The Hanging

Chapter 26

A large crowd showed up Friday night for Sly’s unveiling celebration. After viewing the film, Sly: The Artist and His Work, on a big outdoor screen set up on the college quad, they all filed into the administration building lobby.

People looking for a good vantage spot mounted the stairway and lined the railing of the second floor corridor, all eyes on the huge silk drape, courtesy of the Theater Department, that shrouded Sly’s sculpture hanging from the ceiling above the open stairwell. Cameras flashed, strobes in the softly lit space.

Everything was ready for a party. Tables loaded with exquisite little pastries made by the Culinary Arts students and two-bite-sized pizzas with every imaginable topping, courtesy of Roberta’s Village restaurant, tubs of soft drinks, imported champagne Jean-Paul had asked its American representative to donate, were arranged around the room. Fresh flowers abounded. The college jazz ensemble played on risers set up behind the reception counter.

As conversations rose to a vibrant crescendo, fueled by happy anticipation, two trumpeters emerged from a second-floor office and blew a call to attention, silencing the room as spotlights hit the microphone set up in front of the drape.

Sly, looking handsome in his new blue suit, escorted Bobbie Cusato, wearing a red dress for the occasion, through the crowd and up to the microphone. Bobbie spoke to the crowd first, welcoming the guests before introducing Sly.

Sly took some notecards out of his pocket, and with shaking hands but in a clear voice, thanked everyone who had helped. In the film he had spoken about his vision for the piece, described the media he used to make it a reality, and explained the engineering involved in its assembly. So at that point, there was nothing left to do except reveal it. He and Bobbie each grabbed the ends of silken cords.

Bobbie announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present to you, Palomas Eternas.”

With a triumphant blare of trumpets, overhead spotlights snapped on and Bobbie and Sly pulled the cords. As the drape slithered to the floor revealing the sculpture, the attendees joined in a long, appreciative “Ahh.”

Smiling at each other, Bobbie and Sly both reached into the cascade of tiles and flicked crystals, sending tiny wings of light flying around the room. The crowd laughed and applauded. Preston Nguyen, my new intern, caught it all on film.

Sly stepped back to the microphone and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

Even if he had tried, Sly would never have made it through the crush of well-wishers to get to the food. I saw my daughter, Casey, hand him a plate, but he was so busy I doubted that he would get around to eating anything.

“Perfect night,” Kate said, leaning her shoulder against mine, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

“Absolutely perfect,” I said.

Jean-Paul, Roger and Ricardo began popping champagne corks. A California community college is allowed to serve alcohol on only a few occasions during a calendar year, so wine served in tall crystal flutes meant this was a very special event, indeed. With the chief of police keeping an eagle eye on servers as they passed through the crowd with their trays of glasses, I doubt many of the under-twenty-one set managed to get even a sip.

I saw Mom in conversation with the head of the Dance Department. When they shook hands, I knew something had been settled. For years, Mom had accompanied dance classes at Cal on the piano, so I had my suspicions about what she was up to. I caught her eye and she beamed at me. Even though she hadn’t formally moved down yet, Mom was settling in.

Sly, still holding his untouched plate of food, worked his way toward me.

“So?” he said. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re magnificent,” I said. “Your sculpture suits its place beautifully.”

He leaned in close, and whispered, “Better than a dead guy?”

I nudged his shoulder. “Knock it off, smart-aleck. And eat your pizza, for goodness sake. Did you get a broccoli one? I ordered them special for you.”

“Mmmm.” He folded one of the little pizzas in half-it looked like sausage and peppers-and popped the whole thing into his mouth. Chewing, he said, “My favorite; anything that’s not broccoli.”

“Go. Your admirers await,” I said, pointing my chin toward a group of women students, all of them dressed as brightly and prettily as pansies, who waited to speak with him. “I’ll catch you later.”

He planted a greasy kiss on my cheek, turned and was swallowed up by the crowd.

I was working my way toward Detectives Thornbury and Weber, each with an attractive date for the occasion, when Uncle Max caught my arm.

“What a kid, huh?” he said, wrapping his arm around me as he gazed up at the sculpture. “It looked good when I saw it being assembled in the gallery, but hanging in its place, Maggot, I have to say it is beautiful beyond anything I imagined. Who knew when we hauled that kid’s scrawny butt in off the street that he had something this grand in him.”

“We hauled?” I said, kissing him on the chin. “I remember a certain uncle warning me we were only begging for trouble when we took him on.”

He laughed. “You have to admit, he was a real pain there for a while.”

I had to take a deep breath before I could say, “Mike and Michael got him past the rough parts.”

He patted my back.

I asked him, “How is Frankie?”

“He’s all right. He asked me to tell you he’s sorry, but of course I won’t deliver his message because who knows what you might be asked in court? Wouldn’t want some eager D.A. to tell a jury that Frankie saying he was sorry was tantamount to a confession.”

“Then you’d be right not to tell me.”

Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned to find Michael, Mike’s son, wearing his dress army uniform, grinning at me. Michael was stationed in Hawaii and had told me he couldn’t get leave, so this was a huge and wonderful surprise.

“You made it after all, Captain Flint,” I said, patting the fruit salad of medals on his chest, trying not to give in to tears.

“Sorry I’m late.” He kissed my cheek. “Had to fly stand-by. Took some fast talking, but here I am.” He was looking over the mass of heads. “Where is the squirt?”

I pointed him in the direction I had last seen Sly and he headed into the fray in search. Not a minute later I heard Sly yell, “Michael!”

Even Max had misty eyes when we saw the two embrace. It was Michael’s tutoring that got Sly through school academically, and his friendship that buoyed him through life.

Lana, waving an arm, caught my attention as she wedged her way through the press of people. Max melted away into the crowd when he saw her; Lana was not one of his favorites.

“Fabulous, Maggie,” she said, snagging two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. She handed one to me. Tipping her glass against mine, she said, “L’chaim.”

“To life.”

She leaned in close. “The French boyfriend is gorgeous-good for you.”

“How do you know which one is Jean-Paul?”

“Guido pointed him out.”

She was searching the crowd. “I saw you talking to that handsome uncle of yours. Where’d he go? We have some business to discuss.”

“Do we?” I asked.

“You’re hot now, honey,” she said. “The network wants to talk about a new series. Where’s Max?”

I pointed. “He went that way.”

Jean-Paul slipped into the space she vacated and slipped his hand under my elbow. He canted his head toward the jazz combo.

“Do you hear what they’re playing?”

It was the old Dooley Wilson standard, “As Time Goes By.”

“What would Bogart do now?” I asked.

He put his lips against my ear. “He would put his arm around the girl and dance her out of the room.”