The Kaisho (60 page)

In the shower together, Margarite said, “I’ve been telling myself that last night was just a fling, a hunger made irresistible by frustration and gratitude.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“No,” she said, washing the soap from her body, “but I wish I did. It would make the future so much simpler.”

She was about to step out when he took her in his arms, turned her to face him. His flesh-and-blood hand covered a large black-and-blue mark on her thigh. She looked at the back of her hand for a moment before taking his biomechanical hand between hers, pressing it against her breasts.

They had nothing to dress in but their old clothes. The buttons of Croaker’s shirt were scattered over the floor, testament that last’s night passion had not been a dream.

“There must be somewhere in town we can buy jeans and shirts,” Margarite said.

Croaker watched her draw on her clothes. “You’re never going home again, are you?”

She looked at him. “How could I? The old Margarite is dead.”

“I guess the only problem is Tony doesn’t know that, and you’ll never be able to convince him that it’s the truth.”

“Don’t worry about Tony,” Margarite said as she stuck first one foot, then the other into her shoes.

“I don’t think either of us has a choice right now. A couple of his wiseguys have spent the night across the street.”

Margarite clacked across the floor to peer out the window.

“The black Taurus to the left of the chicken-and-seafood place.”

“Yeah,” she said. “There’s a Lincoln Town Car with it now.” She turned to him. “If you’re ready, let’s go.”

Outside, a chill, wet breeze from the water swept across their backs, stirred Margarite’s still-damp hair. As they set off across the deserted street, the front doors of the Taurus opened and the two wiseguys Croaker had seen last night emerged. He was pleased to see that their clothes were as rumpled as his, and they weren’t half as relaxed.

The one who had bought the coffee and sandwiches went to the Lincoln, opened the rear door. Out popped Tony DeCamillo. He stood, legs slightly spread, shooting his cuffs, eyeing them as they headed in his direction.

Croaker had a weird, almost suprareal sense of being in the middle of a western shoot-out, the climax to a wild and woolly tale of hatred and revenge.

When they were halfway across the street, the two wiseguys made a move, but Tony D. turned, put his hands flat on their chests, said something to them under his breath. They halted, contented themselves with glaring at Croaker, their hands hanging loosely at their sides. He expected they blamed him for their long, uncomfortable night.

On the far side of the street, Margarite turned to him and, as he suspected her husband had done with his men, said, “Stay here. Let me handle this alone with Tony.”

It was not so much bravery that motivated her, Margarite thought as she and Tony came together, but an innate sense of practicality. She knew that the worst thing she could have done was to have them all meet, Tony with his wiseguys, she with Croaker. Then the situation would be defined in male terms, would degenerate into a macho thing, and violence would almost inevitably follow. She would not allow that.

“Babe,” Tony said, his dark eyes sliding from her face to stare at Croaker. “You spend the night with this jamoke?”

“Why would it matter to you?”

“Jesus H. Christ. Because you’re my fuckin’ wife is why!”

Not
because we’re married.
The difference said it all about their relationship.

“Then look at me,” Margarite said sharply. “Not him.”

His eyes flicked to her. “I got problems that have to be solved.”

“We’ll solve them.”

“You walked out on me. You stashed the kid—”

“Francine!” She almost lost it then, raising her voice so that Croaker and the wiseguys could hear. “Our daughter’s name is Francine.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His lips pursed. “I’ll find out where you stashed her. You think I won’t?”

Margarite could only wonder at the changes at work inside her. The force of his familiar intimidation now only served to harden her resolve.

“Oh, I have no doubt of it,” she said. “But by then I’ll have moved her. And I’ll do it again and again.” She shook her head. “No matter what you think now, Tony, you’ll never get her. And, d’you know something, the harder you try the more she’ll hate you, and then you’ll have lost everything.”

There was a small silence. In the interval, she could hear his breathing and she wondered briefly how high his blood pressure had shot up. Behind her, she could hear intermittent traffic start up, and closer, the sharp scrape as Croaker shifted uneasily from one foot to another.

Tony leaned in so his face was very close to hers. He was wearing too much cologne and hadn’t shaved. She was glad to see evidence of the haste with which he had made the trip here.

When he spoke again, his tone was lower, more conciliatory. This was the soft Tony. “You know you’re acting nuts, babe. I don’t know what to make of it, but you’re making me look bad in front of the boys. What with recent events and rumors of the Leonfortes making a move, I got to tell you morale is kinda on a slide. I need you back home, babe; you belong at my side.”

“The only one who’s acting here is you, Tony. Macho Tony, tender Tony. You’ve shot your load now; you’re finished. That’s all you ever had. It took me all this time to face up to the fact it’s not nearly enough for me. Now it’s time for you to face up to reality.”

He squinted at her, not knowing what to make of this curious creature.

“Cut the bullshit,” he said menacingly. “What it boils down to is you don’t need me as an enemy.”

“Oh, Tony, I don’t want us to be enemies. But we can never go back to the way it used to be.”

“That’s the only thing I want, and I’ll move heaven and earth to make sure it turns out that way.” Now he sounded like a petulant child.

“I’m not going to divorce you, so don’t worry about that. At least for now there’s one compelling reason not to leave you, because we need each other. It’s what Dominic counted on, you being the mask for me. Without your male facade, I can’t work effectively continuing Dom’s work. Without me, you’re without Dom’s contacts. Six months from now, at the outside, the Family will abandon you and you’ll be a pariah.”

“The hell I will!”

She said nothing, knowing that he needed time to digest the truth, find a way to make it palatable, to save face.

“Ah, shit,” he said at last. “The truth is, I’ve already had trouble with certain factions of La Famiglia. The Infantes, the Dellarcos. I’m used to overcoming corporate infighting to save a client’s ass. This is a whole other ball game. These fuckin’ greaseballs—”

They both laughed, the first time they had done so in a very long time.

“Yeah,” Margarite said, “these fucking greaseballs can be a handful and a half when they get out of line.”

“Maybe we do need each other.” But his dark eyes were wary. “You coming home now?”

“Not yet. There’s still some business to be settled.”

“With him.” He gestured toward Croaker with his chin.

“He’s part of it.”

“Well, shit, babe, I don’t know. I ran a check, got all the skinny on him. Your friend’s not a fed.”

“I know. He told me. He’s an ex-cop. NYPD, out of Homicide. He’s even a little famous in the annals of the city.”

“Christ Almighty, babe, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Margarite felt the double flip of her heartbeat. ‘‘So do I.”

“This is the kind of jamoke your brother always warned me about.” He reached out, was about to touch her, then apparently thought better of it. His hands hung loosely at his sides. “I want you to be very careful with this man.”

“Don’t worry.”

“How can I help it? Something about you with this lawman makes my hackles rise, you know what I mean, like the time I just knew Warner Brothers was going to screw Eddie Mentor on that seven-figure contract. I saved Eddie’s mil-plus, but here”—he shook his head—“I don’t know.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah. You’ve made that clear.”

Margarite wanted to say thank you, but it wasn’t time yet, there was too much hurt he had made her bear. With a certain pang, she recognized that perhaps sadly for him the time might never come.

“About the families,” she said. “The Infantes have a son, Joey, who’s been sneaking around seeing Kate, the Dellarcos’ youngest daughter. They’re in love. Talk to them; broker the marriage.”

“Holy Mother, the two capos will kill each other—if they don’t murder me first.”

“The marriage will be the best thing for everyone. You’ll see—the children’s love will heal the rift. Within six weeks the two families will be the best of friends.” Margarite looked at him. “It’s what Dom would have done.”

She was about to turn away when he said, “What about the kid?”

She looked at him for a very long time. “Leave it alone, Tony. Francie’s ill. She’s bulimic, and we—you and I—did it to her. What we’ve done to each other did not happen in a vacuum. Our little psychodrama had the gravest consequences for Francie. She’s sufering from radiation burns from that fallout. My best guess is she needs a vacation from both of us.”

“Yeah, well...” He put his head down. “Shit.”

Margarite nodded. “That about sums it up.”

Croaker watched her walk away from her husband. She did not look back, but Tony D. stared after her until a moment before she rejoined Croaker, then he turned on his heel, barked a sharp command, and slid back into the dark comfort of the Lincoln Town Car. Engines started up.

Croaker cleared his throat. “How’d it go?”

“It went. That’s all I can say.” Margarite seemed tired, drained of the bravado that had put a bounce in her step on her way to meet Tony.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” he said, guiding her down the street. “By the time we finish, White’s Drugs and Department Store over there is bound to be open.”

She nodded wordlessly. Croaker, studying her, found himself wondering what effect Tony had had on her. He remembered the odd moment when they had laughed together, so incongruous. He was dismayed to realize he was anxious to know what had allowed them that kind of intimacy again. He longed to ask her, but he knew he could not, and her silence all through breakfast warned him that she was not going to tell him.

They arrived in Washington on the four P.M. shuttle. As promised, Lillehammer met them at the airport. He looked freshly scrubbed, as if he’d just bounced in from his health club, and very dapper in a coal-black suit and crisp, white shirt. He had on a tie with a bull’s-eye pattern.

“Good flight?” he asked, his piercing blue eyes already on Margarite.

“An interesting couple of days,” Croaker replied. “This is Margarite Goldoni DeCamillo.”

“Charmed.” Lillehammer introduced himself. “A terrible shame about your brother.”

“I understand,” Margarite said. “A blot on your record.”

“Not at all.” Lillehammer did not miss a beat. “All of us in government who knew Dominic came to admire him. For doing what he did, stepping forward, naming names, putting his life on the line. That took real courage, and as a former soldier I, personally, respected him.”

It was an interesting speech, even a good one, Croaker thought. But he did not believe it had fooled Margarite.

“Well, thank you,” she said sweetly.

The pleasantries over, Lillehammer guided them through the crowded terminal, out onto the pavement where a large sedan with government plates was waiting for them, its engine idling. From its deep, throaty pitch, and the unmistakable sound the doors made when they slammed home, Croaker knew the car had been bulletproofed.

“I can’t pretend to understand how difficult it is for you to agree to this meeting, Mrs. DeCamillo,” Lillehammer said, apparently sincerely. “But my colleague here feels that you are our single best lead to finding the man who murdered your brother, and believe me, we are very anxious to do that.”

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?” Lillehammer shifted in the seat.

“I asked why, Mr. Lillehammer.” Margarite looked at him candidly. “Why is it so important that you find Dominic’s killer? Can it be merely a matter of pride, a kind of—how shall I put it?—altruism toward a man you came to admire and respect even while you were crucifying him?”

Croaker expended a great deal of energy keeping the smile off his face, but Lillehammer had gone red.

“Jesus Christ—pardon me, ma’am,” he said, struggling to contain himself, “but your brother controlled all the construction, produce and meat-packing, private sanitation, gambling, prostitution, and God knows what else on the Eastern seaboard. The mayor of New York couldn’t take a crap—pardon my French—without getting an okay from Dominic Goldoni. So I don’t really believe righteousness is the proper attitude for you to take with us. At the risk of offending you, your brother died for his sins—we didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Croaker said nothing, watched Margarite bite her lip before putting one hand up over her face.

The car came to a halt and they climbed out. They were in Washington, but Croaker had no idea where. Lillehammer led them into the side entrance of a monumental granite and limestone building, one of so many throughout the city that their sheer number had the curious effect of making humdrum these imposing, grandiose structures.

Lillehammer offered up a plastic-coated ID card and obtained from the uniformed guard temporary cards for each of his guests. No one else accompanied them on the elevator that took them from the echoing marble lobby to an anonymous, fluorescent-lit room along a nondescript hallway. Somewhere the sound came as of beetles chewing wood, computer operators clicking nails against keyboards, but no one was in evidence.

The cubicle contained one metal table, six straight-backed chairs, a watercooler, a stack of ruled pads, a clutch of pencils, and a small window that looked out on a sooty, lightless air shaft.

“Marvelous,” Margarite said, looking at Croaker, not Lillehammer. “It’s almost like being in jail.”

She went over to the table, discovered there a mass of black-and-white prints of the murder scene: Dominic Goldoni and his sometime mistress, Ginnie Morris.