53

Eduardo’s stretch limousine, containing Eduardo and Charley, picked up Claire Coolidge at the entrance to her apartment building, and the car moved downtown to City Hall for the wedding ceremony. As Eduardo and Charley had left the Barker’s Hill offices, Charley had asked what sort of a wedding present Eduardo was going to give.

“A check,” Eduardo said.

“How much?” Charley asked.

“Five thousand.”

“Don’t give it to her today,” Charley advised. “Send it to her with a formal note. It’s better to keep a distance between you so as not to embarrass the young man.”

“My dear fellow, of course I won’t give it to her today.”

The bride was so happy that even Eduardo had to decide that it was all worth having to give her up. Charley had a bouquet of flowers for her in the front seat, which he gave to her. She chatted excitedly all the way downtown.

“I don’t want you two starchy WASPs to be too surprised when you meet Joseph,” she said. “He’s Italian way back. One of those dark, romantic Mediterranean beauties. And he loves the ballet.”

“I have nothing against Italians,” Eduardo said.

“Neither have I,” Charley put in loyally. “I have known some very pleasant Italians.”

“As a matter of fact,” Claire said, “I am actually Italian. My parents are, that is.”

“Really?” Charley said. “I would never have thought Coolidge was an Italian name.”

“It was Cuchiari,” Claire said.

“Boston?” Charley asked.

“Yes, actually. How did you know that?”

“I did some business with people named Cuchiari—in Boston—a few years back.”

Joseph, the prospective groom, was waiting for them at the Marriage Bureau office. Eduardo stopped walking when he saw him. Claire, both arms around the young man, was totally unaware of the dismay in the eyes of all three men. The groom was Beppi Sestero, Rocco’s son. The three men looked as if they had turned to stone, but Charley got a grip on Eduardo’s forearm, and with inbred control in the presence of outsiders, all three men brought off the illusion that the groom was a stranger.

Claire introduced the groom to Eduardo and Charley.

“Edward, may I present the man who is to be my husband in a few minutes, Joseph Sestero.” She beamed on her young man. “Joseph, this is the famous Edward S. Price and this”—she held Charley by the upper arm—“is the almost equally distinguished Charles Macy Barton.” The men shook hands stiffly. Charley kept talking about what a happy day it was. Eduardo asked for directions to the men’s room and excused himself. The bride-to-be kissed and hugged the groom, who had gone into pale greenish colors.

After Eduardo returned, their names were called. In every way it was a sort of famous first in the annals of City Hall marriages. The man who gave the bride away had murdered the father of the groom and the groom had killed the father of the best man, although neither son knew that. It was a sort of Father’s Day.

Fifty minutes later, after Eduardo and Charley had wished the young couple Godspeed in their lives and on their honeymoon at the entrance to a luxurious hotel on Central Park South (the bride had to report for rehearsals Monday morning and, it was revealed, the groom had most reluctantly consented to become her manager), the two men drove away after Charley told the driver to take them around the park.

“Did you know about that?” Eduardo asked as the limousine headed toward the Sixth Avenue park entrance.

“I looked at him standing there and I couldn’t believe it. Five million men in New York and she picks your nephew.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“I can tell you what you’re going to do about it, Eduardo. Now, in this car, right here, you are going to make out a check for fifty thousand dollars for the bride. That’s your new, revised wedding present.”

“Have you lost your mind, Charley?”

“Do it.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“You want to be attorney general? I can do that for you, Eduardo. And I’ll do it for you because it’s good for business, even though I should have you whacked through the head and dumped in a cement mixer.” He stared at Eduardo, laying the fear on him.

Eduardo became alarmed. “Charley, what’s the matter? What did I do?”

“We both know what you did. You lifted my two kids for thirty million dollars in bonds.”

“Charley! That’s crazy!”

“You dropped one of my kids, and he’ll never be the same again.”

“I dropped—Charley! I handled those kids like they were my own sons. They were little babies! They were breakable! I took every care. If that is what happened, then Rocco did it.”

“I’m not going to make you pay, Eduardo. I am going to make you work for me. We are talking business now.”

“Charley, you’ve got to understand—” Eduardo was frozen by the fear Charley was throwing over him. Charley interrupted him.

“Rocco Sestero worked for me. He ran one of my regimes. I knew him. He was a very experienced man, and when he took on a job he always delivered the goods he was paid for just the way they were supposed to be delivered.”

“Charley, I swear to God—on my dead mother—”

“Rocco would never have let anyone near him in a setup like that unless he had at least two backup men who would have frisked the man who came to pick up the babies. But you were his Uncle Eduardo, the big man who had almost been president of the United States. So Rocco—Rocco Sestero—a man who knew more about hits than Ty Cobb, went there alone and you took him.”

“Charley, listen to me—”

“But there was a sting in it. I told the brokerage house to switch in a whole set of counterfeit bonds that we were going to put up for collateral on a heavy manufacturing deal in Taiwan. That thirty million dollars worth of bonds you think you have isn’t worth a dime, Eduardo. Try to cash them and you’ll do thirty years.”

Eduardo was showing all the symptoms of a heart attack.

“You got pills in your pocket?” Charley asked solicitously. “You want a pill or something?” He jammed Eduardo violently into the far corner of the seat. “All right, you devious shit. Get the top off your fountain pen. Write a check to Claire Coolidge for fifty thousand dollars. I’ll see that she gets it.”