Now sweat is blistering Warren’s brow and he tamps at it with a napkin. His voice trails off. He chews a second portion of pizza, looking defeated and sad. He stares at the portrait.
“She’s a beautiful woman,” Cormac says.
“And a beautiful person.”
“I’m sure,” Cormac says.
Warren chews another bite of pizza while Cormac now uses his hand to lift a full slice. It’s very good pizza.
“I do have my fears,” Warren said. “I just don’t know you, can’t find a line in your life that makes sense. You understand?”
“I do understand,” he said. “And I’m afraid I can’t do it, Mister Warren.”
Warren stares at Cormac, looking as if he realizes he has blundered.
“I’m sorry if I offended you.”
Fuck you, pal.
Cormac says, “I’m leaving on a long trip.”
Warren struggles to control the anger of a man accustomed to buying what he wants.
“I wish you would reconsider.”
“It’s a wonderful offer, Mister Warren. To take your money and fuck your wife. But I have other things to do.”
Warren stands up angrily. Cormac remains seated and lays a pizza crust on the plate.
“You can leave now,” Warren says, jerking a thumb at the door. “And you can take the pizza, if you like.”
Cormac reaches for the pizza but picks up the sword.
“Sit down,” he says, tapping the tip of the sword on the table. For the first time, Warren looks afraid.
“I want to tell you a little story,” Cormac says.
Warren sits down heavily, his eyes moving to the door, to Cormac, to the sword. A nerve twitches in his cheek.
“Once upon a time, almost three centuries ago in the north of Ireland, there was a boy who lived with his parents, their horse, and their dog,” Cormac begins. “The mother was dark-eyed and beautiful, a descendant of the daughters of Noah, a secret Jew among masked Christians. The boy’s father wore a mask too. He was Irish, not Christian, and his allegiance was to the old gods. He made this sword.”
Cormac raises the sword, admiring its beauty. Warren’s eyes don’t blink.
“But in this part of Ireland there lived a man named the Earl of Warren….”
Warren squints now.
“There also lived a woman named Rebecca Carson, whose real name was Rebecca O’Connor,” Cormac says. “She was killed by a coach belonging to the earl. She was crushed by its wheels and died in the mud of Ireland. Her son was raised by his father, a man called John Carson, whose real name was Fergus O’Connor. The false names were necessary because they were Irish, and suspected of being Catholics, which they were not. The boy loved his father more than life itself.”
“The earl was my ancestor?” Warren said quietly.
“Yes. He made money in the slave trade and entertained his friends by juggling. Smiling, laughing, proud of his skill. And one day, on a frozen road in Ireland, he confronted the boy’s father over a horse. He wanted the horse, whose name was Thunder, and the boy’s father resisted. One of the earl’s men shot him dead.”
Warren’s brow creased. He had obviously never heard this part of the Warren family saga.
“And what happened to the boy?”
“The boy escaped.”
“And then…?”
“And then followed the earl to America.”
“Where he killed him?”
“With this sword.”
Warren listens intently, elbows on knees, chin supported by thumbs. There’s a long silence. They hear distant thunder, a whisper of rain.
“I know some of that story,” Warren says in a sober voice. “Family legend and all that. Nobody ever found the earl’s body.”
“It’s out there,” Cormac says, pointing the sword west. “In the river.”
“An obvious question,” Warren says. “How do you know?” “I’m the boy.”
Warren’s eyes blink. Then he laughs.
“What a marvelous story,” he says.
“It’s not just a story,” Cormac says. “It’s history.”
Warren stares at Cormac as if he were a madman. His eyes move from Cormac’s face to the sword.
“But that was almost three centuries ago.”
“I know. I know better than you do.”
Warren stands, and so does Cormac, who holds the sword at his side. Warren jams his hands in his pockets.
“Would you like a brandy? The bloody pizza is cold.”
“No, thanks.”
He eyes the sword again. Now he squints, his eyes cold and clear.
“You came here to kill me, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That would be truly stupid.”
“But necessary. At least to me.”
At the small wheeled bar Warren pours a brandy for himself, his hands trembling.
“Well, if you’re going to do it, can we go out to the terrace? Elizabeth would be very upset if there was blood all over the rug.”
Cormac thinks: God damn it, Warren. Stop making this harder than it will be. Warren drains the brandy, pours another. Then walks to the door opening out on the lower terrace. Cormac follows, holding the sword at the present-arms position. There’s a spray of rain, a rising wind. The shrubs flutter in their pots. All is dark in the west.
“You know,” Warren says, gazing out at the rain-lashed city, “when I invited you here tonight, I thought part of me would die. The part that involved pride. I knew that when I asked you to… to give Elizabeth what she needs, that I would be stripping myself naked. So be it. Life is strange.” He lets the rain spray his face and shoulders. “It never occurred to me that I could end up a corpse.” He laughs. “Over some ancient relative.” He turns to Cormac. “Or that I would meet a man who thinks he has lived since the eighteenth century. Jesus Christ… But now, right here, right now, part of me thinks, Well, fuck it, why not? Why not just die now, instead of crumbling into some fleshy ruin. Besides, we’d sell a ton of newspapers, wouldn’t we? PUBLISHER SLAIN IN PENTHOUSE MYSTERY. No, that’s too many words. How about BOSS DEAD, with an exclamation point?”
He drains the brandy and drops the glass among the potted plants.
“I don’t have a clue about you, old sport,” he says. “You’re just another New York demento, as far as I can tell….”
He sighs. “So go ahead,” he says. “Just do it.”
Cormac is facing him, seeing his head and shoulders silhouetted against the rain-smeared glow of distant lights. The sword feels heavy. He spreads his feet, prepared to strike.
“Just do me one favor,” Warren says. “When the deed is done, please tell Elizabeth that I loved her. Somewhere out there, beside the telephone, you’ll find the number of her hotel….”
And Cormac feels something dissipating in his heart: the hard knot of the past. The fingers of his free hand open and close and he longs to sit at a piano. I can’t do this. To hell with the past.
“You can call her yourself,” Cormac says.
The tension seeps out of William Hancock Warren. He leans on the rail. Cormac turns and goes back inside, with Warren behind him.
“That’s it?” Warren says.
“I’ll be going now,” Cormac says. “Please don’t call the police.” “And have what: a tabloid scandal?”
Cormac smiles. Warren stands there looking at him, his hair and shirt wet from the rain. The fire is guttering in the hearth. The smoke rises slowly, as if it contained all the hatred, all the old vows of revenge, all the unburied dead that Cormac has carried across the decades. They walk to the door and Cormac lifts his black bag.
“Take the sword with you,” Warren says. “I don’t want it around here.”