"V" is for Vengeance (39 page)

“I don't see the relevance.”

“You don't? Well, think about it. You were so sure you were right, you abandoned the guy when he needed you most.” He dropped his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it.

“It didn't happen that way,” I said.

“You can quibble all you like, but I'm close enough, am I correct?”

“Marvin, you're trying to draw a parallel between my relationship with my ex and my belief in Audrey's guilt. You're saying Mickey was eventually cleared and therefore she will be too. Is that it?”

“Right. And she's dead, same as the guy you were married to.” He looked skyward and tapped his chin like a cartoon character. “Hmmm. Let's see. What do these two stories have in common?”

I said, “Those two situations are so different I can't even begin to set you straight.”

“Don't be so defensive. I'm just telling you what I was told.”

“By Len Priddy.”

“I didn't say it was him.”

“Of course it was.”

He shrugged. “You don't like the guy, that doesn't mean he's trying to do
you
in,” he said. “At any rate, I apologize for being rude. I should have asked why you're here. Let me guess. You used up the balance of the retainer and you're hoping to hit me up for more.”

“That's true, but the game has changed, hasn't it?” I said mildly. I was keeping my voice low because my rage was rising to a white-hot peak and I didn't dare give vent to it.

“Oh, geez. Now
you're
pissed off. I hope you're not telling me you quit,” he said facetiously.

“Quit? No, sweetheart. I'm in this for the long haul whether you pay me or not.”

He drew back. “You can't do that. I won't have you meddling in her affairs. Audrey's past is none of your business.”

“Sorry to disagree, but this is my job and I'm on it. Too bad you didn't fire me when you had the chance.”

Dante counted laps as he swam, his mouth lifting to the left to take in a breath of air, turning into the water to release. There was little sound beyond the bubbles he breathed out. He was conscious of the strength of his arms as he moved through the water, hands slicing down, pulling through, propelling himself forward. He recited the numbers in his head with each stroke.
Eighteen, eighteen, eighteen
down the length of the pool.
Seventeen, seventeen, seventeen
on the return. It was easy to lose track of where he was and how far he'd come when the water was such a perfect temperature and there was nothing to interrupt the easy flow of energy. The noisy chatter in his head gave way to the simple repetition: arms, legs, inhale, exhale.

The day after his mother left, Pop had drained the pool at the house where they lived, leaving a great empty hole in the ground to remind them of the pleasures she'd taken with her. Rain and falling leaves had rotted together, filling the bottom with black sludge. Dante knew his father had done it out of spite, to deprive them of the solace she'd offered and the confidence she'd instilled. Whatever pain she'd inflicted on her husband, he'd doubled when he'd passed it on to his son. Dante hadn't gone back into the water until he bought this house and had his own pool put in.

The last lap was the best. By then his body was relaxed and his mind was still. After the final few strokes, when he lifted himself out of the water and onto the concrete apron, his limbs felt rubbery and loose. He'd press a towel against his face, flush with the heat the exercise had generated. Where lifting weights pumped his muscles, the swimming stretched him out and kept him long and lean. He'd see Nora in the afternoon, if she decided to come.

By the time he reached the master suite, his body heat had dissipated and he needed a hot shower to offset the chill. Usually on Sunday mornings he didn't shave, but he did so today. Because of Nora, of course. Since he'd first set eyes on her, everything was about Nora. He couldn't identify the draw and he didn't question it. It had never happened to him before and he had no explanation. What difference did it make why he was obsessed? In point of fact, he was.

He peered into the bedroom. Lola was still asleep, buried under the weight of the comforter. She had so little body fat she was cold all the time. During the night, if she snuggled up against him, her skin was as cold as Naugahyde. He eased the dressing room door shut and pulled on his clothes: light pants, a red silk shirt, loafers without socks.

Sophie had Sundays off, so he was alone when he wandered into the kitchen. The counters were gleaming and the stainless steel appliances gave off a silvery light. The coffeepot was preprogrammed and the insulated carafe was full. Sophie had made him a coffee cake that she'd covered in Saran Wrap. He cut a generous slice and ate it with one hand while he poured his coffee with the other. He added milk and carried the mug with him as he moved through the tunnel to his office in the Cottage.

Lola mocked his passion for underground passageways, but he found it satisfying to travel from place to place unseen. She claimed it was his way of returning to the womb, an assertion he found annoying. What did she know about anything? In his mind, it was about the ability to escape. He was a man who always had a way out.

From the Cottage, he crossed the lawn to the guesthouse. The nurse on duty had been looking after his uncle for the past five months. She was close to six feet tall and built like an athlete, all muscle and sinew. Strong features, short cropped blond hair. He'd dated her nine years before, though the relationship was short-lived. Cara was promiscuous by nature and thought nothing of taking up with any man who came along. A woman would do if a guy wasn't available. When she applied for the job, he'd hesitated, wondering if it was wise to have her so close by. Lola's neediness would surface and he'd have to shore her up with constant reassurances. He needn't have worried. Nine years was nine years, and the physical attraction had faded. Cara was competent and she worked hard, and he knew his Uncle Alfredo liked looking at her.

She met him at the door. “He's been waiting for you. He woke up at midnight and wanted company. We played gin rummy and watched television for most of the night. I don't know where he gets the energy.”

Dante followed her into the living room, where his Uncle Alfredo was seated by the fireplace, wrapped in a big puffy yellow comforter. April nights were still chilly and the mornings were not much warmer. Dante crossed to the fireplace, leaned down, and kissed the top of his uncle's head. Alfredo grabbed his hand and clung to it laying it up against his cheek.

“You're a good boy, Dante. Let me say that while I have the opportunity.”

When he finally let go, Dante pulled up a chair and sat down across from him. “How goes the battle?”

“About like you'd expect. This morning's not so bad.”

“Cara says you were up half the night.”

“I'm afraid I'll die in my sleep.”

“Don't want the Grim Reaper catching you unawares?”

“I intend to put up a fight,” Alfredo said. “Your father came to see me yesterday. We had a long talk.”

“Let me guess. He thinks I'm too hard on Cappi. He wants me to hand over the bale and let him run the circuit.”

“That was the gist of it. Not that I'm siding with Lorenzo, but how's the kid going to learn responsibility if he's never given any? I'm not making a judgment here so don't get on your high horse. I'm just asking.”

“The ‘kid' as you so aptly refer to him is forty-six years old. I think he's already demonstrated his capacity for growth and maturity,” Dante said. “Cappi takes advantage. He wheedles and whines and next thing you know, Pop thinks he's come up with the idea himself.”

“No doubt about it. Cappi pays me a visit, I know he's working an angle, maneuvering for support.”

“He's not getting it from me. I may make a show of teaching him the system but I'm not going to cut him in on the profits from an operation worth millions. You think that's a good idea, you're nuts.”

Alfredo tilted his head, his tone mild. “Here's another way of looking at it. How many years you been saying you want out of the business? This might be your opportunity.”

“Doesn't work that way. I'm fifty-four years old. What would I do, go to medical school? Get a law degree? It's too late. Pop expected me to do this and I'm doing it. Now he expects me to turn the biggest chunk of it over to Cappi, who fucks up everything he does. I won't do it.”

“How are you going to get around it when he's made up his mind?”

“He can make up his mind about anything he wants. I'm the one in control. Anyway, ask me, he's losing it. He's talking about Amo and Donatello like they're in the next room.”

“He's forgetful sometimes. Happens to all of us.”

“Not you,” Dante said.

“I'm a special case,” Alfredo said wryly. “Big problem you got is Lorenzo doesn't always see what Cappi's up to. You should put a stop to it before it gets out of hand.”

“How?”

His uncle's face registered distress. “What's the matter with you? You know better. That's not a question you should ever have to ask.” Alfredo studied him briefly. “You know what your problem is?”

“I'm sure you'll enlighten me.”

“You've gone all dainty on me. There was a time when you'd have taken care of this. No talk, no hesitation.”

Dante smiled. “‘Dainty.' That's a first.”

“You know what I mean. Man in your position can't afford a conscience. It's unbecoming. You don't back away from what's difficult. You do what needs to be done.”

“You don't believe we are what we do?”

“Of course. We just have to accept that about ourselves. That we're corrupt, that our sins are mortal. God knows mine lie heavy on my soul.”

“And you wish the same torment on me?”

“You know what's right.”

“Not what's right. I know what's expedient. I'm trying to rise above it for a change.”

Uncle Alfredo shook his head. “Contrary to your nature.”

“I'd like to think I'm a better man at this late stage in my life.”

“Your brother doesn't share your moral sensibilities, which gives him the upper hand.”

“That's how he looks at it, at any rate.”

 

 

Dante took his own car, a 1988 Maserati, silver with a black leather interior. He arrived at the Hatch at 12:45 and parked his car around the corner. He'd given his chauffeur and his bodyguard the day off, opting instead for a loaded Colt Lightweight Commander that he kept in a special compartment in the driver's-side door. He'd instituted the heavy security measures two years before, when a Colombian gang set up shop in Perdido, twenty-five miles south of Santa Teresa. A crew of ten came to town, six men and four women, using driver's licenses that identified them as Puerto Ricans. They were, in fact, trampling on territory run by a friend of his who was a Puerto Rican by birth and took offense, not only at their encroachment, but at their maligning his country of origin. Since Dante's friend was in prison at the time, he'd volunteered to have his own men step in. They cornered the Colombians in a motel room, where a faulty heater exploded, killing the occupants and blowing off half the roof. After that, the remaining Colombians kept their distance but let it be known they'd settle the score in their own good time. Dante's friend had been felled by a sniper's bullet his first day out of prison, and from that point on Dante insisted on armed household guards and armor-plated transportation.

Entering the Hatch, Dante nodded at Ollie and took a table in view of the door. He wanted a bourbon and water but decided to abstain. Ordering a drink seemed like a cheat, as though seeing Nora again was something he couldn't manage without being fortified with booze. He wasn't sure what he'd do if she didn't show. He was just as anxious at the idea that she
would
show. Then what? He'd told himself to have no expectations, but he did.

There was an impressive gathering of patrons at the bar, faces he'd seen on previous occasions. He hadn't been at the Hatch for months, but nothing had changed. He looked around, seeing the place as Nora would see it, shabby and unappealing. No charm, no character. He'd chosen the spot because, as he'd said to her, there was no danger she'd run into anyone she knew. Those in her social circle had probably never heard of the bar and wouldn't be caught dead there if they had.

His gaze strayed to the door, which stood open, admitting a column of daylight, smoky at the edges, as though a filter had been placed over a camera lens. The haze infused the room with a vintage air, a World War II movie set against a backdrop of loss and death and betrayal. That was a cheerful prospect. He didn't know her at all, had no idea, for instance, whether she was punctual or habitually late. He checked his watch and saw that it was 1:00 straight up. Ten more minutes and he'd either order a drink or get up and leave. She was a happily married lady, or said she was, so why would she meet him here, or anywhere else for that matter? She was elegant. She had class. She was reserved and self-contained. There was something in her face that made him want to weep, that made him long to see her again, whatever the cost.

It was three minutes after one when she appeared in the doorway, blocking the light briefly as she came in. He stood. She saw him and crossed the room. He held a chair for her and she sat down. She wore a white wool suit with a short skirt. The jacket was neatly fitted, and where the lapels met the collar there was a rim of red lace. He nearly reached out and slid a finger down between her breasts.