Gianni found a Manhattan phone book and immediately got lucky. There was only one Angelo Alberto and he had both a home and a studio listing at the same Riverside Drive address.
Twenty-five minutes later, Gianni got out of a cab in front of a vintage Art Deco building that faced the Hudson with the faded elegance of the early thirties. A frail doorman of about the same age as the building was studying a racing form in the lobby.
“Angelo Alberto,” Gianni told him.
The doorman barely glanced up. “Apartment twelve C.”
In the elevator, Gianni removed his brand-new hairpiece, moustache, and glasses and put them in his pockets. No point in scaring Angie any more than he had to.
On the twelfth floor, he walked along a musty corridor, rang the bell of apartment 12C, and a moment later was staring into the round, aging face of a no-longer boyish, but even-fatter-than-before Angelo Alberto.
“Hello, Angie.”
Angie’s dark eyes blinked and his lips worked. Emotions passed like shadows over his face. “Gianni?”
“It’s me.” Gianni grinned broadly, working to show good intent. “How’re you doing?”
“Hey! Not as good as da Vinci and you. I keep reading about you.” Angelo gathered some composure. “Come in… come in. Jesus, this is some surprise. How long’s it been? Twenty years?”
“Feels more like two hundred.”
Gianni walked in on Angelo Alberto’s life.
One careful look exposed it all… gloomy hall, kitchen, combination studio-living room, single bedroom. Angie’s work was freelance advertising and catalog art, specializing in men’s fashions. At best, it was third rate. His family pictures showed a fat boy and girl, but no wife. Poor Angie was still getting beat up on. You smelled it the minute you walked in. The odor was sour, as if Angie himself secreted it. Being kind, Garetsky pretended to notice nothing.
In the studio-living room, Angie cleared a couple of shirts, a sweater, some socks, and old newspapers off two chairs. He fluttered nervously about. Gianni wondered when someone had visited him last.
“Sit down, Gianni. I’m honored you’re here. Can I get you something? How about a cold beer?”
“I could use one. Thanks.”
Gianni looked out the window at the brick wall of another building. That was the view. Faded brick.
Angie returned from the kitchen with two sweating cans. Handing one to Gianni, he noticed his bruises for the first time.
“Jesus! What’s with your face?”
“A couple of Fibbies worked me over.”
“You kidding, or what?”
It was a good lead-in.
“That’s why I’m here, Angie. I’m in real deep shit. I was hoping you might be able to help me out.”
Angelo stared dumbly. “Me?”
“These two feds who did me? They were looking for Vit-torio Battaglia. Never told me why. But since we used to be close, they figured I knew where he was. Which I don’t. But the bastards wouldn’t believe me.”
“They took you apart for that?”
“The going-over was just a friendly start. It looked like they were gonna waste me.”
Angelo worked his beer can, squeezing, bending. “But they didn’t.”
“Only because I grabbed one of their pieces and used it.”
The 220-pound fashion artist sat looking at Gianni. He had to work it through twice before he was ready to accept it. When he did, his plump face was flushed red and sweating.
“You blew away two feds?”
“It was that or get done myself. So now I’m on the lam and don’t even know why. And I could die not knowing unless I find Vittorio.”
“You think I know where he is?”
“I’m hoping.”
An all-too-obvious attempt at innocence crossed the fat man’s open face. The guy can’t even lie effectively, thought Garetsky.
“Why me?” said Angelo. “What did I ever have to do with Vittorio after art school?”
“I spoke to Don Donatti. He told me your dad was the last contract Vittorio handled for him before Vittorio himself disappeared.”
“And that’s supposed to make me the murdering son-ofabitch’s buddy? Because he did my old man?”
“I’m sorry about your father, Angie. It just hit me as very strange that he should happen to disappear at the exact same time as Vittorio.”
“So?”
“Wouldn’t you call that kind of a coincidence?”
Angelo mopped his face with a soiled handkerchief. He was sweating heavily now. “So it’s a coincidence. So what?”
“So I don’t really believe in coincidence. Never did. It makes me wonder how you knew it was Vittorio who did your papa.”
Gianni stared long and hard at Angelo Alberto. “How did you know, Angie?”
“You just told me.”
“You’re lying, Angie.”
Angelo did his best to manifest anger, but it came out more like a whimper. “You shouldn’t call me a liar.”
“Then you shouldn’t lie. You weren’t even surprised when I said Don Donatti told me your dad was the last hit Vittorio ever did for him. So you had to know it before.”
About to protest, Angelo changed his mind and drank his beer instead. The can shook in his hand. Beer dripped from his chin.
“Who told you?” said Gianni.
Angelo began to smile, tried it, then let it go.
“I think it was your papa who must have told you, Angie.”
“You mean from the grave?”
“What grave? Your father was never in any grave. There was no body to bury. He just disappeared. Remember? Like Vittorio.”
Gianni looked evenly at Angelo’s sweated face. “Your father’s alive, isn’t he?”
“You’re crazy.”
“Where is he, Angie? I won’t hurt him. I swear. I’ve no reason to hurt him. All I want is to talk to him. Ask a few questions.”
“He’s dead. You wanna ask a fucking dead man questions?”
The way Angelo said it made Gianni remember how he always said things as a kid, half-whining and cringing as though he expected to get whacked and was just waiting for it to come.
“I’m giving you a choice,” said Gianni. “You can tell me where your dad is, or you can tell it to Don Donatti after his soldiers chop off your thumbs. If you tell me, nobody knows or gets hurt. If you tell the don, you can kiss your papa goodbye and go looking for your thumbs.”
His expression set for another denial, Angie’s face suddenly seemed to melt down like butter in the sun.
“Why are you doing this to me, Gianni? You were never like the others. You always treated me decent.”
“I’m still treating you decent. Just don’t be stupid about this.”
“My dad’ll beat the crap out of me if I tell you.”
“He’ll be dead if you don’t. And you’ll wish you were.”
Angelo slumped in his chair, sank back. Then he seemed to continue sinking, beyond even the chair and himself.
“Shit,” he moaned. “I was always a lousy liar.”
“That’s not such a bad thing. Sometimes it’s even good.”
“Sure. It’s terrific. Except maybe if you want to sometimes get through a whole stinking day without getting ripped apart.”
Angelo pushed himself to his feet and wandered absently about the room. He stopped in front of a closed closet door and rocked gently back and forth like an old Jew praying at the Wailing Wall. Then without changing expression or missing a beat, he suddenly smashed his head against it.
The door splintered at the point of impact.
Angelo turned and looked at Gianni where he sat. His eyes were vacant and a trickle of blood ran down his forehead and dripped onto his shirt. For several seconds Gianni could feel himself living inside Angelo Alberto. It was not a happy place to be.
Like Gianni Garetsky, Mary Yung took care of changing her appearance as her first priority.
Being Chinese, of course,
limited her options. So she settled for one of those dark, curly-haired, Kewpie Doll wigs with which more and more beautiful Asian women were trying to westernize their looks, but were really only perverting themselves into a far less attractive hybrid species.
For the rest of her new persona, she took Gianni’s advice and modeled herself after the battalions of tourists currently crowding Manhattan. Which meant trendy designer jeans, T-shirt and sneakers, wraparound sunglasses, and oversize shoulder bag.
Thus disguised, Mary drifted along busy Fifth Avenue, thinking things Gianni Garetsky knew nothing about, but which she had been carrying deep inside her head for more than nine years. Although it was only for the past few days that it had started to hold any particular meaning for her.
The fact was, she had lied to Gianni about never having known the name of the woman for whom Vittorio Battaglia had allegedly broken off with her.
She knew, all right.
She definitely did.
The things we do when we’re alone inside ourselves.
And why had she done it?
Part curiosity, part wounded pride, part the nature of her instincts. Men didn’t usually walk out on her like that. Certainly not for another woman. So she secretly followed Vittorio one night and found out who the woman was. And followed the woman herself the next day and learned where she worked and what she did there. And followed her again at night… in fact for several nights… and each time saw her with a man. Who was not Vittorio. And found out too who that man was. Which, in a vindictive sort of way, amused her. The two-timing bitch.
Poor Vittorio, she had thought, and was almost able to feel sorry for him. Soon he’d be knocking at her door again.
Two weeks later she saw in the paper that the woman, Irene Hopper, had died when the plane she was flying crashed into the ocean.
But Vittorio somehow never knocked at her door, or called, or answered the phone when she called him. Eventually, his phone was disconnected. When she went to his apartment, other people were living there. All they knew about Vittorio Battaglia was that strangers were always coming around and asking for him.
Eventually, she officially buried him.
Good-bye, Vittorio.
And now? Nine years after the fact? With the FBI seemingly willing to torture and kill to find him.
Maybe not so officially buried.
Moving with the well-dressed, confident-looking Fifth Avenue throng, Mary Yung tried to make herself feel one with them. At times she could do that. At times she was able to make herself feel as much a part of America’s golden dream as anyone on this beautiful golden street.
But not today. Any such dreams she had today were quickly reduced to no more than foolish flights of fancy. And she became what she knew herself to be, a scrawny little kid with matchstick arms, afraid of closets, and broken dolls, and hunger. Afraid of darkness, and open boats, and black water. Afraid of reaching, touching hands. Afraid, finally, of breathing. She might use up all the air.
I’m a banana child. I look like an unripe banana. Yellow mixed with green, and full of stomach cramps.
Mary Yung had started for the hotel, but now she changed her mind and found a pay phone in the lobby of an office building. Feeling the need for information she didn’t have, she called Jimmy Lee, who either knew or could very quickly get to know just about anything.
“Your little hyacinth needs a great big favor,” she told him, speaking their usual Cantonese.
“Just hearing your voice brings the sun to my day,” Lee said in the same dialect. “What’s your need?”
“I need to know as much as you can find out about a woman named Irene Hopper.” Mary spelled the name for Jimmy Lee. “She died in a plane crash about nine years ago.”
“Where was she from?”
“Right here in New York.”
“Was it a major crash with a lot of fatalities?”
“I don’t think so. In fact, if I remember correctly, she was flying her own plane.”
“Was her death reported in any of the newspapers?”
“Yes. That’s how I found out about it.”
“All right, sweet thing,” said Lee. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You never fail me. I bless you.”
“I’d rather have you love me.”
“Ah, Jimmy. I’m an empty husk. I’d only disappoint you.”
“Please,” he whispered. “Disappoint me.”
“When should I call you?”
“Every hour on the hour.”
They had dinner in their room that evening. Gianni had asked Mary Yung to do the ordering, and she turned the meal into an occasion, with champagne, good French wine, and a chicken contadina that Gianni found superb.
“You make being on the run seem like the thing to do this year,” he told her.
“May as well make the best of it.”
She checked the bill the waiter had left. “Expensive. How are we fixed in the money department? We certainly can’t use any plastic.”
“No problem there. I’ve plenty of cash and a couple of clean credit cards under phony names.”
“Lovely.” Mary sighed and poured more champagne. “Now I can truly enjoy it.”
For different reasons, they were both in a better mood than they had been yesterday. Earlier, checking out each other’s newly disguised appearance for the first time, they had laughed.
“I’d never recognize you,” Mary had said. “Would you know me?”
“I’m not sure I’d want to with all that scrambled hair.”
She had instantly snatched off her curly wig and disappeared into the bathroom. When she returned, her own hair was brushed out, straight and shining against her face.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he had said.
“That shows how much you know about women.”
After dinner they found some brandy in the minibar and settled down with it.
“How did you spend your day?” Gianni asked.
“Like you told me to spend it. Taking care of my disguise, staying inconspicuous, and not contacting anyone I know.” She looked at Gianni over her drink. “What about you? Were you able to do us any good?”
“I hope so,” he said and told her about his meeting with Angie and finally prying loose the fact that his father was alive and living in Pittsburgh under another name.
“Which means what?”
“That I go to Pittsburgh tomorrow morning.”
“Me, too?”
“There’s no point. You can’t really help me there.”
“I just feel so darn useless.”
“You’ll get your turn,” Gianni said. He had no way of knowing she had already started on it.
For the second night in a row they lay in their separate beds in the dark. It was late but neither of them was asleep.
“Isn’t this kind of crazy?” she said.
Gianni didn’t have to ask what was crazy. He knew.
“How long ago did your wife die?”
“About six months.”
“Was she sick very long?”
“Yeah.”
“When are you going to bury her?”
Gianni stayed silent on that one. Was he doing something wrong? Suddenly feeling defensive, he resented Mary Yung’s intrusion.
“I’m not a dog in the street,” she said through the dark.
“I never said you were.”
“You don’t have to say it.”
He took a deep breath. “Leave it alone, Mary.”
“I can’t. I may have to die with you.”
“So?”
“I don’t want to die with someone who doesn’t even know who I am.”
“Then for God’s sake tell me who you are,” said Gianni. “Then, if we don’t die, maybe we can at least go to sleep.”
She allowed herself several moments to think it through. When she spoke, her voice was flat, toneless.
“I’m a liar and schemer with a soul of a drifter,” she said. �
�I’m an exiled alien who’s never had a home. My only friend is a starving, dirty-faced, three-year-old gook with shitted pants who lives inside my chest. Someday, if I’m lucky enough and find the courage, I’ll cut both our throats.”
The room enclosed them, silent and dark.
“Now you know me,” she said.
Gianni didn’t believe her for a minute.
12
PETER WALTERS TOOK a morning flight from Naples to the Spanish border city of Andorra, picked up a rental car, and drove high into the lush summer green of the Pyrenees.
He parked at the edge of a fivc-thousand-foot elevation where he had a clear view of the road winding up toward him and any traffic that might be approaching on it.
After about twenty minutes, a gray Mercedes rounded a curve a few hundred feet below and stopped at a turnoff. Peter sat there another few minutes and watched a few cars and trucks pass in both directions. Then he slowly circled down and eased alongside Tommy Cortlandt, his company connection.
Cortlandt slid into Peter’s car, a tall, slim man with fair hair that appeared to be leaving him by the hour.
He smiled. “Good to see you, Charlie.”
They met perhaps nine or ten times a year, and after eight years the brief exchange had become their standard greeting. Cortlandt always addressed Peter as Charlie because that was his signature on coded communications, and his assorted aliases meant nothing. As for Cortlandt’s name, that was old Boston and very much his own. It was his alleged duties as an embassy trade attache in Brussels that was his cover for his real work there as CIA chief of station. Cortlandt was Peter’s only live contact with the Company, but even he had no idea who Peter really was, where he lived, or what he did there.
“Nice clean job you did in Zagreb,” said Cortlandt, and handed Peter the plain, sealed envelope that contained his pay in deutsche marks. “Congratulations.”
Peter stuffed the envelope into his pocket without opening it. “Not so clean. Sirens went off that I didn’t even know about and never cut.”
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