Elsinore (21 page)

“You took my brother, didn't you? I told him to wait in the house.”

“Paul, give me that shovel.”

“What's the point? Minot is dead. I have no one to steal dollars from. Dad doesn't count.”

Paul bled enormous teardrops. Holden might have mourned with him, but the shovel was a little too near. He left a perfect little heart in Paul's forehead and then he entered the house.

Ethan was sitting in a chair.

“Ethan, I'm sorry about the boys.”

“No, you're not. You're the fucking angel of death. I could see it in your eyes, Sid. I knew the boys would never survive your presence … now I can get married again. I ought to kiss your hand. Phippsy cursed us when he brought you here.”

Frog had to use all his cleverness against the old man or he might not recover little Judith.

“Tell me about Marcus Reims.”

“Don't bother me. I'm grieving.”

“I want to know about Marcus.”

“A pimp like any pimp, Marcus was.”

“And Kronstadt?”

“The society bitch. Phippsy was always falling for. blue bloods.”

“And you weren't the baron of Rhode Island. Ethan Coleridge hadn't even been born. Who were you?”

“Ettore Cardinale.”

“And you brought Hirschele Feldstein into your little crew.”

“He was a catch. A cantor who liked to steal. I groomed him. I taught him his trade. And sonny, I was proud when I heard him sing. I paid the highest price for seats at his shul.”

“Did Kronstadt get between you and Hirsch?”

“She fancied rough men. She liked to smell my stockings. I let her live on the street. I beat her, Sid, hard as I could. She always wanted more. And then Phippsy spotted her. Jesus, he bent down and washed her feet. He bought her flowers and clothes. He shared his wallet with her. Made her our fucking partner. I had to shell out hard cash.”

“And then what happened?”

“Phippsy got into trouble. He lost his slot as a big-time cantor. He could have stayed with us. But he was searching for a synagogue that would have him. Then he left us flat. Moved out West. Joined the Pinkertons.”

“Why did he leave Kronstadt with you?”

“I dunno. Maybe he forgot to take her.”

“And Marcus Reims was the name he used while he was with your gang.”

“Don't you get it? Anybody who wanted to live without a name was Marcus Reims. I was Marcus for a while. So was Phippsy. And a hundred other men. The gang we had was the Marcus Reims. No one could identify us, pin us to a spot …‘Oh him, he's Marcus, Marcus Reims.'”

“And who killed Kronstadt?”

“Some no-name. Some Marcus Reims. While Phippsy was away in Seattle. Sid, I had to run.”

“And you became Ethan Coleridge.”

“That was later, much later.”

“And Phippsy returned to Manhattan, found this Marcus, and finished him.”

“I wasn't there, but that's what I'm told.”

“Now tell me where you're hiding his girl.”

“His girl is dead. Kronstadt, I mean.”

“I want little Judith. Is she upstairs?”

Ethan didn't answer, and Holden started to climb.

“Sidney boy, I'll have to shoot your eyes out if you take another step.”

“I'm not Sidney,” Holden said. “I'm Marcus Reims tonight.”

Ethan gripped one of his family specials, a long-nosed Webley that had been fashionable before World War II. His hand never wavered.

“Ethan, it's a small house. The bullet will ricochet off the walls and you'll injure yourself.”

“Sid, I'm sworn to hide that girl. If you mean to go upstairs, then kill me, and there'll be no more Cardinales. You took my sons. Take me.”

“I can't.”

And Holden continued to climb. He visited the boys' bedroom. It saddened him. They'd accumulated so little in their seventy-five years. Paul had a fishing rod. Minot had a stamp album with a hundred empty pages. Holden found nothing else on their floor.

He climbed up to the attic.

He heard a whimper. He removed a painter's cloth from a heap of old furniture. He found Solomon Bronshtein lying in a little nest.

“Where's Judith?” Holden said. “Bronshtein, I'll ask you once.”

The furrier pointed to another cloth. Judith lay under the cloth like a series of broken sticks. Her lips were raw. Her arms had purple bruises. Her cheeks were tiny blue hills.

“Whose work is that?”

“Minot's. He didn't like women in the house.”

“Bronshtein, where are your babysitters? And if you lie to me, I'll hurt you more than you can ever dream.”

“They're gone. Ethan wouldn't tolerate them. He called them pig people.… I think they're in Bilbao.”

“Bronshtein, get me some fucking hot water and a towel. And make it quick … it's indecent. One of the richest furriers in the world hiding under a drop cloth.”

“Holden …”

“Get me some water.”

Bronshtein scampered around Frog and returned with a basin of hot water and two towels.

Frog had folded his jacket under Judith's head. He wet the towels and patted her face. Her eyes opened.

“Don't talk,” he said. “Do you recognize me? Just nod.”

“Holden,” she said.

19

He called Mrs. Church from Ethan's phone. “Yes, I found her. She'll be fine.… I can't tell you where I am. And don't breathe a word to Howard.”

Then he activated the little network he still hadn't lost. It was as archaic as drummers from some unremembered war, but a doctor arrived in half an hour. His name was Figs. He'd been Frank Costello's family surgeon. He was living in retirement on the Vineyard. And Holden had to ferry him across the channel.

“What happened to Al?” Figs asked.

“He's sleeping in the trunk of my car.”

“That's no good. The police will come.”

And Figs found another ferryman.

Figs could have been eighty, but he had the touch of a surgeon. He carried Judith down from the attic in his own arms. Holden found a cot. Figs undressed her, felt every bruise, applied a cream to her face. He prepared beef tea, gave her a sedative, and kicked everybody out of the room.

“She has a slight fever. But it will pass. I wouldn't move her, Mr. Holden. She's pretty banged up. Nothing broken, far as I can tell. We'll have some X rays done. I'll bring my own man. Hospitals can get awful nosy.… I'll look in again tomorrow. But let her sleep.”

“How much do I owe you, Figs?”

“Not a dime. Your dad did me a favor a long time ago. Otherwise I wouldn't have come. I'm not in the business anymore.”

Frog couldn't even get a doctor without his father's ghost.

Figs drank a glass of schnapps with Ethan and disappeared from the orange house.

“Ethan, how did you and your sons get involved in this mess?”

“Bronshtein gave us a million.”

“You could never spend all the money you have. It costs you nothing to live in this barren place. You don't even have a goddamn tomato in the house.”

“Cash is cash,” Ethan said. “And Phippsy shouldn't have been an Indian giver.”

“But I thought you were holding his money.”

“I got used to having it around. I'm not his personal banker. He could have left the money here. It was safe with us.”

“And for that you kidnap his daughter?”

“We didn't kidnap anybody's daughter. We provided lodging, that's all.”

“And you let Minot slap her around. You're supposed to be gallant.”

“I can't control those boys. I never could.”

“I ought to smash your face.”

“I wouldn't stop you,” Ethan said.

But Frog went upstairs to Bronshtein, who was camping out in Minot's room. The furrier had nothing better to do than appraise Minot's stamp collection.

“It's worthless. He's been collecting thirty,.forty years, and the whole album couldn't bring him a hundred-dollar bill. Think of all that wasted effort.”

“Bronshtein, he had his millions. Maybe he was looking for a little fun.… Why did you bring her to Chappaquiddick?”

“It was Bibo's idea. He figured Ethan would help us. He knew all the enemies Howard had made.”

“And did you really think Howard would let you get away with it?”

“Holden, we had no choice.”

“You did have a choice. Go for Howard. Not his daughter.”

“We tried.”

“Ah, I can't believe Schatz is behind this. Bruno wouldn't have come at Phipps with a band of cowboys. Bronshtein, you were meant to fail. The Swisser set you up. And I can't save your skin.”

“But you don't have to give me to Howard,” Bronshtein said. “I'll write you the fattest check you've ever seen.”

“Please,” Holden said. “I can write my own checks.”

And then there was little Judith. She didn't have the Phipps Foundation or her mama's mimes on Chappaquiddick. Frog couldn't find a single bow among her belongings. He fed her soup and told her not to talk. She could have been his child. He fell in love with her all over again. He couldn't have traded darlings without bumping Minot and Paul. Love sat across the street from a .22 long.

Fay was becoming a shadow in Holden's head. He couldn't seem to love two women at the same time. He wasn't a natural bigamist like Andrushka. He'd love and lose, love and lose. He had no other home than Chappaquiddick. Away from this island he didn't have a chance. He was a child of Chappaquiddick, like Minot and Paul, and Ethan himself. He understood why the Coleridges had come to Chappy. It wasn't to escape the feds. They could have gone to Switzerland with all their cash. But they decided to roost behind a junkyard. And suddenly Paul's fishing rod and Minot's album made sense. They didn't need much company on this side of the channel.

“I love it here,” Frog muttered to himself. He'd gotten used to Bronshtein and Ethan and dogs that slobbered near his legs. “I love it here.”

“What?”

“You're not supposed to talk.”

“Figs told me I'm getting better,” Judith announced from her cot.

Frog was terrified. He didn't want her to get away.

“You're not supposed to talk. I'm your doctor when Figs isn't here.”

“Then why don't you play doctor and undress me?”

“You're not strong enough,” Holden said.

“I want a thorough examination. I demand it.”

And he did undress her. He minded all her bruises and kissed her everywhere he could.

And so they had a family together, with Ethan, Bronshtein, and the dogs. Figs would bring in food from Edgartown. Ethan would often cry in the middle of a meal. “They were good boys. They never deserted their dad.” He didn't blame Holden. He stopped calling him the angel of death.

Frog had some remorse about the two boys—he wished Paul hadn't come at him with that shovel—but he was happier than he'd ever been. He was ready to renounce Aladdin and all his check-writing privileges. He'd become a carpenter and earn his keep. He'd have babies with little Judith. But he could feel a stab under his heart, as if his own ribs were telling him something.

He heard the dogs bark, and Holden knew the idyll was over.

Phippsy had arrived on the island with an ambulance and a small platoon. He didn't even say “Hello, Sid.” He captured little Judith. She cried and begged, but his sheriffs carted her into the ambulance. Holden could have popped a couple of Sheriffs with his .22. But it wouldn't have gotten Judith back. And Holden understood: the old man meant to kill him if he interfered.

It was Ethan who was the bravest of them all.

“Phippsy,” he said. “The girl is healing. Why don't you leave her alone?”

“And have her live with cockroaches?” said the billionaire. He didn't have his cardigan. He had a long quilted coat. He turned to the furrier, who'd been silent with Phippsy in the house.

“Come along, Sol. I don't have much time.”

The furrier looked at Holden and then he started to run. He reached the next field before the billionaire summoned his sheriffs. Kit Shea was with them. The sheriffs simply marched in the furrier's tracks. They caught up with Bronshtein in that field of toilet bowls.

Frog didn't want to look, but he couldn't take his eyes off that incredible chase. Bronshtein running, running to nowhere. The sheriffs punched him into the ground and delivered their coup de grace: two or three bullets that sounded like the wing-beats of a giant swan.

Phippsy smiled. “How are you, Sid? Care for a ride back to civilization?”

“I think I'll stay here.”

Phipps took off in his ambulance, with the sheriffs behind him, and Holden returned to the orange house.

Marcus Reims

20

He had his own sort of stamp album. Frog collected the life of Bessie Wallis Warfield Spencer Simpson (she had as many names as his dad) and her husband, King Edward, demoted to Duke of Windsor because he wouldn't give up the woman he loved. Wallis Simpson was a divorcée. She had a long nose. And she wasn't some great courtesan who could beguile a country. “David,” as the king liked to call himself, was the handsome one. He loved to ride horses. Women followed him everywhere. They wanted to marry David. They offered him diamonds and all the hot perfume between their legs. David wasn't interested. He went into permanent exile with Mrs. Simpson. He wandered the world after marrying her in a French chateau. And for the rest of his life he was a walking fairy tale, the man who had nothing to do. Hitler offered to make him king of the new Nazi England, but he couldn't conquer the Brits. And Holden didn't believe for a second that David would ever have sat on a Nazi throne. The Duke wasn't a turncoat. Frog wouldn't have worn the socks of a traitor king.