Sweetheart

by Andrew Coburn

  “He probably knew what it was worth.”

  “What is it worth? You’ve never told me.”

  “I don’t want to scare you.”

  “Do you think money scares me?”

  His smile was light, indulgent, caring. “I don’t want anything to scare you.”

  “Do you think I’m a baby?”

  “Not at all.”

  She leaned forward over the dark table, her eyes teasing. “How much money do you have, Tony? Give me a vague idea. A lot? A whole hell of a lot? Or an unbelievable amount?”

  He said, “Somewhere in between the last two things you mentioned.” Then he stared into her face. “You tipsy?”

  “A little. You mind?”

  “No,” he said and raised a hand for the check. “But you’re shut off.”

  • • •

  Her sleep was restless. Too many unpleasant dreams tunneled through it, and Jane Gardella rose well before she wanted to, careful not to disturb her husband. In the kitchen she heated old coffee and carried a cup toward the sun room. Ralph Roselli, who she had forgotten was in the house, glanced up from the chair he had fallen asleep in. She clutched at her brief wrap, and he lowered his eyes so that he saw only her calves and ankles.

  In the sun room she nestled in the cushions of an enormous wicker chair, her head aching just enough to disconcert her. Her thoughts stretched back to the sixties, the bows in her hair, the Scout shoes on her feet, the hard-earned A’s on her report card. With less pleasure she remembered her adolescence, the shock of her father’s departure, the thrill of boys she imagined loving forever, the bitterness of her mother when she passed up a university scholarship to become a waitress in the sky. Only dimly could she recollect the first time she laid eyes on Anthony Gardella, though he remembered everything, even the flight number.

  Through jalousie windows she watched a jay fly low over the lawn, and then she closed her eyes, as if assessing something in herself. Her pulse raced for no reason.

  When she returned to the kitchen with her empty cup, she found that Ralph Roselli had made fresh coffee and had laid the morning papers on the table, the Globe on top, as if he knew her preference, which made her feel something of a princess. A note said he would be back later. She was at the table, hugging a raised knee and reading Erma Bombeck, when a voice asked, “You always sit around that way?”

  The question came from her sister-in-law, an assertive presence, who had entered the house with little sound and was peering in on her. They were not close. They were, she had recognized early on, rivals. She said, “Not always,” and dropped her knee.

  “I don’t suppose Tony’s up yet.”

  “I can wake him,” she said.

  “Never do that,” Rita O’Dea said with eyes that seemed to make a calculated assault on her. “Even if somebody should point a gun at him, you don’t wake him. You jump in front of him.”

  “Is that what you would do?” she asked while trying to smile.

  “It’s what any wop wife would do.”

  “I’m trying to be one.”

  “You’ll never make it dressed like that. Don’t tell Tony I was here. It’s not important.”

  Jane Gardella accompanied her halfway to the front door and then slowly reached out to detain her. “Sometime, Rita, when you’re not busy, would you teach me to make sauce?”

  Rita O’Dea tossed her hair back. “It’s not your cooking he married you for.”

  “Then suppose you tell me what.”

  “Christ, I would’ve thought you knew that,” Rita O’Dea said with eyebrows drawn in. “You’re showing most of it.”

  • • •

  Lieutenant Christopher Wade, wearing a flat cap and sunglasses, occupied a box seat for the season’s opener at Fenway Park. A cheer went up when the Red Sox loped onto the field. The seat next to Wade was vacant, but before the first inning was over Gardella was sitting in it. “You haven’t missed much,” Wade said without looking at him, and Gardella shrugged. It was not until the second inning, the Red Sox already losing, that he spoke.

  “All my life,” he said, shelling a peanut, “I’ve lived in Boston, but I never rooted for the Sox, always the Yankees. You know, DiMaggio, Rizzuto, Berra. Had to be loyal to the Italians. Though I’ll admit I liked the old Red Sox. Williams, Doerr, Tabor, those were players you could care about. Now who’ve you got? Rice? What am I going to do, cheer for a nigger?”

  “You could do worse,” Wade said without sympathy.

  “Sure, I could root for Yastrzemski. Has-been with no class. Guy doesn’t know when to quit.”

  “Most of us don’t.”

  “Some of us can’t.” Gardella denuded another peanut and ate it, then rustled the bag at Wade, who declined. “My kind of thing you don’t walk away from. Guys who take over for you think you’re going to want to come back sometime, which means they don’t trust you. They’d rather you be dead.”

  Wade kept his eyes on the field. The opposing team was Toronto, which was still scoring runs, the ball bounding between the shortstop and third baseman.

  Gardella said, “Petrocelli was still playing, he’d’ve got that.”

  Wade said, “You don’t sound happy.”

  “I’m not. Your people hit on more of my places yesterday. That I was expecting. What bothers me is the way they did it, came on like gangbusters. At Video Home Products they were throwing cassettes around worth more than the suits they were wearing. I could sue for damages.”

  “You’d probably have a case. I can’t watch my people every minute.”

  “They scared the office girls. Some quit, afraid they’d get their names in the paper.”

  “You can always hire new help,” Wade said and then, with a shade of distaste, added, “Some of those adult flicks you push go beyond raunchiness.”

  “Tell the Supreme Court, not me. I’m only a businessman, an investor looking for a decent return.” Gardella glanced at a teenage girl stuffing half a hot dog into her mouth, wincing as if unable to chew fast enough. “Put a camera on her, and that’s pornography.”

  “My people are more interested in learning how you managed to take over the company,” Wade said and received an austere look.

  “I thought we had an understanding.”

  “We’ve got nothing yet.”

  “What you asked for takes time. You made it complicated. The Swiss part’s a pain in the ass, but we can work it through New York. What I don’t do is deal in percentages.”

  “I’m not impossible.”

  “I’m not either,” Gardella said. “You got a pencil?”

  In silence, manipulating a scorecard, turning player numbers into monetary ones, they negotiated figures, a substantial one up front, more moderate amounts by the month. Wade gave a slight nod.

  “I can live with that.”

  “I would think so,” Gardella said tartly, which drew a slow look from Wade.

  “Nothing comes cheap.”

  “Who the hell ever said it did? By the way, your wife took the job at Rodino’s.”

  “I know.”

  “Consider it a bonus.”

  Wade feigned not to hear. “The Toronto pitcher’s good. He’s throwing smoke. What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know,” Gardella said, “but he just struck out the side.”

  Gardella left in the fifth inning, crumpling the scorecard and taking it with him. Wade waited until the eighth and joined many others jostling toward the exits.

  • • •

  While driving out of Boston, Supervisor Russell Thurston listened to a half inning of baseball and then tuned to a music station. His mood was good. He felt on top of things, as if no problem were too great to solve. He drove south to Scituate, to a complex of authentic Colonial buildings that had been restored and interconnected and were occupied by doctors, dentists, and various consultants. Leaving his car in the lot, he strolled to a grassy mall behind the buildings and sat on a bench. Though a few minutes early, he was sur
prised that Honey was not already there.

  He slipped a pocket dictionary out of his coat pocket and studied a page, his lips silently shaping unfamiliar words. He was trying to learn Italian. He tucked the dictionary away when he saw a woman approaching. She was wearing a flannel blazer, a pleated skirt, and smoke-gray hosiery, and she was holding herself much too straight. Her hair was radically different, which was the reason his gaze was so intense.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you in that wig,” he said with a touch of drollness, his smile an effective mask. He watched her eyes shift about nervously.

  “This is a terrible place to meet.”

  “I have a dental appointment here in fifteen minutes,” he said, “so let’s make it fast. What’s your problem?”

  “I want out,” said Jane Gardella.

  14

  PEOPLE came onto the mall. An elderly couple strolled to a distant bench, and a woman with two children let the older one run loose. A man in a colorful track suit trotted by. Russell Thurston viewed all with slight interest and returned his gaze to Jane Gardella, who sat rigidly, holding a cigarette, her knees tightly crossed. “Don’t give me ultimatums,” he said icily and watched her head droop. The wig she wore was reddish.

  “I’m not doing you any good,” she said in a dry whisper.

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “It hasn’t worked, and it’s never going to.” Her voice faltered as if from a weird mix of feelings. “Tony tells me nothing.”

  “You do all right,” Thurston said with vindictive calm as his eyes seemed to unpick her seams. “You’ve got eyes and ears and a brain. Keep using them.”

  “Nothing is mine anymore, not even my life.”

  “That’s your doing.”

  “It’s yours.”

  “I’m not going to argue.”

  She smoked, spilling ash, brushing it from her lap. Listlessly she threw the cigarette away. It didn’t go far. Thurston extended a foot and stamped it out. She was silent, waiting until she could speak in a reasonable voice. Tears stood in her eyes.

  “Don’t pull that on me,” he said. “It won’t work.”

  She altered her angle of vision, unable to cope with her thoughts, all enervating in one way or another. The child running loose, a boy, was button-eyed. He ventured close and stared, his tentative smile vanishing when it received no encouragement. “Don’t bother the people,” his mother called, and he retreated.

  With a shadow drawn across her face, Jane Gardella said, “Maybe I’ll just end it my own way.”

  “That’s entirely your business,” Thurston said aloofly, “but it would be a waste. I know you’re not stupid, but are you self-destructive?”

  “You’ve made it so I don’t know who I am.”

  “Would you like me to tell you?”

  “No.”

  His voice drummed on. “You probably don’t care anymore, but we can still put Charlie away. He’s with another airline now, being a good boy.”

  “I don’t care about Charlie, only myself.”

  “And Gardella.”

  “Yes, I care about Tony.”

  “That’s what makes it all so amusing. You’re such a challenge, Honey. And such a bundle of contradictions.” He stood up, loomed over her. “But there’s something you must keep in mind. You could never run far enough from me or Gardella. It would only be a question of who found you first.”

  She gazed up and could see under his chin, into his nose. He was the only person she had ever absolutely hated. For a number of seconds her eyes closed. She wanted to shut out not only his voice but his face. He reached down to touch her shoulder, but she dodged his fingers as if they were corrosive.

  He said, “Are you through talking nonsense?”

  Her hand moved itself without her knowing it. From her bag she removed sunglasses framed in golden metal and slipped them on. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” she said and prepared to rise. “The man I told you about is still living with Tony’s sister.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about him.”

  “Is he a killer or not?”

  “Perhaps, but he’s not in your husband’s league.”

  “Is Tony in danger?”

  “Only from me,” Thurston said with a note of satisfaction. There was no appreciable breeze, but the air suddenly was cooler. He checked his watch. “I’m running late for my appointment.”

  His voice chilled her more than the air did. She got to her feet and accepted his arm, part of the cover, which made her feel sordid. They walked toward the buildings, her step synchronized with his. Before they parted, she said, “I don’t like Wade. He scares me.”

  “Refer to him by his code name,” Thurston said lightly. “That’s procedure.”

  “Does he know about me?”

  “No, Honey. That’s our secret.”

  • • •

  Agents Blodgett and Blue unthreaded their way out of a busy coffee shop in Government Center, where they’d had a late lunch. Blodgett had bolted his, an overstuffed roast beef sandwich, and was now paying the price, the discomfort inscribed on his face. He stopped short and suffered through a moment of abdominal torment as Blue watched without pity.

  “It’s your own fault. You eat like a pig.”

  “And you eat like you’re in a French restaurant. You put on airs.” Blodgett breathed deeply and rallied well.

  They pushed onto the sidewalk, where the pump of the crowd accelerated their pace. The Kennedy Building was across the way, but they headed in a different direction, which distressed Blue. His eye went to his watch. It was his wife’s birthday, and he hoped to get home early.

  “Someone for you to see,” Blodgett explained.

  They entered a building, mounted a flight of stairs, and traveled a length of corridor to glass doors, the entrance to the Rodino Travel Agency. Standing to one side, Blue behind him, Blodgett peered through the glass. Beyond free-standing posters of sunny scenes was a bank of desks, Susan Wade at one of them. She was tastefully dressed in a business suit. Her hair had been cut and restyled, which in effect had unmasked her. Her long face stood out, the bonework prominent.

  “You see her?” Blodgett asked.

  “Wade’s wife, so what?” Blue craned his neck. “She looks like a nice lady.”

  Blodgett reassessed her. “She looks her age.”

  “Which is?”

  “I forget.”

  “Then how do you know she looks it?”

  “You can tell,” Blodgett said with an air of worldliness and watched her answer her telephone. As she talked, she lined up pencils on her desk blotter and trued them at the points, a quiet task that touched Blue, as if it reflected a measure of her vulnerability. When she lifted her eyes, he tugged Blodgett’s arm.

  “Let’s not get caught staring,” he said, but Blodgett showed no concern.

  “I was in there once. You can’t see out.”

  “What’s your interest in her?”

  “Not mine — yours. Thurston wants no surprises.”

  “Which means?”

  “You’re the baby-sitter.”

  “Why not you?” Blue asked aggressively.

  “Thurston’s decision.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Wellesley.”

  “I’ll stick out.”

  “It’s night work.”

  They turned away, Blue with an odd twist, as if footsore. They retraced their steps, exited the building, pressed through the crowd, and crossed the divided thoroughfare between bursts of traffic. Ever-present pigeons flew up in front of them on the plaza. When they entered the foyer of the Kennedy Building, Blue said, “Do you think he’ll ever get sick of it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Using people.”

  “What are you so pissed off about?”

  “Thurston. He knows it’s my wife’s birthday.”

  • • •

  On her way back to Hyde Park, Jane Gardella detoured into Dedham
, where her mother lived. She parked her car hastily and badly, tucked her wig into her bag, and hurried past a privet hedge into a small brick apartment building. “It’s me,” she said some moments after pressing a button. Her mother buzzed open the inner door.

  The apartment was airy and cool. Mrs. Denig had been napping and still had sleep in her eyes. The set of her mouth, somber and negative, hardened her jawline and took away something in general from her looks. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll make tea.”

  “No, Mother, I can’t stay.”

  “Then why’d you come?”

  “Just a little favor,” Jane Gardella said awkwardly. “There’s no reason Tony should, but if he asks, I was here with you this afternoon.”

  Mrs. Denig’s face went grim. “This is stupid of you. And dangerous.”

  “It’s not what you think, Mother. It’s nothing really. Just do me the favor.”

  “And not ask questions — is that what you’re telling me?” Mrs. Denig moved to another part of the room and rested her hands on the back of a chair. Her beauty was gone, but she had a magnificent neck. It sprang high above her open collar. “I was foolish when I was young, but I never married an Italian gangster twice my age.”

  “Mother, please.”

  “Yes, I know, you don’t want to listen. You never do.”

  “I’m leaving,” Jane Gardella said nervously. “I don’t have time to argue.”

  Mrs. Denig followed her to the door and placed a hand under her elbow. It was not particularly gentle. “You’re my daughter. I’ll do it this time, but don’t ask again.”

  • • •

  Agent Blue let himself quietly into his apartment. The television was playing, the end of the eleven o’clock news. His wife, still in her nurse’s uniform, though without her stockings, was lying on the couch. Her dusky legs were stretched to the fullest. He leaned over her, his hand listing over the shiny synthetic fabric of her uniform. “I’m sorry,” he whispered abjectly, and her face offered itself up to him.

  “Have I ever bitched about your hours?”

  “Never. But you deserve to, tonight of all nights.” He sighed. “I was watching a house in Wellesley.”