineteen, I had had the momentary wish that I could move to another town and be a virgin all over again. I wished there was a way to do that now, to get clean again.

Another town.

As before, the most clean I ever felt in this matter was when I dedicated my concern to Maureen O’Flaherty. I had no idea how much danger either of the boys represented to me nor how dark that unholy night in Miami had been, and I would never know any of that until I had answered the question Maureen’s mother had wanted me to ask the boys. I would now make it my overriding question as well.

Why did Maureen have to die?

Not whether it was Vince or Lanny or both of them. Not which minion of Sally Santoro’s might have put her dead body in the tub or what hold the mob boss would then have had over either of the boys. Simply the “why” of her death. Once I had that, I suspected that the answers to all my other questions would come rushing at me like sharks at a swimmer with a nosebleed.

Nothing in my research in either Los Angeles or New York had brought me closer to the truth. I’d gleaned little from Palisades Park or the O’Flahertys’ home in New Rochelle. But wedged in my economy seat, I remembered the little shrine Mrs. O’Flaherty had assembled on the dresser in her austere bedroom. And I remembered being amused by the return address on a postcard Maureen had mailed her parents from Florida. It would be easy enough to call Mrs. O’Flaherty in the morning and ask her to give me the full address over the phone.

I was flying to the East Coast for no good reason. There was nothing I could do about that now. But if tomorrow I then flew from JFK to Miami, the flight would be two and a half hours shorter than if I’d flown to Miami from Los Angeles. It was not a powerful rationale for the flight I was currently taking, but it would make me feel a shade less stupid about having taken it.

We landed at something close to our originally scheduled ETA, there being at that hour no delay in getting landing clearance. The charming Adolfo was indeed there at the exit from the baggage-claim area, holding a sign marked O. CONNER, which I took to be me. I asked Adolfo to wait while I made a call from a pay phone. I called Information and, in what I hoped for Adolfo’s benefit was an agitated voice, told the operator I needed the phone number of a hospital where my injured brother had been taken. All I knew was that it was not too far from JFK airport.

“Do you have a name for the hospital?” the operator asked. I said that I thought it began with the word Saint. She said she had a number of those in the area. She named a Saint Mary’s in Far Rockaway, which seemed a credible distance, not too far, but enough of a drive to give Adolfo something to do. She gave me the address as well as the number and wished my brother a speedy recovery.

I told Adolfo the address and he said he knew where that was. I sat back in the limo and noticed three cut-glass decanters, a small bucket of ice, and some sparkling-clean tumblers set into a mahogany bar planted midway between my seat and two rear-facing jump seats. I helped myself to ice and reached for the decanter filled with brown liquid. It was probably Johnnie Walker Red, not my favorite, but who was I to complain? I would have asked Adolfo to play some music, but I thought that might seem odd. A woman flying in to visit her dying brother might need a stiff drink to bolster her nerves, but she probably wouldn’t need to hear Steely Dan.

We pulled up to the emergency-room dock at Saint Mary’s, the only entrance open at this hour. Adolfo intended to go in with me, but I told him there was no need for him to be waiting in an emergency room full of sick people and the victims of knife and gun wounds. This depiction mollified his eagerness, and he told me he’d stay right there until I knew more.

A small desk served as the sentry post for the emergency room, manned by a Russian woman who’d seen everything and was reading a romance novel. I asked her if anyone had been admitted there in the last twelve hours with a head injury. She said she’d need a name. I said the name was “Cledrow Gommelfarver.” I spelled it for her and made her check for the name twice. I figured that if anyone (such as this mythical and unlikely private detective whom I’d fantasized Vince hiring) were to ask her the name that I’d asked for, even if she remembered it accurately it would sound like she hadn’t heard it properly. “Something like Cledrow Gommelfarver,” she’d say in her heavy accent, and the detective would roll his eyes. That’s if she remembered. My guess was she’d simply say it was a funny name she’d never heard before.

I didn’t actually think Vince was going to hire a private detective. I didn’t even think he doubted my story. I just wanted to play it safe.

I returned to the car, looking grim and heartbroken. Adolfo looked concerned.

“I was too late,” I said bitterly.

Bye, Cliffy. We hardly knew ye.

Adolfo crossed himself and apologized for not having gotten here faster. I reassured him: “No, no, he passed away before my plane landed. His last words were ‘No tears.’ ” I said this primarily because I wasn’t a good enough actress to credibly cry on demand. Better I play the stoic. “His body isn’t even here; it’s at a funeral home in Rego Park.”

Adolfo offered to drive me there, even if it was now well after midnight. I shook my head. “No, they’re flying his ashes down to South Florida tomorrow, where he was born. There will be a ceremony there, and his remains will be scattered throughout the Everglades he loved so well.” Adolfo nodded compassionately.

I asked Adolfo if he’d be kind enough to drive me back to JFK. I’d check in at the Hilton hotel there (“Not that I’ll get any sleep,” I sighed) and take the first available flight to Miami in the morning.

Adolfo got me to the Hilton, gave me his personalized Fugazy card, and said if I needed anything at all, I should not hesitate to call him. I pointed out that the regular airport shuttle would get me to the Air Florida ticket window in under ten minutes. I tried to tip him but he refused it, saying it was included in the billing.

The Hilton was used to individuals staggering in at three A.M. minus their luggage, their connecting flight canceled, who preferred to rent a room for a few hours than spend the night in a plastic seat at the terminal. The night clerk asked if I needed to be wakened, and I asked for a seven A.M. call.

I got to my room, took off all my clothes, and hung them in the bathroom, where I’d let my morning shower steam some of the wrinkles out of them for me. I flipped on the TV, turned to Channel 2 for what was left of the Late, Late Show, and yanked the bedspread and the thin blanket off the bed. As I lay down on the cool sheets, a public service commercial ended and we went back to the movie. It would have been fitting if the movie had featured Vince and Lanny, or at least Michael Caine, but it was The Quiet Man, with John Wayne and the hauntingly lovely Maureen O’Hara. The two were being driven by Barry Fitzgerald on their first date; John looked handsome, but I only had eyes at this moment for Maureen, lovely Maureen, her opulently red hair giving the TV set quite a challenge in the tint-and-hue department. As I fell asleep, Maureen was smiling sadly on the screen, with a questioning look in her eyes that was surely intended only for me.