Codes of Betrayal (7 page)

They settled into the lush back seat; she leaned forward and asked the driver if he knew where Romano’s was, in Long Island City. He nodded and slid the glass window closed, giving them privacy.

Nick leaned back. Very nice. “This yours?”

Laura shrugged and laughed. “Too big for me. But I get a good price for the rental—car and driver—when I don’t feel like driving.

“So, Nick. How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in what, five years? Papa’s last big birthday party.” She reached out and poked him. “Hey, pal, we gotta stop meeting like this.”

Years seemed to fall away; the tall, slender, sophisticated lady disappeared. His most vivid memory of her was as a child: stubborn, determined, unyielding. Laura would do things
her
way. Against all odds.

Laura chewed her index finger for a moment. “That thing with your wife, Kathy? Is it serious?”

Nick stiffened. Christ, a brief disagreement and everyone in the world makes it into big trouble. His grandfather with his radar; his rotten cousin, hoping for the worst. And now Laura.

“What are you talking about?”

She shrugged. Frowned. “So it
is
serious. Married people don’t glare at each other that way over something minor.”

Nick felt defensive, protective of Kathy and himself, his family. He felt a need to explain it away, even if he wasn’t convinced himself.

“Look. I have a family—wife, son, house in the suburbs. The works. I think it’s called commitment—”

“You make it sound like a sentence. No plea bargaining, Nick?”

“What the hell are you up to, Laura?”

She ran her index finger over her bottom lip. “You play around, Nick?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You Mr. Faithful or what?”

“Well, if I do and when I do, I make the moves.”

Her laugh wasn’t mean or smug. It was the sound of pure joy that he remembered from when she was a small girl observing the absurdities of the boys and men around her. Something in them she found funny, and nobody else could figure out why. She touched his cheek, leaned over, and kissed him lightly the way you’d kiss a child who was exasperated by teasing.

“Relax, Nick. I’m sorry. I’m just kidding. Hey, we’re here. What do you say to an egg cream? Last place around for the real thing.”

It
was
the real thing: a luncheonette out of a history book. The floor was made of small darkened white tiles; the ceiling of pressed tin. The counter was long, made of gray marble. The leatherette stools were locked in the same place as fifty years ago. The Coca-Cola clock was genuine; probably fetch more than a couple hundred in some antique store. The glass display cases, filled with heavy Danish pastry and cellophane-wrapped cupcakes, were sparkling.

The small man behind the counter, busy digging scoops of ice cream into a long banana-split glass, greeted Laura with a smile. Toast popped up, sandwiches were made then, finally, the old man held his finger up toward Laura.

“The real thing, right, Laura?”

He jerked his chin toward Nick, who nodded, and he presented them with two genuine, old-fashioned, only-in-New York egg creams. They picked up the drinks and Laura headed for the last table in the row, smaller than the rest, in a dark corner.

“When I was in high school,” she told Nick, “I worked part-time across the street. In the old Wendy Pocketbook Company. I helped with the bookkeeping. This was my supper. The old man used to put an egg in. Said I was too thin.”

Nick, his back to the wall, facing the length of the luncheonette, scanned the place quickly. It’s something a cop does. Most people don’t even notice. Laura was not most people.

“Any bad guys in the vicinity?”

“I’m not sure yet. You’re the only bad guy I can see right now.”

“Bad guy? Not
moi,
Nick. Independent guy, yes.”

She always seemed to be on the verge of putting him down. Something about her was smug and irritating. Just like when she was a child: who the hell does Laura think she is?

“Hey, how independent can you be? You married money. You’ve been left pretty well provided for, right?”

She smiled, but her eyes were cold. “Whatever it takes, Nick. I learned that very early.” She shrugged in imitation of a neighborhood wise guy. “Hey, ya gotta do what ya gotta do, right?” Then she stopped clowning. “Don’t think I didn’t earn every penny I ever got.”

The playfulness between them was gone. He’d been spiteful, really, for no reason. She picked up her egg cream and gulped it down. No straws or sips for Laura. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then took the napkin he offered.

“That’s a nice-looking boy, your Peter. Looks like his mother. What eyes. How come you only have one kid, Nick?”

“How come you never had a kid, Laura?”

She pulled back against the leatherette seat and stared at him, then looked away.

“I would have had a child with my second husband. You heard about him, right? Emilio Sartucci, the skier.”

Nick remembered. It had been a tragedy. He started to speak, but she cut him off.

“Two years after Octavio was killed, I married Emilio. He was an Olympic medalist, a national treasure in Italy—like a matador in Spain. Everywhere we went, crowds gathered, just to see him, touch him. We were married six months—to the day—when we went with some friends of his to Switzerland. The macho gang; Italian heroes. They were told the skiing conditions were dangerous; wait a few days. But it was a challenge, you see.”

Nick reached for her hand and she pulled it away. “Laura, I’m sorry. I—”

“Oh, it was a long time ago, Nick. I told him it wasn’t worth risking his life to impress friends ignorant enough to challenge death so stupidly. So three of them died—an avalanche. One boy survived with brain damage. Only Emilio’s body was dug out.” She paused. “My God, the funeral was incredible. Every celebrity, actor, athlete, movie star, politician, every wanna-be and almost was attended the funeral. A cardinal officiated. The press said I was ‘beautiful and devastated.’” She shrugged. “What I was angry. I hate stupidity.”

Her expression now was placid, calm.

“Did you love him?”

“What difference does that make? We were good lovers.”

“No one special in your life now?”

Laura closed her eyes, shook her head, and laughed. “Special? God, you sound like a high school boy. Lovers—yes. Who I choose, when I choose, for however long I choose. God, look at you—are you shocked?”

He didn’t know what he was. The tone between them had grown edgy, antagonistic. He didn’t know why he felt so angry, so judgmental toward her.

“So you’re a pretty rich lady now?”

Laura nibbled on her pinky and grinned.

“Fly all over the world?”

He wanted to smack her or kiss her—either one, or both. She changed instantly as they got up to leave, as though she had pushed a button. Became a young girl, smiling, flirting with the counterman as they were leaving.

Maury wiped his red wet hands on his dirty white apron; offered his cheek for her kiss. “Any time, Laura, you come to me for the best egg cream in the world, right?”

“I come to see
you,
Maury. The egg cream comes in second.”

“Ah, she makes me feel like a young boy, this one.”

Nick knew exactly what the older man meant. He felt awkward, graceless, somewhat stupid.

She gave him a lift to the subway; he’d head for the precinct and get a car for the trip home. She put her face forward for a light kiss. Without a thought, Nick jerked her face to meet his lips. The kiss surprised them both.

It was nearly 1:30
A.M.
by the time Nick reached home. Kathy had parked the station wagon right in the middle of the driveway, so he had to park in front of the house. She’d left a night-light on, more to discourage prowlers than to help him find his way in the dark. The house felt empty. He remembered that Peter wasn’t home but looked into his bedroom anyway. The sleepy old dog, Woof, head resting on the pillow, grunted softly without really waking up. The other dogs were flopped out around the house. They all knew his step; no one had to go out.

Nick shared his glass of milk with the oldest of the family cats, a gray part-Siamese with pea green eyes. She sipped carefully, then washed herself and disappeared. No one really knew where she slept. She was the mysterious one of the group.

Kathy wasn’t good at faking sleep. She breathed too regularly. He touched her foot lightly, shook it gently, and she didn’t respond. Nick took a hot shower, then looked in the mirror when he brushed his teeth. He wondered what Laura saw when she looked at him.

He remembered the first time he knew he loved Laura Santalvo. He was eight; at his father’s funeral. She and Richie listened when he told them he and his mother were moving in with his O’Hara uncle. Sure, he’d see them. He’d come back and visit.

Richie, heavyset with a wise-guy face even at nine, put his arm around Laura’s shoulder and gave a squeeze.

“Don’t worry about Laura, Nicky. I’ll take good care of her.”

Laura stepped down on Richie’s foot, so hard he doubled over in pain and shock.

“Like hell you will.”

Then, she took Nick’s face in both her hands and kissed him full on the lips. She was eight years old, but the kiss was a helluva lot older. Nick didn’t get kissed like that again for a very long time.

He turned out the light and started for Peter’s room for an automatic last check, then remembered. He felt his wife’s body tighten slightly when he got into bed beside her. When he touched her shoulder anyway, then the back of her neck, she pulled further away.

Nick rolled over on his side. The hell with it.

P
ETER WATCHED WITH ADMIRATION
as the muscular, sweating men carried the massive platform on which the statue of San Gennaro, patron saint of Naples, had been placed, amid flower arrangements and candles and an assortment of holy relics and items. They moved slowly through the crowd, not stopping, just slowing a bit, as people pushed forward to slip five-and ten-and even twenty-dollar bills into whatever crevice they could find. If a bill dropped underfoot, it was a given that it would not be pocketed, but picked up and placed with the saint.

Sonny had told him that San Gennaro had been a humble priest in Naples who doubted his ability to turn wine and bread into the blood and flesh of the Saviour during mass—until one day a miracle took place, and he never doubted again. Even though most of the people at the celebration weren’t Neapolitans, many not even of Italian heritage, the event had become a New York tradition of which few in attendance knew the origin.

Everything involved in the festival was traditional. Every single booth lining the way of the procession had been contracted for months ago. No one could sell so much as a hot dog without paying for the right to do so. All the food, in all the booths—the meats and pastas, breads, cakes, cheeses, wines—came from designated suppliers. Each supplier paid a fee for exclusive rights. The San Gennaro generated a great deal of money; a small amount went to the charity for which it was conducted. A great deal went into other hands that had nothing to do with charity. But what the hell. The wine was good. The food was excellent and the air was filled with marvelous fragrances and the noise of happy people.

Tourists ate too much, walked around a little, then ate some more. Their kids were splattered with sauce, their mouths rimmed in red, and though their bellies ached they pleaded for the original, incredible, tangy lemon ices sold nowhere else in the United States.

Peter was slurping his second lemon ice cup and was ready for a third. His cousin took him by the arm and led him away from the crowd.

“Look, kid, I gotta meet a guy over in Chinatown for a coupla minutes.”

“Chinatown? Where’s that?”

Sonny jerked his chin. “Not far, a coupla blocks away. You wanna pick a spot, I’ll be back here, ten, fifteen minutes tops, okay? Get yourself a cannoli, something, ya got money?”

“I’ve never been to Chinatown, Sonny. I’ll go with you, okay?”

The older boy narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “Yeah, okay. But listen up. I gotta meet a coupla chinks, we got a little business to take care of. Now, here’s the thing, Petey boy. This is strictly between us, right? Can I trust you to keep quiet, this never happened? Like, we never left the Gennaro until we headed home, right?”

For a minute, Sonny thought his cousin was going to hold up his hand in the Boy Scout pledge. He ruffled his hair; he was a good kid, if a little dumb.

They hadn’t gone more than four or five blocks. The noise and music from the San Gennaro could still be heard, but it was as though they had entered another world. On all the stores and shops, signs and legends were written in Chinese. Peter was amazed that anyone could actually make sense of the beautiful symbols. It was like an ancient world. There were restaurants one next to the other; open food stalls; real estate offices; travel agencies; bail bondsmen; pool halls; meeting rooms. There were people of all ages, single and in groups, moving along the sidewalks, spilling into the gutter, stopping to look into a window, to handle merchandise. There were medicinal shops displaying charms and dried vegetables, roots, animal parts. There were modern bookstores and video shops.

Sonny suddenly brought him to a stop. Then he jerked his chin toward a narrow alley.

“You stay right here, outside. I gotta see these kids for a minute.”

Sonny entered the alley, then came back out. He looked tense, angry. “They want you to come with me. Lousy chink bastards, they don’t trust nobody. You keep your mouth shut, ya don’t see nothin’, hear nothin’,
capice?”

Peter started to ask a question, but his cousin stopped him. “Hey, dummy up. We’ll be two minutes, then we are outta here. And it never happened, right?”

There were four rail-thin Chinese boys, in their teens. Everything about them was tense. Peter glanced at them, surprised by their hostility.

Sonny reached into his pocket and took out a few bills. He put his hand out and the tallest of the Chinese snapped his fingers. More. Much more.