“Naturally.”
“What do you want?”
“Your cooperation.”
“Who do you want?”
“Everybody.” Thurston’s smile was quick. “Except you of course. You walk.”
“Immunity?”
“Better than that, Senator. We’re going to let people think you were working for me all this time.”
• • •
On the beach Jane Gardella’s bare foot accidentally touched Christopher Wade’s, and she jerked hers away fast. “If you stay here much longer,” she said, “I’m going to go insane.”
“I need an excuse to leave.”
“No, you don’t.”
They were sitting in low beach chairs near the surf. Anthony Gardella had left his chair and was swimming fearlessly in deep water, his stroke long and graceful, athletic. Wade said, “I’d rather stay.”
“Are you doing this to be cruel?”
“You know I’m not,” he said, unable to see her eyes. She was wearing a sun visor strapped to her head, and her face was lowered. She raised it to watch her husband.
“I love him,” she said.
“I love you,” Wade said, surprised by his own voice. “How’s that for a complication?”
“I don’t want you to love me. I don’t even want Tony to love me. Do you know how scared I am?” She dropped her head back. “And how tired?”
“It doesn’t show,” Wade said. “Only when you’re with me.”
“I’ve told Thurston I can’t go on, but he doesn’t believe me … or doesn’t care. Doesn’t care is what it is.”
“You’ve got to hold on.”
“No, that’s just it,” she said. “I can’t.”
Gardella came out of the water tugging at his trunks, his silver hair flattened to his skull. Wade, waiting at the edge of the surf, tossed him a towel, which he caught and then almost dropped. He looked beyond Wade. “Where’s Jane?”
“The sun was too much for her.”
Vigorously he used the towel on his head, arms, and shoulders. Nearby a boy of thirteen or fourteen, golden-haired, was scraping a vulgarism into the wet sand and doing it deep so that the word would not soon be washed away. Gardella gave him a disappointed look and said, “Hey, kid, is that nice?”
The boy glanced up abruptly, threw away his stick, and, trotting off, said, “Up your ass!”
Gardella and Wade exchanged tight smiles. Gardella’s was the wryer. “Should I let him get away with that? Maybe I should put a contract out on him.”
“At that age he can get away with anything.”
“At that age,” said Gardella, “I wouldn’t have even thought of mouthing off to my elders. Everything was respect. That’s the way I was brought up.”
“That kid,” said Wade, “will probably grow up to be a computer programmer or a junior executive or maybe a high school teacher. Look what you grew up to be.”
Gardella laughed and slung the towel around his neck. “I see your point.”
“For that matter,” Wade said, “look what I grew up to be.”
“Hey, take it easy. What I think is, there are worse than us, plenty worse. Come on. The sun’s getting too much for me too.”
They slipped their feet into sandals, left the beach, and walked up the boulevard to Philbrick’s store, where they sat at the fountain and smiled at the young woman working it. Gardella ordered a mocha milkshake, and Wade decided on the same. “And a hamburger,” Gardella said, “if you don’t mind.” Wade followed suit. When their orders came, they ate greedily and took their time drinking their shakes. Gardella, who had used up one napkin and was reaching for a second, said, “Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes,” said Wade.
“So am I.”
When they left the store, the sun seemed hotter and brighter. They walked along sluggishly, at times on grass, other times on gravel, and crossed the boulevard when there was a break in traffic. As they neared the house, Wade noticed an extra car in the drive. Gardella said, “We’ve got a surprise. My sister.”
• • •
Agent Blodgett said, “The call came in about a half hour after you left; he wouldn’t give his name, said he’d only talk to you, his terms. Could be a crank.”
“You didn’t recognize the voice at all?” Russell Thurston asked.
“No. I can play the tape for you if you want.”
“I haven’t got time. I’m dropping in on Quimby at Union Bank in an hour.” Thurston looked at his watch and plucked up a newspaper. “I’ve got to go to the john. This guy calls back, tell him I’ll meet him if he makes it close by.”
Thurston returned in fifteen minutes with the paper turned to the crossword puzzle, which he had completed. Blodgett said, “He called. Wants you to meet him now. He sounded anxious as hell.”
Again Thurston consulted his watch. “We’re playing this close. Where is he?”
“He’s right down in the lobby. One other thing. He sounded like he’s had a few drinks.”
“Shit, maybe we ought to forget it,” Thurston said and thought about it. “You come with me. You never know what kind of nut you’re going to run into.”
In the elevator Thurston loaded his mouth with Certs and clicked them around. Blodgett lifted his revolver from the hidden holster inside his suitcoat and inspected the chamber. Thurston, watching, said, “If he is a nut, run that up his ass and pull the trigger.”
Blodgett put the weapon away as the elevator settled and stepped out first when the doors wheezed open. As they neared the foyer, he nudged Thurston. “That must be him,” he whispered, nodding at a man in a powder-blue sports jacket poised behind a potted tree as if to hide himself.
Thurston peered in that direction. “I think I know him.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Tyrone O’Dea.”
• • •
Anthony Gardella looked for Rita O’Dea in his house and found her and Sara Dillon on the patio, where his wife was pointing out places on the beach for them. Sara Dillon saw him first and lowered her eyes as he regarded her without surprise. She looked frazzled from her pregnancy and almost too old for it, especially beside the straight and sunny figure of his wife. Then his sister saw him and came at him with a bear hug that threatened to smother him. “Easy, Rita,” he said, grappling with her moist flesh, “it’s hot.”
“Not here,” she declared, releasing him gradually. “It’s beautiful. Boston’s unbearable. That’s why I brought Sara here. She doesn’t believe me, but she can’t take the heat. Look at her.” Rita O’Dea, wearing a sundress that swished loosely as she moved, went to Sara Dillon and took her hand. “The drive didn’t do you any good. You need a nap. Jane, show her to her room.”
Gardella watched Sara Dillon leave without argument, with what was probably relief, his wife gently guiding her. With a slow turn to his sister, he said, “I don’t think she wants to be here.”
“I know what’s best,” Rita O’Dea said.
“No,” he said abstractedly, “you only know what makes you feel good.”
“You scolding me, Tony?”
He placed a caring hand on her. “That’s something I never did enough of. Too late now.”
She gazed past him. He turned to look too. Christopher Wade had come quietly onto the patio and was standing in a gauche manner, as if he felt he were intruding.
“Rita, this is — ”
“I know who he is,” she said. In a paradoxically dainty way, she billowed toward Wade as if to gather him up, encompass him. Her face loomed. “My parents,” she said haltingly. “I never thanked you for helping us.” Her voice failing, she clasped Wade’s hand and kissed it.
“Rita, don’t!” Gardella said sharply. To Wade, he murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Wade said. “I understand.”
• • •
In a room papered in pink, Sara Dillon loosened the front of her maternity dress, one of several Rita O’Dea had chosen,
and sat on the bed’s edge to force off her shoes, a task, for her feet were swollen. She rubbed them. Jane Gardella, laying out towels for her, said, “We have a sauna. You might want to use it later.”
Sara said, “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“And the ocean will do wonders for you,” Jane added.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
Jane reached into the wide pocket of her beach jacket. “Only this.”
“Can we share it?”
The door was closed. The smoke tinted the air and sweetened it. Jane sat on the opposite edge of the bed, a strain in her face, alert for any approaching sound. She crossed her slim legs.
Sara said, “You’re very beautiful.”
The joint meandered between them. “Yes, I’ve been told that.”
“For an hour, or even only a minute, I’d like to be beautiful, simply to know how it feels.”
“Sometimes it feels like shit,” Jane said and, with feelings near combustion, stretched her face into a semblance of a smile. “I don’t sound beautiful, do I?”
“You’re troubled. I felt it as soon as I saw you. Rita did too.”
“Fuck Rita.”
Sara took a slow hit on the joint and savored it. “You shouldn’t discount her,” she said in a vague warning that she herself did not understand. The bed began to look good to her as she viewed it out of an intense paleness and a fatigue she was fighting.
Jane, watching her, said, “How does it feel to be pregnant?”
“Crowded. Cramped. Rearranged.”
“I meant mentally.”
“Responsible.”
“Have you asked yourself whether it’s worth it?”
Sara prepared to lie back. “I’d be afraid of the answer.”
• • •
Anthony Gardella and his sister plodded along the wet edge of the beach, their bare feet sand-caked. Rita O’Dea’s hair, unloosed, flowed down the expanse of her back. At times she clung to her brother’s arm, proud to be seen with him as other women looked up from under their umbrellas or over their magazines. Her voice rose. “I brought a banana cake, Tony. It’s on the kitchen table.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“And I put a pint of cream in the fridge. I told Jane to whip it up for tonight.”
“Don’t tell her to do things, Rita. Ask her.”
“Don’t jump all over me,” she protested in a girlish tone and let go of his arm. “Jane and I get along fine. We always have. Though today … well, I don’t know. What’s the matter with her, Tony?”
He stopped in his tracks, annoyed. “Nothing’s the matter with her. Don’t start imagining things.”
“All right, I’ll shut up,” she said and, hiking her sundress above her large white knees, ventured into the water. She let the tide lick her toes and swell against her shins. She looked back at him and said, “It’s cold, too cold, but good.”
“Rita, come here,” he said, and she returned with short, splashing steps and heavy footprints. “Why didn’t Ty come?”
“He didn’t want to, and I didn’t care. This is for Sara.”
“What does she say about you taking the kid?”
“She doesn’t talk about it, and I can understand why. In her heart she knows I can do more for it. Ty and me and the baby, that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“Where does that leave Alvaro?”
“Back to handing out towels in Key Biscayne. I look at him, all I see is a leech.”
“It’s about time,” Gardella said with a heavy sigh. “Now I’ve got something to tell you about the little prick.”
• • •
Christopher Wade was waiting for her when she came out of the room, which gave her a start. “Don’t do that,” she said and tried to brush by him. He reached for her arm.
“You’ve been smoking. I can smell it in your hair and clothes.”
“I’ll wash. I’ll change. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Have you told Tony?”
“He’s on the beach with his sister. Tell him I didn’t want to be in the way.” He still had her arm, a gentle grip. “May I kiss you?”
“Sure, why not?”
The kiss was light, chaste, dry. He could have prolonged it, for she did not seem to care. He stepped away and said, “Things are going to work out.”
“Sure,” she said. “Like in the movies.”
He wanted to get back to Boston fast but did not succeed. On Route 95, still in New Hampshire, the Camaro’s radiator boiled over from a loose fan belt. He coasted into the breakdown lane and tried to repair the damage but merely burned his fingers and dirtied his sleeves. He flashed his shield and waved an arm, but nobody stopped. Between the time he hiked to a phone and watched a garageman replace the belt, the sun had vanished. By the time he reached Boston, it was nearly ten o’clock.
He drove through Boston and into Chestnut Hill, wasting more time looking for an address and overshooting the one he wanted. When he finally brought the Camaro to a rest, he dropped his head back, closed his eyes, and spent several minutes running things through his mind. Then he climbed out and — hungry, tired, and soiled — walked toward the apartment building where Russell Thurston lived.
24
RUSSELL THURSTON ushered Christopher Wade into the room he used as an office, shut the door sharply behind them, and turned on Wade with an angry flush. “Don’t ever come here again, you hear! My privacy is sacrosanct.” Wade silently looked for the chair that offered the most comfort and then simply chose the closest. Thurston stayed on his feet, his eyes burning. He was in shirt sleeves. The breast pocket bore his monogram in a staid stitch. “So what the hell do you want?”
“Out,” Wade said. “Jane Gardella and I, we want out.”
“We, is it?” Thurston said with an instant sneer. “Sweetheart and Honey. A pretty pair.” He leaned a hip against the carved edge of his teak desk and crossed his arms. “The answer’s no. No way.”
“All right. I’ll stay in, but pull her out. If you don’t, she’ll get herself killed. She’ll let it happen, believe me.”
“Excuse me for being truthful, Wade, but suicidal people bore me. Apparently they fascinate you.”
“I’ll get her out myself.”
“You fool,” Thurston said with what nearly amounted to sympathy. “I know her better than you do. It’s Gardella she wants to save, not herself. I guessed that a long time ago.”
“Then why are you still using her? She can’t be giving you anything worthwhile.”
Thurston smiled. “She tells me stuff she thinks won’t hurt him that much. I use everything from everywhere, piece it all together. In the end it makes music. Beautiful music, Wade, lovely notes.”
“You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
“I should be. Everything’s coming together, maybe even better than I expected. No, why be modest? I know my business.” He was speaking deliberately, as if his words were lapidary. Then he pushed himself away from the desk. “You want a drink, Wade? I think you could use one.”
Wade said nothing, and Thurston returned soon with a clear bottle of Arrow Peppermint Schnapps and tiny glasses. He poured with a smile, with contentment and satisfaction, and gave Wade a glass.
“Think about it,” he said. “We’ve got no quarrel, really. We’re professionals with jobs to do, and I do mine better than most.”
Wade, whose eyes gave back nothing, said, “You and Gardella aren’t much different in the way you do things, except I think I could trust him on some things and you on nothing.”
“Well put,” Thurston said with a laugh. “The wop has got to you, hasn’t he? No surprise. They’re a charming bunch, but let me tell you something.” Thurston gestured with his schnapps. “They’re a diminishing breed in what they do. They’re not the power they were and never the power people thought they were. The Jews always outclassed them. The wops drew the heat, and the Je
ws sat in the shade skimming profits. Was there ever a wop like Meyer Lansky, a guy who lived to be Methuselah and spent most of his life under palm trees, Hallandale and Miami, wops waiting on him? Something else. Wops do hard time. Count on your fingers how many Jews do. Why are you smiling?”
“Who are you kidding? You’re a hero-worshipper,” Wade said softly. “Meyer Lansky isn’t just a name to you. He’s a deity. He still lives — right? — somewhere up in the sky. And you don’t hate Italians. I think you’ve got a love affair with them, which is why you want Gardella so bad. You can taste him, can’t you?”
“You’ve got a vicious mouth,” Thurston said with a faint touch of respect, “but a small mind.” He finished off his schnapps and poured another. “How about you?”
“I’ll stay with this.”
“Don’t try to outmaneuver me, Wade. What I’ve got going for me is God-given.”
“You believe that?”
“Partly.” Thurston looked as if he were having fun. “Let me tell you who I’ve got so far. I’ve got Deputy Superintendent Scatamacchia. You know who he is. He’s mine now, I’ve got a ribbon around him. I’ve got that woman Laura. Now you know why I was asking. I’ve got the senator. Matchett. I’m turning that pervert into a crime-fighter, and afterward I might run him for governor. Imagine that, Wade, Commonwealth of Massachusetts could become mine.”
Wade looked at him askance. “You serious?”
“Half. No, let’s say three-quarters.” Thurston was truly enjoying himself. “There’s somebody else I’ve got. Didn’t ask for him and didn’t expect him. You ready?”
Wade made a lethargic movement. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve got Tyrone O’Dea. He gave me things on Gardella’s sister that go way back.”
Wade lifted himself higher in his chair. “You’re going to scoop up a lot of people, but will you get Gardella himself?”
“Come on,” said Thurston with a patronizing smile. “You must know it doesn’t matter. With Honey I’ve had him from the start. When he finds out the woman he married is a federal informer, a plant, I’ve destroyed him emotionally. And when the people in Providence hear about it, I’ve destroyed him professionally. What’s left for him?”
Sweetheart Page 24