The Last Don - Mario Puzo [163]
“Isn’t he supposed to be Mafia?” Bantz asked. And Deere thought, This guy is really chickenshit.
“I know Cross,” Deere said. “He’s not a tough guy. His sister Claudia would have told me if he was truly dangerous. The one I worry about is Molly Flanders. We’re screwing two of her clients at the same time.”
“OK,” Bobby said. “Christ, we really did a good day’s work. We save twenty mil on Vail and maybe ten on De Lena. That will pay our bonuses. We’ll be heroes.”
“Yeah,” Deere said. He looked at his watch. “It’s getting close to four o’clock. Shouldn’t you be on your way to Falene?”
At that moment the door to Bobby Bantz’s office burst open and there stood Molly Flanders. She was in fighting garb, trousers, jacket, and white silk blouse. And in flat heels. Her beautiful complexion was a blushing red with rage. There were tears in her eyes and yet she had never looked more beautiful. Her voice was filled with gleeful malice.
“OK, you two cocksuckers,” she said. “Ernest Vail is dead. I’ve got an injunction pending to prevent you from releasing your new sequel to his book. Now are you two fuckheads ready to sit down and make a deal?”
Ernest Vail knew his greatest problem in committing suicide was how to avoid violence. He was far too cowardly to use the most popular methods. Guns frightened him, knives and poisons were too direct and not foolproof. Head in a gas oven, death in his car by carbon monoxide, again left too much uncertainty. Slitting his wrists involved blood. No, he wanted to die a pleasurable death, quick, certain, leaving his body intact and dignified.
Ernest prided himself that his was a rational decision that would benefit everyone except LoddStone Studios. It was purely a matter of personal financial gain and the restoration of his ego. He would be regaining control of his life; that made him laugh. Another proof of sanity: He still had his sense of humor.
Swimming out into the ocean was too “movies,” throwing himself in front of a bus was also too painful and somehow demeaning, as if he were some homeless bum. One notion appealed to him for a moment. There was a sleeping pill, no longer popular, a suppository, which you just slipped into your rectum. But again, it was too undignified and was not completely certain.
Ernest rejected all these methods and searched for something that would give him a happy certain death. This process cheered him up so much that he almost abandoned the whole idea. So did writing rough drafts of suicide notes. He wanted to use all his art not to sound self-pitying, accusatory. Most of all he wanted his suicide to be accepted as a completely rational act and not one of cowardice.
He started with the note to his first wife, whom he thought of as his only true love. The first sentence he tried to make objective and practical.
“Get in touch with Molly Flanders, my lawyer, as soon as you get this note. She will have important news for you. I thank you and the children for the many happy years you’ve given me. I do not want you to think that what I’ve done is a reproach to you in any way. We were sick of each other before we parted. Please do not think my action is because of a diseased mind, or any unhappiness. It is completely rational, as my lawyer will explain. Tell my children that I love them.”
Ernest pushed the note aside. It would need a lot of rewrite. He wrote notes to his second and third wives, which sounded cold even to him, informing them that they were being left small portions of his estate and thanking them for the happiness they had given him and reassuring them they also were in no way responsible for his action. It seemed he was not really in a loving mood. So he wrote a short note to Bobby Bantz, a simple “Fuck you.”
Then he wrote a note to Molly Flanders that read, “Go get the bastards.” This put him in a better mood.
To Cross De Lena, he wrote, “I finally did the right thing.” He had sensed De Lena’s contempt for his waffling.