Holy Terror (30 page)

‘It all went wrong. Victor Labrea had a gun. Sebastian and Ric have both been wounded.'

‘And Sidney? What's happened to Sidney?'

‘I'm sorry, Eleanor. He was shot at point-blank range, for no sane reason at all.'

‘I see,' said Eleanor. She slowly released his hands in the way that Sidney might have released them if he had been trying to induce a hypnotic trance. She turned away from him and walked slowly along the white-carpeted corridor to the living room. Conor stayed by the door and watched her. He thought how thin she looked, especially the back of her neck, as vulnerable as a child's. When she reached the living room she stood for a moment against the brightly reflected sunshine and it seemed to melt her outline, as if she were fading away altogether, going to the light.

Conor came up to her and held her in his arms. He didn't know how long they stayed like that, clutching each other, the two survivors. He could feel her bones; he could smell her cigarettes and her perfume; he could almost hear all her glory days. Applause, all faded away now.

‘It was my fault,' he said. ‘I shouldn't have rushed in there like that. It was totally unprofessional.'

She looked up at him. ‘No. It wasn't your fault. Do you know what Sidney said to me? Better to die doing something exciting than gradually vanish doing nothing at all. He said he could imagine himself in that hammock, becoming more and more transparent every day; until one day the hammock would be swinging with nobody in it.'

‘He shouldn't have died, Eleanor.'

Eleanor went across the room, opened her purse, and took out her cigarette-holder and a pack of cigarettes. ‘Do you need a drink?' she asked him. ‘I need a drink.'

They sat together in the sunlit living room and he told her everything that had happened.

‘In the end, I had to get out of there quick. The paramedics were coming, and the cops, too. I only just missed them. But before I left, there was one moment when I could have shot that Victor Labrea right between the eyes.'

Eleanor reached across with her veiny, wrinkly hands and stroked the back of Conor's wrist. She wore three diamond rings, all of them very Forties and Fifties in their styling. ‘Maybe you should have done. Shot him, I mean. I think there are times when you have to fight fire with fire.'

She reached over for the bottle and poured him another treble measure of Wyborowa. ‘You feel vengeful, don't you? Well, so do I. So why don't you stop worrying about your Catholic conscience and go out and get your revenge? You're not in the police department any more. Maybe it's time you forgot about the rules.'

‘I don't know. I come from a long line of very upright people.'

‘I know that. But being upright, where has it got you today? Let me tell you something, Conor O'Neil, times have changed. Decency died a long time ago. You should see some of the scripts that writers send me. They're full of filthy language. Can
you imagine Willie Loman talking like that in
Death of a Salesman
in 1949? The audience would have walked out. But it's not like that any more, and it's getting worse. And it's no use people like you and me shutting our eyes and jamming our fingers in our ears and hoping it's going to get better, because it's not.

‘So what we have to do – what we
have
to do – is beat the bastards at their own game.'

‘You're drunk,' said Conor.

‘No, I'm not. I'm hurting. And so are you. And you still have Lacey to worry about. You're caught between a rock and a hard place, Conor. And there's only one way you're going to get out of it. Beat them. Beat the bastards. You're not captain of detectives. You're not chief of security. You're Conor O'Neil. Nobody can tell you what to do, and you can do whatever it takes.'

Conor stood up, and walked to the window. It was covered by a thin handmade muslin blind, which he pulled up with a string. Below him was 47th Street, with cars and taxis crawling along it, and people teeming amongst them. He saw a girl in a red dress and he thought: you don't even know that I'm looking at you, do you? And I'll never see you again, not for the rest of my life.

He turned back to Eleanor. Her cheeks were glistening with tears. ‘You're right,' he said. ‘It's not going to get any better.'

The reply to his phone call was muffled and cautious. ‘Who is this?'

‘Conor O'Neil. Mr Guttuso knows me.'

‘Mr Guttuso? Nobody by that name here.'

‘Mr Guttuso gave me this number personally. Mr Guttuso said that if ever I wanted a favor of any kind, I was to call this number and say who I was. Mr Guttuso said that when I did that, his staff would immediately connect me to his private line, so that I could speak to him. Or didn't I hear him right?'

‘What did you say your name was? Conoronil?'

Luigi Guttuso came on the phone and his voice was the same as always: like somebody pouring best-quality virgin olive oil over the shingle used in tropical fish-tanks.

‘Conor… so good of you to call. I thought maybe something was wrong. Socially, you know. I sent you that invitation to my niece's wedding and you never answered. I was perplexed, you know? After all you did for the families. You were justice itself, you know? Can I compliment you for that? I won't embarrass you? You were justice itself. It's not often you see justice like that.'

‘I'm sorry about the wedding,' said Conor. ‘I guess I was busy.'

‘Well I heard you was busy. I heard you was busy heisting safe deposit boxes from Spurr's Fifth Avenue. That's some switch, huh?'

‘I didn't do it, Luigi. That's the reason I'm calling you now.'

‘You didn't do it? Conor, you disappoint me. When I saw that report about you on the TV news, do you know what I said to Angela? I said, “There's a man with real talent.” That's what I said. “He resigns from the police department, so what does he do? Does he open some orgiastic foodstore? Does
he sell leg insurance? No – he stays in the business he knows about – crime.”'

‘Thanks for the compliment, Luigi, but the fact remains that I didn't do it.'

‘You're right. You're right to deny it, even to me. That's what I always say. “Your Honor, regardless of the fact that I have three sets of books for my business and my brother was stopped on Lower Matecumbe Key with fifteen keys of smack in the trunk of his car and two girls from my club offered an undercover police officer two hours in full bondage for two hundred and fifty bucks plus tax all major cards accepted – I deny it.”'

Conor said, ‘You know what you said after the trial. If I needed a favor?'

‘You didn't think I meant it, did you? You pulled a face like an asshole after a hot chili supper. Well, I did mean it. You were justice itself. You want a favor? Name it.'

‘Maybe we could meet.'

He hadn't expected Luigi Guttuso to meet him at Umberto's Clam House or one of those restaurants in Little Italy with red checkered tablecloths and the theme from
The Godfather
playing in the background. But he had at least expected some high-class Italian eatery like Contrapunto or Elaine's. Instead, Guttuso suggested the second floor of F.A.O. Schwarz, the huge expensive toy store at 767 Fifth Avenue.

He climbed up the curving staircase and made his way between the doll houses and the displays of Nintendo and Lego and Barbie surfboards. Children
were running everywhere, and the screaming and howling were unexpectedly distressing. The last time Conor had come to F.A.O. Schwarz was to buy a Surfing Barbie for Fay.

Guttuso was leaning over one of the display tables, his eyes alight, a remote control unit in his hand, directing a large plastic police car with flashing lights and warbling siren. As always, he was dressed in a silvery silk three-piece suit, and his silver hair was combed straight back from his bony forehead. He was handsome in a dried-up, skull-in-the-desert way, with deeply set eyes and a fine, multi-faceted nose, and Conor could almost have liked him if he didn't know how merciless he was; and how corrupt.

Not far away from Guttuso stood two respectable-looking young men with short haircuts and very white shirts and well-cut suits, their hands neatly clasped in front of their genitals. They didn't show the slightest interest in any of the buzzing, hopping and beeping toys. Their eyes sieved the room from one side to the other, searching for anybody who looked like trouble.

‘Conor!' said Guttuso, steering the police car between a tugboat and a huge green tottering Godzilla. ‘Sorry to drag you up here: I gotta buy a gift for my grandson's birthday. You should try this squad car. It'll bring back memories.'

‘Some memories I could do without,' said Conor.

Guttuso made the police car swerve so that it collided with a white fluffy cymbal-banging rabbit. It overturned and spun around on its roof, its siren still plaintively wailing. ‘There,' he said. ‘That satisfy you?'

Conor said, ‘I'm not going to make any bones about this, Luigi. I wouldn't have come to you if there was anybody else.'

Guttuso hung a bony arm around Conor's shoulder. ‘Listen, I understand that. I've lived a different life from you. Whenever I've seen an opportunity, I've taken it, regardless of whether it was legal or not. But I got respect for you. Deep respect. What you do, it takes self-denial, and that's something I've never had.'

Slowly, Conor and Guttuso walked around the store together. Every now and then Guttuso stopped and picked up a Star Trek action figure or a Mark McGwire baseball bat or a remote-controlled Dodge Viper and peered at it closely, but Conor knew that he was listening. He told him all about Dennis Evelyn Branch and the Global Message Movement; and how Branch had taken Lacey. ‘I have to get her back, Luigi. If I was still in the police department, I would have all the manpower, all the facilities. But now I don't. That's why I'm asking you to do me this one favor.'

‘You want manpower? I got manpower. I got facilities, too. Computers, all that crap. Windows, laplands. Wide world webs.'

‘From what I've been able to work out so far, Lacey's being held someplace close to a heliport … she hears helicopters every few minutes. My guess is that she's close to either West 30th Street or East 34th heliport.'

‘Well, I guess that narrows it. What do you suggest?'

‘If you can get a couple of your guys to put a tail
on this Victor Labrea … and to see if he goes anyplace within the vicinity of either of those two locations.'

‘No problem.'

Conor said, ‘There's something else – I'm going to need someplace safe to stay for a couple of days. These Global Message people know where I live … and there was a shooting earlier today. The guys I've been staying with, both of them were wounded. The cops are bound to check out their apartment.'

‘Conor … we're brothers. You don't have to explain yourself. My house is your house. We have a real nice apartment on Bleecker Street, top floor. You can use it for as long as you want.'

‘There's one thing more. I could use a gun. Nothing too heavy. A Browning, maybe.'

Guttuso nodded. ‘Leave it to me.'

‘If you can get your men on to Victor Labrea's tail as soon as possible … I'm not sure how much patience the Global Message Movement has left.'

‘So what do my people do if they find out where your lady friend is being hid?'

‘Call me, that's all.'

Luigi Guttuso was silent for a while. Then he said, ‘You know what I wish? I wish that crime wasn't against the law. Because I like you, you know. And if crime wasn't against the law, you and me, we would have been pretty good friends, wouldn't we?'

‘I don't know, Luigi. All I know is that some religious maniac's holding my girlfriend and I want her back. This is where we forget ethics and start talking about survival.'

‘You know something? My father told me something
like that, a long, long time ago, when I was just about ten years old. He sat me on his lap and gave me a sip of Corvo Rosso and talked to me quiet and soft, I could hardly hear him, grown-up stuff, things that I didn't really understand. But that's what he meant. Taking care of your family, taking care of the people you love, that's more important than anything. More important than the Constitution. More important than anything.'

They shook hands next to a large display of Barbie dolls. Conor had never shaken hands with anybody like Luigi Guttuso before, not in a pact of friendship, and he felt as if he were committing an irredeemable heresy, as if the floor of F.A.O. Schwarz would crack open and he would drop down into Hell. Guttuso gripped his elbow and gave him a confidential wink which made him feel even worse. But then Guttuso nodded his head toward Barbie and said, ‘If she was twenty times taller, and I was twenty years younger … even the second Mrs Guttuso wasn't arrayed like one of those.'

It was the lead story on the early evening news: FATAL SHOOTING AT WALDORF. There were bloody pictures of Ramon Perez lying on the floor of Victor Labrea's hotel room, and of Sidney and Sebastian and Ric being carried away by paramedics. It was almost more than Conor could bring himself to look at. In the glaring television lights, their faces looked even more damaged, their blood looked even bloodier.

But with huge relief he realized that Sidney – although badly hurt – was not yet dead.

CNN anchorman Walt Edridge announced, ‘One man died and three others were injured, one of them seriously, in a mystery shootout at the swanky Waldorf-Astoria Hotel today.

‘Police are hunting former NYPD captain of detectives Conor O'Neil, who was identified by witnesses as having been at the scene of the shootout, but who escaped before they arrived, apparently without injury. O'Neil is already wanted in connection with a multimillion-dollar robbery of safe deposit boxes from Spurr's Fifth Avenue.