I skitter myself over there just in time to shadow the last pair of black Bruno Maglis into the last closing door on a stretch vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. Was I wrong about the ride!
Luckily, the open interior is carpeted in black-like-me. Also, everybody is joshing Aldo and doing that kind of human arm slapping and feet milling that is very hazardous to my health.
I dodge size eleven shoes to hunker down by Mr. Matt’s more sedate size tens. A family of all brothers can be a high-spirited bunch. It occurs to me that Mr. Matt, until not long ago a man of chaste and churchly ways, could use a bit of backup among this mob. Oops! I did not mean that last word personally. Macho Mario Fontana is the last of the red-hot capos in this town, but no one likes to comment on that.
I dig in my four-on-the-floor as the huge Rolls lurches into gear and motion. The interior is one big conversation pit studded with built-in bars. Corks are popping like firecrackers and Cristal is foaming over a dozen champagne glass rims.
Nobody offers me even a sip.
However, a lot of it oozes floorward, and I polish a few shoe tips unseen. Hmm. Excellent vintage. Airy and impertinent, like me, with a smoky hint of Italian leather.
I return to hide behind Mr. Matt’s less expensive and also less damp shoes.
Macho Mario Fontana leans forward to address us. Or only Mr. Matt. Little does he notice it is now an “us.”
“So, compadre. This is your first time at an Italian bachelor party. I understand you will be the guest of honor at another one soon.”
“Yes, um, Sir.”
Mr. Matt is clearly befuddled by Macho Mario’s girth under the silk-screened vest that depicts in fine art detail naked ladies on red velvet swings. He is also no doubt taken literally aback by the pungent cigar smoke and the fiery tip that gestures at Mr. Matt’s chest on every other word.
“Call me Uncle,” Macho Mario insists, clapping Mr. Matt on the shoulder so hard he inhales a lungful of blue smoke and starts coughing. Even I am coughing and I am on the floor where the smoke is last to go.
“Are all the people at the party relatives?” Mr. Matt asks.
“People? Hell, have you never been to a bachelor party? It will be just us guys, and a naked girlie or two we smuggle in as a surprise for the poor dear Intended.”
Mr. Matt looks a little sick, whether from the cigar smoke or the promise of undressed entertainment I cannot say.
“Aw, that is right, son.” Another clap to the shoulder and a hearty, “Hi-ho, Silver.” “You are kinda new to this guy stuff. You were a man of the cloth. Dontcha worry about that. My nephews will get you togged out right for your own, er, festivities.”
“I do not know that many people in town, working nights at the radio station, as I do,” Mr. Matt says with relief, “I will not need a bachelor party.”
“Well, you are going to get one. Worry not. Macho Mario Fontana knows enough good wiseguys to fill a football stadium. Man, I cannot believe that Aldo fell for that little New York gal enough to marry her. I thought Nicky was going to be the only married Fontana of his generation. I tell you, Mike—”
“Matt.”
“Matt. Better name. You cannot trust micks named Mike. I tell you, Mack, marriage looks a lot better on paper than in practice. But since you too are among the poor dear Intendeds, I can advise you to drink up and enjoy the parties, because the forty years afterward is not so much fun.”
Macho Mario quaffs his champagne and leans back to eavesdrop on his favorite nephews, who are razzing Aldo something fierce.
Mr. Matt is murmuring something under his breath. It sounds like “Holy Mary, mother of God. No one in seminary mentioned a mobile mob riot.”
I am tempted to provide a consoling shin rub. I agree that civility is sadly lacking among the rowdy bunch already . . . and they are not even tipsy yet.
I figure we are heading to a racy striptease club. However, I confess that I am looking forward to the forthcoming scantily clad ladies. (They are never really naked, but clothed in bits and pieces, and those bits and pieces are often sparkly and feathered. Right up my alley cat!)
I do like to see how the other half lives, even if it is rude, loud, and rather tacky. That is the heart of rock ‘n’ roll and also Las Vegas. And sometimes, me.
Girls’ Night In
Van von Rhine’s glass desktop in her Crystal Phoenix office was no longer bare and sleek.
It was littered with fat photograph albums displaying everything from the chosen floral arrangements to napkin designs.
Two huge boxes spilling gouts of gilt tissue were open on the navy Milan leather sofa.
Van, Temple, and Kit gathered reverentially around them.
“Kit, that ivory leather wedding suit of yours is gorgeous. Aldo will flip. I’m thinking bronze and the palest mauve orchids for the bridal bouquet. Simple, exotic, and expensive. What will you do for shoes?”
“I was thinking some sexy ankle boots. Bronze, you think?”
“Perfect. You need a firm foundation for the leather suit.” Van turned to Temple. “And you! Those shades of lilac and mauve are stunning.”
“I love purple shades,” Temple said, stroking the filmy gown. “And Matt seems to agree with me.” The dress was simple. It had spaghetti straps, so appropriate to an Italian wedding, an Empire waistline, and a flowing skirt that was short in front and longer in the back, all the better to showcase her Midnight Louie Austrian crystal shoes. This would be a White Carpet occasion.
Van actually produced a sentimental smile. “It’ll be perfect with your softer strawberry hair color, Temple. You’ll look adorable. Anyway, Kit, now that I’ve seen the gowns you two have chosen, and the bridesmaids’ rainbow of pale metallic colors, it’ll make the chapel and reception color themes a snap. We have everything on hand. I must say that outfitting eight bridesmaids for eight groomsmen has been a . . . diplomatic feat.”
“It seemed easiest,” Temple said, “to let the brothers invite their girlfriends.”
“I obviously don’t have any girlfriends in town,” Kit noted.
“So,” Temple said, “we have instant Eight Bridesmaids for Eight Brothers. What could be handier?”
“Is that a reference I should know?” Van asked.
Temple exchanged a knowing glance with her aunt. “Kit knows. It’s a famous fifties movie musical, based on a Stephen Vincent Benét story.”
When Van continued to look puzzled, Kit explained. “Benét was a poet. He updated the legend of Rome’s founders raiding the neighboring Sabine tribe for brides on whom to found their dynasty.”
“A musical based on mass rape?” Van said, shocked.
“Not really,” Temple said. “Benét transferred the plot to the America frontier, where women were rare. The seven brides are kidnapped, true, but to be wooed, not raped.”
“Some of the best musical choreography of the twentieth century is in that chestnut,” Kit added. “The late Michael Kidd. Great fun.”
Van raised her pale eyebrows, unconvinced. “Whatever their numbers, and in whatever age or locale, bridesmaids always have issues. That’s why I planned a pastel metallic rainbow of colors for them; every girl should find some shade she likes. The wedding is less than a week away. We need to fit them all in the next couple of days. I’ve been leaving voice mail messages all over town for them.” Van frowned. “I’m not getting calls back yet.”
While Temple and Kit reboxed their outfits, Van checked her watch. “The ‘boys’ should be arriving at the secret location of their bachelor party about now.”
“I hope,” Temple said, “Matt isn’t overwhelmed by all that big Italian family energy. He’s an only child from the conservative Midwest.”
“Aldo won’t let him get overwhelmed,” Kit said with a hug. “He takes his responsibility as the eldest seriously.”