When Heaven Weeps (24 page)

Roald had arranged to meet them with an entourage of Christian leaders and human rights activists who strongly supported the making of the movie. Some of Delmont's people would be there as well, Karen told him. They wanted to make an event out of the occasion. Trust Roald and Karen to come up with any excuse to publicize. He told her as much and she giggled, biting her tongue between her front teeth. She didn't laugh—that would have been expected. But she giggled like a little girl and she bit her tongue and she squinted her eyes as if she'd done something especially tricky, although they both knew it was nothing unusual at all. She did that because she was with him. She did that because she was in love.

Jan leaned back and smiled.
This is where you belong, Janjic
. “You know, it's amazing to consider God's faithfulness,” he said.

“How so?”

“Look at me. What do you see?”

“I see a strong man on top of the world.”

He tried not to blush. “I'm a boy who grew up in the slums of Sarajevo and who lost his family to war and illness. A young man who roamed Bosnia, killing along with the rest. And then once, in a small village I did something decent; something right. I stood up for the truth. I defended one of God's children and was immediately thrown into prison for five years. But now look at me, Karen. Now God has granted me this incredible blessing of living.” He grinned with her. “Now I'm flying in first class, eating lobster with my wife to be. Wouldn't you say that God is faithful?”

“Yes. And that faithfulness is now in my favor,” she said, smiling. “Because I'm seated next to you.” She took his hand and kissed it gently. He looked at her and his desire surged. It was a mad moment; one in which he thought they should move the wedding up. December felt like another lifetime
. Let's elope, Karen.

And why not?

“Do you love me, Jan?”

The question sent a ball of heat down his spine. “How could I not love you, Karen? You're brilliant, you're ravishing, and, yes, I love you.”

She smiled at the words. “Fine. I'll settle for that.”

Jan kissed her to seal the words. He needed the reassurance more than she, he thought.

When they landed in New York, a long white car took them to the downtown Hilton where they were ushered into the main reception room. A gathering of thirty or so waited under a huge crystal chandelier with Roald at their center. Frank and Barney stood by his side, both grinning wide—they must have come up from Dallas with him.

Karen turned him to her just inside the entrance and she quickly tightened his tie. “What would you do without me, huh? Remember to smile for the cameras. Not too big. Be confident. Remember, they pay for confidence.”

He felt too awkward to respond, so he just cleared his throat.

The pattering of hands echoed through the hall and for a moment the hotel's bustle seemed to stall. Jan was suddenly aware that every eye watched him.

He nodded politely and let the applause die. Roald held up his hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, I'm proud to announce that we are entering into an agreement with Delmont Pictures to produce a movie of
The Dance of the Dead
for theatrical release.” Immediately the room filled with applause. It was all unnecessary, of course, but Roald had his ways.

He wasn't finished. “This is Jan Jovic's story; a story that reaches out to all those suffering for the sake of the Cross; a film that will take a message of hope to millions who need to hear of God's love and of those still suffering throughout the world.” Again they applauded. A TV camera caught the event on video. Jan dipped his head and they clapped yet again, beaming proudly at him. They had all gathered for their own causes; some for the sake of a profitable movie, others for amnesty groups, perhaps hoping to ride the coattails of this film to bolster their own coffers. Some for the church.

They wanted a word from Jan and he gave them a brief one, publicly thanking Roald and Karen for their undying support and service to which they all owed this opportunity. Then it was a mingling affair with all present taking turns shaking his hand and discussing their particular appreciation or concern. He took a dozen questions from reporters holding bulging microphones. He was well practiced with the media, of course, and he gave them all their time while the rest talked in small groups, eating cheese and shrimp and sipping beverages. Karen made the rounds, pitching the deal as only she could. Several times he caught her eye. Once she winked and he lost the question just asked of him by a reporter.

Night had fallen by the time the last guest left. Roald and Karen insisted that they go out to dinner, the finest. An hour later they sat around a table at Delmonico's on Broadway, reviewing the day. Everything was set for the meeting with Delmont in the morning. It would be nothing more than a formality—that and the collecting of a check, of course. One million at execution, four million within thirty days. They lifted their glasses and toasted their success. It seemed appropriate.

“So,” Roald said as they cut into their steaks. “Karen tells me that you ran into a drug addict the other day. She spent the night at Ivena's and then left with a thousand dollars from the ministry fund?”

Jan glanced at Karen. “Well no, she didn't actually take a thousand dollars. Ivena bought her some clothes on my suggestion.”

“That's good, Jan.” He smiled and Jan could not gauge the man's sincerity. “So somewhere there's a junkie wandering around wearing a mink coat and laughing about how she socked it to some sorry sucker.”

Jan recoiled at the cynicism. “No. No mink coat. And she left the clothes, except for a pink dress.”

“A pink dress?” Karen asked.

“It was one Ivena made her buy,” Jan said with a grin. She didn't return the smile.

Roald stuffed another bite of meat into his mouth. “Well, she's gone. After tomorrow a thousand dollars will seem like loose change.”

Jan dropped his eyes and sawed into his steak. “Actually, she's not gone,” he said. “She came back last night.”

Karen froze for a moment. “She's back?”

“Yes. She showed up at Ivena's house and I made them come to mine.”

Roald looked at Karen and then back. “You mean this woman is in
your
house? Now?”

“Yes, with Ivena. Is that a problem?”

“Why your house?” Karen asked. A cube of steak remained poised on her fork. Her eyes were wide.

“She's being chased. I didn't think she'd be safe at Ivena's.”

“So let me get this straight.” It was Roald's turn again. They were not taking this so well, Jan thought. “A female drug addict comes to you on the run, runs off with a thousand bucks, comes back the next day with a flock of mobsters on her tail and you take her into your house? You don't take her to the cops or the shelter, but you leave her in your house while you take off for New York? Is that it?”

“Maybe I should've called the police, but—”

“You didn't even
call
the cops?”

“She insisted that I not. Look, she was in danger, okay? So maybe I should've called the police. But I couldn't just tell her to get lost, now, could I? You forget that I run a ministry that stands for embracing those who suffer. It's not only in Bosnia that people suffer.”

The exchange left them silent for a moment. “We should watch
who
we embrace,” Roald said. “This is the exact sort of thing we talked about at—”

“Why does it concern you?” Jan asked. “I help one woman desperate for her life and it's a problem?”

“No, Jan. But you have to understand—we're in sensitive times now. This movie deal depends on your reputation. Do you understand that?”

“And what does my helping one junkie have to do with my reputation?”

“She's in your
house
, Jan. You keep a young junkie in your house and that could definitely look off-color to some people.”

“You can't be serious. You really think someone would question that?”

“That's exactly what I'm suggesting! You're in a new league now, my friend. Any sign of impropriety and the walls could come crashing down. To whom much is given, much is required. Remember? Or have you forgotten our discussion altogether? Frank would choke if he knew you were entertaining a young woman. Especially now that you're engaged.”

“Stop it!” Karen said. “You've made your point, Roald. Don't be asinine about it. It's
my
engagement, not just Jan's you're talking so flippantly about. Have some decency.”

Roald and Jan stared at their plates and went back to work on their steaks.

“Now, while it's true that a young woman staying with Jan could look off-color, we're talking about a fluid situation here. I doubt if even your most conservative partners would come unglued about Jan helping a drug addict for a few days, woman or not. Let's not make this more than it is.”

“Thank you, Karen,” Jan said. “I couldn't have said it better.”

Roald didn't respond immediately. Jan caught Karen's eye and winked. “And don't worry, Roald. She won't be staying there long. As soon as I return I'll get her the help she needs.”

“I'm sorry. Perhaps I spoke too quickly.” Roald smiled. “You're right.” He lifted his glass for a toast. “Just looking out for you, my friend. No offense intended.”

Jan lifted his glass and clinked Roald's. “None taken.” They drank.

“That's better,” Karen said with a smile. “You do what needs to be done, Jan. Just remember that your big mansion there, as Ivena calls it, has room for only one woman.” She winked and joined them in the toast. “You just make sure she's gone when we get back.”

“Of course.”

“Send her to the Presbyterian shelter on Crescent Avenue—give her to the Salvation Army—take your pick. But she can't stay at the house,” she said.

“No. No of course not.”

They looked at each other in silence for a few moments.

“Well, then,” Roald cut in. “That's settled.”

All three of them lifted bites to their mouths at the same time, and dinner resumed. It was a small caveat in an otherwise perfect trip, Jan thought. And Karen was right. He should settle the matter the minute he returned. He really should.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WHILE JAN sat in the expensive atmosphere of Delmonico's in New York Friday night, Glenn Lutz sat alone at his own Palace bar, stewing. The room was mostly dark except the backlit bar itself. A half-empty bottle of rum stood next to his glass. It was his second for the day and it might not be his last. The bar had been carved from mahogany and stained a very dark brown. The decorator had wanted to paint it bright yellow, of all colors. That was before he'd fired her. He'd fired her, all right. Yes sir, he had fired that little freak, right after he'd bitten her lip. Now
that
had been a night.

Glenn remembered the occasion and tried to smile, but his face did not cooperate. The plan he'd settled on was a good plan, but it didn't feel good just now. It had come on the dawning notion that he could cage
any
woman. Women as pretty as Helen, women who wouldn't be missed. It wasn't the caging of Helen that he really wanted, was it? No, it was her free spirit that attracted him most. The very fact that she
did
resist him with a tenacity that most wouldn't dream of. Even the fact that she'd fled half a dozen times now. Each time his desire for her had swelled until now he could hardly stand it all.

So then, as much as he relished the idea of caging her or forcing her to return, he'd decided that he had to allow her to return on her own. He needed her to want him. It was the next step in this madness he'd given himself to.

The decision to let her free of her choosing was one he now doubted perhaps more than any he'd made in his life. Because there was always the chance that she would
not
come back, wasn't there? If that happened he would go out with a machine gun and cut her and anybody near her down in one long staccato burst. Or maybe he'd just revert to the caging approach.

The plan didn't prohibit him from removing obstacles that stood in the path between them, of course. Preacher-man, for instance. Good God, a
preacher
of all things. The house Helen had entered belonged to a Jan Jovic, he learned from Charlie down at the precinct that same night. And Charlie had heard about the man. He'd seen a news story about the man sometime back—a preacher who'd escaped from prison or something. A preacher? A
preacher
was trying to steal his Helen? Glenn had thrown the phone across the room when Charlie had told him.

As it turned out he was one of those foreigners who'd written a book about the war and made a bundle.
The Dance of the Dead.
Glenn's first impulse was to make
him
dead. He'd learned all of this within thirty minutes of his return. It was then, after deciding that a preacher couldn't be a threat to him, that he'd settled on the plan. He'd made one phone call to the preacher, and then he'd drowned himself in several bottles of rum.

He had spent the entire day pacing and sweating and yelling, completely immobilized from conducting any business. He'd forced himself to keep a lunch appointment with Dan Burkhouse, his banker and friend of ten years. It was Dan who'd lent him his first million, in exchange for some muscle on a nonperforming loan. Well, he'd killed the nonperforming loan, thereby implicating Dan, and making him a confidant by necessity. Besides Beatrice, only Dan knew the dirty secrets that made Glenn Lutz the man that he was. Of course, not even they knew the truth about his youth.

He had gone still dressed in his smelly Hawaiian shirt and between bites of snapper at the Florentine told Dan about his decision to let Helen come and go. If not for the private dining room his agitated tone would've raised some eyebrows for sure. The banker had shaken his head. “You're losing perspective, Glenn. This is crazy.”