Now she heard the sound of the door giving way, and a body hurtling, charging in, falling to the floor, struggling to get up. She saw a mass, a dark, bulky shadow, as her head still pounded with the noises of the door being splintered.
The shadow rose and started to move toward her. It came closer. Toni retreated. And still it came closer, panting horribly in the darkness. Toni retreated farther. The bed was now behind her legs and she could retreat no farther. The dark figure stalked the blackness, reached, toward the bed, trying to find her, moving closer. There was a tremendous explosion, a flashing of light, a scream.
“Toni, you rotten bitch,” rasped an alcoholic, pain-seared voice from the blackness. “Toni, you whore. Zack, you too.”
It was Lafayette Wainwright. Her husband. He was shot and bleeding profusely.
“Toni, you rotten bitch whore,” Wainwright coughed, gasping for breath. “Zack, you rotten bastard.”
Toni felt herself fainting, falling into a chasm of deeper, softer black. And then all was totally black, quiet, silent, tomblike.
8
Monday, August 14, 4:53 A.M.
“I realize that you pay us a substantial retainer as your lawyers, Zack.” James Cahill looked sleepily at the clock atop the night table on his wife’s side of the bed. It was almost 5 A.M. Cahill’s wife, sleep wrinkles lining her left cheek, was sitting up in the bed, staring wide-eyed at Cahill. He shrugged at her. “But this is a homicide charge you say Mrs. Wainwright is facing. It’s just not the kind of thing we’re used to handling,” Cahill explained. “We’ll have to retain a lawyer who specializes in criminal law.”
Zack Lord said something on the other end of the phone.
“We will get the best one there is. Of course, Zack, but it’s only 5 A.M. I can’t get anyone now.”
Cahill shook his head, then listened.
“I do realize the police are at Mrs. Wainwright’s home right now,” Cahill protested, “but …”
Cahill’s eyes moved nervously.
“All right, all right, Zack, calm down. We’ll get someone from our staff over there immediately. We’ll protect her rights, and meanwhile, we’ll get a top man for her.”
He listened again.
“It’s not a question of extra money, Zack. What?” He paused. “It’s a question of the hour, the time. It’s an odd hour to call an attorney to ask him to step into a case.”
Cahill scratched the arm holding the phone.
“I realize Mrs. Wainwright didn’t pick an odd hour purposely.” He was cut off by Zack’s harsh, terse words on the other end. “All right, Zack. Don’t get upset. I’ll get on it right now. I guess you’re right, criminal lawyers are more used to being awakened like this than we are. Meanwhile, I’m sending one of our men.” He hesitated. “Yes, of course he’ll know how to handle himself.”
Cahill’s wife was lying down on the pillow again, her eyes wide open, watching and listening.
“Right away, Zack. That’s right, right now. And then I’ll phone you back. That’s right. All right. I’ll meet you at the airport at eleven. Right, eleven this morning.” Cahill listened again, then hung the phone back on its cradle.
“Tell me what happened.” Molly Cahill was excited. “Zack’s girl? That Toni whatever her name is? What happened? Who did she kill?”
“Not now, Molly, not now,” said Cahill picking up the phone and dialing. “Her husband,” he muttered aloud, as he listened to the phone. Molly Cahill’s eyes grew wide with curiosity. He waved for her to quiet as a sleepy voice on the other end rasped a hello.
“John, this is Jim. Jim Cahill, for God’s sake. Listen … I know it’s five o’clock. Zack Lord just called me from Chicago and woke me up. Yes, Zack Lord. His girl friend, Toni Wainwright is being held on a goddamned homicide charge and Zack wants us to get one of our men to her right away and help out until we get a criminal lawyer to handle the case.”
Cahill listened. “She’s at her home right now. The police are there.” He listened further. “They’re from the nineteenth precinct.” A pause. “I don’t know where it is either.” Another pause. “I know we don’t. That’s just what I told Zack. But for Christ’s sake, someone on our staff, of sixty-three lawyers, should be able to go over there and protect the woman’s interests until we get someone to take over.” He listened again. “Okay, get someone down there. Fast! And then start making calls to locate a criminal lawyer. Of course I will too. What, oh, she allegedly shot her husband, Bob Wainwright. That’s right. Wainwright is dead.”
9
Monday, August 14, 11:50 A.M.
The wide-beamed motor sailer Pescadorito coursed swiftly downstream on the rushing ebb of the East River. The engine throttle was half open. Marc manned the wheel, guiding the boat through the raging swirls of Hell Gate from a small jump seat just behind the windshield on the starboard side.
Maria sat on a similar seat on the port side. Franco was on the forward deck, securing the sails. The sun was high and bright, the heat cut only somewhat by the coolness of the water.
Franco’s full name was Franco Poveromo. He was fifty-two years old, medium in height, stocky, with thinning blond hair. His smile, as he, was ingenuous and shy. Franco was a former client of Marc’s. Two years ago, he had been charged with attempted murder. And, Marc had taken such concerned interest in Franco’s case, almost as if it was his own life and liberty at stake, that Franco was, thereafter, totally devoted to Marc, and, therefore, Maria. This loyalty resulted, in addition to gratitude, partly also as a result of the feeling of security and stability that Franco found with Marc and Maria. Franco’s early existence had been sad and very unstable—his father went to prison when Franco was two; his mother spent the waiting years on bar stools. Almost as soon as he could walk, Franco began shining shoes in bars late at night and in the early hours of the morning; he was most careful never to frequent one of his mother’s haunts. He became expert at hustling quarters and dollars, trading wisecracks with the drunks and semi-drunks who animate that seamy, smoky world.
When Marc took charge of Franco’s case, Franco assured him that he had not attempted to kill anyone. He did know, in fact, the person who had attempted that crime. This knowledge, however, rather than a key to freedom, was even more of a jail to Franco. For Franco was a man of the street who, as a matter of honor, could not put anyone else into jeopardy with the authorities even if that meant taking the misdirected blame. Marc’s defense had won Franco his freedom without having to betray another, and Franco’s gratitude was unbounded. Additionally, he delighted in Marc’s way of life. He liked to hear Marc and Maria talk; he liked the way they lived, their life style, their joie de vivre. And this pleasure led to the legitimate bent Franco’s life had now taken. He became man Friday for Marc and Maria: chauffeur, valet, bodyguard. Whatever it was that Marc or Maria needed, whether mean or menial, Franco was there to get it or do it. And that meant anything. With years of street education behind him, Franco was crafty and tough. He didn’t look like much, but he had legs like a mule. And his fists could feel as if one were kicked by the same animal.
“Careful, Franco,” Marc called forward. “We’re going to get some heavy waves now.”
Franco looked aft, then followed Marc’s pointing arm to see a huge oil tanker, its belly full of fuel, plowing heavily upstream toward them on the port side. Franco nodded, and held one of the guy wires as he worked. The boat began to buck through the tanker’s wake.
Pescadorito was forty feet of highly varnished, natural-wood-finished boat, with an aft cabin that slept two, a forward cabin beneath Franco’s feet which also slept two, and a main salon which was fitted out with more than the usual comforts: a soft, thick carpet, a couch, a bar, a television set, a Spanish tile dining table along one wall. The galley was to the rear of the main cabin.
They were now at about Eighty-fifth Street. The tide was really running, and Pescadorito was lifting a great cockade of water on its prow as it bettered twelve knots. Sunlight glinting
from the windows of luxury apartment buildings lining the Manhattan shoreline sparkled from the water. The slow movement of heavy traffic on the triple-leveled East River Drive beneath Carl Schurz Park, made Manhattan seem a fantasy land. Too often, the City is lost to the viewer because each outstanding edifice or feature is obscured or crowded by some other feature of equal importance. In Manhattan, there are buildings, which, in other locations, would be important attractions, drawing people from miles. In Manhattan, there are so many buildings, and each so close, one upon the other, that the architect’s dream, his vision, is lost in a dazzling forest. So too, Marc thought as he watched the traffic ashore, was the East River Drive itself at the point past which Pescadorito was now moving; northbound traffic flowed on an open, three-lane highway built along the water’s edge. And directly above that, on a second level, also open, except for the retaining wall, the southbound traffic moved in the opposite direction. And over that, on a third level, a promenade was built with benches, and children running in the summer sun and people talking, sunning—there were always New Yorkers with sun reflectors near their faces—leaning on the railing, watching the river. Behind the promenade was a park and Grade Square, and in the midst of the park, the Mayor’s official residence, Gracie Mansion.
Franco held fast now, as the largest waves cut by the tanker sent Pescadorito’s prow high into the air then plunging down into the trough. Maria held on as the boat bucked. Marc cut the wheel sharply to port, guiding the boat more directly across the waves. Franco edged his way along the side of the boat, toward the cockpit.
“Had enough?” Maria smiled.
“I’ll do the rest when we get into the slip,” replied Franco. He stood in the center of the cockpit between the two jump seats, in front of the stairs leading down to the galley. “Want some hot cafe con leche, boss?”
Marc looked over to Franco impatiently. “You calling me boss again?”
Franco shrugged. “To me, you’re always the boss.” He smiled. “You want some hot cafe, Mrs. Conte?” Franco refused to call Maria anything but Mrs. Conte.
“I’ll get it,” Maria said.
“No, I’ll get it.” Franco moved down the steps. “You want to get me fired,” he added as he leaned back through the passageway. A pot of coffee was still warm on the small stove.
“It ain’t hot. It’s warm though,” called Franco.
“It’s not hot,” corrected Marc.
“That’s what I meant. It’s not hot,” Franco said with a tinge of self-annoyance. He was trying as hard as he knew how, as he described it, to speak good.
“That’s okay,” called Maria. “It’ll be fine just the way it is.”
Franco came on deck and handed each of them a mug. He sat on a bench at the rear of the cockpit, sipping from a mug of his own.
They were now passing beneath the filigreed Queens-boro Bridge, which, as the boat passed directly beneath, seemed to sizzle from the tires of passing cars. Ahead was the UN, and farther inland the Chrysler Building, its silver point glinting sunlight brightly. Farther downtown, the Empire State Building pierced the cloudless azure sky. All the way down at the foot of the island, the financial district could be seen. The twin towers of the World Trade Center soared into the sky.
“I wonder how that rally is going?” said Franco as he looked shoreward at Fifty-ninth Street, directing his gaze as if the buildings of Sutton Place and those farther inland did not obscure Columbus Circle, many blocks across town.
“The Italian-American. Freedom Council rally?” Maria asked.
“The very one,” agreed Marc. “I’m sure The Crusher is there with all splendor and splash.” He smiled at the thought.
“That guy Compagna’s really doing some job, don’t you think?” Franco asked.
“He’s got a lot of people united together,” Marc said. “That’s a feat in itself.”
“At least he’s not one of them lousy politicians. They tell you they’re going to do something, and do nothing. Compagna said he was going to build a hospital for all kinds of people—not only Italians—and he already got the money raised with a couple of benefit performances. Frankie came to sing at one. He said he’s going to put up a summer camp, and I bet he’s going to do that too.”
“The way it’s going, I’m sure he will,” replied Marc. He sipped the cafe.
“How can he be so bad—supposed to be the head of a Mafia family—if he’s doing such good?” asked Maria. “Does he have a criminal record?”
“I read he only got arrested once for playing craps in the street,” said Franco from the rear bench.
“That doesn’t sound too terrifying,” said Maria.
“Compagna keeps proposing,” said Marc, looking ahead as he guided the boat, “that if he’s committed a crime—or anyone he knows committed a crime—the FBI or police ought to arrest them. If not, get off their back. That’s what brought the Council into existence in the first place. People complaining that the FBI was harassing Italians for the sake of keeping congressional appropriations high in the fight against some fictitious syndicate. Compagna complained the authorities were even following his grandchildren to school, and telling the teachers those were a gangster’s grandchildren.”
“Did they?”
“You bet your life they did,” said Franco. “And I bet the FBI is going bananas about all that picketing the Council’s been doing against them.”
“I imagine,” said Marc, “that the FBI might really be boiled about the Council publicly flouting the FBI’s shining-knight image. All the agents must have very strict orders to nail Compagna—and soon.”
“He’s going to get fifty years for putting together this rally,” Franco said flatly. “They’ll charge him with something, frame him up, do something to him, if the rally comes off the way they said in the papers. They expect a hundred thousand people there.”
“Turn on the radio,” said Marc. “Let’s hear what’s going on at Columbus Circle.” The boat was passing the UN Building now. The East River Drive traffic could be seen speeding beneath overhead gardens which surrounded the building.
Franco disappeared into the salon. A radio sounded and music could be heard momentarily, then different music, as Franco searched from station to station for a news program.
“IT IS NOT KNOWN AT THIS TIME,” A RADIO ANNOUNCER’S VOICE SAID URGENTLY, “IF COMPAGNA IS ALIVE OR DEAD. ALL THAT IS KNOWN FOR SURE IS THAT HE WAS SHOT, MOST PROBABLY IN THE HEAD …”
“My God,” Maria exclaimed.
“Louder,” Marc shouted.
“… THE EXACT NUMBER OF TIMES HE WAS STRUCK BY BULLETS IS NOT KNOWN AT THIS TIME. COMPAGNA’S ASSAILANT, A PRESENTLY UNIDENTIFIED BLACK MAN ABOUT 25 YEARS OLD, LEAPED OUT OF A CROWD AT THE VERY BEGINNING OF THE RALLY, AND BEGAN BLAZING AWAY. THE ASSAILANT IS DEAD. THAT IS KNOWN FOR SURE, ALTHOUGH WHO KILLED HIM IS YET UNCLEAR. COMPAGNA IS PRESENTLY UNDERGOING SURGERY AT ROOSEVELT HOSPITAL WHERE …”
“God, that is just shocking,” said Maria. They were back in their apartment now. Marc was standing at the glass wall of the living room, high over the City, staring across the Hudson River at the panorama of buildings and streets in New Jersey. Franco was in the kitchen making sandwiches.
The apartment was high in a tower of a building at the edge of Greenwich Village. It was a penthouse which took up the entire thirty-seventh floor. A planted terrace complete with willow trees surrounded the apartment. The walls of the living room were almost entirely glass, giving a spectacular view of the City.
“I told you they’d give him something for making that rally and that Council so popular,” said Franco, entering the living room. “I didn’t figure they’d try to knock him off. Not in front of a hundred thousand people.”
“What do you think happened, Marc?” Maria asked. She was seated on one of two white, matching couches. The sun’s rays streamed into the room and across the floor. “I mean, do you think the radio reports are right, about some organized crime family possibly being responsible?”
“I don’t think so,” Marc said tersely.
“You don’t agree with Franco about the FBI being responsible, do you?” she asked.
“It’s possible.” Marc was studying a single building very far off on the Jersey horizon. It could only be seen on a very clear, bright day, and Marc was always intending to find out where it was and how far away it was.
Franco was silent in the kitchen again.
“But, I don’t think so,” Marc added. “It would be a perfect opportunity for the FBI to get rid of a festering thorn in their side and discredit the Council at the same time as being what they said it was all along—a haven of organized crime maniacs. But I don’t think anyone, not the FBI, a gang, or anyone else, could have planned with such precision the shooting of Compagna, and the killing of this Washington, or whatever his Black assailant’s name was, with police surrounding the place, and no one saw the assailant’s killer, and the weapon mysteriously disappeared. It’s just so perfect that I don’t think it could have been planned.”
“You don’t put it past the FBI to do something like this in the name of national security or some crap like that, do you?” Franco asked, coming to the door of the kitchen.
“No, I don’t put it past them,” said Marc. “We know and complained, long before Watergate, that agents or police were breaking into the homes of alleged organized crime people when the authorities didn’t have any grounds to obtain a legal search warrant. They’d go in allegedly as burglars but really to collect and photograph papers. If they were caught, the authorities denied they ever heard of the burglars. But this shooting today was too bizarre, too difficult to control to be planned.”
“Then who was this Black guy, Washington? And why did he shoot Compagna?” asked Maria.
“Probably only a madman, that’s all,” replied Marc. “If you can allow yourself to say only a madman. Who was Oswald, Sirhan, Earl Ray; where did they come from, and why? Just some small-timer come to seek a moment of immortality, of fame, in death since it eluded him in life.”
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