Gerry glanced over his shoulder. Eddie Davis was siting on the other side of the room, peeling the plastic off a cafeteria sandwich. Gerry looked back at Gladwell.
“You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“I think the word is petrified,” she said.
“I can make this nightmare go away.”
“Right.”
“I’m being serious.”
“How can you make it go away?”
Gerry leaned forward, this time making sure no drinks were in striking range. “Tell me Jack’s secret, and you’ll never hear from me, the police, or George Scalzo again. That’s a promise.”
“How do I know you’ll keep this promise?”
His eyes scanned the cafeteria, and when he was certain no one was watching, he reached across the table and put his hand on her wrist. She did not resist his touch. “You and I share one thing in common. We both loved Jack. So when I tell you that on my friend’s grave I can fix this situation, you’ve got to believe me.”
Gladwell shuddered from an unseen chill. She drank what was left in her cup, grimacing again.
“All right,” she said.
40
Four o’clock in the morning, and Skip DeMarco lay awake in his king-sized hotel bed, his sightless eyes gazing at the ceiling. On the other side of the room, his laptop made a gurgling sound. Its screen saver was an underwater scene, complete with coral, bright tropical fish, and sound effects. Hours ago, he’d gone onto the Internet and found the Web site of the law firm where Christopher Charles Russo, the man claiming to be his father, worked. The site had a section with photographs of the firm’s lawyers. His laptop’s screen was sharp, and he’d planned to enter the section, click on Russo’s picture, then raise the laptop to his face, and take a look at the guy.
It hadn’t happened.
He’d gotten cold feet and slipped back into bed. He was twenty-six years old and had lived with his Uncle George for twenty-one of those years. But he still remembered the first five. The memory of his mother was particularly strong.
But he had no memories of his father. Not one. Maybe Russo wasn’t his father, and the story the woman had told him was a lie. Maybe Russo was a scammer, or a crackpot, or someone he’d beaten at cards looking to pay him back in the cruelest possible way.
DeMarco had spent hours lying in bed, weighing the possibilities. Finally he’d come to a decision. The only way he was going to know for sure was to look at the guy’s picture, and try to find a resemblance. That wasn’t so hard.
Only he couldn’t do it.
He was comfortable living with his Uncle George. The house they shared was huge, the third floor practically his. He had his own bedroom, private gym, music room, study, and a maid and cook downstairs willing to do his bidding. And his uncle was easy. DeMarco had brought girls up to his room and smoked dope and his uncle had never said a word. It was a sheltered existence, his uncle having convinced him that the real world was not for him. In the real world, he was a victim. At home, he was a king.
He shut his eyes and tried to sleep. He imagined he was at home, listening to music with the headphones on. It didn’t work, and in frustration he kicked off the sheets and sent them to the floor.
At four thirty, he climbed out of bed and shuffled across the room. Sitting down at his laptop, he made the screen saver disappear. He needed to be a man about this. He’d take a look at Russo’s picture, then decide what his next step should be. Simple as that.
He went to the law firm’s Web site, found the photo section, and scrolled through the players. It was a big firm, and according to the home page, specialized in legal representation for white-collar fraud. Big bucks, he guessed.
He stopped scrolling on Russo’s picture. It was small, and had a short biography beneath it. He dragged the mouse over Russo’s picture and clicked on it. The picture enlarged, filling the screen. DeMarco picked up the laptop with both hands. Holding the screen a few inches from his face, he stared hard. Russo looked to be in his late forties, with a heavy face, blunt nose, connected eyebrows, and an engaging smile. There was no family resemblance at all. None.
DeMarco felt something drop in his stomach, and he placed the laptop back on the desk. Russo was a fake, and so was the woman claiming to be his aunt. They were scammers, out to make a score.
“Go to hell,” he said to the screen.
He shrunk Russo’s picture back to its original size, then felt the tension trapped in his body escape. He’d stayed up half the night for nothing.
His eyelids suddenly felt heavy. He needed to get some sleep. The tournament was down to twenty-six players, and by tomorrow night, he expected to be sipping champagne with Uncle George, the title of world’s best poker player firmly his.
As he stared to turn off the laptop, he noticed Russo’s biography on the screen and lowered his face to have a look. Maybe when he got back home, he’d take Guido along with him and pay Russo a visit.
Christopher Charles Russo (nickname Skip)
Christopher Russo is a partner in Hamilton Pepper
Russo LLP, resident in the Philadelphia office. He concentrates his practice in defending companies against frivolous class-action lawsuits. Most recently he had a $100 million lawsuit against the Acme Styrofoam Cup Company of Philadelphia overturned. The law suit had been brought by a hundred plaintiffs whose fingers were singed by hot coffee served in the company’s cups.
Russo earned his Bachelor of Arts, magna cum laude, from St. Joseph, and his law degree, cum laude, from Villanova University School of Law. He is admitted to practice law in both Pennsylvania and New Jersey.
Russo is an avid poker player, and put himself through school playing cards. In 2002, he was named by Philadelphia Magazineas one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. His other hobbies include listening to music and exercising.
DeMarco felt light-headed, and leaned back in his chair. It was all there, like a genetic fingerprint. Poker, music, working out. All the things Christopher Charles Russo loved were the things heloved. Even their nick names were the same. Thatcouldn’t be a coincidence.
He dragged the cursor on his computer across the screen, and returned to Hamilton Pepper Russo’s home page. At the top was the firm’s address and main phone number. He memorized the number, then shut down his computer.
Crossing the room, he retrieved the sheets from the floor, and climbed into bed. He lay absolutely still and felt something swell up in his chest. It was three hours later back east, and he imagined Russo at his desk right now, the tireless defender. He took the phone off the night table, placed it on his chest, and punched in zero.
“How can I help you, Mr. DeMarco?” a hotel operator said brightly.
“I’d like to make a long distance call.”
“My pleasure, Mr. DeMarco.”
He recited Hamilton Pepper Russo’s telephone number to the operator, and she made the call for him. The room had turned chilly, and as the call went through, he felt the receiver’s icy plastic against his chin.
“Hamilton Pepper Russo LLC, can I help you?” a male receptionist answered.
“Is Christopher Russo in?”
“I believe he is,” the receptionist said.
“Put me through to him.”
The receptionist forwarded his call.
“Christopher Russo’s office,” a female secretary answered.
DeMarco hesitated. As far back as he could remember, he’d imagined that one day he’d track his father down, and have a talk with him. Now the moment had come, and he didn’t have the slightest idea what to say.
“Hello, is anyone there?” the secretary asked.
“I’d like to speak with Christopher Russo.”
“Mr. Russo is in court this week, and cannot be disturbed. If you’d like to give me a message, I’d be happy to relay it to him.”
“Disturb him, would you?”
“Excuse me? Who is this?”
That was dumb, DeMarco thought. “I’m sorry. This is an old friend. We knew each other back when he was in college. I wanted the call to be a surprise.”