Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  Since the storm was still out over open water, it was too early to predict either its course or its power.

  It had not yet been upgraded to hurricane status.

  Before long, it would be.

  64

  Through the concierge, Hunt had magically produced tickets for the musical Titanic at the Lunt-Fontanne Theater.

  'Two tenth-row center orchestra seats for tonight,' he said. 'And we have reservations for pretheater dinner at Joe Allen.'

  'What!' Dorothy-Anne flew out of bed. 'And me with nothing to wear! You stay in bed. I'll be right back.'

  'Where are you going?'

  'Why, to get some clothes—what else?'

  She popped over to the town house, where she stuffed more than she would need into a garment bag, put on what she and Venetia laughingly called her Little Red Riding Hooker raincoat with matching hood and umbrella, and then returned to the Carlyle.

  'That the big bad wolf?' Hunt asked.

  'Grrrr!' She made her fingers into claws. 'Better watch it, buster, or I'll eat you.'

  'That a promise?' he said hopefully. 'Or a threat?'

  'Both,' she said happily. 'Just give me a minute to hang up my things.'

  'An obsessive-compulsive wolf!' he laughed. 'That's a new one!'

  The rain was still coming down steadily when it was time to go to dinner.

  Hunt dressed for the occasion in a charcoal double-breasted suit, a white broadcloth shirt, and a reddish Hermes tie with tiny beige and white ostriches on it, alternating rows looking around and burying their heads in the sand. The display hankie in his breast pocket matched the tie, and his cufflinks were big reddish enamel ladybugs with black dots.

  Dorothy-Anne was stylish in a crisp V-neck blouse of thick white lace by Gianfranco Ferre. She had on very thin, very loose black silk pants, red patent leather Gucci penny loafers, and ruby cabochons on her ears. Her Little Red Riding Hooker raincoat with its dramatic cowled hood and matching umbrella completed the outfit.

  On their way out, she took Hunt's arm and posed in front of the dressing mirror. 'Well? Are we hot, or are we hot?'

  He grinned at their reflection. 'Hot enough to set the town on fire.'

  'Good. Then let's go start a conflagration!'

  Dorothy-Anne's every move was relayed to Carmine, who was mobile and roving, and took the calls on a cellular phone.

  'Subject, wearing red raincoat with red hood and matching umbrella, just left the Carlyle in a chauffeured black Infiniti. Said vehicle is heading north on Madison Avenue. I'm two cars behind. Subject's car now turning left on Sixty-ninth Street . . . '

  'Car dropped the woman and a man off in front of Joe Allen's on Forty-sixth Street. That's between Eighth and Ninth Avenues.'

  Probably for a pretheater dinner, Carmine thought. Enjoy your last supper.

  An hour later, the reports continued:

  'Subject and her escort are leaving Joe Allen's. They're heading east on foot on the north side of Forty-sixth Street . . . They're crossing Eighth Avenue . . . .'

  'Subject is going into the Lunt-Fontanne Theater to see Titanic.'

  Carmine's orders were specific: 'Cease all surveillance until further notice. Repeat: Cease surveillance and clear the area.'

  Titanic, Carmine thought, with a smile. What an appropriate choice.

  Mitzi Feinstein was not a New York City native. Sixteen years earlier, she had shuffled off from Buffalo with five hundred dollars and a dream.

  She was going to become a Broadway star. A major Broadway musical star. She knew it. Her friends knew it. Everyone in Buffalo, New York, knew it. For Mitzi Feinstein possessed prodigious acting talent, a clear singing voice, great dancing legs, and knockout looks—for Buffalo.

  Sad to report, in Manhattan she was just another face in an army of show biz wannabes.

  Mitzi gave herself ten years to make it. During that time, she auditioned her heart out, waited on a lot of tables, turned a few tricks, and landed exactly four nonspeaking parts.

  Clearly, it was time for a career change.

  When her ten years were up, she stopped auditioning and found a job on the other side of the curtain. Earning union wages, and keeping a foot in the glamorous world of Broadway theaters—at the moment, the

  Lunt-Fontanne—by working the bar. Only today, she was stuck with coat check because of the rain.

  'Christ, I hate rainy days,' she grumbled to Bea Weiss, who worked with her. 'All I see are drenched raincoats and dripping umbrellas. I ask you? And me dying for a cigarette.'

  Bea, who was just hanging up a silk like red raincoat with a matching hood and umbrella, said, 'Hey, Mitz! Take a look at this, would ya?'

  She held the hanger aloft.

  'This coat's identical to yours. Some coincidence, huh?'

  Mitzi glanced at the coat and sighed. 'That,' she brooded, 'is an original. Mine's a Canal Street knockoff.'

  'Well, to me it looks identical,' Bea countered loyally, then both of them were suddenly too busy to chat. It was nearing curtain time, and a flurry of theatergoers was crowding the coat check counter.

  Finally, the crowd thinned, then evaporated. They could hear the distant swell of music, then applause as the curtain went up. A few latecomers hurried in.

  The lobby was quiet.

  Mitzi said, 'Cover for me, willya? I'm dying for a smoke and I'm out of cigarettes.'

  'I thought you quit.'

  'I said I'm trying to quit. Trying and doing are two different things.'

  Mitzi got her coat, slipped into it, and buttoned the front. She put up the hood, grabbed her purse, and rushed out.

  Rain, propelled by gusts of wind, hit her head-on and she staggered momentarily. Quickly she pulled her hood tightly together under her chin and held it there. Keeping her head tucked down, she hurried down the nearly deserted street toward Eighth Avenue.

  She never saw the dark shape looming out of the doorway beside her. One moment she was hurrying down the sidewalk, and the next she was being grabbed from behind. She tried to scream, but a gloved hand covered her mouth and she was whirled around and shoved into a doorway.

  Mitzi stared, her eyes wild. This can't be happening! she thought. Not to me! Not just outside the theater—

  Carmine plunged an eight-inch knife into her belly and then slashed the blade powerfully upward, disemboweling her and ripping her open to the bottom of her rib cage.

  It was no longer necessary to keep her mouth covered, so Carmine stepped back and watched as she slid limply down, eyes wide with shock, into a sitting position. Blood was bubbling out of her mouth.

  Shielding her by standing there, Carmine knotted a red tie around her hooded head, pulled off the military surplus poncho, and threw it over her. Making her look like just another homeless wretch in a doorway.

  These are mean streets, Carmine thought, walking away without a backward glance. Attractive women have no business walking them alone. Especially not at night.

  The next day's newspaper headlines screamed bloody murder.

  The New York Post: MURDER ON B'WAY.

  The Daily News: THEATER EMPLOYEE SLAIN.

  Both articles speculated on motives. The woman's purse had not been stolen.

  Dorothy-Anne did not read the articles nor watch the local televised news programs. It was her last day with Hunt, and they spent it together.

  That evening, he flew back to San Francisco and she picked up where she'd left off—getting back to work, mothering the kids, and keeping track of the storm that was fast approaching the Caribbean.

  The wrong victim.

  Carmine stared incredulously at the newspapers, filled with disbelief and a growing rage that threatened to overwhelm.

  The wrong victim . . .

  No! Carmine thought. It can't have been!

  But there it was, in black and white and read all over. Complete with a professional portfolio head shot that must have been ten, fifteen years old, judging by the hairstyle. Mitzi Feinstein, struggling
actress—turned coat check clerk—dead.

  Because of a red raincoat.

  A damn red raincoat!

  I should have known, Carmine thought, grabbing the newspapers and flinging them across the room. It had been too easy.

  Well, it wasn't the end of the world.

  I'll just have to try again. And this time, I'll succeed. Betcha ass I will!

  During the past twenty-four hours, the storm had been upgraded to full- fledged hurricane status. It now had a name: Cyd.

  It also had a projected destination. The entire chain of Windward Islands, from Trinidad up to Martinique, were heeding advisories and battening down the hatches.

  Rated as a three on a scale of one to five, Hurricane Cyd, with winds of 120 miles per hour, was not to be trifled with.

  Dorothy-Anne ordered the evacuation of guests from the Hale hotels on Trinidad, St. Lucia, and St. Vincent, and special charter flights were dispatched forthwith. The staff remained, busy boarding up windows and securing the resorts as best they could.

  Dorothy-Anne's major worry, however, remained Eden Isle. At the construction site, there were no windows to board up, no hatches to batten down. Everything could simply be washed or blown away. And there was nothing she could do except watch and wait.

  65

  Mama Rosa scraped the pile of chopped pork butt into a giant bowl. She pinched pieces of it between her fingers to check the texture, and eyed it critically. Then she nodded to herself. The meat was nice and pink, with lots of white fatty pieces to give it flavor. She smacked her lips. Salsiccia al punto del coltello was one of her favorite dishes. Hardly anyone made hacked sausage anymore. The secret was in the hand chopping, the generous proportion of fat, and the liberal amounts of fennel for flavor.

  She hummed to herself while she worked. It was a Monday, and during the summer the restaurant was closed on Mondays, and she was alone in the kitchen. She liked these times by herself to indulge in making time-consuming specialties whose recipes she guarded jealously.

  She set the bowl aside and went to flush out the hog casings under cold running water in the sink. Suddenly the door from the dining room was flung open.

  Startled, Mama Rosa looked up. Then she heaved a sigh and shook her head. It was only that young man, the blade-thin Chinese-American.

  She continued washing the casings as he marched over to where she was working.

  'We need to talk,' Sonny Fong told her quietly.

  'Yeah? How did you get in? The front door is locked.'

  'It was only snap-locked, he said. I used my American Express card. You know what they say. 'Never leave home without it'?'

  He smiled coldly, the whiteness of his teeth and his lean, cliffhanger cheekbones making for a chilly effect.

  'So what do you want? If you're looking for my Carmine, he ain't here.'

  'According to you, he's never here.'

  She shrugged. 'Carmine's a grown man. What do you expect me to do? Baby-sit him?' She had to smile at the idea.

  'No, but I want to talk to him. Either face-to-face, or else you can deliver a message directly. And not on paper, either.'

  'Okay. I'm listening.' She put the long, snakelike hog casings in a bowl of cold water. 'What's the message?'

  Sonny drew closer, his voice growing quieter. 'Carmine failed!' he hissed. 'He killed the wrong woman!'

  She jerked back from him. 'I don't know anything about no killing!' Swiftly she crossed herself. 'My Carmine, he's—'

  'Yeah, yeah. I know, an angel. And he loves his mother.'

  Her eyes narrowed. 'Be careful what you say about him!'

  'I'll say this. He failed, and now it's too late. You understand? My people want their three million dollars back. Pronto.'

  'Three million dollars! Carmine?' She laughed. 'Go on. You're crazy!

  'I am not crazy,' he said tightly. 'I'm dead serious. Carmine failed to fulfill a contract, and we want a refund.'

  She threw up her hands and waved them around in the air. 'I refuse to listen to any more of this rubbish!'

  'In that case, let me talk to Carmine.'

  Mama Rosa drew a deep breath, placed her hands on her hips, and puckered her lips. For a moment she puffed her cheeks and looked thoughtful, then nodded reluctantly to herself.

  'All right,' she sighed. 'Here's the key to my apartment.'

  She reached under her folded-over apron and took a bunch of keys out of her housecoat.

  'It's this silver one, here.'

  She handed him the entire key ring.

  He waited.

  'Go upstairs. Let yourself in and wait in the living room. Meanwhile, I'll call around and see if I can get hold of Carmine. If he can't drop by, I'll have him call you. So if my phone rings, answer it. Okay?'

  Sonny was elated. This is more like it, he thought. It's amazing how attitudes change when you apply a little pressure.

  'Now, listen carefully,' Mama Rosa told him. 'You sit in the big red chair in front of the TV. Facing away from the door. Got that. If you see Carmine's face . . . even accidentally . . . '

  She let her shrug speak for itself.

  Sonny grinned. 'I hear you.'

  Then he executed a nifty about-face and strutted off, cocksure and confident. Jingling the keys. Tossing them up in the air and catching them underhand on their way down.

  Her apartment upstairs was stifling. It faced south, and absorbed the sun's heat. Despite the open windows, there was no cross-ventilation.

  While he stood there, he looked around. The living room was exactly as he remembered it—the upholstered pieces protected by clear, zippered vinyl covers. The tapestry of the Kennedy brothers hanging on the one wall; the one of the pontiff on the other. And there, in pride of place, the forty-inch Mitsubishi television with its screen aimed right at the red chair and ottoman.

  He took a seat, put up his feet. Found the remote control for the TV, switched on the set, and tried some channel surfing.

  He should have known. The reception sucked.

  She's too cheap to spring for cable.

  He didn't get it. Here she had the Cadillac of televisions, the set with the single largest picture tube on the market—and what for? Lousy, grainy reception, that's what.

  Sonny unbuttoned his sports jacket and slipped the Glock 17 out of his shoulder holster. He checked for ammo. There was a round in every chamber. He slipped it back into the holster, then did a few practice draws, lining up people on TV as imaginary targets. Then he holstered the pistol but left the holster strap unsnapped and his sports jacket unbuttoned.

  Keeping the gun within easy reach.

  He tuned in to Ricki Lake, which was followed by Jenny Jones, mainly because Channel 9 came in the clearest.

  Ricki Lake's guests were Kids Who Abuse Their Parents.

  Jenny Jones's were white supremacists. A few wore pilly sheets that were supposed to pass for robes, and everybody seemed overweight, and was missing at least one crucial tooth. He had difficulty following the conversations—everyone was yelling, and most of the words were bleeped out.

  Then he felt it. Halfway through Jenny Jones: a puff of air coming from behind him as the front door opened and closed.

  Sonny sat up straighter. He knew he was no longer alone.

  Carmine is here!

  He resisted the instinctive habit of turning around.

  I must do as Mama Rosa said. No one who could identify Carmine ever lived to tell about it.

  Using his left hand, Sonny clicked the mute button on the remote.

  'No!' Carmine's voice was a sibilant whisper. 'Turn it back on.'

  Sonny hit the mute again. The Jenny Jones audience was waving its fists and jeering. With his right hand, he started to reach inside his jacket . . . slowly . . . very slowly . . . fingers creeping . . .

  'Unh-unh.' Carmine laughed softly. 'You don't want to do that.'

  Sonny froze, then slowly withdrew his hand and placed it on the arm of the chair.

  'That's better.'
<
br />   Carmine was standing right behind him now. Sonny could feel the assassin's breath on the back of his neck.

  'Now close your eyes and lean your head back,' Carmine whispered.

  Sonny did as he was told, flinching as he felt something hard and round and cold pressing against his temple. He knew what it was. A gun.

  'Now open your eyes,' Carmine whispered.

  'But . . . I-I'm not supposed to see you!' Sonny stuttered.

  'No, but I want you to read my lips.'

  Sonny heard and felt the unmistakable click of the revolver's hammer. He clenched his teeth and gripped the arms of the chair. His fingernails dug into the vinyl covers like claws, and he was trembling violently.

  'Open your eyes,' Carmine whispered.

  Sonny forced his eyes open and gasped.

  'Now read my lips: I always guarantee a job. We clear on that?'

  Sonny swallowed. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, afraid that too much movement might accidentally set off the gun.

  Carmine eased up the pressure against Sonny's temple and began stroking Sonny's cheek with the revolver.

  'That means if Plan A fails,' Carmine continued, 'then I go to Plan B. And if B doesn't work, I have Plan C in the works. Capiche?'

  Sonny gave another little nod. He'd completely lost his cool. One of his eyelids was twitching wildly, and he was bathed in the cold, rank sweat of fear.

  Carmine said, 'In other words, the woman is unfinished business. She will die. Count on it.'

  The barrel was directly under Sonny's chin now. He barely dared breathe.

  'You see,' Carmine whispered. 'I never give up. And I never give refunds. Ever.'

  Sonny nodded. 'Okay,' he croaked.

  'So we got that straight?'

  'Yes!'

  'And one last thing.'

  Sonny waited.

  Carmine squeezed the trigger and watched Sonny Fong's brains explode in a red mist.

  'You're history,' Carmine whispered.