Deceptions

by Michael Weaver

  “Listen to me, Paulie.” Peter gripped his son’s arms, feeling how slight they were, how delicate. “You know how I feel about our Lord, Jesus Christ, don’t you?”

  The boy nodded, although he had no idea how his father felt about Jesus Christ. In fact he could not remember his father ever saying anything at all about Him.

  “Well,” said his father, “I solemnly swear in the name of our sweet Lord, Jesus Christ, that I’m no mafioso.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Do you believe me now?” Peter asked.

  Still not sure he had a voice, Paul nodded.

  “Good. And what do you have to say about Pietro Dolti’s shit-eating old man?”

  The boy finally found a kind of voice. “Fuck him.”

  It was the first time he had ever said the word in front of his father. But it was the single word that seemed able to come out of his throat.

  “Exactly,” said Peter Walters.

  7

  GIANNI ASSUMED THAT by now there would probably be an all points bulletin out on his wagon, so his first move was to leave it at JFK’s long-term parking area and to pick up an innocuous gray Ford Fairlane from Hertz. He used one of the credit cards the don had given him. It was under the name of Jayson Fox of Richmond, Virginia, and went through the computer with no problem.

  Gianni’s second move was to again try to reach Mary Chan Yung. This time a live voice answered and he felt instant relief. They had not gotten to her yet.

  “Harriet?” he said.

  “There’s no Harriet here. What number did you want?”

  Her voice was pleasant, light, and with no trace of an accent. But what had he expected? An updated dragon lady?

  Gianni recited her correct number with one digit altered.

  “You have the wrong number,” she told him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and hung up.

  It took him close to forty minutes to reach Greenwich and another fifteen to find the house, a cedar ranch overlooking Long Island Sound. There were no cars in the driveway and lights were on in several rooms.

  Still, being cautious, he drove his rented Fairlane a good hundred yards past the driveway, pulled it off the road, and parked behind some brush. Then he walked back to the house, bent low behind the shrubbery, and peered through the corner of a living-room window.

  Gianni had a moment then. For something in the sight of the woman he saw reading beside a lamp, some curiously tender sense that this beautiful, alien stranger was under the same threat of pain and death as he, set a small forest of nerves going inside him.

  Sitting motionless, Mary Chan Yung had the stillness of a photograph. Then as if aware of Gianni’s presence, she looked up toward the window where he crouched. She could not have seen him, yet her gaze gave him the feeling of being illuminated. She returned to her reading, and Gianni left to check the other lighted rooms: a kitchen, a study, and a bedroom. All were empty.

  He went around to the front and rang the doorbell.

  A floodlight went on and Mary Yung opened the door without first looking to see, or even asking, who was there. It seemed more a matter of style than of carelessness or bravery.

  What she saw was a badly battered stranger, and no sign of a car in the driveway.

  Her hand went to her mouth. “Dear God. You’ve been in an accident.”

  Gianni forced his lips into a kind of pained smile. “All this happened last night, Miss Yung. And it was no accident.”

  In his mind he was still smiling, but it was actually more of a grimace.

  “My name is Gianni Garetsky,” he said. “I’m an old friend of Vittorio Battaglia’s.”

  Mary Yung stood looking at him.

  “Of course. You’re the artist. I saw your picture in this morning’s Times. Vittorio used to talk about you a lot.” She paused to let things come together. “But what… ”

  “I have to talk to you. It’s important. May I come in?”

  She nodded. “Please.”

  But once inside the brightly lighted living room, Gianni just felt exposed. Others could be arriving at any time, and he was afraid of being blindsided. Outside, everything was black.

  “I know this sounds crazy,” he said, “but you’re in serious danger here. I was beaten half to death last night because two men with guns wanted to know where Vittorio was, and I couldn’t tell them. And I’m afraid you’re next on the list.”

  Lips parted, she stared at him. The lamplight caught her forehead and threw a shadow across most of her face. What remained visible might have belonged to some classic figurine.

  “Who were the men?” she finally asked.

  “They said FBI.”

  “The FBI goes around beating famous artists half to death these days?”

  Gianni shrugged. He had no idea what she was feeling, but he was impressed by her surface calm. “I don’t think they were real FBI and I’m sure they weren’t about to leave me around to tell anyone.”

  “I haven’t seen Vittorio in years. What makes you think I’m next?”

  Gianni showed Mary Chan Yung the photograph of her and Vittorio, along with her biographical printout. She studied them both, a striking woman of cool lavender shadows and hidden ghosts.

  “They gave these to you?” she said.

  “They didn’t give me anything, Miss Yung.”

  Her eyes were flat. “Vittorio always said you were a hardhead. Even as a boy.”

  He left that one alone.

  “So what do we do, Mr. Garetsky?”

  “First, we talk. But not in this room, and not with any lights on.”

  They ended up in the adjoining study with a bottle of Napoleon brandy and the house silent and dark around them. Other than for a patch of moon silvering the floor, everything was black.

  “Do you know where Vittorio is?” said Gianni.

  “No.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “About nine years ago.”

  “Is that when you broke up?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What happened between you?”

  She lifted her snifter and breathed the brandy. “The usual. First, the excitement fades and everything becomes habit. Then one of you meets someone new.”

  “Which of you met someone new?”

  “Vittorio.”

  Gianni found it hard to imagine. “Who was she?”

  “I never knew.”

  Mary Yung rose and settled against a wall. She seemed to be leaning on a shadow.

  “You’re a celebrated artist,” she said. “You’re not just anybody. Why can’t you call the police?”

  “And tell them what? That a couple of supposed federal agents beat me up and were going to torture and kill me, so I killed them instead?”

  His actually putting it into words appeared to affect her, and she began pacing. In the reflected moonlight, he saw her in parts… slender, graceful legs, a hip’s curve, high perfect breasts, a China-doll face under sleek blue-black bangs. How could Vittorio have left her?

  “Then we spend the rest of our lives hiding in dark rooms?” she said.

  “Hardly.” He could make out her eyes, deeply set in the oval of her face. “But we can’t do much of anything until we find out why Vittorio’s suddenly important enough for those two men to have come after me as they did.”

  “How are we supposed to manage that?”

  “By taking one step at a time. By grabbing whoever walks in here looking for you and asking questions. But that’s my job. What I’d like you to do right now is pack a bag, check into a local motel, and wait for me to call you.”

  She considered him through the dark. “And if you’re dead and can’t call. Where do I go then?”

  “I don’t expect to be dead.”

  “No? You mean that’s not included in your one-step-at-a-time plan?”

  Mary Yung came over and sat down facing him.

  “Well, here’s what I don’t expect, Mr. Garetsky. I don
’t expect to be anyplace but right here with you when some stranger comes into my house. I’m not a delicate, eyelash-fluttering innocent. I own a licensed firearm, I know how to use it, and I’ve rubbed knees under the table with some very bad boys. So since Vittorio seems to have dumped my life on the line right along with yours, it looks like you’re stuck with a partner.”

  Gianni saw no point in arguing. Besides, it would help to have her with him.

  There were things to consider.

  How many men would be coming?

  Would they play it straight and come right up to the front door, or pick a lock and come in on their own?

  If they did ring the bell, should Mary Yung open the door or let them break in and then surprise them?

  They discussed everything as equals, their lives weighted the same on some invisible set of scales. Her calm, Gianni decided, was more than just surface. She was cool straight through.

  She showed Gianni her revolver, a snub-nosed, nickel-plated .38 that looked, in her hand, as though it had been specially designed for her by Ralph Lauren. Gianni had never known a woman who actually owned a gun. His wife had hated and feared simply the sight of one. She despised violence. All life was sacred to her, even a fly’s. He teased her about it at first but soon stopped. She took it too seriously.

  “Why do you have this?” he asked.

  “Because I live and travel alone and there are a lot of crazies around.”

  “Have you ever shot anyone?”

  “So far, I haven’t had to.”

  “But you’ve fired the piece on a range?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “I can hit what I aim at.”

  “It’s different when you aim at a person.”

  “I’m sure it is,” she said. “But whatever I have to do, I’ll do.”

  Gianni believed her.

  By 2:00 A.M. they were drinking coffee, crushing out cigarettes in ceramic ashtrays, and listening for sounds. Gianni felt tired yet strangely easy. Now there was just the waiting. But that could be minutes, hours, or even days.

  They took turns dozing.

  Once, asleep in her chair, she showed a soft, child’s face. Until some passing dream made it change and her features became harsh, sensual, those of a woman with product to sell. Then this mask, too, cracked and a smooth-faced girl of eighteen showed herself to Gianni, skin almost luminous, a Chinese virgin with everything good still ahead.

  Her eyes slowly opened.

  “That’s unfair,” she said. “Watching a woman sleep is more intimate than seeing her naked. Now you know all my secrets.”

  Gianni breathed her fragrance in the air around her. It teased the edges of memories just beyond his reach.

  “But I know all about you, too,” Mary Yung said. “Over the years, I’ve looked long and hard at every painting you’ve ever done. You don’t hold back a thing.”

  “What would be the point?”

  “It’s always safer to keep something in reserve.”

  “I don’t paint to stay safe.”

  In the early dawn Mary Yung was pacing again, and Gianni watched her silhouette move back and forth across the windows.

  “Maybe they’re not coming,” she said.

  “They’ll come. But it’s daylight now, so they won’t be breaking and entering. They’ll be ringing the front doorbell. That’s what we have to be ready for. Do you have it all straight in your head?”

  “Yes.”

  She made orange juice, toast, and coffee for breakfast. Gianni ate four slices of toast. He was hungrier than he had expected.

  Now, as they talked, they had become just plain Mary Yung and Gianni.

  Then they began the waiting again.

  8

  AT 9:10 A.M. a car rolled into the driveway and parked in front of the garage.

  Mary Yung and Gianni watched it from behind the living-room curtains, a blue Chevrolet sedan with a high antenna and yellow fog lights that cut through the dark-gray morning and steadily falling rain.

  A couple of men got out, and Gianni recognized them as the two who had torn apart his loft. Then a third man appeared, carrying an attache case.

  Two weren’t goddamn enough, thought Gianni, and a vein was suddenly pulsing in his neck.

  He touched Mary Yung’s shoulder and felt her warmth. Then he left the living room and took his position in the study.

  The doorbell rang, and a moment later Gianni heard Mary Yung’s footsteps in the entrance hall and the front door being opened.

  Enclosed in his own stillness, Gianni listened to the dou ble charade: the phony agents, playing out their polite ritual of authority… Mary Chan Yung, projecting surprise and concern.

  Then Gianni heard them all entering the living room, where the delicate part would be to get the three men seated with their backs to the door and Mary Yung facing them.

  How much suddenly depends on this woman.

  Still, using her own subtle blend of charm, deference, and sexuality, Mary Yung seemed to be doing just fine.

  And the men?

  Without seeing them, Gianni could almost sniff their heat at the prospect of interrogating a woman like Mary Chan Yung. And that was before they were even exposing her flesh to their dirty little toys. You had to be born to stuff like this.

  I’m ready for the sonsofbitches.

  He waited for Mary Yung’s signal. As soon as the three agents were properly settled on the couch with their backs to the door, she would ask if any of them had a cigarette, and Gianni would be off on her words. Mary’s own revolver was tucked just under the edge of her chair cushion and would be in her hand the instant Gianni appeared.

  Their worst-case scenario was that one of the men would suddenly decide to leave the living room and search the house. If that happened, Mary Yung would warn Gianni by going into a fit of coughing. Then she would pull her gun and cover the agents until Gianni came in and disarmed them.

  It all seemed simple enough in the planning, but Gianni knew better.

  With his ear to the wall, he listened to their interrogation. But he was hearing more than just words. One of the men was walking, not sitting, and Gianni followed the sound of his footsteps on the flooring. The sound hung in the air, numbing everything. It made what followed seem dreamlike and slow.

  First, there were the footsteps sounding louder and coming closer.

  Then Gianni had the earliest notion of leaning toward the door, his body getting ready, starting with the tiniest bones in his feet. He knew instantly what was coming next, as though the don’s personal gun carried its own black powers of perception.

  He and the gun knew.

  It was the truth, and he was moving a good few seconds before the sound of Mary Yung’s coughing came through the wall. He actually noticed a pair of watercolors as he swept past them, along with his own blurred reflection in a hall mirror.

  Then he was in the living room and one of the men was coming toward him, his eyes suddenly wide as he groped for his holster. Gianni started to raise his gun, but there was an explosion before he could bring it to bear and the man went down on his knees and then on his chest.

  Gianni looked at the others in the room. His ears rang from the gun blast and he saw streaks that might have been rain. Mary Yung was still sitting in the chair. The other two men were half off the couch and pulling at their guns as she fired again.

  One of the men went over backward.

  The other man was still tugging at his holster as Gianni caught him in the head with his gun butt. He fell and lay still.

  Mary Yung sat with her revolver in both hands, continuing to aim where the man had been before Gianni hit him. Then she slowly lowered her gun.

  “Have you forgotten?” said Gianni. “We need someone alive to question.”

  She just looked at him.

  Smoke drifted in the gray light. The air smelled burned and felt humid with blood.

  Gianni bent to the two men Mary Yung had
shot. They were both dead.

  “Will any neighbors hear the shots?” he asked.

  “No. The nearest one is acres away.”

  Gianni lifted the unconscious man onto the couch. He found a pair of handcuffs on him and cuffed his hands behind his back.

  Mary Yung sat watching him, not moving.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Why shouldn’t I be all right? They came into my house to hurt and probably kill me. 1 just wish I could do it all again.”

  Gianni didn’t believe it.

  “Better feed this one some brandy,” he said. “We’ve got to get him talking.”

  Gianni went through the attache case and found its contents an exact duplication of the one in his loft—same photographs, same computer printouts, same electroshock persuader. Apparently, this was standard equipment on the hunt for Vittorio Battaglia.

  He heard a groan and saw Mary Yung working some brandy between the agent’s lips. He was a chunky, muscular man with a jaw like an ax blade, and ochre animal eyes that seemed to live for a contest. His identification said he was Spl. Agt. Tom Bentley.

  Gianni allowed him a few minutes to come out of it.

  “Your buddies are dead,” he told him. “So you’re all we’ve got to answer our questions. You can do it easy or hard. It’s up to you.”

  The agent looked at Gianni Garetsky and Mary Chan Yung. Then he looked at the electric persuader lying prominently beside the couch.

  “What are your questions?”

  “Why is Battaglia being hunted? Who wants him? Are you people really FBI or just playing at it?”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  Bentley lay there with it. The things he knew settled on him with a certainty that accepted no misunderstandings.

  “And if I don’t answer?”

  Mary Yung cut in. “Then you’ll end up as dead as we will. Only a lot sooner.”

  Bentley considered her with his pale, yellow eyes. “You’re sure one beautiful woman, Miss Yung.” He grinned. “And one beautiful shooter, too.”

  “This is no joke,” she said.

  “I know it’s no joke. But what I don’t know is what happens to me if I give you your answers.”