“These women who are for sale, how much are they?”
“If you have to ask, you probably can’t afford one.”
“Isn’t that what they say about Rolls-Royces or something?”
“Maybe so, but it’s right for here.”
Armed with this new information, Tagliabue started paying attention to the schedules of the dancers. There were four of them altogether. Sometimes one or another would not be on the stage for an hour or more. Some of the customers went through the door leading to the men’s room and didn’t come back for a long time. Once, he saw his mark, Arthur Blount, go to the bathroom for almost an hour. After his second beer, Tagliabue used the men’s room, and noted the stairway leading to a dimly lit hallway upstairs.
That night he went home as usual. At four A.M. he walked back down Canal Street. Dressed in soft black pants, dyed black Brooks sneakers, and wearing a pea coat, watch cap, and leather gloves against the early morning chill, Tagliabue stayed close to the buildings as he made his way back to The Blue Rathskeller. Headlights showed on the avenue. He slipped into an alleyway and stood with his back to a sooty brick wall next to an air-conditioning unit. The car rolled slowly up Canal, a black-and-white using a spotlight to check doors. Two cops rode in the squad car. He could hear them talking through an open window as they made their rounds. The spot tore away the blackness as it roamed across doorways and down into the entryway of the Rathskeller before it came to Tagliabue’s hiding place. He flattened himself as much as possible and stayed still, eyes clamped shut against the blast of light as it exposed garbage cans and doorways and a shallow balcony down from his position in the alley. The cop car paused at the entrance to the alley, idling quietly as the spot probed the night. He stood against the near wall, hoped the light would be trained better on the building across from him, the one more or less facing the car. A feral cat slunk farther into the alley. The police light followed the animal for a brief minute before the car moved on. The smell of coffee lingered in the air.
Tagliabue began to breathe again. He waited otherwise motionless until the patrol moved a block away, then he opened his eyes and moved to the nearest door on his side. It figured to be the service door to the club. There was no basement door he could see. The service door was bolted from the inside, so he hoisted himself onto the a/c box and took a suction cup and a glass cutter from his coat pocket. Using a pencil flashlight, he found the pane next to the sash window twist lock. He spit on the suction cup and pushed it against the window. Holding the cup, he cut around it in a slow arc of squeak and pause, squeak and pause, pressing hard enough to cut through but not break the glass. When he finally completed a circle, he pulled on the suction cup and removed the piece of glass. He slipped the suction device from it and placed it on the a/c box. The hole in the window was wide enough for his hand, if he kept his fingers extended and grouped together, and his wrist, but not for his arm. Damn, he thought, that could have been a critical misjudgment. He could just reach the lock. It was sunk in rotted wood and turned easily.
The window didn’t want to open after he twisted the lock free. He worked it slowly. Once he could get his fingers under the frame he was able to force the old window up enough to crawl in and down past the Venetian blinds. The blinds were old also, heavy wooden ones. He tightened them closed and hoped they’d keep out any passing breeze. Pausing to breathe deeply, he let the tension ooze from his chest. Sweat dripped down from under the woolen cap.
Dodging the police patrol and breaking in had taken the better part of an hour. He had to hurry now. His position was at the street side of the second-floor hallway. The doors along it were shut. A blade of light slipped from under one door. Tagliabue stood against the street wall away from the alley window he had just come through. Someone coughed quietly in the lighted room. The door opened. A blonde woman came out, hunched in a thin bathrobe and holding an unlit filtered cigarette between two fingers of her right hand. She turned left and let herself onto the balcony Tagliabue had seen as he hid in the alley. She took a plastic lighter from her robe pocket and lit up. She smoked with one arm across her rib cage holding the elbow of her other one. Each time she dragged a flare of an ember from the smoke, Tagliabue could see her face, etched with tired resignation. She was one of the strippers from The Blue Rathskeller.
After the woman had gone back to her room and put out the light, Tagliabue gave it ten minutes by his watch before he moved down the hallway and down the staircase, noting any soft spots on the stairs. He came out in the alcove with the bathrooms. To the left of the stairs a short hallway led to a door, locked and bolted. He slipped the bolt, twisted the lock, and went through the door. He was in the alley, just below the balcony the woman had used to smoke. He went back in, locked the door behind him, and climbed the stairs again. The balcony door was unlocked. It was a short drop to the alleyway from the balcony. He took it.
Dawn was coloring the eastern sky as he walked up to Sixth Avenue, stuffing his hat and gloves in his coat pockets. Since the window he had climbed through was painted closed, he didn’t think anyone would notice the hole he’d cut, at least not for a while. If someone did, there might be an unpleasant surprise waiting for him the following night. He had a western omelet and a fried catfish at David Burke’s Kitchen, just a short drive to the Holland Tunnel.
The next night, when Blount went to the bathroom, Tagliabue followed a moment later. His subject was clumping up the stairs as Tagliabue came through the door from the bar. When Blount stepped to the floor above, Tagliabue took the stairs three at a time, fast and quiet. He came up behind Blount just as the target reached the bedroom door opposite the balcony. Blount was already unhooking his belt.
He opened the door and turned when he realized Tagliabue was coming, but it was too late. His eyes popped open and he raised his hands, but that was too late also. Tagliabue hit him hard with a chop to the apex of neck and shoulder. Blount groaned and his knees buckled. Tagliabue pushed him into the room, kicked the door shut behind him. He stepped over him as Blount collapsed face first to the floor. He snatched the naked redhead from the bed. She froze, eyes and mouth wide. He spoke in a harsh whisper as he held her by either side of her throat.
“Don’t make a sound, sweetie, and I’m out of here. If you scream or cry or anything, I’ll put you out like I did him. Got it?”
She nodded. He dropped her back on the bed. She curled on her side, looking at him through half-closed eyelids. Blount’s wallet contained two C-notes and another few hundred in twenties as well as a driver’s license from New York State that proved Tagliabue had the right man. He dumped the money on the bed in front of the cowering woman, putting the wallet in his own front pocket. Blount’s body spasmed, as if he’d been shocked with a Taser. He stood when Tagliabue hauled him up, before falling across his shoulders. Balancing him in a fireman’s carry, Tagliabue left the prostitute’s room and moved out to the balcony. He rolled the man over the side and lowered him as far as he could by holding his wrists. He let go. Blount hit the ground with a thump and lay in the filth of the alley as Tagliabue swung a leg over the balcony. He paused to catch his breath. The door opened behind him. The woman from the night before appeared, dressed in a thin, low-cut dress this time, a cigarette in her hand. The hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh, my God.”
Tagliabue heard a male voice behind her in the hallway.
“What’s wrong, Susan?”
Someone pulled Susan from the doorway just as Tagliabue swung his leg back onto the balcony. The man who had spoken was dark-skinned with a neck nearly as big around as his head. His eyebrows arched up when he saw Tagliabue rising from a crouch.
“What the fuck?” he barked as he reached for a revolver hanging in a shoulder holster. Tagliabue hit him with a straight left below the eye that stood him up. The man’s hand fell away from the gun and curled open. Tagliabue slammed him with a right cross to the temple that drove him back into the hallway, his eyes rolling up in his head. The
blonde broke for the door to the club. Tagliabue grabbed the back of her dress, but it tore as she twisted out of it and ran naked. He bounded after her and hit her as he had Blount.
Leaving the dark man unconscious and the nude blonde in spasms, he took the man’s gun and leaped over the balcony. Dragging Blount upright, he walked with him alongside as if his friend was drunk. He even sang a sea chanty he had learned once in Belfast. Blount’s legs moved okay, although they would accept little weight. Tagliabue was glad of his conditioning and strength because he needed to get away from the bar with his captive. Fast.
The nearest parking spot he could find when he had driven to The Blue Rathskeller earlier was more than a block away. By wrapping his right arm around the man and gripping his belt, Tagliabue staggered up Canal. It was late but not yet closing time. The few people about on the dark street looked at the odd couple but said nothing. One man and woman pair crossed the street rather than pass close to them. They reached the car. Blount fell across the back seat. Tagliabue secured his wrists with plastic ties before injecting him with a few ccs of GHB to keep him quiet. Sitting behind the wheel to catch his breath, Tagliabue looked around for anyone showing interest. Even the dim lights over The Blue Rathskeller seemed bright in the gloom of the street. The door flew open. A man Tagliabue made as the club bouncer looked up and down Canal without coming out. He had a cell phone to his ear. Tagliabue cranked the rental and drove west, following signs through the tunnel to New Jersey. He thought he heard sirens in the night air behind him, but one always heard sirens in New York.
Another of the dubious pleasures he learned to accept in New York was laughingly referred to as a toll—$18 for the Holland Tunnel—only on the way into the city. A driver can leave for free, glad to be shut of the overpriced place, no doubt. Tagliabue didn’t have to stop for a Transit Authority kiosk as he turned onto the tail end of I-95 to the George Washington Bridge and took the lower level to the Bronx. Going off the Cross Bronx Expressway at the third exit led him and his passenger through a neighborhood of attached houses and broken sidewalks to the safe house in the middle of a gritty street. Giselle was waiting inside with two men in suits.
Arthur Blount was awake by then, moaning and trying to relieve the pain in his shoulder by rolling it. Tagliabue walked him up the front steps to the house and gave the man’s wallet to Giselle. The suits took Blount off to another section of the house. Giselle patted Tagliabue’s cheek.
“You’ll be hearing from me, Tony.”
“So, did you hear from her?” Agnes Ann asked.
She was still sitting on the stool in Tagliabue’s third-floor crow’s nest, legs tucked under her, telescope forgotten.
“Sort of. Five days later my bank statement registered a deposit of $100,000.”
“Wow. That’s decent pay. Whatever happened to the guy you snatched, Blount?”
“I never heard another thing about him. I believe Giselle’s agency likes to keep things compartmentalized, each person knows only what he or she needs to know. My work was over, so I didn’t need to know anymore.”
“You must wonder what became of him.”
“Aye, no doubt. But I’d not find out if I wanted to. I try to worry about only what I can control.”
“Well, my friend, you could control it by not taking any further assignments.”
Tagliabue held in a laugh about her lecturing tone because she spoke with some asperity. He held up his palms.
“Arthur Blount, not his real name, by the way, was a traitor to his country. He’s no doubt in prison by now and his circle of spies rounded up by, er, competent authority. Do you think I should feel guilt about that?”
“Maybe they pulled out his fingernails or something. You have no idea who this Giselle even is or what agency she represents. And, by the way to you, how come she calls you Tony?”
This time Tagliabue did laugh. Agnes Ann tried not to smile but couldn’t manage it.
“I swear I never told her my name. Everyone else called me Anthony, just like here. Even my mother called me Anthony. You’re the only one who calls me Tony.”
“Maybe that’s why she did it.”
“How’s that?”
“She wanted you to trust her, or something.”
“Maybe. I do trust you. That’s why I told you this story, although I probably shouldn’t have. I am bound by a confidentiality agreement. I don’t think I’ll tell you about any of my other assignments. It might be illegal.”
“Legality doesn’t seem to be something that gets in the way of your goals.”
“Legality and morality are not necessarily the same.”
“Let’s do something immoral then.”
“Suits me. You’re the one who’ll have to do most of the work.”
“Suits me.”
“Good. Downstairs in the bedroom?”
“No. I want to be immoral on an exercise pad.”
CHAPTER TEN
AGNES ANN
Ironically, since Tony is the one with bruised muscles and cracked open skin, I am the one left flattened, depleted, enervated by the pleasure we took in each other. I lie on the sticky workout mat as if my veins have been collapsed by injections, as an addict blown out by my own sort of lovely lust. I smile as I listen to his breathing catching up with his recovering blood pressure. It’s a time of peace and joy.
In this weakened, relaxed state, I let my mind wander, and the wanderings immediately end the peace I’ve been feeling. The storm of revelations about Tony’s life pushes to the fore of my thinking, upping my pulse and tightening my belly muscles. As much as I enjoy being with a man who can protect me and as much as I love his big, strong body, I was shocked to hear of his government work with Giselle—I visualize her as Margaret Thatcher—never dreaming that he was involved in those kinds of dangerous activities. It does explain a lot: the way he goes missing for weeks, especially. I thought he just needed his space, the way some people do. I am always reluctant to press him on his whereabouts or to question him about his goings-on. Jack lied so much about those things I feel better not hearing stories from Tony, even though they could not be more different types of men. I’ve promised to accept his schedule as it is and not try to exercise control over his life. He is exactly the same with me.
The news of his operational status with Giselle and The Clem-son Project was a jolt to my system, but perhaps, on reflection, it shouldn’t have been. I had long suspected that he was a mercenary—although I never attached that description to it— when he left the service. There was a time between his discharge and when he bought his boat. I suspected he used his war experiences in some clandestine manner during that time. Contract warriors became the norm in the Mideast when the US government didn’t want to field a large number of soldiers in battle. Why wouldn’t a competent guy like Tony want to make some money working for a contractor to the CIA or some other agency?
When he did come home, he seemed content to work the old boat. He’d graduated from The Citadel and took a commission in the US Navy, but he hadn’t pursued a professional career of any kind. I just thought he liked going to sea and he liked being his own boss. Maybe he does, as long as he gets to serve his country occasionally with Giselle’s outfit.
Maybe I’ll leave it that way. It won’t be easy. Now that I’m sure he wants to marry me I hope I can keep from tying him down, no matter what he said. A big issue will be where to live. It’s going to seem strange once we’re wife and husband, him living in his fortress apartment in town and me on Westfarrow Island. Maybe he’ll take a post office box on Westfarrow. Maybe he’ll retire from The Clemson Project and manage my farm. Jesse may not be back.
The idea of my son taking on a career before finishing high school is another frightening change in my life. I think he’s mature for his age, but I’m sure many a mother of a boy in trouble feels the same way. Still there is no way to force the boy into years more at home and then college. I guess I should be grateful Jake Collier is taking him on as an a
pprentice. He’ll be happy as a racehorse trainer someday, and I’ll be proud of his work.
My mind wanders back to Jack Brunson. How did I ever fall for a man like that? My mother always told me that when things got serious to check out a prospective mate in the presence of his family. How he treated his mother, and how she treated him, would tell me a lot about the kind of man he would grow into. Jack’s mother lived in California and I never got to meet her. My mother said that men who live three thousand miles from their mothers and don’t see them, not even for their weddings, and who are lawyers to boot, are men to stay away from. Too bad I didn’t listen to her.
My mother thought that some people in certain professions will have a hard time getting into heaven. Those professions included bomber pilots, who kill people they never see; salesmen, who talk people into buying things they cannot afford; lawyers, who defend the guilty, men and corporations. She didn’t like Jack from the start, although she never said anything to me like that until he left me, and the baby, and then in effect evicted us. He turned out to be the kind of lawyer who gives them all an aura of sleaze, the kind who uses technicalities to get drunk drivers out of convictions and uses threats to ruin whistleblowers’ reputations if they tried to sue the companies he represented. He was smart and amoral.
I don’t see Jack anymore, but I do know that he is involved with the people at least on the periphery of the bombing of Maven and the killing of Joshua, people such as Peter D’Annunzio and Marvin Harris and Red Fowler. My prayer is that Tony won’t have to deal with him in his investigation, an investigation I’m certain he’s conducting on his own in addition to that of the sheriff’s office. A man with Tony’s background could never allow someone to kill his friend with impunity. The attack in the alley across from Tony’s apartment house was probably an indication that someone thought he is getting too close to the truth.
I purely hated to see him banged up like that, with more scars to add to his collection. I might have to start thinking of his scars as body art, tattoos without the ink. True, they’re not very pretty, but neither are most tats.
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