‘When we were kids, Humphrey told me you were making payoffs – to keep it quiet.’
This came as no surprise. Children were the best of spies in every household. She often wondered how much her daughter had pieced together from those bad old days. Oh, and now she could see that Willy was having another thought. Two in one day – how taxing.
‘I think we can help each other, Grace. Just give me a name. I’ll take care of it. I’ll get rid of him for you.’ Smiling, she bent down to pick up her bag of cash. ‘Say we double this . . . once a month?’
‘I’m truly shocked.’ And did Willy believe that? Well, of course she did. The girl was an idiot. All that remained to Grace was to sit back, assume a worried look and perhaps profess a sudden onset of palpitations in that place where common people kept their hearts. Eventually, after much prodding by the idiot, a name would escape Grace’s lips.
Rolland Mann had gone out in search of a disposable cell phone, but he would not throw this one away. There were reporters around every corner, waiting for crumbs from One Police Plaza, and some might be waiting in ambush. In any case, he was not done calling home, hoping that Annie would answer the phone. He wanted the privacy of his office, where the news media could not hound him for updates on the Hunger Artist. He tightened his hold on the cell phone hidden in his pocket, so badly in need of this tether to his wife.
He was within yards of the courtyard gatehouse when a young woman crossed his path on the plaza. Such a cruel smile. The newspaper photos on the front pages of late had never captured that quality, only the practiced grin of a professional party girl, who had fallen off the scandal sheets years ago. Today, she planted herself in his way and folded her arms to announce that Willy Fallon was back. Badder than ever. Bigger news.
No lie.
Down the sidewalk, he saw snouts lifting to catch a scent in the air, and the first of the paparazzi was running toward them. Then another and another. The photographers caught him in the act of running away from Willy.
While the socialite preened for pictures, Officer Chu kept the distance of a good shadow, and he scribbled in his notebook – just a few lines about Miss Fallon’s odd run-in with the acting police commissioner and his sudden flight, hands flailing.
Rolland Mann ran like a girl.
Willy Fallon was on the move again, waving goodbye to the gang of photographers. How they loved her. One of them blew her a kiss. And Arthur Chu followed her.
The woman spoke on a cell phone as she walked westward, and the young officer dutifully noted the exact times for three calls in a row. After the phone was returned to her purse, she absently glanced at her wristwatch. Now there was an attitude of urgency as she looked around her, up and down the street.
Hunting a cab? Lots of luck at this hour. Even if she found one, a car could only crawl in this traffic.
The surveillance officer followed her to the subway station on Warren Street, and watched her step down below the sidewalk. He was impressed that this rich bimbo might know how to operate a turnstile. Then it occurred to him that she had probably used mass transit more than once to elude reporters on a bad-hair day. Yes, he was right. No need to stop at the cashier’s booth to buy a ticket to ride. She pulled a yellow transit card from her purse.
Was that purse a good deal fatter now? Had he missed something?
Rolland Mann looked up when his pouting secretary walked in. She had resented him from the moment he had moved his belongings into Commissioner Beale’s office, perhaps finding it ghoulish that he was so confident of the old man’s impending demise. ‘Any calls, Miss Scott?’
‘Yes. She didn’t leave a name this time, either, but it’s the same woman.’
Not the woman he most wanted to hear from, not Annie. She knew better than to call him on his office phone. He still doubted that his wife could have made her way through the door to the street. On those rare occasions, when he had taken her out for dinner, she had been nervous and jumpy, only calming down when they were home again. That was years ago. Today, she would not, could not, leave the apartment. But she could overmedicate. Yes. She was probably deep in a barbiturate haze, unable to hear the phone ringing.
Miss Scott broke into his thoughts. ‘The woman said you better call her back or else.’
‘Or else what?’
‘She didn’t say, and I don’t read minds.’ The secretary slapped a piece of paper on the desk. It was only a telephone number and the brief threat.
It could only be Willy Fallon.
‘And I’m not paid to listen to your friend’s obscenities.’ Miss Scott slammed the door on her way out.
Now he knew that his secretary had finally been successful in finding another position. Another runaway woman.
He pulled the throwaway cell from his pocket and called his residence. One ring, two rings – three. Annie, my Annie, come to the phone.
Willy Fallon climbed out of the subway near the Greenwich Village movie theater. She turned a corner and walked westward into that patch of New York City where grid logic broke down, where Fourth Street ran north and south of West Tenth. When she was within half a block of Toby Wilder’s apartment building, she saw him step out on the sidewalk.
Lunchtime.
She knew her quarry was a creature of habit, thanks to a tip paid to a local shopkeeper, a man who bragged that he could set his watch by Toby Wilder. Willy followed her old classmate on a trek across the Village to a Mexican restaurant on Bleecker Street. She saw him pass through the door to reappear at a table by the window. He never noticed her standing there on the sidewalk, watching him. When he did happen to look out on the street, he paid her no more attention than the fire hydrant.
He was still beautiful.
After all these years, it rankled her that he would never know what she had done to him. While she stood by the window, another patron rushed in the door to find a table on the far side of the room and close to the kitchen. Why would Humphrey’s sister pick the worst seat in the house while better ones went begging?
Phoebe Bledsoe was taller now, but she still lugged around all the baby fat of childhood. And apparently she had not outgrown her crush on the boy by the window. The girl settled into the chair with the worst possible lighting to watch Toby Wilder from a shy distance.
Pathetic.
Willy entered the café and walked up to the far table to see her favorite expression – naked fear – on Phoebe’s face. Willy sat down, liking this power over the other woman – hardly a woman – a lump of a schoolgirl who would never grow up. ‘What’s that?’
Before Phoebe could close her hand over the gold cigarette lighter, Willy grabbed it, saying, ‘You never smoked. You wouldn’t dare. Neither would I, not if Grace was my mother.’
‘Give it back!’ Humphrey’s sister was anxious, reaching for the lighter that was evidently precious to her.
Willy played a schoolyard game of keep-away, holding it high, tossing it from hand to hand, and then she took a closer look at her prize. It was heavy – solid gold. The scratches in the metal appeared to be damage at first glance. At second glance, she remembered where she had seen this lighter before. The surface scratches had been deeper then, and it had been easier to read them as a clear date – the year of her birth – though not the same month and day.
Smiling, Willy cadged a glance at Toby Wilder. It had to be his birth date scratched into the metal. Turning back to Phoebe, she held the gold lighter just out of reach. ‘I know where you got this. You found it in the Ramble. You went back for it.’