Forever (15 page)

His voice was a near whisper. 'I need him to
do a job tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest!'

Shanel rummaged in her bag for another
cigarette and stuck it in her mouth. Her lighter clicked and flared
briefly, casting a soft glow on her features. 'You know the set-up.
Money talks, bullshit walks.' She drew deeply on her cigarette and
exhaled slowly, drawing twin streamers of smoke up into her
nostrils. 'Cash in advance.'

'My bank doesn't open until nine! By then it
might be too late.'

She considered that in silence. 'Well, that
is none o' my business. That's up to The Ghost. Who knows? Maybe I
can't even get hold of him tonight.'

'Please!' He grabbed her arm and squeezed
it. 'You must try!'

'Hey! You're hurting me! Watch it, will
ya?'

He released her arm. 'I'm sorry. I don't
know what got into me. But I need your help!'

'Okay,' she said placatingly, 'okay . . .
take it easy. But I'm making no promises, mind.'

He nodded.

She said, 'When you leave here, go to the
usual bar and wait. If I get in touch with him, he call you. If I
don't . . . ' She shrugged.

'I understand. But if you do talk to him,
emphasise that the job has to be done tonight or by early tomorrow
morning - at the latest. Tell him I'm good for the money.'

She gave him a strange look. 'The Ghost, he
know if you are. Just don't doublecross him, that's all. 'Cause,
baby, I'm tellin' you one thing. The Ghost, he one baaaaad-ass
dude! He know things.'

'What do you mean?' Chesterfield looked
alarmed.

'He know things like where you live. He know
where you work.' Her voice dropped to a shuddering whisper. 'See,
The Ghost, he invisible. You can't see him, but he there. And he
always like to know who hire him. It's like - you know. Taking out
an insurance policy?'

Chesterfield's bowels contracted painfully.
He felt fear, true paralysing fear, blasting through his body as
though a freezing wind was raging through his insides. His voice
trembled. 'You mean . . . he's followed me?'

'How the hell should I know?' Shanel dragged
nervously on the cigarette, making the ash glow bright orange. She
let the smoke out quickly. 'Wouldn't surprise me, though. With The
Ghost, you never know.' She gave him a quick sideways glance. 'So
you just be careful, hear?'

The Ansonia on Broadway between
Seventy-third and Seventy- fourth Streets is a monstrously large,
voluptuous Belle Epoque wedding cake of a building.

From the outside, it is an epidemic of
ornate turrets and balconies, mansard roofs and bulbous domes.

Inside, what were once some of the most
distinctive apartments ever contained in a single building have
long since been brutally carved up into smaller units.

Sammy Kafka's fourteenth-floor apartment,
which included a corner turret, was one of the few exceptions.
Having had only one previous tenant, it had never been altered.
There was an oval reception hall, a round parlour with three tall
French doors surrounded by a balcony, a giant, old-fashioned
kitchen, and six other good-sized rooms. Rent control made it
exceedingly affordable. Sammy had lived there for over forty years
now, and vowed he wouldn't move unless they carried him out. 'On my
back,' he liked to add pointedly, 'and only once I'm stone
cold.'

Now he turned away from one of the French
doors as the urgent wail of sirens, New York's constant song, rose
up from among the sounds of traffic rushing by far below. He looked
over at Johnny, who was slumped on a faded green sofa. Staring down
into the empty cut-glass tumbler in his hand.

The little man sighed. 'Staring into your
drink isn't going to get you anywhere, bubbele,'' he said
gently.

With a start, Johnny raised his head and
looked over at Sammy.

As always, the dapper, ageless dandy was
neat as a pin. He was wearing an old-fashioned paisley smoking
jacket with burgundy trim, a canary-yellow ascot with a pattern of
tiny red fleur-de-lys and black velvet trousers, plus elegant red
slippers with embroidered gold-and-silver crests on the vamps.

Sammy gestured at Johnny's glass. 'Another
one?'

Johnny sighed. 'Sure. What the hell.'

He handed the glass to Sammy and watched the
old man take it to the imposing, Egyptian Revival buffet, where a
silver tray held decanters, a carafe of water, and a silver ice
bucket.

Sammy's fingers were as nimble as his step
was jaunty. He expertly used sterling tongs to fish ice cubes out
of the sweating bucket. Picked up a Waterford decanter which had a
sterling label spelling BOURBON hanging around its neck,
unstoppered it, poured generously, and stoppered it again without a
clink. With a glass swizel stick he stirred the drink vigorously
and then brought it back to Johnny with a napkin and a flourish.'
Voila.r he said.

Johnny nodded gratefully, said 'Thanks,' and
belted down a third of it. He sat back, brooding. He was beginning
to wonder whether he should even have come up here. He was feeling
hurt and depressed and more than a little sorry for himself. Maybe
it would have been better if he'd crept off to lick his wounds in
private?

But it was too late now. He was here, and
had already poured his heart out. And there was no disgrace in
that. Not really. He had a damn good reason for feeling wounded -
hadn't he travelled six thousand miles, give or take a few? And for
what? Just so he, the good Samaritan, could metaphorically get
kicked out on his ass?

Angrily he belted down another third of his
drink.

'Before you make any hasty decisions, why
don't you wait a day or two until you've both had some time to cool
down?' Sammy suggested wisely.

Johnny glared at him. 'What for?' he asked
belligerently. 'To give her the pleasure of having a second go at
kicking me out?'

'Johnny, Johnny.' The little man tilted his
head. 'What have you got to lose? Waiting a day or two can't
hurt.'

Johnny drew his lips across his teeth.
'Waiting? Christ! That's all I've been doing ever since I first met
her. What is it with her, anyway?'

'She's going through a tough time,' Sammy
sighed. 'You know that.'

'Yeah.' Johnny barked an ugly laugh. 'Life's
a bitch, and then you die. Well, I can tell you one thing. I've had
it with her. Up to hereV

He sliced a karate chop across the front of
his throat, and then slumped back on the sofa, staring morosely
into his glass once again.

The old man looked at him for a long moment.
Then, suppressing another sigh, he crossed back to the French door
and held aside the lace curtain to look down at the sidewalk on the
other side of the street. 'Just look at them!'

Sammy's half-angry, half-wistful voice made
Johnny glance up.

'Rushing from here to there like the world
is on fire! Never stopping or slowing down to enjoy life. Forty-two
years ago, when I first moved in here, people strolled. Lovers sat
on the benches in that median down there. They kissed furtively and
exchanged shy glances, as if their love was a secret. But now? Now
it's all rush, rush, rush! Nobody takes the time to lift a hat in
greeting. Nobody offers a lady a seat on the bus. Nobody
communicates.' Sammy let the curtain fall back in place and turned
around to look at Johnny. 'Nobody listens!'

'Why tell me?' Johnny smiled grimly at him,
finished his drink and crunched ice cubes between his teeth. 'I
tried to communicate. Hell, I came all the way from fucking Lebanon
to communicated

'But did you listen? I mean, really listen?'
Sammy shook his head doubtfully. 'I wonder.'

Johnny exploded. 'Did I listen!. Goddamn it!
I just got through telling you that she was the one who wouldn't
listen! Wouldn't even let me explain, dammit!' He looked at his
glass in disgust and then hurled it across the room.

It crashed against the wall and exploded,
shards and ice cubes ricocheting.

Sammy didn't so much as blink an
eyelash.

'It was a mistake, goddamn it!' Johnny
yelled hotly, jumping to his feet. 'Jesus Christ! I didn't put Irv
Rubin up to calling!' He clenched his fists and shook them. 'If I'd
known he was going to ask her for an interview, do you think I
would have let him know where I was?' He paused, the cords standing
out on his neck. 'Well? Do you?'

Sammy went over to him.'Bubbele, bubbele,'
he soothed, gently pushing Johnny back down into the sofa. 'I know
you didn't.'

Johnny stared up at him. Then, suddenly
overwhelmed by his emotions, he hunched forward, buried his face in
his hands, and shook his head in despair.

Sammy sat down next to him. 'Maybe,' he said
softly, 'I can be of some help. That is, if you don't mind taking a
little advice from someone who's older and perhaps just a wee bit
wiser?'

Slowly Johnny lowered his hands.

Sammy didn't mince words. 'You see, Johnny,
you're like me when I was young. Did you know that? Of course you
didn't; why should you? But you're a fool, just as I was. A big,
egotistical, macho fool. But then, I suppose most men are.'

Johnny didn't speak.

'The way I heard it,' Sammy continued, 'the
last time you and Stephanie had a falling out, you just gave up.
Thinking that was it, eh?' He cocked a white eyebrow.

'It was!' Johnny insisted.

Sammy smiled sagely. 'No, my boy. It
wasn't.'

'But she -'

'Yes. And you listened with your ears
instead of your heart. That's what I meant when I said no one
listens any more.'

Johnny heaved a sigh. 'I just don't get it!
You know?' He made a gesture of frustration. 'If someone tells you
they don't want you, and they do want you, then why do they tell
you they don't?'

'That,' said Sammy, 'is one of the many
delicious mysteries of women.' He chuckled. 'You see, Johnny, women
and love are like war. They both have to be fought for and won.
It's the same way with everything worthwhile in life.' He smiled.
'I know you love Stephanie. I also know that Stephanie never loved
anyone else but you.'

Johnny stared at him.

'That's right.' Sammy's voice dropped to a
near whisper. 'She loves you, Johnny. You and only you!'

'Well, she sure as hell has funny ways of
showing it,' Johnny retorted testily.

'Not really,' the little man said. 'Why do
you think she's still available? Not for lack of suitors, I assure
you.' He patted Johnny's knee affectionately. 'You young idiot! You
never realised, did you?'

'Realised what?'

'That all this time . . . how long's it
been? Five years? She's been waiting for you!'

Johnny was speechless.

Sammy nodded sagely. 'Yes, waiting . . .
saving herself . . . call it what you will. You want my advice, go
to your hotel. Stay there a few days. Take in some shows. Browse
the museums and galleries. But give Stephanie time to heal.' His
eyes became moist and took on a faraway look. 'Losing Merlin was
like losing her mother, father, and grandfather all rolled into
one. She needs time, Johnny. Time to sort things out in her
head.'

'You'd think she'd had plenty of time to do
that already!' Johnny said hotly.

Now Sammy's voice was edged with anger.
'Young man,' he snapped, 'wake up and hear the music! In life, you
have to learn to bend with the wind. Don't you realise that by
giving up now, you might be throwing away your last and only chance
at true love and happiness?'

Johnny scoffed. 'True love! That's for
romance novels and tear-jerker movies!'

Sammy grasped Johnny's arm. 'You're a nice
boy, Johnny Stone,' he said quietly. 'A real meshugahneh, but nice.
But grow up! You think you may know everything, but you don't! For
God's sake! Don't ruin the rest of your life by acting stupid now!'
The old man's eyes blazed fire. 'Don't throw away your only chance
of happiness - only to regret it once it's too late!'

New York City

Vinette Jones carefully marked her place in
the Revelation of St John the Divine with a thin red satin ribbon.
Then she closed the red, vinyl-bound Bible, her most precious
earthly possession - next to Jowanda, of course - and one she
carried with her wherever she went. Putting it down on the coffee
table, she got up from the armchair and walked over to the window
of the living room of her hotel suite. The draperies were open, and
along with the spectacular view from this, the thirty-fourth floor,
she could see her own reflection in the sheet of glass, as though
her image had somehow been magically superimposed upon the
glittering city.

Vinette could only shake her head in wonder,
marvelling at the night-time panorama of high-rises that stretched
as far as the eye could see. Lordy!

And this suite!

She turned around, her wide eyes sweeping
the living room. It was so large! So profligately luxurious!

She was dazed by it all.

This is much too good for the likes of
me
, she thought. But then she smiled, and her face lit up and
shone with love. But it's not too good for my Jowanda, she thought.
Lord, no. Nothing is too good for my beloved lost baby.

Standing straight and tall, she stared out
at the city. Projecting her thoughts.

Jowanda, honey, Mama's gonna find you
real soon now. With that nice Mr Kleinfelder's help, she's gonna
bring you back here, and we'll share this enchanted view, you and
me
.

Thinking of Jowanda brought tears to
Vinette's eyes. Sniffing, she turned away from the window and
crossed over to the sofa, on which she'd dropped her handbag. She
unsnapped it and rummaged through it for a tissue with which to dab
her eyes dry.

It was then that she came across the thick,
engraved business card which that nice old gentleman in Washington,
the one who'd been hustled out of the CRY building there, had given
her. Hadn't he told her that he'd help her if she needed it. . .
that what he was looking into could possibly be tied in with the
disappearance of Jowanda? Yes, that he had.