City Of Lies (12 page)

Freiberg smiled and frowned simultaneously. ‘Lenny? Who’s been talking about Lenny?’

‘Detective Duchaunak. He spoke of my father, and when he went to say his name he called him Lenny and then he corrected himself. Why did he call him Lenny?’

‘It’s nothing, John, just a nickname, like a joke kind of thing.’

‘A nickname? What does he have a nickname for?’

‘Your father, Edward, he is a . . . businessman, quite an influential and important businessman. He manages a lot of things, co-ordinates stuff, gets everybody working together. They call him Lenny after Leonard Bernstein, the composer, the music guy you know? Your father makes sure everyone’s playing the same tune . . . that’s why they call him Lenny. Lenny Bernstein. You get it?’

Harper nodded. ‘But why a police detective, Uncle Walt? Why would a police detective know him well enough to use his nickname?’

Freiberg laughed. ‘Enough questions, John, enough questions for now.’ He put his hand beneath Harper’s arm and helped him to his feet. ‘Let’s get out of here. We’ll tell whoever’s on the desk downstairs to have the doctor call us if something happens with your father. Let’s go have some lunch, okay? Let’s go somewhere real nice and have some lunch.’

Harper didn’t speak again. He walked down the corridor, Uncle Walt on one side, Cathy Hollander on the other. He felt as if he’d escaped an auto smash, a bad one, the kind where they close the road and the emergency services have to hose the blood off the hot-top. The kind where folks with kids and house payments and their whole lives to look forward to have just lost it all. Just like that – a fingersnap, a single heartbeat – and everything’s gone to hell. And he, John Harper – the one with nothing, the one with no-one at all to remember him – had somehow managed to survive.

‘Torchon of Foie Gras, lemongrass-scented Gulf shrimp with cilantro and mango, and then we’ll be having a black truffle cavatelli, grilled filet of beef and braised short rib, or turbot
stuffed with Maine lobster with a ragout of corn, leeks and chanterelles in a caviar sauce.’ The maître d’ smiled effusively. ‘Finally there will be a selection of Artisanal cheese served with fig jam and raisin-walnut bread. And you know Bruce Spring-steen?’

Walt Freiberg smiled and said he did, not personally of course, but he had heard of him.

‘Well, Soozie Tyrell of the E Street Band will be performing live. There will be dancing until three a.m., and once your table is booked it’s yours for the night. That, Mr Freiberg, will be our New Year’s Eve extravaganza, and we would be honored to have you and your guests celebrate with us.’

Walt smiled. He reached out and took the man’s hand. ‘Anton, you are a gentleman, a true gentleman. I am sorry, I have absolutely no idea what we will be doing on New Year’s Eve, but I can guarantee that if I find myself without arrangements I will be here in a flash.’

‘Of course, Mr Freiberg, of course. You are here for luncheon?’

‘Yes, Anton, just the three of us.’

‘This way, Mr Freiberg,’ Anton said, and circumvented the tables of the Tribeca Grill on Greenwich Street as if he was performing a graceful
pas-de-deux
.

Walt Freiberg, John Harper and Cathy Hollander were seated within moments, and Anton glided away to despatch their waiter.

‘This,’ Walt said as he leaned closer to Harper, ‘is the Tribeca Film Center. This is Bobby De Niro’s place. Here you got Tribeca Film and Miramax, and if you sit here long enough you get to see all kinds of people. One time I seen Bill Murray here, another time Christopher Walken. Hell of a place, you know? Won all sorts of awards. I love to come here.’ Walt grinned. He reached out, closed his hand over Harper’s and squeezed it firmly. ‘Me and your father, we love to come and eat here. They got some great food . . . really great food. Right, Cathy?’

Cathy smiled. She shifted a few inches closer to Harper. Once again he felt the pressure and warmth of her thigh against his own, sensed the friction created by the taut silk of her stocking against his jeans. Seemed that whenever she appeared the distress and unreality of his situation was somehow diminished.

The waiter came. He greeted Walt as if they were long-lost. Walt didn’t want to see the menu.

‘Go with my choices, okay boys and girls?’ he asked.

Cathy smiled. Harper merely grunted. Food was the last thing on his mind.

‘Okay,’ Walt said. ‘We’ll go with a plate . . . you have a plate today?’

‘Indeed Mr Freiberg. We have a veal and foie gras ballotine, serrano ham and chicken liver mousse.’

‘Good. On the side we’ll have butternut squash and apple mousse and some sautéed chanterelles.’

The waiter nodded, smiled, scribbled furiously.

‘We can be medieval and share entrees,’ Walt said. He looked up at the waiter. ‘Don’t tell Anton I said that, eh?’ Walt laughed. The waiter laughed too. Harper stared at the huge mahogany bar that centered the room.

‘So, we’ll go with the garganelli pasta, Atlantic salmon . . . that comes with the bacon and onion stew, right?’

‘It does, Mr Freiberg, yes.’

‘Good, we go with that, and we’ll have the sea scallops as well.’

‘Very good, Mr Freiberg – and to drink?’

Walt glanced first at Cathy Hollander and then at Harper.

‘You easy?’ he asked.

‘Whatever you like, Walt,’ Cathy replied.

‘Châteauneuf du Pape, an early one . . . whatever you recommend.’

‘Of course Mr Freiberg . . . and I must say it is a pleasure having you here again. Might I ask as to the whereabouts of Mr Bernstein?’ The waiter glanced at Harper. Harper didn’t see it, but Walt Freiberg was on it like flypaper.

‘You see the resemblance, yes?’ he asked the waiter.

The waiter smiled. ‘I couldn’t help it, Mr Freiberg. I did, of course I did, but I didn’t wish to be rude.’

‘This,’ Walt Freiberg said proudly, ‘is Mr Bernstein’s son, John.’

The waiter nodded deferentially. ‘A pleasure sir, a great pleasure.’

Harper looked up at him with a blank expression on his face.

‘And Mr Bernstein himself?’

Walt shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Bernstein has been taken ill.’

‘Oh my goodness. Not too serious I trust?’

Freiberg shook his head. ‘Not too serious, no.’

The waiter seemed relieved. ‘I can speak for everyone here in wishing him a very rapid recovery.’

‘Thank you,’ Walt said. ‘That is most kind.’

‘I shall collect your wine.’

The waiter smiled at each of them in turn, and then he hurried away.

‘So you had a run-in with Frank Duchaunak?’ Walt Freiberg asked Harper.

Harper perceived a thought at the back of his mind, something he’d been trying to remember since Walt had appeared at St Vincent’s. ‘A run-in? I wouldn’t say I had a run-in. He asked me a few questions, that was all.’

‘Questions? Questions about what?’

Harper shrugged. ‘Nothing specific . . . how long I’d been away from New York, where I was living. Nothing important.’

‘And he said nothing about your father? About his interest in him?’

‘No, nothing like that. He said that you and Edward Bernstein were business partners. He called him Lenny, like I said. He asked about my relationship with you—’

‘With me?’

Harper nodded. ‘Yes, with you. He asked what my relationship was with you.’

‘And what did you tell him, John?’ Walt smiled, smiled like he was being nonchalant and relaxed.

Harper was aware of a cool tension in that moment, as if it could have been possible to say the wrong thing. ‘I said you were a friend of the family, that you had been there after Garrett’s death—’

‘Garrett? He asked about Garrett?’

‘He didn’t know who Garrett was.’

‘So how did he know to ask about Garrett? You told him about Garrett?’

Harper shook his head. ‘No, not directly.’ He turned and looked at Cathy Hollander. All of a sudden he felt nervous, like
there was something for him to be afraid of. Cathy looked back at him without changing her expression.

‘He asked who called me. I told him Evelyn called me. He asked who Evelyn was and I told him. I happened to mention Garrett in passing, that was all.’

The waiter appeared as if from nowhere. He smiled broadly. He held a bottle in his hand and showed the label to Walt.

Walt little more than glanced, said, ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ and waited patiently while the bottle was uncorked. The wine was poured, tasted, complimented, and then Walt said he would take care of its service.

The waiter vanished as effortlessly as he had appeared.

‘So . . . anything else he asked you?’

Harper was silent for a while. He remembered the thought. He put his hand in his pocket and took out the money Walt had given him in the Cantonese restaurant. ‘I don’t need this money,’ he said. ‘I brought this back for you.’

Walt laughed suddenly. ‘Jesus, John, what the hell is this? Keep the money for Christ’s sake. You need some money . . . everybody needs some money, right Cathy?’

Cathy was smiling. She reached out her hand, closed it over Harper’s. Harper felt the notes crumple within his fist. More than that he felt the pressure of her fingers, the closeness and promise he wished they represented. ‘Put the money in your pocket, John. One thing you’re going to learn about Walt is his generosity.’

Harper planned to repeat himself, to tell Walt that he
really
didn’t need the money, but Walt was asking questions again.

‘So that was all he asked about? Nothing more specific, just passing the time of day right?’

‘Right, like he was interested in who I was and how I’d heard about my father—’ Harper stopped. It felt so strange, so out-of-place to be saying such a thing.
My father
. He repeated it over in his mind –
My father . . . My father . . . My father
– but still felt awkward and unsettled. ‘I think he was trying to find out anything that might give him a lead on who did the shooting.’

Walt smiled. He seemed more settled, less angular in his manner, as if Harper’s words had satisfied what he wished to know.

The waiter appeared bearing dishes. Even as he was serving Walt was distracted by someone entering the restaurant.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Freiberg exclaimed. ‘Well I never—’

Walt stood up and started waving his hand in the direction of a man who’d entered. Heavy-set, shorter than Harper, hair dark and thick, greying at the temples. He possessed an air of great confidence, certain and assured in his movements. He saw Walt and laughed out loud.

‘Well, fuck me!’ he exclaimed.

Walt waved him over, and as the man started towards their table Walt leaned down and whispered to Harper: ‘Don’t say anything about Edward, don’t mention his name, okay?’

Harper looked confused.

‘It’s okay . . . trust me,’ Walt said. ‘Don’t say anything specific, right?’

Harper glanced at Cathy.

She nodded, raised her hand and pressed her index finger to her lips.

Harper didn’t have time to speak, to ask what was going on. The man had arrived at the table and was standing over them.

Walt reached out and shook his hand. ‘Jesus, Sol, how ya doin’?’

‘Good, good, good,’ Sol said, and then he glanced at Harper, double-took, frowned and shook his head. ‘What the fu—’

Freiberg laughed. ‘Sol . . . want you to meet someone. This is Edward’s son, John.’

‘Well, Jesus Christ Walter, what the hell is this all about, eh?’

Walt was laughing, and Sol was leaning across the table and reaching out his hand.

Harper took it without thinking, felt his hand almost crushed with enthusiasm by the man ahead of him.

‘John,’ Walt said. ‘This is Sol Neumann, a friend of your father’s.’

Neumann smiled broadly. He continued punishing Harper’s hand with his relentless grip. ‘Friend? An acquaintance really, not so much a friend. It is a pleasure to meet you, John . . . may I call you John?’

Harper nodded. He needed his hand back before he lost all circulation in his fingers.

‘Join us,’ Walt said. ‘We’re having some lunch. You are welcome to join us, Sol.’

Neumann released Harper’s hand. ‘Most kind, most kind,’ he said. ‘I was looking for someone. I am attending to something for Mr Marcus. I don’t wish to offend Walt, I would love to eat with you, but—’

Walt raised his hand. ‘Say no more Sol, business is business. If you are busy we shall eat together another day, yes?’

Neumann grinned enthusiastically. ‘Yes, another day, another day.’

He shook hands with Walt, again with Harper. He nodded politely at Cathy, and then he made his farewell. ‘Respects to your father,’ he said to Harper as he backed away from the table. He continued walking backwards until he reached the bar, and then he raised his hand once more, turned, and was gone.

The waiter, silent, almost motionless during the entire exchange, stepped forward once again and served starters.

‘Asshole!’ Walt hissed once the waiter had disappeared. ‘Like that asshole Duchaunak . . . fucking Marilyn Monroe freakin’ weirdo motherfucker,’ and then he sat back and raised both his hands, palms forward in a conciliatory gesture. ‘I shouldn’t say such things,’ he said. ‘I apologize, John, there was no need for such an outburst.’

Harper was taken aback, wondered what the hell was happening. ‘He seemed friendly enough,’ he said, and even as he said it realized how utterly naïve he sounded.

‘They’re all friendly,’ Walt said. ‘Smiles and shaking hands, all of them, people like Neumann and Duchaunak—’

‘Sol Neumann is a cop as well?’ Harper asked.

Walt laughed, Cathy also. ‘Sol Neumann a cop?’ Walt said. ‘No, John. Sol Neumann is about as far from a cop as you could get.’

‘He knows my father,’ Harper said.

Walt raised his hand and gripped Harper’s shoulder. ‘Eat, John, eat. Don’t worry yourself with any of this.’

‘What was this thing you said about Duchaunak, the thing about Marilyn Monroe?’

Walt smiled and shook his head. ‘Frank Duchaunak is a haunted man, John. He has a thing about Marilyn Monroe.’

‘A thing? Whaddya mean?’

Walt glanced at Cathy.

Cathy leaned towards Harper. He could smell her perfume. ‘Frank Duchaunak was born on August fifth 1962,’ she said.