by Bob Mayer
Sofia raised an eyebrow as if he’d said something puzzling. “What is an innocent person?”
Kane nodded his head toward the window, which he immediately regretted because it was still pulsing from Matteo’s cast. “The average person out there. Who works a legit job. Pays taxes. Just wants to make it through the day.”
“I should care about them?” Sofia said it like the shrug it was. “You gonna do some work for me?”
“Why not use Matteo?”
“Why not ask stupid questions?
“Can I think on it? I have something I’m working on right now that’s got me real busy for the next few days.”
Sofia chuckled. “Few people say no to me.”
“It wasn’t a no, it was—”
She waved a hand, red fingernails glinting. “You’ve got the weekend.”
“How do I let you know?”
She reached into her purse and retrieved a black card with a phone number written in gold on it. “There’s an answering machine. You can call and leave your yes on Monday. Then I’ll tell you what I want done. I’ll make it worth your time.”
Kane took the card.
She reached over and powered down the window. Matteo was hovering. “Get in and him out.” As the doors opened, she pointed at Kane. “I look forward to your yes.”
“Ri—” Kane began but Matteo cut that off by grabbing him around the throat and pulling him out of the backseat. Kane allowed himself to be moved, but he grabbed the door frame. “My gun?”
Sofia Cappucci nodded and Matteo gave up the forty-five.
“Thanks for the lift,” Kane said as the door slammed shut and the limo peeled away in the gathering dusk. He looked about. The ride had gotten him three blocks closer to home. It’s the little things in life one had to be grateful for.
5
Friday Evening,
5 August 1977
MEATPACKING DISTRICT, MANHATTAN
Kane drew his forty-five when he saw the matchstick on top of the black iron gate. A note was taped to his door. He recognized his landlord’s scrawl by the glow of the street light, but didn’t holster the gun since he was having a bad twenty-four hours and didn’t see any reason for it to get better.
SHE INSISTED.
Kane entered, expecting to see Toni in the small sitting room, but it was empty. Kane went to the doorway to the bedroom. It was dark, but someone was in the bed. He flipped the overhead fluorescent, gun at the ready.
Truvey was in Kane’s bed, the sheet strategically layered along the upper curvature of her bosom. She lay on her side, head propped up with one hand held aloft by her elbow, a pose that was too perfect to be random. She looked pretty good despite the awful lighting.
“How come you didn’t ask if anyone wanted to kill me last night?” Truvey asked.
“Are you alone?” Kane asked.
“Am I not enough?” Truvey pouted. “Are you going to shoot me?”
Kane holstered the pistol. “You broke the sheets.”
“I what?”
“What are you doing here?” Kane asked.
Truvey raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?” She sat up, the sheet falling to her waist, revealing her prominent assets.
“Seriously,” Kane said.
“I didn’t ‘break’ your sheets,” Truvey said. “I got between them. The idea is—“
Kane interrupted her. “By the way, there’s a bomb under the bed.”
Truvey blinked hard several times as if that helped process the words. “You’re joking.”
“I’ve been accused by a number of people of not having much of a sense of humor and at this moment, I would trust their opinion.”
Truvey scooted out from between the sheets, revealing a pair of thong panties and a plethora of skin. Kane tossed her the sundress draped over the books on top of the dresser.
As she pulled it on, he told her: “Let me dispel with the possibility so we don’t waste time. I’m not interested in having sex with you. I’m more concerned with who attacked us last night and why.”
As the dress settled over her body, with some hard tugging, Truvey backed away from the bed. “The bomb?”
“It’s under the bed,” Kane said. “But it’s not armed. Technically it’s just the explosives. For it to go off it needs--”
“Why do you have a bomb?”
“It was on the boat last night.”
Truvey’s voice climbed a few octaves. “What?”
Kane indicated the sitting room. “Come on. I’ll explain.”
Truvey sat on the couch while Kane took the chair that allowed him to see the foyer and the couch.
“My apologies for my social faux pas last night,” Kane said. “Do you know anyone who’d want to kill you?”
Truvey shook her head. “No.”
“You sound pretty certain.”
Truvey spread her hands in innocence. “I’m a B-level actress trying to make my break. Who’d want to kill me?”
“That’s what I was asking,” Kane pointed out. “Why are you here?”
“I liked the way you handled things,” Truvey said. “I wanted to express my gratitude. I think it could have gotten bad if you hadn’t stepped up.”
“A thank you card would have worked.”
Truvey frowned. “You’re a weird man.”
“I’ve been told that.”
“You’ve a Vietnam Vet.” She said it in a way that could it could taken as a question or statement. Kane chose to go the latter route and didn’t respond. “A Green Beret. I deal with actors all the time. They pretend. You’re the real deal.”
“You also deal with people like Crawford,” Kane said.
“The hardest part of show business is getting the money,” Truvey said. “I’m surprised any movie is ever made given how difficult it is. Producers like to mix me in with their pitch to the money people.”
“Right.”
“The producer is a dear friend,” Truvey said. “I believe in his vision.”
“You’re talking about Selkis, right?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known him?”
Truvey frowned and Kane thought he heard little clangs as numbers moved. “About three months.”
“And he’s a dear friend?”
“Oh! Not like that.”
Kane had his own little mental clangs as he processed what she meant by ‘that’ which wasn’t what he had meant.
Truvey explained further. “He’s, well, you know. Let’s say he prefers different delights.”
“Right. When did he ask you to meet Crawford?”
“Selkie, that’s what I call him, phoned me yesterday morning and we had lunch. He explained that a big money man he’d worked with before was coming to town and he had a project he thought would interest him and that there was a role in it that I would be perfect in and that I’d definitely be cast if it got greenlit so of course I said yes.”
Kane unpacked the run-on sentence and pronouns. “Why didn’t Selkis come along?”
Truvey appeared shocked. “That would have been weird, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess so,” Kane said, having used his quota of ‘right’ in this conversation. “Did an Indian named Yazzie talk to you this morning.”
“Oh, yes. Have you met him? So tall. His skin is so perfect. He could so be my leading man!”
Kane indicated the bedroom. “I thought I was going to be?”
She pouted. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You are indeed. Did he give you money? Or did Crawford pay you in the limo?”
“I’m not a hooker.”
“To not say anything about what happened,” Kane clarified.
“Yeah. Crawford did. Did he give you some?”
“Yeah.”
Truvey nodded. “Two thousand. Not bad for doing nothing.”
“Except for the getting shot at and almost blown up.”
Truvey frowned. “There is that.” She frowned further. “How much did
Crawford pay you?”
“Two thousand. What did Yazzie want to know?”
Truvey gave him what Yazzie had told them in the meeting. When she was done, she pouted slightly. “He’s really handsome but there’s something missing in him.”
“He’s crossed the river,” Kane said.
“What?”
“Seen the elephant.”
“Huh?”
Kane moved on from the combat references. “Can I ask you something else?”
Truvey became wary. “What?”
“Did you bring the cocaine or did Crawford?”
“You won’t rat on me will you?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Selkie supplied it. I don’t use myself. I tried it a few times but I’ve seen what can happen. I want to have a career, you know? Not be here today, gone tomorrow.”
“Good plan,” Kane said.
Truvey changed the subject. “What’s with all the pictures?” She indicated the framed prints leaning against the wall, everywhere there wasn’t cinderblocks holding makeshift bookshelves.
“I like maps. They’re mostly of New York City and show the evolution and history of the city.”
“See? That’s part of what the movie is about. New York City. I think. At least Selkie said it was. He never really gave me the script. He said it was about the dark underbelly of the Big Apple. Did you see Taxi Driver? DeNiro? Wasn’t that some acting? Selkie said it was like that, thematically.”
“I haven’t seen the movie. But I think I’ve experienced that part of the city.”
“Anyways, it opens with a scene like that one in Godfather. Or was it Two? Kid on the boat seeing the Statue?”
“Haven’t seen either of them either.” He pointed at a book. “There’s The Godfather.”
“What?”
“The book the movie was based on,” Kane said.
“There was a book?” Truvey leaned forward, her sun dress looser at the top. She suddenly spoke as if they were being listened in on. “You know there weren’t any storyboards, don’t you?”
“I kind of guessed.”
Truvey sighed, having exhausted small talk. “You obviously like to read,” she said. “What else do you like?” She walked over, settling on the arm of the chair.
Kane forced himself to remain in the seat. “Run. Go to the gym and workout and spar. Work the heavy and light bag.”
“You look like you’re in good shape.”
“I try.”
“I gotta do two hours every morning,” Truvey complained. “And I can’t eat much of nothing. People think it’s easy to look like this.”
Kane didn’t know what to say to that.
“I appreciate a man who takes care of himself,” Truvey said.
“Right.”
Truvey became inspired. “I’ve never done it with a bomb under the bed.”
“I doubt that’s an exclusive club many have aspirations to,” Kane said.
Truvey frowned. “What-da-ya mean by that?”
“I mean not many people have done it with a bomb under the bed. That they knew about.”
“Oh.” She reached for him and he flinched. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I got shot in the head,” Kane said. “Kind of messed me up. Plus, I’ve had a bad day.”
“We can work on that. And really, the head’s over-rated.”
“That’s an interesting take,” Kane said.
Truvey got off the chair and went to the light switch for the sitting room. Turned it off. Her body was silhouetted inside the sundress in the doorway to the bedroom, which strangely was more enticing than almost completely naked in the bed. “You know where I’ll be. Above the bomb.”
She turned the bedroom light off.
6
Saturday Morning,
6 August 1977
MEATPACKING DISTRICT, MANHATTAN
“You forgot the fiver,” Morticia remarked as she placed coffee and water/two cubes in front of Kane.
Kane pulled the bill off his money clip and put it on the edge of the table. “Thanks.”
But Morticia had already slid away to take an order from another booth, leaving behind a folded meal ticket.
Kane blinked because he’d missed her doing that. He unfolded the ticket and sighed. Another encrypted message. Sometimes he wished Thao would just come out of the kitchen and tell him who had called and what the message was. Kane transcribed and decrypted the groupings. He smiled when he read what Merrick had told Thao regarding the personal matter. Crumpled the ticket and torched it.
Kane spooned the cubes into the coffee. He wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the warmth sink into the scars on his palms. Closed his eyes.
Morticia interrupted his reverie. “What fresh hell is this?” She put a plate in front of him, several peppers on top.
“Say again?” Kane reflexively drew the forty-five with his left hand, resting it on his thigh.
Morticia didn’t leave the edge of the booth. “I think Dorothy Parker was channeling some Shakespeare with that line because—“
“Move to your left, please,” Kane said.
She shifted out of his line of fire, but continued her literary train of thought. “Because in Henry VIII Abergavenny is talking about Cardinal Wolsey and says ‘and he begins a new hell in himself’ which is kind of close. Parker was the best with turning a phrase.”
“Right,” Kane said. He recognized the man coming in the Washington Street door. “Fuck.”
“Is that a bullets are going to fly ‘fuck’ and hit the floor?” Morticia asked.
Kane reholstered and flipped a small switch underneath the table top. “It’s a he’s an asshole fuck.”
“You’ll be right at home then.” Morticia hovered away, having done her duty delivering Thao’s pepper warning.
Trent had cigarette in hand, ash precariously long. He strolled to Kane’s booth, some of the ash drifting to the previously spotless black and white tile floor.
“Told you I’d be seeing you,” the CIA man said as he took court directly across from Kane. Pulled the ashtray close, lit another cigarette from the remnants, which he dropped into the tray without stubbing out. A forlorn tendril of smoke drifted up from it, much like Kane’s hopes for a peaceful morning.
“You’ve been known to lie,” Kane said.
“Still sore over that?” Trent said. “Come on. It’s been years. And you said you’d work for me.”
“I said I’d consider it.”
“Hmm. No. No. Not the way I remember it. The deal was I back off surveillance on your apartment and you’d get me information.” Trent was a portly man with thinning dark hair. Black framed glasses with thick lens fronted a red face that appeared permanently flushed. He wore a tacky sports jacket, slacks and rumpled white shirt. A thin wire crept from inside his jacket to a small speaker in his left ear. He affected a slight New England accent that sounded practiced rather than native and Kane hadn’t heard in Long Binh Jail when they first met eight years ago under trying circumstances. Trying for Kane that is.
“You have security outside?” Kane asked, indicating the wire.
“Sure. We discussed that. This city sucks.”
“See? You’re already changing your story,” Kane said. “You said you liked New York.”
“I said I relished the potential for intelligence work in New York,” Trent clarified. “It’s as dangerous as Vietnam was.”
“How was Vietnam dangerous for you?” Kane asked. “Did you ever leave your desk?”
“Sure, I—“ he startled as Morticia appeared next to him. “You’re quiet,” he said to her. “Sneaking up on people isn’t nice.”
“I don’t like to disturb folks engaged in conversation,” Morticia said, “but my boss wants me to do my job. He’s a hard ass that way. Can I get you something?”
Trent turned to Kane. “What’s good here?”
Kane pushed the plate across the table. “Get him some cold coffee and he c
an have my peppers.”
Trent looked at the plate. “Thao in the kitchen?”
“That’s his job,” Kane said. He addressed Morticia. “He doesn’t need anything to drink.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Morticia left.
“What’s she all about?” Trent asked, watching her glide away. “Morticia?”
“It’s a persona,” Kane said. “Didn’t know you could read.”
“You’re not being hospitable,” Trent said. “You weren’t last month when I visited your apartment.”
“Broke in to my apartment,” Kane corrected. “What do you want?”
“Westway?”
“What about it?”
“You were supposed to give me information on where the money would go if it’s approved. Who’d be skimming what.”
“The information I managed to uncover is no longer viable intelligence which is why I didn’t get back to you.”
Trent chuckled. “Really? Is that because it involved Sean Damon?”
Kane didn’t respond.
“Mister Damon had been missing for a while,” Trent said. “Certain parties have taken notice.”
“Anyone I know?”
“I don’t know who you know,” Trent said. “The FBI for one. And there’s some Injun going around town, asking questions. Some about you. Wanting to know if anyone disliked you enough to want to kill you. Too bad he didn’t ask me.”
“Did Robert Redford tell you that?” Kane asked, referring to Trent’s earlier explanation about how the CIA gathered information by using the example of Three Days of the Condor, six days in book form.
“Remember the important things,” Trent chided him, “not the trivia.”
“I’ve been told details are important.”
“Anyway,” Trent said, “that jogged my memory. Reminded me you owed some information. Also, I was wondering why the FBI and this Injun are asking questions about my asset.”
“Not your asset,” Kane said. “As you pointed out, I haven’t given you anything. Is your memory tired?”
“What?”
“From the jogging.”
“That was bad,” Trent said.