and the famous oyster roast catered by Jack Rosenstein for Veronica’s pool opening, where Elisha announced that roast oysters were the next-best thing to money.
Roscoe did not think so highly of money, the principal difference, after not having Veronica as a wife, between himself and Elisha. Roscoe made money from the Stanwix brewery he inherited, also
from politics; but money was never a reason for him to get out of bed. As to Veronica, a reason for any man to get into bed, there she was, sitting by her pool, all alone with the new
totality of her fortune, sleek in her rattan lawn chair, long legs elevated, feet in open-toed straw sandals, only her tanned arms and legs getting the noonday sun. Her straw picture hat shaded her
face and neck, and her white sundress shielded the rest, except where it dipped at her breasts and fell away at one thigh. Remember her in that white tank suit at the pool opening? It can still
bring Roscoe low, thinking how close he came to having this woman for his own. Now he has another chance; also another chance to be brought low. Elisha stood beside her that day at the pool
opening, wearing his dinner jacket over bathing trunks, proclaiming her the Empress of Water. Look at her now, even in grief exuding the poise of a queen, while Roscoe, the serf, trembles with
subjection. It’s good he no longer needs her.
Veronica smiled as Roscoe sat in the lawn chair facing her, that smile bidding him welcome, her head tipped at the angle of affection which he read as being for him alone. But think, Roscoe:
isn’t that how she welcomes the world?
“You found me,” she said.
“Remind me, did I lose you? Lately?”
“You’re always in my life.”
“How’s your condition?”
“Perfectly dreadful and getting worse. A communiqué from my sister.”
She handed Roscoe a fold of papers that lay on a table beside her: a writ of habeas corpus from State Supreme Court, through the law firm of Voss, Gorman, and Kiley. Roscoe read: “People ex
Relator Pamela Morgan Yusupov, plaintiff, against Veronica Morgan Fitzgibbon, defendant . . . We command you that you have the body of Gilbert David Rivera Yusupov, by you imprisoned and detained,
as it is said, together with time and cause of such imprisonment and detention . . . before Supreme Court at a Special Term in the County Court House in Albany,” etc. And from Pamela’s
petition: “. . . your petitioner, as mother of Gilbert David Rivera Yusupov, an infant of the age of twelve years, makes application on behalf of said infant for a writ of habeas corpus.
Petitioner further shows she is the mother of said infant, having given birth to him on July 12, 1933, that his father is the late Danilo Yusupov . . .”
“Is this the first she admitted she’s Gilby’s mother?”
“As far as I know. She called Elisha months ago and said she wanted Gilby back. He told her that was absurd; nobody was taking Gilby. He thought it was a desperation scheme to get money
and that we wouldn’t hear any more.”
“He never mentioned this to me. Was she his enemy closing in?”
“Perhaps she was. Will you handle the case, Roscoe?”
“Me? I’m rusty on trial work, Vee.” He slapped the legal papers with the back of his hand. “She’s got Marcus Gorman, best criminal lawyer in town. They were made
for each other.”
“Will you please take the case?”
“What does Gilby know about this?”
“He doesn’t even know Pamela’s his mother.”
“Oh boy. Who knows?”
“You, me, and Elisha. It was always our best-kept secret. Now everybody will know. Will you, will you take the case?”
“Get a solid trial lawyer, Vee. Get Frank Noonan.”
“Gilby loves you and I don’t care how rusty you are. You’re smarter than twenty lawyers.”
“If I was smart I’d have taken the case already.”
Veronica leaned forward, her face inches from Roscoe.
“You took it when I handed you the papers. You play dumb when you think it’s the smart
Roscoe did not think so highly of money, the principal difference, after not having Veronica as a wife, between himself and Elisha. Roscoe made money from the Stanwix brewery he inherited, also
from politics; but money was never a reason for him to get out of bed. As to Veronica, a reason for any man to get into bed, there she was, sitting by her pool, all alone with the new
totality of her fortune, sleek in her rattan lawn chair, long legs elevated, feet in open-toed straw sandals, only her tanned arms and legs getting the noonday sun. Her straw picture hat shaded her
face and neck, and her white sundress shielded the rest, except where it dipped at her breasts and fell away at one thigh. Remember her in that white tank suit at the pool opening? It can still
bring Roscoe low, thinking how close he came to having this woman for his own. Now he has another chance; also another chance to be brought low. Elisha stood beside her that day at the pool
opening, wearing his dinner jacket over bathing trunks, proclaiming her the Empress of Water. Look at her now, even in grief exuding the poise of a queen, while Roscoe, the serf, trembles with
subjection. It’s good he no longer needs her.
Veronica smiled as Roscoe sat in the lawn chair facing her, that smile bidding him welcome, her head tipped at the angle of affection which he read as being for him alone. But think, Roscoe:
isn’t that how she welcomes the world?
“You found me,” she said.
“Remind me, did I lose you? Lately?”
“You’re always in my life.”
“How’s your condition?”
“Perfectly dreadful and getting worse. A communiqué from my sister.”
She handed Roscoe a fold of papers that lay on a table beside her: a writ of habeas corpus from State Supreme Court, through the law firm of Voss, Gorman, and Kiley. Roscoe read: “People ex
Relator Pamela Morgan Yusupov, plaintiff, against Veronica Morgan Fitzgibbon, defendant . . . We command you that you have the body of Gilbert David Rivera Yusupov, by you imprisoned and detained,
as it is said, together with time and cause of such imprisonment and detention . . . before Supreme Court at a Special Term in the County Court House in Albany,” etc. And from Pamela’s
petition: “. . . your petitioner, as mother of Gilbert David Rivera Yusupov, an infant of the age of twelve years, makes application on behalf of said infant for a writ of habeas corpus.
Petitioner further shows she is the mother of said infant, having given birth to him on July 12, 1933, that his father is the late Danilo Yusupov . . .”
“Is this the first she admitted she’s Gilby’s mother?”
“As far as I know. She called Elisha months ago and said she wanted Gilby back. He told her that was absurd; nobody was taking Gilby. He thought it was a desperation scheme to get money
and that we wouldn’t hear any more.”
“He never mentioned this to me. Was she his enemy closing in?”
“Perhaps she was. Will you handle the case, Roscoe?”
“Me? I’m rusty on trial work, Vee.” He slapped the legal papers with the back of his hand. “She’s got Marcus Gorman, best criminal lawyer in town. They were made
for each other.”
“Will you please take the case?”
“What does Gilby know about this?”
“He doesn’t even know Pamela’s his mother.”
“Oh boy. Who knows?”
“You, me, and Elisha. It was always our best-kept secret. Now everybody will know. Will you, will you take the case?”
“Get a solid trial lawyer, Vee. Get Frank Noonan.”
“Gilby loves you and I don’t care how rusty you are. You’re smarter than twenty lawyers.”
“If I was smart I’d have taken the case already.”
Veronica leaned forward, her face inches from Roscoe.
“You took it when I handed you the papers. You play dumb when you think it’s the smart
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