“Three. It gives you a place to go if the shit hits the fan
like it did today up in—”
“Hardly, Mr. Harrigan.” Sonnenberg stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Being Domenic Tortora full time would
be more than I could bear. I happen to loathe oregano,
tomato paste, and the entire expatriate population of Sicily.
Tortora will vanish forever before tomorrow comes, doubt
less leaving rumors involving cement overshoes and the
like.”
“What happens to your kid?”
“Tortora's kid,” Sonnenberg corrected, “assuming you
refer to the bad seed ravaged last night by our friend Abel.
In any case, his care has been provided for. If he survives,
I'm sure we may count on him to carry on the more sordid
traditions of the Tortora family name.”
“Which is not the name he was born with.”
Sonnenberg leaned forward. “So that it's clear, Mr. Har
rigan,” he said, sighing, “I'm speaking to you not because
you've so cleverly drawn me out but because you prove to
be a perceptive man in your own vulgar fashion. I'll retain
that favorable impression only as long as you avoid asking
the obvious.”
So, Harrigan realized he'd guessed right about the kid. He was a prop. Picked up someplace along the way by Tor
tora or Sonnenberg and used to create the illusion of a life
history. An orphan, maybe. Abandoned, more likely, given
what a shit he must have been even as a baby. You'd think
Tortora would have picked a foundling with a better dispo
sition if he knew he'd have to look at him for the next twenty
or thirty years. Which probably meant that Sonnenberg
hadn't figured on needing to be Tortora that long. So what happened? Try a simple answer, Connor. Try one thing led
to another. Like Tanner Burke says. The guy doesn't so much plan as he gets caught up in his own momentum.
Which makes him a bitch to anticipate. And which starts to
explain how he gets caught up in these lives he leads.
“You want perceptive and vulgar? You got it.” Harrigan
nodded. “Tortora's kid was a central casting prick. If he
wasn't any loss, why did you go through the whole charade
of having him order Tina Baker's kidnapping? Back at your
house, as I recall, you acted like this was news to you.”
“It was,” Sonnenberg admitted. “To a large extent, it
was.”
“Which makes you a certifiable wacko.” Harrigan
couldn't resist it. “You know that, don't you?”
Baker found no bank behind the stone facade. No brass
teller's cages or roll-top desks. Federal period, the sign said. He stepped into a large drawing room seven decades farther
back in time than the bank that housed it. Not quite as far as
Williamsburg but close enough. The age of Duncan Phyfe
and Hepplewhite. Cabinetry that was light and graceful,
chairs and settees with soft curves to their woodwork. It
looked like Sonnenberg's home.
“Daddy?”
Baker's head turned and Tanner's with it. The silent call
came from a chamber off the drawing room. As Baker
moved toward it, his eye twitched. It was not yet a stab of
warning, only alertness. Like a dozing watchdog who lifts
one ear at a sound too faint to cause alarm.
There were several chambers. Bedrooms, mostly, that
could be entered off the central parlor. They were all period
rooms, Federal style more or less, all reproductions of
rooms found in fine homes of the era. Baker saw the name Haverhill. The Haverhill Room. A waist-high glass barri
cade had been moved away from its entrance. And he saw
Tina.
She lay curled and uncovered on a canopied bed. A can
dle burned steadily on a washstand at its side. Her eyes were
closed, but a smile stretched across her mouth when she felt
him there. Baker froze at the sight of her, not fully believing that it was Tina, that she was within his reach. Tanner's hand
against his back urged him forward. In steps he would not
remember taking he was at her side, bending over her, not yet touching, doubting even then that she was real. Very
softly, he touched his fingertips to her forehead and brushed
away a strand of hair that lay across her face. Tears streaked
Baker's face. His own tears. They spotted her T-shirt at the
shoulder and ran across her neck. Only a bit more boldly, he
ran his fingers through her soft hair and down along her
cheek. He caressed it tenderly.
“That's not a hug,” she whispered. A sob convulsed
Baker. He threw himself into arms that opened for him.
Tanner held back, smiling, wiping tears of her own. Tina
Baker's eyes opened with effort and found Tanner. A hand
reached out and Tanner took it in both of hers, but she did
not otherwise intrude upon the moment.
“Hello, Jared.” A woman's voice made Tanner
f
l
inch.
Baker tightened but barely moved. Tanner reached a hand to
the embroidered red bed curtain that hung from the canopy
and tore it open. A woman sat in the darkness of the far cor
ner, swaying quietly on an upholstered rocker. There was a Gucci purse on her lap, and against it Tanner could see the
gleam of a small plated pistol. Slowly, Baker drew back his head from Tina's cheek, kissed it once more, and turned
toward the voice.
“Melanie,” he acknowledged. Odd, Tanner thought. His manner showed neither surprise nor concern. She stepped
around the bed, moving, she hoped, within range of a kick
should the woman lift her weapon. But the muzzle shifted in her direction before Tanner could pass the last bedpost. Not
aiming. Not threatening. Rather warning her away by its presence. Tanner took a defiant step closer and waited.
“Melanie.” Baker saw the pistol. He gathered his arms under Tina's body and lifted her from the bed. ”I feel like
killing someone tonight, Melanie. I'd just as soon it isn't
you.”
”. . . makes you a certifiable wacko. You know that, don't
you?”
Sonnenberg sneered with just his eyes. “That's one con
clusion, Mr. Harrigan, witless though it may be. Rather than
waste time volleying insults, however, I will point out that
actors, whether on the stage or in your government's under
cover activities, quite commonly become absorbed in their
roles. When the news reached me of young John's destruc
tion, I was Tortora. I reacted as Tortora. The death of a son
was real to me then. The Domenic Tortora I created would
never have permitted such an event to go unavenged. Son
nenberg would of course have been more pragmatic. But his
influence had its limits while the reins were in Tortora’ s
hands.”
Harrigan whistled to himself. Did I say he's a skitz for the
books? The guy's world class. Yet Harrigan knew there was a certain demented logic to what Sonnenberg was saying. It had to apply to Stanley as well. Getting lost in the role. Ex
cept there were three Stanleys. Stanley himself, Emma
Kreskie who he thinks is his cousin, and Mrs. Levy who he
thinks is his mother. At least the three Bakers know who the
hell they are. What was it Sonnenberg told Duncan Peck
back in his study? You have to be careful, he said more or less, that the subject you pick isn't a skitz to any great de
gree already. Make that mistake, and all you end up accom
plishing is to give form to personalities that were already the
product of your subject's emotional needs. What needs?
Sonnenberg's attention had wandered back toward the
facade. “What do we suppose is keeping Jared?” he asked.
“It's been a year and a half.” Harrigan shrugged. “They're
catching up.”
”I suppose.” Sonnenberg nodded.
“As long as we're passing the time of day, you mind if I
ask about Stanley here?”
”Hmm?” Sonnenberg asked distractedly. “Such knowl
edge would be quite useless, Mr. Harrigan.”
“Just curious. What happened? He was real close to his mother and she died on him?”
“Hardly close.”
“So why's he off the wall about mothers?”
Sonnenberg shook his head wearily and leaned toward him. “Purely in the interest of enhancing your sensitivity,
Mr. Harrigan, I will tell you that Stanley did in fact have a
cousin and obviously a mother and that they treated him dis
gracefully. He retreated into books, the mysteries of Sher
lock Holmes specifically, which they delighted in tearing
into shreds whenever they found them. Their abuse was
ended through the agency of an ice pick. Stanley was insti
tutionalized as a young man. Therapy was characteristically
useless, so he provided his own. He invented a mother and a
cousin whose devotion would remain total as long as Stan
ley lived. They're quite real to Stanley and he to them. The
earlier agony has been totally suppressed. In fact, he thinks
all mothers are quite wonderful. That's a useful hint, Harri
gan. The proper mention of your own mother could save
your life someday should you otherwise upset Stanley.”
“You knew all this going in?” Harrigan frowned.
“Only his history. Emma and his new mother were some
thing of a surprise when they appeared. It might have been quite a mess, but happily I was able to keep the three from randomly revealing themselves by associating one with my
self, the other with Tortora, according to their talents, and re
tiring the third to the quiet life of an urban senior citizen. Is that disapproval I see on your face, Mr. Harrigan?”
“As a matter of fact I think it stinks, yes.”
“Do you indeed, Mr. Harrigan?” Sonnenberg smiled pa
tiently. “Can I assume you have an alternative to suggest?”
“Leaving him where he was, for openers,” Harrigan
snapped, “where they could have helped him properly.”
“Where he was, Mr. Harrigan, was in a dry cleaning es
tablishment on Tremont Avenue. He was released, quite un-
helped, to a future of slipping polyethylene bags over
laundered shirts by day, sleeping on the premises by night, and being entirely unable to function in society beyond reg
ular morning visits to a neighboring butcher shop, where he
swept the floor in return for being decently fed.”
“Ben Meister's place?”
“Very good, Mr. Harrigan. I'd ask you now to consider
what Stanley has become. He kills, yes, but no more indis
criminately than you. I daresay he's a kinder man. Infinitely
more loyal, I think. No longer terrified by a world that had
no place for him. Now, as you've seen, he's quite capable.
Perhaps more than a match for even the storied Connor Har
rigan. The same might be said of Emma Kreskie.”
No easy rebuttal sprang to Harrigan's mind. The original
Stanley, he knew, was one of thousands released to the
streets of New York City alone each year by overcrowded
mental institutions. Some actually lived on the streets. A lot
more got numbly through each day doing menial jobs like Stanley's with the plastic bags. At least Stanley was living.
And he had an anchor. But what was going to happen to him when the anchor wasn't there anymore? Sonnenberg himself
said that he was going to deep-six Tortora.
Well, Harrigan thought, he couldn't worry about that. Or
how crazy Stanley actually was or whether Sonnenberg be
longed in a rubber room or running the President's Com
mission on Human Resources. Simplify, Harrigan. Do what
you came here to do. Get Baker and his daughter out and
keep them on a nice long leash until you figure out how to
use him. Which Sonnenberg knows damn well you plan to
do, judging from that loyalty crack. And which he damn
well plans to do himself unless Baker can stash himself bet
ter than Sonnenberg can find him. Get on with it. Except there's something untidy here. There's something about this museum that bothers the shit out of you and it keeps danc
ing just out of reach. And there's something else. The point
of all this. I mean, here we have Sonnenberg, who set up the
snatch on Tina Baker—forget all that Tortora and his kid crap for a minute—then orchestrated getting us all down
here. Then we get here, and almost nothing is going the way
Sonnenberg could have wanted it to go. He stands up there
answering questions he doesn't have to answer. Hershey sits
over there in another world watching the show. Stanley, or whoever, sits rocking back and forth. And Baker's in there
getting his kid. Which is taking a little too long, by the way.
Anyhow, wacko or not, Sonnenberg's no dope. And he's def
initely not acting like a man whose plans fell apart. So what
is it? A test, like I asked before? Baker says no. Besides,
what's to test? Sonnenberg knows everything Baker can do.
But it
is
a test, damnit. An experiment. Everything the guy does is an experiment. So ask him, Harrigan. The guy's in a
talking mood, right? On the other hand, the hell with it. Let's
just get Baker and get out of here. Like I said, something
about this place bothers you.