Deceptions

by Michael Weaver

  Jackson opened his case, took out some papers, and shuffled through them.

  “I’m talking about Vittorio Battaglia.”

  Gianni sat there, his face showing nothing.

  “We’d like to know when you last saw him and where he can be reached.”

  “Why?”

  Special Agent Lindstrom broke in to speak for the first time. “I’m afraid we don’t have that information, sir. Our instructions are only to locate Mr. Battaglia.”

  “Why come to me?”

  Lindstrom had an acne-marked face that looked shadowed in the overhead light. “Because since you were boys together, you’ve always been closer to him than anyone else.”

  “That was more than twenty years ago. I haven’t seen or heard a word from Vittorio since we were both seventeen.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” said Jackson.

  “It’s the truth.”

  Gianni saw the two agents exchange glances, and something passed between them.

  Lindstrom rose and walked to the wall of windows at the far end of the studio. Then he just stood gazing out at the row of darkened buildings across the street.

  Special Agent Jackson sat in silence. He appeared to be studying the sheaf of papers in his hand. But Gianni understood that there probably was nothing in those papers that he did not already know by heart.

  “A few basic facts, Mr. Garetsky,” said Jackson. “The same year that you and Vittorio Battaglia were busy being seventeen, both your parents were murdered by a mob enforcer named Ralph Curcio. Who was then shot to death by you in retribution. Two days later you left the country for Italy under false papers and didn’t come back for seven years. You used a thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson for the shooting, and we still have the gun and your prints as evidence.”

  Jackson paused to give the artist his most ingenuous government-issue smile.

  “So you see, we have it all on file, Mr. Garetsky. And there’s no statute of limitations on murder. But if you’ll just cooperate on this little business of Vittorio Battaglia, I’m sure we can work something out on Curcio. Who was vermin anyway.”

  Somewhere inside himself, Gianni Garetsky had started to shake, as with a chill. He wondered if it showed. It seemed very important at that moment that these two men not be aware of what was happening inside him.

  Lindstrom returned from the windows. “What do you say, Mr. Garetsky? Is it a deal?”

  The artist held himself completely still.

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Jackson. “You’re a successful and famous painter. You have a long, wonderful life ahead of you. Why throw it all away over a nickel-and-dime punk?”

  “Even if I wanted to tell you where Battaglia is, I couldn’t. I don’t know.”

  Special Agent Jackson sighed. “I don’t think Mr. Garetsky realizes just how serious we are about this. Would you say it’s time to show him, Frank?”

  “Yeah,” said Lindstrom from behind Gianni, “I’d say it’s time.”

  Gianni never saw the hit coming. It came over his right shoulder and caught him across the cheek with almost no force. It was no more than a light, token rap with the knuckles, yet its overall effect was greater than that of a hard punch. For it diminished him. It made him see exactly what he was worth to these two men. And that was nothing.

  Seated in front of Gianni on the couch, Special Agent Jackson still considered him without particular malice, a strong professional in impeccable evening clothes whose blank eyes offered no hint of what was going on behind them.

  “Let’s try again,” he said quietly. “When did you last see or speak to Vittorio Battaglia?”

  “Twen… ” Gianni’s tongue groped slowly, almost numbly, and he had to start over. “Twenty years ago.”

  This time the blow came over Gianni’s left shoulder. It was as light a tap as the first, but it carried the added weight of an established order. It told him that he and his flesh were not inviolate, and that this was merely the beginning. The artist felt the blood rushing to his face. His heart turned. These are not FBI agents, he thought. Until he remembered certain unpleasant things he had seen and heard a great many years ago, and then he was not so sure.

  “Where’s Vittorio Battaglia?” Special Agent Jackson spoke quietly, patiently, a controlled man with plenty of time to do whatever might be necessary.

  “I don’t… ” Gianni shook his head and tried to get himself ready for the next hit from the right.

  But this time nothing came. Instead, Jackson took a revolver from his shoulder holster and screwed on a four-inch silencer. He held the weapon pointing at the floor. To Gi anni, the silencer was the clearest indication yet of the men’s ultimate intent. Or was it only bluff, a showpiece?

  “We have a job to do here, Mr. Garetsky,” said Jackson. “And one way or another we’re going to get it done. So why don’t you make it easy on us all and answer this one question?”

  “Because I don’t know the answer.”

  Jackson lifted his revolver until it was aimed loosely at Gianni’s chest. “A few hard facts,” he said. “The credentials we showed you are false. Which means you can forget about any of the little niceties you might be expecting from us as federal agents. So either you start talking, or I start shooting.”

  Gianni sat there, dry mouthed. “You’d really kill me for this?”

  “Killing you won’t tell us where Battaglia is. But a few well-placed bullets might encourage you to talk.”

  They stared at each other.

  Gianni figured it was time to give them something. He knew about interrogation under threat of physical pain. Finally, you had to talk. Even if it was only lies.

  “Could I have a drink of water?” he said to stall it further. Jackson nodded to Lindstrom, who went into the kitchen and came back with a filled glass.

  Gianni brought it to his lips with less-than-steady hands and they watched him drink.

  “When did you last see Battaglia?” said Jackson.

  Gianni gripped the water glass with both hands to keep it from shaking. “Three weeks ago.”

  “Where?”

  The artist took another drink and coughed, still playing for time.

  “Where?” repeated Jackson. Hardly seeming to move, he lifted a leg and kicked the glass out of Gianni’s hand. Trailing water, it rolled along the floor without breaking.

  “Chicago.”

  “What part?”

  “Oak Park.”

  “Address?”

  Gianni sucked air. He stared into Jackson’s eyes and saw himself dead. Whoever they were, there was no way they were going to walk out of here and leave him alive. And I’II never know why.

  “I can’t remember the exact… ” The artist breathed deeply and seemed to grope for remembrance.

  “Address,” said Jackson again. He was beginning to sound bored.

  Gianni slowly shook his head. Then he kept shaking it as though he were suddenly an old man from whose brain all detail had fled.

  “I want his address.”

  Once more, Jackson lifted his leg. But this time the kick was aimed at Gianni’s groin.

  The artist saw it coming. Grabbing the foot in midair, he yanked and twisted until Jackson was off the couch and on the floor, with Gianni all over him and rolling them both in case Lindstrom had his own weapon out and was looking for a clear shot.

  Get the gun or you ’re dead, Gianni told himself.

  For a moment everything inside him was calm and slow. He saw Jackson’s smooth face as he stared at him, saw his blue eyes, cold as glass, and felt an insane joy, as if death at this moment might not really be the worst thing that could happen to him.

  Something exploded in Gianni’s head and he caught a glimpse of a bright red fall that opened like a crack in the earth. Then there was a shock and things began to spin. But he did not lose consciousness or let go his grip on Jackson’s gun hand.

  The next blows came one after another and in such swift succession that he lost
count. They caught him in the face and neck and he choked, swallowed blood, and retched all over himself and Jackson. He knew now that Lindstrom was using a leather covered lead billy and was good with it. Good enough to do the required damage without fracturing his skull or killing him. Good enough, too, for the shock and pain to start closing off the light, leaving him awash in all the shameful juices of living.

  Then rage took over and Gianni had a brain full of blood that sent his teeth into Jackson’s wrist with such force that they hit bone and stayed there until the fake FBI agent cried out and dropped his revolver.

  In what seemed a single motion, Gianni grabbed the gun, rolled away from the steady pounding of Lindstrom’s billy, and squeezed the trigger. There was just the soft whooshing sound of the silencer as the bullet sucked in Jackson’s face and turned him old.

  Gianni swung around.

  Lindstrom had dropped the billy and was struggling to free his revolver from his shoulder holster, but it had hooked into the lining of his tuxedo. His acne-scarred face was suddenly terrified. Gianni saw it and was terrified, too. Then he swallowed, tasted his own blood, and fired twice.

  Lindstrom went over backward. Two crimson buds flowered on his white dress shirt. When he hit the floor, he never moved.

  Gianni Garetsky lay there.

  He breathed the acrid smell of cordite and let the anger drain out of him.

  The nausea, the illness, remained.

  2

  THE ARTIST ROSE slowly. His head, neck, and back were a single blob of pain, he saw floating spots, and he stank from an assortment of his own bodily discharges.

  Why had they done this to him?

  What had Vittorio Battaglia done to them]

  Gianni expected no answers. What the questions did was make it easier for him to look at the two men.

  The agents lay as they had fallen. They were on their backs, eyes staring up through a skylight as fixedly as if they were counting stars. And they were dead. There was no question about that. They were certainly dead.

  Gianni fought an urge to go into his bedroom, lie down, and fall asleep in the mad hope that when he awoke the two bodies would be gone and everything in his life would be the way it had been.

  Still, he was calm. It was a fragile calm, but he could feel it growing stronger. And he knew that whatever had to be done, he would finally do.

  In the meantime he poured himself a generous shot of brandy, walked to the wall of windows at the north end of the studio, and stared down at the street ten stories below.

  Nothing was moving. But some cars were parked at the curb, and Gianni was able to pick out the dark sedan that Jackson and Lindstrom had arrived in. The artist had lived and worked on this street for more than ten years. He knew it well. Yet he suddenly felt himself lost in an alien land.

  He glanced at his watch. It was not quite two o’clock. He had arrived home less than an hour ago. The wonder was that it had all taken so little time.

  Gianni carried his drink back to where it had happened. Everything was in place. No furniture, lamps, or pictures had been damaged or disturbed. Other than for the two bodies, it was a peaceful-enough scene, a quiet setting where a brief encounter had taken place.

  Other than for the two bodies.

  Gianni breathed deeply and felt the pain filter through him. Then he tossed off his brandy and tried to see if he could learn anything.

  He went through the men’s wallets and FBI identification, and everything tied together as authentic. Credit and insurance cards, driver’s licenses, assorted other plastic, all confirmed their stated identities. If any glitch existed, Gianni failed to pick it out. Which suddenly added to his confusion. Were they real or not?

  Jackson’s attache case held its own items of interest… among them, a vicious-looking electrical shock device that would have been applied to his more sensitive body parts if their other efforts failed to produce the desired answers.

  In an envelope was a faded snapshot of Vittorio Battaglia and himself as a couple of grinning teenagers at the beach, caught and held in a moment of summer sun.

  Another photograph showed Vittorio standing beside a beautiful Asian girl who was staring solemnly at the camera with luminous almond eyes. A name and address on the back of the photograph identified her as Mary Yung of Soundview Drive, Greenwich, Connecticut.

  Garetsky wondered if the two alleged agents had been to question the girl before they came to him. If they had, was she now lying dead or crippled somewhere? He hoped not. He very much wanted Mary Yung to be alive and communicating.

  The attache case also contained two computer printouts. One had to do with Mary Yung. The other dealt with him. He read the girl’s first.

  MARY CHAN YUNG (one of several names for MOPEI LINLEY FOO). Born in Hong Kong, U.K., and brought to U.S. as child by parents, now deceased. Current age, 34. Yung works on and off as a sometime actress, singer, photographer’s model, fashion reporter. Apparent independent means as parents’ sole heir of record. Unmarried. Yung is known to have had close and lengthy relationship with Vittorio Battaglia just prior to Battaglia’s disappearance approximately ten years ago. Yung is known to have worked and traveled throughout Europe and the Far East.

  The artist moved on to his own printout.

  GIANNI SEBASTIANO GARETSKY. Born N.Y., N.Y. Current age, 38. Single known alias, JOHN CARPELLA. Parents, Maria and David Garetsky, both deceased. Murdered in internecine syndicate crime war of early eighties.

  GARETSKY avenged parents’ murder by killing Ralph Curcio, fleeing to Italy, and living there as John Carpella. Vittorio Battaglia’s closest friend and confidant since early childhood.

  FBI EVALUATION: There is no hard evidence but it is assumed that the two men have maintained covert contact for most of the past twenty years. Although GARET-SKY’s father was a lifelong soldier in the Donatti crime family, there is no evidence that GIANNI GARETSKY himself, once past the age of seventeen, was ever involved in any kind of syndicate business. He is currently recognized as one of America’s foremost artists.

  Gianni slowly put down the two printouts. So much for any hope of this not being a genuine FBI operation. And who would believe his having had to shoot them in self-defense to save his own life?

  He stood listening to himself breathe.

  There really was nothing more to think about. Whatever came next, he first had to clean himself and take care of the bodies.

  He stood naked in front of a bathroom mirror and looked at what they had done to him. A strange bloody creature quivered in its own violet light. Beneath the blood, his flesh was swollen, formless, purple. His eyes peered dimly through a velvet mist.

  “Why?” he said aloud to the thing in the mirror.

  When Gianni came out of the bathroom, he put on a fresh shirt and jeans and set about scrubbing the floor clean of blood.

  With that done, he wrapped the bodies, using bedsheets as shrouds and tying them with strong nylon cord. He worked methodically and with full concentration, doing his best to keep his mind empty of all else.

  But after a while a cold rage broke through that made him hate the two agents even in death. They had robbed him of his future, fouled all that might have been good in his life. Insanely, he wished he could do them additional damage.

  Still, all he finally did was what needed doing. He went downstairs, drove their car several blocks away and left it parked at a curb. Then he moved his own car, a jeep wagon, to the just-vacated space in front of his building, loaded the two bodies into it in a panic of sweat and strength, and shortly after 3:00 A.M. drove out of lower Manhattan and headed west to the Hudson River, then north toward the upper reaches of Putnam County.

  He drove carefully, staying well within the posted speed limits. What was his rush? Regardless of how fast he drove, two government agents alleged or otherwise would still be dead in the back of his wagon, and he would still be in the worst trouble of his life.

  Vittorio Battaglia!

  The name a
lone was impossible. Imagine a helpless little kid being launched into life as Victory Battle. It was a joke. Unless, like Vittorio, he started right off taking the name seriously.

  Vittorio himself, apparently, was still alive. Gianni had spoken the truth when he told Jackson and Lindstrom he had not seen Vittorio in twenty years. His friend had already disappeared by the time Gianni returned from his flight to Italy. He could not even remember the last time he saw him.

  What Gianni did remember was the first time he saw him… when they were both eight years old and attending Mulberry Street Art School. Vittorio had instantly determined to live up to his name by trying to beat Gianni to death with his bony little fists. Almost everyone at the school was Italian, and Gianni considered his own half-Jewish blood a near-fatal handicap. How could a measly half-Italian compete artistically with a full-blooded line that had produced the likes of Michelangelo, da Vinci, and Raphael?

  Vittorio, being pure, 100 percent Italian, suffered no such problem. And it showed in his work from day one. He had a flair and brilliance that Gianni admired and felt he could never achieve.

  Parts of Gianni still felt that way. And it was not just foolish modesty. He knew exactly how much he had accomplished. Yet when he envisioned the absolute best he could do, and imagined it alongside something by Vittorio, it was like seeing a good rhinestone next to a perfect diamond. The rhinestone was created out of knowledge, discipline, and hard work. The diamond was a gift of nature, a flash of the purest light that had nothing to do with anything but God.

  Deep in a patch of woods off Interstate 95, Gianni buried the last mortal remains of Special Agents Jackson and Lind strom and felt the first piercing chill of a tracked animal. He felt nothing for the men themselves, not even his earlier rage. They had, after all, just been following orders. Now there was only the chill.

  3

  AT THE EDGE of a forest twenty miles north of Zagreb, Yugoslavia, the gunman sat near the edge of a forest and waited for the dawn that was still an hour away.