“This way,” Gus said when she’d walked through.
Behind a stone abutment was a door hidden from the street. He held it open for her.
Neesy held her breath and stepped inside.
40
It took Mitch over a month to get to New York, and when he finally arrived, it was by way of St. Louis and craigslist.
At first he had to lie low because his face was on every newspaper and news show in the area, and even with the new hair, he wasn’t sure he could keep off the grid. When things finally died down enough for him to move around more freely, his escape options were limited. Flying out of Florida would have been suicide, and the cops were watching the bus routes. Walking was too slow, especially on his ankle, though he was prepared to hike if he had to.
He was gearing up to hoof it when he got an idea from overhearing three high school rock and rollers discuss buying a drum kit on craigslist.
Using a computer at the library, he scrolled through the rideshare section of the list. Anyone looking for him would expect him to go north, so he found someone heading west who wanted company. He told the driver he had a construction job waiting outside St. Louis, and in the three days before the trip he cut his hair down to a Marine Corps buzz, then added a pair of steel toes and a hard hat to his disguise.
From St. Louis he took a Greyhound, which arrived in Manhattan the next day around four in the morning. Not an auspicious time but it suited Mitch’s mood. He disembarked into the fetid atmosphere of the Port Authority, where the noxious smell of fuel combined with the lingering fragrance of piss and vomit. The terminal smothered him in heat, and he quickly shed the jacket he’d picked up at a rest stop in Ohio.
An obese rat scurried across his path as Mitch walked from the gate into the station. Farther on, a silver-haired woman wearing a tattered bridal veil was singing a warbling version of “Tonight” from West Side Story. Like a decrepit Beatrice leading them through the gates of hell instead of heaven, she waved the oncoming line of passengers from his bus toward her. No one paid attention.
A few people with luggage and backpacks were camped out on benches, waiting for buses they had missed, but so were the ragged fringes of humanity trying to keep out of the cold. Those homeless and drug-addicted souls not asleep against a wall or crunched into filthy corners eyed Mitch as he moved across the terminal. One woman, a girl, really, approached him for money. A walking skeleton, she had sores on her mouth, and when he shook his head, she approached someone behind him. Then she came back to him, and from the way she looked at him, he could tell she didn’t remember already asking.
Outside, he sucked in the cold, a fleeting relief from the suffocating heat inside. It smelled better out there, too, even if the cleaner air was washed with exhaust. The respite was soon gone, though, as the wind came down between the buildings on 42nd Street. He shrugged into his jacket, pulled up the collar, and huddled into it.
Dawn was still several hours away, and as well as the streets were lit, they were also rimmed in shadow. Times Square glittered, and the AMC and Amsterdam theaters blasted movies and musicals in glaring neon. But these were just desperate bulwarks against the darkness.
He found an all-night coffee shop and slid into a seat at the counter. He hadn’t eaten dinner, so he ordered a couple of eggs. But he couldn’t get them down. Would he, like Persephone, be stuck in the underworld forever if he consumed even so much as a spoonful?
He was stuck now, wasn’t he?
And so was Julia.
He paid his bill, hoping he wasn’t too late, and pushed that thought aside. Until he could contact Carlo, worrying about Julia was unproductive.
Instead, he walked over to 8th and from there downtown. Twice he was stopped by prostitutes who were willing to get him out of the cold and into their panties.
He pushed on, though the thought of a woman was not an unpleasant diversion. Especially if she had red hair and a handful of curves. But Neesy was gone now, out of his life. He hoped she was back in Crossroads, hoped she was safe.
He stopped at a corner. The thought of Neesy so far away sent grief splintering through him. He missed the dimple in her chin, her milky skin, and the devil in her green eyes. Most of all he missed her hand in his. The sense that he’d never be alone again.
When he got to 24th, he turned down the street and examined the line of art galleries and cafés. They ran the gamut from sedate to outrageous. Furniture made out of cardboard and cinder blocks. Pictures of bare-chested men in wide crinolines made out of newspaper. A Cindy Sherman retrospective showed dolls with their legs splayed and their heads gone.
Bernardo Ricci occupied the corner. In the window, a poster of a Dutch Hanover painting heralded the new show. The setting was as violent as any Dutch had drawn as a child. Dark, malevolent, the wind whipping trash around a decaying, graffiti-marred alley. And in the center of the maelstrom, the fragile, bloodless woman. Graceful and otherworldly, she was also calm and composed, placed among the refuse as though she had called the storm down on herself. Not an earthy whore, but an ethereal Madonna.
Alicia had been like that, quietly beautiful.
But it wasn’t her beauty that had drawn Dutch to her. It was the sheer fact that she had been Mitch’s.
How many girlfriends had Dutch lured away from Mitch? By the time he was in college, Mitch didn’t have commitments. He had sex. If Dutch wanted in, no skin off Mitch’s back.
Alicia was different. She was a woman who demanded caring just by breathing. Sweet, simple, traditional. The kind who expected a ring and a ceremony in a church.
If Mitch had stayed away from the coffee shop, she’d still be alive. But he’d haunted it. He came so often, always sitting at Alicia’s table, that the staff started to tease them. It began to seem rude that he never did more than flirt.
So though he knew it was dangerous, he took her out. She wore a white dress that floated on the breeze and showed off her olive skin and long legs.
It didn’t take long for him to become besotted. One weekend he took her to the Dominican Republic, and they stayed at the best hotel on the island. She, in turn, took him to visit Tia Amelia, and the day they spent surrounded by her close-knit family was the best.
But when they returned, Dutch was in the limo with Carlo, and the future had already begun.
Dutch teased her gently, got her to laugh, and Mitch could see she was flattered. It was hard not to be when Dutch turned on the high wattage of his charm. Then he asked her to model for him. She agreed, and Mitch later caught them in bed together. Well… he washed his hands of her. She was spoiled, like rotten fruit.
So when she called him for help, he hung up on her. Even though she was crying and begging him to forgive her. Even though he knew she was pregnant and Dutch was hurting her. That’s what Dutch did. Even though he knew she had no one with the power or the financial resources to take on a Hanover. Even though he knew all that, he’d abandoned her to it. He went back to having sex and shut Alicia up in the same place he shut up anything else that mattered to him.
Until she called that gray February morning.
So even though Mitch hadn’t used a knife, he had killed her all the same.
By seven, a few hardy souls were rolling up the iron security gates over their storefronts, and the sound of the clashing, clanging steel rang sharp in the early morning. Mitch headed back to midtown.
He had purchased another disposable cell phone before he left Florida. Now he took it out and punched in the number. Once again, he let it ring, hung up, and dialed again. He went through the whole prearranged routine.
Then he needed a place to wait that was out of the cold and where he wouldn’t be noticed. He headed for Penn Station.
A step up from the Port Authority, Penn was already busy with commuters from Connecticut, New Jersey, and Long Island. It was filled with shops and restaurants, though most hadn’t opened yet. Still, the smell of popcorn hovered over the air.
He found an empty bench
in the waiting area across from a gate that said PORT WASHINGTON and listed the stops along the way. His knee jerked compulsively up and down as he watched a swarm of commuters come through the gate and disappear into the station. He sat through four more arrivals and departures. All the stores had opened, and the station was crawling with people before the phone finally rang.
This time, though, the voice on the other end didn’t stick to the script.
The first thing out of Carlo’s mouth was, “Are you crazy? I can’t help you anymore, Mr. Mitch. He’s got guards in the house. The police are in and out. I can’t do it.”
“I’m sorry. If I had anyone else, I’d use them. But all I’ve got is you.”
“Look, the kid is fine. She’s home; she’s okay. Leave her be. Let her get settled.”
“She’s going to school?”
The chauffeur paused.
“She’s not, is she?”
“She will,” Carlo insisted. “These things take time.”
“Does she go out?”
Another pause. “Once.”
“When was that?”
“Two, three weeks ago,” Carlo said reluctantly.
“How did she seem? Happy? Was she laughing? Smiling? What’s she reading?”
“She’s a kid. Sure, she’s happy. And reading? Kids, they don’t read anymore.”
“This one does. Has she been to the bookstore or the library yet?”
“No.”
“Anyplace else?”
“No.” The answers were as good as an admission.
“So she’s a virtual prisoner.”
“Which is exactly what I’ll be if they find out I helped you.”
“And if you don’t, I’ll let them know anyway.”
Carlo said nothing.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Mitch said. “You’ve been good and fair to me. But I can’t let Julia stay there.”
“You won’t get anywhere near the house.”
“You let me worry about that. First, I can’t keep walking the streets. I need a place to stay.”
“A place to stay? Where are you?”
Mitch debated. He was putting himself in Carlo’s hands, and he didn’t know if he could trust him fully. “Let’s just say I’m close.”
“How close?”
“Close enough.”
Carlo muttered something in Spanish, then sighed. “Okay, Mr. Mitch. I’ll see what I can do.”
Carlo called back just before the evening rush hour. Mitch had spent most of the day in the movie theater in Times Square, going from one show to the other and waiting for the call that would give him a more permanent base.
But when Carlo finally called with an address in Spanish Harlem, Mitch still bided his time. He was expected shortly but the timeline was too predictable. He didn’t know if Carlo would betray him, but why take a chance? So he sat through two more movies, sleeping in the back despite the noise of the film.
He left the theater at eight and made his way uptown. He didn’t phone ahead and tell Carlo he was coming. Hands in his pockets, head down against the cold, he approached the address. Streetlights and store lights spotted the area, but Mitch kept to the shadows. When he could see without being seen, he stopped to tie his shoes. Watched for abnormal movement, for cars that shouldn’t be there, people who shouldn’t be there.
A woman rolled a baby stroller up the block and then down. She didn’t seem to have any destination in mind. She passed a derelict-looking guy hanging out in front of the apartment building. Shook her head so slightly Mitch might not have seen it if he wasn’t looking. But he was looking. He also saw a delivery van at the curb across the street, parked under a NO PARKING sign. Was it making deliveries, or was it watching for him?
He went into a bodega and pretended to scan the shelves while looking out the window. He ordered a half pound of chorizo, which they sliced for him, and bought a couple of loaves of bullet-shaped bread and some beer. All in all, he was in the bodega maybe twenty minutes. When he got out, the woman was still pushing her stroller and the van was still parked at the curb.
Mitch turned and walked away.
He roamed the streets until he found an abandoned building. Someone had already broken in, and Mitch stepped through the opening in the wood over the doorway. He ate some of the chorizo with the bread. Drank a beer. Settled himself in to wait for the long night to be over.
Sometime before dawn, a squeaking noise woke him. A few feet away, a family of rats were feeding on what was left of the bread. Beyond them, the shadow of a man loomed.
Mitch crept to his feet, intending to back into a corner to hide. He backed into a man instead.
“Yo, look who we got here.”
Before he could move, the man had him by the neck, a knife at his throat. “We don’ like junkies here, man.”
Two other men dissolved out of the shadows to watch. They were grinning. Mitch tried to tell them he wasn’t a junkie, but the one who had his neck only squeezed tighter. “What’s he saying? Hey, ’Tonio, what d’you think he’s saying?”
“I think he’s trying to tell you something,” ’Tonio said.
“That true, man? You trying to tell me something?”
Mitch didn’t reply.
“See what he’s got,” the one with the knife said. The other two approached and started fishing in his pockets. Mitch gritted his teeth, struggled, making it difficult to search him. But the thrashing loosened the grip on his neck and gave him an opening.
With a powerful heave, he broke the grip around his throat. He struck out, bloodied a nose, landed a few good hits, but it was still three to one. They took turns restraining him and beat him until his legs wouldn’t hold him. They lifted his phone, his cash, and his jacket. And they left him curled in a ball on the cement floor with the rats and the roaches.
41
Mitch didn’t know how long he lay there. Only that eventually he came to groaning consciousness. It took every effort he had, but he managed to crawl to his feet and get away from that place. Outside, it was still night.
Jaw set, head groggy, he shuffled away. He had to stay alive long enough to get where he was going. It was a long walk, and if it hadn’t been so frigid, he didn’t know if he would have made it. But the keening of the cold wind kept him awake until he got where he was going. He made no secret of it, either.
Leaning heavily against the wall, because he would fall down otherwise, he banged on the building door loud enough to wake every cop in the neighborhood.
“Carlo Diaz!” he shouted. “I want Carlo Diaz!”
If someone called the police, so be it. He was going down one way or the other.
But Carlo got there soon enough.
“Mr. Mitch!” he whispered. “What are you doing?” He pulled Mitch inside, a sick, agonizing move for Mitch, who settled against the entry wall in the small foyer for support.
“Why are you here?” Carlo said. “You were supposed to be—”
“I know where you wanted me,” Mitch said. “I saw the cops waiting.”
Carlo had the decency to flush. “I am sorry. I just couldn’t do it anymore. And Mr. Dutch—” He got a closer look at Mitch. “Oh, my God. What happened? Wait here. I’ll get some water and ice. You should go to the hospital. A couple of those cuts look bad.”
“I’ll take a couch instead.”
Carlo shook his head. “I can’t. My wife, my kids—I can’t.”
Mitch held up his hand to stop him. “Fine. But there’s one thing you can do. And after that I will no longer require your services.”
“What is it?” He looked over his shoulder. “Hurry. Please. I don’t want my wife—”
“No, no. No wives. I just need the limo.”
“What?”
“Bring it here.”
Carlo looked around like he was surrounded by madmen. “Now?”
“Now, tomorrow. I’m not leaving until you do, so it’s up to you.”
“It’s the middle of
the night. What am I going to tell Sofia?”
“Whatever it takes. That Mr. Hanover has it in his head to go for a midnight movie. That there’s an emergency at the house, which there is. Tell her anything you like—just get it here.”
“And what will you do?”
“Wait.”
“You can’t wait here by the front door.”
“Your apartment, then.”
“No!”
Mitch closed his eyes. He was having trouble staying upright.
“There is a bar halfway down the block. You can stay there.”
“I think it would be better for everyone if I stayed with Sofia. Just in case you decide to talk to the police again. Or Dutch.”
Carlo was about to protest, when Mitch started shouting again. “Carlo Diaz! Let me speak to Carlo Diaz!”
“All right! All right!”
Carlo escorted him into his apartment and sat him on a couch. It was warm inside. Cozy. It smelled of onions and tomatoes and rice, the kind of food Alicia had once made for him.
Carlo disappeared into a back room. Mitch heard the soft whisperings of words exchanged. Then Carlo was back, this time in his chauffeur’s uniform. He left Mitch a bowl of water and a washcloth.
“You should clean those cuts. You probably need stitches.”
Mitch said he would, but the minute the door closed behind the chauffeur, Mitch shut his eyes. It should have taken Carlo three-quarters of an hour round-trip, but it seemed like five minutes between the time he left and the time he shook Mitch awake.
“I am back,” he said. “What do you want with the car? You’re not going to sell another one, are you?”
Mitch tried to get up, but Carlo had to help him. “No, I just need a lift.” He limped out of the apartment, onto the elevator, and down to the first floor. Carlo had parked at a side entrance to keep as out of sight as possible. He slung Mitch’s arm around his shoulder and helped him outside.
“Open the trunk,” Mitch said, and when Carlo only stared at him, Mitch said, “Just do it. Open the trunk.” Carlo did as asked. “Now help me in.”
“Mr. Mitch—”
Two Lethal Lies Page 23