After taking a quick shower and changing from the clothes I’d slept in, I headed for the nearest subway station. Given what Marco knew about Jim Mosconi, I had to assume he’d had me followed and I guessed it would be easier for me to spot someone if I used the subway rather than a taxi. The pain in my head had diminished considerably as the sub digested into my blood stream. The train ride went by quickly, and I didn’t spot anyone suspicious.
I stepped through the doors onto the platform in Manhattan and walked up the stairs into the sunlight, the hustle and bustle of city life all around me. There was a slight chill in the air that I hadn’t noticed before, reminding me that I missed the fall of the East Coast, having lived in Los Angeles for several years now. Before going straight to the offices of the New York Post, I walked a few extra blocks, traveling in a circle to make sure I wasn’t being tracked. I was more than a little panicked by what I’d learned earlier. Why was Marco so concerned about Mosconi? I was hoping he might be able to shed some light on my ignorance.
With one last glance down both sides of the sidewalk and satisfied I was alone, I stepped through the large glass doors into the lobby. A desk attendant was guarding the entrance to the elevators, so I waited several moments until he was distracted by an older man needing directions and I slipped past his desk to the elevators.
Thoughts swirled around in my head in an attempt to decipher the implications of the conversation I’d overheard earlier between Marco and Vespucci. A flash of my exit from the factory when I interviewed Marco the first time crossed my mind, and I recalled the man sitting in the car across the street. By the time I was at the end of the block, the man had disappeared. Did Marco put him on my tail?
As the elevator doors slid open, dropping me out into a small lobby, I cleared my head to focus on the task at hand. A young woman seated behind a mammoth desk greeted me with a peremptory, “Yes?”
“I’m here to see Jim Mosconi,” I said.
She typed on the keyboard, glancing down at her computer screen. She responded, “He’s on assignment. Out of the country.”
I didn’t expect that. “Could you tell me where he went?”
“Italy.”
The word “Italy” unfolded at a snail’s pace inside my brain.
I muttered, “Thank you” and turned toward the elevator.
Mosconi was in Italy. I was sure he was working on something related to the Mafia. I took the elevator to the ground floor and exited the building onto the busy street. I started walking, not sure where I was going, just wanting to think. I pulled out my PDA, typing a short, succinct email. “What are you doing in Italy?” Then I sent it to Mosconi.
After walking for a couple of blocks, my mind running in circles over my morning, I found myself standing in front of a jewelry store display window staring at sparkling engagement rings, instantly distracted from my troublesome thoughts.
Sara. Ring. Propose.
I looked into the brightly lit shop, noting the expensive woodwork detail lining the walls. A woman stood behind the counter, busying herself with inventory, methodically moving pieces around within the casing, pretending not to notice me staring in the window. About to enter, my hand on the door handle, I stopped. Why this store? Before I allowed myself time to think it through and change my mind, I called Maggie to see where she wanted to meet and if she could help me with something. She told me to come to her office in an hour.
I started walking, figuring it would take me about forty-five minutes. The noise and vibrancy of the cars and pedestrians and city life did little to slow down my thoughts, which cycled back and forth between what I was about to do for Sara and what had happened during the day with Vespucci and Marco and Mosconi. Given what I’d overheard, Marco and Vespucci clearly knew who Mosconi was. Did that mean Mosconi posed some kind of threat? And if so, what did it mean that I had met with him? It was clear to me that Vespucci was heavily invested in the American netherworld of crime, but nothing remotely concrete had been pinned on him by officials. Of all the literature I could find, Mosconi was the only author who had given Vespucci Godfather status without question. No ambiguity there. Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks. Something I’d read in one of Mosconi’s last articles popped into my head. Mosconi had implied that the Balducci business enterprises in Italy were a conduit of sorts between the Italian and American Mafias. But he’d done nothing more than that. I could only assume Mosconi was in Italy to research this possible connection further. If Mosconi was on to something, he definitely posed a threat to the Balduccis. And, in turn, to the Vespuccis.
And now Vespucci knew I had met with Mosconi. If my suppositions were correct, I was in a far more tenuous position than I had originally thought. I glanced around, looking for a tail, but there were too many pedestrians going in both directions on either side of the street for me to see if someone was following me. Anyway, unless the tail raised his hand to indicate who he was, I really had no idea what to look for. After several moments of furtive looking about, I began to feel foolish. I understood I had to speak with Mosconi to find out what he knew. If he was sitting on an incriminating story regarding Vespucci, I needed to be careful. I didn’t want to find myself implicated in Vespucci’s eyes because of my interaction with Mosconi. But until I spoke with Mosconi, I realized there was nothing more I could do, so I tried to focus on the task at hand: finding an engagement ring. This would finally turn the tide in our deteriorating relationship, I was sure. In the dark recesses of my mind, though, my altar ego’s Voice was playing devil’s advocate.
Are you sure this is the right thing to do? Maybe you’re reading this wrong. I’m not so convinced Sara wants to marry you. Maybe you should reconsider these actions, wait until you get back to Los Angeles, have a sit-down with Sara, and discuss your decision with her. Screw the surprise! Take the safe route.
Shaking my head violently, I tried to shut my Voice down. I didn’t need indecisiveness. Besides, the surprise was the best part of the equation. It would show Sara I wasn’t afraid of her answer, that I’d come to this decision on my own, that she was worth the risk of going out on a limb to express my love for her. I took a deep breath, silencing my Voice with “Enough. I’m doing it.” I startled an old woman passing by on the sidewalk. Sheepishly, I shrugged. “Sorry, ma’am.”
I walked the last couple of blocks to Maggie’s building and saw her standing on the sidewalk, waiting for me. With her hair down, blowing in the September breeze, a tight sweater showing off her curves, she looked more like a model than an assistant professor. She was engrossed in a book and didn’t notice me. She was as beautiful as the day is long. I stood frozen. I just stared at her. Glancing up from her reading, she spotted me and waved. I got my feet moving so she wouldn’t know I was gawking at her. I returned the wave, though my stomach was doing the same somersaults that seemed to occur every time I saw Maggie. I heard my Voice whisper, See. You’re a dummy. I’m done helping you.
“Hi, Jon. You walked?” Her warm smile washed over me.
I nodded, the combination of my lingering hangover and the somersaults making it hard for me to respond.
“I got done a little early and figured I’d wait for you out here, get in a little personal reading,” Maggie added.
I recovered my voice enough to squawk, “What are you reading?”
She held the book up to show me Stieg Larsson’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.
“Oh, you’re in for a treat. It’s wonderful,” I said.
Maggie smiled. “I know. I’ve already read it once. This is my second go round.”
“Larsson was brilliant! He died before the first book was even published. Funny how life works.”
“Shall we walk?” she asked.
“Why not?” I was just glad to be with Maggie so I could clear my head of the fraught scene at Vespucci’s house.
Maggie stuck The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo into her h
andbag and pulled out a light, colorful shawl. Wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, she started walking and I fell in step beside her.
“Can I ask you a question about my fiancé?”
“Sure, shoot.” Talking about Marco made me nervous.
“You can be honest with me, Jon. I’m not blind. Marco hasn’t been very nice to you in all this, has he?”
“Well, I would say he’s made it clear he doesn’t like being interviewed.”
Maggie nodded. “I’m sorry about that. But I know I can trust you, Jon. I’ve spent enough time with you to know that.” She stopped talking and looked away. Then looking back at me, her eyes locked on mine, she said, “I don’t know what it is, but I feel as if we’ve known each other most of our lives. There’s a familiarity between us.”
I had trouble holding her gaze it was so intense. “I agree.” Then I looked away, afraid of what my eyes might reveal to her.
“Does that happen with most of your clients?”
I shook my head in response. We walked in step for a few moments. Then I asked, “Why Marco?”
Maggie turned to me. “Do you ask all your clients that question about their partner?”
The tone in her voice warned me from full disclosure, so I backpedaled. “No. In fact, I rarely ask it. Usually, I can tell. But with you and Marco, on the surface, I get it. I was just hoping you could give me a deeper understanding. Then, I could use your own words and I wouldn’t have to make up my own when I’m writing your story.”
“Well, I wasn’t totally honest with you before when I told you about our history.”
“From your teenage years?”
Maggie responded, “You could say that. Marco and I were more than a casual fling, or at least we had the beginning of more. We kept it quiet because we both knew how my father felt about me dating. You have no idea, Jon. When he caught Marco at our house, I thought he was going to kill him. I didn’t see Marco again from that night until I ran into him ten years later. After Marco went to Italy, I asked my father what he did to Marco, but he wouldn’t discuss it. I knew my father well enough to know not to ask him the same question twice.”
“What do you think happened?” I asked, gently probing around the edges.
“I don’t know. I’ve learned not to dwell on things I can’t change. Whatever happened between my father and Marco and Giancarlo is between them, and it’s been left in the past. As long as they’re comfortable with that, so am I.”
“Marco was more than just a crush?”
“He was the first and only boy I ever fell in love with. In the old neighborhood, all the girls had crushes on him. He was incredibly good looking, still is, and he had this dangerous aura about him. The girls loved it. I did too. Plus, Jon, ever since then, the men I’ve dated over the years have bored me. I could never seem to meet another man who had an edge to him. Marco has a sharp edge. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“I have.” No doubt about that. He would kill me if he could.
“My father didn’t raise me to be weak, so he shouldn’t be surprised I’d want to be with a man who’s powerful like Marco is.” Suddenly, Maggie stopped talking, embarrassed.
“Why didn’t you look him up when you were in Italy during college?”
“I wasn’t sure how he’d react to me, given what had happened. Plus, I was seeing someone back here and that was enough to keep me from making contact with him.”
“So, when Marco showed up one day here in the States, all those feelings came back?”
“Like the snap of a finger.”
“Is he any different now than he was then?”
After considering my question for a moment, Maggie said, “I’d have to say he’s probably more guarded now, more careful about what he does, before he speaks. Other than that, I’d say he’s the same.”
“Do you think your father approves of you two getting married, given what happened in the past?”
“He hired you, didn’t he?”
That I couldn’t deny. But was it for the same reason every other father hired me?
“Jon, can I trust you? Completely?”
I said, “Of course. I gave your father the same vow.”
“Do you know what my father does for a living?”
Her question took me off guard. I didn’t expect her to broach this subject. I stared into Maggie’s distinct hazel eyes, not sure how to answer. I glanced away down the busy Manhattan streets, watching the cars and buses passing in both directions. I gained nothing if I was untruthful. “I do.”
Unexpectedly, Maggie appeared relieved. “I figured you did. Kind of hard to miss if you do a little digging.”
“Giancarlo and Marco are of the same ilk.”
“They are. Does that put you in a moral dilemma?” Maggie asked.
“Not my place to pass judgment. But can I ask you something?”
“Of course. We’ve dropped all other pretensions, haven’t we?”
“Do I need to worry about my self-preservation, if for example, your father doesn’t like my finished product?”
Maggie laughed. “Jon, this is not a movie. There is a code. Rules. You’re a civilian. Anyway, I’m sure what you write will be wonderful, though you can’t write anything about this conversation.”
“I understand. I have no intention of doing that.”
We walked in silence, the ramifications of our discussion slowly sinking in on the two of us. I was now bound to Maggie by her trust in me, and the mutual knowledge we shared. I was on the inside.
“I’m assuming you don’t discuss your father’s business with many people?”
“Not many. Some are in the know, but they don’t ask. Most people don’t know. Ever since John Gotti died in prison, things changed. ”
“What about Michael?”
“He’s a legitimate lawyer. My father didn’t want either of us in the business, so he worked hard to make sure that didn’t happen.”
“Then, how can you say he approves of you marrying a man like Marco?”
“My father is wise enough to know his daughter is cut from the same cloth that he is. I love my father to death,” Maggie said, “but I’m a grown woman now, and unlike when I was sixteen, he no longer gets to make my decisions for me. He understands my love life is off limits now. It’s not something he wants to battle with me about.”
“So you’re not sure he approves of you marrying Marco?”
Maggie fell silent. She glanced at me, her face appearing sad even though there was a smile on it. “If my father had his druthers, he’d have me marry a professor. He thinks professors are safe and boring.” Suddenly, Maggie switched gears. “Okay, enough about me and my family. Let’s talk about why you asked me for help.”
The flood of new information about Vespucci’s history had made me momentarily forget why I’d wanted to meet Maggie in the first place. Wait. I needed her help to get a ring. “I’m going to propose when I get back to Los Angeles. I need your help picking out a special engagement ring.”
“You’re sure she’s the one?”
I inadvertently looked away and then back to Maggie, nodding.
She studied my face for several moments. Finally, she said, “I know the perfect place. It’s the best jewelry shop in all of New York, though many people don’t know about it. Let’s go.”
She took hold of my hand, pulling me over to the curb as she waved down a taxi. We got in and Maggie gave the driver an address. He just nodded, gunning the taxi down the street. For several minutes, only the rise and fall of the taxi’s engine filled my ears. I stared out the window, not focusing on anything, lost in my thoughts.
“You’re ready to spend the rest of your life with her?” Maggie’s voice pulled me back.
Was she asking me that question specifically, or was she also asking it for herself? I considered t
he question, not sure of the answer, the scope of an entire lifetime beyond my comprehension. “Did someone ask you that?”
“My mother. She went over the good Italian Catholic thing, placing emphasis on the fact that Catholics, especially Italian ones, do not believe in divorce.”
“Your mom’s old school just like your dad.”
“Old Country through and through. When I pointed out that several of my mom’s friends from the old neighborhood were divorced, she crossed herself and told me not to bring them up. They weren’t good Catholics.” Maggie laughed at the memory.
“Did your mother’s questions raise any doubts?”
“You’ve seen a lot of people get married, Jon. Don’t they all have doubts?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Most, yes. But, to be honest, I’ve never seen a correlation between the level of doubts and how it defined the future marriage.” Maggie was weighing my words carefully. “I’ve seen couples where neither person seemed to have any doubts, and they were split within a year. Other couples, where both bride and groom were a dithering mess, are perfectly happy. I think it is part of the natural process. Be kind of weird if you don’t have doubts, don’t you think?”
Before she could answer, the taxi came to an abrupt halt. I leaned forward and paid the driver what we owed. We were on a narrow side street, an alley perpendicular to the road just ahead of us, with many low-rise shops on both sides of the street.
“Follow me,” Maggie said.
I fell in step with Maggie, following her down the street, turning into the alley, passing several backdoor stoops before we stopped before an iron-mesh gate. She knocked on the door. A moment later a tall, lean guard with an unexpected smile on his face greeted us, inviting us into what turned out to be a stunning display room full of jewelry. There were large glass cases running along four walls. Assorted necklaces and pendants, earrings and bracelets hung from the walls, and bright lights danced around the room reflecting off the expensive glitter.
Jon Fixx Page 25