Deceptions

by Michael Weaver

  Mary was silent for several moments. “It’s getting better.”

  Gianni doubted it. Actually, the late attorney general seemed closer to becoming omnipresent in death than he ever could have while alive. And the official lawyer’s letter, received only that morning and telling Mary she had been named Henry Durning’s prime beneficiary, was doing nothing to lessen her brooding absorption with him.

  “It’s not that I don’t understand how you feel,” said Gianni. “But let’s not forget what the sonofabitch was.”

  “Are we all that sure we ever really knew?”

  Gianni looked at Mary Yung and saw the remains of the day reflecting in her eyes.

  “We’re sure,” he said. “Unless you feel a body count of about two dozen still isn’t enough to remove all doubt.”

  Mary was silent and this in itself gnawed at Gianni.

  “Or maybe it’s his apparently unforgettable claim,” he went on more softly, “that if you lived to a hundred, parts of you would still know that no one ever came close to loving you as he did.”

  Mary Yung sighed. “I guess I never should have told you that.”

  Yet what woman could have resisted the telling? he thought.

  It was simply the nature of love. And of Mary Yung. And of course, of Henry Durning. Who, with all he had caused to happen, Gianni had never met. Not that they had to meet for Gianni to know about him. When it came to love, Henry Durning couldn’t be that different. No one was.

  Who didn’t goddamn love to talk about his love?

  At one time or another, over the years and a few drinks, Gianni had listened to gangsters, murderers, leg-breakers, the rich and the poor, the foolish and the brilliant. And their single common denominator, the one thing they invariably shared, was a compulsive need to let him know how truly and deeply they had loved.

  Look at me! was what they were shouting. Pay attention. Never mind how I look or seem. Never mind what I’ve done. Never mind what anyone says about me. I feel. I care. I love. And that in itself has to make me fucking lovable.

  Then more softly, the eyes said, Listen. Please love me. Forgive what I’ve done. I didn’t mean it.

  But try as he might, Gianni Garetsky could scrape up nothing for Henry Durning. Too many were dead who should not have been.

  Maybe time will soften me and I’ll change.

  Gianni didn’t know.

  What he did know was that whatever gifts of grace Henry Durning’s troubled soul might be pleading for these days, they would have to come from Mary Yung. He could think of no other heart big enough to pump out the required amounts of love.

  Gianni looked at Mary where she sat, quietly waiting for him to stop his foolish judging and just start loving her again.

  He smiled and saw her slowly smile back.

  There are harbors left.

  THE GOVERNMENT ORDERED THE CRIME. THEY WILL BE SHOCKED BY THE RESULTS.

  He’s from a family torn apart by the bloody

  crosscurrents of American crime. And the seeker of

  a redemption that can only come from his gift for

  brilliant artistic achievement.

  Now Gianni Garetsky will reunite with one of the

  world’s most wanted assassins. He’ll track an innocent

  child trapped in a jungle of predators. And in his

  odyssey for survival, he’ll be joined by two women:

  one with a secret that can destroy untold victims; the

  other with a spellbinding erotic power more formidable

  than any weapon wielded by the agents of death

  that shadow them all.

  “RACES LIKE A SPRINTERS PULSE!”

  —St. Louis Dispatch

  “IT GRABS YOU!”

  —Cosmopolitan

  “GRIPPING… A FAST-PACED, BRUTAL, AND

  KINKY TALE THAT MIXES CRIME AND POLITICAL

  INTRIGUE WITH APLOMB.”

  —Publishers Weekly