’Til Death

Chapter 7

At one end of Tony Carella’s lot, close to the Carella-Birnbaum property line and to the left of the fireworks stage, Weddings-Fetes, Incorporated, had constructed a bandstand. Hung with white bunting, adorned with flowers, it provided a magnificent setting for the local band Tony had hired. The band was called the Sal Martino Orchestra. The band — or the “orchestra” as Sal preferred to call it — consisted of:

One piano player

One drummer

Four saxophonists (two tenor men and two alto men)

Two trumpeters (one lead trumpeter and one second-trumpeter)

And a trombonist

Actually, the ensemble would have been complete — oh, sure, the rhythm section could have used a bass player, but why be picky — would have been complete without the trombonist. A two-man brass section in an eight-piece band (orchestra, that is) was certainly enough brass power. The lead trumpeter would carry the section, and the second trumpeter would handle all the hot solos and screech work. Since the band (orchestra, of course) had a full sax section each member of which doubled on clarinet, the two trumpets would have afforded a well-balanced complement of brass. There really was no need for the trombone.

Sal Martino played the trombone.

He also played the French horn, but never on jobs. He restricted his French horning to the privacy of his bedroom. In all fairness, he was not a bad French hornist, nor was he a bad trombonist. It was just that the band needed him the way they needed a flatted fifth. Or an augmented seventh. The band preferred their chords to be simple and major. A diminished ninth could throw their rehearsals into a tizzy for a solid week. Simplicity was the keynote of the Sal Martino Orchestra. And simplicity certainly did not call for a trombonist in the brass section. But such are the vagaries of leadership.

Besides, Sal Martino looked like a real pro when he was up there leading the band. He was a man in his late twenties, with a high crown of black hair and a small black mustache. His eyes were blue and very soulful. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist and long legs that he wobbled with Presley-like ease while conducting. He sometimes conducted with his right hand. He sometimes conducted with the end of his trombone. He sometimes simply smiled out at the crowd and didn’t conduct at all. Whichever way he did it, the band sounded the same.

Lousy.

Well, not lousy. But pretty bad.

They sounded especially bad when they were tuning up, but then all bands sound bad when they are taking their A from the piano player. At 4:45 that afternoon, the Martino Orchestra was warming up and tuning up and sounding very much like the Boston Pops Symphony minus the Boston and minus the Symphony. Hawes, a music lover by nature, could barely sit still as he listened to the cacophony. He was also slightly disturbed by the fact that neither Sam Jones nor Ben Darcy was yet in evidence anywhere on the grounds. In truth, it was becoming increasingly more difficult to locate anyone in the Carella back yard. Immediately following the ceremony, the Carella household had been overrun by wedding guests who hugged and embraced and kissed each other as if they had not seen each other since the last wedding or funeral — which, in all probability, they hadn’t. The bedroom and adjoining bathroom on the main floor of the Carella home had been set aside for the female guests, another similar setup upstairs having been made available for the gentlemen. As soon as all the embracing and kissing was concluded, the women trotted into the downstairs bedroom to freshen up, so that there was a constant flow of traffic from back yard to back porch to bedroom to bathroom and out again. Hawes was getting somewhat dizzy. In all that sea of strange faces, he longed only to see the vaguely familiar faces of Darcy and Jones, but for the time being he seemed to have lost them completely.

“What’s the matter?” Christine asked him.

“I’m just wondering where Darcy and Jones went.”

“Oh, they’re probably around somewhere.”

“Yes, but where?”

“Have you tried the men’s room?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you?”

“All right, I will. Don’t pick up any stray men while I’m gone.”

“Now, Cotton, would I do a thing like that?”

“Yes.”

He went into the house. A woman coming out of the bedroom said to another woman, “She’s pregnant again, can you imagine? I haven’t been to a wedding in the past five years that she hasn’t been pregnant.”

“She likes children,” her friend said.

“That isn’t what she likes,” the woman said, and they both laughed hysterically, almost bumping into Hawes as he made his way to the steps.

“Oh, excuse me,” the first woman said. Tittering, they went out of the house. Hawes climbed upstairs. The bedroom was cluttered with near and distant relatives of the Carellas and Giordanos. A tall, blue-eyed blond man lounging against the doorjamb said, “Full house, Mac.”

“Mmm,” Hawes said. “I’ll wait.”

“We got a choice?” the blond said.

“The Thunderbird ain’t a sports car,” a man near them said to his friend. “And neither is the Corvette. I got news for you, Charlie. There ain’t no such animal as an American sports car.”

“No?” Charlie said. “Then how come they call them sports cars?”

“What do you want they should call them: armored tanks? You know something?”

“What?” Charlie said.

“When a real sports-car owner passes an American sports car on the road, he don’t even wave.”

“So what?”

“So that’s the sign of courtesy, like tipping your hat to a broad. And they don’t do it. Because American sports cars ain’t sports cars. They’re considered like cockroaches on the road. That’s a fact.”

“Then what’s a sports car?” Charlie asked.

“An MG, or a Jaguar, or a Talbot, or an Alfa Romeo, or a Ferrari, or Ghia, or... ”

“All right, all right,” Charlie said.

“...or a Mercedes-Benz, or a...”

“All right,” Charlie said, “I come up here to go to the John, not to hear a lecture about foreign cars.”

The door to the bathroom opened. A slender man wearing eyeglasses stepped out, zipping his fly.

“Anybody else in there?” Hawes asked him.

“What?”

“In the bathroom.”

“No,” the bespectacled man said. “Of course not. Who else would be in there with me?” He paused. Indignantly, he said, “Who are you?”

“Water Commissioner,” Hawes said. “Just checking.”

“Oh.” The man paused. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, fine, thank you.” He took a last look around the bedroom. No. No Darcy or Jones. He was starting downstairs again when a cheer went up from the back yard. For a moment, Hawes thought the caterers had struck oil. And then he realized what it was.

“They’re here!” someone shouted. “They’re here!”

And at that instant, Sal Martino’s orchestra began playing “Here Comes the Bride.” Hawes joined the general exodus down the steps. Women were pouring out of the downstairs bedroom. Children were screaming and giggling, rushing onto the back porch, anxious for a glimpse of the newly arrived bride and groom. Sighing, Hawes vowed never to get married.

When he got out to the porch at last, he found Christine talking to Sam Jones.

“Well, well,” he said, “this is a surprise. Where’ve you been, Jonesy?”

“Why? Someone looking for me?”

“No, I was just curious.”

“Oh, I’ve been roaming around,” Jonesy said.

Hawes looked at him curiously and skeptically. Sal Martino’s boys were pounding out their third chorus of “Here Comes the Bride.” The music trailed off lamely as the piano player attempted a modulation into another key. Failing, he blinked helplessly at Martino who gave the band a one-two-three count and, waving his trombone frantically, led them into “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”

The master of ceremonies, supplied by the caterers, rushed onto the floor, directing Tommy to dance with Angela. He needed no prompting.

“Best man!” the caterer shouted. “Maid of honor!”

“Excuse me,” Jonesy said, and he rushed over to the long wooden rectangle that had been put down as a dance floor, ringed in by the long white tables. He took the maid of honor into his arms, and the MC beamed happily and then began pairing off ushers and bridesmaids, Tony and Louisa Carella, Steve and Teddy, and anyone else he saw in a tuxedo or a gown. The band segued into “Always,” and the MC beamed some more, and then pulled Angela from Tommy’s grasp and shoved her into Jonesy’s arms, filling the void with the maid of honor whom Tommy accepted with a slightly dismayed smile. Ushers and bridesmaids began changing partners. Paunch to paunch, Tony Carella and his daughter-in-law whirled about the floor. Louisa Carella found herself in her son’s arms.

“So?” Carella said. “Are you happy, Mom?”

“Yes. It was a beautiful wedding, Stevie. You should have got married in church.”

“Now, stop it.”

“All right, you big atheist.”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t go to church.”

“I work on Sundays.”

“Only sometimes.”

The band had somehow successfully modulated into “The Anniversary Waltz.” The MC waved his arms at the people lining the dance floor, and they began filtering onto it, two by two, joining the wedding party. Tommy politely but firmly deposited the maid of honor into Jonesy’s grip and pulled his bride to him. A tall redheaded girl in a green silk dress that had surely been applied with a spray gun, suddenly broke away from her partner and shouted, “Steve! Steve Carella!”

Carella turned. The redhead’s voice was not exactly what he’d have called dulcet. It boomed across the dance floor with all the energy of a nuclear explosion. Teddy Carella, dancing with her father-in-law, happened to turn just as the redhead threw her arms around Carella’s neck and planted a kiss on his mouth.

Carella blinked.

“Steve,” the redhead said, “don’t you remember me? Don’t you remember Faye?”

Carella seemed to be having a little difficulty with the memory. He seemed also to be having a little difficulty with Faye herself whose arms were still firmly entwined about his neck. The green silk dress, in addition to having been sprayed on, was cut low in the front, very low. Glancing over the girl’s shoulder, Carella saw Teddy whirl by in his father’s arms, and he saw a frown beginning on her face.

“I... I...” he stammered, “don’t seem to...”

“New Jersey?” the girl prompted. “Flemington? The wedding? Don’t you remember? Oh, how we danced!”

Dimly, Carella remembered a wedding years and years ago. God, he must have been eighteen and yes, there was a redhead, a slender, bosomy girl of seventeen, and yes, he’d danced with her all night, and yes, her name was Faye, and oh my God!

“Hello, Faye,” he said weakly.

“Come!” Faye commanded. “Dance with me! You don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Carella?”

“No,” Louisa said, “but...” and she shot an apprehensive glance across the floor to Teddy, who was craning her neck over her shoulder to observe any new developments.

Faye pulled Carella to her. She threw her left arm up around his neck and Carella was overpowered by the scent of a heady perfume that drifted into his nostrils. Faye put her cheek against his.

“How have you been, Steve?” she asked.

And Carella answered, “Married.”

Across the floor, Ben Darcy cut in on Tommy Giordano. Tommy, surprised, did not relinquish his bride for a moment.

“Come on,” Ben said, smiling. “You’ve got to share the wealth.”

Graciously, Tommy bowed and handed Angela to Ben. They danced in silence for several moments. Then Ben said, “Happy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love him?”

“Oh, yes,” Angela said. “Yes, yes!”

“I used to hope... well, you know.”

“What, Ben?”

“We saw an awful lot of each other when we were kids, Angela.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You told me you loved me.”

“I know I did. We were kids, Ben.”

“I loved you, Angela.”

“Ben...”

“I’ve never met another girl like you, do you know that?”

“I think they’ll be serving soon. Maybe we’d better—”

“Never a girl as pretty as you, or as smart as you, or as warm and exciting as—”

“Ben, please!”

“I’m sorry, Angela. It’s just — I used to think this would be us. It could have been us, you know.”

“Everyone grows up, Ben.”

“Angela, you once said... when we were younger... when you first met Tommy... I called you, I remember, and you told me it was all over between us. Do you remember that?”

“Yes, Ben. I do.”

“You shouldn’t have ended it on the telephone. Not after what we’d been to each other.”

“I’m sorry. I suppose... I just wanted it to be clean, Ben. Over with. Done. I didn’t want one of those long, drawn-out—”

“I know, I know. And okay, I don’t mind. But... when I was talking to you on the phone, I said if... if anything ever went wrong between you and Tommy, I’d be waiting. Remember that?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“And you said, ‘All right, Ben. I’ll keep that in mind.’ Do you remember saying that?”

“It was such a long time ago, Ben. I really don’t—”

“I’m still waiting, Angela.”

“What?”

“If anything should go wrong, if anything at all should happen between you, I’ll be here. You can count on me. I’ll take you in a minute, Angela. I loved you once, Angela, and I still—”

“Ben, please stop it. Please.”

“Just remember. I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be waiting, Angela.”

The Green Corner was a tree-shaded house with a winding walk lined with azalea bushes in full bloom. Meyer and O’Brien walked leisurely to the front door and rang the bell.

“Coming,” a voice said, and they waited as footsteps approached the door. The door opened. A wispy little woman in a dark-blue dress stood there, smiling. From somewhere in the house, a dog began barking.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” Meyer answered. “Are you the lady of the house?”

“My, do they send salesmen around on Sundays, too?” the little woman asked.

“No, we’re from the police,” Meyer said. The smile dropped from the little woman’s mouth. “Now, don’t be alarmed,” he added hastily. “We only wanted to—”

“I’m only the dog sitter,” the little woman said. “I don’t even live here. I don’t know anything about any lawbreaking that’s been going on. I come to sit with the dog, that’s all.”

“No one’s broken any law,” O’Brien said. “We only wanted to ask some questions, lady.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about anyone who lives here. I only sit with the dog. His name is Butch, and he tears up the furniture if they leave him alone, he gets so lonely and miserable. So I sit with him. Butch is the only one I know here.”

“Do you know the owners of the house?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Travers, yes, but not so good as I know Butch. Butch is a Golden Retriever, but he chews up the furniture. Which is why—”

“Know any of the roomers?”

“Yes, there’s old Mr. Van Ness on the top floor, but he’s out right now. And there’s Mrs. Wittley, but she’s out, too. And then there’s the new girl, Oona Blake, but she’s out, too. And I don’t know any of them real good except Butch. He’s the only reason I come over here. I’m one of the best dog sitters in the neighborhood.”

“This Oona Blake,” O’Brien said. “Is it Miss or Mrs.?”

“Miss, of course. Why, she’s just a young girl.”

“How old?”

“Not thirty yet, I would say.”

“You said she’s out right now. Do you know what time she left?”

“Yes. Early this morning. I know because the Traverses are away for the weekend, which is why I’m sitting with Butch. I got here yesterday. And I was here this morning when Miss Blake left.”

“What time would you say that was?”

“Right after breakfast. I also make the meals when the Traverses are gone.”

“Did anyone call for her?”

“Who? Mrs. Travers?”

“No. Miss Blake.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, someone did.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know him. I told you, I don’t know much of the goings-on here. You ask me, the Traverses run this place too loose. Too loose.”

“Was the man carrying anything?”

“What man?”

“The man who picked up Miss Blake.”

“Oh. Him. Yes, he was. A trombone case.”

“A trombone case? Not a trumpet? Or a saxophone?”

“No, a trombone. Don’t I know a trombone when I see one? A long black case. Oh, it was a trombone, all right.”

“What did he look like?”

“I didn’t get a good look. He was sitting in the parlor waiting for her, and the shades were drawn. But I saw the trombone case leaning against the armchair.” The little woman paused. “She won’t be here long, anyway. That Oona Blake.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I was dog-sitting last week. She got three calls in the same day. All from the same place. A real estate agent. She’ll be moving soon, that one.”

“Which real estate agent? Do you recall the name?”

“Certainly. She got three calls in the same day. Besides, it isn’t far from here.”

“What’s the name?” O’Brien asked.

“Pullen Real Estate. It’s the next elevated stop from here. Right on the corner, under the station.”

“Can you tell us what Oona Blake looks like?” Meyer asked.

“Yes, certainly. But I don’t really know very much about her. Where shall I start?”

“What was she wearing when she left here this morning?”

“A red silk dress, rather low cut. Red high-heeled pumps. No stockings. A little sort of red feather in her hair, with a rhinestone clip.”

“Was she carrying a purse?”

“One of these small things that all you can fit into are a compact and lipstick and a few odds and ends.”

“Was that red, too?”

“No. It was a dark blue. Sequins, I believe.”

“And how would you describe her?”

“She’s a blonde. I think it’s natural. She’s very well developed. If you ask me, she’s got a thyroid condition. Anyway, she’s a very big girl. Noisy, I guess. Or perhaps she just talks loud. She’s very pretty, I would say. Blue eyes. She gives an impression of... I don’t know... being strong, I guess. She’s got a nice smile and a pretty nose. Does that help?”

“Yes. Thank you very much.”

“You going to that real estate office now?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t. He’s closed on Sundays.”

The girl dancing with Bert Kling was wearing a red silk dress and red high-heeled pumps. She wore a red feather in her hair, and the feather tickled Kling’s cheek as he maneuvered her over the makeshift dance floor. People were beginning to filter to the tables where cocktails had been placed at each setting. Kling was beginning to feel a little hungry. Perhaps it was the way the girl danced, with a sort of nervous, pushing energy that demanded all his leading skill to counter. She was a very busty girl, and she danced quite close, her long blonde hair brushing his cheek. She seemed quite feminine and lovely — even though she was a big girl — but there was nonetheless this pushing quality about her which gave him the feeling that she was leading him around the dance floor. The strength seemed in direct contradiction to the blue eyes and lovely smile that had first attracted him to her. The eyes and the smile had been totally female. The dancing was the footwork of a steel magnate, a person with something to do, a person anxious to get it done.

The band, once one got used to it, wasn’t really half bad. Playing a medley of foxtrots, they moved smoothly from one number to the next, keeping a steady danceable beat. Sal Martino had put his trombone on a chair that rested on the bandstand alongside him, and he led the orchestra with his right hand, smiling out at the crowd occasionally. Waiters rushed across the lawn carrying drinks. Kling’s eyes moved across the dance floor. Ben Darcy was still dancing with Angela. The pair seemed to be having an argument. Steve Carella was dancing with a redhead who’d undoubtedly leaped from the pages of Playboy although, Kling mused, the same observation could probably be made about the blonde who was pushing him around the floor. Teddy Carella didn’t look too damn happy about the inflammable girl in the green dress. Cotton Hawes didn’t look too happy, either. Dismally, he watched Christine Maxwell dancing with Sam Jones.

This is one hell of a wedding, Kling thought. Everybody bursting with joy. Even Steve looks pretty gloomy, though I can’t see why that redhead should make any man gloomy.

“I don’t think I know your name,” Kling said to the blonde in the red dress.

“You don’t,” she answered. Her voice was deep and husky.

“Mine’s Bert.”

“Nice to know you,” the blonde said.

He waited for her to offer her name. When she didn’t, he let it pass. What the hell, if a girl didn’t want to give her name, there was no sense forcing her. Besides, he told himself in deference to his fiancée, he was only dancing so that he wouldn’t look conspicuous standing on the sidelines.

“You a relative?” he asked.

“No.” The girl paused. “Are you?”

“No.” Kling paused. “Friend of the bride?”

The girl hesitated for just a fraction of a second. Then she said, “Yes.”

“Nice wedding,” Kling said.

“Lovely,” the girl agreed, and she continued to push him around the floor as if in a hurry to get nowhere particularly fast.

On the bandstand, Sal Martino leaned over to pick up his trombone.

From the corner of his eye, Kling caught the movement. He turned to face the bandleader. Sal’s coat fell open as he picked up the horn. He stood up quickly then, the horn in both hands.

Kling’s arm tightened involuntarily around the blonde’s waist.

“Hey,” she said. “Easy does it, boy.”

Kling released her. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, and he left her standing in the middle of the dance floor.

Teddy Carella sat at the table alongside the bride’s table, sipping disconsolately at a Manhattan, watching her husband cavort in the arms of a redheaded sexpot from Flemington, New Jersey.

This is not fair, she thought angrily. There is no competition here. I don’t know who that damn girl is, or what she wants — although what she wants seems pretty apparent — but I do know that she is svelte and trim and wearing a dress designed for a size eight. Since she is at least a ten, and possibly a twelve, the odds are stacked against me to begin with. I am at least a size fifty-four right now. When will this baby come? Next week did the doctor say? Yes, next week. Next week and four thousand years from now. I’ve been big forever. I hope it’s a boy. Mark, if it’s a boy. Mark Carella. That’s a good name.

Steve, you don’t have to hold her so damn close!

I mean, really, goddamnit!

And April if it’s a girl.

I wonder if I should faint or something. That would bring him back to the table in a hurry, all right. Although I can’t really say that he’s holding her close because she seems to be doing all the holding. But I guess holding works both ways, and don’t think this has been easy on me, Steve, my pet, and you really needn’t — Steve! If your hand moves another inch, I am going to crown you with a champagne bottle!

She watched as Bert Kling pushed his way through the dancers, heading for her husband.

Is he going to cut in? she wondered.

And then Kling’s hand clamped down on Carella’s shoulder, and he backed away from the redhead as Kling whispered something in his ear.

Carella blinked.

“What? What did you say?”

In a hurried whisper, Kling repeated, “The bandleader! He’s carrying a gun under his coat!”