It's in the Book (4 page)

“I haven't been a ‘lad' for a lot of years, Father, and I haven't been to mass since I got back from overseas.”

“The war changed you.”

“The war showed me that God either doesn't give a damn or has some sick sense of humor. If you'll forgive my frankness, Father.”

The dark eyes didn't look so hard now. “I'm in the forgiveness business, Michael. You hold God responsible for the sins of man?”

“If you mean war, Father, fighting against an evil devil like Hitler isn't considered a sin, is it?”

“No. But I would caution you that holding God responsible for the actions of men is a dangerous philosophy. And I gather, from your words, that you
do
believe in God.”

“I do.”

There was nothing barely perceptible about his smile now. “Years ago, the headlines were filled with your colorful activities, working against evil men. You were raised in the church, so surely you know of your namesake, St. Michael.”

“Yeah, the avenging archangel.”

“Well, that's perhaps an over-simplification. Among other things, he leads the army of God against the minions of Satan, the powers of Hell.”

“I'm semi-retired from that, Father. Let's just say you don't have time to hear
my
confession, but I bet you heard some beauts from Old Nic.”

The smile disappeared and the priest's countenance turned solemn again. “Nicholas Giraldi never came to confession. Not once.”

“What?”

“Oh, he will lie in consecrated ground. I gave him bedside Last Rites at St. Luke's. But he never took confession here. And I will confess to
you
, Michael, that I was surprised when, after his wife's death, he continued to fund her charities. If there was any purpose in it, other than his own self-aggrandizement, it might have been to honor her memory.”

“The old don bought himself plenty of good will here in Little Italy.”

“He did indeed. But I don't believe his good works had anything to do with seeking forgiveness. And, before you ask how I could accept contributions from the likes of Don Giraldi, I will tell you that even a spiritual man, a servant of God, must live in this physical world. If suffering can be alleviated by accepting such contributions, I will accept that penance, whether sincere or cynical. You might consider this in itself a cynical, even selfish practice, Michael. But we were put here in this place, this, this …”

“Vale of tears, Father?”

“Vale of tears, son. We were put here in this problem-solving world, this physical purgatory, to exercise our free will. And if I can turn ill-gotten gains into the work of the Lord, I will do so, unashamed.”

Why shouldn't he? All he had to do was take confession from some other collar and get his sins washed away for a few Hail Marys. But I didn't say that. Hypocritical or not, Father Mandano had helped a lot of people. He was a practical man and that wasn't a sin in my book.

I got to my feet, my hat in my hands. “Thanks for seeing me at short notice, Father. Listen, if you happen to get a line on that ledger, let me know. It could spark a shooting war out on your streets. And innocent people could die.”

“And that troubles you, doesn't it, Michael?”

“Don't kid yourself, Father. This is just a job to me. I have a big payday coming if I pull this off. This is one valuable book.”

“In my line of work, Michael,” he said, “there is only
one
book of real value.”

Wilcox in Suffolk County was a prosperous-looking little beach burg with a single industry: tourism. In a month the population would swell from seven-thousand to who-the-hell-knew, and the business district would be alive and jumping till all hours. Right now, at eight-thirty p.m., it was a ghost town.

Sheila Burrows lived in a two-bedroom brick bungalow on a side street, perched on a small but nicely landscaped yard against a wooded backdrop. The place was probably built in the fifties, nothing fancy, but well-maintained. A free-standing matching brick one-car garage was just behind the house. We pulled in up front. The light was on over the front door. We were expected.

I got out of the car and came around to play gentleman for Velda but she was already climbing out. She had changed into a black pants suit with a gray silk blouse and looked very business-like, or as much as her curves, long legs and all that shoulders-brushing raven hair allowed. She carried a good-size black purse with a shoulder strap. Plenty of room for various female accouterments, including a .22 revolver.

She was looking back the way we came. “I can't shake the feeling we were followed,” she said.

“Hard to tell on a damn expressway,” I admitted. “But I didn't pick up on anything on that county road.”

“Maybe I should stay out here and keep watch.”

“No. I can use you inside. I remember you hitting it off with this broad. She was scared of me, as I recall.”

Now Velda was looking at the brick house. “Well, for all she knew you were one of Don Giraldi's thugs and she was getting a one-way ride. And maybe something about your manner said that a ‘broad' is what you thought she was.”

“I wasn't so cultured then.”

“Yeah,” she said sarcastically, as we started up the walk. “You've come a long way, baby.”

Twenty years ago, more or less, Velda and I had moved Sheila Burrows out to these Long Island hinterlands. That hadn't been her name then, and she'd had to leave a Park Avenue penthouse to make the move. The exact circumstances of why Don Giraldi had wanted his mistress to disappear had not been made known to us. But we had suspected.

The woman who met us at the door was barely recognizable as the former Broadway chorus girl we had helped relocate back when LBJ was still president. She had been petite and curvy and platinum blonde. Now she was stout and bulgy and mousy brunette. Her pretty Connie Stevens-ish features, lightly made up, were trapped inside a ball of a face.

“Nice to see you two again,” she said as she ushered us inside. She wore a pink top, blue jeans and sandals.

There was no entryway. You were just suddenly in the living room, a formal area with lots of plastic-covered furniture. A spinet piano against the right wall was overseen by a big gilt-framed pastel portrait of our hostess back in all her busty blond glory.

She quickly moved us into a small family room area just off a smallish kitchen with wooden cabinets and up-to-date appliances; a short hallway to the bedrooms was at the rear. She sat us down at a round maple table with captain's chairs and a spring-theme centerpiece of plastic flowers.

She had coffee ready for us. As I stirred milk and sugar into mine, I glanced at the nearby wall where rough-hewn paneling was arrayed with framed pictures. They charted two things: her descent into near obesity, and the birth, adolescence and young manhood of a son. It was all there, from playpen to playground, from high school musical to basketball court, from graduation to what was obviously a recent shot of the handsome young man with an attractive girl outside a building I recognized as part of NYU.

“That's our son,” she said, in a breathy second soprano that had been sexy once upon a time.

“We
thought
you were pregnant,” Velda said with a tiny smile.

Her light blue eyes jumped. “Really? You knew? Why, I was only a few months gone. Barely showing.”

“You just had that glow,” Velda said.

Our hostess chuckled. “More like water retention. How
do
you maintain that lovely figure of yours, Miss Sterling? Or are you two
married
by now?”

“Not married,” Velda said. “Not quite. Not yet.”

“She eats a lot of salad,” I said.

That made Sheila Burrows wince, and Velda shot me a look. I'd been rude. Hadn't meant to be, but some things come naturally.

I said, “You probably never figured to see us again.”

“That's true,” she said. She sipped her coffee. “But I wasn't surprised to hear from you, not exactly.”

Velda asked, “Why is that?”

“With Nicholas dying, I figured there would be
some
kind of follow-up. For a long time, there was a lawyer, a nice man named Simmons, who handled the financial arrangements. He would come by every six months and see how I was doing. And ask questions about our son.”

I asked, “Any direct contact with Don Giraldi since you moved out here?”

“No. And, at first, I was surprised. I thought after Nick was born … our son is Nicholas, too … that we might, in some way, resume our relationship. Nicolas Giraldi was a very charming man, Mr. Hammer. Very suave. Very courtly. He was the love of my life.”

“You were only with him for, what? Five or six years?”

“Yes, but it was a wonderful time. We traveled together, even went to Europe once, and he practically lived with me during those years. I don't believe he ever had relations with his wife after the early years of their marriage.”

“They had three daughters.”

“Yes,” she said, rather defensively, “but none after our Nick came along.”

Funny that she so insistently referred to the son in that fashion—‘our Nick'—when the father had avoided any direct contact. And this once beautiful woman, so sexually desirable on and off the stage, had become a homemaker and mother—a suburban housewife. Without a husband.

Velda said, “I can see why you thought Nicholas would come back to you, after your son's birth. If he had
really
wanted you out of his life—for whatever reason—he wouldn't have kept you so close to home.”

“Wilcox is a long way from Broadway,” she said rather wistfully.

“But it's not the moon,” I said. “I had assumed the don felt you'd gotten too close to him—that you'd seen things that could be used against him.”

Her eyes jumped again. “Oh, I would never—”

“Not by you, but by others. Police. FBI. Business rivals. But it's clear he wanted his son protected. So that the boy could not be used against him.”

She was nodding. “That's right. That's what he told me, before he sent me away. He said our son would be in harm's way, if anyone knew he existed. But that he would
always
look out for young Nick. That someday Nick would have a great future.”

Velda said, “You said you had no direct contact with Nicholas. But would I be right in saying that you had …
indirect
contact?”

The pretty face in the plump setting beamed. “Oh, yes. Maybe once a year, always in a different way. You see, our Nick is a very talented boy—talented young
man
now. He took part in so many school activities, both the arts and sports. And
so
brilliant; valedictorian of his class! But then his father was a genius, wasn't he?”

I asked, “What do you mean, ‘once a year, always in a different way?'”

She was looking past me at the wall of pictures. Fingers that were still slender, graceful, traced memories in the air.

“There Nicholas would be,” she said, “looking so proud, in the audience at a concert, or a ball game, or a school play. I think Nick gets his artistic talent from me, if that doesn't sound too stuck up and, best of all, Nicholas came to graduation and heard his son speak.”

Velda asked, “Did they ever meet?”

“No.” She pointed. “Did you notice that picture? That very first one, high up, at the left?”

A solemn portrait of a kid in army green preceded the first of several baby photos.

“That's a young man who died in Vietnam,” she said. “Mr. Simmons, the attorney, provided me with that and other photos, as well as documents. His name was Edwin Burrows and we never met. He was an only child with no immediate family. He won several medals, actually, including a Silver Star, and
that
was the father that Nick grew up proud of.”

I asked, “No suspicions?”

“Why should he be suspicious? When he was younger, Nick was very proud of having such an heroic father.”

“Only when he was younger?”

“Well … you know boys. They grow out of these things.”

Not really, but I let it pass.

“Mrs. Burrows,” I said, sitting forward, “have you received anything, perhaps in the mail, that might seem to have come from Don Giraldi?”

“No …”

“Specifically, a ledger. A book.”

Her eyes were guileless. “No,” she said. “No. After Mr. Simmons died, and his visits ended, another lawyer came around, just once. I was given a generous amount of money and told I was now on my own. And there's a trust fund for Nick that becomes his on his graduation from NYU.”

“Have you talked to your son recently?”

She nodded. “We talk on the phone at least once a week. Why, I spoke to him just yesterday.”

“Did he say anything about receiving a ledger from his father?”

“Mr. Hammer, no. As I thought I made clear, as far as Nick is concerned
his
father is a Vietnam war hero named Edwin Burrows.”

“Right,” I said. “Now listen carefully.”

And I told her about the book.

She might be a suburban hausfrau now, but she had once been the mistress of a mob boss. She followed me easily, occasionally nodding, never interrupting.

“You are on the very short list,” I said, “of people who Don Giraldi valued and trusted. You might
still
receive that book. And it's possible some very bad people might come looking for it.”

She shook her head, mousy brown curls bouncing. “Doesn't seem possible … after all these years. I thought I was safe … I thought
Nick
was safe.”

“You raise the most pertinent point. I think your son is the logical person the don may have sent that book.”

She frowned in concern, but said nothing.

I went on: “I want you to do two things, Mrs. Burrows, and I don't want any argument. I want you to let us stow you away in a safe-house motel we use upstate. Until this is over. You have a car? Velda will drive you in it, and stay with you till I give the word. Just quickly pack a bag.”