The Seduction - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  The only thing that made sense to her was a story on the six o'clock news about two sets of New Jersey teenagers who had joined together in a suicide pact leaving behind a videotape of the whole thing. She'd run out to buy a paper to get the full story and now carried the clipping everywhere she went. Now sitting there on the stone turtle in the darkness, she took it out of her pocket but couldn't make out the headline. Still, just holding it somehow made her feel better . . . It was true, to kill yourself was a mortal sin and you went to hell for it, but that was all she could expect anyway. There was no forgiveness for deserting Terri. Maybe if God was the merciful God she'd always been taught about he'd let her spend time in purgatory with Terri. It didn't seem like too much to ask.

  During the week her thinking had got beyond whether she deserved to die or not. She knew the answer to that one. The question was whether she would have the nerve to take her own life when the time came.

  She fumbled for a cigarette and realized she was fresh out. She always did her best thinking with a smoke, and if she was going to figure things out she needed a fresh pack. Costello's was the closest place. She climbed off the turtle and walked through the park to the Moyamensing side and down Morris—and saw the silver car with the Springsteen bumper sticker, as it slowly drove past her and stopped in the middle of the block.

  She stopped dead, strained her eyes to get a glimpse of him, couldn't, but it didn't matter. She knew he was there, she could feel him in the air. The night had turned evil. lt was as if she was no longer on friendly Morris Street but had stumbled into some terrible place. The trees on either side of the street seemed menacing, their branches and trunks now hideously gnarled creatures reaching to claw at her and hold her for Peter, the shadows of every stoop and bush hiding handful upon handful of crawling, slithering nightmares, lying in wait to bite, sting, and torment her, until death.

  Every sense told her to turn and run, to go for the police—all except one that she mistook for her sense of duty, telling her that she had run off once and failed Terri, and not to make it twice . . . slowly she put one foot in front of the other and moved toward that waiting silver car.

  Suddenly everything was crystal clear to her . . . this was her trial by fire. Just like they'd learned about in school. What she had to do was to walk past the car. If she got by it without Peter knowing her, she was innocent and forgiven. If he recognized her, she was guilty and deserved to pay for it. She never considered who had arranged this imagined trial . . .

  Step by step, she continued down the block, feeling Terri's presence now, giving her the courage to do the right thing, what she should have done right from the first.

  Don't look around, just keep walking, she told herself. As she neared the car, she began to pray. "Dear God, please bless and keep my family from all evil"—She was even with the rear fender now, only a few more steps—"and guide them in the way of the truth and the light"—Out of the corner of her eye she could see the door, the open window, and the darkness beyond—"Especially, Lord, please bless my father and keep him from—"

  "Hello Marie," said a gentle voice from inside the car, shattering the nervous aura around her like a thunderclap.

  The rest of her prayer went unsaid as she stopped in her tracks.

  She was afraid to turn and look, to see her judge, but when he softly called out, "Come here, I want to talk to you," she obeyed because this was her punishment.

  When she came close to the window the voice from the darkness said, "It was you, wasn't it? You're the one I read about in the newspaper. You're the one who saw us and told the police, aren't you, Marie?"

  She didn't answer. There was no need to, she'd already been judged and found guilty.

  "Answer me."

  "Yes," Marie whispered.

  "Look at me when I talk to you."

  Marie raised her eyes to see this evil, but there was no horned devil . . . only a handsome, bearded man with tinted aviators, a leather jacket, white scarf, and driving gloves with holes over the knuckles.

  "Was it really like you told the newspapers, you were hiding outside?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "But why, Marie? Why would you do that?"

  "Because I wanted to see you," she said, cooperating in her punishment. She had done the right thing not to walk past the car. Finally she was being called to account for her sins, she felt the burden of guilt at long last lifting.

  Neither spoke for a moment, they just stared at one another. And then he said, "It's been hard for you with Terri gone, hasn't it?"

  Marie nodded.

  "I miss her, too," he said. "She was a wonderful girl."

  Before Marie could give in and submit herself to him she still had to know the answer to one question.

  "She loved you. Why did you have to do it?"

  "Because it was her time."

  It was the right answer for Marie. It was the same for her. She and Terri . . . it was the right time for both of them . . .

  "You know it's a part of life. When the time comes it must happen to all of us. You understand that, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Understand that I loved her, too, and that when I did it there was no pain. I led her through pleasure after pleasure until she was ready . . . Now I'm back because I cannot leave you here alone and so unhappy, not when there's so much pleasure . . . So come around here and get in. It's time, Marie." The voice was quiet, almost a whisper. Yet for Marie it had all the force of a divine command.

  She looked past him into the darkness of the passenger seat, and for a moment imagined she saw Terri there, sitting, smiling, waiting.

  Marie did not hestitate. She walked around to the passenger side and got in, no longer alone or afraid.

  CHAPTER 15

  LAURA FINALLY found a parking place on Spruce Street near Twentieth. A young man dressed in leather jacket, red plaid flannel shirt and skin-tight faded Levis was leaning against her parking meter. Up and down the street other men either lolled in similar insouciant attitudes, chatted in small groups or walked little yappy dogs. Like many single women she had once lived in this neighborhood, finding it safe and clean, if a bit raffish and loud in the early hours of the morning.

  She walked to the corner and turned north on Twentieth, her destination Clarisse's, an intimate, elegant restaurant in a storefront that had been, in sequence, a pharmacy, a waterbed store and a used-clothing store specializing in the Joan Crawford look. The maitre d' saw her almost immediately and came hurrying over. When he confirmed that Felix had not yet arrived he led her to a small, four-seat bar in an alcove where she was the only customer. When the bartender asked for her drink order she considered a ladylike drink like a white wine or a kir, but decided on a beer. Whereupon the bartender gave her a look that said the old maxim was true: you could dress them up but you couldn't always take them out.

  While she waited she studied a painting behind the bar—the portrait of a young, dark-haired girl. From the way the girl was dressed Laura guessed it had been painted sometime in the 1870s and had probably cost the owner of Clarisse's a pretty penny at auction at either Freeman's or the Fine Arts Company, but the cost or age of the picture was not what intrigued her. It was the portrait's subject. Allowing for changes in fashion, her dark-haired, stormy teenaged Juliet looks reminded her with a start of the picture of Terri on the handbill she still carried in her purse, the same combination of sensuality and innocence . . .

  "Penny for your thoughts." Thoughts so deep she hadn't noticed Felix's arrival.

  Before she could respond, the bartender appeared to take Felix's order. Noting Laura's beer, he said, "That looks really good, I'll have the same." The bartender did not give Felix the same

  down-the-nose treatment he'd given Laura. "I get tired of all this white wine and overpriced champagne people seem determined to pour down your throat. Beer is really my favorite."

  "Mine, too," she said.

  "Now, about your thoughts . . ."

  She t
old him how the girl in the painting reminded her so much of the teenager she'd been writing about in her paper.

  "Oh, yes, you mean . . . Terri DiFranco."

  "Well, I'm surprised but I confess rather pleased that you knew about that."

  "Not just knew about it, Laura, but I read it carefully, as well as the promo for a follow-up. I was surprised at first, I admit it, to see your byline . . . putting it together with the way I met you with Carl and my impression that your beat was the art world and assorted celebrities. Surprised, but also pleased. Would it embarrass you to hear that I was moved by the piece? You made that girl and her life very real, real enough to make her death something meaningful. I have an idea that you've gotten pretty involved in it yourself. Or am I being presumptuous?"

  "Well, no, you certainly aren't, and I'm certainly not embarrassed to hear you responded to my work. Believe me, it's a relief to get out of the features department where my boss wants to keep me on for the rest of my natural life. I guess I can tell you that the story on you was his idea, and at first I resisted. I wanted to concentrate all my time on Terri's story . . . I hope I'm not offending you?"

  "Not at all, and frankly I wish you had had your way. I'm not much for being interviewed. Besides, Terri and girls like her are more important than a carpetbagger in reverse from New Orleans."

  Better and better, she thought. The man was truly charming and even self-effacing. And he seemed genuine enough in his praise.

  "One thing does bother me some," he was saying. "The last thing I want to do is alarm you, and you've probably thought of this yourself, but I doubt that this killer hardly shares my appreciation of your writing about him."

  A chilling thought, and the truth was she really hadn't considered it. Thanks to him, though, she now would. "I appreciate your concern," she said, "but I think I'm safe. I have a friend, or at least am friendly with the detective in charge of the case. And criminals don't usually bother newspaper people or cops. They'd rather use the former, if they can, and avoid the latter. But like I said, it's nice of you to worry." Take it easy with the personal stuff before the interview, Laura. Your professional persona is slipping badly.

  "If you don't mind," he said, "before we get to me, I am curious about the car . . ."

  Thank God he didn't ask about the unidentified eyewitness; she wouldn't have to dance around that again. "The car, as I said in the article, is a Datsun 300ZX. The police are checking that out but they don't expect to come up with anything. They say there are several thousand of them in Philadelphia."

  She smiled. "It seems they call it the sportscar for accountants."

  "Yes, of course, you're right, I did read about it in the article. I should have remembered . . . Well, so much for gloomy subjects. How about dinner? I'm starved."

  As soon as they were seated, Laura pushed aside how attractive he was, and how good he made her feel, and got down to business. "W.C. Fields supposedly wanted his epitaph to read: 'On the whole I'd rather be in Philadelphia.' And comedians are always making the joke about the first prize being one week in Philadelphia, and the second prize being two weeks in our fair city. Question: why would a man like you, a man who could go anywhere, decide to involve himself in a major real estate project here?"

  "Ah, back to work, right?"

  "Right. Did you think this was just a social evening?"

  "No, but I admit that's what I hoped."

  And then she began to blow it again . . . "If you wanted that, why didn't you call me?" God, how subtle.

  "Because"—and his face reddened slightly—"when I met you, you were with Carl. I don't make a habit of poaching on other men's women."

  "So you wait for the woman to make the first move?" Which, of course, she realized as soon as the unfortunate words were out of her mouth, was precisely what she was doing. "I'm sorry, we're getting off the track . . . you were, I think, getting ready to tell me why Philadelphia."

  "Well, there's property going begging here, there's old money and banking to back sizable projects, and over the past twenty-five years the city has made a transition from blue collar to white collar, which means now there are people who can afford this middle-income project when it's finished."

  "I thought you did your own financing?"

  He looked at her. "You've done some homework. I understand you had some background from Cyn . . . Cynthia . . . at a lunch. Anyway, you're right, that's the way it was in the beginning, but it was very risky and my ego was a few times bigger than it is now. I even had poetic concepts to describe the way I operated . . . war and art. The war was capturing the property, the art was trying to make is aesthetically pleasing. I still try to do that, but a little differently . . . look, don't you think we should order?"

  And so saying he waved over the maitre d' and ordered such delicacies as sweetbreads and salmon garnished with caviar. Laura waited until they'd finished their meal to get back to the interview.

  "You said you do things a little differently now. What did you mean?"

  Felix sighed. "Okay, what I meant was that now I use local partners. They know the lay of the land, no pun intended, and can get local community support. It works better for all concerned."

  And now Laura understood why Will Stuart was so strong for the article on Felix. The Globe had a quiet but steady policy of supporting commercial development in the city on the theory that it worked out by way of taxes to benefit the whole city. Entrepreneurs like Felix Ducroit were common in New York City but still fairly rare birds in the City of Brotherly Love. She took a deep breath and got ready to launch into what she knew would be a touchy subject . . . "I'm sort of surprised that you would use any partners, local or otherwise, after what happened with you and your partner in New Orleans."

  Felix stiffened. "Meaning, I suppose, when I went to prison."

  She waited, realizing that she'd already gone too far perhaps.

  "I think you can get all you need there from the writeup in the Times-Picayune . . . Look, let's skip the coffee and dessert and get out of here."

  "To where?"

  "To a far far better place . . . forgive the feeble try at lightness, but I do think things are getting a little heavy here. We've done business, now I propose a nightcap . . ."

  Should she go along? She knew what he probably had in mind, and truth to tell she was tempted. Very. She liked this man. He had sides to him, was intelligent and in spite of his one fall seemed honorable and decent. He also treated her the way few women were treated anymore these days. Nothing special, just good manners and reasonable attention to what she had to say. Plus he genuinely was easy on the eyes. Still . . . there was a risk that she'd never been able to be easy with, not since that damned operation . . .

  "Well, shall we go? You look like you've gone off into some other time zone," he said. "Am I boring you?"

  "What? Oh, no . . . Well, all right, but just for one and then I really have to get back home and get some sleep . . ." Weak, Laura, weak all around—'just for one." and "I really have to get some sleep". . . God, after all the practice you've had you ought to be able to do better than that. He didn't seem to react, though, as he took her arm and proceeded to walk her the two blocks to the Excelsior, Rittenhouse Square's newest and most posh high-rise.

  Along the way he opened up even more, and without any prodding. "You know, I always wanted to make a project of Angola. I could really do something there."

  "Angola?"

  "Sorry, I dont' mean the third world country. I mean the Louisiana State Prison. I had an on-the-scene chance to observe, as you know."

  She looked at him, surprised that he was voluntarily talking about the prison thing. "Maybe you ought to try to do it right here, I mean with the Fairmount Prison."

  "I don't think so. It doesn't have the same fond memories for me."

  She appreciated that he was trying to keep it light for both their sakes, probably hers more than his, but she decided to pursue it, for herself as much as for the article . . . "Feli
x, why did your ex-partner change his story while he was in prison and exonerate you?"

  "Who knows for sure . . . but he chalks it up to religion, to seeing the light. From Watergate to White House officials to a New Orleans real estate operator . . . born-again seems a common phenomenon. I'm not going to challenge it or necessarily believe in it. I'm just glad he did tell the truth and it sprung me, as they say."

  "No grudges against him?"

  "At first, you bet. But no more, or at least I don't let it overwhelm me like I once did. The trick is to keep going, not to waste time or energy on the past."

  There was something endearing in the way he talked straight out, no dissembling or excuses. On the other hand, how long did she know him? People had been known to put on an act before . . . There you go again, she thought to herself as they entered the lobby and took the elevator to his apartment. Take Felix's advice and put the past behind. Sure, do it. Well, for God's sake at least try. This was, so far, a man worth taking a chance with. And what makes you so damn precious? Ease up and enjoy it. The evening is going well; you've managed to combine business and pleasure. So far . . .

  His apartment, high-tech and located on the twenty-first floor, had a wonderful view of the Square, but seemed too moderne to be cozy or even very livable. She was relieved to know it was a sublet from some woman Justin had put him on to at Lagniappe who was in Europe for several months, and to know that it wasn't necessarily to his tastes either.

  He made drinks, and when he brought them she was still at the window looking down at the square. "It's quite a view," she said.

  "Yes, it is."Come on, Laura, you can do better than this. It's beginning to sound like an old Dorothy Parker story . . . He: Well, here we are . . . She: Yes, here we are . . . and so forth.