Her eyes slowly opened.
“That’s unfair,” she said. “Watching a woman sleep is more intimate than seeing her naked. Now you know all my secrets.”
Gianni breathed her fragrance in the air around her. It teased the edges of memories just beyond his reach.
“But I know all about you, too,” Mary Yung said. “Over the years, I’ve looked long and hard at every painting you’ve ever
done. You don’t hold back a thing.”
“What would be the point?”
“It’s always safer to keep something in reserve.”
“I don’t paint to stay safe.”
In the early dawn Mary Yung was pacing again, and Gianni watched her silhouette move back and forth across the windows.
“Maybe they’re not coming,” she said.
“They’ll come. But it’s daylight now, so they won’t be breaking and entering. They’ll be ringing the front doorbell. That’s
what we have to be ready for. Do you have it all straight in your head?”
“Yes.”
She made orange juice, toast, and coffee for breakfast. Gianni ate four slices of toast. He was hungrier than he had expected.
Now, as they talked, they had become just plain Mary Yung and Gianni.
Then they began the waiting again.
A
T
9:10
A.M.
a car rolled into the driveway and parked in front of the garage.
Mary Yung and Gianni watched it from behind the living-room curtains, a blue Chevrolet sedan with a high antenna and yellow
fog lights that cut through the dark-gray morning and steadily falling rain.
A couple of men got out, and Gianni recognized them as the two who had torn apart his loft. Then a third man appeared, carrying
an attache case.
Two weren’t goddamn enough, thought Gianni, and a vein was suddenly pulsing in his neck.
He touched Mary Yung’s shoulder and felt her warmth. Then he left the living room and took his position in the study.
The doorbell rang, and a moment later Gianni heard Mary Yung’s footsteps in the entrance hall and the front door being opened.
Enclosed in his own stillness, Gianni listened to the dou
ble charade: the phony agents, playing out their polite ritual of authority… Mary Chan Yung, projecting surprise and concern.
Then Gianni heard them all entering the living room, where the delicate part would be to get the three men seated with their
backs to the door and Mary Yung facing them.
How much suddenly depends on this woman.
Still, using her own subtle blend of charm, deference, and sexuality, Mary Yung seemed to be doing just fine.
And the men?
Without seeing them, Gianni could almost sniff their heat at the prospect of interrogating a woman like Mary Chan Yung. And
that was before they were even exposing her flesh to their dirty little toys. You had to be born to stuff like this.
I’m ready for the sonsofbitches.
He waited for Mary Yung’s signal. As soon as the three agents were properly settled on the couch with their backs to the door,
she would ask if any of them had a cigarette, and Gianni would be off on her words. Mary’s own revolver was tucked just under
the edge of her chair cushion and would be in her hand the instant Gianni appeared.
Their worst-case scenario was that one of the men would suddenly decide to leave the living room and search the house. If
that happened, Mary Yung would warn Gianni by going into a fit of coughing. Then she would pull her gun and cover the agents
until Gianni came in and disarmed them.
It all seemed simple enough in the planning, but Gianni knew better.
With his ear to the wall, he listened to their interrogation. But he was hearing more than just words. One of the men was
walking, not sitting, and Gianni followed the sound of his footsteps on the flooring. The sound hung in the air, numbing everything.
It made what followed seem dreamlike and slow.
First, there were the footsteps sounding louder and coming closer.
Then Gianni had the earliest notion of leaning toward the door, his body getting ready, starting with the tiniest bones in
his feet. He knew instantly what was coming next, as though the don’s personal gun carried its own black powers of perception.
He and the gun knew.
It was the truth, and he was moving a good few seconds before the sound of Mary Yung’s coughing came through the wall. He
actually noticed a pair of watercolors as he swept past them, along with his own blurred reflection in a hall mirror.
Then he was in the living room and one of the men was coming toward him, his eyes suddenly wide as he groped for his holster.
Gianni started to raise his gun, but there was an explosion before he could bring it to bear and the man went down on his
knees and then on his chest.
Gianni looked at the others in the room. His ears rang from the gun blast and he saw streaks that might have been rain. Mary
Yung was still sitting in the chair. The other two men were half off the couch and pulling at their guns as she fired again.
One of the men went over backward.
The other man was still tugging at his holster as Gianni caught him in the head with his gun butt. He fell and lay still.
Mary Yung sat with her revolver in both hands, continuing to aim where the man had been before Gianni hit him. Then she slowly
lowered her gun.
“Have you forgotten?” said Gianni. “We need someone alive to question.”
She just looked at him.
Smoke drifted in the gray light. The air smelled burned and felt humid with blood.
Gianni bent to the two men Mary Yung had shot. They were both dead.
“Will any neighbors hear the shots?” he asked.
“No. The nearest one is acres away.”
Gianni lifted the unconscious man onto the couch. He found a pair of handcuffs on him and cuffed his hands behind his back.
Mary Yung sat watching him, not moving.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Why shouldn’t I be all right? They came into my house
to hurt and probably kill me. 1 just wish I could do it all again.”
Gianni didn’t believe it.
“Better feed this one some brandy,” he said. “We’ve got to get him talking.”
Gianni went through the attache case and found its contents an exact duplication of the one in his loft—same photographs,
same computer printouts, same electroshock persuader. Apparently, this was standard equipment on the hunt for Vittorio Battaglia.
He heard a groan and saw Mary Yung working some brandy between the agent’s lips. He was a chunky, muscular man with a jaw
like an ax blade, and ochre animal eyes that seemed to live for a contest. His identification said he was Spl. Agt. Tom Bentley.
Gianni allowed him a few minutes to come out of it.
“Your buddies are dead,” he told him. “So you’re all we’ve got to answer our questions. You can do it easy or hard. It’s up
to you.”
The agent looked at Gianni Garetsky and Mary Chan Yung. Then he looked at the electric persuader lying prominently beside
the couch.
“What are your questions?”
“Why is Battaglia being hunted? Who wants him? Are you people really FBI or just playing at it?”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Bentley lay there with it. The things he knew settled on him with a certainty that accepted no misunderstandings.
“And if I don’t answer?”
Mary Yung cut in. “Then you’ll end up as dead as we will. Only a lot sooner.”
Bentley considered her with his pale, yellow eyes. “You’re sure one beautiful woman, Miss Yung.” He grinned. “And one beautiful
shooter, too.”
“This is no joke,” she said.
“I know it’s no joke. But what I don’t know is what happens to me if I give you your answers.”
“You won’t be hurt,” said Gianni. “We’ll leave you in the
basement. When we’re out of here, we’ll let the police know where you are.”
The agent was still staring at Mary Yung. When he spoke, it was directly to her. It was as though Gianni had left the room.
“Killing me won’t get you your answers,” he said. “Neither will hurting me. I can take as much of that as you’ve got. So that
leaves you only one way to get what you want.”
“What’s that?”
“Giving me what
I
want,” said Bentley. “And that’s half an hour in bed with you.”
Mary Yung’s face showed nothing. “Are you serious?”
“I’ve never had a chance at a woman as beautiful as you, and probably won’t again. Why wouldn’t I be serious?”
“Because if I agree and you don’t come through, I’ll kill you.”
Gianni shook his head. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“Why?” Mary Yung said. “Is it that offensive to you?”
The artist looked from her to Bentley, as if measuring the distance between them. The centers of his eyes had widened.
“Listen, Gianni,” she said flatly. “My body’s not sacred. I’m thirty-four years old and I can’t even remember the names of
half the men I’ve fucked. What can one man more or less do to me? Especially if it gets us answers that could save our lives.”
“There are other ways to get answers.”
“How? By torturing a man half to death? You think that’s better? More moral?”
Gianni was silent. He was not even close to figuring this woman. For the moment, he had stopped trying. Somehow, he could
not help comparing her to Teresa. They were that different. Or was that what fascinated him?
“All right,” Mary Yung said to Bentley. “It’s a deal.”
She turned to the artist. “Gianni, you’re going to have to give us a hand with this.”
It wasn’t that simple a situation. Logistics and security were involved, so it took some figuring. But the end result was
at least workable, leaving Bentley on his back in Mary Yung’s bed with both wrists handcuffed to the brass headboard. A man
on a sexual cross.
And Mary Chan Yung?
To the artist she had a separate set of expressions for each passing scene in her act. It was little different from watching
her doze last night. At moments, she seemed to draw cupidity out of the air, a whore’s knowledge that wore the sour look of
multiple betrayals and disappointments. Then that ridiculously tiny nose would sniff the same air and all would change, leaving
her an uncertain child fearful of getting caught in some dirty act she didn’t really understand.
Then Gianni’s part in the arrangements was finished and he started to leave the room.
“Hey, Garetsky,” said Bentley from the bed.
Gianni turned.
“Don’t you want to stay and watch?”
The artist stood there. The windows were closed and the air was full of burgeonings that might have carried their own sly,
bright fever. Mary Yung looked at him and her face was quite apart from her now, with that special female look that said everything
in sight was hers and if you didn’t like it, too bad.
He left the room and closed the door behind him.
Not wanting to go back to what was waiting in the living room, Gianni sat with a cigarette in the study. He tried to keep
his head empty and simply stare out the window at the streaks of sun that had just broken through the trees and onto the grass.
But he kept thinking of the two dead men lying on the living-room floor, and of what was happening on Mary Yung’s bed.
Occasional sounds came from the bedroom, and Gianni made a great effort not to listen by thinking about his wife and how it
had been when they made love. But he might as well have been thinking of two other people. No. Another species from another
planet. Neither of them were there for him anymore. After a while, he just sat smoking.
He was on his fourth cigarette and the sun had disappeared once more when the shot exploded. A certain feeling settled and
he watched himself jump out of his chair, knocking it over.
Gun in hand, he burst into the bedroom.
Mary Yung stood naked beside the bed, holding her
nickel-plated revolver. Her face was flushed, moist, and without expression.
Bentley was naked only from the waist down. His wrists were still cuffed to the bars of the brass headboard, and there was
a small hole just off-center in his forehead. A fine trickle of blood ran down his face and dripped from his chin. Supported
by the spread of his arms, his head drooped only slightly.
Gianni took a deep breath. “What happened?”
“It was all so stupid. I got careless and he got his legs around my neck and was choking me. I had no choice.”
Gianni Garetsky just looked at her. The only thing he felt clear about was that she was lying.
Mary Yung bent to pick up her clothes. Her bottom glistened. Then moving quickly, she dressed herself where she stood.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
She went straight for the Napoleon and said nothing until she had swallowed a fair amount.
“Here’s what we’ve got,” she finally said. “The FBI part is real. Though not officially. Bentley called it a code-three operation.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing in writing or on wire. And at their level they never know where the orders come from. It could be CIA, State, Justice,
or even the Oval Office. But it’s always from very high up, and always top priority.”
“All this to pick up a small-time hood?”
“Yes.”
“Did they know a reason for the hunt?”
“Not a whisper.”
“What were their orders on us?”
“Do anything to get answers. But no killing.”
“Terrific. That’s everything he told you?”
She nodded.
“You think it was the truth?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then why did you kill him?”
“I told you.”
“I know what you told me,” said Gianni.
Mary Yung looked at him over her brandy. “Why would I lie to you?”
“That’s what I have to find out.” The artist lit a cigarette. “We’re way over our heads, Mary Yung. Between us, we’ve wasted
what now seems to be five feds in three days. We were under the gun for four, so it’s only this last one that bugs me. You
made a deal with the guy. He was handcuffed to the bed. Why did you shoot him?”
This time Mary Yung didn’t even bother explaining. Her words seemed to be stuck inside her head.