Like a Knife (3 page)

He was polite and cooperated fully. First lessons die hard, and he'd been Rennie Spier's best student.

Never upset the authorities, but never tell them anything.

So Nick told the police nothing about Shelley's visit Even after they showed him the pictures.

"Couldn't find any identification on her. No prints on file. We had to use the ring to ID her." Detective Pat May pointed to the picture of Shelley's blood-smeared diamond ring. "Recognize it?"

Nick nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Any idea what she was doing in that part of Long Island City? She was a long way from Gramercy Park."

Running from Rennie.
"I don't know why she was there."

The cop eyed him suspiciously, and Nick took the look without flinching.

"Where were you last night, Raine?"

"Home."

"Anyone vouch for that?"

"Only my empty coffee cups."

When they finally let him go, he took the first bus he saw and rode for hours. He tried to block out the photographs, but he saw the pictures anyway, even with his eyes closed. The bloody street. The mangled body.

The next morning his name was all over the television and radio. He was in the basement, already packing, when Rachel found him. His face felt stiff, his insides frozen. He focused on shoving things into a grocery bag. A cracked coffee cup, an old shirt. He didn't want to talk to her, he didn't even want to see her. He just wanted to go.

She waved a newspaper in front of him, but he didn't look at it. He'd already seen the headline in the dispensers at the bus stop and in the hands of the bus riders:

ARMS KING'S QUEEN IN HIT-AND-RUN HOMICIDE. Inset in

the column was his own picture and a caption: "Spier associate Nicholas Raine leaves precinct after talking with police." The article even mentioned that he now worked for Rachel's preschool at St. Anthony's Church.

"The mop and pail are upstairs." His voice sounded wooden, but it only matched the way he felt. "I bought the fluorescent bulbs for the office but haven't had a chance to replace them. The fence isn't finished yet either. You better get someone in to do it soon."

Rachel looked at the paper; the answer to the puzzle that was Nick stared up at her from the page. She'd never seen him in anything but faded work clothes, but in the picture he was wearing a suit. An expensive suit. He was smiling; the photograph caught him in a cocky wave.

"You should have told me, Nick."

He laughed. 'Told you what? That I used to peddle guns and bombs and other assorted what-have-yous to any little tyrant with a buck? Yeah, I'm sure that would have been a real strong character reference."

Too angry for words, she said nothing as he gathered his things. When she'd hired him, the church had run a routine background check on him, but all it had turned up were two arrests for public drunkenness, and that had been years ago. Nothing about his connection to Rennie Spier and his arms-dealing empire. Knowing Nick had earned money from the very violence that made her school necessary-that had robbed her of parents and childhood-outraged her. He'd hurt her, hurt the school. How could he matter anymore?

But then he took down a finger painting he'd rescued from the trash, carefully rolling and packing it as if the childish picture were a precious work of art. A wave of compassion for him washed over her, liquid and warm, as unwelcome as it was keen.

"I called you yesterday," she said. "What happened? Where were you?"

"You know where I was."

"All day?"

But he didn't reply. Suddenly, Rachel was furious again. Her head ached. She'd spent all day worrying about him, and he stood there like an automaton, giving her monosyllabic answers.

"You're going to have to speak to me sometime, Nick, I'm not going to let you walk out of here like this."

"I don't see how you can stop me."

"I know where you live. I can camp out until you talk to me." Their gazes collided. His was like ice.

She got right to the point. "How long has it been since you worked for Spier?"

"Years."

"How many years? One, ten, fifteen?"

"Six." He crossed his arms and confronted her. "All right? Six years."

"And did you have anything to do with his wife's death?" There was a tiny beat of silence, a frigid impasse where they just looked at each other. "Did you?"

Nick turned away and ran a hand over his tired face. "No." He said the word as if he'd been saying it all day. "I didn't have anything to do with it."

"How could you-you were with me that night."

"That's right."

"You told the police that, didn't you?"

He rolled up another finger painting. "Sure I did. I'd be stupid not to."

"So they no longer suspect you of anything?"

"I'm clean as a whistle." But he didn't look at her.

"Nick," she scolded gently, "I'll just tell them myself."

With an angry snap, he flicked the bag away. "Didn't you almost get shut down last year? You told me the Parish Council is just looking for an excuse. My picture was in the paper. The
school
was in the paper. Leave it alone. Let me finish packing. Fifteen minutes, and I'm gone."

The vehemence of his response made her step back. He was right; keeping the school out of the police report and out of the media were all that mattered. The next six weeks were crucial, and the last thing she needed was to get mixed up with him.

But he hadn't done anything, a tiny voice protested, and she could prove it. She swallowed, knowing what was right and what was practical weren't always the same.

A sudden glow illuminated the top of the steps, and a boy spoke.
"Alli.
There-Nick." For a moment the outline of an adult holding a child was silhouetted against the light. Then footsteps crunched over the steps and descended.

Joselito looked like a toy in the man's arms. Wide and massive, the man was built like a linebacker, but his casual air and easy grin rendered him harmless-a big teddy bear with an unruly mop of sandy hair. Yet in spite of his apparent friendliness, hostility shot across Nick's face when he saw who it was. Rachel's welcoming smile froze on her lips.

"Put the kid down," Nick said.

Uneasy, Rachel looked between the two men. "Nick, who is-"

"Put the kid down!"

The man flashed Joselito an easy smile. "I'm not hurting you pal, am I?" Joselito grinned back at him, and the man turned to Nick. "See?"

"Put him down. Rachel, take him upstairs." And when she didn't move fast enough, "Now, Rachel-move!"

It was more emotion than Rachel had seen from Nick in all the months he'd worked there. It propelled her like nothing else would have.

When she got to the top of the stairs, Felice was barreling toward her. The other teacher was a large, square woman, almost as wide as she was tall. Today, her love of bright colors had her swathed in a loose, swirling dress that hung from her massive bust in yards of hot red and orange.

"Bill Hughes is on the phone," she said, panting from exertion, her face flushed almost as red as her dress.

God, not now. "
Take a message." Rachel put Joselito down and sent him out to the yard. "I'm not up to fencing with the Parish Council."

"Okay. Oh-and here." She handed Rachel a message slip. "A reporter from the
Post
wants to talk to you about your friendly neighborhood killer. Where is Nick, by the way?"

Rachel gritted her teem, holding onto her patience. Felice may have been her friend, but she had a wicked tongue and wasn't always careful about using it. "He's not a killer, Felice. Don't repeat that. And he's downstairs, packing."

"You fired him?"

"He resigned."

Felice quirked an eyebrow, obviously surprised. "That was nice of him. Now if we can get the reporters to keep our name out of the paper, maybe Bill Hughes will leave us alone."

Rachel sighed, her mind on the man in the basement with Nick. "Don't count on it."

* * *

As soon as the door closed behind Rachel, Martin Ferris flashed a tired grin and ruffled Nick's hair.

"Hey, Nicky. Nick. It's me." He pulled Nick into a big bear hug. "God, you look terrible, you know that?" Holding Nick at arm's length, Martin examined him. "Who does your clothes? Man, whoever it is, they're choking you to death." He tugged at Nick's tightly buttoned collar, and Nick swatted his hand away.

"What do you want, Marty?"

Martin sighed. "What's wrong with you? Can't I look up the guy who's practically my brother?"

"What do you want? Or should I say, what does Ren-nie want?"

"Okay, so maybe he does want to see you." For a minute, a bone-weary look crossed Martin's face, etching deep lines into what Nick remembered as a normally placid facade. Six years was a long time between visits, but still, Martin looked old, as old as Nick felt. But then, killing the boss's wire could do that.

"Forget it."

"Come on-five minutes for an old friend." Martin roamed around the room, poking at the shelves.

"Don't touch anything."

The big man picked up a drawing from Nick's paper bag and unfurled it. Nick pulled it out of his hand.

"I told you not to touch anything."

"Jesus. Okay, okay."

"Now, are you going to tell me what Rennie wants?"

Martin sighed. "Better let him tell you himself, Nicky. Otherwise, he'll have my balls for breakfast."

Nick clamped his jaw shut and indicated the stairs with a curt nod. Christ, if he had to put up with one more piece of crap today...

Careful to make sure Martin left the building, Nick escorted the large man back up the stairs. Nick trudged behind, carrying the paper bag like a sack of groceries. The rolled-up drawings stuck out from the top like celery stalks. On the way out, Rachel stopped him.

"Are you okay?" She eyed Martin suspiciously.

"Sure," Nick said, "fine."

Martin winked. "Look, why don't I wait for you outside?" He sauntered out, and that was when Nick saw the limousine, parked like a fat, black insect at the yard gate.

A crowd of children pressed against the fence, staring at it. Something deadly snaked through Nick, and all the paranoia of his dinner with Rachel came back in a flood. Rennie close enough to see her, to see the kids.

Rachel eyed the car. "Who is it?"

He jumped at the sound of her voice. "No one. Nothing," He pushed her back. "Get away from the door."

Uneasy, she glanced over his shoulder. "Why? What's the matter?"

"Look, I gotta go." He plunged into the yard, knowing the only way to keep Rennie away from them all was to get in that car.

"Wait a minute!" She ran after him, holding out a corner of recycled computer paper. "Here. It's my number at home. Go ahead, take it. In case you need someone to talk to."

Nick stared at her outstretched hand, feeling Rennie's eyes on her. "Go back inside. Take the kids with you."

"Fine, but here." She tucked the scrap of paper into his shirt pocket. "You don't have to use it, but I hope you will. At least let me know you're all right." She looked at him closely, her expression half worried, half exasperated, then went to sweep the kids away from the fence.

His mouth was so dry he couldn't have responded even if he wanted to. Instead he forced himself to walk past her, waded through the sea of kids, and faced the limousine at the curb.

Martin held the limo door open and bowed in mock servility. "Look who else came to see you," he said. "It's a regular family reunion."

"Hello, Nicky," greeted a familiar husky voice.

"Frank." Nick acknowledged the stocky man behind the steering wheel, A peasant stuffed into a suit, Frank had a round, dark face that showed stubble an hour after he shaved, and even in his sixties showed the outline of his beard. Not a subtle man, but a loyal one, he'd been Rennie's partner for more than thirty years.

Martin started to slide into the passenger section, but a third man spoke from deep inside the car."Why don't you keep Frank company," Rennie Spier said.

Anger flashed across Martin's face before he could paste on his grin again, but he did what he was told, waiting for Nick to get in and slamming the door behind him before getting in the front with Frank.

The car pulled away, and Nick gazed out the window. Rachel stood in the yard, still herding the kids inside. He kept his eyes on her until she disappeared, then focused on whatever passed by the window. Anything but Ren-

nie.

* * *

As Frank drove, he flicked an uneasy glance in the rearview mirror. The partition between front and back was closed so he couldn't see much, but that didn't stop his agitation. He took a Turns from the roll he kept on the dash and bit into it. Jesus, he wished they could bury Shelley and forget her.

Martin shifted in his seat "What do you think's going on back there?" His voice was sharp and tense. The man had been on edge for weeks. Ever since Rennie had started talking about Nick again.

Frank shrugged. "They're making peace."

"You didn't see the look on Nick's face when he saw me. If they're making peace, I'm my mother's uncle."

"Look, we all know how you feel about Nicky coming back."

"That's because he'll only make trouble and screw things up again."

"For who?"

A tiny, telltale pause. Then, "Fuck you, Frank."

Frank shook his head and glanced over at Marty, who was slumped in the seat, glowering out the window. Who could blame him for being aggravated? Nick was back. After six long years the prince was back.

* * *

On the other side of the partition separating driver from rider, Nick could feel Rennie's eyes on him. "Let me look at you," Rennie said, his voice gentle. Nick heard affection, and the encompassing familiarity of Rennie's accent. What was it exactly? Greece. Albania. Spain. He and Marty had countless arguments about it, but they never did find out. "You used to enjoy riding with me, remember?"

Nick's stomach shifted, and he was thirteen again, riding around like a king in the limo with Rennie. Yeah, he remembered. He remembered exactly what went on in Rennie's limousines. Bribes and handshakes. Smiles when the deal went through, threats when it didn't. Death and money were what this car was all about

"Look at me, Nick." Rennie's voice persuaded, coaxed, and demanded all at the same tune. It pulled at Nick like a magnet, separating him from his own will. He raised his eyes.

Six years evaporated hi an instant. Rennie was the same, The same. Thick white hair, crinkly blue eyes. Nearly seventy now, and still tough, still vibrant, still that enormous ... presence. His broad shoulders and massive arms were squeezed into a tweed sports coat, as if he were going to tea at the Plaza and didn't want to scare anyone. He was big. Still so big. Those huge hands. Christ, they had savaged Shelley's face. Choking on fury, Nick squeezed the armrest so hard he felt the outline of the steel frame beneath the leather.

"I've missed you," Spier said.

"Where are we going?" Nick watched the limousine enter the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

"Nowhere. For a ride. I just want to see you. Talk to you."

"Stay on this side of the river."

Spier smiled. "Sure, Nicky. Whatever you say." But Nick didn't say anything. He stared out the window to avoid looking at the other man. "The funeral is tomorrow," Rennie said into the silence. "I hope you will come."

Nick's gaze swiveled to Spier's face. He saw sadness there. Grief. "Seven years we were married, seven years for good luck." Rennie shook his head and smiled sadly. "I have no luck with women, Nicky. No luck at all."

Nick said nothing. A ten-year-old fragment of conversation floated up from his memory.

"Don't get too close to him, Nicky boy," the soft Irish lilt was saying in his head. "You think he's tame, you think he's civilized, but he ain't." Danny Walsh leaned in, whispering low. The smell of his beery breath wafted out with every puffy word. "He's tiger wild, and he don't like being crossed. Don't matter who you are. Ask him about his first wife if you don't believe me-go ahead, ask him. See what he says."

They'd been in a bar in Amsterdam;
Danny
was chasing the IRA dream: surface-to-air missiles that could take down British helicopters. Nick was in Amsterdam to make an initial assessment and possibly negotiate a deal. It was his first overseas assignment; he was young, just barely twenty-two, and though he'd been working for Rennie since he was sixteen, he still had something to prove to an old salt like Danny who liked to tease.

"Why don't you tell me yourself, Danny?"

"Because I can see by your face you wouldn't believe me." Danny smiled. 'That tiger's got you, boy-o, tight and fast. Do you love the old man, Nick? Do you love him like your da?" And Danny had laughed long and hard. But he'd told the story at last, after much coaxing, and a few more pints of Grolsch pilsner. "She was Cuban, Nicky, from the old crowd before Castro. And they take their politics real serious. Spier had a big deal going with one of their fancy brigades in Miami, and she found out he was selling to Fidel, too. So she told her father, and Spier lost the job."

"So you're saying he killed her?" Nick bristled, and Danny had shrugged ironically.

"She killed herself, Nicky, from the shame of it all." He winked. "At least that's the story they gave out." He leaned back in the booth and sighed. "She was lovely, was Mrs. Spier-dark and slender. I heard he did it himself, you know. Didn't they find traces of phenobarbital in her blood? He gave her enough to make her woozy, took her up to the roof, and helped her fly."

The limousine lurched, and Nick's memory jolted to a stop. They were at a traffic light. Frank made a left and another left, and they were back on the expressway again, heading east this time. The gentle rhythm of Spier's voice ticked on, and Nick realized he'd been speaking all along. Tears shone in the older man's eyes. They turned the icy blue into something almost warm. "You don't understand, Nicky. I am trying to tell you, but you do not understand." Spier was half laughing now, and something like joy blazed through the tears. "Shelly-she was like an oasis, full of water, fertile and ripe." He leaned forward and gripped Nick's arm. "It's a miracle, Nicky. A miracle. Like Abraham in the desert."

But Nick hardly listened. Images swam in his head. Shelley's swollen, bloody face as she stood in his doorway. The picture the cop had shown him the day before-her beautiful body twisted and broken, her glorious hair soaked in a blood-stained puddle. Suddenly he couldn't stand breathing the same air as Rennie Spier.

"Stop the car." Nick knocked on the partition, and Martin opened it. "Pull over, stop the car."

Spier gave Martin a curt shake of the head.

"Sorry, Nicky," Martin said.

But Nick had had enough. He lunged through the partition and grabbed Frank around the neck, squeezing his windpipe against the back of the seat. The car careened over the shoulder and back onto the road.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Martin fought to pry Nick's arm away and also steer the car.

"Pull over. Do it!"

"All right, Nicky, Jesus." Martin steered the wheel so the car skittered to the shoulder. It stopped with an abrupt squeal.

Nick shot out of the car so fast he tripped and had to scramble to keep his balance.

"Hey, Nick, wait a minute!" Martin's feet crunched on the loose gravel as he raced after Nick. "Come on, five more minutes. Can't we talk for five more rucking minutes?"

Martin grabbed Nick's shoulder. Without stopping, Nick pivoted and swung. The blow snapped Martin's head back. Fury flew into his eyes; he glared at Nick, and Nick glared back.

A slow grin surfaced on Martin's wide, fleshy face. He shrugged and held up his hands, signaling he was through. Nick backed up a step. He waited. But Martin didn't attack, he didn't move at all. Nick dropped his fists.

He was half turned around when Martin tackled him. Nick landed in the gravel of the shoulder, his face inches from the edge of the expressway. Cars raced by, humming speed. Martin pressed Nick deeper into the pebbles, his face closer to the edge. "Do it, Marty. Take my fucking head off. Go ahead, do it."

But Martin only pulled Nick to his feet. "I wish to God I could. It would put you out of your misery."

He shoved Nick back toward the limo. When Spier stepped out, Martin had Nick firmly pinned against it.

Nick met Spier's eyes. The older man's were hard and flat. Without blinking, he slapped Nick, hard enough to knock him down if Martin hadn't been holding him.

The power of it brought tears to Nick's eyes, but he blinked them away. His lip burned, and he tasted blood. But he kept his gaze on Spier. "What the hell do you want?'

Spier touched Nick's face, caressing his cheek and the cut lip. "I don't like to hurt you, Nicky. But I will."

Nick made himself stand still. "Go ahead. You think I give a fuck?"

Spier smiled and patted Nick's cheek. "There are many ways of hurting. Not all of them draw blood." He signaled to Martin to release his hold, then continued in a quiet voice. "We had a son, Shelley and I. A boy. He's disappeared. I want you to find him for me." He took out a pristine white handkerchief and handed if to Nick," indicating the blood on his face. "I need you, Nicky. Don't disappoint me again."

They bustled Nick into the car. This time Martin sat in the back, blocking Nick's access to the door. A thousand questions ran through his head, but he couldn't find his voice to ask a single one.

"I have a meeting," Rennie said. "Martin will tell you the rest."

They unloaded him and Martin in front of a diner, where the two of them sat in .edgy truce in a red leatherette booth. Nick ordered coffee and stared at the thin film of grease in the slowly congealing liquid, his thoughts thick and slow as sludge. Across the table, Martin's big frame hunched over a Greek salad. Spearing chunks of feta cheese, he gestured with his fork.

"Three months ago Shelley started disappearing every Sunday. Rennie thought she was getting some on the side, so he sent me after her. She's seeing a guy all right, but he's three feet tall and can't tie his shoes."

"How... how old is he?"Nick asked.

"Six," Martin said. "Almost six."

A ripple of silence passed between them. Did Marty know about Nick and Shelley? Nick had never said a word. He could only assume Shelley hadn't either.

Martin kept his gaze on his plate, fishing for a tomato. "She ran away after you left. Nearly drove Rennie out of his mind. First you, then her. Don't think he didn't put two and two together, either, because he did. But you weren't exactly keeping a low profile in the drunk tank, so we knew you weren't together. Shelley..." He shrugged. "She just disappeared."

Nick thought about that year, the year after he left Rennie. It was still a blur. An unending nightmare of sleeplessness, of drinking to keep the dream away, of scrounging whatever he could to keep from going back. Stealing, begging, nodding off on park benches until the dream woke him or the police woke him. Shelley had been smart not to tell him she was leaving. He would have sold her back to Rennie for the price of a six-pack.

"When did she come back?"

"A year later. Broke, sorry. And Rennie, you know him, he hits her a few times to remind her, and then all is forgiven. He buys her a new fur, new rings-the stuff she'd been hocking all year to keep her going-and it's like it never happened."

"No one runs away, has a kid, and doesn't tell for six years. It's crazy, why would she do that?"

Martin hesitated. Something almost like sadness flashed in his eyes before he looked back at his plate. "I don't know, Nicky. I don't know why she did half the crazy things she did."

Nick stared over his head, the craziest thing of all still unspoken between them, even after all this time. But if Martin knew about Nick and Shelley, he wasn't admitting it now. "She really hated Rennie," was all he said.

Nick watched a noisy group of women and children settle into a table. "Where's the kid been all this time?"

"With some aunt of hers no one knew about Way the hell out on the Island. Amagansett, Narragansett, something like that. That's where the kid was born, and that's where she dumped him."

"So what happened? Three months ago Shelley suddenly has a change of heart?"

"Three months ago the aunt died, and Shelley needed someplace else to stash the kid."

"Where?"

"I don't know. If I did, Rennie wouldn't need you, would he?" He shoved his plate away. "I'm not hungry. Let's get out of here." He peeled some bills from a roll and threw them on the table. "Come on, I'll call a cab."

Nick grabbed his arm. "Who beat her up, Marty? Did you and Rennie take turns working her over?"

Martin stiffened. "You're a sick bastard, you know that?"

"Yeah? Whose idea was it to run her down?"

"Don't do this, Nicky."

Nick slid out of the booth and stood. He leaned close so no one else would hear. "Rennie and I had a deal. I promised I wouldn't hurt him if he let me walk, and he did. I left, I kept my end of the bargain for six years. I'm not coming back, Marty. Not for him, not for his kid, not for anything."-

He left Marty and took a bus home, carrying die paper bag he'd packed at St. Anthony's. On the way, he bought a newspaper. He hadn't read the paper in years, but he needed a new job, so he'd start with the classifieds.

It was a psetty spring day, and several stores had tables outside. A dark-haired girl holding a toddler was combing through clothes racks. The child squirmed in her arms, waving his hands as Nick approached. He grabbed at Nick's shirt, and the girl said, "No, no, Sam," and at Nick, "I'm sorry."

The baby babbled happily as Nick passed. He felt the boy's eyes follow him down the street. He didn't
want to think about the baby. Or about fathers and sons. It wasn't his problem, he didn't have to get involved. But his mind kept floating back, doing the math, telling himself it was possible. Possible. Possible. The word echoed with every step.

Nick let himself into the basement apartment and put the bag on the counter near the sink. He threw the newspaper on the table. Ignoring the blaze of headlines about Shelley on the front page, he looked through the classifieds, tearing out whatever looked promising. Janitors, day laborers, anything that required no skill and few references. As long as he was nowhere near children.

That night he fell asleep in his clothes, the newspaper on the floor where he'd dropped it. The phone woke him. Bleary-eyed, he sat up, blinking away sleep. The phone rang again, and he shuffled over to answer it.

"We hear you're looking for a job," a voice on the other end said. "There's one waiting outside." The line went dead.

Nick rubbed his face, trying to wake up. The only window was in the door, but a curtain hid it. Cautiously, he lifted a corner and peered out into the impenetrable night. Nothing.