“It happens, Gianni. In time, we lose our cheering sections. That’s when it’s good to have a friend. So I’m here.”
The don reached for a glass of champagne and slowly brought it to his lips. His eyes were solemn. “And not only for tonight.”
Gianni sat with it.
In time, we lose our cheering sections.
He could put it no better than that.
And for how long had Teresa been cheering for
him?
Seventeen, eighteen years? Nearly half as long as he had lived. She had lifted him when he was low, had made him feel better
than he knew himself to be, had gone wild over his smallest achievement.
His one love.
Would he ever have another? Gianni doubted it. He knew that in time all things, even grief, finally passed. But he had no
idea what would come to take its place. Here, now, on this special night, Gianni’s mind edged closer to the image of Teresa
he kept like a talisman. He saw her fair hair catching an early light on her pillow, a mouth all too vulnerable to what life
had to offer, the delicate tip of her nose that had always suggested the lift of something in flight, the wide, shining eyes
whose color never failed to surprise.
Then his thoughts drifted to the worst of it, the part he couldn’t bear but which he still held on to like some awful relic
he was afraid to cast away. Which meant he saw her, too, as she had been at the end, with her hair reduced to scrabble, her
flesh wasted, the source of his love staring up from the same pillow while she struggled for the strength to smile. God help
her if she failed to smile for him.
His wife had a way of saying things that he could never come close to matching, wildly extravagant things that would have
sounded foolish coming from him or anyone else, yet seemed absolutely right coming from her. Like saying they’d been made
for each other since the beginning of time and no exaggeration… or how just the way his hands touched her could leave her
breathless… or that when he was probing deep inside her, she was sure he was reaching straight to God.
All this from a devoutly religious girl who had come to him untouched by any other man.
So naturally God had gotten jealous and taken her. While her idiot doctors, unknowing, had called it cancer.
It was close to one o’clock when Gianni paid off the cabbie in front of the converted loft building where he lived.
There was heavy fog and the downtown Manhattan streets were deserted, left to the mist as though the night itself were a public
disaster that the inhabitants of SoHo were wisely avoiding by staying inside their apartments. As the cab drove away, a dark
sedan swung around the corner and stopped at the curb.
Gianni saw two men get out. They were wearing tuxedos, and he remembered seeing them earlier at the museum.
The taller of the two was carrying an attache case. It was he who spoke as they approached. “Federal Bureau of Investigation,
Mr. Garetsky. I’m Special Agent Jackson, and this is Special Agent Lindstrom.”
They took out wallets and showed Gianni their identification. The artist glanced at them by the light of a street lamp.
“What did I do? Put the wrong postage on a letter?”
Their smiles were polite. But they gave Gianni the feeling they had been taught to smile exactly this way in a course at the
FBI Academy.
“It’s no big deal, Mr. Garetsky,” said Jackson. “Could we just go upstairs and talk for a few minutes, please?”
Gianni stood there, unmoving. So if it was no big deal, why were they here at one o’clock on a Sunday morning?
Then he turned and led them through the front door of his building and into an old iron elevator.
They ascended slowly to a dull, clanging sound while Gianni felt the air being sucked out of his lungs. It was as though he
had fallen asleep in a deep wood and wakened to find the trees burning. His mind searched for possible reasons and came up
with none that he liked. It’s nothing, he told himself. Yet he did not believe it for a second. A small hidden part of him
said he had been waiting for this moment for no less than twenty years.
They stood in silence, no one quite looking at anyone else.
Then the elevator clanged to a stop at the tenth floor and they got out.
There was just the one big metal fire door facing them, and Garetsky unlocked it, preceded the two men past the threshold,
and switched on the light.
The loft took up the entire top floor of the building and had once belonged to a manufacturer of men’s clothing. There were
three skylights and a wall of windows at the far end, facing north… which was the studio area. Gianni’s living quarters were
closer to the entrance. There were a few rooms partitioned off for privacy. The rest of the space was open.
The artist saw everything along with the government agents. They all saw the same things, but what he saw was marked inside
him.
The two men stood in the center of the living area, courteously waiting to be told where to sit.
Gianni nodded toward a couch and chose a straight chair for himself. The agents sat down side by side. They were big men and
their bulk made the oversize sectional couch appear small.
“We just need a few questions answered,” said the one named Jackson, a balding, smooth-faced man with blank eyes. He sat with
the attache case on his lap and was evidently the senior agent of the two. “Then we’ll get out of here and let you go to bed.”
“Questions about what?”
“They concern an old friend of yours.”
Jackson opened his case, took out some papers, and shuffled through them.
“I’m talking about Vittorio Battaglia.”
Gianni sat there, his face showing nothing.
“We’d like to know when you last saw him and where he can be reached.”
“Why?”
Special Agent Lindstrom broke in to speak for the first time. “I’m afraid we don’t have that information, sir. Our instructions
are only to locate Mr. Battaglia.”
“Why come to
me?”
Lindstrom had an acne-marked face that looked shadowed
in the overhead light. “Because since you were boys together, you’ve always been closer to him than anyone else.”
“That was more than twenty years ago. I haven’t seen or heard a word from Vittorio since we were both seventeen.”
“That’s hard to believe,” said Jackson.
“It’s the truth.”
Gianni saw the two agents exchange glances, and something passed between them.
Lindstrom rose and walked to the wall of windows at the far end of the studio. Then he just stood gazing out at the row of
darkened buildings across the street.
Special Agent Jackson sat in silence. He appeared to be studying the sheaf of papers in his hand. But Gianni understood that
there probably was nothing in those papers that he did not already know by heart.
“A few basic facts, Mr. Garetsky,” said Jackson. “The same year that you and Vittorio Battaglia were busy being seventeen,
both your parents were murdered by a mob enforcer named Ralph Curcio. Who was then shot to death by you in retribution. Two
days later you left the country for Italy under false papers and didn’t come back for seven years. You used a thirty-eight
caliber Smith and Wesson for the shooting, and we still have the gun and your prints as evidence.”
Jackson paused to give the artist his most ingenuous government-issue smile.
“So you see, we have it all on file, Mr. Garetsky. And there’s no statute of limitations on murder. But if you’ll just cooperate
on this little business of Vittorio Battaglia, I’m sure we can work something out on Curcio. Who was vermin anyway.”
Somewhere inside himself, Gianni Garetsky had started to shake, as with a chill. He wondered if it showed. It seemed very
important at that moment that these two men not be aware of what was happening inside him.
Lindstrom returned from the windows. “What do you say, Mr. Garetsky? Is it a deal?”
The artist held himself completely still.
“Don’t be a fool,” said Jackson. “You’re a successful and
famous painter. You have a long, wonderful life ahead of you. Why throw it all away over a nickel-and-dime punk?”
“Even if I wanted to tell you where Battaglia is, I couldn’t. I don’t know.”
Special Agent Jackson sighed. “I don’t think Mr. Garetsky realizes just how serious we are about this. Would you say it’s
time to show him, Frank?”
“Yeah,” said Lindstrom from behind Gianni, “I’d say it’s time.”
Gianni never saw the hit coming. It came over his right shoulder and caught him across the cheek with almost no force. It
was no more than a light, token rap with the knuckles, yet its overall effect was greater than that of a hard punch. For it
diminished him. It made him see exactly what he was worth to these two men. And that was nothing.
Seated in front of Gianni on the couch, Special Agent Jackson still considered him without particular malice, a strong professional
in impeccable evening clothes whose blank eyes offered no hint of what was going on behind them.
“Let’s try again,” he said quietly. “When did you last see or speak to Vittorio Battaglia?”
“Twen… ” Gianni’s tongue groped slowly, almost numbly, and he had to start over. “Twenty years ago.”
This time the blow came over Gianni’s left shoulder. It was as light a tap as the first, but it carried the added weight of
an established order. It told him that he and his flesh were not inviolate, and that this was merely the beginning. The artist
felt the blood rushing to his face. His heart turned.
These are not FBI agents,
he thought. Until he remembered certain unpleasant things he had seen and heard a great many years ago, and then he was not
so sure.
“Where’s Vittorio Battaglia?” Special Agent Jackson spoke quietly, patiently, a controlled man with plenty of time to do whatever
might be necessary.
“I don’t… ” Gianni shook his head and tried to get himself ready for the next hit from the right.
But this time nothing came. Instead, Jackson took a revolver from his shoulder holster and screwed on a four-inch silencer.
He held the weapon pointing at the floor. To Gi
anni, the silencer was the clearest indication yet of the men’s ultimate intent. Or was it only bluff, a showpiece?
“We have a job to do here, Mr. Garetsky,” said Jackson. “And one way or another we’re going to get it done. So why don’t you
make it easy on us all and answer this one question?”
“Because I don’t know the answer.”
Jackson lifted his revolver until it was aimed loosely at Gianni’s chest. “A few hard facts,” he said. “The credentials we
showed you are false. Which means you can forget about any of the little niceties you might be expecting from us as federal
agents. So either you start talking, or I start shooting.”
Gianni sat there, dry mouthed. “You’d really kill me for this?”
“Killing you won’t tell us where Battaglia is. But a few well-placed bullets might encourage you to talk.”
They stared at each other.
Gianni figured it was time to give them something. He knew about interrogation under threat of physical pain. Finally, you
had to talk. Even if it was only lies.
“Could I have a drink of water?” he said to stall it further. Jackson nodded to Lindstrom, who went into the kitchen and came
back with a filled glass.
Gianni brought it to his lips with less-than-steady hands and they watched him drink.
“When did you last see Battaglia?” said Jackson.
Gianni gripped the water glass with both hands to keep it from shaking. “Three weeks ago.”
“Where?”
The artist took another drink and coughed, still playing for time.
“Where?” repeated Jackson. Hardly seeming to move, he lifted a leg and kicked the glass out of Gianni’s hand. Trailing water,
it rolled along the floor without breaking.
“Chicago.”
“What part?”
“Oak Park.”
“Address?”
Gianni sucked air. He stared into Jackson’s eyes and saw
himself dead. Whoever they were, there was no way they were going to walk out of here and leave him alive.
And I’II never know why.
“I can’t remember the exact… ” The artist breathed deeply and seemed to grope for remembrance.
“Address,” said Jackson again. He was beginning to sound bored.
Gianni slowly shook his head. Then he kept shaking it as though he were suddenly an old man from whose brain all detail had
fled.
“I want his address.”
Once more, Jackson lifted his leg. But this time the kick was aimed at Gianni’s groin.
The artist saw it coming. Grabbing the foot in midair, he yanked and twisted until Jackson was off the couch and on the floor,
with Gianni all over him and rolling them both in case Lindstrom had his own weapon out and was looking for a clear shot.
Get the gun or you ’re dead,
Gianni told himself.
For a moment everything inside him was calm and slow. He saw Jackson’s smooth face as he stared at him, saw his blue eyes,
cold as glass, and felt an insane joy, as if death at this moment might not really be the worst thing that could happen to
him.
Something exploded in Gianni’s head and he caught a glimpse of a bright red fall that opened like a crack in the earth. Then
there was a shock and things began to spin. But he did not lose consciousness or let go his grip on Jackson’s gun hand.
The next blows came one after another and in such swift succession that he lost count. They caught him in the face and neck
and he choked, swallowed blood, and retched all over himself and Jackson. He knew now that Lindstrom was using a leather covered
lead billy and was good with it. Good enough to do the required damage without fracturing his skull or killing him. Good enough,
too, for the shock and pain to start closing off the light, leaving him awash in all the shameful juices of living.
Then rage took over and Gianni had a brain full of blood that sent his teeth into Jackson’s wrist with such force that
they hit bone and stayed there until the fake FBI agent cried out and dropped his revolver.
In what seemed a single motion, Gianni grabbed the gun, rolled away from the steady pounding of Lindstrom’s billy, and squeezed
the trigger. There was just the soft whooshing sound of the silencer as the bullet sucked in Jackson’s face and turned him
old.