Once a Crooked Man (43 page)

Out of habit he went into the bedroom to check his answering machine. The phone was on the floor with the receiver off the hook. Harry put it together and pressed the play button. He listened to five very old messages. One of them was from Richie, telling him he'd been picked for the Mueller's Mayo commercial.

Harry replaced the scattered clothes in the closet and drawers. Found a set of sheets and made up the bed. As he smoothed the coverlet he had trouble resisting the temptation to lie down. The living room took longer as his challenged arm made it difficult to lift the books and ornaments back onto the shelves and tables.

All the pieces of broken glass and china went into the trash. Tossing all his theatrical paraphernalia back into the cupboard he pushed the door shut. In the bathroom he looked up and saw that the panel in the ceiling was undisturbed. Above it was over a million and a half dollars in cash. But to spend one note would be an invitation to disaster.

The smell in the kitchen was subtle but nasty. Green mold covered scattered food on the floor. Sweeping everything into a pile, he scooped it into a garbage bag from the box in the living room. Apart from the Stella Artois, the contents of the icebox and freezer went the same way. The camera and recorder were repacked into their cases and slid into a corner of the living room. Once the cushions were straightened, he sat down and looked around, pleased to see that his apartment was beginning to look like his old familiar home.

Over the next weeks Harry's physical recovery was gradual but steady. He went to the therapist every Wednesday and Friday morning and built up his stamina by walking the six and a half miles around Central Park. This regime caused him to lose weight. He applied for unemployment as he didn't yet feel strong enough to go back to work. Several residual checks arrived giving him sufficient funds to get by.

One cold and frosty morning, he returned from his walk, collected the mail and jogged up the stairs. Laying everything on the living room table, he hung up his coat.

A handwritten envelope with the postmark “Lawrence NY 11559” caught his eye. He tore it open and pulled out a single handwritten sheet of paper.

Harry,

I am real sorry you went through so much shit. I know it was all my fault. Things just didn't turn out the way I expected. Life is pretty strange sometimes. Max and me owe you a lot. Without you we wouldn't be here. The weather is glorious, with lots of sunshine and not a lot of rain. We got a house right on the beach. We ride bikes and take long walks. Hope your arm is better. I have given up smoking and Max hasn't had a cup of coffee in weeks. This makes both of us irritable and we have glorious fights! In case you still got them, the notes in the suitcase you brought over were never messed with. I never did nothing to them. You can spend them and nobody will be any the wiser. Max agrees with me that you should have them. Just thought you'd like to know. Take care of yourself.

In place of a signature was an imprint of Lizzie's mauve lipstick. Harry was stunned. Lizzie was alive and safe. And wealthy.

Well, that was one mystery solved. Max and Lizzie must have taken the money from the cases.

But when had she gone over to the side of the bad guys? Or at least to the side of one of them? What could possibly have made her do that? And when? And why were they suddenly paying him off? Could the note be a hoax? From a desk drawer he retrieved the note Lizzie had written to him on the first day she'd been in his apartment. One glance showed they were both written by the same hand.

Lizzie had used their names. So she knew the letter was untraceable even by the FBI lab. But then Max and Lizzie knew every trick in the book. How the hell had they ended up together? Answers were called for.

With the stepladder from the kitchen straddling the toilet, Harry opened up the bathroom ceiling and pulled out the suitcase. Dirt and dust fell to the floor. Carrying the suitcase over to the bed, he flipped it open, took out one bundle, closed the lid and pushed the case back into the ceiling. Once the panel was replaced he swept up all the dust and dirt.

From the closet he retrieved his coat and headed out. Fifteen minutes later when his cab pulled up in front of Mazaras, Harry was convinced the driver had made a mistake. Gone was the overhead sign and the bricks had been cleaned and the wood trim painted a dark red. Then he read the lettering on the front window.

Pushing open the door he went inside. Delicious smells greeted him. The ground-floor layout was the same, but the wall coverings, carpets and curtains had all been changed and there were fresh flowers everywhere. Harry walked into the dining room and took off his coat.

A new bar with four stools had been built across the far corner. A man in his shirtsleeves was polishing glasses and sliding them on an overhead rack.

“Excuse me,” said Harry as he made his way through the tables. “Am I too early for lunch?”

The barman turned around and both men did a take. Benny dropped the cloth and thrust out an arm. “Holy shit!” he said loudly. “How are you, Harry? You look great. How do you like the new place?”

“Pretty neat,” replied Harry, and putting his coat on a stool, he leaned over to shake hands. “I thought it was time I came to visit. Maybe get a bite to eat.”

“First things first. What would you like to drink?” asked Benny. “How about a Jamesons?”

“Great,” replied Harry and he looked around. “It feels very strange to come back and see everything changed. As if it all never happened.”

Benny poured out the Irish whisky with a flourish. “Tell me about it!” he said with a shrug. “Imagine how we all feel.”

“Who's here beside you? Anybody I know?”

Benny lifted up the bar flap. “I'll let the boss tell you.”

He hurried across the room and up the stairs as Harry poured a little water into the whisky from the jug on the bar. Not so very long ago he'd witnessed Benny shoot someone dead three feet from where he sat. If he chose to go to the cops and tell them what he knew the man would be arrested and could spend the rest of his life in jail. This didn't appear to enter Benny's head. He had accepted Harry as one of the guys. A member of the family. Or was he just making a show of welcome? Harry glanced down to where Carter had fallen. The whole floor had been stripped bare and highly polished.

“Well, well, well,” Cora's voice drawled behind him. “Will you look what the cat brought in. The walking wounded.”

“At least I'm walking,” replied Harry. “More than we can say for some.”

“Carter? The bastard got what he deserved. How are you, Harry? We heard you were hurt pretty bad.”

“It was hard for a while. It's better now. How about you?”

Cora pointed to a table over by the window. “Come and sit down over here; my ass is too small for those stools.”

“Whose idea was the bar?” asked Harry, getting up and grabbing his coat.

“Mine,” replied Cora. “I used to tell Max it was a good idea, but he never liked it. Now he's gone…” She grimaced.

“For a minute I didn't think I'd come to the right place,” said Harry. “But then I saw your name on the window.”

“Cora's! Pretty cool, huh?”

“Very. So you're the new boss.”

“It was a parting gift,” she said wryly. “For services rendered.” She pulled out a chair for him to sit.

“What happened here after we left?” he asked.

“Everyone scattered like pigeons. Left town as fast as they could. For the first week this place was empty. Sal and Furella went to Florida. Vic went with them. Enzo took a cruise to Alaska, sold his apartment and dropped out of sight.”

“And you?”

“I flew to Vegas to visit with old friends for a couple of days. Then I came back here to get the work started. Max wanted the painters to come in as soon as possible in case anyone came snooping around.”

“So you keep in touch with him?”

Cora paused. She sat down opposite him. “Kind of,” she said.

“How did you feel when he went off with the English chick?”

Cora feigned surprise. “What makes you think they're together?”

“Answer my question,” insisted Harry.

“I always hoped that one day Max and I would end up as a regular couple. But I'm a realist, Harry. I knew deep down it would never happen. Max took me for granted. I became one of the fixtures.”

“How long were you guys together?”

“A long time. We met in Vegas.”

“So what happened, Cora?” said Harry. “Where did they go?”

Cora stared at him for a moment and then asked, “How much do you know?”

Harry took out the note from Lizzie and handed it over.

“What's this?” asked Cora.

“Read it.”

Harry sipped his whisky. Sounds of preparation came from the kitchen: voices and the clatter of the dishes. Cora looked up at him. Her face was a mask.

Harry set his glass down. “Max had it all worked out from the beginning, didn't he? He knew what he was going to do before he sent me to London with Rocco. He got there first and was waiting and watching in the Mews.

“I was the setup for Villiers. Then Rocco was going to take care of me. That was his plan. But Villiers had figured it all out. That's why he strangled Rocco.”

Harry thought for a moment and then added, “Max waited until we left and then he waltzed in and made off with the cash.”

Cora was impassive.

Harry took the note back and put it in his pocket.

“There's one thing I'll never understand, Cora. When I was taken upstairs, Lizzie was naked and tied up. Max used her as a hostage. And yet that night she went with him of her own free will. The only conclusion I can come up with is that she must have been in on his plan from the beginning.”

Cora's eyes flared. “I've seen Max react to a lot of women, Harry. There was something different about the way he behaved with your friend Lizzie.”

“So when I saw her tied to that bed. That was a setup? All that drama was for my benefit.”

“Yes, it appears it was. We'll never really know.”

He paused to assimilate what was he was hearing. “I still don't get why she went away with him,” he said. “What the hell happened? What magic did the bastard perform?”

“Surprised the hell out of me,” Cora said. “After he took her out of here that night, I never saw either of them again. It all happened so fast. I suppose in some weird way they hit it off.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “I don't suppose she could be still working?”

“Working at what?” Cora asked with a frown.

“You don't know?”

“Know what?”

“Elizabeth Carswell is an undercover cop. She came here on a cybercrime investigation.”

Cora gave him a look of amazement. “A cop?”

“Yes,” he said, and added, “Complicates things quite a bit, doesn't it?”

“Does Max know?”

“Not unless she told him. She came here trying to track down a hacker who had penetrated the European Defence System. She never knew it, but young Vic Bruschetti was the man she was after.”

“How do you know that?”

“Vic told me. Right in this room.”

For a moment they both sat with their own thoughts.

“Do you have any idea where they went?” asked Harry.

Cora abruptly stood up. “No, I don't.” She pushed her chair under the table. “It's all about survival, Harry. In this world it's not the survival of the fittest but the survival of the smartest. You got to know when to fight and when to give in.”

“That's a pessimistic way of looking at life”

“It's the way Max saw it. And obviously the way your cute little friend Lizzie saw it. They both saw an opportunity and took it. Good luck to them.”

She put her hands on the table and leaned close to him.

“It won't last, Harry. I know Max. He gets bored. With people and places. He's never stuck with one woman for more than a month.”

Harry picked up his glass. “That rather depends on the woman, doesn't it?” He finished his whisky. “We have to face it. They fell for each other. Found a little happiness. Can't grudge them that, can we?”

“We should be so lucky,” she replied, and turned away.

Harry watched her as she walked away and into the kitchen. Cora had an attractive body. Maybe he'd come back sometime and talk some more. Now it was time to move on. The bad guys had won. The villain had gotten the girl and ridden off into the sunset.

Harry's phone rang. It took him a moment to find it. The call was from his agent.

“Hi there, Harry!” said Richie. “How are you doing? Look, I know you're still taking it easy and I'm real sorry to bother you, but they just called to ask your availability next month to read the new Stan Benedict novel. They loved what you did with
Passion and Power
and really want you to do the sequel. It's called
Violent Vengeance.
What do you say? Are you up to it? It's two days' recording and they're offering you the same money. I tried to get more but they said no way. Budget's pretty tight.”

Harry hesitated and that in itself was unique. For the first time in his career he was being offered work and he was wondering if he wanted to accept.

“Can I call you back on this one?” he said, needing a little time.

“Sure thing, sport. I'll be here at the office until seven.”

Harry closed the phone and laid it on the table.

Why had he hesitated? Was it money in his pocket? Was it the countless bundles of bills back in the bathroom ceiling? Did so much money give him a sense of superiority? An excuse not to work? Suddenly he realized he was behaving like an idiot.

Nothing had actually changed in his life. He still craved the excitement of a new script, the challenge of creating a character, the intellectual exercise of rehearsals and the almost unbearable nervousness of opening night.