City Of Lies (51 page)

‘We need to talk,’ Freiberg said, a cigarette in his hand. Absent-mindedly he stubbed it in the ashtray and then lit another one.

‘Talk about what?’ Harper asked.

‘We need to talk about the meeting I have with Ben Marcus.’

Harper frowned. ‘What about it?’

Freiberg sat down at the desk, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then he rose to his feet and walked to the window.

‘What?’ Harper asked again. ‘Will one of you tell me what the fuck is going on for Christ’s sake?’

‘The meeting,’ Freiberg said once more. ‘You’re gonna need to come with me.’

‘
What
?’

‘You’re coming with me,’ Freiberg said.

Harper took a step back and sat on the bed. The weight of the world and all its gravity bore down on him. ‘You’ve got to be out of your fucking mind . . . Jesus, what d’you think this is, the fucking theater?’

Freiberg was on edge, the first time Harper had seen him anything other than calm and self-assured. He smoked in an agitated fashion, standing in front of the window, his back to the light. Made Harper’s eyes hurt to look at him.

‘No choice,’ Freiberg said. ‘You don’t do this then we’re all finished.’

‘And when the hell did this happen?’

Freiberg looked at Cathy. She looked just as anxious. ‘Late last
night,’ Freiberg said. He took a few steps forward and sat down at the desk again. ‘Neumann called me very late last night . . . told me that the meeting would go ahead as planned but Ben Marcus wanted to meet you in person.’

‘And you told him yes?’

‘What the fuck choice did I have, John?’ Freiberg extinguished his cigarette, stood up and put his hands in his overcoat pockets.

‘Tell me that, eh? What the fuck choice did I have?’

Harper shook his head, tried to stand, couldn’t, collapsed back again. ‘No way, Walt, no fucking way—’

‘You
have
to,’ Cathy interjected. She walked towards Harper and sat beside him on the unmade bed. She reached out her hand to touch his arm but Harper withdrew.

‘You have to do this, John . . . you don’t do this and it’s all over. It isn’t something to fuck around with. This is serious John, deadly serious. You don’t do this and everything your father created—’

Harper turned suddenly. ‘Oh fuck off with that, will you? Everything my father created? Jesus, who in God’s name do you think you’re talking to?’

‘Enough!’ Freiberg snapped angrily. ‘It is what it is. Get your shit together . . . we’re going to meet Ben Marcus. You’re going to do the best you can, that’s all. Way this stands right now we’re dead if we don’t. If we do . . . well, if we do, then maybe we have a chance.’

‘And if I refuse? If I just tell you to get the fuck out of here and I go back to Miami?’

Freiberg took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He withdrew his right hand from his pocket. In it he held his lighter, nervously turned it over and over between his fingers. ‘You have no concept of the lengths these people will go to to save face. Jesus Christ, John . . . you take off out of here and they will kill me, they’ll kill Cathy, and then just for the hell of it they’ll track you all the way to Miami and kill you as well.’

Harper sat motionless.

‘Seriously, John,’ Cathy said, and this time she reached out her hand again and touched Harper’s shoulder. ‘Seriously . . . this is the only hope we have right now.’

‘The
only
one,’ Freiberg echoed. ‘Otherwise . . . well, I don’t even want to consider—’

Harper raised his hand. ‘Enough,’ he said. He looked at Cathy.

‘You’re walking me to my own fucking death, aren’t you?’

She shook her head, looked across at Freiberg. ‘Either which way . . . hell, John, Walt is right. If we go we have a chance. We don’t go we’re
all
fucking dead.’

Nine minutes later, Harper’s hands shaking too much to put on his tie, Cathy tied it for him.

They left together, the three of them. Harper paused to scrawl a note for Evelyn Harper. In it he said he was sorry, that was all; there was nothing else he could think of to say.

Aggressive.

A manner like the world was owned, and he owned the greater part.

Ben Marcus struck a discordant note with John Harper, and despite the apparent warmth of his greeting, despite the effusive compliments for Edward, what friends they were, how long they had known one another, the fact that the city had never seen, would
never
see, two people more bold and audacious in their ventures than himself and Edward Bernstein, the underlying tone was one of suspicion.

John Harper did not like Ben Marcus, and it took all he had to refrain from making his dislike apparent.

The room was on the third floor of a hotel near to where Varick became Seventh. He had been driven there by Charlie Beck; Walt Freiberg up front in the passenger seat, Cathy Hollander in back with him, the two of them talking a great deal but saying little of any consequence. She seemed relaxed and natural, as if this was the most normal kind of behavior in the world. John Harper wanted nothing more than some brief time alone with her, to speak of what he felt, to ask her whether she felt anything at all in return. But, in truth, he was aware of where he was going, of what might happen when he arrived. Perhaps for these people it was business as usual. For him it was a nerve-wracking step deeper into something he neither wished to understand nor be involved in.

A single thought kept him there, kept his hands steady, his mind centered. The thought that if he did not do this then people would die. People would die who had less to do with this life than himself. Not only Walt Freiberg and Cathy Hollander,
but people like Lauren Sachs, others who had experienced the fallout and backlash of the world Ben Marcus and Lenny Bernstein had created.

‘Sonny,’ Walt kept reminding him. ‘He will call you Sonny Bernstein. That’s how he knows you, and that’s the name you should respond to, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Harper had agreed, and asked no more questions. He sat silently in his impeccably tailored suit, his white shirt, his burgundy tie. He looked down at shoes that would have reflected his drawn face. He glanced at the watch that Walt had bought, but he did not register the time.

‘It’s going to be fine,’ Cathy said a number of times, but Harper knew she was lying. She held his hand gently, almost tenderly, and each time she spoke she squeezed his hand for reassurance. At one point Harper turned and looked at her. His eyes searched for where she hid behind the front she presented, behind the words and gestures, behind the brave face she wore for the world, and after a while he believed there might have been nothing. Maybe the real Cathy Hollander had long since left with another of her alter-egos – Margaret Miller, perhaps Diane Sheridan, perhaps someone else.

Once inside the hotel they took the elevator to the third floor. Himself, Cathy Hollander, Walt Freiberg and Charlie Beck. Noone spoke until they stepped out into the deep-carpeted hallway, and then it was Walt who said, ‘Won’t be a long meeting . . . it’s a formality more than anything else. We have to do this John, we have to do this to ensure that everything goes forward the way Edward wished.’ There was something in Freiberg’s tone that belied the reality of the meeting. If all Harper had heard of Ben Marcus was true then this meeting was a great deal more than a formality. This was where any step could be false. His heart raced. His palms were sweating. He wiped them against the legs of his pants. He did not want to shake hands with Ben Marcus and end the play before it had started.

Harper mumbled some acknowledgement, and then he was silent until Charlie Beck knocked on the hotel room door and someone asked them to enter. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Walt turned and nodded at both Beck and Cathy Hollander. They backed up without speaking, and Harper
watched both of them turn and walk down the corridor towards the elevator.

‘They will wait in the car,’ Walt said. ‘They’ll be there when we leave.’

Freiberg opened the door, Harper behind him, wondering if this would be the last room he would ever enter alive.

Marcus rose and came forward immediately. ‘Sonny Bernstein!’ he pronounced, his voice grand and deep and exuberant. ‘Sonny Bernstein . . . Jesus Christ almighty, you look so much like your father it could be thirty years ago and I’m meeting him for the first time.’

Harper smiled. He held out his hand. He shook with Marcus. He said, ‘Mr Ben Marcus. You have a name and a reputation that precedes you.’

‘All of it bad, I trust?’ Marcus joked.

‘The worst, believe me Mr Marcus, the very worst.’ Harper smiled. His face strained with the effort. He kept his eyes directly on Marcus. He attempted to show no fear. Inside he had already run from the building screaming.

Marcus laughed. ‘That’s good! I like that!’ He turned to Walt Freiberg. ‘He’s a funny guy . . . I like him.’

From behind Marcus came two other men.

‘My associates, Mr Neumann and Mr Reiff,’ Marcus said.

Harper looked at them – heavy-set eyes, solid faces, like Burke and Hare.

‘So come,’ Marcus said. He turned and indicated two sofas, a group of chairs ahead of the window. ‘We sit, we have a drink, some coffee perhaps, and we talk. We work out all these details for Edward and we make our final agreements before tomorrow.’

Everything he said was in the same tone – direct, but not direct with confidence, more like an aggressive and challenging undercurrent that defied anyone present to venture a word in opposition. It appeared to Harper that Ben Marcus wished to be in control of everyone and everything around him. Perhaps here an explanation for this meeting.

Everyone was seated. Reiff made a call and ordered coffee for five. Cigarettes were lit, ashtrays were positioned, Ben Marcus and Walt Freiberg seated beside one another in wing-backed leather armchairs. Harper chose a plain wooden chair with a straight back. He sat upright, his expression unreadable, his eyes
directed first at Marcus, then at Freiberg, never once leaving them to look at Neumann and Reiff who seemed to haunt the edges of the gathering like dense shadows.

‘It comes as a great surprise to discover Edward had a son,’ Marcus said. ‘All the years I have known him and never once a mention of your name.’

Think of the dead people
, Harper thought.
Think of dead people in bank foyers
.

Harper shook his head, raised his hand and waved the comment aside. ‘We cannot always know everything Mr Marcus.’

‘True,’ Marcus said, ‘but it seems strange that a man of your reputation and connections would have no history at all.’

Harper shook his head. He tried to smile. ‘No history?’

‘Sure . . . people who know you. People who speak of you.’

‘There are numerous people who know me, Mr Marcus.’

‘I’m sure there are, Mr Bernstein, but it seems unusual to be unable to find any of them.’

‘Depends how hard you look.’

‘Indeed it does, indeed it does.’ Marcus cleared his throat and leaned back. ‘So tell me a little about yourself . . . I’m curious about the things you have been involved in down in Miami.’

‘Miami?’

‘Sure, Miami. Your own little territory, right?’

Harper shook his head, glanced at Freiberg. ‘I didn’t think the purpose of this meeting was to discuss my private business affairs, Mr Marcus.’

Marcus smiled, laughed a little. ‘No, sure it isn’t. It’s just that when people do business together they like to know a little something about the people they’re doing business with.’

‘Depends.’

Marcus frowned, started to lean forward.

‘I am not intending to be discourteous, Mr Marcus, quite the contrary, but my personal business matters seem entirely irrelevant in the face of what we are dealing with here. If you want to know something about me then you should have your people look a little harder.’

‘I had my people take a look, Mr Bernstein.’

‘And what did they find?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘Very little of any substance, you
know? And that’s what surprised me. You take me for example. Someone wants to find out something about me then there’s no end of people who have an opinion, a viewpoint, something to say.’

‘And you could find no-one who had something to say on the subject of Sonny Bernstein?’

‘Certainly seems that way . . . which is why I wanted to meet you here today and give you a chance to present yourself.’

‘And I have.’

‘Yes, indeed, you have presented yourself . . . but you have presented a face with no man behind it.’ Marcus leaned back in his chair. ‘Sun Tzu says that it is the business of a general to be quiet and thus ensure secrecy . . . something which you have managed to do regarding your position and affairs in Miami.’

Harper looked once more at Freiberg.

Think of security guards with gunshot wounds
.

Freiberg’s expression gave nothing away. Harper wondered what he was feeling, if he was feeling anything at all.

Think of kids coming home from school to find out mom got killed while they were in Math class
.

Harper smiled and shook his head. He leaned back also, assumed a pose of uncomplicated ease. ‘My position and affairs are my business, Mr Marcus, as are yours. I can understand, considering the circumstances, why you have made enquiries as to my business.’

‘Naturally,’ Marcus replied.

‘Then you will know that my position and affairs have as little to do with Miami as your own.’

Marcus frowned.

‘I believe Sun Tzu also said that the skillful fighter puts himself into a position which makes defeat impossible. We create apparencies, do we not? We make-believe our position of power is one place when it is another entirely. Asking questions of me in Miami would serve no purpose . . . as much purpose as my asking questions about you in Boston.’

Marcus turned and looked at Freiberg. ‘Walt here . . . he told me that you were from Miami.’

‘We play games, Mr Marcus. Florida yes, Miami no. Like I said, my business in Miami is no more significant than your own.’

‘Then you have people elsewhere?’

Harper smiled, shook his head. ‘What I have and what I don’t have are not the matter for discussion here.’