“One at a time. And like I told you - no tricks.”
When both women had been to the bathroom he followed them into the bedroom, sat down in one of the chairs, the gun held loosely in his lap.
“I’m real sorry there isn’t enough heat,” he said affably. “Maybe I’m used to the cold more than you. But this’d be a nice place in the summer. I didn’t know any places like this where I come from.”
The old Polish neighbourhood near the Loop in Chicago had had no citizens who could afford a summer cottage; as a kid you spent your time looking for fire hydrants to turn on as your only relief against the heat. In the winter the family apartment never had enough warmth, but his old man had
never spent any money to improve the heating system. Always and forever talking about how much worse things had been in the goddam Old Country.
“Carole - ” said Sylvia.
He stiffened, his hand tightening on the gun. “How’d you know her name?”
“You haven’t been too careful about your names, either of you.” Sylvia was watching the gun carefully. “When we first got into the truck, she called you Abel.”
“You’re too fucking smart - “
“All right, watch your language!” said Lisa; then she looked at the gun in his hand. “Sorry. That sounded ridiculous, considering.”
He looked down at the gun, then back at them. He smiled and relaxed. “Yeah - ridiculous. But if that’s the way you want it - okay, no language. Carole doesn’t like it either, you know? She says they degrade the language, there’s no eu-eu - “
“Euphony?”
“Yeah - no euphony in four-letter words. I tell her where I come from euphony would’ve dropped dead before it was born.”
“Carole has obviously had a better life than you,” said Sylvia. “Do you resent the luck she’s had?”
“Luck? You’re right there - I mean for guys like me. But how much have you had to depend on luck? The day you were born everything was mapped out for you. We did a lot of research on you, you know? Maybe we know more about you than you do yourself.”
“Perhaps,” said Sylvia, and wondered how many pages she had left unopened on herself.
“The day I was born,” said Lisa, “the Germans came into the house next door and shot dead a man and his three sons. They were going to shoot my father too, but my mother got out of bed and told them to shoot her and me as well, that she wouldn’t want to live without my father. I was lucky that the officer in charge of the Germans was a family man.”
“Why were they gonna shoot your father?” Abel knew very little of that war: it was ancient history to him, fought and done with five years before he was born.
“Reprisal. The Resistance had killed a German soldier. The local commander always operated on a ratio of five to one as a punishment.”
“You were lucky, then.” Sylvia had barely been touched by that war: her father had been too old to go to it, she had had no brothers who had fought in it. She realized how lucky she had been and she looked at Lisa with new interest.
“I believe in it,” said Lisa. “I believe it affects everyone. It was pure luck that I met my husband.”
She lapsed into silence when she mentioned Scobie; Sylvia, and even Abel, caught the sudden sadness in her. Abel, to divert himself, stared at Sylvia, the woman for whom he would never have any sympathy.
“Nothing like that ever happened to you, eh?”
“When did it ever happen to you ?” Sylvia demanded with some spirit.
Abel smiled, unruffled. “Nothing like a war, I’ll admit -I run away from them. They were looking for me for Vietnam, but they never caught up with me. But I’ve met plenty of pigs who believe in punishment like the Nazis -someone causes some trouble, they pinch five guys just to make sure. They call it keeping law and order.”
Sylvia had a sudden moment of insight. “Is that part of the reason we’ve been kidnapped? You don’t like my husband’s ideas on law and order?”
You’d never understand even if I told you, he thought. All his life authority had been a stifling weight pressing down on him from above: his old man, the nuns, the priests, the cops. His old man had believed in an ordered system: authority had to be obeyed or everything collapsed. He had exercised his own authority in his family with a leather belt and occasionally his fist; Abel had run away from home the day he had finally flattened his old man in a fight. The authority of the nuns and priests had just been something to
jerk his thumb at, but that of the pigs had been another matter. You didn’t jerk your thumb at cops in Chicago and get away with it.
“They’re all the same.” The affability of a few minutes ago had gone; the thin face behind the dark glasses had the same cold, bony look it had had this morning. “Nobody’s got any say but them. That’s the way they see it.”
“You’re wrong - “
“No. You’re wrong. Because we got the say now and if they don’t listen to us - “
Abruptly he stood up and went out, locking the door behind him. The two women, sitting on their beds, each wrapped in a blanket, looked at each other. The temperature was not as low as they believed, but fear and hopelessness had reduced their resistance; no matter what the temperature was, they felt cold and would remain sleepless because of it. The lash of the rain against the shutters outside only added to their feeling that this room was an ice-box. That and the hate-filled man who had just left the room.
“I don’t understand why we’re still here,” said Lisa, and tried not to sound petulant. She looked up at the boards covering the window, suddenly feeling as claustrophobic as Sylvia must have felt in the hood when they were in the truck. It occurred to her that she had never spent any length of time in a room with no view; even to look out of a window across a narrow street gave one some sort of perspective. She was a long way from becoming completely unnerved, but she was beginning to understand how some people could go insane when faced with nothing but four walls. One needed an occasional glance at the world outside: even strangers seen at a distance had their uses. She looked back at Sylvia, still half a stranger to her. “Surely they’ve released those men by now.”
“I’m sure my husband is doing all he can.” Sylvia, in her turn, tried to sound patient. “But it isn’t just up to him. He has to go to the District Attorney and the Court.”
“You sound as if you know the whole procedure.”
“I’ve been working it out while we’ve been here. I know City Hall backwards. My whole married life has been political, one way or another. My husband was a junior Congressman when we married. He was only twenty-six. Perhaps we should have stayed in Washington,” she mused. “Life would have been much simpler.”
“I don’t understand the American political system - why would your husband leave Washington to come back here to New York ? I’ve read what a terrible job it is. Isn’t it supposed to be the worst job in America, worse even than being President?”
“I think so.” Then she said half-jokingly, “I’ll tell you if my husband ever gets to be President.”
“Would you like to be in the White House?”
Sylvia was too shrewd to let her ambition show in her face. “Why do you ask?”
“I read that some Presidents’ wives never wanted to be there. Mrs Truman, for instance.”
But what of the dozens of wives who loved every minute of their husbands’ Presidency? And I’d be one of them. She closed her eyes, was warm for the moment with the dream. “I think it would depend on the times and the circumstances. If it could be a trouble-free time, no foreign war to worry about, no economic recession, no law and order crisis - ” She opened her eyes, realizing she was taking the dream too far: Paradise already had its Chief Executive. “But no President for the next ten years is going to be that lucky.”
“Would your husband like to be President?”
No: how often had the accusation been there on the tip of her tongue to fling at him. Ambition and love had several times almost torn her apart; Michael and she had fought and he had never really understood what had spurred on her fury. She did not answer Lisa’s question but asked one of her own: “Do you and your husband have any secrets from each other?”
“I - I don’t know.” The question had exposed something
of the Fortes: they had secrets. “I suppose in a way we don’t really know each other yet, so there are bound to be secrets. Perhaps there always will be. Are there?”
“You mean after you’ve been married for years? Yes, I think so. They’re not always deliberate - ” She lay back on her pillow. She felt suddenly penitent for everything she had not told Michael: love should have no secrets. And she did love him, had never even thought of another man after she had met him.
“What are you thinking about?” Lisa was massaging her jaw as her tooth, forgotten for most of the day, began to ache again. If only I’d listened to Scobie, got the hotel desk to recommend a dentist, I’d not be here …
“Myself. Doing a little self-examination.”
“That’s what prisoners are supposed to do, aren’t they? But if they do, why don’t they all come out better men?” Lisa was silent for a while, absent-mindedly stroking her jaw. “I’ve been thinking too. Wondering if we’ll come out of this alive.”
“Don’t!”
They faced each other across the space between their beds. “It’s possible, though, isn’t it? That boy Abel hates us.”
“My husband will give them what they want - “
“You said he would have to go to the Court? What if they refuse to release those men? What if they say the system of law is more important than us - our lives?”
“No - ” But she knew the maze through which Michael would have to fight his way.
Lisa said slowly, “I think we should try to escape from here. I don’t want to trust to the luck of what’s happening back at City Hall.”
Chapter Six
“It’s only your wife’s photo,” said Jefferson, handing the photograph to Malone. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told the butler to tell you I had something for you. You were expecting some news, weren’t you?”
Malone nodded, looked at the photo of Lisa, then put it carefully away in his wallet. “Did you run off the copies?”
“They’ve gone out to all the newspapers and wire services and TV stations. Trouble is - “
“Yes?”
“By the time they appear, your wife and Mrs Forte should be safe.”
“Should be?”
“Will be.” Jefferson looked at the Forte children standing in the doorway of the study. “We’ll have your mother back here first thing in the morning. We’re making progress - “
“I’d like to talk to the Captain,” said Malone, and led Jefferson towards the living-room. He glanced back and saw Roger and Pier still standing in the doorway of the study, their young faces aged with suspicion, the faces in every cop’s gallery. Christ, don’t they trust me? Have they forgotten I have as much to lose as they have? He closed the door of the living-room. “Did Denning tell you about the phone call just then?”
Jefferson nodded. “I wouldn’t count on anything coming of it.”
“A bloke named Frank Padua came here tonight, tried to offer a deal to the Mayor. When I asked the woman who rang if she knew Padua, she hedged.”
“Did you get the impression that she knew Padua?”
“I couldn’t tell - I’m not very good at reading voices over the phone. I was trying to keep her talking, so I told her that
Padua said he was their go-between. That seemed to hit her -she said nothing for quite a while, as if she were thinking about it, then she just hung up.”
“Did the Mayor give you a rundown on Padua?” Malone nodded. “What was the deal?”
“They didn’t get down to specifics.” Malone outlined the conversation with Padua. “The Mayor thought Padua was flying a kite, but I don’t know. From the reaction of that woman, maybe Padua does know something, does have a connection that can help us.”
“Padua with the Mafia? It’s possible, I suppose. I don’t know him well. He was never in my precinct and by the time I got down to Headquarters he’d sort of retired from politics.”
Malone picked up Padua’s card from the side table where it still lay. “That’s his address. I’d like to go and see him.”
“Officially or unofficially?”
“Here, I’m very unofficial. I’m not even an ordinary citizen with a vote.”
“Don’t be sour with me, Scobie. I’m on your side.”
John Jefferson over the past year had almost lost interest in being a policeman; all he looked forward to was retirement. When he had first joined the force he had had no ambition beyond reaching Sergeant; he had surprised both himself and Mary, his wife, at how well he had done in the examinations for promotion. But even when he had reached Lieutenant he had not thought he would get beyond it and had been content. He had not first a^t appreciated it, but his lack of ambition had been the reason for his popularity and also the reason why Commissioner Hungerford had promoted him to Captain and brought him into Headquarters as a special assistant. But he had soon realized that he was no more than window-dressing, another black face with its propaganda value; the job had been given to him because the really ambitious, black or white, would not have wanted it. He was a twenty-thousand-dollar-a-year reception clerk, a widower who had too much time to think about his dead
wife, to think about politics, to wish for escape into a retirement that might be dull but would at least not call for a blind eye to principles.
“Enough to come with me?” Malone told him of the Mayor’s threat to arrest him if he tried to see Padua.
Jefferson chewed on his bottom lip, then shrugged. “Why not? Sure, I’ll come.”
Malone, having invited him, now looked at him carefully, not wanting to bring the other man out on a limb that might break off under them. “Officially or unofficially?”
Jefferson sighed. “I don’t really care. I been sitting on my ass for four years - now they got me on my feet, they can’t be too surprised if I sometimes walk into the wrong house.”
Malone grinned, the adrenalin of optimism running in him again if only because he too was off his arse and on his feet. “I’ll get my raincoat. It sounds a bastard of a night.”
“It could get worse.”
Malone told the Forte children he was going out but did not say where.
“Are you going to see this Mr Padua?” said Roger.
“Are you trying to be a detective?”
“No offence, Inspector, but a cop is the last thing I’d want to be - none of the guys would speak to me.” Malone and Jefferson exchanged resigned expressions. “But you didn’t answer my question, Inspector.”
“Okay, yes, I’m going to see Mr Padua. But I don’t think you’d better tell that to anyone, least of all your father.”
“Good luck, Inspector,” said Pier, cool and political. “We want Mother back any way you can find her.”
Malone and Jefferson went out a side door, avoiding Denning, who was in a small waiting-room off the main hall. As they got into Jefferson’s car he said, “I came off duty at eight - I’m due back at eight in the morning, an hour before the deadline. Another guy and I are splitting the liaison duty between us.”
“So it’s going to be an unofficial visit after all?”
“Isn’t a cop supposed to be always on duty?”
“Will it get you into any trouble?”
“Depends what results we get. You get the right result and up top they’ll always turn a blind eye to how you got it. You better slide down out of sight till I get away from here. There are some newspaper guys parked across the street. They wanted to come in, but Denning wouldn’t let ‘em. He hates ‘em and they hate him. Makes for a nice little rapport in a situation like this.”
Malone slid down in the seat, feeling ridiculous, even criminal. “I’m beginning to feel like Ned Kelly.”
“Who’s he?”
But Malone didn’t want to go into that again. “Feller I knew back home. Okay to come up?”
“All clear. Jesus, what a night! They’ve closed all the airports between Washington and Boston, did you know that?” Jefferson drove the car across to Second Avenue and headed downtown, driving carefully and leaning forward to peer through the windscreen that seemed to be dissolving under the amount of rain hitting it. “I dunno where the hell we’re gonna have to take those jerks to put them on a plane for Cuba.”
Malone sat quietly in the corner of the seat, now and again flinching instinctively as water was flung up by a passing car. Still flashing on his memory were the images of the Fortes and behind them Lisa and himself. Worry had gone further, into deep loneliness; without admitting the surrender he was already accepting the possibility that Lisa might not return; this was the delayed repayment for that month of windfalls. The optimism he had felt as he had come out of Gracie Mansion had gone as suddenly as his hat might have been whipped away from his head by the wind. This short trip through the storm-distorted night was only a diversion, something to distract him through the sleepless hours till they brought him the final dreadful news. What was it he had thought about his mother and the Irish digging of graves ?
“You don’t want to give up hope,” said Jefferson.
Malone looked up, puzzled and surprised. Were the blacks, like the Celts, also digging graves before they were needed ? “I’m still hoping,” he said defensively.
“Not then, you weren’t. I’ve seen that look on too many other faces, Scobie. You’d recognize it yourself if you looked in a mirror.”
“Would you be optimistic if you were in my place?”
Jefferson pulled the car up at a red light: it glowed like a bleeding eye through the water running down the windscreen. “If you want the truth - and I think you do - no, I wouldn’t be optimistic. Kidnappers are a different breed of criminal from any other. For one thing, there are practically no professional kidnappers, guys who make a career of it. Professionals at anything usually act to a pattern, it’s part of being professional. They apply logic and that’s the main thing that helps us cops - you can always apply logic against logic and come up with some sort of answer. With kidnappers - ” The blood turned to creme-de-menthe; and Jefferson drove on. “You never know what the bastards are gonna do. Especially political kidnappers.”
“So why did you tell me not to give up hope?”
“What else did you expect me to say?” Jefferson glanced at Malone and the latter understood the look and the question: the black man was offering his friendship.
Then Jefferson turned the car down a cross-street, slowed to look for a parking spot, found none and finally double-parked. “I don’t think there’ll be any squad cars out on a night like this handing out tickets. One of the advantages of being a police captain is you can always get traffic violations fixed. My small contribution to corruption.”
“I do the same thing back home,” said Malone, making his small contribution to friendship.
Jefferson wound down his window, peered out through the rain. “That’s the address. Padua’s doing all right if the whole house is his. You own a town house in this area, you’re paying maybe a quarter of a million bucks for it. Even the taxes would break me.”
They ran up the few steps through the rain, huddled against the grille guarding the front door. Malone could not see much of the house, but it did not look large; for a quarter of a million dollars he would have expected Buckingham Palace or maybe the Vatican; not a house that looked no more than thirty feet wide and seemed to be no more than three or four stories high. And had no garage: a suburban man, he shook his head at such a lack.
The front door opened and a young, white-jacketed manservant looked cautiously out at them through the grille. Jefferson introduced Malone and himself, showed his badge; the manservant surveyed them suspiciously, then let them into the narrow hall and went away to see his master. Jefferson looked after him. “I thought he was gonna leave us out there in the rain. They don’t like us.”
Malone didn’t know who they were and he didn’t know whether Jefferson, when he said us, meant blacks or a cop. “Who are they?”
“Puerto Ricans. He’s one.”
And I think I’ve got problems back home: at least there the dislike of a cop is simple and all of one colour.
The manservant came back, face as blank as the back of his hand, told them Mr Padua would see them and led them upstairs to the most sumptuously furnished room Malone had ever been in.
Sumptuous was not the word Malone thought of; but even he, a man of not much taste, who judged rooms only on the comfort of their beds or chairs, knew that someone had gone too far in the furnishing of this particular room. There was nothing in it that was garish, but somehow he knew there was too much of everything: too many pictures on the walls, too much rich comfort in the chairs and sofas, too many valuable ornaments, too much expense. This is a rich man who has let someone else spend his money while he thinks he’s been buying advice. Then Malone grinned at himself, the count-the-pennies big-time spender who knew when other people spent too much. Then he remembered Lisa’s
gentle ribbing of his stinginess and the memory was too poignant; he acknowledged Padua’s greeting with a brusque nod and turned his face away. Padua stared at him for a moment, then looked at Jefferson.
“Is this an official visit, Captain? Did Inspector Malone suggest it?”
“No-on both counts, Mr Padua. But I can call up Headquarters and have them make it official if that’s the way you want it.”
“Let’s see what you have to say first.”
Padua gestured them to chairs, but remained standing in front of the big marble-surrounded fireplace. The wrought-iron grate held small logs of wood that looked to Malone as if they might be taken out every day and dusted, but there were no smoke stains around the fireplace and he wondered when a fire had last been lit in it. A fire would only have been another unnecessary ornament to the room: the central heating was much too warm for Malone’s comfort.
Jefferson looked at Malone and the latter took the hint: since their visit was unofficial, maybe he’d like to do the talking. “Mr Padua, after you left tonight I talked to one of the kidnappers - a woman.”
“What did she have to say?”
I’d hate to play this bloke poker: he’d play his cards from inside his pocket. “I mentioned your name to her- “
He waited for a reaction, but Padua’s face was as smooth and cold as the marble behind him. “So?”
“She said she was not prepared to have you or your connections come into the act unless you were going to help her and her partner. Otherwise -” Malone glanced at Jefferson, but the latter was looking at Padua, not a hint on his big dark face that he felt any puzzlement or surprise at Malone’s lie. Talking about professionals, Malone thought …
“Otherwise?” said Padua, another professional.
“She implied they had not let off their last bomb.” Christ, what am I saying? I am borrowing threats from
people who hate the society I am supposed to respect, I’m graduating by proxy to guerilla warfare to get my wife back. And yet why not ? What else did he value in life more than Lisa?
For the first time Padua showed some reaction. He had long ago lost any fear of physical violence; he had been inoculated against it in boyhood. Unlike Sam Forte he often looked back. Sometimes in early spring, when bitter nostalgia ran in him like a fever, he would call for his car and be driven downtown to Battery Park, the eyepiece to the telescope back to the past. He would look south and over towards the Jersey shore: there in the cold March winds he had worked with his father, taking their boat out as soon as word came in that the shad were running. There had been fights with other fishermen, with no quarter given for his being only a boy; at fourteen he had had his skull laid open by a bailing-hook wielded by a man old enough to be his grandfather. His father had died violently, shot in the back in a waterfront brawl. Frank Padua had been sixteen then and, covered in his father’s blood, he had carried the body to the parish church so that the priest could administer the last rites to Angelo Padua before his soul was as cold and useless as his body. Frank Padua then and now did not fear for anything that might happen to himself.