“Is it still bleeding?” she asked.
“A little,” he said and tenderly traced a finger around her ankle.
“Don’t!” she said, but he could not stop himself. Leaning closer, he kissed her.
• • •
High in the Union Bank building, inside a spacious office where a Klee and a Kandinsky vied for attention from opposite walls, John Quimby tested his tea and nodded approval. His aging secretary, who had been with the bank since her graduation from Katharine Gibbs, waited until he sampled a scone and again gave a satisfied nod. Her tiredness showed, also her feelings for him, which he had never noticed and did not now. “I don’t want to be disturbed,” he said as she departed. After he consumed the scone, he picked up the phone and placed a call on his private line. When, after a considerable delay, he reached his party, he did not bother to identify himself. His commanding voice and cultivated Yankee accent, honed by a Harvard education, was identification enough. He said, “I don’t ever want that cocksucker of a cop in my bank again.”
There was utter silence on the other end. From Quimby came the rattle of cup and saucer.
“Did you hear me?”
“Never talk to me that way,” Anthony Gardella said. “Never.”
Quimby heard the line go dead.
• • •
Officer Hunkins was enjoying himself. He was in one of the larger girlie joints in the Combat Zone, with a choice seat at the bar and a strategic view of the stripper, who had shed the last spangly remnant of her costume and was gyrating to amplified music. Her smile seemed especially for him. Also, the bartender was good to him, would not let him pay for his shots of Canadian Club and beer chasers. The bartender, a towering man weighing well over two hundred pounds, wore granny glasses as if to present himself as a gentle giant. He said to Hunkins, “A cop comes in here, he gets everything for nothing. That’s the way we operate.”
Hunkins said, “How d’you know I’m a cop?”
“You guys, you got a bearing about you. It’s kinda like military.”
Hunkins glowed. Sitting next to him in a brilliant red dress that shrilled her presence was a young woman of intimidating attractiveness. She looked like a model. Screwing up his courage, he said, “How about the lady here? Can she get one free too?”
“That depends,” the bartender said. “She with you?”
Hunkins leered at her. “Are you?”
“Like the man said” — her voice was deep and raspy — “it depends.”
“I think it’s settled,” the bartender said, and served her what resembled a mixed drink chunky with ice. She rested her elbows on the bar and gently brought her slender hands together. Hunkins spoke close to her ear.
“What’s your name?”
“Laura.”
“What did you mean, it depends?”
Her eyes sank into his. “What do you think I meant?”
“How much?” he asked, and she quoted a price. “Jesus Christ,” he said. She shrugged. Ten minutes later they left together. The bartender cleared away their glasses and then lumbered to the telephone and made a call.
• • •
Victor Scandura took it. “That’s good,” he said and afterward made a call of his own. He was in the Gardella real estate office, which he left presently while tightening his tie and donning his suit jacket. He crossed Hanover Street and walked up a way to the Caffè Pompei, enjoying the soft evening air. Anthony Gardella was seated deep inside the café with a fresh cup of cappuccino and a newspaper he was about to read. Scandura said, “It’s all set.”
“Good.”
“You want me to oversee it?”
“I’d feel better.”
Scandura left as unobtrusively as he had arrived. His car was parked nearby. Mere moments after he drove away, Supervisor Russell Thurston clumsily maneuvered his nondescript Dodge into the vacated space. A tire shrieked against the curb. He got out and locked the car under the derisive eye of a youth strenuously chewing gum, salivating, and spitting. Thurston threw him a foul look.
He entered the Caffè Pompei and proceeded nimbly, almost like a dancer, past the elaborate jukebox that pompously resembled furniture with its woodlike veneer and pastoral picture painted on its raised lid. He picked his way deftly between tiny tables and sat down at Gardella’s without being asked. “We’ve never met,” he said, “but I think we know each other.”
Gardella cast aside his newspaper, examined the narrow, intolerant face, and nodded. Thurston made himself comfortable in an obviously insolent way.
“Do you know how many times I used to hear your voice on wiretaps?”
“Plenty, I’m sure,” Gardella said easily. “What good did it do you?”
“I know. You’re cute. You’re careful, but you ought to tell that young wife of yours to be careful too. We got pictures of her sunning herself down in the Caribbean, not a damn thing on.”
Gardella refused to react.
“If you want the pictures, I’ll get them for you. Black guy who works for me keeps them in his desk.”
Except for the sudden rigidity of his jaw, nothing in Gardella’s expression changed. His darkish hands, resting on the table, were perfectly still, vaguely ominous.
“Don’t take offense,” Thurston said with a bogus contriteness. “I know how you guys get. Remember the story about Hedy Lamarr’s husband? The poor cluck tried to buy up all the reels of that movie of her prancing naked through the woods. But I can understand that. Nobody wants the whole world looking at his wife’s ass.”
All of Gardella’s reactions were inner, unseen, tethered, though every nerve was strained. His eyes were hooded. Thurston reached forward and felt the baby-soft fabric of Gardella’s sleeve.
“The coon I mentioned wears suits like yours. You’d think the both of you clerked at Brooks Brothers. Me, I buy my stuff off the rack. I pay top price, but I don’t put on airs.”
Gardella spoke in a muted tone. “You got anything more to say to me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you don’t want to listen. After all, you’ve got a lot on your mind, like the DA’s organized crime unit. The cop running it, Wade, probably isn’t the brightest guy in the world, but he’s a plugger. If he comes up with something on you, maybe you ought to come see me. Who knows, I might be able to offer you a deal. Something for both of us.”
“You want a cappuccino? They put whipped cream on it if you ask.”
“See, you’re not listening.” Thurston rose slowly and stood gracefully immobile. “Which is too bad. You might be uneducated, but you’ve got a brain. We could’ve had an intelligent talk.”
Gardella, sotto voce, spoke in Italian.
“I know what you said,” Thurston declared, flashing a proud smile. Gardella reopened his newspaper.
“Then you know what I think of you.”
Thurston pointed a triumphant finger at him. “I got to you, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” Gardella conceded. “You got to me.”
• • •
As soon as they got into his room in the Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge, Officer Hunkins pulled Laura close to him and pressed an urgent hand into the front of her red dress, below the waist. She squirmed free. “We don’t touch until you pay.” He paid with crumpled bills, which she smoothed out and counted carefully and then pressed into her large leather shoulder bag. The bag looked Mexican. Her hand lingered in it. “Do you mind if I have a joint? It helps me get in the mood.”
“You kidding?” His face expanded. “I’m a cop. You know that, you heard.”
“Right now, you’re a john,” she said and lit up. Closing her eyes, she took a deep drag and exhaled with a slow sigh. He circled her and came up behind her, his hands trembling for her. His palms were clammy, which made her flinch. She turned around, and he kissed her, ate her lipstick. His stubble scratched her.
“Don’t tear my dress.”
“Then take it off,” he said. She wore black under the red. He quickened when he saw
the garter belt. “Lemme help.” With awkward fingers, he worked her bra loose while she avoided his breath. The white of her breasts was a purer white than the rest of her. He began stripping, his black police shoes first, then his wrinkled sports jacket. He placed his magnum on the dresser. “Don’t touch it,” he said. “It’s loaded.”
She looked at her watch.
“What are you doing, timing me?” He yanked off his trousers, skinned away his skivvies and, placing his hands on his hips, grinned. “What d’you think, huh?”
“Let me finish the joint,” she said and reached toward the ashtray.
“No. Put it out.”
On the bed, his senses taken by her, he used his tongue low on her body. “You don’t want to do that,” she advised in a flat voice, which did not stop him. It seemed to urge him on. “I was with somebody earlier,” she explained with the same flatness, and he jolted up on stout arms.
“Jesus Christ, did you have to tell me?”
She heard what he failed to and glanced at the door, which he thought was locked. A second later the door crashed open, and two uniformed Boston police officers burst into the room with drawn revolvers. One was a patrolman in leather boots, and the other was Deputy Superintendent Scatamacchia, whose uniform, with its abundant braid, looped lanyard, and gold insignia, made him look like a rear admiral. He thrust the barrel of his revolver inches from Hunkins’s stricken features and said, “Move and you die!”
Hunkins, a blob of naked flesh, did not breathe. Laura covered herself with the sheet and looked at Scatamacchia as if to say What the hell took you so long? The officer in the boots strode to the dresser and said, “The guy’s got a cannon.”
“I’m a cop,” Hunkins said weakly.
“Shut up!” Scatamacchia said.
The officer inspected the ashtray. “Also we got ourselves the remains of a controlled substance,” he said, holding up the butt.
“Pot party, huh?”
“No,” said Hunkins, and Scatamacchia glared.
“I told you to shut up.”
The officer opened the leather bag that looked Mexican and poked inside. Laura stared at the wall. “What have we got here?” the officer said, plucking out a plastic packet held together by a rubber band. He undid it, sniffed inside, and then, wetting a finger, took a taste. “Coke,” he said. “Somebody’s pushing.”
“It’s not mine,” Hunkins said, and Scatamacchia instantly struck the side of his face with the revolver, just hard enough to break the skin and bruise the bone.
“Twenty years,” Scatamacchia said coldly. “That’s what you’re going to get. Check his pants. See if he’s really a cop.”
The officer lifted Hunkins’s trousers and extracted a bulky wallet. A moment later he said, “Yeah, I guess he is. He’s a hick. Greenwood PD. Where’s that, near Pittsfield?”
Hunkins, collapsed on his side and clutching his face, said nothing. His belly made glugging sounds. Scatamacchia prodded the callused sole of his foot and said, “Nothing I hate worse than a crooked cop. Did you hear me, hick?” Hunkins raised himself up on an elbow and hung his battered face out as if for a spoonful of kindness. Scatamacchia snorted. “Get dressed. I’m sick of looking at you.”
Hunkins moved warily off the bed and stumbled for his clothes. He put his pants on and stuffed his underwear into a pocket. He thrust naked feet into his shoes. The woman did not move. Scatamacchia beckoned to his officer and spoke in a whisper. “Cuff him and take him outside. Talk to him like I would.”
“You mean — ”
“I do.” Scatamacchia winked. “That magnum. It’s mine now.”
“Yeah, you always wanted one.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Scatamacchia said with a grin, “and you’re right. I’m too cheap to buy one.”
After the officer led Hunkins away, Laura got off the bed, dragging the sheet with her. Scatamacchia reached around her and drew her close by cupping her bare bottom. She frowned instantly and stood with her back rigid. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Sure it was,” he said with a leer. “You just didn’t pay attention.” When she tried to step away, he gripped her at the waist and walked her backward to the bed with his thumbs pressed into her pale skin. She cursed him, and he smiled with half of his mouth. He dropped the smile when she fought him.
Outside the motor lodge the officer guided Hunkins smartly away from the lights and halted abruptly where the shadows were the deepest. “Where’s your car?” he asked, and Hunkins gestured with his manacled hands, his wrists hurting. The right side of his face, which had swelled and yellowed, looked grotesque. His nose was leaking. The officer said, “You know how to get to it fast?” Hunkins stared uncomprehendingly. “If you don’t know, I’ll tell you. You run.”
Hunkins stood rooted. “What are you telling me?”
“Gimme your hands.” The officer produced a key and removed the cuffs. “What I’m telling you is the deputy’s giving you a break, you being a cop and all. We’re letting you escape. But we’re not forgetting you. We ever see you back here again or hear anything about you, you’re dead.”
Hunkins trembled. “I run, you’ll shoot me.”
“You got it wrong. You don’t run, I’ll shoot you.”
Hunkins ran.
Twenty minutes later Deputy Superintendent Scatamacchia emerged from the motor lodge. He signaled to the officer sitting in an unmarked car to wait and walked a short distance down the street to a darkened Cadillac parked at the curb. He looked in at the lone occupant and said, “Tell Anthony he owes me.”
Victor Scandura said, “You really want me to put it to him that way?”
Scatamacchia grinned. “It’s just a figure of speech.”
Scandura gave a quick glance over his shoulder. “Where’s the woman?”
“She could use a little help,” the deputy superintendent muttered and walked away.
Scandura climbed out of his car, looked furtively around, and then moved at a fast pace toward the motor lodge. He tapped on the door to Hunkins’s room and opened it. The room was in darkness. He found the wall switch and swiftly shut the door behind him. The woman lay on the bed as she had been left. Scandura bent over her. “Can you hear me?” he asked, and her head moved a little. Her eyes were blackened and swollen. She could not see, nor could she speak. Her jaw was broken. “I’ll get you a doctor,” Scandura whispered.
• • •
Christopher Wade had a sub for supper, which he ate on the balcony of his apartment while absently watching traffic on Commonwealth Avenue, the cars shadowy with people he couldn’t see. Later, in bed, he watched a Jack Nicholson movie, The Last Detail, which he had seen twice before. He watched the eleven o’clock news and dozed off during Nightline. He dreamed of his wife, his daughters, and Jane Gardella. In the dream he was himself, a grown man, but curiously like a child who needed his hand held. He rose early and breakfasted at the usual place on Newbury Street, where he lingered over a second and then a third cup of coffee. One of the waitresses, whose mother had died the previous week, said, “Thanks for the flowers.”
Wade gave her a warm smile. “How are you doing?”
“No one should lose a mother. After that, really, you got no one.” She snatched up his check and folded it. “It’s on me.”
“I can’t let you do that,” he said.
“Sure you can. You’re a cop.”
When he arrived at his office he found Agent Blodgett sitting at his desk. “Make yourself at home,” he said with instant annoyance. Blodgett pushed a photograph across the desk, a five-by-seven glossy, the product of a zoom lens.
“Who is this guy?”
Wade picked up the photo and studied it longer than he had to. “Who wants to know?”
“Who the hell do you think? Thurston. We took the picture of him a couple of days ago coming out of your friend’s real estate office. He looks familiar, but we can’t place him.”
Wade returned the photo. “His n
ame’s Hunkins.”
• • •
At the real estate office Victor Scandura said, “I got somebody to wire her jaw. It’s broken in two places.”
Anthony Gardella, preoccupied, murmured, “So what do you think we should do about Scat?”
“I think we should break his in three places.”
“Scat’s an animal. He figured she was there, she was his. What we’ll do is send her off to someplace nice to recuperate, with a nurse and all. Scat can pick up the tab.”
“That’s letting him off easy.”
“What would you have me do?” Gardella asked impatiently. “Cut off his balls?”
Scandura pulled back, and Gardella went to a window to look out at the street, his shoulders drawn tight, his arms behind his back. Two passersby from the neighborhood saw him and waved, but he peered through them. Finally Scandura said, “What’s the matter, Anthony? I know something’s bothering you.”
“That fed Thurston.” Gardella gnashed out the words as he wheeled around. “First he shows up at my parents’ funeral and sends a nigger into the church. Then last night he comes into the Pompei and insults me worse.”
“Take it easy, Anthony.”
The tendons in Gardella’s neck seemed to have a life of their own; his chest heaved. “I want something on him. I want it bad. You hear me, Victor?”
Scandura looked doubtful. “Guys like Thurston are usually clean, nothing there.”
“Nobody’s clean,” said Gardella. “That’s a universal truth.”
17
RITA O’DEA AND ALVARO made arrangements through Benson Tours and went away for five days. They could have gone to Atlantic City, which would have reduced their hours in the air, but Alvaro argued for Las Vegas. He had never been there before. They checked into Caesar’s and made the rounds. Rita O’Dea, her mouth ablaze with a new color she was trying, wore large frilly dresses with tulle fronts and ate filet mignon at the best restaurants. They went to shows where glittery Wayne Newton sang silly songs and dough-faced Buddy Hackett told toilet jokes. Alvaro lost ten thousand dollars of Rita O’Dea’s money shooting craps. Rita O’Dea, impatient in all things except cards, won a thousand at the blackjack table. She cashed in the chips and waved her winnings at Alvaro. “This is for the kid,” she said.
Sweetheart Page 17