Prosciutto and Gin

CW: References to pedophilia

Bell Moon prefers to have his photo taken if there is a dead tiger around. So whoever is lucky enough to capture a glimpse of his life can assume the mahogany top, leather boots are tailored specifically for his feet, and that he shot the cat—not out of sport or defense, but out of pity, and not for the Tiger but for the word, pity. It leaves a good taste in the mouth with those who share his transatlantic accent that teeters to the right of Bermuda and to the left of Lord Mountbatten’s, assuming his Lordship is playing Admiral with the lads off the coast of pedophilia, where children come by the dozen. Bell is not a member of the Royal Family, nor does he have sex with children, but he prefers the prestige of a Lord’s accent, that taxation without representation panache you don’t get in the land of the free, cultivated and ruined by Northeastern Elites and the Southern Planter Class—his fellow Americans.

“It was a pity, Mrs. Auchincloss,” he says, twirling the ice in his scotch beside the crackling fire. “Pitiful, the pity. Shot by Phillip Percival, the so-called ‘Dean of African Hunters’, or Francis MacComber, to the illiterate subscribers of Cosmopolitan and Hemingway.” He scans the study of twenty or so men and women, drinking and smoking, flirting with those pretending to listen to the details of their grandfather's patent, whether they are decorated in pearls or doused in cologne. They are on the Vanderbilt side of the Hudson River.

“I haven’t seen this many executors, Will’s, and testaments since the Nuremberg trials.”

A confused expression falls upon Mrs. Auchincloss's face. Bell twirls his drink some more until he can no longer ignore her expression.

“The Cosmopolitan-Hemingway demographic. The illiterati?” Still, nothing registers. “The tiger,” he continues, “Was shot and deserted. Left to its own devices, abandoned by God, or at least that's what Phillip Percival thinks of himself when he’s pointing a rifle. Where was the pity? Mortally wounded and fending off attacks from hyenas and wild dogs, I happened upon the cat with my guide, Choku. So I did what any lover of life would do in this sub-Saharan situation. I asked Choku for my gun, aimed and fired.”

“Did you kill it?” asks Janet Lee Bouvier-Auchincloss. “Why didn’t Percy kill it? I thought he was the best.”

Bell forces a sigh and looks at his drink for the eighth time in two minutes, leaving a well-practiced appearance of consideration and contemplation. He knows what he is going to say, has known since walking into this room, but has allotted this small window of time to think of Anthony Eden’s political future, to whom he has been compared to physically, as well as James Mason and Gore Vidal, until he grew a mustache that he found popular amongst veterans of England’s Burma campaign. He thought he would bring it home, though home is a funny word when applied to Bell Moon, a man with more passports than England’s commonwealth of dominions, colonies, mandates, and protectorates. His most cherished is from Tanganyika; the passport he uses the most is from Southern Rhodesia; and, despite being born 100 miles east of Tulsa, the passport without a single stamp is his US passport, which sends women to sea who claim he is American-flavored, plucked from the delta and sculpted by the world. He looks at the painting of the dead patriarch over the fire until he is interrupted.

“Wait, there are no tigers in Africa,” says Mrs. Bouvier-Auchincloss.

“There are when Phillip Percival wants to wrap puttees around his legs. That man will import anything to avoid a gift. Try offering him tailor-made mahogany, leather boots. He’ll scoff and leave a bleeding cat. Ask Choku.”

Bell Moon stares at the fire and decides he is peeved. He downs the rest of his old-fashioned and laments about once being confused with Robert Ruark and how disgusting that is. Missing the Golden Age of Free Thought, and that the American Secular Union might still exist if he had been born earlier, instead of shooting imported tigers abandoned by Phillip Percival, like Joseph Kennedy abandons his lobotomized children.

Mrs. Bouvier-Auchincloss gasps. She grabs a cigarette that is available for guests, though she doesn’t smoke. She is one of the few privy to such information—Rosemary’s whereabouts and condition. Her daughter, Jacqueline, has just married Joseph’s son, Senator John F. Kennedy, and Bell swims in his own cool reception of the facts, witnessing firsthand what she wants most, and chokes to death: Social advancement. Bell did not receive an invite to the wedding, but her discomfort and desire for secrecy regarding her daughter-in-law’s forced lobotomy remind Bell that he may have to borrow some money, probably from her. He accumulates the compounded emotional interest, apologizes, and puts a down payment on his thirst for attention.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to propose a toast.”

The dark study, a cathedral of first editions and revolutionary wood, is ready for a toast. Its Fifth Avenue parishioners are closer to the fire, as rumors trickle in of a declared annulment from the Vatican.

“Please, Ladies and Gentlemen, Mrs. Auchincloss, as we all know, and her daughter, Jackie, who the world will one day know for the reasons we pretend to.” The ceilings are high, but not high enough to avoid being tickled by the laughter of wealth that curls like banknotes on impact. “Recently married, I hear.” He turns to Mrs. Bouvier-Auchincloss, who reacts to everything he says, trying her best not to look too happy that the toast is for her, rolling her eyes as if he wouldn’t have gotten an invite. “You don’t have an address!” she declares. “This is true, but let me finish showering you with my thawing heart.” With the faintest touch of her white glove, she shields her lips. “To our dear friend’s son, Senator John F. Kennedy, a four-leaf clover, and future President if I ever saw one…and I have, ladies and gentlemen, I have seen future Presidents.” The room may be too small for these witty remarks. At 6’3, any more and the reaction, like a rising sea, will pass his well-proportioned nose. “My family arrived in this great land of ours when France still had a King with a head, and like all good American citizens, we have avoided soccer and taxes ever since.” Rapturous laughter. Bell of the ball. “So here’s to America’s future mother-in-law, a guiding star when you need one, the beautiful, the best, Mrs. Janet Lee Bouvier-Auchincloss!”

“Cheers!”

Bell’s voice was learned at Exeter, or Phillip’s Exeter Academy, for those who read biographies. He was captain of the debate team, not because of masterful, persuasive oratory, but because of his penchant for wearing ascots and smoking jackets, no matter the occasion. Something he still does but is now considered age-appropriate at 45—an idea he never agreed with.

“Oh, Bell,” says Mrs. Auchincloss. “You’re too much.”

“Then I succeeded. Do you have a thousand dollars?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He looks out the door and down the hall of Carvagios, Vermeers, and Ruisdaels.

“I’m afraid I've got to go. Take care, dear, and don’t forget to invite me to Jackie’s next wedding.”

She smacks his arm before they kiss each other's scented cheeks.

“Where are you off to now?”

“An invitation to the Rand Club in Johannesburg, and from there, that is between me and my Gods: Moloch, Adramalech, Mot, Yahweh, The CIA, and the Enola Gay.”

“Did you get a chance to see your children?”

“Still in Korea, I’m afraid. The Truman administration gave the boys a donkey and musket to stop communism.”

“Oh.”

She finds that odd, but is distracted by the beautiful fire. She turns to inform Bell that the war is over and Eisenhower is President, but he is gone, sitting in the back of a 1938 Chrysler Custom Imperial Town limousine, on loan from Joseph Kennedy to a British Civil Service Commissioner he has known for ages, named Percy, and a Permanent Undersecretary from Wales named Peter, so Percy tells him. They drive through the night and set sail in the morning, south, along the east coast. For four days, Bell refers to the still visible America as “our cousins,” with a fake Cambridge communist accent so dreadful that they talk of taking away his gin, but no one wants to be on the other side of that. They stick to the plan until they realize they forgot to frisk him while he was asleep.

Bell removes a rarity from his Bespoke Savile Row trousers, a Smith & Wesson 1950 45 cal. ACP revolver as they sail past Fort Sumter outside Charleston.

“Stand back, lads, this doesn’t concern you. This is between the Confederacy and I.”

Open to the public and run by the National Park Service, Bell misidentifies a tour guide for a P.T. Beuaguard holdout, and shoots the National Monument until his British escorts tackle him.

“Still angry about the blockade, ey? Need your precious cotton for your cotton gins? Sorry, lads, slavery is over.”

They abandon Bell and turn the boat toward international waters before the US Coast Guard can get to them. Packing a pipe, Bell admires the tan on his hands and takes a whiff of the sea, looking up as if the scent came from the shining sun. “Heading to international water? I can smell it! It is the way to go, I hear.” He opens the jar of Grey Poupoun and asks, “Are we out of prosciutto?”

Bell is an arms dealer, and “Peter” is out of patience. Discovering they are out of prosciutto, Percy is forced to give “Peter” a nod. They cannot get Bell to Miami if he continues to bear a grudge against the Confederacy and eat all the charcuterie. Before he can say, “Chiang Kai-shek,” to whom he has sold many weapons, Mao, too, Bell is tied to the mast of the boat, aptly named the Mary-Todd.

“Percy, what in the devil is going on? You guys don’t actually believe all that lost cause mambo-jumbo, do you?”

Percy was born into the upper echelons of London's upper class that “Peter” worked, first penetrating the outer rings and mining his way to the Royal heart. Bell was born in Oklahoma, something they have wanted to tell him every day on this run. “Peter” picks up his revolver.

“Careful, Pete, only 22 of those were made. You know what 22 is, right? Just take your East End Family and divide them in half.”

Peter points at Bell. He is dressed from head to toe in navy blue and sports a black cap. His sideburns are ruthless, and his teeth remind Bell of the corn of his youth.

“Wait a tick, you're not a Permanent Undersecretary from Wales. Who are you?”

“You’s veery luckah, Mr. Muin.”

“Percy? Who is this, man?”

Percy, soft around the edges, appears beside Bell. Once a well-sought-after cricket scout who made inroads with the knighted, befriending all High Commissioners in the civil service, Percy wears a three-piece suit, wire-framed glasses, and a mustache that makes him look more like a pout Clemette Attlee than Henriech Himmler. His posh accent derives from the space between his back teeth, with an emphasis on his enunciation. O sounds like Err. The words are drawn out and educated, and between sentences, statements, and ideas, there is a polite pause from Percy to allow the listener to think about what he is saying.

“That’s George, I’m afraid. A rather rough figure from the East End. Born within earshot of the Bow Bells.”

“Why am I tied up? Why did you call him Peter?”

“Well, George was getting rather close to killing you, and it is…”

“Are we still going to Miami?”

“Yes.”

“This rope has inflamed my thirst, Percy. Be a dear and make me a gin & tonic.”

“Lime or lemon?”

“Percy, if I have to answer that…”

They share a laugh.

“Lime it is, Bell.”

The two days pass, and George develops an equal loathing for Percy, doing all the work, while he and Bell catch up over drinks. It isn’t until they reach the inter-coastal, between Ft Lauderdale, Hollywood, and Miami Beach, off the mainland of Florida, that Bell asks, “What is happening? I’m not late, am I?”

“I’m afraid you are not going to Singapore, Bell. There’s been a discrepancy.”

“A discrepancy? Where?”

Percy looks away and lets out a sigh while holding his bowler cap with both hands.

“In the books.”

Bell wishes he could stroke his chin, thinks of asking Percy to do it for him, but settles for, “I see. Anything else?”

“Apparently, a pregnant girl in San Pedro.”

“A pregnant girl in San Pedro? How do I fit in with all this?”

“The books.”

“What is he saying?”

“He’s angry about the 50,000.”

Bell closes his eyes, knowing this will be the last time he can say this without being interrupted.

“I told him once, I told him twice. One civil war or legislative body arrested and I will loan him money.”

Percy looks at his tweed and feels he is not dressed for confrontation.

“No, Bell, not Choku.”

George has had enough of Percy’s pussy-footing.

“Whatevah et iz yer referrin, yer wrong. We’re toklin abat aneether deel: Mis-tah Loeb and Mis-tah Loeb’s munney. Ya haven’t fourgot yer good freend, Mis-tah Loeb? Have ya, Mr. Muin?”

Bell Moon, tied to the mast, flips through his Rolodex of acquaintances to the LN-LZ cards.

“Lobwick? Loeb? Loeb! Edgar Loeb?”

Percy’s soft hands, ready to push or hug, rest on Bell’s chest and shoulders.

“Don’t get upset, Mr. Moon. He just has a favor to ask.”

George turns around with his hands in his jacket and a big, fat, antagonizing grin. Bell recognizes this man from somewhere and gets a bit upset in his stomach. He chalks it up to a lack of gin or tonic, and Percy, like the secret Jacobite he is, takes his glass with a dinner napkin and brings it to Bell’s mouth as if this American is the last Sturart and rightful heir to the British throne.

“That’s a lad. Your stomach is just having a vote of no confidence, is all. Another tumbler of gin should do the trick.”

It does. A sparkle populates in Bell’s eyes: the gleam, the mischievous Bell Moon, which there is no defense against his four-seasoned charm. “Percy, I know why this man bores me now. It’s because he is Goering me. He’s one of Oswald Mosley’s pals. George, sure, but better known as Stoke when Interpol and the Gestapo shared the same headquarters. Took my measurements once—my first tailored suit.”

Stoke laughs and nods. His East End accent deepens, releasing London’s fog.

“Very good, Mr. Moon. That was some time ago. Still like to take photos with dead cats?”

“Cats is what I call my negro jazz friends after 11 pm, you Nazi bastard!”

“Nazi bastard? Now I’m offended. I’m just your run-of-the-mill slum-clearance Eastender with a dash of Royal blue pride.”

“Is that your angle, Stoke?”

“Ha. A drecksack like you has many angles; it just depends on who you’re talking to, don’t it? Revolutionaries or Nationalists? You got the ethics of a French courtroom testifying against Mata Hari, even if you were Mata Hari. Bell Moon, International Arms Dealer, Alfred Redl’s only rival, ha! You think you’re a businessman, but you’re just a con artist with no bank account. A peddler who jumps on a plane whenever a former colony receives its independence, encouraged with a CIA allowance.”

“What’s wrong with having an evolving position on strategic flexibility?”

“Strategic flexibility? Is that what blood is called these days?”

Percy raises an eyebrow and shakes his head at George.

“Best be getting behind the wheel, then, eh, guvnah?”

Bell waits for the thug to pass.

“Percy? Why is the elephant man here?”

Percy raises his glass and napkin to Bell’s mouth.

“Working with Mr. Loeb.”

“Edgar?”

“I’m afraid so.”

There is pity in Percy.

"Are we really out of prosciutto? No more lying, Percy."

Percy reaches into his tweed and reveals two wrapped strips.

"You can have both, Mr. Moon. I feel, well, I feel plain awful."

"Better than that complex awful. Percy, dear, will you be a chap and..."

Bell opens his mouth. Percy slides in the salted Italian pork.

"I'm sorry, Bell."

"Untie me, Percy, and I'll show you where I've hidden more charcuterie."

He pins his bowler cap to his chest with a weak grip.

"Sorry, Mr. Moon, but I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that."

"What do you want, cheese? You know George wants me dead?"

"That's the problem, Bell, I do."

Bell sighs.

"Worst cheese I've ever had."

"Whose?"

"Edgar. Enjoy it, Percy."

"I'll try to, sir."