Ray nodded. The car’s speed and the scent of vengeance had kicked him into a higher gear. “And I want Harry, too,” he said.
As Hall turned back to the street, he saw a figure dressed in camouflage step out from between two parked cars. Leaning on a crutch, standing not a hundred feet away, the man turned toward the oncoming car and seemed astonished to see it.
Hall slammed on the brakes. Ray, unbelted, went thudding face-first into the dashboard. His howl was almost as loud as the shriek of rubber clawing at asphalt as the Lexus held its line, barreling head-on for Mr. Memz.
“Motherfucker!” shouted Hall, practically standing on the brake pedal.
At the last second, Mr. Memz fell backward, his crutch clattering, just as the Lexus came to a halt.
Hall was looming over Mr. Memz before he could catch his breath.
“You blind? Huh?”
Hall bent down and grabbed Mr. Memz by an arm.
“Get up! Up!”
Mr. Memz pulled his arm free. “Back off, Jack! I think maybe I broke something.” He let out a loud moan and snuck a look uphill.
* * *
“Go,” Geiger said to the cabbie from the front seat. “Fast.”
The driver hit the gas, and they bolted into traffic. Harry closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to even out the pain. Then he leaned forward and looked across Lily at Ezra.
“You’re Ezra.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Harry. We’ve met, sort of. This is Lily, my sister. She doesn’t really talk.”
Ezra nodded. Nothing seemed strange to him any longer. “Hi, Lily,” he said.
Lily turned to him, one child’s gaze meeting another’s.
“I know lots of songs,” she said. “Do you?”
“Well, I…” Ezra paused. “Yeah, I know lots of songs, too.”
“That’s because we’re all born with a million songs inside us—and we know them all by heart.”
Harry turned to her, his mouth opening as if to say something, then closing again.
“But as we get older,” Lily continued, “we forget them. Every day we forget some, and every day we get a little sadder. But children haven’t forgotten too many yet.”
She closed her eyes and settled her head on Ezra’s shoulder.
17
When he opened the door, Corley was startled to find not only Geiger but also a boy of eleven or twelve with symmetrical pink stripes marking his face; a skinny, bedraggled man with a discolored contusion on his left temple; and a delicate woman whose unfocused, darting gaze immediately suggested that she suffered from significant psychological problems.
“We need to come in,” Geiger said.
The gathering at his door was so bizarre, and the wash of despair and weariness coming off them so strong, that Corley didn’t know how to respond.
“Geiger,” he said. “Who are all these—”
“Martin, we need to come in.”
Geiger’s voice was unsettling: the timbre of it and the crests of inflection were slightly different from the smooth, nearly atonal speech Corley was accustomed to hearing. He looked more closely at Geiger and saw it in his eyes. Something had happened.
“Come in,” Corley said, opening the door wide and waving at the two oversized leather chairs and the two beige sofas in his living room. “Please, sit down. Anywhere.”
Ezra chose a chair. Harry planted Lily on a sofa and collapsed beside her with a groan. Geiger remained standing.
Corley followed his guests into the room. “I’m Martin Corley. I’m a psychiatrist.”
Harry’s head snapped upright. “Wait a sec. You’re Geiger’s psychiatrist?” He looked at Geiger. “You see a shrink?”
“This is Harry,” said Geiger, “and Ezra and Lily, Harry’s sister.”
“Well,” said Corley, “this is certainly a very unusual situation. I think we can all agree on that.”
“Doc,” said Harry, “I should probably tell you that Lily’s been institutionalized for fifteen years, so she won’t be agreeing on anything.”
“I see.” Corley noted her collapsed posture as she sat on the sofa. “Clearly you’ve all been through a bad time. Harry, you look pretty banged up. Are you all right?”
“Far from it, Doc. You got any Advil?”
“Yes, I’ll get you some. Can I get anyone else something? Food? Something to drink?”
“Could I have a soda?” asked Ezra.
“I have some Diet Coke. That okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“And you know what?” said Harry. “I’ll have a drink.” Feeling Geiger’s stare, Harry glanced at him. “What? I quit drinking for the job—and the job’s over, man. You got any bourbon, Doc?”
“I think so.”
“No alcohol for him, Martin,” Geiger said.
“Come on, man—I’m not going on a bender. I just want a drink.”
“No.”
Corley was mesmerized by the exchange. Geiger the interacter. And what else? A protector, too. There was something appreciable to witness here.
Corley turned to Geiger, who was leaning against a wall, staring at something very far away from the room. “Geiger…”
Geiger followed him into the kitchen. Corley turned to him as he came in.
“I need to know what’s going on, Geiger. Especially with you.”
“It’s very complicated.”
“All right, but at least give me the short version for now.”
“Martin, there is no short version.”
* * *
Corley listened as Geiger told him the story. It came out in brief sentences, heavily edited, with minimal pauses. The boy was being hunted—never mind by whom. Geiger had rescued him—never mind how. The bad guys were still looking for them—never mind why. Geiger’s plan was to get Ezra back to his mother.
“And something happened to me,” Geiger said. “I had a migraine. And now I’m having … visions. Flashbacks.”
“Of what?”
“My father.” Geiger put a hand up. “The rest will have to wait, Martin. I have to go somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I won’t be long.”
“You’ve brought me into this, Geiger. I really need more information.”
“Right now, what’s best for you is no more information.”
There it was again: the inflection in his speech, the use of emphasis to underline his meaning. Corley marveled at it.
“Martin, you can’t tell anyone what you don’t know. Down the line, if the police were to get involved with—”
“Let’s talk about the police, Geiger. Why don’t we call them? The boy is safe here.”
“Discussing this with the police would not be good for Harry and me.”
Corley’s cheeks puffed out in frustration. “This is unacceptable.”
“I’m going to go now, Martin. I will try to get in touch with Ezra’s mother, and then I’ll see someone, and then I’ll be back. Then we’ll find a way to meet the boy’s mother and that will end it.”
“You have it all worked out?”
“No. But I’m certain I’m going in the right direction. It’s like the dreams, Martin. It feels just like the dreams.”
Corley hesitated at voicing his next thought but decided it had to be said. “You never get to where you’re going in the dream—and you fall apart at the end.”
Corley watched something happen to Geiger’s face; the muscles shifted ever so slightly. He’d never seen it before. It looked almost like an appreciation of a dark irony.
But Geiger said nothing and then walked back into the living room. Corley followed. Lily and Harry were asleep, heads resting against each other at a tilt.
“I’m going out,” Geiger said.
Ezra hopped out of the chair. “What do you mean?”
“I’m going to call your mother.”
“Then I’m coming, too.”
“No. You can’t be out on the street.”
“You’re not alone.”
Corley watched Ezra take three quick steps to Geiger’s side.
“I want to stay with you,” Ezra said. A wet glaze coated his eyes, and he grabbed Geiger’s hand.
“You’ll be all right here,” said Geiger. “Martin’s a good person. I’ll be back soon.” He glanced over his shoulder at Corley.
“It’s okay, Ezra,” said Corley. “If Geiger says he’ll come back, he’ll come back. You know that, right?”
Ezra’s eyes hadn’t left Geiger’s. “Promise?”
“I promise,” Geiger said.
Ezra looked at Geiger for another moment and then let go of his hand.
Geiger nodded at Corley and went to the door. He left without looking back.
* * *
Mulberry Street at three o’clock in the afternoon was a narrow stretch of commerce on the verge of gridlock. Even so, it never stopped moving. Delivery boys made their rounds by van and foot, shoppers walked past with bags of cured meats and pastas, old men sat on stoops chewing on dead cigars. A dense efflux of aromas rode waves of heat and the shifting breezes. More than once, Carmine had told Geiger, “If heaven smells, it smells like Mulberry Street.”
Outside the Mulberry Deli, Geiger fed some change into a pay phone. He had never used one before. He listened to the ring. Once, twice, and then a woman answered.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Matheson?”
“Not for a while. Ms. Wayland. Who is this?” Her voice had a “shoot first, ask questions later” edge.
“Ms. Wayland, my name is Geiger. Try not to be alarmed. This is about your son.” He could hear the sudden intake of breath.
“Oh God, I knew something was wrong when he didn’t answer. What’s happened?”
“Ezra is all right. And he is safe.”
“‘Safe’? What does that mean?”
“Yesterday your son was kidnapped by men trying to find your ex-husband, who is hiding—”
“What?”
“Please, Ms. Wayland. I need to finish as quickly as possible.”
“Where is my son—and who the fuck are you?”
Geiger stared at the handset, which felt unwieldy and strange. “I took Ezra from the kidnappers. He is safe now.”
“Where is he?”
“In a safe place. He—”
“Listen to me, you bastard. If you—”
“Quiet!”
Heads on Mulberry Street turned. Geiger clicked his neck and took a breath. “Ms. Wayland, if this was a threat and I wanted something from you, I would have said so. Take a moment to think about that. I want to get Ezra back to you. That’s the only reason I am calling.”
He heard a sob, and then a sniffle. “Go on,” she said.
“You need to get on a plane to New York. Please don’t try to contact the police. It will only make things more difficult. You will just have to trust that I am telling the truth. It is possible the kidnappers have your cell phone number, so when you arrive in New York do not use your cell phone or they may be able to locate you. Go to a pay phone and call my cell phone. They don’t have my number. When you call, I will tell you where to go.”
“But how—”
“Write down this number and repeat it to me: nine-one-seven, five-five-five, four-seven-seven-eight.”
“Hold on.”
Geiger closed his eyes. There was too much of the world around him. He could feel the weight of every sound, sight, smell, and molecule of air pressing on him.
“Okay,” Ezra’s mother said. “I wrote it down.”
“Repeat it to me.”
“Nine-one-seven, five-five-five, four-seven-seven-eight.”
“I know this is difficult, but do not tell anyone about this call. Do not share any of this information with anyone. Make up an excuse to leave, and leave.”
“All right.”
“I’m going to hang up now.”
“Wait! Will you…” She paused and seemed to gather herself. “Will you please tell Ezra I love him?”
“Yes.”
After hanging up, Geiger walked to Mott Street. La Bella was halfway down the block. Carmine had a cell phone and Geiger had the number, but Carmine didn’t talk on the phone. It didn’t matter whether it was business, or pleasure, or something dark and desperate. You didn’t call Carmine Delanotte. You went to La Bella.
* * *
The maître d’ looked up and gave Geiger his composed smile.
“Mr. Geiger. How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Is Carmine here?”
“Of course. Let me tell him you’re here.”
Geiger smelled garlic and oregano, and heard the Stones’ “Beast of Burden” playing on the restaurant’s sound system. La Bella wasn’t a throwback to an old-style Italian eatery with watercolor murals and a nonstop loop of Frank Sinatra and Jerry Vale. It wasn’t a front or a laundry, either. The floor was covered in six-inch-square, hand-painted tiles from Bologna, the lighting was provided by angled pin spots, and the walls were adorned with black-and-white photographs of Italy that could have been from a MoMA exhibit. The waiters moved unobtrusively around the room wearing Armani vests and slacks. Carmine was forward-looking in everything he did, and his obvious pride in what he’d achieved was a product of action, not arrogance. As he liked to say to Geiger and his many associates, “Never make believe you know everything, but make sure you find out.”
The maître d’ returned and gestured toward the door in the back wall. It was flanked by two bodyguards.
“Mr. Geiger—the office, please.”
Geiger followed the maître d’ to the back of the restaurant. The sentries gave silent nods, and one of them opened the door. Geiger stepped into a living room–style office of cool gray walls, thick carpets, and bird’s-eye maple and chrome furnishings. Geiger had borrowed the style when he’d designed his Ludlow Street viewing room.
Carmine put aside the Wall Street Journal, rose from the couch, and took off his reading glasses.
“Here he is.” He grinned. “The man from IR.”
Carmine was, by nature, a hugger of both men and women. But he’d learned that Geiger preferred minimal physical contact, so he waved a hand at a large, silk chair.
“Sit,” Carmine said.
The maître d’ stood waiting in the doorway. Carmine didn’t have to look to know he was there.
“Kenny, a double X for me, black coffee for Mr. Geiger. No sugar.”
The maître d’ nodded and closed the door softly. Both men sat down. Geiger was silent; he knew not to rush things.
“Strange times, my friend,” said Carmine, and patted the Journal with an elegant hand. “The economy tanks and business has never been better. I picked up three houses on Staten Island last month, dimes for dollars. In a few years I’ll turn them over threefold. Very strange—but very profitable.”
When you went to see Carmine, it was for one of two reasons: you had something to tell him that you believed he would consider worth knowing, or you needed a favor. In either case, you followed Carmine’s lead and waited for the moment when he asked why you’d come.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come,” said Carmine.
The maître d’ walked in and put the double espresso and coffee on the table between the two men.
“Thank you, Kenny.”
As the maître d’ left, Carmine picked up his cup. He winced, and then smiled and shook his head.
“Goddamn fingers.” He took a sip of the espresso, smacked his lips with satisfaction, and put the cup down. He flexed his fingers and opened and closed his hand into a fist three times. “They’ve really been bothering me lately. Remember the first time we met, when you told me about the feds, and you said I had a couple of bum fingers?”
“Yes.”
Carmine took another sip of his drink. “I ever tell you how it happened?”
“No.”
“Funny story.” He sank back into the cushions. “Summer 1970. I’m in the navy. We’re in Boston, waiting to go overseas. Ever been to Boston?”
“No.”
“You ought to go. Great town. So we get a night ashore, and I have the best lobster fra diavolo I’ve ever tasted. But you don’t eat seafood, right?”
“No, I don’t.”
Carmine pointed at the table. “Drink your coffee while it’s hot. Why do I always have to tell you that?”
The answer was that Geiger didn’t like La Bella’s coffee, and he never drank it unless prompted by Carmine, which was every time. He picked up the cup and drank.
“So I end up walking around Cambridge, and I hear someone talking on a microphone, so I walk through this arch in a brick wall and you know where I am?”
“No.”
“I’m in a courtyard in Harvard University. There’s a rally going on. Anti-war stuff. Vietnam. A sea of tie-dyed T-shirts and long hair. Before your time. A guy on the steps of a building with a microphone is talking about the war. I’m at the back of the crowd, and this kid just in front of me turns around—Jesus in jeans—and looks me over. I’m in my crackerjack whites, flat hat at my John Wayne angle, and he says, ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ And I said, ‘I’m listening. It’s a free country, isn’t it?’ And the kid spits on my shoes. He spits on my shoes. Do you know how much time I spent, every day, polishing those shoes?”
Geiger took another sip of coffee.
“So I throw a punch, but before I can land it he jumps up and kicks me in the chest and puts me on my ass. Karate, kung fu, whatever—it was just like in the movies. He’s all of a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet and he puts me on my ass. I get up and load up my left, swing it all the way back for a knockout—and smash it into a lamppost. Wham! I’m howling and the kid walks away. I never even got to hit him. But you know what? Now I had two dislocated fingers, just like you said, and a crushed knuckle, and my hand is in a cast when the rest of my guys go off to Nam. I never went over. That little Harvard prick kept me out of the war.”
Carmine drained his cup. Geiger had another swallow from his.
“So what’s new in IR?”
The Inquisitor: A Novel Page 18