Carter laughs for the first time in weeks, laughs at Angel’s boldness. ‘In the end, of course, I let you go. I let you go and everybody lives happily ever after.’
‘Or words to that effect.’
‘Do I get laid along the way?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘No, I want you to pass a little test for me, a one-question test: How can I be sure you won’t run to the cops if I let you go?’
Angel’s already asked herself the same question. Now, hearing it from Carter’s lips, she knows there’s an answer. She knows because she’s looking right at him and he’s not worried.
Carter takes the scenic route back to Manhattan, Broadway instead of the West Side Highway. He doesn’t want to pass over the Henry Hudson Bridge with its toll plaza and surveillance cameras that photograph every license plate. He wants more time with Angel, too.
‘Here’s a hint,’ Carter says. ‘You probably won’t have to go to the cops. Most likely, they’ll come to you.’
Damn, Angel thinks. She must be a complete idiot. Ricky Ditto can be tied to Pigalle Studios through his credit card records. And Pierre? Pierre’s a nice guy, but if the cops press him, he’ll give her up in a heartbeat.
‘So, what are you gonna tell them, Angel? If the cops should knock on your door? Will you claim that a mysterious hitman just happened to be waiting in the house when you showed up? How will you prove it? I didn’t leave any trace evidence in that house. It’s your word against nothing.’
‘OK, I get the point. So tell me what you’d do, if you were in my position.’
‘I’d call my pimp—’
‘My agent.’
‘I’d call my agent and tell him the trick didn’t—’
‘The client.’
‘I’d tell him the client never showed up. I’m cold, I’m wet and I’m really pissed off.’
‘What about the cops?’
‘If you get any warning that the cops have been around, hire a lawyer and keep his business card in your pocket. If you don’t get a warning – if the cops snatch you off the street – invoke your right to remain silent and ask for an attorney. They’ll keep coming at you, right? They’re not gonna stop the first time you ask. But if you keep your mouth shut long enough, one of two things will happen. If the cops have enough to make an arrest, they’ll put you in the system. If they don’t, they’ll let you go. This is true whether you talk to them or not. No matter what you say, if the cops have enough evidence to make an arrest, you’ll be arrested.’
They drift into silence as they pass through the valley at 125th Street, heading south, then climb a steep hill running alongside elevated subway tracks that disappear underground a third of the way up. They’re in another world now, Harlem behind them, Columbia University and Barnard College to either side. Landscaped medians, carefully attended, run the length of each block. Even in the rain, even lit by the odd amber light cast by the street lamps, the contrast with the black and Latino neighborhood to the north catches Carter’s attention, as it has before. Thousands of tulips rise straight from the earth, tulips of every color, proud as soldiers on a parade ground. And there’s at least one cherry tree on every block. In another week, if the weather stays warm, they’ll be in their full glory. For now, their tight blossoms cast a fuzzy pink haze over the rain-slicked branches.
They crest the hill and head down toward 110th Street, another borderline. No more gardens, no more tulips or daffodils or cherry trees, no more Columbia University. They’re in an obscure neighborhood called Manhattan Valley. Twenty years before, Manhattan Valley was an open-air drug market that would have put a Moroccan bazaar to shame. Now it’s partially gentrified, like all of Manhattan. This is where Angel lives.
Carter double-parks in front of a fire hydrant midway between 108th and 107th Streets. He looks at Angel in the rear-view mirror as he releases the door locks, but he’s thinking of his sister. Only two weeks ago, he’d be heading for the Cabrini Nursing Home on the Lower East Side to pay Janie a visit, maybe read a little from the Bible. Angel looks back at him, catching his eyes in the mirror, and again he’s struck by her beauty.
‘This outfit you work with ...’
‘Pigalle Studios.’
‘Yeah, Pigalle Studios. Do you have some kind of stage name? So the clients know who to ask for?’
‘Sure.’
‘What is it?’
Angel’s smile reveals porcelain-white teeth. ‘Angel Face.’
‘OK, Angel Face, one more piece of advice. Over the next few days, you’re gonna be sorely tempted to tell somebody what happened. Don’t do it. As far as you’re concerned, everyone’s a cop. You run your mouth, you’ll go to jail. Let the cops prove you were in that house. Don’t help them. Benedetti was a mob guy and there are plenty of suspects out there, so it’s entirely possible the cops won’t connect you to him. In which case, it’s even more important that nobody else knows what happened. And get rid of the outfit, the dress and the shoes. Do it tonight.’
FOUR
Carter spends the evening, until ten o’clock, at Milton’s, a sports bar off Queens Boulevard in the community of Woodhaven. Milton’s is all about the American male’s addiction to athletics. Twenty flat screen televisions, small and large, suspended from the ceiling or attached to the walls, are tuned to networks telecasting every sport currently in season. Priority naturally falls to New York teams, the Yankees and the Mets, and to the ongoing play-offs in hockey and basketball. Lesser attractions play in the corners, a soccer match from England, thoroughbred horse racing from a California track. On a small set to Carter’s left, a mixed martial arts champion beats his hapless opponent to a bloody pulp.
Carter’s chosen Milton’s partly because it’s close to Janie’s condominium apartment, where he’s spending the night. But Carter’s also drawn to the bar’s vibrancy, and to its varied clientele. There are as many degenerate gamblers as there are sports fans, a few bookies taking last minute wagers, and a bevy of young women out for an evening with their perpetually adolescent boyfriends. They root their favorites on, fueled by alcohol, marijuana (the bathrooms reek of weed) and the cocaine peddled by Milton’s resident dealer, a small-time jerk named Sal who pretends to be connected.
Carter hangs by himself at a free-standing table near a back wall, munching on a hamburger and sipping at a mug of Bass Ale. He has no friends here, or anywhere else for that matter, but the intensely social behavior of the fans enthralls him. Carter believes that athletic contests simulate the more serious business of mortal combat, the big differences being that fans get to watch and the losers don’t go home in coffins. But the ability to slap a puck into a net doesn’t impress Carter, nor do the virtually subhuman fist fights between the hockey players. He doesn’t feel himself diminished by loss, or enhanced by victory, only fascinated by those who are.
The fans gathered before the largest television emit a collective moan. The New York Yankees are playing the Boston Red Sox and one of the Boston players – Carter doesn’t know who – has hit a home run. Carter watches him jog around the bases, then watches a series of replays, none of which alters the outcome. Two men standing at a table only a few feet away attempt to hide their satisfaction. They’re gamblers, these men, and they’ve bet against the home team, a fact they’d just as soon keep to themselves, but which doesn’t escape Carter’s attention.
Carter finishes his hamburger and orders another beer from a harried waitress. Despite the charged atmosphere, his thoughts turn to his sister’s ashes drifting on the gray waters of the Hudson. Janie was his anchor. Tending her gave him purpose, much as athletic contests give purpose to Milton’s patrons. But there’s always another game for the sports fan, another season, another chance. Janie can’t be replaced, or so Carter thinks as he tips the waitress when she returns with his beer.