Peril (15 page)

He thought of the one person in the world who'd probably feel that way. It wasn't Dottie. And it wasn't Stark It was Abe who'd looked sad when he'd told him about the cancer, looked sad and poured him a round on the house and then said he could drink for free until he died.

What a guy,
Mortimer thought to himself with a surge of true devotion to Abe Morgenstern,
my best friend.

DELLA

The phone rang. Della picked it up.

“I just wanted to let you know I'm still okay,” Sara told her.

Della thought of Leo Labriola, felt again the hard grip of his fingers on her wrist, the bite of the pen, and knew that her friend was not in the least okay. She could warn her, but what would be the consequences of that? What if the Old Man found out about it? There was Nicky to think about. And her daughter. And Mike. You save one person, you put another in danger. Because there seemed no way to act rightly, she said only, “That's good, Sara.” She added nothing else, because the important thing was to get off the line as quickly as possible, learn as little as possible about where Sara was or what she was doing. That way, if Labriola really used muscle, she'd at least have a weapon against him, the fact that he could squeeze and squeeze and she still wouldn't know any more about Sara than she already knew, and so there'd be nothing he could get out of her.

“Have you seen Tony?” Sara asked.

Labriola's warning sounded in Della's mind,
If she calls, don't tell her nothing.

“Listen, Sara, Nicky's sick. He had a fever this morning, and I got this appointment, so . . .”

“Sure,” Sara said. “Sure, Della.”

“I'm sorry to rush off like this but, you know . . .”

“I understand,” Sara said. “Take it easy, Della.”

The click of the phone swept over Della in a deep, relieving wave. But then the wave receded, and the relief turned to accusation. Her friend was being hunted by a vicious old bastard who'd stop at nothing, and she, Della, could do nothing to warn her. She had mentioned Labriola's visit to no one, not even Mike, and she'd lied to Tony, though at least he'd figured that out and so knew without a doubt what his father was up to. None of that removed the stain of her cowardice, however, the fact that she'd not only betrayed her friend but that she was at this very moment being drawn deeper into that betrayal.

“Who called?” Mike asked as he came into the kitchen.

Della stepped over to the sink, began rinsing the dishes. “Just one of those calls. Somebody selling something.”

“What this time?”

Della thought fast. “Insurance.”

“Insurance?” Mike said doubtfully. “I didn't think insurance companies did any telemarketing.”

“I guess some of them do,” Della said weakly.

“I thought you might have a secret admirer.” Mike drew her into his arms.

She laughed. “You'd know it if I did.”

His eyes drifted away, and she knew that he was staring at the wifeless home across the cul-de-sac. “Well, it took Tony by surprise, didn't it?”

She abruptly drew herself from his arms. “Sara didn't have a . . . she wasn't doing anything like that.” She turned back to the sink. “I mean, some other guy.”

“How do you know that, Della?”

She picked up a plate, began moving a yellow sponge over its floral surface. “I just know, that's all.”

Mike's large hands gripped her shoulders, turning her to face him. “What's going on?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Della answered, but saw instantly that he didn't buy it.

“Della, what do you know about this? Did Sara talk to you?”

“No.”

“Did Tony?”

“Tony? 'Course not. I don't know anything, Mike. Really.”

He considered this briefly, then said, “Okay,” but in that voice that meant “for now.”

She smiled and quickly changed the subject. “I'm going to drop Nicky off at my mother's this afternoon. Then a little shopping.”

“Okay,” Mike said. He kissed her lightly, then went back upstairs, grabbed his jacket, and came tromping down again, the jacket slung over his right shoulder.

“I've got an early tee-off time,” he said as he headed out the door.

“Have a nice day,” Della called to him, though no longer sure she herself would ever have another. After a moment she heard the car as it backed down the driveway. From the kitchen window she could see Mike as he drifted into the cul-de-sac then drove away, and this entirely familiar scene suddenly struck her as infinitely precious, something that had seemed so sure and firm before but now gave off a sense of being terribly at risk.

EDDIE

He didn't like it, but he had to do it. When you were a guy's friend, you helped that guy out. And so, with no further consideration, he picked up the phone and dialed the number.

“Caruso.”

“Vinnie, it's Eddie. It's been a while, huh?”

“Since what?”

“Since we seen each other.”

“I was down at the marina a couple weeks ago.”

Caruso was right, and Eddie thought it was pretty stupid how he'd said it had been a while when it really hadn't. He thought fast and said, “Yeah, but we didn't really have time to talk, you know. So, listen, I was thinking maybe we could have a drink sometime. I mean, like tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause, during which Eddie tried to imagine what Caruso was thinking.

“Eddie, let me ask you something,” Caruso said finally. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I mean, that little shit fire you, something like that?”

“Little shit?”

“That little shit you work for. Fucking Tony. Did he fire you is what I'm asking.”

“No.”

“ 'Cause if he did, I could do something about it, Eddie,” Caruso said. “ 'Cause Mr. Labriola, he trusts me, you know, like a son.”

“Tony didn't fire me,” Eddie told him. “How come you think that?”

“ 'Cause I figure you want to see me 'cause you need a little cash, maybe.”

“Oh, no, it's not that.”

“But, Eddie, if you need cash, you don't come to me like you would some fucking shylock, you know? You come to me like a friend.”

“I don't need money, Vinnie.”

“You don't need money?”

“No.”

“So, what do you need, Eddie?”

Eddie sensed that the phone was not the best place to tell Caruso what he was after. A guy would say okay to a certain kind of favor over the phone, but there were favors that called for a guy to really put something on the line, and when you asked for one of those, you needed to look the guy in the eye.

“I was thinking we might have a drink, Vinnie. I could tell you then.”

“And it don't have to do with money?”

“Money, no. It ain't about money.”

The fact that it wasn't about money seemed to put Caruso on alert.

Eddie tried to ease his mind. “It ain't nothing bad, Vinnie. Nothing to worry about. Just a favor.”

“Okay,” Caruso said. “Where you want to meet?”

“How about Billy's Grill?”

Caruso laughed. “Jesus, Billy's Grill. I ain't been there in fifteen, twenty years.”

“But we used to hang out there, remember?”

“I remember. Especially that night when I was all . . . fucked up.”

Eddie recalled that night well. Caruso had gotten all steamed and decided to whack Rudy Kellogg for stealing Cindy Mankowitz even though Rudy had done no such thing and Cindy had gone out with Vinnie only once, and that on a dare from Kathy Myerson.

“I would have done it, you know,” Caruso said. “I would have done it if you hadn't got that knife away from me.”

Eddie doubted that Vinnie would have done anything at all, but this didn't seem the right time to say so. “So, Billy's Grill?”

“Sure, okay.”

They settled on a time, then Eddie listened while Caruso boastfully jawed about the easy money he had and the big expensive things he bought with it. After that, Vinnie yapped away about the nightspots he preferred, and even claimed to have a few babes who just couldn't get enough of him. Eddie doubted that any of this was true, and the fact that Vinnie felt compelled to spin such stories suggested that the awkward, orphaned kid he remembered from his boyhood had been a better guy than the man Eddie was scheduled to meet at Billy's Grill later in the day. It was because he'd gone to work for Old Man Labriola, he supposed. You couldn't work for a guy like that and not have some of it rub off on you. It was like working in a coal mine, Eddie decided, only the black dust was on your soul.
Too bad,
he concluded when he finally hung up.
Too bad Vinnie went that way.

SARA

The phone rang. She picked it up.

“Samantha?” a voice said. “Damonte?”

The guy, Sara thought, surprised, the guy at the bar. “Yes.”

“This is Abe, the guy owns the place that had the open mike deal last night? Morgenstern? We talked for a couple minutes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the thing is, I liked the way you sang, you know? I liked it a lot.”

“Thank you.”

“So, I was wondering. Would you be interested in coming by again?”

“Coming by?”

“I'd like to talk to you about, maybe, developing an act, you know? For the bar, I mean. Would you . . . well . . . would you be interested in that?”

“Yes, I would,” she told him.

“Okay, so, when could you drop by?”

She thought of the brief conversation she'd had with the man the night before. He'd seemed easygoing, a guy who probably never got mad or snapped at anybody. A boss like that was what she needed, she supposed, because she was jumpy, on edge, always looking over her shoulder, felt in every heartbeat a little ache of fear. “Would this afternoon be okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, fine,” the man said. “How about two-thirty?”

“Okay.”

“See you then.”

She put down the phone and felt a little burst of hope. Not much, she admitted, but maybe just enough to get her through the day.

ABE

Okay, so, that's done, Abe thought as he hung up the phone. He had not intended to do it, but there it was, acting on impulse, one of the many things that had driven Mavis nuts, usually because when he did it, it was a screwup. As this might be a screwup too, Abe thought, this woman he didn't even know but liked for no good reason except that she sang well and there was something about her that . . . well . . . got to him.

He sat back and glanced around his office, and it seemed to him that everything he saw confirmed that, impulse or not, he'd done the right thing. Going through the motions, that was what his life had become, a daily going through the motions. There were the bills on his desk, the orders in the box, the file cabinet stuffed with forms and catalogs and tax receipts, and God only knew whatever else he'd crammed in there. There were the boxes of whiskey, overflow from the storeroom, stacks of promotional material dropped off by the salesman, a bottle of wine Mrs. Higgins had brought back, claiming it was corked, which it was, and so he'd refunded her money, and now was supposed to contact the distributor for a refund of his own, but never would because . . . well . . . why bother since he'd sold it to her illegally, as a favor, McPherson's being a bar, not a liquor store, and besides it was only twelve bucks, and his time wasn't worth it.

But what
was
his time worth, he asked himself now. What were the days and hours that remained to him actually worth if he lived on as he now lived? Not much, he decided, which was why he'd changed his mind about that singer, gone with that little charge Susanne thought was so funny, but which, he knew, even “old guys” felt, perhaps old guys felt even more sharply than young guys because the horizon was closing in and the next chance you had might well be your last.

So, okay,
he thought again, now rising with a curious energy,
so, okay, done.

MORTIMER

He followed Stark over to the large antique desk, where the contents of the envelope had been spread out for display.

“You didn't look at any of this, did you, Mortimer?” Stark asked.

Mortimer knew that he was being instructed to look at the few spare items Stark had assembled on the desk.

“The notes, if you can call them that, are very general,” Stark said. “And the photograph, I don't even know how recent it is.”

Mortimer had never seen the missing woman before, and he was struck by how kind she looked for a woman who was supposed to be such a raving bitch. In fact, she had the delicate beauty of women he worshipped from afar, and it was hard for him to believe that anyone had been so stupid as to drive her from his life.

“How old is the picture, Mortimer?” Stark asked. “Did the husband tell you?”

“It's recent,” Mortimer answered, though he had no idea if this was true. But what did it matter now if he lied to Stark again and again? With the first lie, the dam had broken, and he knew that the poisoned water was now destined to leak out until not a drop was left. “She's in her thirties. That's all I know.”

“She's never had a job.” Stark nodded toward the single sheet of notes. “Except years before. A singer. She's from down south originally. She took none of the husband's money. She left her car in the driveway. Do you have anything to add to this?”

“No.”

“Well, that's a problem, Mortimer, because there's nothing to go on in any of this,” Stark said. He picked up the photograph and the notes and returned them to the envelope. “This friend of yours has to give me more.”

“He won't,” Mortimer said.

Stark sat down behind the desk and stared Mortimer dead in the eye. “This is a favor I was willing to do for this man,” he said. “But really, I was doing the favor for you.”