Peril (27 page)

But would he really do that? he wondered. If Samantha's father-in-law showed up, backed him into a corner, gave him no other option, would he really go that far, reach for a gun? He didn't know, and that uncertainty struck him as an accusation. He didn't know because he was civilized, and because he was civilized he would calculate the odds, try to reason through the consequences, a process that would turn him into some lousy broker, gauging profits and losses, the opposite of a passionate man, which was, he realized, the kind of man he most despised, but also the kind of man he was, and hated being.

So that was it, he decided, that was what he wanted, that was what would make him happy, just to know for sure that if things really came to a head over Samantha, he would risk it all for her.

STARK

The man in the chair didn't move or speak, so different from Lockridge, who'd broken immediately. After only one application of the towel, he'd sputtered Henderson's name, the Paseo del Prado hotel where he was staying, then told how Henderson had taunted Marisol as he'd beaten her, humiliated and degraded and repeatedly strangled her to unconsciousness then revived her for more, until Henderson had finally said, “This bitch won't die” and cut her throat.

This bitch won't die.

The last words Marisol had heard on earth.

Stark's gaze settled on the man in the chair. “Who do you work for?” he asked.

The man remained silent, motionless.

“Who do you work for?”

The man sat rigidly in place.

“Who do you work for?”

The man's head lowered slightly, as if considering the question, then lifted again in what Stark saw as a gesture of defiance.

It was late in the afternoon now, and Stark knew that the night that lay before him would be grim. The man in the chair was weakening in every way but in his spirit. His body was racked by hunger and exhaustion, and Stark knew that a sense of doom was surely settling in, the certainty that he was going to die.

Death.

His own death beckoned him softly, just as it had several days before, promising an end, but also, as he began to imagine it, a beginning, a return, as he let himself envision it, to the arms of Marisol.

He knew that every religion proclaimed the possibility of such miraculous reunions. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps it could be true. Perhaps only a veil separated one world from another, life's longing and inadequacy from the ecstatic fulfillment that waited on the other side. If it were true, Stark reasoned, then why had he gone on, since nothing but the slender line of his tiny throbbing pulse kept him from Marisol.

The man groaned slightly, drawing Stark back to earth. He hardened his voice and prepared to reapply the towel.

“Who do you work for?” he said.

EDDIE

Tony.

That was the name the silver-haired man wanted. But he couldn't say it. He couldn't give Tony up. Because Tony was his friend and had always been nice to him, helped him out from time to time, told him that he was going to give him a raise so he could buy a new car. Eddie concentrated on these things while the man asked him over and over to give him a name.

He moved his naked toes because they were the only parts of his body that didn't hurt, or didn't feel some aching need for relief. His stomach cried for food, and his mouth sought water, and his whole body, except for his toes, recoiled at the slightest touch or sound. He remembered once opening a clamshell on the beach and touching the tender, pulpy inside with the tip of his finger. The clam had drawn in at that slight touch, and that was how he felt now, like a clam taken out of its shell, utterly vulnerable to everything.

And yet, at the same time, something very deep seemed whole and protected and beyond anything that could be done to harm it or cause it to collapse. He knew that Father Mike would call that part his soul, but he wasn't sure that this was really what it was. Maybe it was just stubbornness or pride. No, he thought, it wasn't that. It was just that he didn't want to fly apart.

Years before, Father Mike had told him that a man was like a dandelion. Delicate. A breath of wind could tear it apart. But a man who knew himself was like that same plant, only made of steel. It still looked frail. It still looked as though it couldn't stand up to much. But it had a coating around it. The coating was invisible, but it sealed all the small fibers in a case that nothing could break. And this invisible case that surrounded you was your soul, and when it was pure, nothing could get to all the little fibers that were inside it.

“Who do you work for?”

He closed his eyes and imagined himself as a dandelion blowing in the wind, all the ones around him tearing and shredding, but himself standing firm and whole and not ever giving in.

MORTIMER

He'd wanted to go home after talking with Caruso, but something in their conversation continued to gnaw at him, a little sharp-toothed beast that wouldn't stop nipping at his mind. It was Caruso's tone, so oddly distant, like a man under anesthetic, some part of him gone numb. Why was that? Mortimer wondered now. What the fuck was going on? He thought of Abe, of all that could blow up in his face if Caruso showed up at the bar, tried to strong-arm the woman. He thought of the gun and raged at himself for giving it to him. What did Abe know about guns, for Christ's sake? He was just as likely to put a bullet in his foot as plug Caruso or Labriola or whoever else tried to get between him and the broad.

Fucking gun, Mortimer thought, his mind now swinging in a different direction as he labored to find a way out for Abe. He could rush to McPherson's, tell Abe to get out of town and take the woman with him. But where would they go? It didn't matter really. Labriola would find them eventually. And besides, Caruso would know who'd tipped Abe off. Even worse, this solution, which it couldn't even be called a solution but Mortimer could find no other word to use, this solution still left Stark behind that black curtain, doing God-knows-what to the poor helpless bastard Caruso had put on him.

Okay, Mortimer thought, first things first. Deal with one thing, clear that up, then go to the next one.

He decided the first thing to deal with was Abe, and what mattered with Abe was getting that gun.

He found him at the bar, all decked out in new clothes, a sure sign that he was still falling.

“You're becoming a regular, Morty,” Abe said.

Mortimer nodded. “Looks like you're going out. That girl you mentioned, the singer.”

“Yeah, we're having dinner before she comes here.”

Mortimer smiled faintly. “That's nice,” he said, “that's real nice, Abe.” He cleared his throat slightly. “So, this girl, you said some guy was after her.”

“That's what she's afraid of, yeah.”

“But he ain't found her, right?”

“Not yet, I guess.”

“And he ain't likely to, don't you think?”

“I don't know.”

“What I mean is, you probably don't need that gun I give you, right?”

Abe turned to him slowly, his eyes suddenly very intent. Morty knew he'd rushed it, tipped Abe off somehow.

“What are you getting at, Morty?” Abe asked.

Mortimer shrugged. “Nothing, except I was thinking it maybe ain't such a good idea, you having that gun.”

Abe's gaze intensified. “Why's that?”

“No reason in particular.”

Abe drew in a slow breath. “So, what brought about this change of heart, Morty?”

“Nothing,” Mortimer answered quickly.

Abe's eyes were like probing needles. “You know something, Morty?”

Mortimer tried for a dismissive chuckle. “Me? No, I don't know nothing.”

The needles sank deeper. “It's what you do, though, isn't it?” Abe asked. “Find people?”

Mortimer nodded, now regretting that he'd ever told Abe anything about his work, even though the things he'd told him were mostly lies, or at best exaggerations.

“Have I got a problem, Morty?”

“Problem, no.”

“How about Samantha?”

“Who?”

“The singer.”

“Oh,” Mortimer stammered. “No, she ain't got no problem.”

“So it's like you said, probably nobody's going to show up, right?”

“Right,” Mortimer said, though he could tell Abe hadn't bought it.

“So since nobody's likely to find Samantha,” Abe said, “no harm in me keeping the gun. 'Cause there won't be any reason for me to use it, right?”

Mortimer said nothing, and he could tell that this only deepened the grave suspicion he saw in Abe's eyes.

“Right?” Abe asked pointedly.

Mortimer nodded heavily, giving in. Jesus Christ, he thought, what do I do now?

TONY

Time was running out. He knew that much for sure. Time was running out for Sara. He saw his father's face, heard him say “Okay” in that way he'd always said it and not meant it. On that word he'd pledged not to look for Sara, but it had been a lie. He was still looking for her. He would never stop looking for her. He couldn't imagine why he'd fallen under this obsession, or why, with each passing hour, he seemed more furiously driven by it.

So time was running out for Sara.

He picked up the phone, dialed Caruso's number.

“Hello.”

“Vinnie?”

“Yeah.”

“Tony.”

Silence.

“I got to talk to you.”

“We already talked.”

“No, listen. I talked to my father. Things are bad, Vinnie.”

Silence.

“Things are real bad.”

“It ain't my business, Tony, what goes on between you and your—”

“Yeah, it is, Vinnie. Because it concerns you.”

“No, it don't. It don't have nothing to do with me.”

“If he finds her, then you're in it too,” Tony told him. “You know you are, Vinnie.”

Caruso said nothing.

“Okay, how about this,” Tony said. “You and me, we go see my father. Talk things over with him.”

“What things?”

“The whole thing about him looking for Sara,” Tony explained. “I'll tell him that I told her to leave. That I kicked her out. I'll tell him I don't want anything to do with her.”

“He won't believe you, Tony.”

“Vinnie, please. You don't know what he might do if he finds her.”

Caruso said nothing.

“He's not right, you know,” Tony added. “Not right in the head.”

“Whether he is or not, that ain't my business.”

“What is, Vinnie? What is your business in this thing?”

“What I already told you. I hired a guy, that's all.”

“Vinnie, listen to me. He didn't just hire that guy to find Sara. What good would that do? He hired him to . . . do something else.”

Caruso gave no response.

“It could be anything,” Tony continued. “But nothing about it is good. Not for me. Or for you. But most of all, not for Sara.”

“It ain't my business, Tony,” Caruso repeated.

“But suppose I could stop him, that's what I'm saying,” Tony told him.

“He wouldn't listen to you.”

“Okay, maybe not to me, but what about you, Vinnie?”

“Me?”

“Maybe he'd listen to you,” Tony said.

Caruso laughed sourly.

“I mean it, Vinnie,” Tony said. “He trusts you. You know, to think things through. Give him advice.”

Caruso said nothing, and in that brief silence Tony wondered if he'd actually struck a chord. “Maybe this whole thing with Sara is some kind of test,” he continued. “Of you, Vinnie.”

“Me?”

“To see if you can really be trusted,” Tony said. “Not just to do the muscle work. But for your judgment, you know, for your . . . brains!”

“To see if I'd stop him, you mean.”

“Right.”

Caruso said nothing, but Tony could almost hear his mind working the problem, reaching a decision.

“So, will you help me here, Vinnie?”

“I don't know, Tony,” Caruso said softly. “If he thinks I . . .”

“You don't want to see Sara hurt, do you?” Tony asked. “Or my father?” He heard Caruso release a weary sigh. “Please, Vinnie, let's try one more time to end this thing.”

The silence that followed seemed to last forever.

Then, “Yeah, okay,” Caruso said.

SARA

She sat at the table by the window and wondered what she should do, whether she should meet Abe at the restaurant or call now, cancel everything, not just dinner, but her songs at the bar, say thank you but good-bye, and disappear from his life.

She knew that the man in the rumpled black hat had unnerved her. But she also knew that even if the man had not suddenly appeared, she would have been attacked by the very fears that paralyzed her now.

One fact loomed over all others—she was a woman on the run. In her mind she saw Labriola's face as it had swept up to her in the corridor, his voice slurred and drunken,
You giving Tony what he needs?

She'd pushed him away, headed toward the den, but he'd grabbed her and jerked her around,
You know what I say, right?

Again she'd pushed him away, this time harder, so that he'd stumbled backward, a curiously surprised look on his face, his eyes gleaming with a strange, mocking admiration,
You got some fight in you, Sara.

But did she really, she wondered now, did she really have any fight left in her?

She rose, walked to the back of the room, then returned to the window and sat down again, her gaze on the street. For a moment all the mistakes she'd made fell upon her in a heavy rain of self-accusation. She'd been driven from her home by Caulfield, driven from New York by her own need to be taken care of, then driven from Long Island by the certainty that if she stayed there, she would be destroyed one way or another.