Sweetheart (24 page)

C
HRISTOPHER
W
ADE
stepped into the library and stood still as Ralph Roselli came up from behind and patted him down. “Look at this,” Roselli said in a flat, impassive voice, “he’s got two guns. Berettas. He’s the fuckin’ Lone Ranger.”

“Let him keep one,” Anthony Gardella said in a tone as stolid as Roselli’s. Gardella and Victor Scandura were in leather chairs. The only light, muted, came from a single reading lamp turned to the wall.

Jane Gardella was sitting in a far corner of the room, in almost total darkness, as if her husband did not want to see her face. Wade, his eyes searching her out, said, “How are you?” She did not answer.

Gardella said, “Why do you care? She special to you?”

The silence had barbs in it.

Gardella turned in his chair and peered in the direction of his wife. “He special to you?” When there was no response, Gardella looked back at Wade. “What d’you think of that? My own wife won’t talk to me.”

Wade said, “She’d never testify against you, you know that.”

“You’d better sit down,” Gardella said. “You look like you’re shaking. Ralph, give him a chair.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Forget the chair, Ralph. He says he’s fine.” Gardella reached down beside him, brought up the bulky envelope Deckler had given him, and withdrew a Sony cartridge, which he held up for Wade to see. “I figured you were a right guy, but now I’ve got to wonder.” He startled Wade by snapping the cartridge in half, slivers of plastic flying up, a tape springing out. “That was you and Thurston talking.”

“Then you know you’re in trouble,” Wade said and tried to make contact with Jane Gardella’s eyes, but her face was lost in shadow. All he could see was one of her hands, the fingers spread. For a moment he wondered whether she was alive.

“You want to hurt him?” Gardella asked.

“What?”

“Thurston. You want to hurt him, I got a gift for you.” He tossed the envelope at Wade, who caught it with surprising agility in one hand and stared at it. “Go ahead, open it,” Gardella said. “Enjoy.”

After a moment of struggle with the flap, Wade pulled out the photographs, slowly examined four or five, and then put them all back. He could feel not only Gardella’s eyes on him but Scandura’s as well.

Gardella said, “Now I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“Name it,” Wade said.

“No matter what happens to me, my sister walks. Nothing happens to her. I want your word.”

Scandura stirred. “What d’you want to take his word for? What’s it worth?”

“This is going to surprise you, Victor. But I think I know the man.”

Wade said, “You’ve got my word.”

“Good,” Gardella said and looked away. “Now I’ve got to hurt you.”

The night air was humid, and bugs swirled around their heads as they made their way from Gardella’s house to his sister’s. Wade and Jane Gardella were at the front of the line, with Ralph Roselli a step behind. Gardella and Scandura took up the rear. Jane Gardella had trouble with her balance, and twice Wade steadied her.

Gardella called out, “Hey, Ralph, tell them they want to hold hands, that’s okay with me.”

Scandura, in a whisper, said, “You’re stretching this out, Anthony. We haven’t got the time.”

“I know what I’m doing, Victor.”

Scandura also had trouble with his footing, stumbling over the grass, which was slippery. In a more urgent tone, he said, “You don’t hit her, I’ll have to.”

“Is that the way it is?” Gardella said, unperturbed. “I guess you’ve been on the phone to Providence.”

“What choice did I have, Anthony?”

“There are always choices,” Gardella said firmly. “I’ll handle this my way.”

Inside his sister’s house Gardella directed them to the basement door, and they descended the stairs in a single file, with Wade in the lead. The basement was carpeted and paneled and contained a game room, where Rita O’Dea was waiting for them. She looked at Wade with nothing to say, her face flat. Beneath a dart board Alvaro sat fettered to a chair, his head lolling. He was high on something.

“You know him?” Gardella asked.

“No,” said Wade.

“Go close to him. Take a good look.” As Wade stepped forward, Gardella held out his hand, and Roselli filled it with the spare Beretta. “All this time the little prick thinks I don’t know who he is.”

Wade turned around and with horror watched Gardella put the pistol to his wife’s head. Jane Gardella stood frozen with her eyes wide open, staring at the dart board, the bull’s-eye a cluster of feathers. Gardella said, “Do him for me, Wade. You do him, or I do her.”

Wade gaped. “No.”

Gardella said, “You’ve got your piece. Take it out.”

Slowly, carefully, Wade reached inside his jacket and freed his pistol from the holster. Scandura and Ralph Roselli exchanged quick glances. Rita O’Dea’s large face half smiled. “Don’t force this,” Wade said, and Alvaro smirked.

“Nobody’s going to shoot me. It’s not my time.”

Gardella said, “You’ve got one second, Wade. And I’ll tell you something. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Never before had Wade felt so bereft of choices, though in his heart of hearts he knew he would always wonder. The report of the Beretta was ear-shattering and the stench of cordite pervasive. The shot was on the money.

Jane Gardella clamped her hands over her eyes. Scandura lowered his. Ralph Roselli pulled a nickel-plated
.32
-caliber revolver from his pocket but was uncertain what to do. Rita O’Dea said, “Christ, he did it.”

Gardella threw his wife at Wade. “Get out of here, both of you!”

“That ain’t right,” Scandura protested. “They’ve got to go too.”

Gardella silenced him with a look and stayed Roselli with a shake of the head. “I still call the shots,” he said.

T
HEY
came to the real estate office to talk to him — the two men from Providence. Anthony Gardella said to one of them, “You oughta get some sun, for Christ’s sake. You look like an albino.”

The pale man smiled. “You said that the last time.”

“Sign of age. I’m repeating myself.”

The other man, wide-necked, eyes dead-looking in their pouches, said, “Shit’s hittin’ the fan, huh, Anthony? Lot of people gonna suffer, we hear.”

“You don’t need me to tell you about it. I guess Victor’s taken care of that.”

“He didn’t have a choice. Raymond wanted to know.”

“Always choices, my friend. Sometimes it’s easier not to make any.”

The pale man said, “We heard from Skeeter. He said the Dillon woman showed up, but your brother-in-law didn’t.”

“Feds have him, you know that.”

“We just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“Funny Skeeter called you guys,” Gardella said. “ ’Course he was always Raymond’s eyes and ears down there, never really mine. Way it goes.”

The wide-necked man said, “Never figured that about Scatamacchia. Goes to show you can never trust a cop. They don’t know how to think.”

With the hint of an edge, Gardella said, “You guys gonna be staying long?”

“We’re leaving,” said the pale man. “First we thought we’d get ourselves something to eat. Last time we saw you, we stopped off at this swell place in Amesbury. International menu. Tuesdays they give you Swiss stuff, Wednesdays it’s Italian.”

“You can get Italian anytime.”

“Thursday is French. Friday’s German. Saturday’s best, they tell me. Hungarian.”

Gardella looked at his hands, the manicured nails, the wedding ring he still wore. “I suppose you guys want me to go along with you.”

“Our guest, Anthony.”

“Who else is going?”

“Victor said he would.”

Victor Scandura was already sitting in the car, which belonged to the Providence men, except it bore a Massachusetts plate, newly attached. Gardella joined him in the back seat. The Providence men climbed in front, the pale man behind the wheel. He said, “What’s the best way out?”

Scandura said, “Straight ahead and take your first right.”

On Route 95 the pale man drove with a light touch on the wheel at a moderately high speed. The car, a Mercury Cougar, smelled of an air-freshener. Twice Gardella twisted around to look out the rear window. The third time he said, “I think someone’s following us.”

“It’s all right,” Scandura said. “It’s Ralph.”

Gardella settled in the seat. Then slowly he reached over and touched Scandura’s arm. “I want you to make sure Wade does right by Rita.”

“If I can,” Scandura said.

“What do you mean, if you can? I want you to do it.”

Scandura nodded. A smile gradually grew on his face, and he said, “Thurston thinks I’m worried about an ulcer. Laugh’s on him, Anthony. I got a fuckin’ cancer.”

Gardella let his head drop back and closed his eyes. When he wiped his brow, he felt his pulse race. Then terror touched him, swept over him. But it passed.

“Victor, you know what I read once?”

“What, Anthony?”

“Death is our ultimate revenge on those who fucking love us.”

• • •

Christopher Wade’s eye languished on Jane Gardella, who was asleep, charmingly so, as if posed. He woke her because he was worried. She had slept much too long, and he could not remember the last time she had eaten. She sat up and asked him the time. He told her. “Let me get you something to eat,” he said, ready to pick up the phone.

“Later,” she said.

“Or we could go out for something,” he suggested.

“No, I don’t much feel like doing that,” she said and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I think I’ll take a shower.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” he said at once, heartened, but he grew nervous when he watched her leg it into the bathroom and close the door. He grew more nervous when she locked it. They were in the Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge in Kenmore Square. It was where they had been living, chastely sharing a bed. He knew she had gone a little crazy since the night in Rita O’Dea’s basement, but he was determined to nurse her back to normal.

Standing close to the bathroom door, he heard the flush of the john and in time the fast spray of the shower, which somewhat eased his mind. He went to the bed and tightened the sheets and straightened the blanket. When she came out of the bathroom his relief was immense.

“That was nice,” she said. She had washed her hair, and he sat on the edge of the bed with her and helped her dry it with one of the towels she had carried out. He worked the towel slowly to prolong the process. “That feels good,” she said. “Did Tony call?”

“No,” Wade said. “Not yet.”

“Turn on the TV. I like watching it.”

The only thing he could tune in that was decent was a rerun of
The Rockford Files
. As he fiddled with buttons to capture the correct color he heard her climb back into bed. “When I’m home,” he said, “I always watch this.” When he turned around he saw that she had fallen back to sleep.

Rockford
was just ending when someone rapped softly on the door. Wade got up from his chair, parted the curtain to peek through the window, and then opened the door quickly. It was Jane Gardella’s mother.

“How is she today?” Mrs. Denig asked.

“Better,” Wade lied.

Mrs. Denig looked beyond him and lowered her voice. “I don’t want to wake her.”

“You don’t have to worry. You have to shake her to do that.”

“If there’s anything I can do …”

“I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll take her back when she’s well, but I can’t take her this way.”

“I understand. I’ll look after her.”

Mrs. Denig stepped toward the door and looked back at him. “Are you married, Lieutenant?”

“Yes,” Wade said. “I am.”

“Well, I guess there are worse things,” she said and left.

• • •

Russell Thurston, jubilant over his success, celebrated by springing for dinner at a small and expensive French restaurant in Cambridge. Agents Blodgett and Blue arrived with him and Wade came later, soon after the waiter had uncorked the champagne. With a great smile, Thurston said, “Pour him a glass, Blue. We’re going to drink to him whether he likes it or not.”

Wade drew a chair and sat down. The toast was elaborate. The champagne made him a little sick. He said to Thurston, “I guess you’re happy.”

“You bet your ass I’m happy. There are so many indictments in the works I can’t keep track of them. The U.S. Attorney’s going out of his mind — with glee. Judges, pols, people from the Social Register, bankers — Christ, it’s like
Who’s Who in Massachusetts
. We’ve already alerted TV, radio, newspapers, and magazines.”

“But you missed Gardella.”

“Yeah, I missed him,” Thurston said with a wink, “but his friends sure as hell didn’t. Real professional. Single bullet in the back of the head.” The waiter served soup, which included a bowl for Wade. It was onion. Thurston said, “I ordered for us all, didn’t want to hold things up.
Boeuf roulade aux champignons
.” Thurston kissed his fingers. “The way they do it here is superb.”

Wade looked down at his soup and poked his spoon through the lid of cheese. “What’s happened with Rita O’Dea?”

“With her I couldn’t wait. She’s already been picked up. Tyrone O’Dea gave us enough on her to put her away for twenty years. We haven’t told her yet about her brother. Afraid she might go nuts on us.”

Wade glanced at Blue, who raised his linen napkin and wiped his mouth. Thurston nudged Blodgett.

“Eat your soup. Don’t be bashful.”

Wade said, “There’s the matter of the money Gardella gave me.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s in Crédit Suisse in Geneva.”

“It stays there. You guys can’t touch it, and neither can I. Only my daughters can, in twenty long years.”

Thurston picked up the wine list. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Talk about it all you want,” Wade said, “but that’s the way it’s going to be.”

Thurston smiled patronizingly without looking up. Wade, who had come in with a large envelope and had propped it against his chair, now slipped it into Blue’s lap.

“Take a look at what’s inside,” he murmured. “Then give it to your boss.”

With relentless attention to the wine list, his brow furrowed, Thurston said, “I don’t care for any of the reds. Do you mind if I choose a white?”

Blue, who had removed the photographs from the envelope, slowly lifted his eyes. “You sure you want to do this?” Without replying, Wade snatched up the first photo in the pile and, letting Blodgett glimpse it, dropped it beside Thurston’s plate.

The reaction was delayed, the silence terrible.

Thurston would not touch the picture. He was rigid, colorless, suddenly spent. Blodgett did not know where to put his eyes, nor did Blue.

Wade said, “You’re a fag. You play with young men, boys. Doesn’t bother me, but the Bureau won’t like it.”

“Get out of here,” Thurston said, and Blodgett and Blue rose immediately and left gladly. To Wade, he said, “What do you want?”

“Rita O’Dea walks. That’s the deal.”

Thurston’s dignity died hard. In a tone of superiority he said, “Who’s calling your shots?”

“Gardella,” Wade said. “From the grave.”