Sweetheart (15 page)

“I can live with that.”

“I would think so,” Gardella said tartly, which drew a slow look from Wade.

“Nothing comes cheap.”

“Who the hell ever said it did? By the way, your wife took the job at Rodino’s.”

“I know.”

“Consider it a bonus.”

Wade feigned not to hear. “The Toronto pitcher’s good. He’s throwing smoke. What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” Gardella said, “but he just struck out the side.”

Gardella left in the fifth inning, crumpling the scorecard and taking it with him. Wade waited until the eighth and joined many others jostling toward the exits.

• • •

While driving out of Boston, Supervisor Russell Thurston listened to a half inning of baseball and then tuned to a music station. His mood was good. He felt on top of things, as if no problem were too great to solve. He drove south to Scituate, to a complex of authentic Colonial buildings that had been restored and interconnected and were occupied by doctors, dentists, and various consultants. Leaving his car in the lot, he strolled to a grassy mall behind the buildings and sat on a bench. Though a few minutes early, he was surprised that Honey was not already there.

He slipped a pocket dictionary out of his coat pocket and studied a page, his lips silently shaping unfamiliar words. He was trying to learn Italian. He tucked the dictionary away when he saw a woman approaching. She was wearing a flannel blazer, a pleated skirt, and smoke-gray hosiery, and she was holding herself much too straight. Her hair was radically different, which was the reason his gaze was so intense.

“I almost didn’t recognize you in that wig,” he said with a touch of drollness, his smile an effective mask. He watched her eyes shift about nervously.

“This is a terrible place to meet.”

“I have a dental appointment here in fifteen minutes,” he said, “so let’s make it fast. What’s your problem?”

“I want out,” said Jane Gardella.

P
EOPLE
came onto the mall. An elderly couple strolled to a distant bench, and a woman with two children let the older one run loose. A man in a colorful track suit trotted by. Russell Thurston viewed all with slight interest and returned his gaze to Jane Gardella, who sat rigidly, holding a cigarette, her knees tightly crossed. “Don’t give me ultimatums,” he said icily and watched her head droop. The wig she wore was reddish.

“I’m not doing you any good,” she said in a dry whisper.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“It hasn’t worked, and it’s never going to.” Her voice faltered as if from a weird mix of feelings. “Tony tells me nothing.”

“You do all right,” Thurston said with vindictive calm as his eyes seemed to unpick her seams. “You’ve got eyes and ears and a brain. Keep using them.”

“Nothing is mine anymore, not even my life.”

“That’s your doing.”

“It’s yours.”

“I’m not going to argue.”

She smoked, spilling ash, brushing it from her lap. Listlessly she threw the cigarette away. It didn’t go far. Thurston extended a foot and stamped it out. She was silent, waiting until she could speak in a reasonable voice. Tears stood in her eyes.

“Don’t pull that on me,” he said. “It won’t work.”

She altered her angle of vision, unable to cope with her thoughts, all enervating in one way or another. The child running loose, a boy, was button-eyed. He ventured close and stared, his tentative smile vanishing when it received no encouragement. “Don’t bother the people,” his mother called, and he retreated.

With a shadow drawn across her face, Jane Gardella said, “Maybe I’ll just end it my own way.”

“That’s entirely your business,” Thurston said aloofly, “but it would be a waste. I know you’re not stupid, but are you self-destructive?”

“You’ve made it so I don’t know who I am.”

“Would you like me to tell you?”

“No.”

His voice drummed on. “You probably don’t care anymore, but we can still put Charlie away. He’s with another airline now, being a good boy.”

“I don’t care about Charlie, only myself.”

“And Gardella.”

“Yes, I care about Tony.”

“That’s what makes it all so amusing. You’re such a challenge, Honey. And such a bundle of contradictions.” He stood up, loomed over her. “But there’s something you must keep in mind. You could never run far enough from me or Gardella. It would only be a question of who found you first.”

She gazed up and could see under his chin, into his nose. He was the only person she had ever absolutely hated. For a number of seconds her eyes closed. She wanted to shut out not only his voice but his face. He reached down to touch her shoulder, but she dodged his fingers as if they were corrosive.

He said, “Are you through talking nonsense?”

Her hand moved itself without her knowing it. From her bag she removed sunglasses framed in golden metal and slipped them on. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” she said and prepared to rise. “The man I told you about is still living with Tony’s sister.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“Is he a killer or not?”

“Perhaps, but he’s not in your husband’s league.”

“Is Tony in danger?”

“Only from me,” Thurston said with a note of satisfaction. There was no appreciable breeze, but the air suddenly was cooler. He checked his watch. “I’m running late for my appointment.”

His voice chilled her more than the air did. She got to her feet and accepted his arm, part of the cover, which made her feel sordid. They walked toward the buildings, her step synchronized with his. Before they parted, she said, “I don’t like Wade. He scares me.”

“Refer to him by his code name,” Thurston said lightly. “That’s procedure.”

“Does he know about me?”

“No, Honey. That’s our secret.”

• • •

Agents Blodgett and Blue unthreaded their way out of a busy coffee shop in Government Center, where they’d had a late lunch. Blodgett had bolted his, an overstuffed roast beef sandwich, and was now paying the price, the discomfort inscribed on his face. He stopped short and suffered through a moment of abdominal torment as Blue watched without pity.

“It’s your own fault. You eat like a pig.”

“And you eat like you’re in a French restaurant. You put on airs.” Blodgett breathed deeply and rallied well.

They pushed onto the sidewalk, where the pump of the crowd accelerated their pace. The Kennedy Building was across the way, but they headed in a different direction, which distressed Blue. His eye went to his watch. It was his wife’s birthday, and he hoped to get home early.

“Someone for you to see,” Blodgett explained.

They entered a building, mounted a flight of stairs, and traveled a length of corridor to glass doors, the entrance to the Rodino Travel Agency. Standing to one side, Blue behind him, Blodgett peered through the glass. Beyond free-standing posters of sunny scenes was a bank of desks, Susan Wade at one of them. She was tastefully dressed in a business suit. Her hair had been cut and restyled, which in effect had unmasked her. Her long face stood out, the bonework prominent.

“You see her?” Blodgett asked.

“Wade’s wife, so what?” Blue craned his neck. “She looks like a nice lady.”

Blodgett reassessed her. “She looks her age.”

“Which is?”

“I forget.”

“Then how do you know she looks it?”

“You can tell,” Blodgett said with an air of worldliness and watched her answer her telephone. As she talked, she lined up pencils on her desk blotter and trued them at the points, a quiet task that touched Blue, as if it reflected a measure of her vulnerability. When she lifted her eyes, he tugged Blodgett’s arm.

“Let’s not get caught staring,” he said, but Blodgett showed no concern.

“I was in there once. You can’t see out.”

“What’s your interest in her?”

“Not mine — yours. Thurston wants no surprises.”

“Which means?”

“You’re the baby-sitter.”

“Why not you?” Blue asked aggressively.

“Thurston’s decision.”

“Where does she live?”

“Wellesley.”

“I’ll stick out.”

“It’s night work.”

They turned away, Blue with an odd twist, as if footsore. They retraced their steps, exited the building, pressed through the crowd, and crossed the divided thoroughfare between bursts of traffic. Ever-present pigeons flew up in front of them on the plaza. When they entered the foyer of the Kennedy Building, Blue said, “Do you think he’ll ever get sick of it?”

“What’s that?”

“Using people.”

“What are you so pissed off about?”

“Thurston. He knows it’s my wife’s birthday.”

• • •

On her way back to Hyde Park, Jane Gardella detoured into Dedham, where her mother lived. She parked her car hastily and badly, tucked her wig into her bag, and hurried past a privet hedge into a small brick apartment building. “It’s me,” she said some moments after pressing a button. Her mother buzzed open the inner door.

The apartment was airy and cool. Mrs. Denig had been napping and still had sleep in her eyes. The set of her mouth, somber and negative, hardened her jawline and took away something in general from her looks. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll make tea.”

“No, Mother, I can’t stay.”

“Then why’d you come?”

“Just a little favor,” Jane Gardella said awkwardly. “There’s no reason Tony should, but if he asks, I was here with you this afternoon.”

Mrs. Denig’s face went grim. “This is stupid of you. And dangerous.”

“It’s not what you think, Mother. It’s nothing really. Just do me the favor.”

“And not ask questions — is that what you’re telling me?” Mrs. Denig moved to another part of the room and rested her hands on the back of a chair. Her beauty was gone, but she had a magnificent neck. It sprang high above her open collar. “I was foolish when I was young, but I never married an Italian gangster twice my age.”

“Mother, please.”

“Yes, I know, you don’t want to listen. You never do.”

“I’m leaving,” Jane Gardella said nervously. “I don’t have time to argue.”

Mrs. Denig followed her to the door and placed a hand under her elbow. It was not particularly gentle. “You’re my daughter. I’ll do it this time, but don’t ask again.”

• • •

Agent Blue let himself quietly into his apartment. The television was playing, the end of the eleven o’clock news. His wife, still in her nurse’s uniform, though without her stockings, was lying on the couch. Her dusky legs were stretched to the fullest. He leaned over her, his hand listing over the shiny synthetic fabric of her uniform. “I’m sorry,” he whispered abjectly, and her face offered itself up to him.

“Have I ever bitched about your hours?”

“Never. But you deserve to, tonight of all nights.” He sighed. “I was watching a house in Wellesley.”

“Putting somebody to bed?”

“It amounted to that.” His tone became more wretched. “I didn’t have a chance to pick up your gift.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “Look what was delivered.”

He straightened and turned and stepped quickly toward a table. “Jesus. Roses.” A profusion of them rioted out of a fancy basket embellished with an enormous bow. “They must’ve cost two hundred bucks or more. Who sent them?”

“See for yourself.”

He read the card, read it twice. “ ‘With warmest wishes on your special day. Russell Thurston.’ ”

“You don’t look pleased,” she said, rising from the couch, joining him. She sniffed one of the roses.

“There’s a guy I can never seem to figure out.”

“Why try?”

“Because I want to stay alive,” Blue said.

• • •

Jane Gardella had nothing on except the towel she had wrapped around her head after washing her hair. Through the vapors the bathroom mirror returned a fluctuating image of herself. Her husband, peering in at her, said, “I can’t tell you how beautiful you are.”

“Yes, you can,” she said, “tell me.”

When he stayed silent, she had an acute sense that something was wrong, though her reason told her she was overreacting. He did not move; she did. Her kiss was a tremble against his mouth.

“Say something,” she whispered, for his silences always disturbed her. She read too much into them. Her damp breasts stretched into his hands.

“I love you,” he said. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“Yes.” Large portions of the day were vivid in her mind: Thurston’s unresponsive face, her mother’s dour one, one no less threatening than the other. She imagined her husband suddenly sweeping her off her feet, lifting her high, and holding her to the light, where every secret would be bared.

For a feverish second she considered confession.

Later, after they had meshed on the bed, she lay with him under the covers. The room was lit by the television, which was airing the news. He slung a lazy arm over her and said, “Something was different.”

“What do you mean?” she asked warily.

“You tell me.”

She adapted her breathing to his and forced herself to be calm. And to be quiet.

“It was like you were trying to prove something,” he said, “or tell me something … or hide something. You tried too hard.”

“I came.”

“You always come.”

She slipped away from his arm and propped herself on an elbow and looked at him with perfectly clear eyes. “Don’t be mad, Tony. I’ve just never felt comfortable in this house. I’m getting there, but I need more time.”

“Is it the house or me?” he asked in a dry voice that seemed to come out of the darkest part of him. “Or maybe you’re seeing somebody,” he added, and she flung him a desperate look of protest and hurt. The fear she kept hidden.

“Oh, Tony.”

“Then if it’s only the house, there’s a remedy. Rye.”

“Oh, yes,” she said eagerly and dared say nothing more. She was thankful when he blotted out the television with the remote-control device and threw the room into utter dark. She needed the anonymity. He gathered her up, and she pressed against him where the flesh had risen again.

O
N A WARM DAY
in May, deep inside the house at Rye, Anthony Gardella said to Christopher Wade,
“I
’d like you to meet one of my sons. This is Thomas, my youngest. Say hello to Mr. Wade, Tommy.” The youth who sprang uneasily from the upholstered chair, a paperback novel in his hand, was of middling height and had profound dark eyes and neatly styled black hair. He immediately struck Wade as indrawn and shy. There was a polite handshake.

“Home from college?” Wade asked.

“Yes, sir. I finished my finals early.”

“He’s dean’s list,” Gardella interjected, slinging a proud arm around him.
“I
wanted him to go to Harvard, but his mother always had her heart set on Holy Cross, religious reasons. We respected her wishes. Right, Tommy?” A solemn nod was given. With a smile at Wade, Gardella said, “He’s got his mother’s looks, my brains.”

The youth blushed.

Wade said quickly, “So you’re home for the summer?”

“No, sir. I’m taking a job at the Cape.”

“He’s going to be a beach bum,” Gardella said with an affectionate laugh.

“No, sir. I’ll be waiting tables.”

“He never asks me for a dime. Can you imagine that, Wade, in this day and age? Go back to your book, Tommy. Mr. Wade and
I
are going to talk on the patio.”

The patio was accessible past glass doors, which Gardella closed behind them. The tide was out, the beach immense. The ocean glittered hard. Some children were running along the surf at full speed, a playful race. Some distance away, also near the surf, was Jane Gardella, whom Wade sighted at once. She had on a red top and matching shorts and seemed to flame up. With no inflection, Wade said, “How does your son get along with his stepmother?”

“We don’t use that term. She’s my wife, that’s all. He accepts it. It’s not like he’s a kid anymore.”

“You going to bring him into your business?”

“Cut it out, Wade. Does he look the type?”

“What about your other boy, the marine?”

“Loves the military. Unless I’m misreading him, he’ll be a twenty-year man.”

“You sound glad.”

“I am. He was the one who worried me, too tough for his own good.” Gardella stepped to a table, set up glasses, and poured from a pitcher. Then he handed Wade one of the glasses. “It’s punch, a little vodka in it, not much. You’ll like it. Sit down, you make me nervous.”

Both men made themselves comfortable in chairs of canvas and wood. The punch tasted of white grape and peach and of something tart.

Gardella said, “Have we got things to talk about?”

“You can breathe a little easier about G&B Waste. We’re not pursuing it anymore. The company’s sins go too far beyond the Massachusetts line for our budget. That’s the good news. The bad is the DA wants me to send a courtesy copy of my report to the New Hampshire attorney general’s office. If you know somebody there who’ll sit on it, I’ll target it to his attention.”

After a half minute of silence, Gardella said, “I’ll give you a name later. What else you got?”

“Aceway Development. Its county contracts, worth millions, smack of rigged bidding. And it’s gotten unwarranted tax breaks for all its properties, some of which later go up in smoke. There’s also a matter of tricky financing with the Union Bank of Boston, which has written off too many of Aceway’s loans.”

“Everything was done aboveboard,” Gardella said without worry.

“I’ve got two good men, names of Danley and Dane, who say otherwise and think they can come up with hard evidence.”

“They’re hotdogs, shooting from the hip.”

“They’re smart boys. They’ve asked me to put pressure on the president at the Union Bank, a certain tax assessor, and the state senator who chairs the committee on counties.”

“But you’re not going to do that, are you?”

“I’m going to
try
not to do that. Remember, I can control the investigation only up to a point.”

A shadow cut momentarily across Gardella’s face. “By the way,” he asked in a voice laced with implication, “how does it feel to be a man of means?”

“I don’t know,” Wade replied. “You’re talking about money I’ll never touch.”

Gardella passed him an admiring smile. “You’re really playing this cozy.”

“Would you rather I be stupid?”

Gardella sipped his punch and slid a hand inside his cashmere sweater to scratch his chest. His eye lazily scanned the beach. His wife was no longer poised near the surf but drifting over the sand, the start of another one of her long walks. “I swear, she must hike ten miles a day. Yesterday I got scared and went looking for her.”

“She must like the ocean.”

“Loves it. Says it talks to her. What d’you say, Wade, am I a lucky guy?”

“I guess you are. You living here now?”

“She is. I commute when I can.”

“Like a suburban husband.”

“Almost.”

Inside the house the telephone was ringing. Gardella seemed not to hear it, though a muscle quivered in his face, as if from a shift of feeling. Soon the son parted the glass doors and said, “For you, Dad.”

“It always is,” Gardella said, rising.

Left alone, Wade stood up and gazed out at the beach. The glare made him blink. Jane Gardella had reversed direction, as if something were dragging her back to the house. Gulls tracked her for a distance. As she drew closer, Wade noted the tense frown that clouded her face. She saw him, and he felt bitter hostility as she stepped toward him and stopped close so that he felt her breath on his cheek.

“Listen to me,” she said. The cones in her pullover almost touched him as her voice thinned into something hard to hear.

“I’m listening.”

She spoke; he caught only the breath of the words, which sounded like “I’m watching you.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No.” His reaction to her unyielding stare was visceral and disquieting. “I didn’t hear you clearly,” he said, and she spoke again, in a voice only a shade more distinguishable.

“How I hate you all.”

Deftly she pulled away as Anthony Gardella returned to the patio, no longer in his sweater but dressed for travel, his son a slow step behind. She threw her husband an intense look of disappointment as he approached her. “I’m sorry,” Gardella said, “but I’ve got to get back.”

Wade also set himself to leave. With envy, he watched Gardella kiss his wife and pat her rear end, the pat meant to be secret. He heard Gardella say, “You stay, Tommy. The ocean air will do you good.”

Presently Wade found himself tramping with Gardella toward their separate cars. Gardella, when chauffeuring himself, drove a baby-blue Cadillac with spoked hubcaps. He opened the driver’s door, glanced back, and said grimly, “That was Scandura on the phone. There’s a problem.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“Too soon to tell. I’ll let you know.”

• • •

Victor Scandura was tallying figures in the rear room of Anthony Gardella’s real estate office on Hanover Street when he heard the front door open. He thought it was one of his people and did not look up. He was busily manipulating a twelve-digit calculator, a gift from a banker, and was particularly pleased with some of the subtotals. At the scrape of a shoe, his eyes darted up. The man peering in at him said, “Remember me?”

Scandura looked at him intently and drew a blank, though something was familiar about him. He advanced into the room, slowly, loutish in an ill-fitting suit and heavy shoes. The only thing Scandura knew for sure was that the man was wearing a weapon, for the bulge was unmistakable. “You’re a cop,” Scandura said impassively.

“You’re getting there.”

“I know more cops than I care to. Which one are you?”

“Think of me in a fur cap and a mackinaw. I got a mustache now, didn’t have one then.” A deep breath expanded the man’s chest. “I’m your friend in Greenwood did you the favor. The name’s Hunkins, you didn’t get it when we met. You were too busy throwing money away.”

Scandura did not bat an eye. “I don’t seem to remember that. I’m surprised you do.”

“I’m not the fastest guy in the world, you know what I mean?” Officer Hunkins gave out a playful smile. “But give me time and I figure things out. Then I need more time to decide what to do. That’s why I’m here, finally.”

Scandura sat braced, though he looked perfectly relaxed. He brushed aside two paper clips that were interlocked.

Hunkins said, “What you threw on the ground was okay, but it wasn’t enough for what went down that night on Steuben’s Bluff. That was no accident, pal. D’you want me to say more, or d’you figure I’ve said enough?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Maybe it’s Mr. Gardella I should talk to. Maybe you don’t see the seriousness.”

Scandura sat back and suffered, or perhaps enjoyed, a silent moment of flatus. “What’s on your mind, Hunkins?”

“I’ll make it simple. I’m sick of Greenwood. I don’t like the winters there. I know cops who retire early to Florida, get themselves a trailer, and live well. Nothing but sunshine. I think they call that the good life.

“And you want the money to make it happen. What are you talking — five figures?”

“Six,” said Hunkins.

“Then maybe you oughta buy a Megabucks lottery ticket.”

Hunkins suddenly jerked back, wrinkling his nose. “What the hell did you do — shit?”

“It’s what I think of you,” Scandura said evenly, watching Hunkins turn red. “You got a lot of balls but no brains.”

“You think I’m a dummy coming here like this, huh?” Hunkins tore open his jacket and exposed the bulk of his holstered weapon. “This is a fucking magnum you’re looking at. You guys want to fool with me, think twice.”

“Relax, Hunkins.”

“Then don’t pull my chain. You don’t want to do business, say so. I happen to know somebody who’d love my information, and I’d testify against you greaseballs in a minute.”

Scandura smiled with infinite calm, his eyes cold and impenetrable behind his spectacles. “You’re right. This is a decision for Mr. Gardella. How long you going to be around, Hunkins?”

“Coupla days, no more.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Where I’m staying’s my business, but it don’t bother me none you knowing. Howard Johnson’s, Kenmore Square. You guys get any funny ideas, just remember I sleep with the magnum, and if you think that’s a lie, call up my wife, collect.

I’ll give you the number.”

“I’ll tell Mr. Gardella.”

“Tell his sister too.” Hunkins winked. “See, I know everything.”

After Hunkins left, Scandura waited several minutes before picking up the phone and pressing out a number, which included the area code for New Hampshire. When he got an answer on the other end, he said, “Let me speak to your father, Tommy.”

• • •

Rita O’Dea returned home bearing gifts from a day of shopping. No one was there to lavish them on except Sara Dillon, who was only half-dressed and looked as if she had just gotten up. Ty O’Dea was visiting old haunts in South Boston, and Alvaro was playing softball for a Hispanic team in Brighton, or at least that was what he had told Rita O’Dea. She had only partly believed him and did not much care if he was doing something else. “What do you think of this?” she asked, ripping the lid off a Jordan Marsh box and pulling out a man’s powder-blue sports jacket with silver piping. “It’s for Ty.”

“Yes,” Sara Dillon said tactfully. “That’s Ty’s taste.”

Rita O’Dea had an ear. “But not yours.”

“Yes, I like it too.”

“Wait till you see this.” She plucked up an elegant little case, clicked it open, and offered up for show a gold Seiko watch. “That’s for Ty too. I got one just like it for Alvaro so that nobody gets jealous.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“My mood. Don’t question it.” She reached for something behind her. “This is for you,” she announced and produced earrings from Shreve, Crump & Low. “I got myself a pair too. Cute, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what to say. Rita, I — ”

“Now comes the important stuff,” she interposed and upended a voluminous shopping bag. Within the moment she was displaying booties, belly bands, and all the other tender little garments for swaddling an infant. “I picked pink. I play the odds.”

Sara Dillon’s eyes filled. “It’s a girl I want.”

“There are ways of telling now.”

“Ty wants to be surprised.”

The two women were kneeling on opposite sides of a cocktail table, wrappings thrown around them. Sara Dillon’s breasts, which had swollen in the past week, were visible. Her abdomen had begun to thicken. Rita O’Dea could almost feel the heat of the pregnancy. She said, “Ty never had to have himself fixed. I couldn’t have had a kid anyway. I should’ve known.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nobody’s fault but mine. I screwed myself up when I was a teenager. Bad abortion. A late cousin of mine arranged it. That’s something my brother doesn’t know, thank God.”

“I’m surprised you’ve told me.”

“We’re women, aren’t we?”

A silence fell as Sara Dillon began smoothing wrappers, tidying up, her unbrushed hair dropping over her face. Rita O’Dea struggled to her feet, fought a charley horse in her left leg, and swabbed her moist face with a large sleeve. Her stomach lurched, and she experienced a mild dizziness. Her smile was rueful.

“It’s like I’m pregnant, not you.”

• • •

Inside Russell Thurston’s office in the Kennedy Building, Agent Blue said, “It’s a waste of time, believe me. She doesn’t go anywhere. She works late, goes to bed early. No boyfriends. Besides, we’ve got her phone tapped. What more do we need?”

Thurston, making a show of patience, tilted back in his executive chair. “You’re being belligerent. Why?”

“I’m working a lot of extra hours.”

“Take the mornings off. I’m not unreasonable.”

“We’re using Wade. Why do we have to use his wife too?”

“Get your facts straight, Blue. The wops involved her, I didn’t.”

“Why do you call them wops? Shouldn’t we be above that?”

“Let me make it simple for you. Not all Italians are wops, but all wops are Italians.”

“I see. With that logic, you could also say — ”