“The boys were okay?” she asked.
“Probably a little confused, but okay.”
“That’s good,” Jane said.
She was quiet for another half a block.
“And you think this thing is a warning to you- about Danes?” I nodded. “From whoever hired- what’s-his-name- Czerka?” I nodded again. “I guess they don’t know that you were fired.”
“I guess not.”
She went silent again, and as we reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and 17th Street, she stopped. “What’s the warning?” she asked. “I mean specifically, what message is he sending with those pictures?”
I looked at her and she met my gaze and waited. “I suppose it’s a message that he knows what’s important to me and that he can… get at those things if he wants to. I suppose it’s a message about what’s at stake if I keep pushing.”
“And is he right about what’s important to you? I know your nephews are, so he’s right about that much.” Her face was blank, and her dark eyes were empty.
“I didn’t want this, Jane. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Something already happened to me.”
I took a deep breath. “I know.”
Jane started walking again. “Why didn’t you tell me someone was following you- maybe following both of us?” she said.
“I didn’t think they were a threat- until recently I wasn’t even sure they were there. And I never thought they were interested in you. You had a lot on your mind, and I didn’t want to upset you.”
Jane stopped again. She almost spoke, but she bit back the words. She looked at the manila envelope in my hand. “Let me see them.”
I shook my head. “You don’t-”
“Just give them to me, goddamn it.” Her voice was icy. We moved into the doorway of a small office building and I handed her the envelope.
Jane slipped the pictures out and looked at each one. Her face was still and ashen; only her dark eyes moved. She leafed through the stack three times and leaned against the building and was quiet for a while. When she did speak, it was almost to herself.
“They were so close… I had no idea.”
“Neither did I.”
She handed me the envelope. “But now you know,” she said. “You have no case and you have no client, but now you know about this. So what will you do?” Her voice was even and without emotion.
“I need to find out who sent this, Jane.”
She nodded, unsurprised. “Why?”
I studied her unreadable face and thought about all the answers I could give- that the best way to keep her and my nephews safe was to find whoever made this threat and send a message of my own, that I didn’t like being pushed around, that I needed to know what the hell was going on, that I needed to keep working. All of them were true and none of them seemed adequate and finally I said nothing.
After a while we walked again. Jane slowed as we came to 16th Street and looked down the block. I followed her eyes as they scanned the people and parked cars, and I saw a grimace cross her face and a shudder go through her shoulders.
“Let’s get something to eat,” she said, without looking at me.
We kept going south, to a coffee shop off Union Square, and had a silent meal amid a chattering crowd. We went back to 16th Street afterwards, and Jane’s steps were quick and resolute down the block and into the lobby of our building. I rang for the elevator and she dug in her bag and pulled out her house keys. We got in and I pressed four. Jane pressed five. She watched the numbers light as we rose. The doors opened on four and I got out.
“I don’t want these things in my life,” Jane said. I started to speak, but the doors began to close, and as they did something shifted in Jane’s face. Her mouth got smaller and the fine creases around it curved downward. And something happened in her eyes like a shutter opening. They grew darker and larger and brimmed for an instant with anger and disappointment. And then the doors shut and the car rose again.
I heard Jane moving around upstairs and I heard music come on: Chrissie Hynde, turned up loud. I checked my messages. There were three from Lauren and I didn’t bother to listen.
I poured myself a large glass of water and drank it while I paced the room and let my anger steep. I thought about Marty Czerka’s mystery client and what he might want with Gregory Danes. I thought about the small handful of people I’d found in Danes’s life and wondered which of them might care enough to hire a guy like Czerka.
I thought about Neary, too, and wondered how his conversation was going. I wasn’t optimistic. It wasn’t that I doubted Neary’s skill at the back-and-forth; I didn’t. I’ve seen him play the good guy, the tough guy, the burned-out-doesn’t-give-a-shit guy, and the fucking-crazy guy, and he’s better at it than most. But Czerka had no doubt played those parts himself, and while Neary might surprise him, I didn’t think he’d get him talking.
No, Stevie was definitely the weak link in that shop; he was the guy I’d go at first. But Stevie might need a little encouragement, and that’s where Neary would draw the line.
I stopped my pacing and thought about Stevie’s broken nose, and about his bruises and stitches and splinted fingers, and I remembered what Richard Gilpin had told me, back in Fort Lee. The office isn’t open to the public, and management gets real nervous about visitors. From what I heard, the last guy who came sniffing around here was lucky to get out with all his fingers attached.
The phone rang and I jumped. It was Neary. He was calling from a car and he sounded exhausted.
“I took a run at Marty,” he said, “and got nowhere.” Neary waited for me to say something, but I didn’t. He went on. “He was surprised, no question about it, but you saw- he dances pretty good for a fat man and he wouldn’t admit to anything. In fact, he seems to know less now than when we saw him this afternoon.”
“What about Stevie?”
“There was no sign of him in the office. I had Juan check out the neighborhood watering holes, but he had no luck. I sent Eddie out to his place in Queens. We’ll keep an eye out there and at the office until he turns up.” Neary yawned deeply. “I’m sorry about this, John.”
“You should get some sleep.”
“We’ll find him, if not tonight, then tomorrow or the day after.”
“Sure,” I said.
Sure, unless Uncle Marty finds him first and tells him to shut the hell up and runs him out of town for a while. I thought some more about Stevie and his broken fingers and about what Gromyko had said, the last time I had seen him.
It is possible that I could be of assistance to you, Mr. March, but I do not operate a charitable organization. My advisory services are valuable, and for them I expect payment in kind.
I sat at the table and thought about how long it might take to locate Stevie and how much coaching he might get by then. I rubbed my eyes and thought about Goran and Gromyko and deals with the devil and payment in kind. I thought about the manila envelope and about the pictures inside. I punched the number for Morgan amp; Lynch in Fort Lee, and a woman answered. She sounded like the tattooed girl.
“This is March,” I said. “I want to talk to Gromyko.” I gave her my number and she hung up. I sat and waited for a call back and listened to the music coming through the ceiling. It was louder now, and punctuated by the angry staccato of Jane working combinations on the heavy bag.
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
24
I slept badly that night and met Gromyko the next morning in the Conservatory Garden in Central Park. I took a long and elaborate route to ensure that I got there unescorted, and I arrived early, at just after eight. I entered at 105th Street, and the sound of morning traffic on Fifth Avenue faded behind me as I passed through the Vanderbilt Gate and into the Italian-style section of the garden. It was a warm morning, with a breeze and some fat clouds in a Wedgwood sky, but it was just past opening time and the garden was nearly empty. There was a well-dressed elderly couple making their slow way south, toward the English garden, and a willowy woman with long blond hair and a flowing flimsy skirt standing near the wrought-iron pergola. I headed north, past a row of blossoming crab apple trees and into the French-style garden. The tulips were still in bloom, and their bright heavy heads bobbed a little in the little wind.