"... ask you to look at Mr. Unger now, and tell me if he's the man you saw coming out of Empire Wines and Spirits on the night of July seventeenth last year?”
"He is," Assanti said.
"And is he the man who almost got knocked over by the two men you saw running from the bakery shop?”
"He is.”
"How close to him were they?”
"Two feet? A foot? They almost knocked him over.”
"Where was this?”
"On the sidewalk.”
"Where on the sidewalk?”
"Under the street lamp.”
"Brightly lighted, was it?”
"V.”
"Could you see all three of them clearly from where you were standing?”
"Plain as day.”
"And of course they could see each other.”
"Objection!”
"Sustained.”
“Well, were they facing each other?”
"They were standing face to face, yes.”
"Looking at each other?”
"Looking each other dead in the eye.”
"Thank you, no further questions.”
"Mr. Addison?”
"No questions. I would like Doris Franceschi to take the stand, please.”
They were lunching at a little place across the bridge in Calm's Point. Bowles had chosen it because he was certain none of his clients or colleagues would be caught dead in a little Italian restaurant in a shitty neighborhood like this one. The restaurant was on the second floor of a clapboard building painted green, white, and red on the outside to resemble a gigantic Italian flag flapping in the wind. In the good old days, the people living in this neighborhood enjoyed the sight of that big flag announcing their heritage. Now the neighborhood was black and nobody cared what the green, white, and red represented. They only knew that some wops named Mariano ran a restaurant upstairs on the corner of Berris and Twelfth, and the stink in the air was garlic.
Bowles was in a very good mood. Perhaps because he'd consumed two gin martinis before lunch and was now working on the bottle of Pinot Grigio Santa Margherita he'd ordered for both of them. Andrew was wondering if perhaps Bowles's bimbo had accompanied him out of town this past weekend, which also might have accounted for the extremely fine mood he was in. Andrew was here to tell him that he wanted him to go out of town this coming weekend as well. Andrew was here to tell him that he planned to kill Emma this Friday night.
But for now, all was conviviality and camaraderie. Two good old buddies eating pasta and drinking good wine. Andrew wondered if Bowles had even the slightest suspicion that he'd spent the entire weekend with his wife, fucking her silly. Didn't leave the apartment until late yesterday, after Emma had called Boston to ascertain from her husband that he'd be catching a five o'clock plane. He wondered how Bowles might react to such news. Would he even care? Andrew doubted it.
"Did you have a good weekend?" Bowles asked.
"Yes, very nice, thank you," Andrew - said.
"So did I," Bowles said, and winked.
Actually winked. Andrew thought What a shmuck.
Shoveling another forkful of pasta into his mouth now. Picking up the glass of wine, washing the pasta down. "Have you ever been in love?" he asked suddenly.
"Never," Andrew said.
This was a lie. He'd loved Katie Briggs with every fiber in his being.
"Pity," Bowles said. "You're missing a lot. I can't tell you what it's like to be with a woman who fills my days and nights with joy ...”
Oh boy, Andrew thought.
"... whose every glance is like a beam of sunshine ...”
Boy oh boy oh boy, Andrew thought.
"... whose very presence sets me tingling.”
Linguini was hanging from the tines of his fork. He sucked it into his mouth. Andrew watched him chewing. Tall, slender man with dark hair and brown eyes, the handsomest man Emma had ever seen in her life, or so she'd said. He wondered if she'd changed her mind about that since the weekend.
"... down on it like a peppermint stick," he was saying now. "Can't get enough of it. Emma doesn't know how to do it, or doesn't care to do it ...”
That's what you think, Andrew thought.
Bowles picked up his wineglass and drained it. "I'll be happy when she's gone," he said, and signaled to the waiter to fill both glasses again. The waiter poured for them, put the bottle back into the bucket, and walked off. Bowles leaned forward. Lowering his voice, he said, "Do you know what I'm going to do when I'm free?”
"No, what?”
"Really free, I mean. I'm talking about months later. When I'm no longer a suspect. Maybe a year later, I'll have to play it by ear.”
"If this works the way I want it to, you won't be a suspect at all," Andrew said.
"Well, just to be sure.”
"I don't think you need to worry.”
"Even so. Let's say six months, to play it safe. Six months afterward, I'm going to marry Liddy, that's her name ... well, Lydia, actually, but I call her Liddy. Do you know what Lydia means in Greek?”
"No, what does it mean?”
"It means cultured.”
"I see.”
"And she is, too. Cultured," he said, and nodded, and picked up his glass again, and drank from it. It occurred to Andrew that his speech was becoming somewhat slurred. He hoped the man wouldn't get drunk. He wanted him to understand all the arrangements.
"Are you familiar with the Raines family in Chicago?" Bowles asked.
"No," Andrew said.
"I thought you were from Chicago.”
"I am. But I don't know anyone named Raines there.”
"Very wealthy banking family. Raines.
Geoffrey Waincroft Raines was her father.”
"I still don't know the name.”
"Powerful family. Well, that was how we got onto you. Lydia made a few calls to Chicago, asked a few discreet questions, and voilá. Fait accompli." He accompanied this last with a little gesture of his fork, as though waving a magic wand. "The rich and the powerful," he said, nodding and digging into the linguini again. "We'll make a good team. Her money, my money. Lots of money.”
Exactly the words Emma had used.
Lots of money.
The same words now.
"I'm plenty rich as it is, you understand ...”
"So I understand.”
"But it never hurts to have more, does it?”
"Never does," Andrew said. "Maybe I should raise my price.”
"Nosirree," Bowles said, and cocked a finger at him. "A deal is a deal.”
"Just kidding," Andrew said.
"What was I saying?”
"Lots of money.”
"Before that.”
"Six months later ...”
"Right, six months later I'll marry Liddy. And we'll go on a honeymoon to the South Pacific. I've always wanted to go to the South Pacific. Bali, Sumatra, Bora Bora ...”
"Me, too," Andrew said.
"... Samoa ... really? Is that one of your dreams?”
"Yes.”
"All those girls in nothing but grass skirts," Bowles said, and grinned. "Well, not on my honeymoon, anyway," he said, and winked again, and again drained his glass.
"Better go easy," Andrew said, "we've got a lot to discuss.”
"I'm fine, don't worry about it," Bowles said, waving away his caution. "Who was it went down there? Gauguin, wasn't it? Emma would know, she used to be an art student. Got himself a harem down there, surrounded himself with all those young native girls. Little dusky girls in sarongs.
You ever had yourself a little dusky girl?”
"Not in the South Pacific," Andrew said.
"But you had one, huh?”
"Several.”
"Are they as good as people say?”
"I don't know what people say. Women are women," Andrew said flatly. "Let's talk about your wife.”
Bowles looked around as if someone had fired a pistol.