The Last Don - Mario Puzo [149]
Ernest Vail, Molly Flanders, and Claudia De Lena celebrated by having dinner at La Dolce Vita on Santa Monica. It was Claudia’s favorite restaurant. She had memories of herself as a little girl being brought there by her father and being treated like royalty. She had memories of the bottles of red and white wine being stacked in all the window alcoves, on the back rails of banquettes, and in every vacant space. The customers could reach out and pluck a bottle as if they were grapes.
Ernest Vail was in good spirits, and Claudia wondered again how anybody could believe he would commit suicide. He was bubbling over with glee that his threat had worked. And the very good red wine put them all into a merry mood that was slightly boastful. They were very pleased with themselves. The food itself, robustly Italian, fueled their energy.
“Now what we have to think about,” Vail said, “is two points good enough or should we push for three?”
“Don’t get greedy,” Molly said. “The deal is made.”
Vail kissed her hand movie-star style and said, “Molly you’re a genius. A ruthless genius, true. How could you two browbeat a guy sick on his hospital bed?”
Molly dipped bread into tomato sauce. “Ernest,” she said, “you will never understand this town. There is no mercy. Not when you’re drunk, or on coke, or in love, or broke. Why make an exception for sick?”
Claudia said, “Skippy Deere once told me that when you’re buying, take people to a Chinese restaurant, but when you’re selling, take them to an Italian restaurant. Does that make any sense?”
“He’s a producer,” Molly said. “He read it someplace. It doesn’t mean anything without a context.”
Vail was eating with the gusto of a reprieved criminal. He had ordered three different kinds of pasta just for himself but gave small portions to Claudia and Molly and demanded their opinions. “The best Italian food in the world outside Rome,” he said. “About Skippy, it makes a certain kind of movie sense. Chinese food is cheap, it brings the price down. Italian food can put you to sleep and make you less sharp. I like both. Isn’t it nice to know that Skippy is always scheming?”
Vail always ordered three desserts. Not that he ate all of them, but he wanted to taste many different things at one dinner. In him it did not seem eccentric. Not even the way he dressed, as if clothes were to shield skin from wind or sun, or the way he carelessly shaved, one sideburn cut lower than the other. Not even his threat to kill himself seemed illogical or strange. Nor his complete and childish frankness, which often hurt people’s feelings. Claudia was not unused to eccentricity. Hollywood abounded with eccentrics.
“You know, Ernest, you belong to Hollywood. You’re eccentric enough,” she said.
“I am not an eccentric,” Vail said. “I’m not that sophisticated.”
“You don’t call wanting to kill yourself over a dispute about money eccentric?” Claudia said.
“That was an extremely cool-headed response to our culture,” Vail said. “I was tired of being a nobody.”
Claudia said impatiently, “How can you think that? You’ve written ten books, you’ve won the Pulitzer. You’re internationally famous.”
Vail had polished off his three pastas and was looking at his entrée, three pearly slices of veal covered with lemon. He picked up a fork and knife. “All that means shit,” he said. “I have no money. It took me fifty-five years to learn that if you have no money, you’re shit.”
Molly said, “You’re not eccentric, you’re crazy. And stop whining because you’re not rich. You’re not poor either. Or we wouldn’t be here. You’re not suffering too much for your art.”
Vail put down his knife and fork. He patted Molly’s arm. “You’re right,” he said. “Everything you say is true. I enjoy life from moment to moment. It’s the arc of life that gets me down.” He drank his glass of wine and then went on matter-of-factly. “I’m never going to write again,” he said. “Writing novels is a dead end, like being a blacksmith. It’s all movies and TV now.”
“That’s nonsense,” Claudia said. “People will always read.