Then everything fell apart—with a thud that had to sonically rival the first creation of planet Earth. The Alpine air restored Uncle Zio—Pope Francesco, of course—to his former healthy self, and, conversely, Guido Frescobaldi accidentally fell on the private shortwave radio, his bulk smashing it to smithereens, and the Vatican went into an economic tailspin. The remedy was painful but obvious; however, far more painful to Sam Devereaux—far, far more painful—was the loss of his one true love, Anne the Rehabilitated, who had listened to all that crap Uncle Zio kept spewing quietly into her ear as they played checkers every morning. Instead of marrying one Samuel Lansing Devereaux, she opted for «marrying» one Jesus Christ, whose credentials, Sam had to admit, were considerably more impressive than his own, although the more earthly perks somewhat less so—immensely less so when one took into account the life that the glorious Anne the Rehabilitated had chosen. My God, Boston at its worst was better than leper colonies! Well, certainly most of the time.
Life marches on, Sam. It’s combat all the way, so don’t let yourself be boondoggled if you lose a skirmish or two. Get your ass up and charge ahead!
Words from the lowliest lowlife in the universe, the ultimate, incontestable argument for sexual abstinence or stringent birth control. General MacKenzie Hawkins, Madman Mac the Hawk, scourge of sanity and destroyer of all things good and decent. Those fatuous words, that clichéd military psychobabble, were all the slugworm could offer during Sam’s moments of desperate anguish.
She’s leaving me, Mac. She’s actually going with him!
Zio’s a damn good man, son. He’s a fine commander of his legions, and we who know the loneliness of command respect one another.
But, Mac, he’s a priest, the big enchilada of priests, the Pope! They won’t be able to dance, or cuddle, or have kids or any of those things!
Well, you’re probably right about the last two, but Zio does a hell of a tarantella, or have you forgotten?
Nobody touches in tarantellas. They whirl around and kick up their legs, but they don’t come near each other!
Must be the garlic. Or maybe the legs.
You’re not listening to me. This is the mistake of her life—you should know that! For God’s sake, you were married to her, which hasn’t made me entirely comfortable these past weeks.
Pull back your caissons, boy. I was married to all the girls, and none of them came out the worse for it. Annie was the toughest—and considering her background, maybe it was to be expected—but she caught on to what I was trying to tell her.
What the hell was that, Mac?
That she could be better than herself, but still be herself.
Slugworm! Devereaux swung the wheel to the left so as to avoid an intruding guardrail on the right. All the girls, God, how did he do it? Four of the most entrancing and endowed women on earth had married the maniacal military delinquent and after each marriage had been—not amicably, but lovingly—terminated, the four divorcées had willfully, enthusiastically banded together to form their own unique club, which they called «Hawkins’s Harem.» At the press of the Hawk’s button, they all rallied around to support their former husband, whatever the time, and wherever he was in the world. Jealousies? None whatsoever, for Mac had set them free, free of the ugly chains that had bound them before he came into their lives. Sam could accept all that, for throughout the events that led up to Château Machenfeld, each former wife had succored him in his moments of hysterical crisis. Each had been not only compassionately—even passionately—warm in her efforts to extricate him from the impossible situations the Hawk had placed him in, but expert in the ways that led to his escape.
All had left their indelible marks on both his body and his mind, all were extraordinary memories, but the most glorious of all was the ash-blond, statuesque Anne, whose large blue eyes held an innocence far more real than the reality of her past. Her neverending stream of hesitant questions on just about any topic imaginable was as startling as her voracious appetite for books, so many of which she could not possibly understand, but understand she eventually would, if it took her a month on five pages. She was truly a lady making up for the lost years, but never with a hint of pity for herself, and always giving, despite what had been taken from her so brutally in the past. And, oh God, could she laugh, her eyes lighting up with mischievous humor, yet never mean, never at the expense of another’s hurt. He loved her so!
And the crazy bitch had opted for Uncle Zio and those goddamned leper colonies instead of a wonderful life as the wife of Sam Devereaux, attorney-at-law, eventually, inevitably, Judge Samuel Lansing Devereaux, who could enter any lousy regatta he wanted to on Cape Cod. She was bananas!
Hurry! Hurry home and get to the lair and find solace in the memories of unrequited love. ’Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all. Who was that asshole?
He sped down the street in Weston and swerved around the corner into his block. Only minutes now, and then, with the aid of the grape and the swelling sounds of The Alpine Yodelers’ one and only recording, he would retreat into the cave of his dreams, his lost dreams.
Holy shit! Up ahead, in front of his house … was that—was it …? Jesus, it was Aaron Pinkus’s limousine! Had something happened to his mother that he knew nothing about? Had an emergency occurred while he had been screaming at O’Toole’s television set? He’d never forgive himself!
Screeching to a stop behind Aaron’s outsized vehicle, Sam leaped out of his car and ran forward as Pinkus’s chauffeur appeared from around the hood of the limousine. «Paddy, what happened?» yelled Devereaux. «Is anything wrong with my mother?»
«Not that I could tell, Sammy, except maybe the language, some of which I haven’t heard since Omaha Beach.»
«What?»
«I’d get in there if I were you, boyo.»
Devereaux sped to the gate, leaped over it, and raced up to the door, fumbling in his pocket for his key ring. It wasn’t necessary, as the door was opened by Cousin Cora, who wasn’t necessarily altogether there. «What’s happened?» repeated Sam.
«Hoity-toity and the little fella are either stinkin’ drunk or under the curse of a full moon while the sun’s still in the sky.» Cora hiccuped once, then belched.
«What the hell are you talking about? Where are they?»
«Up in your place, buster boy.»
«My place? You mean …?»
«That’s what I mean, big fella.»
«Nobody goes into the lair! We all agreed—»