“What kid?”
“Ty’s.”
“The thing ain’t even born yet, and who says it’s his? You going to take her word for it?”
She regarded him with good-natured condescension and said, “There are some things you can’t understand, pet, so don’t try.”
On their next to last day there, she spent much time at the pool. Using a rubber doughnut, she floated on her stomach. Alvaro, tiring of the sun and of ogling young women, went up to their room. A half hour later she followed him up and found him slouched in a chair with the latest Penthouse. Conscious of her derisive glance, he said, “I don’t buy it just for the snatch.”
“Tell me another,” she said, shedding her sodden bathing suit. There were ridges in her skin where the suit had been too tight. Her breasts looked waterlogged, hurt. She massaged them with her palms. He threw aside the magazine and got up.
“Let me do that.” The butts of his fingers brushed her. His lightweight trousers were so tight at the crotch that his penis did more than suggest itself. “I’m horny,” he whispered. “How about you?”
She shook her head. “I’m tired. I need a nap.”
He took the refusal in good grace. He picked up the magazine and stuffed it into a drawer. His smile was careless, his teeth brilliant. “Then I might go out for a while. Can you spare a coupla hundred?”
“Is that what a piece of ass costs here?” she asked with an air of detached interest, and he colored. She pointed to her pocketbook. “Give it to me.”
“Look, you want me to stay, I’ll stay.”
“The pocketbook!” He handed it to her, and she gave him two crisp hundred-dollar bills.
“I’m going to play the slots.”
“Have a good time,” she said. “That’s what counts.”
At the door he looked back at her as she wrapped herself in one towel and began rubbing her hair in another. “Rita, I got a serious question for you. You getting tired of me?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You want me to be?”
“I’m just asking.”
“If I wake up at three in the morning, I want to know you’re there.”
He winked. “What if I’m not?”
“God help you.”
• • •
At the house in Rye, Anthony Gardella sat in a distant room with two visitors from Providence, men wearing silver-gray suits with metallic tints that made them look like tin soldiers. Jane Gardella hovered in another room, where she could catch murmurings and from time to time glimpse faces. She heard mention of Miami, bits about money and island banks, and something vague about cocaine. She heard names mentioned, but only first names, nicknames. Solly. Skeeter. Chickie. Buster. She heard her husband, in a slightly irate voice, say, “Maybe I ought to talk to Raymond myself,” and then the reply, “He’s not feeling so good.”
Later, business apparently over, voices grew louder and lighter. There was laughter. She glimpsed the profiled face and thick neck of one of the visitors. “You remember Mikie’s brother,” she heard him say. He was an exuberant speaker. Spit flew. “He was squeamy about getting his finger pricked, and he closes his eyes when they do it. Then they tell him he’s a soldato now, long live! but he don’t hear none of this, he’s looking at his fuckin’ finger and getting ready to faint. Someone holds him up. They don’t want him making a donkey of himself. True story, no shit!”
Her husband’s laugh was genuine, full-throated. She could tell when he was letting himself relax.
The other visitor, a pale man, said, “The third brother, spur of the moment, wants a new car to drive to California. He goes to a Pontiac place and buys a Firebird, but it’s a lemon and breaks down someplace in Oklahoma. So he flies back, goes straight to the showroom, and shoots the salesman right between the fuckin’ eyes. Maniac!”
“I can understand the frustration,” Anthony Gardella said. “Getting back to Raymond, does he still wear white socks all the time?”
“Has to, he’s got funny feet. Can’t put nothing dark on ’em,” the pale man said. “Remember when Raymond had to go to Washington and testify before that Senate committee? It was right after they made Puzo’s thing into a movie, and the chairman says to Raymond, ‘Tell me, Mr. Patriarca, how much of The Godfather is actually true?’ and Raymond clears his throat and says, ‘Senator, it’s pure friction.’ ”
During the guffaws, Jane Gardella slipped quietly out of the room and out of the house. An ocean breeze blew her hair about and cooled the bare backs of her legs. She hiked up the road to Philbrick’s store and, with coins ready, placed a call to Boston from an outside phone. When a voice asked whom she wanted, she said, “Thurston. Tell him it’s Honey.”
Thurston, who had been expecting her call, came on the line without delay and listened without interruption. When she finished, he said, “Describe them,” and she did so in a low, quick voice, mentioning the pallor of one and the thick neck of the other. “You sound nervous,” he said.
“I’m always nervous.” She covered an ear against traffic.
“Can you give me any idea what they talked about?”
“No.”
“You must have picked up something. A word. A name.”
“Nothing.”
“I wouldn’t like to be lied to,” Thurston said. Then his tone mellowed. “How’s he been?”
“Who?”
“Who else? Your husband.”
“Fine.” She hesitated. “But quiet. Like he’s annoyed with me about something, but I don’t know what.”
“Maybe it’s your imagination,” Thurston said with a measure of satisfaction that he did not quite conceal. “You got anything more to tell me?”
“Yes. Tell Sweetheart to keep his hands off me.”
She hung up the receiver slowly, her gaze drifting well beyond the road. High above the beach a multicolored kite throbbed in an air current, its tail twitching. At the same time, absently, she was aware of a car creeping by, an endless Cadillac. Her knees went weak as she drew back. The driver was Victor Scandura.
• • •
The Greenwood police chief, who had a stubborn and pious face, cornered Officer Hunkins inside the little police station, displayed a dry, rigid smile that wasn’t really a smile at all, and said, “I want a straight story from you. What the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Hunkins said, all innocence, while tugging at his gun belt and trying to keep the damaged side of his face from the chief’s view.
The chief said, “You’ve done something wrong, I don’t know what, but you’d better tell me.”
Hunkins issued an abused look. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protested.
“Let me put it another way,” the chief said. “Are you a good cop?”
“Yes.”
“A clean one?”
“Yes.”
“Then why for the love of Christ is the FBI asking questions about you?”
Hunkins went ashen.
• • •
Victor Scandura gave a short wave to the two Providence men, who were leaving in their Hertz rental as he arrived in his spotless Cadillac. He parked in their space, climbed out, and ran a hand over his scant hair. “How’d it go?” he asked Gardella, who stood just outside the house, near a rose bush, cool air swimming against his face.
“They want more control and more of a cut of the Florida thing.”
Scandura stepped nearer. “There’s enough for everybody down there.”
“That’s not the point. They’re pushing.”
“Maybe they just want to know you’re reasonable.”
“I’m always reasonable.”
“Then I guess they want to be reassured.” Scandura averted his face and let out a ragged cough.
“What’s the matter?”
“Allergy.”
“You’re a bundle of complaints.”
“Nothing I can’t get over.”
“You doing anything yet on
Thurston?”
“It’s going to cost you something,” Scandura said with a small bronchial wheeze. “A detective agency in New York, run by guys who used to be feds themselves. They’re good, probably the best. They want fifty grand up front, and they give no guarantees. If they come up with anything, they negotiate the rest of the fee.”
“They sound like barracudas.”
“They are. Top guy’s an ex-narc.”
“Do it,” said Gardella.
They walked around to the ocean side of the house and sat on patio chairs. It was breezy, too cool for swimming, but a woman was in the water anyway. She had on a frilly bathing cap and leaped up each time a wave rushed at her. Finally she threw herself into one.
Scandura said, “I have to tell you something you’re not going to like. Augie got busted for breaking and entering up in Montreal. Sammy Ferlito almost didn’t want to tell me.”
Gardella’s eyes rolled. “Stupid shit!”
“That’s not the worst. He jumped bail. Ferlito doesn’t know where he is.”
Gardella’s jaw seemed to shift. “Put the word out. I want him.”
Scandura nodded. “The kid’s a loser, Anthony. I think it’s about time we admit that.”
“I just did.” People trickled by on the beach. Gardella glared at his watch. “Where the hell did my wife go?”
Scandura, surprised, pointed. “Isn’t that her in the ocean?”
“Jesus Christ, Victor, get yourself new glasses. That broad’s fifty years old. It’s Senator Matchett’s wife.”
• • •
Jane Gardella took a long, unmeasured walk that kept her out until dusk. When she returned to the house, there were no cars in the drive except hers and her husband’s. He was on the patio waiting for her, casually dressed in a thin cashmere sweater and charcoal slacks. When she saw the hard look in his eye, her heart turned over. “Where were you?” he asked, and she remained perfectly still, dry in the mouth and damp under the arms. She was not confident she could speak normally.
“I didn’t want to be in the way,” she said painstakingly.
“Everybody’s long gone. From now on, tell me before you just take off like that.” His arms went out to her. “I was worried.”
Her sense of relief was electric, and she pitched toward him. The kiss she gave him was as passionate as if they had been in bed. Knowing that he had to return to Boston, she edged a trembling hand under the sweater and slid it up into his chest hair. “Do you have time?” she whispered up into his face, and he stared at her so starkly that her fears raced back.
“Do you know why I have time?” he asked and, in a soft voice, answered himself. “Life is short.”
• • •
Three hours later, in Boston, Gardella said, “Excuse me,” squeezed between two waiting couples, and penetrated the dimness of the upstairs lounge of the Union Oyster House. The bar was lined and every table was taken. The patrons were mostly young, in their twenties and early thirties. A waitress with drinks tried to maneuver by him, and for an instant, inadvertently, the wide front of her thigh lay warm and hard against him. “It’s okay,” he said dryly. “I’m a married man.” Seconds later a voice stretched out to him and he pivoted toward it. A chair was edged out for him.
“You’re late,” Christopher Wade said dourly. “I almost left a half hour ago.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” Gardella dropped into the chair. “What are you drinking?”
“I’m nursing my second Heineken. Here, you want it?”
“The only person I drink after is my wife.”
“Then buy your own.”
Gardella rested his elbows on the table. With forced good humor, he said, “Quimby from the bank called me. That visit of yours pissed him off. I take it you went out of your way to make yourself look clean.”
“I have to protect myself.”
“I hope you’ll be more diplomatic with Senator Matchett. He’s made of softer stuff.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Incidentally, that’s a nice sweater you’ve got on. What is this, your casual look?”
“I’ve got three more like it, different colors. You want, I’ll tell you where I buy ’em. Second thought, what’s your size? I’ll send you some.”
“You’re in a rare mood.”
“Not really. I’ve got a serious question to ask you. This guy Thurston, the fed. What do you know about him?”
“He’s a zealot. That kinda says it.”
“He calling any of your shots?”
“Sure he is, indirectly,” Wade said in a muted voice. “He’s got the DA’s ear.”
“You never spelled that out for me before,” Gardella said accusingly.
“Maybe you didn’t listen.”
“Don’t play it close with me.” Gardella spoke in a low, guttural tone. The waitress who’d had contact with him approached with her order pad. He looked up fast and said, “Not now, later!” Wade lit a cigarette. Gardella said, “Thurston doesn’t go for the throat, he goes for the balls. I don’t like a guy who does that.”
Wade glanced at other tables, pretty women. “What exactly did he do?”
“Came at me with shit about my wife. The man’s mind worries me. Tell me, Wade, why would he do that?”
“That’s easy,” said Wade. “He hates you.”
“That’s something else you never told me.”
“I’m rented, not bought.”
Gardella also looked at other tables, pretty women, their handsome escorts. The chatter was vigorous. “One of these days,” he said quietly and reflectively, “you’ve got to make a choice.”
“Meaning?”
“I think you know,” Gardella said and motioned for the waitress.
18
TY O’DEA sipped a glass of vodka and grapefruit juice for breakfast and smiled uneasily at Rita O’Dea as she entered the kitchen in one of her voluminous robes, her black hair hanging long and loose, the bulk of one breast exposed like a target. She snatched up a cup, poured coffee from a Silex, and joined him at the table, the cane chair groaning as she settled in it. He eyed her cautiously. Years ago she had not allowed him to speak until she had finished her coffee. After a tentative clearing of the throat, he said, “How was Vegas?”
“Lousy.”
“You must have lost,” he said with sympathy.
“I won. I always win.”
“Alvaro?”
“He lost. You know he’s a loser. Look what he’s stuck with — me.”
Ty O’Dea did not know quite where to cast his eyes, for never before had he heard her deprecate herself in such a fashion. She put a fixing hand to her hair and tightened her robe, making herself more presentable. Her face was puffy.
“Our last night there I had bad dreams, and I woke up with the sweats. I don’t sleep good anymore, Ty. Sometimes I lie awake and hear voices, like from the other side. I hear Ma’s voice a little and Pa’s the loudest. Honest to God, I do.”
He did not know what to say and said nothing, which for a fleeting second made him feel strengthless, useless, parasitical.
She said, “It’s the way they went that I can’t deal with.”
“At least they went together,” he offered haltingly. “They weren’t alone.”
“What’s your idea of heaven, Ty?”
“I’m not sure I have one,” he answered nakedly. “What’s yours?”
“Pink and blue — baby colors.” Her eyes went sightless for a moment and grew moist. “Do you know what I mean?” He didn’t, but he nodded anyway while wishing mightily he had stayed in bed. He lifted his glass and drained it. She said, “That stuff’s killing you.”
He grinned sheepishly.
“You die, it’ll be bad for the kid. What would Sara do with it alone?”
“I’m not going to die.”
“Are you going to love it?”
“Yes,” he said solemnly, as if under oath to a judge and jury. He wanted to fill his glass again but didn’t dar
e.
“Do you still love me, Ty?”
Fear was the only emotion he truly associated with her. She had never been a wife to him, more like a shameless and incestuous sister explosively generous one moment and humiliatingly tyrannical the next. “There’ll always be something between us,” he fudged.
“It could be like it was.” Her hand shot across the table, grasped his, and squeezed it. “No. I don’t mean that. It could be better.”
“You’re hurting me,” he whined like a woman, and instantly she eased the ferocious grip of her fingers. Her eyes were soft, and her robe was loose again, this time with both breasts visible and rolling against each other.
“I’m big, Ty. I’m like an elephant, but I’m not whole. Do you know what I’m telling you?” He did not want to know, but he could not tell her that. He felt a small measure of relief when she withdrew her hand. “What time is it?” she asked. “Look at the watch I gave you and tell me.”
He obliged.
She nodded, gripping the edge of the table. “Where’s Sara, still in bed? I think it’s time I speak to her.”
“About what?” he asked in alarm.
“The future,” Rita O’Dea said.
• • •
Anthony Gardella took a call from Miami in his real estate office. Victor Scandura handed him the phone and said, “It’s Skeeter.” Skeeter’s voice came through in a quick rasp.
“Guess who I saw down here?”
Gardella said, “I’d rather you tell me.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Cut the shit,” Gardella said without patience.
“It’s the kid,” Skeeter said. “The one you’re looking for. He’s holed up in Ho Jo’s, the one near me.”
“That’s sweet news.”
“I thought it would be.” There was a cough, a rough one.
“How are you doing, Skeeter?”
“I got rotten lungs. Otherwise I’m doing good.”
“I’m sure you know who my new guy is down there. Tell him to give you the usual and something extra.”
“He’s new, Anthony, he might not know what the usual is.”
Sweetheart Page 18